Camelia almost smirked. There seemed to be a snarl of irony in the situation. She was preparing to beg forgiveness from a man whose head she had bitten off because he had gotten preachy about her . . . recreational habits. What had he expected, anyway? Everyone—everyone—on Aurora was like that. There were prudes here and there, but by and large it was just a matter of having fun. Logically, rationally, she shouldn't have to apologize for defending what was already established as morally acceptable. He was the selfish one, not her.

But he was the one preparing to give his life for everyone else. Anyone who called that selfish deserved to be shot.

Who knew what kind of world he was from, or where he had been? Somewhere he had come to form ideals more like those on Hecate—of a simpler, more sheltered culture. The sort of ideals that would lead a man to lay down his life for people he didn't even know. It didn't matter what she'd heard or read before: She'd never known anyone who could do that. And if he could be that selfless, there had to be something in what he said. He was a better man than she'd ever known. The kind of man who deserved to walk away from today's crisis to fight another day. If that wasn't impossible . . .

"Is there no way to keep you alive?"

She came to the operating room, and hesitated before stepping across the threshold. Berin was sitting with his hands at the buttons of a large control panel laid out in front of a large window, through which the operating theater could be seen. The Doctor was laid out on the table, half-reclined, bound up in copious amounts of equipment. All four limbs were magnetically sealed into the hardware, a thin tube leading out of his arm for a few feet till it slipped safely away into a large metal segment which, presumably, fed back to where Berin sat. The lights were off in the control room.

Berin's back was to her, so he didn't notice her come in. He spoke into a microphone. "Alright; I just need to make one last check. It should be a minute or two."

"Alright." The Doctor's eyes were on the ceiling. Camelia couldn't tell if he was scared or not—but then, she couldn't get a good look at his face. The calm was unbearable.

"Is there no way to keep you alive?"

Unfortunately, maybe there was.

She took a step, then another. Half of her was desperately hoping Berin would turn around, or the Doctor would look up, and in the nick of time catch her. But no matter how slowly she moved Berin's attention remained fixed on whatever he had in front of him, and the light in the operating room probably bounced off the window so the Doctor couldn't have seen her even if he'd looked. The door came closer, and closer.

She watched as her hand reached out and felt the door handle in her fingers. "Sir?" she heard Berin say.

"No, not sir," came the voice through the speaker.

"If you say so. . . Doctor?—It's been an honor. I . . . I wish I could've gotten to know you better."

"Likewise, Berin."

". . . Now?"

A pause. "Now."

Berin pressed a button. For a second nothing happened. And then the control room filled with light. Golden light, like sunlight. Celestial light.

Camelia took a deep breath. She had often wondered, when the thought came to her in the dead of night and the reality of it all became impossible to ignore, what it would feel like to break into a fit of rhixis. Imagined her body going cold and her mind going numb and all sorts of freakish pains racking her body. What would it be like to die in a bath of gold light instead? She hoped, feebly, that it would be quicker.

She pushed open the door, and was nearly blinded.

Berin saw movement in the operating theater, but by the time he got to his feet it was clearly too late. The light, which at first surged and wafted brilliantly about the chamber, hit the girl's body and flew into her like a bolt of fluid lightning. She burned a blinding white before she even had a chance to scream. The torrent continued for almost five seconds, out of the Doctor and into her, before finally, the lights went out.

The Doctor fell back in the seat, gasping. He was himself. He felt like himself. Something was wrong. He looked into the window. Yes, he was himself.

What? Why hadn't he changed? The regeneration process didn't end with the rhixis gone, did it? That wasn't how it worked.

"Hey!" he yelled at the glass. "You think you can get me out of this thing? Please?"

Berin, who seemed to be elsewhere, blinked, shook himself, and hit a switch. The restraints came apart with a gentle hiss and the Doctor unhooked his arm from the IV. "Well?" he demanded. "What happened? Did you get it?"

Berin held up a small vial for the Doctor to see. "Analyzing," he said shortly.

What was wrong with—?—and then the Doctor noticed something in the window's reflection.

"No . . . No, no, no!" he ran to the doorway, where a figure lay prone across the threshold. The flesh was still cooking. But the face was definitely Camelia's. "How on earth did she get in here?!" he demanded.

"I don't know! She said she was going to fight off the infected!"

"Get in here and help me!"

The Doctor tried to pick her up under the arms, where her shirt offered small protection against the heat off her skin. Berin appeared in the corridor in front of him, but stopped before picking up her legs. "Doctor, she's dead!"

"We need to get her to a stretcher! Get me oxygen, anything!"

"No, she's dead!"

"No, listen to me!"

"How can you possibly think she's still alive?!"

"Don't think, just get me a stretcher!"

Berin gave in and brought him his stretcher, and they laid the corpse across it and provided it with oxygen and adrenaline and whatever else the Doctor made Berin think of. It was clear, however, that the brain had been scorched along with the flesh.

The Doctor continued for fifteen minutes longer, trying by any means he could think of to coax, jolt, or force life back into the body. At last he pushed the stretcher away violently and stood, chest heaving, in the middle of the room. Helpless.

"Doctor."

Berin was calling for him softly. He ignored him.

"Doctor!" Berin repeated, a little louder.

"What?"

"The rhixis—it's been overwhelmed."