All The Stars To Cinders

In the church window, the Archangel shines like a brilliant sun. As always, she faces away, vigilant against invaders. Rays gather around her mighty sword Sunsplitter, forged from the heart of a neutron star. Her head is obscured by the radiance of her halo; a ring of floating eyes circle her torso; the tips of her golden wings touch the corners of the vaulted roof. It is said that every Seraph is made in her image, but none can hope to match her might.

To claim otherwise, of course, would be blasphemy.

The young Squire stands agog in the aisle, transported by this vision in stained glass. “She’s incredible,” she whispers.

Marta giggles. “That’s so silly. It’s just a window.”

Ahead, Sister Adebola shushes them. “This way, children. We’ll sit near the back. And keep quiet; this is a holy place.”

The pews are hard plastic and metal, quite unlike the chairs in the classroom. The Squire squirms in her seat, trying to get comfortable next to Marta. She has not yet taken the name Val, nor does she think of herself as “she”, but that is how she prefers to remember it eighteen years hence. The name imposed on her as Shattermoon’s heir is best left forgotten in the echoing halls of Martyr’s Rock.

They are the last to arrive; the seats are packed with all the clergy and those Squires old enough to attend. Val has never been to the surface before, up through all the elevators and spiral staircases tunnelled into the asteroid. She eagerly surveys the finery of the church: the holographic fractal shapes in the hollow of the roof, the golden scripture spiralling up the pillars, the clarifying scent of incense wafting from the air circulators.

The whispers of the audience quieten as a door in the chancel slides open to admit two people. One is the Abbot, her bald head tattooed with golden circuits, her skeletal cybernetic hands protruding from her white vestments. The other is a figure from legend. Trailing polychromatic light like a long-exposure photo, the Saint strides forth in his archaic uniform: tall, bearded, heroic.

The Abbot stands on her high steel pulpit and begins the service, her voice reverberating throughout the room from hidden speakers. “We, the unworthy, gather here today under the Archangel’s light to witness the return of Saint Gladwit in his second incarnation, and to see him safely off to the battlefield once again. First, let us join hands and remember the sacrifices that brought us into prosperity.”

The lights dim. For the first time, Val can see the sun through the skylight; distant, weak, so unlike the illumination that still shines from the stained-glass Archangel. “In the beginning, there was the Eye of Heaven,” intones the Abbot, “and the divine sparks It bestowed upon us. Humanity was weak and divided, but through the guidance of the Archangel and her Seraphs we found strength and spread across the galaxy.” A map of the galaxy appears in the air; starting from a single point of golden light, it charts the advance of human civilisation until every star in the spiral arms is gold and radiant.

“We were alone in the universe. There was not a single intelligent species to be found. But we were not without strife.” White tendrils of mycelium creep across the walls of the church, dividing, proliferating, infesting. “The Budding Mother had her own vision for humanity in which all of us would be shackled to her whims, bound together by her poisoned Gift. In defence of liberty and individuality, the Archangel took up her sword. As two gods and their disciples did battle, the galaxy was reshaped. The stars themselves became their weapons, the blasts of supernovae fashioned into beams, countless worlds devoured by black holes.” The tendrils on the walls burn and shrivel under bursts of searing light. “In her final strike against the Mother, the Archangel’s sword cleaved the planet Earth in twain.”

A blue-green planet—now remembered only in history books—cracks before the congregation’s eyes, its crust leaking magma. What would it be like, Val thinks, to live on a planet like that, full of life and light? For her, the only world that exists is one of cold stone, steel and faith.

“There was no victor in this war. A god is not slain so easily. Grievously wounded, the Archangel and Mother survived, and built new Houses in their own images from the ashes. Centuries passed, and a new threat to life and decency arose: the Singularity.”

Motes of holographic light appear at every corner of the church, drifting towards the centre. In his chair by the pulpit, Saint Gladwit perks up.

“Their original name has been struck from the history books in disgrace. We know them now as House Forlorn. They understood the nature of the divine spark more deeply than any other, and sought to use that knowledge to resurrect the God-from-the-Void, It Which Rests Eternal. The Eye of Heaven was bounteous then, and sparks were far more plentiful than today. House Forlorn gathered them together in their myriads: an artificial star to form the core of the God’s new body. For the first time, the Archangel and the Mother joined forces, with one goal: stop the Singularity at any cost.”

Overhead, countless miniature Seraphs take flight; golden-winged angels fight beside demonic monsters. The motes of light assemble into a wavering eldritch sun. Val averts her eyes; it hurts to look at directly.

