The shuttle exits travel just outside the orbit of Canis E. Ice and dust shield the base from its parent planet, a marble of pale amethyst. In the haze afforded by a blue sun, Angelsteeth glimmers. A great docking ring encircles five lobes of silver, spread like a flower, latched to the silo of central command. The base is a poor shard of metal compared to the Capital, but its modest scale intimidates through sheer comprehensibility. One might imagine the Capital dropped from the heavens by the will of the Demiurge and accept that feat, but there is no denying that Angelsteeth Base, with all its length and breadth, has been constructed by human hands.

The guards and their guns escort the prisoners into the silver cavities of Angelsteeth. The major is the first one out, followed by the princess. Third is the Duke, because Misery refused to budge until he did. Down the ramp they go to the fates that await them.

The docking bay dwarfs the shuttle the way a mouth dwarfs a tooth. It’s been cleared except for a fistful of soldiers in gray automesh, gridded in perfectly disciplined lines. At their head stands an extraordinary figure in crisp ultramarine, the kind of starchy uniform that looks rendered and tailored. Someone of good rank, if the amount of metal on hir lapels is any indication. Like Misery, zie has the physique of someone who grew up in supergrav: wide, blocky. Short. Hair silvered with age and not sainthood. Gray eyes set deep into a craggy face. Zie makes brief eye contact with Misery and there’s the frisson of instant connection, something of Mother’s hard-knock sensibility in the stranger immediately endearing hir to Misery. Who—?

“That’s General Tsung Wolf Blizzard, pronouns he/they,” Ruin says. “The latter is preferred. They’re in charge of this particular cabal.”

How could the delusion know who this person is?

The princess surges forward, breaking ranks with them, and Major Reyes lets her. She goes up to the figure in blue, and speaks with a voice that echoes in the vast bay. “General Tsung. I see you are well.”

The General nods in acknowledgment, but their eyes are a warning: Keep it down, here we are watched. So Ruin was right about their identity. Misery must have absorbed this information sideways at some point, and it’s surfacing through the filter of the delusion. She comes to a stop behind the princess, in line with the Duke of Apis, who remains gloomy and silent.

The princess says: “I am pleased to see you, at least.”

“Could be under better conditions,” says the General in reply. Their manner is blunt and to the point, which Misery appreciates.

“On the contrary,” says the Lady Alodia Lightning, “I think these conditions are perfect. The Throne is blind to what is happening on this station. We have more freedom here than we would have anywhere else.”

“Things are as you said, then.”