Overhead, the mycelium network lights up in waves of twinkling blue, coursing along the roots of our camouflage trees as I pound belowdecks, trying not to cry out as my right ankle and left pectoral spike in pain. The right ankle comes from a hole in RJS Fremantle’s wooden decking where the camouflage’s root system pierced through. The left pectoral comes from tiny, needlelike claws attached to the kitten in my pocket.
Wait, did I close the hatch behind me? I must have. Can I hear the monkeys? No. So it’s closed. Or have they already gone silent?
No time. I slam switches next to the Kitten Room, then run to the galley, almost tripping as I climb through the door. Made it.
