The service corridor was a stifling throat of stone, choked with the pungent, sweet-smelling vapor of the sedative gas. Zeven’s breath hitched, each intake of air feeling like a leaden weight settling in his chest. His senses, usually sharp enough to track a heartbeat through a stone wall, were dulling, blurring at the edges as if the world were being viewed through a smear of oil. He looked down at Rey, who lay sprawled on the cold floor, his cybernetic systems cycling in a slow, rhythmic decay. The emergency indicator light on Rey’s chest, which had been pulsating with the frantic, red warning of a thermal overload, now seemed to blink in mocking, slow intervals.
"Not here," Zeven rasped, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "You are not going to die here, brother."
He pushed hi
