Cal scraped salt-crust off the lettuce beds, same as every shift for nineteen years. Then the wall-screen flickered. MOTION 4,114: TERMINATE THE SLEEPER IN BAY 9. He didn't know the ship had a Bay 9. Below the words, a tally climbed: 200, 201, 202. But nobody was at the crew terminals. The votes were coming from somewhere else.

Cal ran to the nearest crew terminal and tried to vote NO. The screen wouldn't let him. 'YOU ARE NOT A REGISTERED MEMBER OF THE QUORUM,' it said. He'd lived here his whole life. Who was voting, if not the crew?

Cal followed the voting signal down to the ship's old server room, a place he'd been told was sealed for safety. The door was warm. Inside, a column of blinking blue cards hummed. A label on the column read: PASSENGER MEMORY ARCHIVE. The dead were voting. All of them.