She closes her eyes and wishes she could close her ears, too. Shut down her mind. No place in the universe feels like a safe refuge, not even within her own head. An afterimage of Jericho lives in her head, a vague shadow: all pale eyes, pale skin, and fine, sandy hair. Voice like pondwater, swirling into the cups of her ears. She hates to admit how much comfort she found in that dream. Its lack of hard edges. Its consequence-free shine. She knows she’s only inviting trouble by indulging the delusion. But she’s already snot-deep in trouble. What’s a few more shovels of shit?

CHAPTER 13

Seraph pilot training takes place in a thickly fenced complex that’s all blue metal and frigid air, a narrow domain subordinate to the withering gaze of Major Reyes Photon, whose job it is to oversee Angelsteeth’s pilots. Guided by the sentinel arrows, Misery and Ono Red-2 hiked the length of the base and came to rest in a briefing theater next to two other servings: Button Red-4 and Xito Blue-4. The system display tells Misery that the other two servings are fresh out of basic military training, something she has not gone through but sure, it’s probably fine that she did not. Everything is fine.

Major Reyes’s disdain rakes over the gathered servings—the twelve pilots in the front rows, non-pilots relegated to the back of the room. On either side of Misery sit a contrast in attitudes: on the left is the Lady Alodia Lightning, posture perfectly straight and still; on the right is Teá Spider, slouched like he has just gotten out of bed.

“So,” the major says in xer pumice-gravel voice, “you’re here. Granted passage by your sainthood, put through the tests and trials, all of which you’ve passed. Or maybe you haven’t.” A very pointed look in Ono Red-2’s direction. “Whatever it is, you’re here. And you think you’re ready for what’s about to come next.” Xer laugh sounds like rocks falling over a cliff face. “I will tell you now—you are not. In my two decades’ training I have never met anyone ready. You think you’re the exception? You are not.”

Spider snorts from his boneless slouch.

The beacon of Major Reyes’s attention strikes him. Xe jabs xer finger, gleaming holy jade, in his direction. “You think you’re exempt from this, do you?”

Spider pops his lips. “Not my first go-around, old man.”

The major’s face hardens. “Stand up.”

Spider stands with the discipline of the trained soldier, but defiance boils under the veneer of obedience. He folds his arms as the other recruits fidget.

“You think you’ve seen battle,” the major says, emphasis on every syllable.

“It’s in my records.”

“One sortie. Then straight to the retirement pen.”

“People died.” Spider’s mouth twists with rage. “All my shipm—”