Revival of the Machine
By Musuko

Chapter One.

The Revered Sleep was dreamless, or so they said. Once the machine took over, you were not alive in any real sense. The Wolves called it a practice run at death. The Machinists referred to it as being “paused”. The universe carried on without you while you slept, ignorant of the long, weary march of time.
	And dreamless, yes. This they stressed. Nobody wanted to be alive with their thoughts for centuries; the only possible result would be madness. There were rumours, of course. There were always rumours. But Aperio personally had yet to hear of it actually happening to anyone he knew.
	Wake up!
	The voice was his mother’s, but it was also his father’s, and each of his three elder brothers and two elder sisters, and every aunt and uncle and cousin, every teacher and doctor and Imperial Priest, voices he hadn’t heard in many subjective years, every person he had ever loved and obeyed mixed together in this one voice, whispering in his ear, in the black, empty void.
	“I don’t wanna,” he whispered.
	Sensation sloshed into awareness to give him arms and legs. Dormant nerves re-awakened to report that he was cold. His body shuddered, splintering the frozen gel foam that encased him.
	Wake up, Aperio. It is important.
	Blue lights strobed through his eyelids. An acidic stench filled his nose. He jerked his head forwards and felt the crackle of breaking foam falling away from his ears. Now he could hear the alarm bell, loud and piercing.
	Lift your arms, Aperio. Lift them up in front of you. Show me what a big strong boy you are.
	His arms ached like they had been exercising for hours. The foam broke from them and rattled against the hatch of the pod, rebounding back in his face. He kept his eyes clenched shut and felt the prickle of burning chemicals against his eyelids as the foam fragments melted and sizzled. His mouth opened, a gasp cut off by the sharp metallic taste in the air. The alarm bell rang loud in his ears, warbling in unceasing frenzy. His hands pressed against the cold, slippery metal of the hatch, and he pushed. Instantly, the alarm bell silenced. He heard only his own breathing and the fizzing of the melting gel foam. The hatch drifted away out of reach of his fingers, and then too he felt himself drift free from the foam. Cold air struck his naked body and stung his lungs. Slowly, he opened his eyes.
	White frost clung to every surface in the Revered Sleep chamber, lit in whirling patterns by the strobing blue light in the far wall, towards which he was drifting amidst an expanding cloud of gel foam fragments. The seven other pods in this chamber were dormant, frozen over, only a gentle hum betraying the machine life and dormant living soul contained within each one. Aperio rubbed at his eyes: they were beginning to burn.
	“Hello? Is anyone there? I think something is wrong. I’m not meant to be awake yet, am I?”
	His shoulder bumped gently against the wall and he caught onto a griprail before he could drift away back across the room. He hissed at the cold burn from the metal and, gingerly, pulled himself along towards the doorway and thumbed at the button. The door clunked and vibrated, shaking loose a cloud of ice crystals, and slid open with a sound of groaning, scraping metal. A wash of warmer air came in from the hallway and Aperio pulled himself out into its embrace. He felt the melted foam evaporate off his fur. He felt the icy pain in his chest start to fade. He bumped against the opposite wall in the corridor, caught a griprail, and hung there for a moment.
	“Hello?” he called. In each direction the corridor stretched into the far distance, lit at intervals by dim orange light panels. Wires and pipes snaked in tangles on every exposed surface. Lights blinked on metal boxes jammed in amongst the turmoil. The corridor made very clear that the machinery came first, people second.
	Nobody will answer, Aperio. They’re all asleep.
	“Who are you?”
	You need to go to your right, Aperio. It is important. Hurry!
	 “Is something wrong with the ship? I’m just a cook!”
	You must do it. You don’t have much time. Please, be a good boy.
	The voice seemed to come from every direction, awash with an electronic hiss.
	“Are you on the ship somewhere? Are you trapped?”
	Please hurry. To your right.
	Aperio pulled himself along the griprails, his legs drifting uselessly behind him, bumping occasionally against protruding cables and greasy machine boxes. The air kept getting warmer. He reached a cross-corridor and cast himself across the gap, fumbling for the griprail on the far side and nearly missing.
	Chamber six-six-three. Can you see it? You must go in.
	“I can’t go in there.”
	You must.
	“But I’m not allowed! That’s for Wolves only!”
	You must you must you must....
	“But!”
	YOU MUST APERIO! DO AS YOU ARE TOLD!
	The tone was just like his mother’s when he misbehaved as a child. He stiffened completely, his fur rising, his ears back and his tail pressing itself down between his legs. The shame burned, instinctive and unstoppable. He wanted to scurry away and hide in his room, hug his Imperial Angel Commander toy tightly to his chest, and hide away until his mother stopped being mad at him. It didn’t matter that he was an adult, and that he hadn’t seen his mother in over ten subjective years, or that she herself had been dead for at least three centuries now: the instinct was bone deep. He was reaching for the door release button before he even knew he was doing it.
	Good boy. Very good boy.
	“I’m going to get in trouble.”
	The door shuddered open. The air beyond was frigid, like his own Revered Sleep chamber, but this room was much larger, and though it contained only five Sleep pods, each one was fully three times the size of his own. These were the pods for Wolf Pack Vanir. One of the pods was open, its hatch resting against the wall.
	“That shouldn’t be like that.”
	You must fix it, Aperio. Go to the pod.
