All The Stars To Cinders

In the world her creators intended for her, Val would not exist. Every day she continues to live is an act of spite. By all rights, a dead man should be walking around in her body, seeing through her eyes. That is the purpose she was made for. Her genetic code was sequenced from Shattermoon’s; her upbringing was precisely tailored to replicate his personality traits, to maximise compatibility with his ancient Seraph. She was born to be the avatar of a saint, but inconveniently, she became a person instead.

The Reliquary Knight program has a 98% failure rate. It brings Val pride to be part of that statistic.

One of the successes stands with arms crossed in front of her hospital bed, wearing the face of a woman who was once like a sister to her. Saint Trueheart the Fourth speaks, and her proclamation is thus: “I would speak to you before your return to active duty, Knight. You’ve had more than sufficient time to recover. On your feet.”

Val gets out of bed and stands to attention, unable to suppress a wince. The venom has been thoroughly purged from her body and the nerve damage repaired, but some parts are still tender. The infirmary aboard the Feather of Truth is sterile white and gold, the lights disagreeably bright. It is not a place of comfort or succour but a workshop for mending damaged bodies to return to the battlefield. The only warmth in her two weeks of recovery came with Fi’s frequent visits.

“To what do I owe the honour, Saint?” she says.

Trueheart’s mouth twists in displeasure. Marta’s face would never move like that before she took on the mantle. She always found a way to laugh at whatever was facing her, despite the consequences for impropriety. The ancient data spectre who carved out her soul has never laughed once in Val’s presence.

“Save your false deference, broken vessel.” Trueheart paces around her, luminous blue eyes flicking up and down Val’s body, no doubt searching for deficiencies in posture. Her uniform is immaculate, old-fashioned, black and gold with epaulettes that border on the princely. She trails a faint after-image behind her, red, green and blue like video artefacts. Her repeated rebirths must have resulted in pattern degradation. Why else would she be like this?

Val holds her tongue, so as not to commit blasphemy.

“Your performance at the Nova Ball was lauded by the media, the admirals, even the consuls,” continues Trueheart. “A sign of the moral deficiency of this age. Standards have slipped nowadays, with the House scraping the bottom of the barrel. Little wonder the Eye of Heaven has abandoned us.”

“Did you have any wisdom to impart, Saint, or did you only come here to insult me?” Val bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood, focuses on the pain and the metallic taste. Idiot. Don’t give her an excuse.

As Trueheart circles her, she emphasises each of her points with a finger jabbing the air. “You were reckless, engaging a Hunter at close range. You allowed yourself to be bitten, deprived the Adamant of a Knight for weeks in your convalescence. And your display at the end… there was no technique, no finesse. You fought like a brute, not a Knight. If you are truly the best this age has to offer, then perhaps I should sleep for another century.” She stops in front of Val, meeting her gaze with those uncanny blue eyes, deeper than any ocean. An abyss of age separates the two Knights.

Val works her jaw, keeps her spine ramrod-straight. She should never have expected respect from Trueheart. Not even slaying the Budding Mother herself would be enough to please that crone. “‘A victory for the Archangel is a victory at any cost,’ Saint. My heart didn’t waver before the strike. Isn’t that your philosophy?”

“You relied on instinct over discipline. A strike delivered without proper consideration is mindless violence, not the will of the Archangel. I know the reason you won.”

“You do?” Val is momentarily taken aback.

“I’ve read your medical report. Tissue growing over your Seraph implants and onto the conduits, torn in your emergency disconnection. This path is forbidden to you; do you understand?”

Nobody told her about that, at least not while she was lucid. Memories of the duel rush back to her: that sudden calm, the rhythm pounding in her mind, the steps in the dance revealed to her ahead of time. “What does it mean?” she asks warily.

“‘God is dead,’” says Trueheart, eyes distant. “‘So we forged ourselves into new gods. Each battle was a hammer blow that shaped us into the mould of divinity. None shall tread this path after us; none should be trusted with such power.’”

The words of the Archangel herself, in the foreword of the Steelsong Codex. Every Knight is issued a copy, bound with brass clasps in rare printed form, so as to better appreciate their duties. It is both holy scripture and a manual on Seraph warfare.

“You think I was trying to ascend?” Val can hardly keep the incredulity out of her voice.

“I think that, in your ignorance, you touched upon one of the principles of ascension. Hence I am issuing you a reprimand, and not cutting you down where you stand.” Trueheart’s sword is sheathed at her waist, as required by uniform code. If she wished to, she could draw it in a heartbeat and run Val through with the monomolecular blade.

