All The Stars To Cinders

Bliss’s childhood was not so very bad, when it comes down to it. One could say she lived a charmed life, safe from all that might harm her. One could say she had opportunities most could never dream of. One could say that her mother gave her everything she could ever want: a pony and lots of stuffed toys and a fifty-metre death machine.

All of these things are true. All of these things came at a cost. Most often—as is always the case for the upper class—the cost was borne by others, but nobody survives Elder Violette’s parenting unscathed. The full damage has yet to be accounted for.

The Elder’s mansion, built to harmonise with nature in flowing lines of bright wood, looms on the hillside as the procession comes to a halt in front of the forest lake. Bliss, five years old and belligerent at best, has stopped them to complain about her feet hurting half a dozen times already. When one of her mother’s priests offered to carry her, she bit them. It is far past her bedtime, the sun sunk beyond the horizon of Divona’s Wellspring. Clusters of fireflies light the procession’s path.

Don’t worry too much about pronouns. It’s been so long it’s hard to believe anyone ever called her “he”. When she came to her mother a few years later to tell her she was a girl, Violette had the necessary paperwork in hand, as if she already knew and was simply waiting for Bliss to catch up. She kept her name; it was never particularly gendered to begin with, and it only fit her more as she grew. Bliss for the joy of the hunt; Bliss for all the sensual pleasures of life.

“Bliss, if you bite me again, I swear to the Mother below…” The aggrieved priest, clad in a simple white smock covered with a clear plastic cloak, straightens up and clutches their double helix necklace as Elder Violette’s boat approaches the shore. She is a solitary green beacon drifting across the reflected night sky, a guide in a lake of stars.

Her little fennec fox Ember fusses and squirms in her arms, trying to work her way free as they go to meet the boat at the pier. Bliss holds on firmly but not too hard; she knows she is stronger than other children, and she would never hurt her familiar. “Shush, Ember. I’ve got you.” Ember flicks her large ears indignantly and relents. She can understand human speech but not talk back in turn, despite Bliss’s pleas to the priests to splice her further. It would, they said, violate the order of the hierarchy of being to uplift a creature from its rightful place in nature.

They told Bliss she was special, a higher order of human, genetically engineered for perfection. Violette is higher still in the hierarchy, an immortal Elder, the Mother’s voice and grasping hand. The priests prostrate themselves before her as her boat arrives at the pier; her familiar, a creature much like a lemur, grabs a rope and moors it securely.

Violette comes to the edge of the boat, carrying a lantern full of bioluminescent green caterpillars in one hand. Her lined face looms out of the dark, eerie in the soft light. In her study there are photographs of her from across the centuries. Always the same aquiline nose and tall forehead, the same look of mild distaste, the same judgemental brown eyes. Even her hair is the same, greying and neatly cropped to chin length. She has worn herself into a comfortable rut, a creature of habit, secure in her position as a god’s advisor. To Bliss at this age, she is akin to a god herself. The Elder reaches out a hand to her daughter. “Are you prepared to receive the Mother’s Gift?”

The idea of it does scare her a little, but novelty wins out. There’s a first time for everything. Bliss answers automatically, her excitement shining through her face. “Yes, Elder.” Ember secure in her other arm, she takes Violette’s hand and climbs aboard.

The gentle rocking of the boat is almost enough to lull her to sleep as they travel to the island. The priests that join her are silent. She wonders if they are speaking through the bond, a private conversation denied to her. Violette sits at the front, guiding the boat through thought alone, its flippers pushing effortlessly through the water. Tonight is the night she takes the step that every subject of Protean House must: joining the embrace of the Mother.

The island is small and wooded. A steep path switchbacks up its shore. More priests are waiting there in their plastic cloaks to guide them into the sanctum. At the top of the path lies a cave entrance; the wind dulls its bite as they pass through it. The torches in the stone passage are all extinguished; only Violette’s lantern lights the path.

Spirals like ammonite fossils adorn the walls. The staircase winds down and down; this time, Bliss dares not break the silence to complain about her feet. Her breathing is ragged by the time they approach the bottom. Ember lies still in her arms, as if sensing the solemnity of the occasion. The earthy smell of fungus drifts up towards them. They have arrived.

The earthen walls of the sanctum are woven with threads of wiggling mycelium like white veins. The air is still but for the occasional draught from above, raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck. Violette leads her over to a pristine medical chair in the centre and says, “I need you to stay very still during the procedure. Can you do that, darling?”

Bliss nods, clutching Ember tighter, and sits down. A priest with spiked hair and a silver mask opens a case to reveal a large syringe. Another silver-masked priest advances towards the wall with a knife and seizes one of the hyphae, slicing off the very tip and placing the cutting in a vial of fluid.

“I will handle the injection myself,” says Violette. “Unless you consider me ill-experienced for the task.” She arches an impeccable eyebrow, daring them to object. The masked priests glance at each other, an unspoken conversation passing between them. They stand back to let her work at a counter that rises out of the stone, her lantern set to one side. As she prepares the vial, pipetting liquids of various colours into the solution, she addresses Bliss. “This is your birthright: a cutting of the Budding Mother herself. Her hyphae span countless worlds, binding us in all our biodiversity into one mind, ever-changing, Protean. Her Gift is connection: the ability to truly communicate, to know one another as we know ourselves. Our sorrows and our joys are shared. As a gardener she tends us, cultivates us for our purpose in the great chain. Symbiosis between the mortal and the divine.” She takes the syringe and draws the now-clear liquid from the vial. The needle is alarmingly long. “After this, you will never be alone again.”