	He eased himself along the curve of the room, hand over hand along the griprails. He read off the names on the pods: Axeln, Loki, Soren, Vanir himself, the pack leader. All famous names on the ship, gods above Imperial Subjects like Aperio, gods even above Imperial Citizens, depending on who you asked. Aperio felt the chill air sink through his fur. Looking down through the frosted glass at the wolves was like looking at the Emperor himself. The wolves slept in their amour, each encased and ready for battle the moment they woke. Aperio had only seen a wolf outside of his armour once: just a glimpse, while running an errand in the cargo hall, just before launch. It was Axeln, standing with his helmet removed over at the far end of the hall, beneath the newly-polished hull of the Fang, an area absolutely off-limits for someone like Aperio. He was surrounded by a circle of attendant Machinists, each one animated in discussion, reaching over to Axeln’s helmet, poking and prodding, working on some technical problem or other, while Axeln stood over them, aloof and uncaring, seven foot tall and built like the armour that encased him: thick and strong, and battered by the scars of many hard years. He had looked over at Aperio, freezing him mid step, pinning him down like a missile lock with his eyes. And then he had smiled: a lopsided grimace, distorted by the scars that wrapped around one side of his head, and he had winked.
	Now Aperio could see him in the pod, his face hidden behind the helmet, with its remorseless metal scowl, so unlike the rough, cheerful grin of the wolf encased behind it.
	Go to the open pod, Aperio.
	This was Shepdard’s pod, the remaining member of the pack. Slowly, carefully, Aperio eased himself to peer over the edge of the pod.
	“Where is he?” he whispered.
	Shepdard was not there. But the pod wasn’t empty; not quite. Shepdard’s armour lay empty, the entire front half opened up like a shelled nut. The hard padding foam inside stank of sweat. The metal plates on the outside were pitted and scarred, and the pelts draped across its shoulders, three in all, stank of decay. It looked broken, discarded, but the faint green glow from the visor inside the helmet’s open faceplate showed that it was still very much alive with the Machinists’ magic.
	“This is bad. This is very bad. He should be here. Why isn’t he here?”
	You don’t have much time. You must move closer. Touch the armour, Aperio.
	“He must have woken early, like me. He’ll be around somewhere close.” Aperio spun himself around, swinging on his grip on the edge of the pod. He looked nervously towards the door. “He’ll come back any moment and catch me in here. I’ll be executed!”
	Aperio, you must...
	His body continued in its arc around the pod. He reached out to catch himself against the opposite side of the pod. He didn’t even need to think about it: moving without gravity was a skill that had to become instinct, else you wouldn’t survive for long. His fingers caught hold of the rim of the pod’s opening...
	...and slipped on the wet metal.
	In his panic, he let go of the other side, and for a moment he was adrift, flailing helplessly, drifting backwards, towards the pod’s opening, towards the open embrace of Shepdard’s armour.
	Good boy, Aperio. Good boy.
	“Help! Someone help!”
	He felt the padding foam bump against the small of his back. A shudder vibrated through the armour. An electric whine filled his ears.
	“Oh no...”
	The open petals of the armour’s front plating swung closed in quick succession, snapping snugly into place, clicking and locking, whirring as their servos calibrated. The helmet’s faceplate swung closed, clamping into place over his face. For a single moment there was silence and stillness. Then, with a hiss of moving air, the padding foam around him swelled up, adjusting to the smaller body of the armour’s new occupant, gripping him tightly in place.
	Good boy. Lie still.
	“No no no! This is bad! Very bad!”
	Green lights flickered in front of his eyes, blurry and indistinct. But after a moment they sharpened into gridlines. Numbers whirled by down the side of his view. Speakers beeped and whined in his ears. Shapes resolved themselves in a green hue: a view of the room beyond the pod. And then, with unhappy swiftness, the sight of the pod’s hatch closing in over him.
	“Let me out! I’m gonna die!”
	He heard the bubbling of gel foam outside of the armour, swelling up and filling the space inside the pod to pin him in place.
	A voice grunted in his ear, masculine and artificial. “Connecting waste system. Calibrating,” said the voice.
	“No no no! What does that mean? Don’t calibrate me! That’s bad!”
	He felt movement inside the armour. Things vibrated and moved around against his fur. His tail was sucked down into a cavity, encased within the padded armoured pod up against his back. And then something prodded at his rear. It squirmed like a worm, nestling in between his cheeks.
	“Oh Emperor, no!”
	He cried out as the slick, tapered tip pressed into him. It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t pleasant. He tried to move, but the armour was like a cocoon around him, rigid and immobile. And still the foam hissed outside the armour, freezing into place, sealing him in. He could feel the cold seeping in to chill his body, making his fur fluff up against the padding foam.
	“Calibrating,” growled the voice.
	“Not again! Don’t calibrate again! Please!”
	He froze, very still. Another wet appendage was pressing against his crotch. He closed his eyes and whined. The armour was clever: it knew he wasn’t properly male, not like the wolves. It knew he was an error, a product of broken genes, as the doctors had put it. It knew he was a low class Subject, incapable of rising to Citizenship. And yet it didn’t reject him, tipping him out of its embrace like he thought it should: instead, it adapted to him, and it slid its appendage confidently into his female sex.
	“Oh Emperor,” he groaned, eyes clenched shut, squeezing out shame-filled tears.
	“Calibration complete.”
	“Let me out,” he whispered. But the armour didn’t respond. He tried to struggle free. The padding foam gripped him snugly, holding him rigidly in place. Even his fingers were immobile, wrapped in the armour’s bulky, strong claws. He couldn’t wriggle free of the probes inserted into him. He could only lie still, rigidly still, staring out through the green-hued frosted glass of the pod’s hatch, and wait.
