The vertical took Torin and her team as far as Section 22. A short walk down an empty corridor took them to a set of double hatches outside Section 23 that, when closed, would create an emergency air lock. “I’m impressed by a paranoia that takes steps to avoid explosive decompression when they’re nowhere near the outer wall of the station,” Craig declared, touching the clear plastic cover on the emergency controls before stepping over the inner lip. Given his history—one man, working alone out of a small ship—Torin figured the odds were even that hadn’t been sarcasm. “We’re in part of the station’s original build,” Ressk told him. “The tech in the walls is still self-contained enough . . .” He held up his slate as he crossed. “ . . . to make sure nothing goes in or out that isn’t filtered through Intell first.” Alamber’s hair flattened and he froze. “We’re locked?” “We’re filtered.”
