Finn sat upright on his rack, back pressed to the bulkhead, rocking forward and back, trying to work his jaw. Took a few long, deep, juddering breaths.
What the hell just happened to him up there?
He tried to think it through, to replay the exact sequence, but his focus kept slipping away like feet on a greased log. The way his fingers had gone slipping off the handholds in that magazine.
He tasted blood in his mouth. He was clenching so hard it felt like he was about to break off all his teeth.
Right hand to jaw, left to chest, he focused on his breathing.
Inhale, exhale.
Slow breath in, slow breath out.
He felt his jaws slowly crank apart. He gingerly opened his mouth, wide as he could, and shut it again, then repeated the movement, working out the soreness.
His throat ached as if he had just screamed at top volume for an hour.
He relaxed his neck. Closed his eyes.
And was suddenly, ferociously gripped by a grotesque sensation.
A billion wriggling tadpoles surged up from his gut into his throat and raced to explode out the top of his head—
His eyes snapped open as he reeled back. Drenched in sweat.
What the hell?
He slowed his breathing again and tried once more to retrace his steps. He’d been up on the flight deck, watching the Line Crossing ceremony with its shellbacks and polly—
His throat locked up.
Finn lurched to his feet.
Darkness poured into his field of vision, dotted with spots of luminescence that danced before his eyes and blinded him. He fought his way across the tiny compartment, out into the passageway, and over to the cramped little head across the way.
Kicked open the door, dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, and vomited.
And again.
And again.
And again.