	And then, from close by, came the vibrations.
	“Oh no...”

Chapter Two.

He slept, but not dreamlessly. He dreamed of the ship, the glorious Imperial Traveller, Legion Reaper for the Primal System Garvian, Long Home for the Old Mind Priest. He dreamed in thoughts electric, patterns spiralling, lanced through with the spikes of the most Holy Knowledge: the thin threads of connection coming in from reality. They brought light to the long centuries of dreaming travel. They gave him meaning.
	Now they spoke of the glimmering point of light ahead, fixed adrift in the gulf between the stars. And so he dreamed, and the thoughts flowed through the ship. The engines ceased their long labour. The lines intersected. They would pass, Traveller and target, a brief encounter, a gentle kiss of welcome, before parting to journey onwards out into the loneliness of space. Perhaps they would meet again. He did not know. He would have to wait for the Holy Knowledge to speak once more.
	Machinery awoke. The ship shuddered. It began to spin, turning its long flank towards the target. Hatches opened. Frozen atmosphere coughed into the void. Five tiny specks, in size to the Traveller as a flea is to the whale, spat out into space, screaming towards the target. The Traveller continued its roll, its opposite flank coming to bear. Five more specks shot out, converging lines, the target at their centre.
	The Traveller span on, drifting free from its ten children. He watched as each speck hit the target. He felt the satisfaction of a dream delivered. The target grew as the Traveller spun past it. Now the whale was a mere minnow, skittering past the vast flank of the target. A ship? A station? A wandering world? He would not know if the Holy Knowledge would not tell him. But in his dream he felt a rare elation: this was a new experience for a mind that had been dreaming for so long. The ripple of his happiness chimed through the ship. The great antennas gave him a voice, unfurling outwards and glowing with radio heat.
	“Hello,” he called, as the Traveller hurtled past the target. “It was nice to meet you.”
	The voice that returned was a whisper: a pinprick of feeble heat. It came from deep within the target’s vast mass, distorted and broken, a plaintive call that followed him as he and the Traveller journeyed on out into the lonely emptiness.
	“It was nice to meet you, too,” it said.

Chapter Three.

Finally, the noise and the shaking ended, and Aperio was left with only the piercing ringing in his ears and a deep, miserable ache in every muscle of his shaken and beaten body. He lay still, groaning, his head hurting, his mouth dry from what felt like an eternity of panicked screaming. He heard the crackle of melting foam gel around him, as clear as if there weren’t two inches of hardened impact armour between his ears and the air beyond. The hatch of the pod hissed and swung open. He was suddenly grabbed by an invisible grip, ripping him free from the pod, tumbling him forward out of the pod. He cried as he fell, armour-clad limbs flailing. He could move! A white wall rushed to meet him, and he hit it hard, jarring his body against the armour’s inner padding, clicking his teeth together.
	“Ow,” he wheezed.
	He rolled over onto his back, arms and legs moving with eerie ease despite the weight of the armour. He saw the pod in front of him, protruding at an angle from a broken hole in the wall.
	Then his perception changed, and his stomach lurched: not the wall. The ceiling. There was gravity here. It’s what held him down against the floor, surrounded by the fizzing remains of foam gel. How long had it been since he had felt gravity? It would have been the last time the Imperial Traveller spun its rings, during the blessing before its last launch. That was six months ago, subjective time. Aperio groaned. His stomach felt weird.
	The room looked wrong. Where were the pipes and wires? The Blessing Seals? Where was the metal? Everything was smooth and white and featureless, lit by a forest of warmly-glowing, leaf-shaped panels in the walls. There was no furniture, no machines, and, aside from the broken hole plugged by the Revered Sleep pod, there seemed to be no way out of the room: no exits, no doors, nothing.
	Slowly, Aperio climbed to his feet, clumping heavy armoured boots against the smooth floor. He staggered in the unfamiliar gravity, his arms shooting out for balance. But they overshot, moving with the momentum of the armour’s massive weight, sending him flailing helplessly towards the wall. His outstretched hand hit it with a metallic clang, and his armoured fingers scraped dark scratches onto the white surface.
	Something, somewhere outside the armour, went bong.
	A rectangular seam appeared in the wall, and within its bounds the white surface melted away to form a doorway. Another white room showed on its far side, also lit with a glowing pattern of leaves on the wall.
	“Hello?” he called. “Is anyone there?”
	He heard his voice relayed out through the armour, his timid words broadcast in a booming shout. He yelped and clapped his hands over his muzzle, metal clanging against metal. Imperial Subjects should be quiet and humble. They should not shout. And they most definitely should not be wearing a Wolf’s Armour! Did he really want to go calling for help just so he could get caught and executed? He retreated from the doorway and watched as the white surface melted back into place, the seam disappearing, leaving the wall as featureless as it had been before. Even the scuff marks from his fingers had gone. Wherever this was, it didn’t look like any part of the Imperial Traveller that he knew of. But then, he didn’t know many parts of it anyway. Maybe this was a part of the ship he wasn’t allowed to enter. Great, another reason to be executed!
	There had to be some way to remove the armour, right? Some switch or lever that would make it open up like he had found it? He patted at his muzzle, trying to feel the bumps and ridges of the armour’s plating through his armoured fingers. He poked at protruding bumps on his cheeks and forehead and in front of his eyes, but only succeeded in making his vision swim with static until he moved his fingers again. He tried brute force, grabbing the helmet and trying to pull it off, but it only ended up feeling like he was trying to rip his own head off. He whimpered, and the armour echoed the sound through the room.
