Sarasti hadn’t wasted any time. Szpindel’s replacement met us as we emerged, freshly thawed, nicotine-scented. The rehydration of his flesh was ongoing—saline bladders clung to each thigh—although it would never entirely erase the sharpness of his features. His bones cracked when he moved. He looked past me and took the body. “Susan—Michelle … I—” The Gang turned away. He coughed, began fumbling a body condom over the corpse. “Sarasti wants everyone in the drum.”