“The war was long and arduous, but at last the Archangel and the Budding Mother joined their sparks together to put an end to it. They would collapse the Singularity and force it back through the Eye of Heaven, saving the galaxy from damnation.” Once again, the walls creep with mycelium. “But the Mother betrayed the Archangel, perverting the ritual.”

“No, no, no!” The Saint leaps upright, and rushes up the steps to the pulpit, pushing the Abbot out of the way. “That’s a lie!” he shouts, and the holograms of war flicker out of existence. In the silent, dark church, he speaks with growing desperation. “I was there, by her side. I saw it happen! So many billions dead… they knew not what they wrought. How many years has it been? How many do we have left?”

The galaxy appears again. A stain spreads from the centre in toxic green. Val does not yet recognise it as the Festering Cyst, but it fills her with fear nonetheless.

Gladwit points accusingly at the congregation. “I pronounce you all guilty of heresy. Anansi’s Web, come to me. We’ll purge this rock until only the truth is left!” His after-image burns bright, and a hint of a halo shines behind his head. The ground shakes and rumbles. Panicked shouts fill the church.

“Get ready to run,” says Sister Adebola to the young Squires. “Archangel preserve us all.”

Two burly vergers rush up behind the Saint and seize his arms before he can draw his sword. One of them takes a syringe from their habit and injects its contents into his neck. Over agonising seconds, the rumbling subsides, and Gladwit falls limp in the vergers’ arms.

The Abbot, shaken but unharmed, returns to the pulpit. “I… it seems that the Saint’s persona was not as stable as we anticipated. Please rest assured that everything is under control. This is a simple case of reincarnation sickness. This service is adjourned.”

The last Val ever sees of Saint Gladwit is the vergers carrying him away to the infirmary.

***

“What do you think it’s like, being a Saint?” asks Val at dinner. The children’s dining hall is carved deep into Martyr’s Rock, strata of brown and orange running across the walls. Clerics on lunch duty patrol between the tables in their navy habits, watchful for misbehaviour. The Squires wear not-quite-uniforms, plain brown jackets and trousers.

Marta eats a spoonful of nutrient paste and grimaces. “I bet it’s a lot better than being a Squire. The siblings always say how amazing Trueheart was. Three times she was martyred, and every time was more heroic than the last. The last time, in the Battle of Twin Rifts, she kept a whole flight of Vultures at bay by herself so her comrades could get to safety!” She mimes swinging a flaming sword, and one of the brothers scowls at her. “I’ve read the poem ten times.”

“I saw one of my twins, once,” says Val. “In the corridor on the way to the dorm. He was really old. He must have been fifty at least, but he looked just like the photos of Shattermoon. Same nose, same eyes, and a big grey beard.” It was like staring into her future.

“Whoa. Weird,” says Marta, her blue eyes round as saucers.

“I don’t want to end up like that, Marta.” The panic she felt at that moment creeps into her voice. “I want to be like the Archangel when I grow up.”

Marta drops to a whisper. “You mean like a god? That’s blasphemy, [Val]!”

“No. I mean like a woman.”

“Huh.” Marta blinks. “You know being a boy is just as good as being a girl or anything else, right? Sister Adebola says ‘We’re all born equal in the eyes of the Archangel. Only merit can distinguish us.’” She imitates the Sister’s stern voice for emphasis.

Her impressions usually make Val laugh, but she’s in no mood for it. “That’s not the point.”

“Anyway, you can’t be a girl. You’re supposed to be Shattermoon!”

Val feels something die inside her. Of course. Whatever nascent feelings she might have about this are nothing compared to the will of the Archangel. She pushes it down, buries the idea deep within. It will be fifteen years before she allows herself to think this way again. By then, her dear friend Marta will be gone, eroded away by years of indoctrination, and only Trueheart will remain.

Her introspection is rudely interrupted by a tray of food being slammed onto the table. “Hey, sinners!” says Jebat, fresh from penance. “Who wants to sneak into the Reliquary tonight?”

***

Despite her many objections, Val accompanies Marta and Jebat below. The lure of escaping from the stifling surveillance of well-meaning clergy is too great to resist. The caves wind serpentine through the Rock, deeper and deeper, cutting into reinforced concrete tunnels. “This whole asteroid used to be a big mine for sparks,” explains Jebat, taking it upon himself to enlighten the younger Squires. He is ten, but gladly assumes the joint role of wise mentor and dissident against the regime of bedtime. “Kids have been coming down here for hundreds of years. So if you get lost—and you won’t, if you stick with me—follow the marks on the walls.”

Val runs her hand across a formation of arrows etched into the cold stone. “What if we get spotted by someone?”

