Misery moves faster. A practiced swing connects with the unnatural saint’s ear, and zie goes flying into the other one. Crash. Things are so light here. Misery vaults over them to flee left and down the corridor, straight and double-wide, intersections at a distance that’s rapidly closing. She’s built like a shuttle, squat and boxy, all muscle and adrenaline, and she’s never been more grateful. Rootsdown was a supergrav settlement, and the Capital is just slightly subgrav (or so she’s been told). She’s flying. She’s never run this fast or this effortlessly in her life.

“If you want to help,” she spits at Ruin, who hovers at the periphery of her sprint, “a way out would be nice.” Nearly upon the crossroads. She needs directions, and her gut’s always been good, so—

“Go up,” zie says, a voice in both ears, and she goes, “What?” but she’s already looking to the ceiling, and realizing that the paneling is finely gapped, it’s not a solid piece, and she doesn’t know what’s beyond it but what’s to lose?

She makes a fist of her nondominant hand and rockets upward. Forces her eyes to stay open as knuckle strikes acrylic and pain shoots up her arm. She sails in an arc into a half-height space, claustrophobic, silver, and she’s tumbling head-over-ass into it, tangoing with the panel she’s knocked loose. The vents. Misery keeps moving forward. No time to think. Plunge into darkness. She doesn’t need light to see. Around her the Capital thrums and keens with lodes of holystone, pinging on Misery’s consciousness, forming a makeshift map to navigate by. The huge, beating chunk of holy ruby in the distance: stonecore. Best stay away from that. Other direction.

Those saints. If they’re clones, what does that mean? Cloning is forbidden. Human clones are empty vessels, invitations to the nullvoid. Is that common on the Capital? What else have they made? Telepaths? Chimeras? AI?

She’s letting fear run amok. Not paying attention. Suddenly there’s air where floor should be. Misery screams as she drops stomach-first into the void, then her jaw slams into metal and pain shuts her up. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Pain, something crunching, death waiting? She flails, grasps for holy tigereye to stop her fall, misses, falls some more. Fuck.

Light comes from below. Forge blast, if it’s just air—or some deadly whirring fan—

A crunch. She slams against something—metal mesh—and it pops loose. A tumble and she lands, hip and elbow flaring with pain. Some kind of metal surface, gridded for friction. Industrial. Grit-smelling. Misery sucks in greasy air and her ribs scream, angry, but she’s felt worse. Gets on palms and knees, all her bones hold. A loud complaint along the tendon as she finds her feet, but she’s fine. She’s standing. She can walk.