"We're being boarded," Sariel says, sharp, urgent. "We can't just run. I have to get to my station." A siren blares a red alert warning, as if emphasizing her last word.

Or maybe it's emphasizing Charles's.

The shadows are still clicking. Dreams can be influenced from multiple directions, after all. A dreamer doesn't exist in a vacuum.

Speaking of vacuum. The view from the nearest porthole is pitch black, infinite.

Utterly starless.