Ember yawns widely in her lap, baring sharp canines. Bliss strokes her fur, focusing on its soft texture to distract from the imminent injection. “Will it hurt?” she asks.

“Don’t you worry,” says Violette, advancing with syringe in hand. The lantern glows brighter, the caterpillars weaving themselves into cocoons. “You won’t feel a thing.” Bliss lies back on the chair; there is a cut-out in the back where her neck rests. Violette moves behind, swabbing the nape of Bliss’s neck with something wet that numbs her skin. She’s glad her mother took up the task; the priests send a chill through her as they watch, their eyes glittering behind their masks. The Elder is severe, often distant, but her solid presence is reassuring. She is in command, always. “Ready?”

Bliss lies very still. “Yes, Elder.”

She doesn’t feel the needle go into her spine. Only when Violette speaks again does she realise it’s over. “The Gift will grow as you do, rooting itself in your nervous system. It is our constant companion from birth to death. Thank the Mother for her kindness, Bliss.”

“Thank you, Mother.” A strange awareness blooms in her skull like a headache: a new sense, untrained, unsure. Solemnity radiates from the priests, pride and satisfaction from Violette. It’s too bright, too loud, too intense. She screws her eyes shut and sticks her fingers in her ears, trying to minimise sensory input, but the alien emotions persist. A sudden crash of breaking glass awakens her to the world again. When she opens her eyes, the lantern lies broken on the stone. A swarm of radiant green butterflies bursts forth to fill the air, their metamorphosis complete. They will never be the same again. Bliss marvels at the display, laughing with delight.

-Welcome to the Mother’s Embrace, says Violette’s voice in her head.

***

The hunting ground stretches from horizon to horizon, bounded by jagged obsidian spires. The landscape of Synapse Spark is broken, storm-ravaged and rocky. Only the hardiest lichen survives above the water line, painting the purple mesas in splotches of orange. In the dark clouds above, winged silhouettes drift aimlessly, glutting themselves on electricity. Today, the Hunters will test themselves against the spark-rays. As always, the strongest will survive.

Violette has briefed Eris on her opponents, but the Elder runs through them anyway to test her recollection. A dozen Seraphs stand in a circle on the tallest mesa, towering over the feast hall beside them. Their relatives and sponsors will be watching from inside that hardy building, its bones jutting out of the stone like a ribcage. The Hunters-in-training are eager to impress, impatient to spill blood. Most are like Eris, born into wealth and status, but some have proven themselves through talent alone. Rising above one’s station is an affront to Protean sensibilities, traditionally. But with the Eye of Heaven missing for almost a century, certain rules have been relaxed to make the most of the dwindling supply of sparks. The finest genes money can buy do not make up for a deficit of talent. The Protean superorganism cannot afford to weaken its immune system of Hunters.

-Watch out for Garden of Titania, says Violette through the bond. She stands on a balcony beneath the glass roof of the hall, coffee cup in hand. -Bell family Hunters are extravagantly funded. Summer is no exception. How did she triumph in her last three hunts?

-It’s the vines, says Eris. -Strangling briar. She developed the strain herself.

-And how do we neutralise her?

-You make it sound like we’re here to fight each other, not hunt. Hunger leaks through the bond from her fellow Hunters. They all live for this, the finest sport, the assertion of their superiority over beasts. The competition will be fierce.

-Answer the question, Eris. Violette is so small from this vantage point. It’s truly unfair that she can exert such power with a stern tone of voice.

-She’s not as versatile as I am. Eris scans the circle of competitors, sizing up their builds; their soft carapaces are not yet fully formed. A Seraph body is shaped through the pressure of training, changing and growing with its pilot. At sixteen years old she is closer to full synchronisation than most, but Red Eris is not quite the second skin she longs for. There is always something new to learn, some feature leaving her short of perfection. -She hasn’t learned to cover her weaknesses. Get in close past the vines and take advantage of her lack of defence.

-Good enough. Remember that your rivals are just as hungry as you are to succeed. Strike first and hardest, before they can become a thorn in your side. Violence can solve any problem when wielded appropriately. Show them who is a Hunter, and who is merely a pretender.

Fireworks burst red and gold in the air. The hunt is on.

The mesa shakes as the Hunters launch into the sky, trailing a kaleidoscope of colour. Eris cuts through sheets of rain. The storm cloud envelops her, wet against her wings. She switches to thermal vision. Hundreds of warm bodies like giant airborne manta rays surround her, their shrieking cries echoing strangely. Even in her Seraph body, the sound sends shivers through her. The spark-rays are here for a feast.

Such a shame that they will be the ones to be consumed.

Like falcons, the Hunters set upon their prey, scattering in all directions. The bond howls with excitement.

There. One of the rays has been separated from the herd by a sudden gust of wind, or perhaps it simply lacks the brains to realise it is drifting off course. Its flesh is translucent, lit purple from within by the eerie luminescence of its internal organs.

It’s so close. She can feel its humming, taste the charge in the air. When its light fades for a moment, she swoops down and strikes. She cries out, triumphant, taken fully by the moment.

Eris’s claws rend membranes, tear into soft flesh. The spark-ray is hardy, its body electrified as it feeds from the storm. Her fangs rip free chunks of flesh, unidentifiable organs. Viscera and blood paint her carapace red on red.

Deep in the ray’s guts, its final jolts arc through her. A last gasp, a mark of spite. The ray engulfs her in a death grip; her vision fuzzes, distorts. If it succeeds, it will take her with it.

-What’s wrong, Eris? Violette says, edged with worry.

-Help— Eris struggles against the strength of the creature. She was stupid, overconfident. She thought nothing except a Seraph could withstand her. Her spark flickers, pulsing more weakly by the second.