The generosity of a Saint knows no bounds.

“I understand, Saint,” Val says. “Perhaps you could enlighten me on what I’m supposed to avoid. I am, as you said, ignorant.”

Trueheart scowls, intensifying the lines on her face. Her body is young in the way of vampires, a façade to hide the creature within. “No. This is for your own protection. Whatever you felt in that duel, put it out of your mind and never indulge yourself like that again. It would be a waste to have to hack your half-fused carcass out of a mass of flesh inside your Seraph body.” Sorrow touches her words at that last part; Val has no illusion it is for her. Many lives mean many more opportunities for loss.

“I swore an oath to resist the temptation of godhood, and I intend to keep it. Thank you for keeping me on the right path, Saint.”

Her traitorous heart beats faster at the lie. She has longed for it, fantasised of becoming Inanna in truth. A human body is too weak, too fragile, too dependent. It requires a dozen inputs and outputs to remain healthy, even when cybernetically enhanced to its peak. An ascended Seraph has none of those limitations. If the legends about the Archangel are true, she is sustained by the spark alone in her endless vigil. All that is needed is to give up your human form and take a leap of faith.

“See that you don’t go astray, Knight Valour,” Trueheart says, turning to leave. “Destroying you would bring me no pleasure, but I will do my duty if necessary.”

Val feels the weight of the Saint’s fathomless eyes on her long after she has left.

***

The face before her in the mirror is hers; of that she is sure. She’s still not used to the congruence, to waking up in a body that doesn’t feel like a stranger’s. Three years is hardly enough to get used to a new face. She still half-expects to be addressed by her old name, to see the ghost of him in the mirror. She barely looks like Shattermoon nowadays; a sister or cousin at most.

The fluorescent bulbs of the bathroom cast her face in sharp relief. Val’s features are tough, angular, chiselled; just the way she wanted them. She runs a razor over the sides of her head where it grew in over her hospital visit, then styles the short hair on top with gel. She looks fierce, determined, the picture of knighthood even in her vest and boxers.

If she must reside in a human body, she’s glad to have this one.

She sits at her desk of polished granite and gets to work disassembling her arms, starting with the right. The cybernetic prosthesis pops out of its socket easily, and the synthetic skin slides off like a glove to reveal the intricate metal workings. Her drone hovers over to lend a hand with its anti-gravity fields. The maintenance work is familiar, soothing; perfect for keeping her occupied while she works over a problem in her head.

The problem in question: the message she found waiting for her in Inanna’s memory. “I’m not done with you yet, Valour.” In the days before digital communication, this is the kind of message that would be sealed with wax, lovingly handwritten, with just a hint of perfume. A letter delivered in the dead of night by a masked courier. Perhaps she’s romanticising, just a little, a product of too many fanciful novels. Perhaps she would be more satisfied having a paper letter to burn over a fire than a string of ones and zeroes, easily deleted.

The fact remains that this message is a lure, a ploy by an enemy combatant. The coordinates Bliss provided lead to the wreck of a pleasure cruiser in deep space, the discarded toy of some Protean algae magnate. There are laws against such littering, but on the border, there are few to enforce them. Neither House wishes to take responsibility for removing the wreck from such a contested region. It is, in short, the perfect spot for an ambush.

The smell of machine oil fills the air as she reassembles her arm piece by piece, testing each joint in turn. It is in perfect working condition, as always, but it pays to be prudent. Both of her bodies are machines that require care to remain operational. The left arm comes apart next; a little clumsier, working with only her non-dominant hand, but still routine.

Even entertaining the thought of going to that wreck would be ridiculous. Why, then, does she feel like a schoolgirl finding a love letter pushed through the vents of her locker? She has loved before—at least, she thought it was love, before it went cold—but there is no romance to be found here, only the promise of further violence.

Then again, the two are intertwined in her mind when it comes to Bliss Laroux. She thinks of the crimson sunlight playing across the sharpness of the Hunter’s face, painting her in her true colours. Red Eris is in her bones as Inanna’s Vengeance is in Val’s: one with her claws smeared with blood, the other delivering justice at the point of a sword. When they danced in combat, not even a supernova could keep their eyes off each other.

She has a few choice moves prepared after the last waltz. It would really be a waste not to show her opponent something more passionate. It’s reckless, downright stupid, probably treasonous, but there is no way she can refuse Bliss’s offer. The first time was foreplay.