Jebat holds his flashlight under his chin and makes a ghoulish face, his eyes rolling up and his tongue sticking out. “There’s nobody down here but the ghosts!” Marta giggles from behind. “Seriously, though, watch out for ghosts. Don’t touch any of the Relics, or they’ll get you.”

“There isn’t even anyone guarding them?” asks Val.

“Not tonight,” Jebat says. “The whole place is sealed off after Gladwit’s Seraph tried to break out. They’ve gotta fix it up so the roof doesn’t cave in.”

“Hold on, you didn’t say that before!” says Marta.

“What, are you scared?” jeers Jebat.

“No! I just… we’re gonna be okay going in there, right?”

“Yeah. Obviously,” says Jebat, raising a hand to stop the others at a junction. A draught of cold air brushes against Val’s skin. “You’ve got me, haven’t you? Don’t touch the Relics, stay away from stalactites, and we’re golden.”

“Right,” says Val, growing more anxious by the second.

“It’s this way. Come on. We’re close.” Jebat leads the way down one last winding tunnel and out onto a high ledge.

The air has changed. Here, in the holiest of places, all is still. Luminous white crystals jut out from the walls of the vast cave; a faint ringing fills the air as they sing to each other. Amongst them nestle hundreds of dead Seraph Relics, standing in rows in audience to the song. Some are entirely overgrown by crystal, reclaimed by the cave. As the Squires enter, ripples of rainbow colours pass through the crystals. Though the Seraphs do not move, Val feels eyes upon her. They are watching.

“This is as far as I’ve been,” says Jebat. “Any further and I’d have been seen by the guards. But look.” He points to a huge rectangular door at the far end, a solid slab of steel that must lead to the elevator. “There’s nobody there, just like I said. Want to take a look?”

Val swallows as she peers down at the ranks of Seraphs standing guard like ancient suits of armour, their wings furled, their eyes hollowed out and empty of fire. “No.”

“Tough,” says Jebat. “We’re going down anyway, aren’t we, Marta?” Marta nods. “You can stay here alone if you want, [Val].”

Val sighs. “At least tell me there aren’t any cameras.”

“They don’t work down here. It’s too weird with all the sparks.”

“Fine. You’d better not get us caught,” says Val.

They scramble down to the cave floor, following a rough incline of crystals. A strange pressure begins to build in Val’s head, like the onset of a headache. Jebat helps the younger Squires down the last ledge. As they edge forwards, their shoes crunch through loose shards of crystal like broken glass.

Here, they are among holy Relics. The sleeping and watchful Seraphs tower overhead, far taller than the ceiling of the church. Even the top of their feet would be too high for Val to reach. They have so many eyes—not just the hollow ones in their helms, but inhuman eyes recessed into their wings, their armour, floating rings of eyes around their limbs. Every Seraph is different. As they walk through the valley at the bottom of the cave, even Jebat is quiet.

A low, resonant voice echoes through the cavern. Come to me, vessel.

“Did you hear that?” whispers Val.

“Hear what?” says Marta, scrunching up her face in confusion. When she sees the anxiety etched in Val’s face, she sighs. “You can hold my hand if it’s too scary, [Val].”

“You’re telling me you’re not afraid too?”

Marta leans close before answering. “Course I am! But Jebat doesn’t need to know that.” Val gives her hand a squeeze.

Rickety gantries high above span between the Seraphs’ chests, with elevators leading up to them. Jebat points up at them. “That’s how we get in to test them, once we’re old enough. You’ve got to be compatible, though. Otherwise they spit you out.”

“I’d be the most compatible,” boasts Marta. “Show me Uriel’s Flame and I’ll pilot her out of here right now!”

Jebat rolls his eyes. “You’re never gonna be Trueheart if you get scared.” Marta hurriedly lets go of Val’s hand.

A low rumble passes through the cave. Some distance ahead, past a fork in the trail, a shower of rocks falls from the ceiling.

“Are you really sure about this?” says Val.

“I know what I’m doing,” says Jebat. “We’ll go the other way. We haven’t even got that far in yet!”

As they walk down the other path, a headache stabs at her. Val blinks back tears at the pain. She’s already shown too much weakness, but she will not cry in front of the others. Jebat is busy leading them forward, and Marta is staring at one particular Seraph. Nobody saw her.

“This is her,” says Marta in hushed awe. “Uriel’s Flame.”

The Seraph on the other side of the canyon is taller than most, maybe sixty metres. Her wings are patterned in fiery red and orange like stained glass; her armour is elegant in fluted silver. Her helm has a single visor slit, all-seeing and arrogant. Her breastplate is dotted with eyes down the sides, opening and closing ceaselessly. Her infamous sword is recessed into her arm, devoid of its flame. The holograms do not do her presence justice. Val feels it weighing down on her, the thrice-dead Saint Trueheart judging her from beyond the grave.