With a mighty heave, the ray is ripped asunder from outside. Spiked tendrils of briar grip the edges of its fins, pulling it to pieces. For good measure, a thorn shoots out and pierces its brain. Garden of Titania looms above her, self-satisfied, her monarch butterfly wings lit through with flashes of lightning. Eris, bedraggled and bloodstained, feels distinctly out of place, like a wretched toad given audience with a queen of the faerie.

-Gotcha. I’m claiming that kill as mine, Titania says, and flies off after her next target.

-Hold on a second! Eris says, hurrying to catch up. -Who said I needed your help?

Titania laughs. -You did! Unless you want to claim you were completely fine. With a golden flash she snares another ray in briar, moving in for the kill as the toxins take their toll.

Eris is faster. She strikes with precision, her claws carving a bloody swathe through the creature before it can shock her. -There. That’s one for me, spoilsport, she taunts.

-You want to make this a game, Lady Bliss? Titania’s regard falls upon Eris, her liquid amber eyes unblinking. -What makes you think you can handle me? She radiates curiosity, and more—delight at finding a new plaything. Eris’ spark beats faster at the thought. She has never made a secret of her preference for girls, but the attention makes her squirm. Nobody has talked to her this way before.

-It’s Eris, in this body. She evades the question, seeking out her next target among the herd. There are points to be won. The other Hunters are already forgotten, fading into the background.

-You’re right. I forgot my kayfabe for a second. Red Eris. What a scary name. Her voice is poisoned honey, dripping with glee. -Would you dance with me? There’s no better way to see who’s the best Hunter.

Could a kiss from the faerie queen turn her back into a princess? That’s not quite how the tale traditionally goes, but there’s only one way to find out. -You’re on.

***

After the hunt comes the feast. The victor’s catch is served, succulent spark-ray meat cleansed of toxins and broiled with butter and garlic. The Hunters cluster around circular tables with their families and sponsors. Guards watch over the distinguished guests with green cat’s eyes, laser pistols holstered at their waists. Waiting staff weave deftly between coral pillars, retreating to a respectful distance as the guests consume the main course. The fashion of the day is living—thorned bracelets, makeup textured like bark, animated tattoos of swaying trees, and a menagerie of familiars. Ember has moved on to a new home. Bliss couldn’t bear to keep her after that first hunt.

Sunlight from twin stars peeks through the clouds, shining through the ribs of the hall. The storm has blown itself out at last.

Summer snorts with laughter at a tasteless joke. She has found her way opposite Bliss—purely by coincidence, no doubt. Her dress is sunshine-yellow, bright as her demeanour. Her ears and septum are pierced with small gold hoops. The cadence of her voice is hypnotic, soft and musical. No etiquette lesson could prepare Bliss for the whirlwind of topics that she storms through, speaking on politics and biology with equal vigour. She begins to feel quite dizzy trying to keep up, but she hangs on every word nonetheless.

The meal flies by, punctuated with significant glances and fits of giggles. As is often the case with teenagers, they are entirely unsubtle in their affections.

Violette, dressed in her usual iridescent black suit with a violet pinned to her lapel, speaks up at Bliss’s side. “You must be quite put out, tying for second place.”

“Oh, I didn’t really think about it that much,” says Summer. “Too lost in the moment. And we had fun, didn’t we, Bliss?” She pushes a blonde ringlet aside as she makes eye contact with her fellow Hunter. Her eyes are deep blue, expressive and soulful. A view one could get used to. Her thoughts brush against Bliss’s, still buzzing with the thrill of testing herself against a rival. -Meet me round the corner in five minutes?

Bliss nods before she realises it, caught up in Summer’s eyes. “Um, yes, of course! It was a fine hunt. The best I’ve had in a long time. I’m honoured to share second place with you, Miss Summer.” Summer rolls her eyes dramatically at the awkward response.

“It’ll be first place next time, won’t it?” Violette finishes off her wine and raises her hand for a refill. “Where are your parents, anyway, Miss Bell?”

“You know, I forgot all about them.” Summer casts her eyes across the room. “They’ve probably found a new investor by now, with all the deep pockets here. I should go and find them before they talk someone’s ear off about terraforming opportunities in the Seventh Strand. Thank you so much for the esteemed company, Elder, Lady Bliss.” As she takes her leave, she winks at Bliss from behind Violette’s back.

Were her palms always so sweaty? She wipes them on a napkin as her mother receives a new glass.

Violette waves, dismissing the remaining guests at the table. “How are your studies coming along?” She gives Bliss a searching look as she takes a sip of wine. “Better, I hope.”

A blush rises to her cheeks. Her most obvious tell; how embarrassing that it always gives her away. “I’m doing the best I can,” she says. “Hunter training already takes up so much of my time, and to study on top of that…” Everything seems so simple as Red Eris. A Hunter’s life is kinetic, instinctual, effortless. She can ace the aptitude trials as smoothly as a swan glides over water. Schoolwork is an uphill effort, an endless slog of late-nighters to finish essays hours before the deadline and frantically cram for exams. Forcing herself to sit down and study is a Sisyphean task. She is wired for soaring across the sky, not languishing behind a desk. In this, she is predisposed to failure, and no excuse is ever enough. “I’m sorry. It’s too much.”

“You’re my daughter,” says Violette. “You have all the preconditions for greatness, in your genetic code and in your upbringing. How are you to thrive as a Hunter without a proper understanding of the galaxy upon which you exert your power? A Hunter without human intellect guiding her claws is nothing but a beast, lost to the wilds.”

Bold disobedience seizes her. “Like Marielle, you mean?”

