“Thanks,” Misery said. “I hate it.”

This is what the script of her life looks like now. She has to deal with it. The arrow stands in her way, a not-so-gentle admonishment, but it could be worse. As Ruin drifts through the blinking red, a luminescent beacon of arrogance, Misery is comforted to know that there is one thing the Imperial Army doesn’t have mastery over. Her voidmadness is still her own.

“Fine,” she says. “Fine. Let’s see what I can make of this.”

The arrow, her faithless guide, leads her on a twenty-minute walk through the anatomy of Angelsteeth, including several rides on boxy elevators and a march past rows of spherical cages in which zip-clad soldiers wrestle in null-g. In her crisp, novel, neon vision the illuminated deck labels shrink numerically as she goes, which means she’s moving higher in the station both physically and symbolically. The expanding glut of security measures underscores that progression. Reinforced steel doors are replaced by ultra-thick reinforced steel doors, which in turn grade into ultra-thick reinforced steel doors fronted by guards. One stone-plated sentry scans her as she approaches and waves her through. Her identity has been registered in the depths of the station’s command architecture. That’s not unsettling at all.

Her pilgrimage ends in a high-arched briefing room, metal opening to starscape in a clear, wide curve. Where one would expect the paraphernalia of a meeting room—seats, video plaza, central table—is an empty briefing space. The General is there. The princess is there. So’s Major Reyes, and the Duke, and a large handful of others she doesn’t recognize. Their biodata panes bully one another for space in her attention. There’s Captain Sunyata Diamond, whom she remembers from the battle. The captain exudes curiosity and hunger so strong that Misery’s skin itches. Something’s about to happen.

General Tsung grunts as Misery settles into a mockery of at-attention; she’s never done military and their protocols are alien to her. “So, you’re here. I see the procedure worked. Good. Let me introduce you to your serving.”

Straight to business. No preamble, no grandiose speech, no indulgences. No mention of her tardiness. “Wait.” Misery requires more gentle easing. “What do you mean, my serving? What’s happening?”

“Soldier,” says the General. “You are to be a seraph pilot.”