Val has no way to send a reply; she will have to hope that Bliss shows up at the allotted time. All she must do is contrive an excuse to be there.

Slotting her left arm back into its socket, the body called Val is reassembled. For now, her other body sleeps in the hangar, but soon she will wake to face Red Eris once again. A rare smile crosses Val’s face like a sun peeking through clouds. No crowds, no audience, just her and her new rival. A match made in hell.

***

The bustle of the food court is comforting, familiar: the smell of spices from a dozen types of cuisine, the hum of conversations in countless dialects, the neon advertisements competing to monopolise attention. A hologram of an Adamant officer declares, “Enlist now! Fulfil your duty to Archangel and empire!” There are thousands of port stations just like this across Adamant space, practically identical but for the view. Margin Station, the last port before the Protean border, orbits a gas giant; its blue, swirling bulk occupies the window of the multi-level plaza.

Out on the docking ring, the Feather of Truth looms, built like an art deco skyscraper turned on its side. Intricate golden geometric patterns adorn its sides: scripture synthesised into art. A chariot ship is the most holy of vessels, a temple to the Archangel and a conveyance for her sworn Knights. The Feather of Truth looks as good as new after a week in dry-dock, ready to sally forth once again.

Four Knights uniformed in navy and gold sit around a table, finishing off their meals. Passers-by give them a wide berth out of respect or fear. Fidelity sits across from Val, her red hair bound in an elaborate braid, her taut posture alert for danger even in this place. “You look happy,” she says with a frown. “Did something good happen?”

“Huh?” Val looks up from her empty noodle bowl. “I’m just glad to be out, really. A bit of shore leave is good for the psyche.”

“Hmm. Well, as long as you remember your decorum. A Knight should always strive to represent the House in every action, especially amongst civilians. We’re never really off duty.”

Fi’s eyes rove across the table, looking for potential infractions. Perigee is absorbed in reading as always, devouring the latest news and statistics from across the empire. To onlookers they would appear calm, meditative, but their liquid silver eyes dart from one article to another on their holographic tablet. Data addicts like them are common among the Wills. “It puts things in perspective,” they said to Val once, and refused to elaborate.

Weeper is unnaturally pale, eyes frosty blue, white hair tumbling like an avalanche down her back. A gold filigree collar encircles her neck, the mark of her penance. She speaks only when absolutely necessary.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” says Val. Fi gives the same lecture every time they go out in public. For the Nova Ball, she drilled Val in etiquette every evening for a month. She is fastidious, concerned with her Knightly image above all else, and refuses to let others drag her down; a typical insecurity of one who worked her way to Knighthood as a volunteer.

Of her flight-mates, Fi is the only one she can confide in; a far cry from the closeness of the Reliquary Knight program. Her siblings ran together with her in the cloisters of the asteroid-monastery, ventured again and again together into that haunted cavern filled with Seraphs dead and dreaming, took punishments from the clergy together when they disobeyed. Only she is left now. The other failures rarely had high enough aptitude scores to become Knights. They were inducted into the clergy to raise the next generation, or given a meagre stipend and a reserve rank to live out unremarkable lives on backwater worlds. Meanwhile, Marta the star student got everything she ever wanted, at the cost of her body and life.

Despite everything, she sometimes misses the monastery. It was not a safe or a happy place, but it was a place to belong, as long as you obeyed the rules. Even a cult can feel like home if it’s all you’ve ever known.

Val feels eyes on her, covertly scans the crowd for watchers. “They’re looking at us.”

“No, they’re looking at you,” says Fi, in between sips of her milkshake. “Everyone wants a peek at the champion of the Nova Ball. I told you it’s been all over the feeds.”

Perigee leans over to show Val a news article on their tablet: “A Dance of Death! Adamant Champion Snatches Victory From The Venomous Jaws Of Defeat.” Prominently displayed are two videos; the first is of her and Bliss dancing close among the falling petals, and the second is the final moment of the duel, Inanna tilting up Eris’s chin with her sword.

Logically, she always knew they had an audience; the journalists and camera drones were not for decoration. But seeing those moments flattened into pixels, packaged for mass consumption, feels like a violation of privacy. That duel was part of something greater. It should remain between her and Bliss.

“Thank you, Peri,” Val says, keeping her tone measured as she looks away from the tablet. She’s relived that night more than enough.