The Elder’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “You looked her up.”

“She came up in history class. I remembered the name from the memorial.” Marielle Laroux, thirty-one years of age, killed in action more than a hundred years ago. Her name is grown into the bark of an oak tree in the estate alongside Violette’s other departed daughters. Linnea is memorialised in the grove too, her genetic code spliced into a maple tree as junk DNA. There’s a little bit of her in every leaf that falls in autumn. When the Elder visits, she always leaves a bouquet of lilies.

“Marielle was… spirited.” Violette sighs, watching the last of the rain pattering on the glass roof. Its shadow trickles across her face like the ghost of a tear. “She endlessly strove for new horizons, never stopping for rest. She never thought about the consequences; she simply acted. A woman of single-minded focus and ambition. She would not have stopped until she became the greatest Hunter who ever lived.” She fixes Bliss with a commanding stare. “In the end, all her obsession brought her was death. She surrendered fully to the hunt and flew into a berserker rage. Her flight-mates had to euthanise her before she tore them apart. Do you understand?”

A hundred years from now, will she talk about Bliss in the same way, as a cautionary tale to her future daughter? “It sounds like her upbringing wasn’t enough to make her perfect, then.”

Violette is silent for a long moment before she replies. “If at first you don’t succeed, try again. Iteration is the key to success in any experiment. Child-rearing is no exception. I live, I learn from my mistakes, and I adjust my methods. I have nothing else but time and experience.”

-It’s not polite to leave a girl waiting, says Summer from outside, a touch of irritation leaking through.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom,” says Bliss.

Before she can stand, Violette lays a hand on her shoulder. “The Bell girl. You like her, don’t you?” Bliss nods mutely, not trusting her voice. Of course she couldn’t hide it. Violette knows everything. “Good prospects. You could do a lot worse. Love is a powerful thing, Bliss. It can give meaning to the most empty existence. Just don’t let it become a distraction.”

Only when she steps out into the corridor and the door shuts behind her can she breathe freely again. Summer is waiting around the corner in a storage room, as promised. Stacks of chairs covered in dust sheets surround her. Last year’s fashion. Sitting cross-legged on a purloined chair in her expensive dress, she resembles a daisy blooming in a graveyard. “You look like you’ve just run a marathon,” she says.

“Talking to the Elder is like that sometimes.”

Summer makes a sympathetic noise. “Parents can be a hassle, yeah. Anyway, I’m guessing you came here for a reason. Or did you just want to admire my beauty?” She spreads her arms as if basking in praise.

Bliss considers being contrary, teasing her about her ego, but she can’t deny she was already composing elaborate metaphors in her head. Bio-light strips on the ceiling paint Summer in gold, bring out the dimples in her cheeks as she smiles. “I had an amazing time today,” Bliss says. “You’re a hell of a hunting partner.”

Summer takes Bliss’s hand, drawing her onto her lap. She can distinguish each eyelash on Summer’s face, feel her warm breath brush against her skin. This is the first time she’s been alone with another girl like this. She’s seen it in dramas, but even the most sophisticated sensory simulation is no match for the real thing.

“We’ll hunt together again,” says Summer. Warm affection surges through the bond. “But I think we deserve something more to remember this by.” They mask their connection to everyone but each other, drawing a veil of privacy.

There’s a first time for everything. Bliss’s first kiss is tender, tentative. Summer tastes of lipstick, smells of sweet honeysuckle. She laces her hands around Bliss’s waist, drawing her closer, taking the lead. The sensation of Summer’s septum ring against her face is grounding, hard metal amidst soft skin. Pressed together like this, pleasure and sensation feed back and forth through the bond in a feedback loop. She can barely tell where she ends and Summer begins. They are both drunk on each other, cradled in the same Embrace.

She could get used to feeling like this.

A gunshot rings out in the distance, violently yanking her back to reality. Inevitably, it is followed by screams.

“That was—” says Summer, eyes wide.

“In the feast hall. Come on!” Bliss grabs her hand and runs.

A stream of fleeing guests surges through the corridor. Not so dignified now. She steels herself and shoves her way through, parting the panicked human tide, never letting go of Summer.

-What’s going on? Bliss calls out to her mother. There is no reply.

Finally the last trickles of the crowd run out and the two of them burst into the feast hall. There is a bullet hole in the window, a spider-web of cracks radiating out from the impact. The remaining staff and guests are clustered around a suited woman lying on the ground. Violette.

Summer covers her mouth in shock. “Mother below.” Bliss rushes over to the Elder’s side, fear blooming in her heart.

“I’m fine!” says Violette irritably. “Stop flitting around like sparrows and help me up. That’s an order.” One of the security guards takes her arm and heaves her upright. Violette pulls open her jacket and shirt to reveal a bruise blossoming purple on her chest. “Amateur work. My suit absorbed the impact of the bullet. They should have aimed for the head.”

She resists the urge to enfold her mother in a hug. Violette rarely shows physical affection. Bliss’s hands are shaking. She never thought she would see her mother hurt like this, always imagined her as invincible. It’s not right.

“Where did the shooter go?” she says.

The guard, a scarred woman with locs tied into a ponytail, answers. “They must have been out on the next mesa, to make a shot like that in these weather conditions.” She points out past the bullet hole through the wind and the rain. Half a kilometre, at least. “They’ll have a craft waiting for them, something low-profile that slipped past our radar. Might have been waiting for weeks for all I know. We’ll send a security detail to find them as soon as everyone’s secure here.”

“There’s no time.” Bliss’s shaking hands curl into fists. “They could be gone by then. I’ll catch the assassin myself.”

“You’re kidding,” says Summer. “You’re not cleared for live combat.”