	Maybe there was some kind of spoken command to open it? He had heard Machinists talking to their machines before, and had sometimes heard the machines talking back to them. The armour had spoken to him earlier. Maybe he could speak to it? He shouldn’t talk to a machine, of course: only Machinists were allowed to do that, and perhaps Wolves could too if their armour could talk. If Aperio were caught trying to talk to a machine...well, just another thing to add to the growing list of reasons he could be executed! He felt ill. This was proving to be a very bad day.
	“Uh...hello? Armour? Could you let me out?” he asked.
	Silence. Total dead silence.
	“Please?” he added.
	Still just silence. Perhaps there was a trick to it: a particular way of asking? Did he have to use the right words? Was there a chant or incantation to it? The Machinists had their own Holy language for working with their machines. If Aperio needed to speak to the armour in that language, then there was no hope: of course he didn’t know how to speak it.
	“Please armour, please let me out. I don’t belong in here.”
	Still there was no reply. But there wasn’t silence this time: a distant rumble reached his ears and vibrated the floor beneath his boots. He backed up into a corner, making sure he didn’t touch the walls. The rumble grew louder, and that wasn’t good news. When a mysterious rumble got louder that could only mean one of two things: that whatever was making the rumbling noise was getting bigger or stronger or both, or that it was getting closer. And right at that moment, Aperio couldn’t decide which possibility was more terrifying. Whatever it was, it was coming from beyond the other side of the room, which meant he wanted to go in the other direction. He turned around and started feeling the walls, scraping his fingers against the white surface. He had made a door appear before, but now nothing was happening. Now that he actually wanted a door, he couldn’t make one!
	“Come on, open! Please! Make the ‘bong’ noise and let me out!”
	The rumbling was a roar now. The floor shook under his boots far more violently than the Imperial Traveller’s deck plates did when its engines were at full strength. There were other noises too: bangs and thuds, and the unmistakable sound of ripping and tearing metal. Aperio banged his fists against the wall, denting the white surface.
	“Let me out, please!”
	The light from the glowing leaves flickered, and there was a bang from very close by. He heard the roar of fire and felt heat against his back, relayed somehow through the skin of the armour. Blackened fragments pinged against the wall in front of him, and he felt the push of rushing air rock the heavy armour. He turned around to face the room.
	There, framed by a broken, burning hole in the wall, stood an armour-clad figure, smoke rising from his fist, where foot-long claws glowed white-hot. The figure stared at him for a moment, its helmeted face eyeless and menacing, red metal studded with a dozen or more glossy black marbles on the cheeks and forehead and where the eyes should be. It was the same visage of cold, menacing violence that he had seen in the Wolves’ pods, and he knew from the yellow stripe which one this was: Soren.
	The head tilted to the side and the claws folded up against the back of the armour’s hand, where they sizzled and faded to a dull orange glow. Soren raised an arm and leaned it nonchalantly against the still-burning edge of the hole.
	“Life gives you no doors? Make your own! Then you got a job done right. Make ‘em as big as you need. Slice ‘em up, chop ‘em through, munch the plastic and you’ve got yourself some tasty stuff, eh?”
	Black smoke billowed behind Soren. Yellow flames flickered. He swung himself away from the hole and stomped into Aperio’s room. His head tilted back, looking up at the pod wedged through the ceiling.
	“Doing it claw-claw style, eh? Don’t fancy getting wet with the flamer today? You’re a wild one, Sheppy. Gonna use your teeth, eh? Bite ‘em up? Eat ‘em up good, right?”
	Soren’s armour lurched towards Aperio, movements jerky and sharp, but seemingly controlled. The head twisted back the other way. The expressionless face plate of the helmet somehow managed to convey the grin hidden beneath it. Soren was the Wolf who the Citizens and Subjects spoke the least about...because he was the one who scared them the most. Aperio pressed himself back against the corner, trying to keep the fear bubbling inside from becoming a whimper. He was in Shepdard’s armour, and Soren thought he was Shepdard. If he could just keep quiet, then maybe...
	“What’s the matter? Got a brain bug? Busted up your ears? Someone bit off your face? Come on Sheppy, let’s hear something witty. Got some fun in there?”
	Soren’s fist clanged against Aperio’s helmet. The armour absorbed the impact, but could do nothing to suppress the ringing noise. Aperio shuffled a sidestep along the wall, shaking his head.
	“Oh, gone broke something huh? Banged about out there huh?”
	Soren tilted his head back, looking at the pod again. Aperio took another sidestep along the wall, squeezing himself out and away from Soren.
	“Gonna get you sorted, Sheppy old friend. Hey Axeln! Through here! Got you something to fix! Ain’t that nice?”
	“What have you broken now, Soren?”
	The voice came to Aperio’s ears as if the wolf were stood right next to him. But there was nobody else in the room but Soren.
	“Not me, not me. Sheppy’s gone and busted his head. Not feeling chatty. Think he’s gone off me. Haha!”
	“Wouldn’t blame him. Bring him here and I’ll take a look. One deck up. Sending a ping to you now. We’ve got friends here for you to meet.”
	Soren growled out a laugh. Aperio felt a shiver ripple through him. “Oh how fun. Come on Sheppy.” He spun on the heel of his boot, scraping a dent into the floor. “Wait, hang on. We’re gonna want the fire...”