Fi spots trouble a moment before Val hears the footsteps approaching from behind. Her companion stands, hand on the hilt of her sword. The crowd parts before a group of a dozen foundry workers in stained orange overalls and heavy boots. Her ocular implants feed her a threat assessment: no obvious weapons, only work tools and standard mechanical augmentation. The insignias on their shoulders identify them as reservists; no rank to speak of. Tense postures, angry expressions: not here for an autograph. All around the food court, civilians scatter to avoid the impending confrontation, leaving their meals behind. In moments, the plaza is quiet but for the hushed chatter of onlookers and the oblivious blaring of ads.

Val’s other flight-mates stand up with her. Perigee hurriedly checks that their sword is still with them. Weeper, her eyes half-lidded, watches with disinterest. Fi takes point, interposing herself between them and the foundry workers. One of the workers mirrors her, stepping forward from her group: a woman, short and stocky, with titanium plates in her shaved head and exposed pistons in her cybernetic arms.

“You don’t belong here,” says the woman. A chorus of jeers and boos rises in agreement from her colleagues behind her.

“We are Knights errant,” says Fi, “and we go wherever the Archangel calls us. This station is her domain.”

Val hears the uncertainty in her friend’s voice, sees her white-knuckled grip on her sword hilt. Like all of them, Fi is unused to live combat outside of her Seraph body. They are not marines or infantry; a Knight is incomplete without her armour. She is afraid, and frightened people make mistakes.

She tunes in on local militia communications, synchronising with the spy drones watching from above. Panic hums through the datasphere; enforcers swarm in like white blood cells to suppress the disturbance without mercy. As boots begin to rattle the service gantries above, she issues the order without hesitation: Stand down. We can handle this. She can deal with the consequences later.

“That’s your ship, isn’t it?” The woman gestures at the chariot ship outside with the wrench in her cybernetic hand. Her skull plates catch the neon light, revealing the circuit patterns etched within.

“Yes, I have the honour of serving aboard the Feather of Truth.” Fi straightens in pride. For her, this posting has always been a dream come true.

“That’s the problem, esteemed Knight. You came here from Svarog, right?” The woman takes a step closer.

“We did. And our operation there was successful.”

Val touches Fi’s shoulder. “Don’t,” she whispers.

Fi shoots her a ferocious look, her composure forgotten. Was this what Bliss saw when she pushed Val too far? A Knight is nothing without self-control, but anger finds its way to burst through the most stoic facade; another limitation of the human brain.

The woman’s lip curls. “Successful? You burned our home, you piece of shit. Was it you who brought the foundry tower down on the strikers?” Her hard eyes fix on Val. “Was it you who killed our families, our co-workers, damn near most of everyone we ever knew?” She takes another step closer, and her colleagues step forward with her, shouting recriminations.

Val wasn’t there for Svarog VII. The insurrection on the crucible world was swiftly and decisively crushed by her comrades-in-arms while she fought for show with Bliss. For a few shining moments, she forgot who she was. The business of a Knight is to oil the machinery of empire, to ensure that every moving part operates at peak efficiency. Civilian casualties are variables to be controlled for; there are levels of acceptable losses. This is the will of the Archangel.

One day, all this bloodshed will be worth it. One day, Val—Inanna—will possess power beyond compare, and nobody will dare to command her again. But right now, in front of her are twelve people who have lost everything.

Acceptable losses.

“What do you want from us?” says Fi, her sword half-drawn. “Revenge?”

“I want you to look me in the eye,” says the woman, “and tell me it was justified. Tell me that all those people you slaughtered were a danger to the empire; tell me that they posed any threat to you whatsoever. When you appear in our skies like golden angels, do you think we rejoice? We can’t help but be afraid of you. You are not our protectors.”

A spark of recognition flares in Weeper’s frosty eyes. “You’re right,” she drawls. “They’re not here to protect you. They never were.”

A voice breaks through the comms silence. “In position. Taking the shot on your command.”

What? No!

“Amrita was right about all of you,” the woman says. “And she’d make a damn better god than—”

She never finishes her sentence. A golden beam lances across the plaza, searing a fist-sized hole through her chest. Her body slumps to the ground, and enforcers crowd in from the wings to club the other workers into unconsciousness with shock batons.

Trueheart strides through a gap in the perimeter, after-image flowing behind her like a cape. The enforcers snap to attention and salute her, lowering their gaze respectfully. “Trouble does love to find you, does it not, my Knights?” she says airily. “I trust that none of you are hurt?”

