Stress curdles in the command center. The captains have their brows furrowed, beaded with sweat, fingers dug into palms. Trying to predict what the Heretic fighter is going to do before they do it is a fool’s errand: all the factors to take into account at once, so many possibilities—an infinite array of them—that no human mind can take it all in at once. It’s all intuition and very little logic.

On the other side of the room Ruin says: “There’s an algorithmic key to unlock it all. Like four-dimensional chess. The rules of the physical and mathematical world apply here too. There are models and optimizations. Like the ratio of four Faithful seraphim to one Heretic. It can be calculated, given what we know of the Faithful movesets and the capabilities of the Heretics.”

A load of guff. Nothing-meaning words. Who cares about that, in the middle of battle? The environmental stress is getting to her, seeping into her bones: she feels sore and hollow.

“It’s ironic,” says the delusion, almost dreamily. “This would be much easier if you mortals weren’t so opposed to artificial intelligence. It’s not true that the nullvoid corrupts them, you know.”

Not the point. Misery ignores hir. Can’t let the delusion distract her with nonsense right now.

The mood in the room changes. The Heretic units are withdrawing, turning and opening a swathe of space between them and the defenders. It looks like victory on their side. Is it victory? Is that it?

“It’s too soon,” says the General. “Something’s going on.”

Next to them, Captain Sunyata Diamond leans forward, lip curled and brow knitted. She knows the General is right. None of the Heretic ships have sustained enough damage to warrant a retreat. Working on pure instinct she closes her fists and says—“Aegis up.”

One of the captains—of Jota Red-4, perhaps—reacts acidly. “You’re insane!”

“Don’t ask—just do it!”

Ruin purrs in Misery’s ear. “The station’s aegis will cut the cord between seraphim and captain. You know what that means, don’t you?”

It’s lovely that the delusion acts like she’s stupid. The aegis will strand Angelsteeth’s best pilots—not to mention every seraph they possess—in company of the enemy. It’s a wild move, she can’t imagine anyone would suggest it without good cause. Not just gutfeel.

General Tsung glances at their master strategist, a half-second flick of the eyes, and grunts their assent. All that risk assessed, all that weight pulled, in the space between heartbeats. Talk about wild. Very instructive of their faith in this war hero of the Faithful.