	Soren crouched down, looking upwards. Then, with servos screaming, he launched himself up into a jump that carried him and his heavy armour all the way up to the pod in the ceiling. He caught onto the rim of the hatch with one hand and dangled. The pod groaned and slid a foot further down into the room. He yanked open a panel and let it fall to the floor, and reached inside. When he dropped back to the floor with a bang that shook the room, he was holding Shepdard’s long, multi-barrelled heavy flamer. He tossed it to Aperio, who fumbled and caught it in his arms, staggering backwards to bump against the wall.
	“Might be some tasty meat, eh? Gonna want to cook it up good! Yum yum. Flame-charred! Best way to eat. Come on you! Things to kill! Your head to fix! Axey’s got the sparker. He’ll give you a good smack with it. Come on, come on! Busy busy, jobs to do! Last one to punch something has to eat the eyeballs!”
	Soren’s trail of destruction ran a weaving course through a multitude of rooms. Not all of them were white: some were pale green, others blue, all lit by the same glowing white leaf patterns on the walls. Not all of the rooms were empty, either: some had curving shapes bulging out from the walls and floors, studded with pale points of light. Some of them had glowing panels that hissed with static: these at least looked familiar, like the control screens on machines back on the Imperial Traveller. But if they were machines, they were nothing like anything Aperio had seen before. Soren barely seemed to pay them any attention. He just strode back through the smouldering passageway he had cut through the walls, head fixed forward, fists up to meet the next wall in his way. Aperio followed, stepping awkwardly in the armour, juggling the bulky flamer, trying his utmost to keep his fingers well away from the big yellow lever that looked awfully like a trigger.
	“Up up time,” said Soren, turning back to face Aperio. “You ready? I’ll make a hole for you, Sheppy buddy.”
	Soren crouched. Metal scraped and servos whined. He held his fists above his head. The glowing claws sizzled.
	“Up up up!”
	He launched like an explosion, slamming into the ceiling above and shredding it like paper. The room shook around Aperio. Fiery sparks and glowing fragments of torn metal rained around him.
	Soren’s helmet peered over the ragged rim of the hole. “Come on, buddy. Don’t you hear? Party up here! Come and make me some toast!”
	Aperio clumped into place beneath the hole. Soren had disappeared, and from above came the rattle and boom of distant gunfire. He gripped the flamer tighter, and then shrieked and jumped backwards as a stream of white fire shot across the room to melt the skin of the wall. Gingerly, Aperio lifted his finger away from the trigger.
	Jump? Up there? It looked very high up. Aperio felt the bottom of his gut fall away, a sudden attack of vertigo so very unfamiliar to someone used with the carefree drift of zero-g. There was no up and down when there was no gravity. And now, with the drag of weight pulling him down, there was definitely an up, and there was definitely a down to go with it. A down that meant falling, crashing, and pain. Would the armour protect him if he fell? Would he smash to jelly inside its shell?
	Carefully, balancing the flamer against one arm, he crouched down, just as Soren had done. He felt the vibration of servos whirring either side of his knees. He tilted his head back. Green static washed his vision for a moment. A blur of numbers spun in the corner. He felt the power humming in the armour, a taut string, a coiled snake.
	He pushed his feet against the floor. Just a small kick, just like the ones he used to nimbly spring off walls to glide around the chambers and corridors of the Traveller. The servos let out their scream. And as the armour launched him up through the hole, towards the second ceiling beyond it, he screamed with them, a high shrill noise fully an octave higher than the servos. The flamer flew away to the side. His arms and legs flailed, windmilling in the air. He hit the ceiling with the flat of his front, metal muzzle and the tips of his boots embedding into the flat white surface. His body slammed bone-jarringly hard into the armour’s padding. His head ached, as if his brain had just been punched.
	With a soft scraping noise, the armour slipped downwards an inch.
	“Oh no...”
	The punctured ceiling’s tenuous grip on the armour let go and he fell screaming and spinning, back down through Soren’s hole, back into the room below, to slam heavily onto his back. His teeth clicked down on the tip of his tongue and the tangy taste of blood flooded his mouth. His tailbase felt bruised. Lights popped and spun in his vision.
	“Ugh,” he said.
	Slowly, he sat up. The armour squeaked and grunted, as if it were complaining about its owner’s crude treatment of it. The flamer lay where it fell a few feet away and he scooped it up. He still had to maintain the pretence of being Shepdard. Not that it would matter, of course, if anyone had just seen that performance. They would know in an instant that he was an imposter. But the hole above stayed empty. The distant clamour of fighting didn’t change. And in front of Aperio, where he hadn’t even thought to look before, was an open oval-shaped doorway with the unmistakable shape of a ladder beyond it, leading upwards.
	“Huh,” he said.
	The room above was much like the one below, with white leaf-patterned walls. A dozen translucent green cylinders stood against one wall. One was broken open, glass shards bent like melted plastic. A sticky green residue was splattered in a spray pattern on the floor. Aperio stepped around it and through the smouldering hole in the wall, following Soren’s trail. The next few rooms were the same, more white walls, more green cylinders, some of them broken open. Aperio clutched the flamer a little tighter. The noise of battle grew louder. Aperio could feel the vibrations through his feet. It felt like the ship was being shaken apart around him. A particularly large boom sent him stumbling towards one of the cylinders. His armoured fist went straight through it, shattering it into a thousand flying fragments.
	He pulled his hand back. Attached to the armour’s metal fingers was a quivering blob of translucent green jelly, about the size of his head.
	It squeaked. Like a mouse.