“Red Eris will hunt them down,” says Bliss. The situation resolves into a single plan of action, compelled by rage. Blood will stain the stone red. “They tried to kill her. They deserve to die for this. This is what I was born for.”

All eyes turn to the Elder, the highest authority in the room. Violette’s eyes light with fervour. “Go. Make them pay.”

It’s only a short run to the hangar. Bliss outpaces the others, driven by spliced strength and endurance. Red Eris is waiting, her Seraph body poised for slaughter. Her claws are sharp; her fangs are lethal. There is no time for pre-flight checks, no time to change out of her dress. All she needs is the Mother’s guidance.

She soars into the sky, propelled by fury. As she approaches the mesa, she scans with thermal vision. The sniper could be camouflaged, but any heat signature out on the cold stone would be a sign.

There. Eagle-eyed, she spots a single pinpoint of heat. A bullet casing, abandoned in a sniper’s nest draped with optical camouflage netting. The assassin is nowhere to be seen, but a tunnel leads into the stone from the nest. Hovering close, she sends pulses of sonar down the tunnel, mapping out the passages beneath the surface of the mesa. A running figure resolves, fleeing towards a cave that opens to the sky at the far side.

Got you, killer.

The assassin is on foot, only human. Eris reaches the other side in moments and hovers next to the cave. A stealth shuttle lurks there, sleek and humming, its autopilot ready to fly. She picks it up and carelessly tosses it onto the stone surface below, relishing the way it shatters and sparks.

Too late, the assassin arrives, clad in black with a rifle strapped to their back. They dash into the cave mouth, frantically looking around for the shuttle. Eris looms tall above them, her monstrous head and torso blocking the sunlight. The only way out is through her.

“You wanted to murder her,” she says, her husky voice echoing through the cave. “You would have got away, too. But you’re mine now.”

The assassin screams as she reaches in and grabs them. She holds them up to her face, baring her fangs in disgust. So tiny a creature. Their head is the only thing poking out from her fist. Absurd, really, that someone so weak could kill an Elder.

“Please, please, don’t kill me!” the assassin cries. Their panic floods through the bond. She shuts the connection off, cauterises it. “You’re just a kid. They shouldn’t use you like this. She and the other Elders are making you into monsters.”

Eris tilts her head. “What if I like being a monster?”

“Then I’m sorry. At least make it quick.”

Their words only make her anger burn hotter. How dare they pity her? How dare they try to moralise after plotting to kill her mother?

She squeezes with all her strength. Bones snap with a sickening crunch. Blood and viscera seep between her fingers. The assassin’s body falls to the floor, a pulped, unrecognisable mess.

There’s a first time for everything. Her first human kill lies mangled on the stone. Her carapace runs slick with blood.

The next hour passes in a haze. The security team arrives in their shuttles to investigate the wreckage. At some point Bliss disconnects from Red Eris, perching on a rock and staring at the pool of blood spreading out from the body. She’s never seen a human corpse before. All that blood from one person. The metallic stench is overwhelming.

A hand on her shoulder brings her out of her reverie. “Bliss. I’m here.” She looks up at Violette helplessly. The Elder bends and kisses her on the forehead, holding Bliss’s face in her hands. A rare display, for her. “You did a very difficult thing today. Linnea would be so proud to see the young woman you’ve become.”

“They won’t hurt anyone any more.”

“That’s right.” Violette gestures at the signs of habitation in the cave, the makeshift landing pad and the prefab living pod. “They were working for a terrorist organisation, hiding in the shadows. But the Mother’s Gift still lives within this one. I’ll extract their memories personally, find their associates, flush them out of the darkness. No threat to Protean House can be allowed to take root. They will conform to the Mother’s design, or they will die.”

Bliss is still in shock, awed at the violence her Seraph body can enact on human flesh. But this felt right. The hunt is in her marrow. “I want to help,” she says. “Please let me help.”

“You still have some maturing to do, Bliss. But when you’re grown, when you prove yourself worthy, I’ll be honoured to have you by my side.”

***

It’s been eight years, and that day is still fresh in her memory. She told the story to Val as they laid on the snow after their third duel, watching the scintillating blue-purple lights of the aurora on Iskandar Prime. It felt like an unburdening, a chance for a fresh perspective. Violette refuses to talk about it; Summer prefers to remember it as the day of their first kiss.

Val listened intently, never interrupting to ask questions. When the story was told, she said, “It sounds like your mother is a lot like the clergy at Martyr’s Rock. The only difference is wealth and power. Either way, they fashioned us into weapons. Aren’t you tired of being wielded at the whim of others?”

She took offence, made it into an argument. She spat invective. She was very unkind. She regretted it on the lonely flight home to the Chrysalis.

Val wasn’t wrong. A Hunter is leashed just as a Knight is, shackled to the will of her House. Therein lies the problem.

It hurts to admit how little control she has over her own life.

Lost in introspection, she sleepwalks through a day of leave. She talks to no one, for fear of what she might say, what they might feel from her. This is what they talk of in doctrine training: ideological contamination. An idea, once planted, is liable to germinate, to sprout, to bear fruit. For the sake of the ones she loves, she must keep quiet. One bad apple can spoil the whole bunch. Her secret must remain between her and Val.

She wants out. When her claws crossed with Val’s sword, she glimpsed a greater world: one where she can be free, one where she can be dependent on nothing but her own strength.

What would she be willing to give up to obtain such freedom?

She can sense an argument brewing before she steps into the mess hall. Wounded pride, pain, misery. In the queue for dinner, a fight has been cut off at the first punch. Onlookers from the crew gawk at the drama. Hasret is held back by Ash, her knuckles bloody, eyes wild. Kavia, restrained by Bear, clutches a bleeding nose.

