“Tank is right,” Misery says. “We have all the tools we need. We can plan an all-out assault.” In truth she knows nothing about military tactics and her month on this station has taught her next to nothing. But does that matter? She swells with restlessness, her veins thick with the need to get into action. Prove to the world she is truly as blessed as she says she is. Her journey here started with a pack of lies, and now the time has come for truth to reveal itself. “Esse Temple has the blood of far too many on her hands. For too long she has escaped justice. The Larex Forge has spoken and shown us the way. I have my orders, and they come from a power greater than anything the filth of the Heretics can rustle up. We have our weapon, let’s march.”

A collective intake of air around her, a confectioner’s scatter of reactions to her pronouncement. Boldness, anger, confusion, epiphany. Faith. Joy. Misery seeks out the gazes of each of her servingmates and is rewarded with concession, approval, delight, and from Spider in particular a fierce bloodthirst. Righteousness rushes through her body like warm water.

General Tsung holds their hand up, summoning their attention, recalibrating the mood in the room. “Be that as it may. We cannot run an operation without a plan. There is a difference between faith and foolishness.” A patrician air to their speech, which Misery understands but still resents them for. “And a plan can only be as good as the information we possess. We know too little about Heretic operations and technology to—”

“But we have a source.”

Lightning cuts through the General’s protestations and heads turn in her direction. General Tsung frowns, suddenly wary. “What do you mean?”

“The Heretic prisoner,” she replies. Syllables crisp and snappy.

“I’m going to stop you right there,” the General says, but the damage is done. Gasps burst from the assembled captains, a surfbreak of surprise and alarm: this is news to plenty of them. It’s news to Misery, too. A band of anxiety tightens across her chest. “There are Heretic prisoners on board?”

The General’s expression tightens further. Speaking fast, as though ashamed. They are ashamed. “It’s an ongoing situation. We were tasked to retain a Heretic on board. It’s not ideal, but we have so far complied—”

A ball of ice sinks slowly though Misery’s guts. She cannot put away the flood of memories: his eyes, the give of his flesh, the way he looked at her before her foot came down. “What’s his name?”

Beside her, Lightning’s shoulders tense. She turns her head, deliberately. “His name? No pronouns were mentioned.”