Yet something is wrong. As the archangel Misery sails toward the glittering cabochon of Monkglass, the free seraph by hir side, the sense of something being off-kilter grows and grows. The archangel Misery understands situations by means inexplicable to human minds and human bodies; zie sees the truth in patterns and possibilities. The patterns here say alarming things. In the shape of the Heretic dragnet, in the flickering of Monkglass’s lights, there’s a lack of tension zie expects of a siege. It’s more than a visual cue, of course. There are layers and layers beneath what can be seen and perceived by mortal eyes. But the archangel Misery knows something is wrong.

The Heretics continue on their trajectories, unaware of their presence. The Schroedinger shield appears to hold. Monkglass, stuporous from long inactivity, has not yet noticed their presence. But it lights up all prickly and alarmed when the free seraph opens a channel, every needlepoint sensor going alert at the appearance of these intruders. The princess Lee Alodia Lightning speaks to the comms grunt on the other side. Tells hir who they are, what they’ve come to do. Asks permission to board. To speak to the commander, the Lady Storm Mirelle. It’s a calculated risk, taking the time to see her in person, but that risk was calculated by the best strategists in the army, so it has passed muster. Even in these days of faith, nothing substitutes for face-to-face contact, for physical proof of life. The miraculous must be witnessed in the flesh.

A crackle. A long pause. The uncertainty and suspicion that permeates the wait is palpable. They don’t recognize the archangel mech, they don’t know if the intruders are friendly or not. But surely the voice of the Imperial princess is enough? Surely her signing code is all the authority they need?

The voice returns. Permission granted. Yet Monkglass doesn’t let its guard down. Distrust follows the two holy units as they sail toward the port opening in the station’s underside. Should they not be grateful? Should they not be overflowing in joy at the possibility of their salvation? It’s more suspicion than is trained on the net of Heretics abovehead.

Metal jaws open to reveal more metal jaws, and the two mechs are sucked down the gullet of Monkglass into a vast dry dock that at one time roared with merchant ships emptying or filling their bellies. In these days of siege it stands hollow and empty, except for the ominous ranks of security filing in to greet their visitors. There are no mech hooks—Monkglass isn’t military, it has no mechs—so the archangel Misery gingerly places hir four feet on the ground. Next to hir the free seraph does the same. The structure of the station shudders as their enormous bulk comes to rest.