“You can take a closer look, but don’t touch,” says Jebat. Marta rushes off, crunching through the crystal shards. “How about you, [Val]? Seen Shattermoon’s Seraph anywhere around?”

I grow impatient. I’m right around the corner.

Val’s gaze wrenches around to a bare, rocky niche in the cave wall just ahead of Uriel’s Flame. How could she have missed it? “Over there.”

“Great. Same rules apply to you, pipsqueak.” Jebat slaps his thighs. “I’ll come with you, keep an eye out. That’s a bad place to get caught by falling rocks.”

Marta stands transfixed, gazing up at her progenitor’s Seraph. Her lips move as if speaking, but no sound comes out. Her blonde hair floats around her head, suspended in zero gravity.

“Marta? Are you okay?” Val reaches out to her.

Jebat steps in the way. “Best not. She’ll be fine in a minute.”

With a worried look towards Marta, Val relents. The pressure in her head is overwhelming, building further with every step closer to Port of Mars. At last, the Seraph comes into view. He crouches in the corner as if ready to spring into battle, leaning on his chained spear. His hollow helm is crested with red like a centurion of sundered Rome; his armour is pure gold, encrusted with crystal up to the knees. His wings are proud, red-feathered, decorous.

A sonorous voice echoes through Val’s mind. The earth cannot reclaim me, little vessel. Kneel.

Val falls to her knees, the broken crystals biting through her trousers. The world draws tight around her; a spotlight shines solely on her and the Seraph. If Jebat has anything to say, she cannot hear.

A third eye opens on the Seraph’s forehead, its percipient gaze searing gold. One hundred and eighty-four years, six months, thirteen days. In all that time, the holy geneticists of Martyr’s Rock have not cloned me a suitable vessel. Make your case, child.

Val shrinks under the Seraph’s scrutiny. Golden light burns into her irises. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want me to say. You’re hurting me.”

For what other reason could you be here but to present yourself before me? It shows ambition to come so young, but ambition is useless without the strength to fulfil it. Show me you are worthy of my magnificence.

“I… I’ve read the poems. Over and over. I remember how you got your name. It’s from the Carrion Resurgence, the war where you came into your own as a Knight. House Forlorn had captured you in an underground base; their knives were sharp as they cut into your Seraph body for their experiments, but you escaped through sheer willpower and detonated their store of sparks beneath the crust. Hope Swells Anew As The Moon Shatters Asunder.”

This is not a history lesson. Any child could know this. What have you read of the classics, of Ovid, Shakespeare, Gladwit? Have you digested the philosophies of old, understood them, contrasted them to our way of life? Have you undergone training to withstand enhanced interrogation? I would not have survived the long knives of the Vultures any other way. What makes you think you understand the first thing about being me?

“I’m supposed to do all that when I’m older!” Past the pain, anger surges through Val. She didn’t ask to be judged like this. She didn’t have any choice in how she was born. Tears flow freely down her face. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

You are ignorant and disobedient, child. Let me teach you what it means to be Shattermoon.

Val screams as the light of the Seraph’s eye burns into her, setting her mind ablaze. A chaotic stream of images and sensations flows into her head, too much for her to comprehend. Feelings bubble forth amidst the froth: the joy of acceptance into the high echelons of Knighthood; the white-hot fury of vengeance on a pack of feral Hunters; grief for a daughter consumed by the jaws of war. A whole life is pressed violently into the confines of her skull, all its triumphs and tragedies, everything that Shattermoon ever was or could be. He yearns to return to life, to escape from this purgatory. All he needs is a body. Her body.

“No!” With a horrifying lurch, she is pulled out of Shattermoon’s memories.

Val opens her eyes. Reality has restored itself. There was never an eye in Port of Mars’s forehead; he is just another dead Seraph among many. The cave shakes around her; Jebat frantically tugs at her arm. “[Val]! [Val]! We need to run, now!” Pebbles rain down on the Squires. Another rockfall is coming. The two of them break into a run.

Come back when you’re worthy of the mantle, says the ghost of Shattermoon, and the headache lifts at last.

Boulders rain down around them, shattering as they land. “Marta!” Val shouts, barely audible over the ceaseless thunder of rocks. There she is, still standing in front of Uriel’s Flame, communing with Trueheart.