“No, Saint.” Fi’s hand shakes a little as she finally relinquishes her grip on her sword hilt. “Thank you for the timely intervention. They were—”

“They were unarmed,” says Val, cold in her fury. “They only wanted us to listen.”

“Knight Valour, you are begging for censure, and so soon after this morning.” Trueheart seizes Val’s chin in an iron grip, forcing her head back as if inspecting livestock. “Mind your tongue, lest I relieve you of it. This instigator—” she points disdainfully at the smoking corpse— “was a known disruptive element. It seems we can add blasphemy to the list of her crimes against the state. None of you are to repeat the name she spoke. Her sentence has been delivered; justice has been served.”

Trueheart releases her and walks away without another word, her Knights following in her wake. Val feels nausea rise at the stench of burnt flesh as she passes the woman’s body. Inanna is impervious to such things; only Val could be so fallible as to let death affect her like this. Still, she allows herself this moment of human weakness.

I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve this.

Val never learned the woman’s name, but she recites a silent prayer for her as the enforcers carry her compatriots away in handcuffs. The recruitment ad above her head repeats its spiel mockingly: “Enlist now!”

***

Fi’s quarters are an archive of real and imagined pasts. Every surface and every shelf is filled with neatly arranged plastic models: spaceships, aircraft and ground vehicles, some historical, some fictional. The smell of glue is pervasive. The rest of the décor is unremarkable, identical to Val’s own quarters: golden scripture scrolling across walls panelled in dark wood, columns and arches of marble.

In pride of place is a metre-long model of the first chariot ship from the age of the Celestial Choir, the Boundless Horizon, its curves liveried in white and gold. Val and Fi spent weeks building it together in their off-duty hours, labouring to recapture its ferocity: a vessel of the empire that ruled the galaxy for centuries through the might of Seraphs. The Choir’s reach was too far, too greedy, and it collapsed into rival factions under the weight of its own internal contradictions. Thus came the Houses, the Adamant and Protean foremost among their number. In the seven hundred years since the Choir fell, few have dared to the same ambition, and all have failed. The Festering Cyst is a reminder of the punishment that awaits those who attempt to conquer the galaxy, despite its corruption by the Mother’s treachery.

History makes Val’s head spin if she thinks about it for too long. Millennia recorded, interpreted and edited, trillions dead, all in service of the new status quo. It seems unthinkable that Adamant House could ever collapse, but countless empires have risen and fallen, all the way back to forgotten Earth. Are we so different?

That way lies heresy. After all, no empire before them had its own god from the machine.

“You’re supposed to always have my back, Val.” Fi sits on her bed undoing her braid, her boots carelessly abandoned on the floor. She fixes her friend in the chair opposite her with an accusatory look. “You promised me.”

“That’s not what I promised.” Now that she says it, Val realises she’s not entirely sure herself. They made a lot of promises that seemed like good ideas at the time. Once, they promised to love each other, and that was a disaster. “I can’t support you when what you’re doing is abhorrent.”

“Saint Trueheart agrees with me,” says Fi.

“That doesn’t mean she’s right. Only the Archangel is infallible.” Val takes a sip of her coffee, and sighs deeply. The Protean might worship a heathen god, but their exported coffee blends are divine. One of the perks of serving on the border.

Fi purses her lips. “I could report you for that.”

“You won’t,” says Val.

“No, I suppose not.” Fi collapses back onto her bed, her red hair haloing out around her. “I’m exhausted. I want to sleep for ten thousand years.”

“You just saw someone die in front of you, Fi. It’s impossible not to be affected by that.”

“She was an enemy. I don’t feel upset when an enemy is destroyed.”

“Was she?” Val leans forward. “If she was really a threat, any one of us could have cut her apart in an instant. You wouldn’t listen, you antagonised her, and now she’s dead. You have to reckon with that. If Trueheart hadn’t given the order to shoot, I could have resolved things peacefully.”

Fi sits back up, propping herself up on one elbow. “Since when did you ever care about peace? You’ve changed, Val.”

“Obviously. People tend to do that, over time.”

The first time they met three years ago, Fi was fresh out of the academy, starry-eyed and eager to serve the Archangel. She’d come from a core world, spent all her training in simulations, never even seen a Seraph before Brigid’s Devotion was built for her. She was the first friend Val had outside the monastery, the first to give her that nickname, the first lover to become acquainted with her new body.