Bliss steps between the two of them. “What happened?”

“This freak just attacked me!” says Kavia. “I wanted to ask her a question, so I tapped her on the shoulder, and she swung at me. We should just keep her locked up if that’s the way she’s going to behave!”

Bliss, ice in her voice, says, “Don’t speak about your flight-mate that way.”

Hasret struggles in Ash’s arms. Her eyes dart around the room, searching for threats. “I have to fly. My spark is burning like wildfire. The leviathans… they already took the others. They twist you up, make you like them!”

“Go and get Kavia fixed up,” Bliss says to Bear. “She’s not helping.” Bear nods, and drags her away with overwhelming strength.

“Hey!” yelps Kavia. “I’m the victim here! I haven’t even had dinner yet!” She complains all the way out of the room.

Bliss turns back to Hasret and Ash. “Let her go,” she says. “Restraining her when she’s having an episode will only make things worse.”

Hasret whimpers in their grasp. With a look of apprehension, Ash lets her go. She drops to the floor, only her exoskeleton stopping her from flopping face down. Hasret curls up, whispering again and again, “It’s all my fault.”

Bliss crouches next to her. She tunes out the background murmurs, the waves of curiosity and sympathy and fear from Ash and the crew. Right now, only Hasret matters.

Bliss radiates stability and familiarity through the bond, catching her attention. -Hasret. It’s me, she says softly.

Hasret looks up at her through a curtain of dishevelled hair. Tears drip down her face. She hugs her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth. Misery oozes through the bond like suffocating tar. “It’s you,” she echoes, her voice ragged.

“Let’s do the exercise the doctor gave to you. Can you name some things you can see right now?”

Hasret’s eyes flick across the room. She speaks in a monotone, devoid of inflection. “I see golden light globes in the ceiling. I see wooden pillars, branching out like a canopy. I see tables and chairs. I see people gathering round, watching.” The images feed through the bond, like double vision. She looks back at Bliss. “I see someone I hurt.”

“What can you touch right now?”

“The floor. It’s wood, smooth and cold. My hair. It needs a wash. My exoskeleton. It’s sharp, pointy.” Hasret reaches out and touches each thing in turn as she speaks. Finally, she strokes Bliss’s cheek. “Your skin is soft.”

Bliss puts her hand over Hasret’s and squeezes. “What can you hear right now?”

“The engine. It’s always humming through the deck. Plates clanking in the kitchen. People are whispering about me.”

“Don’t worry about them. What can you smell right now?”

“I smell grilled salmon. And jasmine perfume. Your favourite.” Hasret’s lips curve in a slight smile.

“And what can you taste right now?”

Hasret kisses her. Desperate, hungry, her tongue quests between Bliss’s lips. Drowning in despair, she clings to the only lifeline that presents itself. “You, Bliss.”

Ash shoos the crowd away, giving them some privacy. She'll thank them later.

“You’re safe on the Chrysalis,” Bliss says. “You’ll always be safe as long as I’m with you.”

“I really want to believe you. I want to believe it with all my heart. But the only thing I can do is drag people down into the pit with me. I’m a black hole, and you’re caught in my event horizon. They’re dead because of me, Bliss. That’s what happens to everyone I touch.”

Her old flight. Anathema was the only Seraph among them to make it back from their expedition into the Cyst. The rest were warped by the Phage, smeared across the canvas of reality, painted into botched surrealist nightmares. This conversation is a repeat, an anxiety Hasret has expressed a dozen times before. “If you’re right, so what? That doesn’t mean I’m going to abandon you. I love you, Hasret Gul. You’re mine. Don’t ever forget that.”

“For how long?” The words spill out of her haphazardly. “When I’m gone, will you still love me? Will you remember me ten years from now, twenty, thirty?”

“Of course I will. I could never bear to stop loving you.”

“I’m glad at least one person will remember me fondly,” says Hasret. “I don’t know if I deserve that.”

Bliss takes Hasret back to her own quarters, feeds her leftovers in bed. They cuddle together and watch one of Hasret’s favourite shows and laugh at the terrible acting. Bliss knows this won’t fix anything, not in the long run. The anguish runs too deep in her. But for the time being, they can laugh, and kiss, and make the best of things. That has to count for something.

***

Time passes, as it must. Weeks turn into months. Inanna and Eris dance beneath oceans, under alien skies, through hurricanes and volcanic eruptions. The venue is ever-changing, and so are their duels. Their trysts become a habit, a guilty pleasure, a secret addiction. Through the medium of violence, they come to know each other. That elusive melody, played on the strings of the universe, is a duet.

The sex is a particular highlight, but the real turn-on is unravelling the forbidden secrets of ascension together.

No good Hunter would ever condone such a thing. If they knew, they would condemn her to be pulped, recycled, reborn. Even her beloved Summer and Hasret believe it; there can be no god before the Budding Mother. And yet.

Violette taught her to seek power. One day, if she proves herself, there will be a seat in the Chorus of Elders for her. With her loss at the Nova Ball, the only way to show her worth is through battle. Over the months, the border skirmishes grow fiercer, more destructive: frontier planets razed, space stations shattered. Protean House is cautious with its resources, hoarding its Seraphs jealously, but Adamant provocation demands a response. The sparks of conflict threaten to erupt into the blaze of full-on war. A perfect proving ground for young Hunters with ambition.