“We can carry her out if we need to. Come on!” Jebat accelerates to a sprint; Val follows suit. The falling rocks are getting closer by the second. Fifty metres. Forty. Thirty. Jebat trips right before the finish line, falling badly with a yelp. Val reaches Marta and turns back, panicked, to see him struggling to get up. The cascade of rocks is unceasing, and if she goes back to help him—

“Marta! Please!” She shakes her catatonic friend.

Time shifts. Like flowing flame, the Seraph above them moves. Marta’s eyes burn blue as Uriel’s Flame crouches over them, shielding them from the rockfall with her wings. Val shuts her eyes and holds Marta close, huddled within the Seraph’s protection. It is a very long time before the rocks stop falling.

When she opens her eyes again, Uriel has returned to a standing position, as if she had never moved at all. Marta blinks blearily, coming back to herself. “She said she needed me. She had to protect me.”

There is someone missing. Tonnes of boulders have been brought down by the collapse, but there is no sign of— “Jebat!” Val shouts.

“What?”

“He fell. He’s not with us, so he must be…”

Her eyes are drawn to it inexorably. Under one of the largest boulders, the white crystal floor is marred by a spreading pool of blood.

***

Nestled in Bliss’s arms with the spark-light pulsing softly in the walls around her, Val finishes her story. Once she began, the words spilled out of her in an unbroken string, as if compelled by Jebat and Marta’s ghosts. Now she is wrung dry, and Bliss finally has the opportunity to speak. “That was quite a story, Valour. Do you share your childhood traumas with everyone you bed, or am I just a lucky girl?”

Val wiggles around in Bliss’s lap until they are face-to-face. The Hunter’s long black hair is messy and curling on her shoulders, her pilot suit zipped up just enough to show a hint of cleavage. At the ball, she played the role of the Protean lady with perfection, more likely to swallow Val whole than condescend to treat her as an equal. Now that they have torn each other apart in battle twice, she is finally getting to know the real Bliss beneath the performance. “My friends call me Val.”

“Oh, we’re friends now, are we?” Bliss traces Val’s jaw with a fingernail, sharp enough to send a thrill of pain through her but never breaking the skin. “You know, I always thought Knights were very proper about this sort of thing, no sex before marriage. You’re not going to whisk me off to a shotgun wedding, are you?”

Val frowns. She recognises the joke, but the urge to correct is too strong. “That’s never been procedure, as far as I know. Besides, there’s no protocol for a dalliance between a Knight and a Hunter.”

“Well! That’s a relief. I hope you’re not the jealous type, because I’ve never been one for exclusivity.”

“No. That won’t be a problem.” Val wraps her arms around Bliss’s waist, drawing her close, committing every detail of her sharp face to memory. “Let’s just enjoy this time together while it lasts.” Their lips meet, gently this time; Bliss’s mouth is still wet with the taste of her.

When they part, Bliss’s grey eyes are filled with sadness. “I don’t want this to end. But…”

“But I’m a Knight, and you’re a Hunter. We live in separate worlds, and we each have duties to attend to. Our Houses won’t wait forever.” Bliss must have made excuses to come alone, just as she did. Her absence will be noted. They are, after all, military assets.

“I will see you again, Val.” There is that bite, that harsh tone—more respectful than a predator to her prey, but covetous, greedy. How would it feel to be possessed by such a woman, body and soul? “I’m not letting you get away that easily. I need more. You feel the same way, don’t you?”

Val thinks of Eris in the drive core, her claws lit by flashes of lightning; of Bliss responding to her call for help. This rivalry, this obsession, has rooted itself into the pathways of her brain. If properly cultivated, it could bloom into something far greater. “Yes. We’re even now, but I know all your tricks. Let me choose the time and place. I’ll definitely beat you next time.”

Bliss grins. If Val didn’t know better, she could swear her teeth just got sharper. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Her Seraph calls out to her. Inanna’s Vengeance’s diagnostic systems report 80% functionality. “Inanna’s ready to go. You really did a number on her, you know. It’s a good thing there are metals and nutrients in the soil here, or she would have needed a repair team to get off the ground.”

“I said I was sorry.” Bliss purses her lips in thought. “But I really didn’t mean to go that far. I don’t know who I’d be without Red Eris.” She casts her eyes around the cockpit; the conduits in the walls pulse in time with her Seraph’s beating heart. What an intimate thing, to be accepted inside another’s body like this. “Where does she end and Bliss begin? You must feel the same way about Inanna’s Vengeance. The way you talked about Port of Mars, in comparison...”

