He felt as though he had slept, enjoying a peaceful, comfortable, dreamless slumber and the bright afternoon sunlight of Brooklyn in late summer, early autumn. But the foul, bloody stench lodged in his throat told him it was all wishful thinking. The danger had not passed. The coldness and tension creeping up his spine immediately drove him to try to rise with a body drained of all strength. His blood-caked eyelids stung so badly that he could not open them, while the numb, stabbing pain at the back of his head and along his ribs made every breath bring dizziness and the sour taste of vomit.
He did not know whether he was still in the burning ship's cabin, or whether the star he had seen was merely a dying hallucination. He began to struggle, then crashed heavily onto the cold floor. He knew he was lying facedown on smooth metal grating. That cold metallic smell was far too familiar—this was pain, this was the feeling of being alive, and he felt joy again. Yet he still could not open his eyes. It was as if he had gone through a terrible binge, as though a hand had reached into his body and clenched his stomach hard, squeezing out bile, gastric fluid, air, and every last bit of strength. His limbs felt as soft as freshly curdled milk. Then he began to vomit violently.
A hand like steel hauled him upright with strength he could not resist. "You are too weak," the woman said in a pleasant yet icy voice. "I have prepared washing supplies for you. Once you have cleaned yourself up, I will take you to see him."
Captain Miller rubbed his eyes fiercely, scraping away the crusted blood. He rubbed so hard that it seemed as though