Thank Forge for those lozenges of information, which ease Misery’s suffering as she meets the rest of the serving. Praise the blessing of key details presented in bullet points. There’s the ship’s tech, Tercero Tank, she/her pronouns, from the duchy of Musa. A surprising puff of energy, small and twiggy with a pink cloud for hair, face round and bright-eyed in a way that catches Misery off guard. The info pane explains this immediately: Tank is all of fourteen, sneaked into the army with a fake identity and got swiftly punished when she got ratted out. Serving her sentence on Angelsteeth, which is also how Misery finds out that the base is about half military outpost and half military prison. How did Tank think no one would realize that she wasn’t done with puberty? The kid looks at Misery and serves her a grin wide as her face, and Misery already likes her. The stupid shit she pulled at fourteen had a far lesser scope of ambition.

The first pilot is Teá Spider, he/him pronouns, from the duchy of Felidae. Another one on long-term medical leave, but the line about his previous assignment catches her attention: he was assigned to Falling into Place—that was Diamond Sunyata’s ship. So they knew each other? Also interesting. He’s tall and broad, and his thumbnail-length curly hair bears a faint sheen of iridescence, dark green. A saint, as all pilots should be. Misery can’t read him, either. Not sure if he should be friend or foe. She would like to be friends, though, there’s something about his bearing and appearance that’s pleasing. Good posture, carefully neutral expression, very deliberately relaxed stance. Misery knows how that feels in her bones. Seems like they would get along.

Then the General introduces the third pilot, and a figure steps from the shadows into the light. Misery’s belly goes cold and her heart rate jacks up. A white saint! One of those creepy clone saints from the Capital, here? And pilot of a seraph? The panel over their pale shining head offers nothing—Ghost, they/them, pilot, point of origin Angelsteeth. Is that right? Were they made here? As Misery’s adrenal glands work overtime the pilot—Ghost—stares with their glazed honey eyes. I banish thee from the arches of my soul, my spirit, my mind. The thought comes so immediately and vehemently that Misery’s guts curl in embarrassment. That’s from Spirit Resonance, and Misery clearly forgot how much time she spent in make-believe with other kids from the reef, exorcising telepaths from her being.

Ghost blinks inscrutably at her. Her nerves buzz with fear and her skull itches, like the white creature is rooting around in there. Clone saints are cursed—maybe it’s telepathy? But telepathy isn’t real.