These days, she feels like she barely knows Fi at all.

“I’m leaving on patrol tomorrow,” Val says, the words spilling out before she can stop them. “Solo, like last time.”

“You’re leaving me behind again,” says Fi.

“It’s only for a few days. You’ll barely even notice.”

“And what if you don’t come back?” Fi’s lip quivers.

She’s not really going to cry, is she? She never cried when they broke up. Not where Val could see, at least. Fi was always the more adept of them at pushing her feelings down.

“I always come back.” If Val says it with enough confidence, she can speak it into existence.

“Don’t think I don’t remember the three-on-one ambush. Inanna was a wreck after that; you could have been picked off by a Vulture at any time! If I’d been there—if Brigid had been there—you wouldn’t have had a scratch on your armour. She was built to keep you all safe. Don’t forget that. You need me.”

“Not this time, Fi. I’ll be back before you know it, and I want you to really think about what you did today while I’m gone. We can’t have each other’s backs if we’re like this.”

Fi contains herself with visible effort. She straightens her back and says what is expected of her. “May the Archangel guide your sword hand, Knight Valour.”

“You too, Knight Fidelity.”

Val leaves Fi to stew. She has a rematch to prepare for.

***

Space folds before Inanna’s Vengeance. She digs deep within her spark, willing herself to accelerate through this plane. Infraspace is not comprehensible by human senses, but under Inanna’s sensors it resolves: streaks of gold, red, blue, white and orange become pinpricks of waning light. They are stars, all of them: the embers of a dying universe. There are theories about infraspace, far too dense for her to understand. Is it the universe before our own, or one running parallel on an accelerated schedule? Are the divine sparks stars plucked from this plane and condensed down to the size of a heart? She finds she doesn’t much care. It serves its purpose admirably as a highway for faster-than-light travel.

Transmissions pass over her in strange spectra, the sound of distant strings the size of galaxies being plucked. There is nothing left alive to make these sounds, she reminds herself; just background radiation. The universe has cooled near to absolute zero. In another billion years, there will be nothing left.

She travels for hours among the death throes of the stars. Only her chronometer keeps her anchored. Finally, an end to the loneliness: her navigation systems inform her that her destination is near. As she decelerates in preparation to enter real-space, she feels a distant tug at her spark from ahead. Through the haze of collapsing space, Inanna makes out a trail of crimson light approaching the same destination. There is no physical form she can make out, not in this plane, but she already knows who it must be.

She’s red like desire, red like a dying star, red like heart’s blood. She stains you through and nothing can ever wash her away. She’ll turn all the seas incarnadine.

Her spark pulses quicker than ever.

Physical laws wash over her like a splash of cold water as she transitions to real-space. A purple nebula presses in around her, casting its light on a shipwreck like a vast dead tree: a tangle of gnarled branches, stripped conduits and pleasure gardens turned wild.

For a moment, she thinks the trail she saw was just a coincidence, two ships passing in the night. Then she emerges, on the other side of the shipwreck, her bat-like wings flaring as she approaches. Red Eris, alone. If this is an ambush, it’s more than her sensors can pick up; only one spark resonates before her.

“You really came,” says Eris, her bestial voice touched by awe. “I’d scarcely even hoped… that is to say, of course you did. I knew you couldn’t resist me.” She grins, baring her terrible fangs. Her black compound eyes glitter in the nebula-light.

“You challenged me. What sort of Knight would I be if I refused?” Inanna hefts her sword, unfurls her shield. “One night with a woman such as you is hardly enough. If you want to tango, then show me your moves. I think you’ll find me a capable partner.”

“Submission or death?” says Eris.

“I’d accept no other terms.”

“I’ve been so hungry for a good hunt,” says Eris, inspecting her claws like freshly painted nails. “You’d better not disappoint me, Inanna’s Vengeance. It’d be boring if we just fought it out in space like last time, though. That’s why I brought you here: a lovely warren, filled with nooks for a rabbit to hide. That’s you, obviously.”

“I don’t think that’s a very—” says Inanna.

“You humiliated me in front of the galaxy; don’t think for one moment you get to dictate the terms here!” Eris snarls. “You get a thirty-second head start. Then I’m coming for you.”

Red Eris is death itself, black-winged and clawed and running with the blood of her victims like a slaughterhouse drain. She sees it now so clearly. Inanna was lucky to escape last time, and she was a fool to come here where no one will find her body.

“Run.”

Inanna runs.