Seitz heard them in the dark, a Greek chorus fronting the medical monitor sonata formed by her heart, lungs, and brain. The medical bay, then.

Blood infection. Antibiotics will knock it out. 

Is that really necessary? 

Blood infection? She had a memory of falling to the deck while calibrating the remote suits, white noise dialed up in her ears like static. Had she felt sick? She didn't recall.  

Better for the rest of the crew if we wipe it out. They won't reverse the damage, though. That ship has sailed.     

Even her ground unit GCS?

Yes. Already disposed.

We should throw her out the airlock. Seitz made a note to trip Rand when she was up and around. Crashing to the deck wasn't just for blood infection victims.

No. I want a full workup once she tests negative. For a moment, Mission Commander Ronson was her hero. Heroism proved fleeting. Besides, ground control would record the ejection. Then they'd want an investigation. And to replace her. There was more, but Seitz found herself falling, dropping into the quiet.

A final voice followed her, familiar somehow but not crew, soft but not afraid. This can't be the end. Then it was gone. 

Seitz wanted to call after it. The allure of the darkness was stronger. 

from “The Wake of the Mary Celeste”