	Aperio squeaked back in panic, shaking his hand to dislodge the blob. It clung on, stubbornly strong. He flew himself in a circle, beating his hand against the wall, leaving long smears of goo. But the blob stayed latched on.
	“Come on, let go!” he whined. The blob wasn’t letting go. If anything, it seemed to envelop more of his hand. He held it up in front of his face, staring into the quivering spheroid of goo.
	It squeaked at him again.
	“What are you?”
	The blob didn’t have a face. It didn’t have any features of any kind. But Aperio could swear that it grinned at him. He felt a sudden heat in his hand and a sizzling noise reached his ears. The fingers of the armour’s hand started to go cloudy inside the blob’s body.
	“What the...hey! Stop that!”
	Aperio shook his hand again, wailing in pain as the heat got hotter. The blob was eating through his armour! He beat the fist against the wall again, with much the same result as before. The blob kept squeaking. It was going to kill him! He pressed it against the wall, lifted his foot up, and used the edge of his boot like a blade to scrape the blob free from his hand. He sighed in relief as his fingers started to cool down. Smoke rose in twisting coils off the pitted and burned metal of the armour’s fingers.
	His foot started to feel hot. He looked down. The blob was now enveloping his foot.
	“Oh would you just...”
	He prodded at it with the nozzle of the flamer. The blob spread hungrily to it, now on the flamer’s nozzle and his foot. He twisted and prised, trying to get the whole thing off his foot. Onto the flamer, that was the plan, and then he could...well, he wasn’t sure. Find something else to transfer it on to? Maybe the...
	The flame roared out from the nozzle in a narrow blue spike that flared out to blazing yellow. The goo blackened and shrivelled, with a scream of high-pitched agony. Aperio yelped and fumbled with the flamer, batting his fingers at the controls, finally getting it to switch off. The blackened remains of the dead blob fell in fragments off of his foot.
	“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to!”
	He prodded the remains with the flamer. The fragments dissolved into black dust. A whimper rose in his throat.
	“Don’t die,” he whispered.
	The dust settled, a sad little pile. He stared at it, numb for a moment, not daring to entertain a thought in case it started him crying. He had never killed anything before, not even for food. He had never even touched a dead animal. Everything that came through the kitchens on the Traveller was plant-born. Did green blobs go to the afterlife? He felt the tears threatening and turned his head away. Clutching the flamer and giving the green cylinders a wide berth, he hurried through the hole into the next room.
	“Sheppy!” Soren again, chirping in his ear. “You’re missing the fun! You’re not lost, are you buddy? Come and grab yourself some-” A roar blasted into Aperio’s ears. “Hoo yeah! That one bounced, Sarge!”
	“Soren,” came another voice, firm and commanding. Sergeant Vanir. Aperio recognised his voice from the Sermons. The memory of the wolf’s single eye, white like snow, pinprick pupil staring, made Aperio want to retreat back the way he came. “Where is Shepdard? Did you leave him behind?”
	“Slow on his feet. Stuff to kill.”
	“Alright, Soren, open up that wall. We’re pulling back towards Shepdard.”
	“Just came from him,” said Soren. “He’s round the corner. Think he’s being lazy. Doesn’t want to pull his weight, the lug!”
	“Axeln, go on ahead,” said Vanir. “Open up Shepdard’s helmet and take a...Loki, swing right!”
	“It’s a big one, oh yes!” cried Soren.
	Aperio turned a corner into a long corridor. At the far end he could see four figures silhouetted by flames. The flash of tracer needlefire rounds lanced out from three of them, lighting their faces in rapid flickers. In the flames, shrieking and rolling, was a form that Aperio could put no name to. Limbs like spider’s legs, as long as a person was tall, thrashed against the walls and beat against the ceiling. An unidentifiable bulbous mass swelled in the middle of the firestorm. A hiss rose. Cracks lanced through the mass.
	“Everyone down,” shouted Vanir.
	The four figures dropped. The swelling mass exploded. Vivid purple liquid shot out in a steaming cloud of droplets from the shattered husk. Fires sparked into life where the liquid fell, and the four figures stood up wreathed in flames. Each beat at the flames, patting them out with no great concern. Only the pelts draped over their shoulders were in any danger of burning for long.
	“No fun when they kill themselves,” said Soren. “Unsporting!”
	Four helmets turned to look towards Aperio. Soren, with his glowing claws. Sergeant Vanir, standing a foot taller than the other three, his armour bulkier and wider. Axeln, his armour festooned with Machinist contraptions, lights blinking, vents steaming. And Loki, leaning on the long staff of his axe, looking out of place with his ancient weapon of wood and steel.
	“Ah, Shepdard, you’re here. Saves us coming to chase you down.” called Vanir. “Join the party.”
	Aperio straightened himself up, gripping the flamer in front of him, and tried his hardest to stride confidently towards the wolves. He stared at the heavy weaponry each one held and tried to keep the whimper in his throat from escaping. All it would take would be for one of them to spot the awkwardness in his stride, or the way he flinched from the sparking wires hanging from the gashes in the walls, for his life to be over. Not that he had long left to live anyway. As soon as Axeln opened up his helmet, it was all over. Each step brought him closer to his death. He saw Axeln unfold one of his Machinist arms, flexing its mechanical jaws, bringing its implements to bear. Aperio lowered his head, tears pricking in his eyes. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t do anything to deserve this. He obeyed a voice, that was all. What else was he supposed to do? He had spent his life obeying, without thinking, without questioning, and now he was going to be punished and killed for it? His chest felt tight, and it wasn’t because of the armour’s padding. He had never felt anger before, not really, not since his very early years, before he learned that anger soon lead to being teased and beaten when you grew up as the youngest sibling of six. And now the boiling unpleasantness inside him was taking over like it never had before. He didn’t know what to do with it. He felt impotent and recklessly powerful at the same time. And blind. He felt like he could barely see.