With the flight engaged in defending the border, it becomes ever harder for her to contrive an excuse to see her Knight. Bliss imagines her guilt shining through the bond every time she leaves her partners and her flight behind: Heretic! Traitor! Surely the Mother herself must take notice of her disloyalty. But for now, the sword of Damocles remains suspended above her head. Perhaps their god is not as all-knowing as she has been led to believe.

When Val contacts her after two months’ silence, her heart leaps. She has had long-distance lovers before, but never has she missed someone quite like she does Val; her forthright attitude, her fearlessness in the face of danger, the might and skill with which she wields her Seraph body. Absence truly makes the heart grow fonder.

They meet at a stellar crossroads, long since depopulated. The galaxy has moved on from this place; the ring-shaped station and its shipyards, once bustling, have been stripped for parts. Decades ago it was a thriving trade hub, but the speculative bubble burst, and boom became bust. There are many places like this across the galaxy, abandoned as the Houses drew in on themselves, huddling together in preparation for a long winter. There are not enough sparks, not enough Seraphs, to maintain their extravagant territorial claims. Vultures pick at the still-warm corpses of empire.

Once, spoiled by her lavish upbringing in the core, Bliss thought Protean House was eternal and all-powerful. Her time on the impoverished border has corrected that naïve assumption. The golden age—if there ever was such a time—is long since over.

Inanna’s Vengeance waits for her out in the black, her back turned to the station, staring out at the distant stars like the Archangel herself. The purple eyes on her wings track Eris as she approaches. Inanna’s sword unfolds from her arm in greeting. So strange that she was raised to curse the name of the Adamant Knights, when one so gallant as Inanna exists.

“It’s been a while,” says Inanna. She turns to face Eris, her eyes flaring with lilac flame. Her silver face is nearly expressionless to the uninitiated, but Eris knows that look of determination. Inanna is just as hungry for this as she is. “Shall we?”

Talking can wait until afterwards. In an instant, her claws clash with Inanna’s sword, rake against her shield. The rhythm is addictive, their harmony near-perfect. Again and again they meet and break apart, like dancers performing to a tune only they can hear.

Their duel spans the breadth of the station, pulverising ruined metal. Carapace breaks; armour sizzles. When they connect, their haloes flicker in staccato like broken lightbulbs. No, this is not divinity. This is human interpretation of something incomprehensible. The melody, the dance, the tapestry it weaves—all a veil hiding what lies beneath. The power of a god is crackling light behind the curtain, enticing all who glimpse it.

It is the essence of violence. In crude reality, they launch missiles, shoot toxic darts. These are the media with which they score their desires into the universe. But beyond the veil, their eyes and mouths are torn open, dripping with molten metal. They are creatures of flesh and metal, human will and divine spark. To ascend, they must unite these elements. There is no instruction manual for this process, no safeguard should it go wrong.

Come, and be consumed, tempts the light. Volcanic heat drips from Eris’s lips. These are not her words, but she is the one who speaks them.

Come, and be remade.

Before her melting eyes, in a waking dream, Inanna reaches out to the veil like a sleepwalker. Here, she is all wings and eyes and wheels, while Eris is rendered in sharpness, in claws and teeth and blood. If Inanna touches that power, she will be immolated instantly.

In reality, Inanna’s claws etch Eris’s carapace, slash at her face. She fights like a bare-knuckled brawler, desperate and unrefined.

She didn’t have claws before.

Eris catches her arm, snapping her out of the reverie. Inanna’s eyes flicker, blinking in confusion. “When did you get these installed?” says the Hunter. The Knight’s fingernails have grown into diamond claws, dagger-edged, glittering in crimson and gold wing-light.

“I didn’t,” says Inanna, a note of fear in her synthesised voice. “I was so close… I could feel the heat against my face, the lightning in my veins. Why did you pull me back?”

“It would have burned you up whole.” She doesn’t know how she knows, but surety fills her as she speaks. “There’s a reason ascension is dangerous, Inanna. If you’re not careful, you can end up...”

“Half-fused and dead. I know.” Inanna pauses. “Thank you for stopping me.”

“The way I see it, we’re in this together,” says Eris. “There’s no one else who can bring out this side of me. I never even dreamed of ascension before you came along, but whenever we fight, it’s…”

“Otherworldly.”

“Exactly. But you don’t know when to quit. You always, always push yourself too far. Maybe you need someone to pull you back from the brink.”

“I think that’s enough for today,” says Inanna, furling her shield. “But I have something I want to show you.”

Inanna takes her away from the station, out into the void. Eris can’t resist the urge to be playful, defuse the tension. She runs spirals around the Knight, red wing-trails winding around gold. In the distance, a cylindrical structure appears, half the size of her Seraph body. A space telescope. It hums with power, active despite its long abandonment.

“Did you fix this?” Eris asks.

“Not exactly,” says Inanna. “I just gave it a jolt.” Light pulses gold from her spark. The telescope unfolds, adjusting itself to the right bearing. “Take a look. The live transmission is open.”

Eris taps into the feed from the telescope. The image resolves from a blur: a supernova, blossoming like a bright white flower, outshining everything else in the sky. The gamma-ray burst radiates outwards, contained from damaging inhabited systems by unimaginably strong fields. A controlled detonation.

She checks the distance reading. The light has taken more than three hundred years to reach the telescope. That nova has long since burned out; only through this window to the past is it visible again. Incredible.

“It’s one of the earliest Nova Balls,” says Inanna. She sounds pleased with herself, as she should. It’s quite a feat of astronomy to find a telescope the perfect distance away like this. “Three hundred and forty-nine years ago. I thought it would remind you of our first date. It’s almost been a year since then.”

Eris imagines planets burning up in an instant, hundreds of stars’ lives cut short. What a perfectly wasteful display of power. Little wonder the Houses do it every year.

