THE HERALDS OF NUMBER SEVEN—the ghost of a swiftly murdered planet in the demesne of Dominicus—arrived that evening, around forty-three minutes before the habitation lights were due to go off. They had already been dimmed to preserve power, as apparently the defence mechanism locked inside a Lyctor did not need light to fight by—nor senses of any kind, in fact; Mercymorn said they did not even feel pain. Unlike them, you generally needed light and felt pain, but you were the Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House. The first was negotiable, and the second was irrelevant.

When the first Herald broke through the Mithraeum’s honour guard of asteroids, it was not particularly terrifying. You had made your preparations. You sat on the floor before your window that looked out onto nothing. The great sword you had taken off and laid before you, as though it were a beloved talisman and not a sickening, befuddling relic, a back-breaking burden your dead self told you to carry. You were almost fond of it, except when you looked at it, at which point all fondness was dispelled.

The courier of the Beast landed on a part of the Mithraeum’s hull very far away from you. You did not feel the impact or hear a sound. It was only when Augustine’s voice came over the communicator, “Confirmed impact. West quadrant, third ring, engineering room,” that you even knew it existed.

God’s voice: “How many minutes before you’re in the halo?”

“Depends. Impact, again. Also west, third ring, same location. Are they spearheading? Impact. North quadrant, habitation ring. Ortus, that’s quite near you.”

A crackle. “I’m fine.”

Another crackle: Mercy’s voice. “Less chatter on the line. Wait until they breach. They’ll try to smother us first, and roast the station.”

“No temperature change,” said God.

Then you felt it: the first vibrational thump, and it sounded astonishingly close. From above you—direction was difficult; thanergetic sense irrelevant—what sounded like a small meteor had struck the hull of the Mithraeum. Silence before, and silence after. There was no distant roaring, perceived through the shudder of the hull and shutters—no monstrous noise, no pageantry. The messengers of the Resurrection Beast arrived without fanfare, and for a moment you resented the anticlimax.

Augustine, on the comm: “Confirmed. East quadrant, habitation. That’s you, girls. Don’t bite your tongues.”

You thought it was one of Augustine’s little jokes, until the fear hit you.