Misery is shepherded through a parade of glossy black machines with orange displays and no sharp edges. One takes a sample of her blood, one attaches buzzy electric discs to her head, one is a cocoon with a floating seat surrounded by a dozen rotating, swinging arcs of holystone that holler in her chest like a mob. “Am I supposed to do anything?” she says over the din.

Outside the black shell of the machine, Dr. Sower shouts back: “Do nothing. Touch nothing, move nothing. Just let them scan you.” It’s not as comforting as she thinks.

At the end of it all the good doctor studies the readouts, taps approvingly at a few values, and sets a synthesizer in motion. “Almost done. Just need to pop it in and you’re good to go.”

She points Misery to a raft of floating white foam, which she’s supposed to lie facedown upon. The foam is cold and molds to the shape of her flesh. Misery forces herself to remain calm. Reminds herself that pain is her friend. She thrives with it.

The air moves and she senses Dr. Sower standing over her. As the synthesizer works and scanners whirr over her body, the doctor says, jauntily, “You’re less like Leaf Maruska than I expected.”

“Sorry my face isn’t symmetrical enough for your tastes.”

“You’re pretty cute, don’t get me wrong. But you know, Leaf Maruska.”

“What about that hand of yours?”

A dry laugh. But why not? “So you know about the beacon-layers, yeah? You grew up on the stories, watched the dramas on the waves. There are all the heroic crews everybody knows. No Surprises. Falling into Place. Stand Up. But they don’t talk about the ones that were lost. Except in horror stories—you know, the ghost ship that tumbles out of the nullvoid, an expeditionary crew exploring its misshapen hulk, the monsters that come after them. Fallen Prey—you’ve gotta have seen that one, at least. Herodotus Quince’s debut, all big eyes and pouty lips. ‘Prayer won’t reach the Larex Forge here.’ You dig?”

“Mm-hmm.” It’s a passable impression. Very well practiced.