	He balled a fist and swung it, letting out a squeal of impotent distress. It hit something with a hard crack.
	“Whoah, Sheppy buddy,” said Soren. “Got eyes in the side of your head?”
	Aperio felt the anger wash away in a heartbeat. Confusion was the king now. He blinked and stared at the wall where his fist had landed. Only the strength of his shock managed to keep him from screaming. His fist had crushed a blue-skinned spider the size of a dinner plate. As he watched, it exhaled a soft, bubbling sigh of escaping air and dripped gooey fragments onto the floor. He eased his fist out of the sticky mess. The corpse peeled away from the wall and fell with an unpleasant splat onto the floor. Aperio felt his stomach do a flip. He wondered what would happen if he threw up in the armour.
	“Those things are nasty,” said Soren. “Try to eat your face, they do. Had a whole bunch of them in here earlier. Don’t think they know about helmets. But they keep biting and wriggling. Snap snap snap. Try to chew right through! Eugh. Wriggly scuttlefuckers. Don’t like ‘em.”
	“Alright, Soren, settle down,” said Vanir. “Where there’s one, there’s going to be more. Shepdard’s malfunction can wait. Soren, Loki, Shepdard, and I will do a sweep, clear them out, then seal up the corridor at either end. Axeln, you seal up these openings, here in the middle.”
	“What with?”
	“Pull off some wall panels if you have to.”
	“Got it.”
	Axeln’s Machinist arm folded away and two different, stronger-looking arms unfolded in its place. He turned immediately towards the nearest of the three smashed holes in the wall and wrenched at a twisted metal beam. The spark of a plasma torch lit the corridor with a bright blue glare.
	Like the light of a blue star, thought Aperio. How did the superstition go? The herald of good fortune was the light of a blue star. Ships would set their course to pass them. This blue light wasn’t quite the light of a star, but it still felt like it: Aperio had dodged death by luck alone. He stared at the light and felt like weeping.
	“Thank you,” he mouthed.
	“We’ll hole up here and make a beachhead,” said Vanir. “Lock it down, confirm our position, and then try and get a signal through to the Angels.”
	In unison, the other wolves groaned.
	“They should be close,” said Vanir, seemingly ignoring them. “But who knows how much interference there is in here, or how far away they’ve actually landed. Axeln, you’ll be on setting up a transmitter once we’re sealed in.”
	“Right,” grunted Axeln.
	“Shepdard, you’re with me,” said Vanir, beckoning him over and turning to walk along the other way. Aperio walked after him in a daze. Death had never come so close, and now he was living again by sheer luck alone. But it came at the expense of killing another living creature. Would he have to kill again? The thought rang hollow in his mind and made his sick stomach feel sicker. How did the wolves do it so easily? He had gone the entirety of his life up until today without killing a single living thing. Then in a single day he had already killed two. And still the looming threat of death awaited him, either in the jaws of some deadly alien creature, or by the hand of his own companions. He watched Vanir stride ahead of him, and thought about the inch thick layer of metal and plastic that shielded his identity and his life.
	There were two more spiders, but Vanir reached each of them first. He didn’t waste ammunition: a fist dispatched the first spider, and a boot crushed the second. Aperio tried to look busy, fiddling with the flamer, and nearly fell over his feet, stumbling for a moment. Vanir didn’t notice, or didn’t care. It didn't take long for him to seal up the corridor, peeling a wall panel away like paper and beating it into position. He braced it with pipes pulled from the guts of the wall.
	“What happened to your hand, Shepdard?”
	Aperio looked down at his fingers, where the metal was scorched and scarred by the green blob’s attempt at digestion. He caught himself before he blurted out an answer. With awkward pantomime, he shaped a ball in the air with his fingers, then mimed shaking his hand and trying to wipe it on the wall. Vanir watched, silent, expression unreadable behind his helmet. Aperio started to blush, feeling like a fool. Then, from Vanir, a grunt of recognition.
	“So, you discovered the cylinders. Soren smashed a couple of them open earlier. Loki got a face full of the goo.”
	“Danced about like a pricked bunny, he did,” called Soren.
	“Hey!” Loki’s voice sounded older than the others, even though Aperio knew he was about the same age as most of the wolves: only Vanir was notably older, living a good two decades proud of the rest. “I was just surprised. I wasn’t dancing around.”
	“He was squealing, he was. Get it off, he cried! Get it off!”
	“Shut up, Soren,” said Loki.
	“Looked like someone had stuck a bug in your armour. Pranced around like a little-”
	“Soren?” said Vanir.
	“Yes boss?”
	“Shut up.”
	A snigger came from one of the other wolves. Aperio couldn’t tell which.
	“How are we coming along?” said Vanir.
	“All clear at this end,” said Loki. “Couple of bugs and one of those fat lizard things. All dead now.”
	“Holes are sealed,” said Axeln. “Ready to set the transmitter up, on your order.”
	“Alright then. Let’s see if the Angels feel like talking.”

Chapter Four.

