His hand moved before he chose to move it.
Nether-Bane struck the hull ring with his gauntlet and held there. The bell’s note passed through the armored form as a pull from inside the wrong place.
Iris caught another ring.
“Lower passage,” she called. “Pulling toward—”
Her voice broke.
A young volunteer moved past the agreed observation position, reaching toward living people in the opened service corridor. Nether-Bane put his own body across the way and caught the volunteer’s forearm.
Not disloyalty. Not panic. The form was being turned against the person who occupied it.
Behind the local gate, living prisoners moved out of reach. Felix closed the prepared mechanical route while Lyra directed the last people clear. He had not made a spiritual wall around the ship. He had kept bodies from meeting the compelled sweep in a narrow passage.