“Shattermoon’s ghost never wanted me from the start. I’ve made peace with that. All those wasted years, trying to force myself into a mould dictated for me at birth—they’re done. From now on, I will only be myself.” She disentangles herself from Bliss and gets up. Eris’s outer layers unfold before her, revealing her own Seraph body lying against a hill: gleaming gold-and-silver armour mended, eyes burning lilac, ready for battle once again. “When I’m Inanna, everything makes sense: my armour, my sword, and the battlefield. I could never leave that behind. It would be like tearing out my own beating heart.”

Bliss comes to stand at her side. “I like you better this way. Independence suits you.”

Val turns to her. “And how about you, Bliss? Have you become everything that was expected of you?”

Bliss avoids her gaze, fixing her eyes on the fake horizon. The sun is setting, at last. “I wanted to be a Hunter, ever since I knew how to want anything. Elder Violette is the one who made it possible. She can be harsh, but she’s so proud of me. I’m all that she has left of her wife.”

“I can’t imagine you as anything else. But Elders can’t be an easy thing to be honest about, among Protean House. If you need to talk about your mother, I’m willing to listen.”

In the false sunset, the planes of Bliss’s face are cast in orange light and shadow. For a long moment, she is silent, the wind whispering through her hair. The corners of her mouth turn up, ever so slightly. In lonely nights to come, Val will remember this moment, and the rush of fondness that warmed her despite the chill air. “I just might take you up on that next time. Until we meet again, my Knight.” She pulls Val down to her height and kisses her cheek.

“I look forward to it.”

“Oh, before I forget—” Bliss says, rushing back inside Eris’s cockpit. She comes back out with something clutched in her hand, and presses it into Val’s.

“What is this?” Val examines the device. “Some kind of memory drive?”

“It’s a comms worm. It should get you into the Protean data network, so you can contact Red Eris from anywhere. There are encryption keys in there too. Let’s not leave anything to chance.”

“And you just had this lying around?”

“Well. I made it. I have a special relay at home, and I, ah… tampered with it. Just in case things turned out better than I expected. Don’t use it unless you really need to. Too many mysterious transmissions and Protean intelligence will be breathing down my neck.”

“Got it. Aren’t you full of surprises, miss hacker?” Val tucks the drive away in her pocket.

“It’s not hacking. All the hard work was already done for me. This is a copy-and-paste job.”

“If you say so.” By her command, Inanna stretches out her vast metal hand, and Val steps into her palm. It is big enough to fit her several times over. “See you soon, Bliss.”

By the time night falls in the biodome, both of them are long gone, and the remains of the Ark return to relative peace. One day, the lights aboard the ship will go out for the last time, and all will be quiet once again.

***

The Feather of Truth is as welcoming as ever. The spotless marble halls and their scrolling script-columns, the geometric architecture, the faint choral music piped through speakers—things are always kept in order here. The ground crew in the hangar set to work on Inanna’s Vengeance. They perform their job without question or complaint, many-limbed repair drones in tow. Val has never learned anything about them beyond their names. As a Knight, it would be improper to socialise with one’s subordinates; such behaviour would be noted on her record. She has no desire to submit to another doctrinal evaluation.

For most Knights, the yoke is not too tight. The Archangel enshrined their rights as executors of divine judgement in the House’s constitution. The sanctity of their minds may only be invaded in cases of treason, and Val has freedom in her choice of patrols in the absence of direct orders from Trueheart. In the case of the Penitent Knights, however, a higher degree of scrutiny is required.

Weeper is waiting for her on the way out of the infirmary. She sits on a bench in the waiting room, wearing an off-duty outfit of sky-blue blouse and high-waisted black trousers, reading a book with a plain brown cover lettered in an unfamiliar language. When she notices Val, she shuts her book and stands. “Knight Valour. May I speak with you in private?” Her voice is slow and deep, mesmerising to listen to. Its timbre and the lines on her face mark her out as being in her forties.

In the year since Weeper was assigned to the Feather of Truth, she has never made such a request. In fact, she has politely but firmly refused all attempts to make conversation. The Penitent Knight is an enigma, and Val finds her curiosity piqued. “You may. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

Weeper’s frosty blue eyes sparkle in the fluorescent waiting room light. She fits right into the sterile surroundings with her uncanny pallor and mane of white hair. “I came right from my evaluation. Besides, I have my book.” She leads the way towards the tram station.

“It’s not often I see a paper book that isn’t the Codex. What’s it about?”

“Philosophy. It’s from my collection.”

“I’m surprised they let you keep it.”

Weeper gives her a searching look. “They burned anything too heterodox. This one is approved. It has sentimental value. Does that pass your inspection, inquisitor?”

“Sorry. I didn’t think—”

“No. You didn’t,” says Weeper acidly.

