The lights flickered in the cold, matte grey of the submarine, then everything returned the scarlet-tinged darkness of the emergency lighting. The background hum of air circulation had already died, replaced by the limping pulse of a grinding motor pushing out thick, too-warm air. The klaxons had quit already, two minutes ago or twenty, Sandra couldn't tell.

"O'Connell?" Sailors didn't normally go armed on board, but Sandra had found a weapons locker pried open and a pistol dropped in a corner during the ransacking. She hefted the weapon now. A scrape of metal on metal seized her attention, and she rounded the corner to find O'Connel in a pool of blood beneath one of the emergency lights, a bloody screwdriver just out of reach beside him.

"Who did this?" The wounds looked fresh, still pumping blood at a pace that couldn't go on for long.

With trembling hands, O'Connell grabbed her by the neck and pulled her close. Another flicker of the lighting showed her in clear relief the infinite black depths of his eyes, the stars within, and the way to reach them. She fell inward, the lights failed again, and she reached for the screwdriver O'Connell had used.