She scans Inanna up and down, taking in her statuesque physique, her four gold-feathered wings. Seraph bodies are not intended for intimacy; they are hard-shelled, optimised for violence. Eris holds her Knight close anyway. “It’s wonderful,” she says.

Inanna wraps her wings around her Hunter like a cloak, rests her head on Eris’s bony shoulder. Together, they watch a star die. Perhaps they will be the last ones ever to bear witness to the light of its passing.

“Where would you go,” says Inanna, “if you had to leave your House and run from everything you’ve ever known?”

“Is this a hypothetical?”

“If that’s what you need to entertain the question, yes.”

Eris chews it over. “Well, the Regency is out of the question. They implant defectors with loyalty chips and throw them in the Seraph fighting arenas. I don’t fancy having my head exploded if the sponsors decide I’m no longer a valuable asset. Same with the Adamant, except they’d just execute me on the spot for worshipping a false god.”

“What about the Hinterlands?”

Eris thinks of the barren, resource-depleted space on the fringes of the galaxy, the buffer between Regency territory and the Protean and Adamant quadrants. Once, it was prosperous, but the collapse of the Celestial Choir put an end to it. “You could live like a queen there, for a while. People do already, carving out their little kingdoms with no other Seraphs to oppose them. You’d need a safe port to repair and refit, and pray you don’t get caught by Vultures. Why? Are you thinking of becoming another Pirate Queen?”

“Not exactly. I doubt she’s real, anyway. Just a spectre made up to scare young Knights into behaving. ‘Don’t break doctrine during a battle, or your Seraph will end up on display in her trophy room!’”

Eris huffs. “Well, I think she’s real.”

“Of course you would.”

“What does that mean?” she says indignantly.

“It’s the kind of fantasy that would appeal to you,” says Inanna. “The Queen of Plunder, doted on by her retainers in the lap of luxury, the corpses of her slain enemies exhibited to intimidate her subjects into paying tribute. It’s very Eris.”

“Well. When you put it like that, I suppose you’re not wrong.”

“What about outside the galaxy?”

Eris gives her an incredulous look. “Now you’re just being silly. There’s nothing outside.”

“You’ve really never thought about what’s beyond the Silence?” Inanna asks. She stares out at the pinprick stars, her eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the rim of the galaxy.

“It’s the Silence. Nothing gets in or out. It’s impenetrable and undetectable. Better pilots than you or I have tried to pass it and they all disappeared without a trace. There could be a thousand alien civilisations out there in other galaxies and we’d never be able to receive their transmissions.”

“So you do believe in other galaxies,” Inanna says. “You don’t think they’re just painted on the barrier like a celestial sphere.”

Eris makes an exasperated noise. With her voice modulation, it sounds like spitting phlegm. “I don’t like this hypothetical any more. Please don’t tell me you’re a conspiracy theorist.”

“I don’t know what’s beyond the Silence any more than you do, Eris. But its purpose should be obvious if you have an understanding of history.”

“I barely scraped through history. Give me the short version.”

“It’s to contain us. Seraphs, I mean. We’re too dangerous to be allowed out of this galaxy. A fifth of all stars in the Milky Way were destroyed during the first Adamant-Protean war. And the Festering Cyst… it might not happen for tens of millennia, but one day it’ll consume everything. Quarantining the galaxy is the only way to stop us from spreading.”

Inanna avoids assigning blame for the Cyst, Eris notes. It’s a hard thing to admit that your god doomed the galaxy. “You’re right that Seraphs have done irreparable harm. But the days of grand galactic wars are over. The Houses would never be able to recover without a supply of new sparks. Even now, the fighting on the border… it’s nothing like it used to be, barely worthy of our attention. There’ll be a peace conference soon, at the Chalcedony Palace. After that, we can see each other more often.”

“I know all about the conference. I’ve been assigned there with my flight,” says Inanna, “in the spirit of cooperation.” She sounds supremely unenthused at the prospect.

Her spark skips a beat. “Well, that’s quite the coincidence. So have I.” The Chalcedony Palace’s masquerade balls are the stuff of legend. She could never have imagined that she would be attending one with Summer, Hasret and Val at the same time. A lady’s imagination could run wild with a scenario like that. “I haven’t quite figured out what I’ll be wearing to the ball. Any requests?”

“Red is your best colour,” says Inanna.

“You know,” says Eris, looking down at her crimson carapace, “I think you might just be right.”

For a time, they watch the supernova, and enjoy each other’s company. It’s unusual, doing this in her Seraph body, but not unwelcome. These are the bodies they truly understand one another in. She knows every weapon concealed in that armour, every move the Knight has trained in, and yet she never ceases to surprise her. The time they’ve spent together is too little, too infrequent. One day, she’ll never have to leave.

Inanna breaks the silence. “It wasn’t a hypothetical, what I asked before.”

“Obviously.” She never thought it was.

“You know the price of ascension. Conspiring to usurp the gods is the highest heresy. When they sense a true threat, they snuff it out without mercy. Right now, we’re balanced on the edge of a knife. If we’re to go any further, we need an escape plan. Unless you’d rather we go our separate ways.”

“No. Absolutely not.” The mere idea of never seeing Inanna again threatens to tear her spark in two. “You’re right, of course. And I don’t have a plan, not just yet. But let me make this very clear.” Fury fills her, the wrath of Red Eris unleashed. Nobody will take her Knight from her. “When they come for us, I won’t go down without a fight. I’ll leave them dismembered and screaming in agony, make them rue the day they sought to cross us. Let them come, all the might of both Houses. For you, I’ll burn all the stars to cinders.”