The tram ride passes in tense silence. Only when the door of Weeper’s quarters slides shut behind them does she speak again. “The other day, at Margin Station… you didn’t have to do that. Trueheart has been seething about it the whole time you’ve been away. But I suppose I should thank you.” Weeper places the book on a shelf with the rest of her small collection, and lights some sticks of incense. Her room is spare, neatly arranged. The thermostat has been turned down; a holographic window displays an icy wilderness. A variety of silver wind chimes hang from the ceiling.

“I did what I thought was right.”

“And you have the status to get away with it. The Saint got what she wanted in the end, anyway. Her kind always does. Tea?” Val nods, and Weeper busies herself in the kitchenette. The aroma of lavender incense mingles with the green tea as it brews. Val holds her tongue to avoid causing further offence. At last, Weeper brings the teapot over and pours each of them a cup. The tea set is fine porcelain, patterned with holly leaves, a cut above standard issue. “At my evaluation, I was told I was integrating well. It’s a cowardly way to talk about a violent process.” She fingers her collar of gold filigree. It looks uncomfortably tight; a red light pulses menacingly next to her throat. “This is integration. Follow our ways, or else.”

Despite Val’s claims of independence, she has never had the freedom to choose a life outside her duty to the Archangel. Her light is absolute, all-consuming, inescapable. In the end, all who oppose her are exterminated or converted to her cause. “I think I understand,” she says.

Weeper sips her tea. “And yet I don’t see a collar around your neck.”

A flash of irritation slips into Val’s voice. “What did you even want to talk to me about? I’m grateful you support my actions at the station, but it seems like you’re only interested in spitting barbed words at me.”

“I have every right to be furious, Valour,” says Weeper. The chill in her voice is enough to drop the temperature another few degrees. “Perhaps you feel that you, too, have been wronged by Adamant House. You’re still a sworn Knight, aren’t you? You still chose a life of slaughter in her name. You may not have been there when my home was integrated, but you fight for the one who ordered it. And you have terrible taste in friends.”

She should defend Fi—Weeper doesn’t know her like she does—but her mouth turns dry despite the tea. “You’re right.”

Weeper raises an imperious eyebrow. “That’s it? No argument? Maybe you’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”

“There’s nothing to argue against. You want something from me, don’t you?”

Weeper widens her eyes in mock surprise. “A lowly exile such as me would never deign to give an order to a Knight of the Adamant. Besides, my tongue is safeguarded from disloyalty.” She gestures to her collar as if showing off a new purchase. “But if I were to offer a suggestion… you’d do well to think about who you place your trust in. Knight Fidelity told me you would never lower yourself to speak with me. It seems she wasn’t entirely honest.”

Val stands up, her head spinning from the implications. “Thanks for the tea, Weeper.”

Out into the corridor. Back straight. Still working the conversation over in her head, she bumps right into Fi. “Val! I heard you were back.” Decorum abandoned, the freckled Knight envelops her in a bear hug. She must have come from the gym; her tank top smells of sweat. The door of Weeper’s quarters slides shut behind Val. Fi frowns. “What were you doing in there?”

“Having tea.”

Fi folds her arms. “You’ve never had tea with her before.”

“She never asked,” says Val. “Apparently someone told her I didn’t want to talk to her.”

“Really?” Fi took her training to heart. She betrays no emotion in her face, not even surprise; a little too stoic for the circumstances. “I know Saint Trueheart can be strict, but surely she wouldn’t go that far. Do you think it was one of the other Knights?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Val lets silence hang between them.

“I don’t think you should believe a word that heathen says. The only thing keeping her in check is that collar. Anyway—”

Fi is interrupted by the blaring of klaxons. The light panels in the floor pulse red. A synthetic voice barks orders: “Action stations! Action stations! Brace for jump. All Knights, report for emergency briefing at once.” A golden trail appears in Val’s enhanced vision, leading the way.

Before Fi can move, Val seizes her arm and leans close. “You’ve always been a bad liar, Fi. This conversation is not over.”

***

The mining hulk didn’t stand a chance. The squat, rectangular ship’s hold is slit from stern to bow, spilling precious ore containers into the asteroid field. Its surviving naval escort destroyers dart across Inanna’s vision, launching volleys of missiles at the culprit: a Protean carrier, on the wrong side of the border. The Selection Pressure is armadillo-like, twice the size of a chariot ship, the hangars on its sides spewing forth fighter-beasts.

Before the attack, they broadcast a claim that the miners were operating illegally in Protean space; their cargo and lives would be seized as reparations. The Feather of Truth is here to disabuse them of that notion.

“Form up on me,” commands Uriel’s Flame, her stern voice echoed by a chorus of whispers. Readied for battle, she is terrible in her splendour, bathed in the light of her halo. “Wing alpha, on my mark, target the engine core. Wing beta, intercept the fighters. I will handle the main battery myself.” She raises her flame-wreathed sword. The flight of Seraphs keeps tight to its V-formation, dodging autocannon fire from the carrier’s gun batteries, until Uriel finally lowers her sword with a flourish. “Make them repent for their crimes against Adamant House!”

Wing beta means her. The flight splits in two a thousand kilometres from the target, leaving Inanna with Brigid’s Devotion, Skadi’s Shadow and Euclid’s Nightmare at her side. Behind them, the Feather of Truth opens fire with its railguns, relativistic slugs punching into the Selection Pressure’s layered armour of chitin and bone. The asteroids in the belt pose no obstacle, spread hundreds of thousands of kilometres apart. A thousand K is knife-fight range in space, close enough to see the whites of their eyes.

Hundreds of fighter-beasts swarm towards both wings of the flight, green crablike creatures with engines and gun barrels jutting out of their carapaces. They are engineered for war, unable to survive without their augmentations, remote-controlled by Protean witchcraft. The brain stem is the key. Without it, they have no means to receive instructions, no will of their own. All living things have such weaknesses.

“Let’s give our friends a little helping hand,” says Euclid’s Nightmare. Perigee’s Seraph body is small, barely twenty metres, armoured in faceted silver with wings like triangular shards of glass floating behind xer. The order of Wills does not trade in strength of arms; the fabric of space-time is their plaything. The shards of xer wings reconfigure in a complex dance, glowing gold with spark-light. With a lurch in her spark, Inanna feels space fold. The two streams of fighters merge into one, right in their path, like lambs to the slaughter.

A fusillade of shells and missiles flies their way. Their payloads are noxious, chemical, designed to eat through armour. Brigid’s Devotion is their bulwark. Her tower shield is as tall as her, the elliptical rings surrounding its field-core spinning like an armillary sphere at its centre. When she holds the line, nothing may pass. The force-field bubble extends from her shield to cover the four of them, projectiles harmlessly fizzling away like stones into water.

Inanna and Skadi’s Shadow can handle the rest. With Weeper’s Seraph at her side, Inanna dives into the stream of oncoming fighters. She slices down the carapace of one, repelling its snapping pincers with her shield. There, beneath layers of organic armour: a flash of white neural matter. She reaches in and tears out its brain stem, crushing it in her armoured fist. Skadi twirls through the squadron of beasts, her twin swords white and radiant, trailing flowing after-images as she dices the crustaceans.

A private transmission comes through from Brigid, her thoughts—Fi’s thoughts—brushing against Inanna’s. -You wanted to talk? Let’s talk now.

Inanna, deep in the guts of another fighter, replies: -Now? We’re in the middle of something, if you haven’t noticed.

-Like it’s any trouble for us. There’s not a scratch on you, and I intend to keep it that way. A barrier fizzles into place behind Inanna; a fighter lunging forth in ambush bounces off harmlessly. -You’re different, Inanna. Ever since you came back from the ball.

Of course she noticed. When you know someone well enough, any change stands out from the routine. Inanna has, after all, been sleeping with the enemy. Her shoulder-mounted railguns fire shot after shot, blasting away fighters in the swarm. -I’m thinking about my future. Winning the Nova Ball was an accomplishment, but I want more.

-You want more? After all we’ve been through together? Brigid’s synthetic voice is desperate, pleading.

-I’m not going to leave you behind. Privately, she wonders whether she should. -You’re changing the subject, anyway. How long has Weeper been with us now; a year? When did you tell her not to speak to me? In the distance, Skadi merges her swords into a bow, loosing an arrow of light that punches through a fighter headed for Inanna.

-I told you I didn’t— objects Brigid.

-You lied, yes. An explosion fills the sky, sending ripples through Inanna’s spark; the Selection Pressure’s engine core meets its end. The carrier has nowhere to run. -Is she the only person you told that? Have the other Knights been avoiding me because of you?

The battle rages on around them. Brigid does not answer. The stream of fighters finally comes to an end; the last of the carrier’s defences fold beneath the flight’s combined assault. The battle is won, but there will be an answer in kind. The admirals and the Saints will hunger for revenge against Protean aggression, and without careful management, the border tensions will spiral out of their control. Inanna knows her history; any day now, their cold war with Protean House could turn hot again.

-We all have to grow up some time, Fi, says Inanna. -Make sure you do it before it’s too late.