In the black tomb of the cargo space, Imperial Legionnaire Tanner closed his eyes. In that deeper darkness lights flared, formed and reformed, then settled into the clean lines and dots of a schematic. There at the heart he could see the cargo space, a vast hall that could accommodate the Imperial Traveller with room to spare. Tracing out from it, like knotted worms, were the corridors and rooms that their radar ping had picked out, ending wherever a closed door blocked its signal. He could see himself, a dot in the middle of the cargo space. Behind him, observing, was Sergeant Lorenzo. And in the corridors, spreading outwards, were the dots that represented the other Legionnaires in his team: Brother Zael, Brother Calistarius, and Brother Daniel. Each had their own vector. Each were an army condensed into a single canine.
	“In position and moving out.” he said.
	“Yes, I can see.” Sergeant Lorenzo stepped closer. Tanner zoomed in on his mental map. He felt the Sergeant’s armoured hand settle onto his shoulder. “Are you afraid, Tanner?”
	Tanner opened his eyes for a moment. Blackness returned. Only faintly, in the far distance, could the ashen grey shapes of distant walls be seen, feeble light returning from the far extremities of their armour’s light beams. The floor they stood on stretched smooth and unbroken all around them. If this space had ever held cargo, there was no sign of it now. It reminded Tanner of the temple halls back on Garvian. To have such a large space confined by walls was unsettling. When he looked up into the darkness, towards the black heights where he knew there was a ceiling, he instinctively expected to see stars.
	“Of course not, Sergeant,” he said.
	“The Empire has no ships of this size. Are you not curious where this one came from?”
	“I have no questions. Only my duties.”
	“That is a good answer.”
	The hand withdrew from his shoulder. Tanner closed his eyes and returned to the map. The Brothers were moving along their assigned courses, expanding the map. It was a breathtaking amount of space, but Tanner knew that if he zoomed all the way out to encompass the full extent of the floating derelict, the space they had mapped would barely show as a smudge of light in one corner.
	“Contact,” came the voice of Brother Zael. “Red shift, plasma two alpha. Organic. Hostile. Engaging.”
	Zael’s marker turned away down a side corridor. Tanner heard the faint chatter of gunfire. New markers lit up on the map. Enemy markers. Hostiles.
	“Contact.” It was Brother Daniel. “Plasma two alpha. Organic and hostile. Engaging.”
	Red bloomed across the map, surrounding the two Brothers. The sound of gunfire grew louder. Tanner watched, impassive, silent, and just waited.
	“Two contact types,” said Zael. Tanner watched as the red markers sprouted labels in response to Zael’s beam tagging. At the far end of the mapped area, Daniel’s red markers did the same. “Contact type one: needlefire effective against central mass,” said Zael. “Contact type two requires flame.”
	The red markers were winking out more rapidly than they were appearing. The brothers were clearing the corridors. Out at the far end, Brother Calistarius still moved down empty corridors.
	“Third contact type,” said Daniel. “It is...uh.”
	“Remain clear, Brother Daniel,” snapped the Sergeant.
	A series of soft thuds vibrated the air. The larger red marker close to Brother Daniel winked out. “Contact type three has detonated, expelling incendiary liquid. Ineffective against armour.”
	The data sheets in Tanner’s mind’s eye filled out. The infestation here was being mapped and catalogued. The more that they killed, the more they would learn, the more efficiently the Angels would be able to kill them. Already they were destroying them easily. It would only get easier.
	“How far have we mapped?” said Sergeant Lorenzo.
	“Ten point three decihects at furthest extent, eight point two at nearest.”
	“That’s far enough. Draw back on protocol Beta Nine.”
	The Brothers responded to their signals. Each turned a snap one-eighty, moving in unison. The red dots writhed behind them, but didn’t follow. Within minutes they were back in the cargo space and Tanner could see them with his eyes open, their armour lights shining across the vast void.
	“Close in on me,” said Sergeant Lorenzo. He waited for them to gather. Five armoured Angels, each identical save for one: Brother Calistarius’s armour gleamed sky blue, instead of the pure white of the others, marking him as an Imperial Eye, an embedded watcher reporting back to the Emperor’s court directly.
	“Difficulty report. Subject analysis. Go.”
	“Low to moderate,” said Brother Zael.
	“Low,” said Daniel.
	“I have yet to make contact,” said Brother Calistarius, “and can offer no evaluation.”
	Sergeant Lorenzo turned to Brother Tanner. “And the tactical opinion?”
	“It is too early for more than an estimate. The numbers appear to present no issue at this stage. What they will be as we proceed deeper into the ship is unclear.”
	“Ident?”
	Tanner closed his eyes. Images cropped from the feeds from the Brothers painted themselves on his eyelids: spiderlike forms and writhing, bulbous forms, all exploding under the onslaught of the Brothers’ needlefire. “No match in the records that I am aware of.”
	Sergeant Lorenzo turned to Brother Calistarius. “Imperial records?”
	Calistarius shook his head. “No record.”
	“Something new, then. Native to the derelict, or external in origin?”
	“Unknown,” said Tanner.
	“Tactical recommendation?”
	Tanner let his thoughts slide into the library of procedures. The probabilities and solutions mapped themselves neatly into place. “Reduce the risk of becoming overwhelmed individually, proceed in tight formation, Epsilon Three or Four. Catalogue and interpret en-route. Repeat active pings to map interior. Adjust vector as required.”
	Lorenzo considered only for a moment. “Epsilon Three along best tactical vector. On Brother Tanner’s lead.”
	Tanner plotted the course, winding a line through the passageways towards the extremity closest to the centre of the ship. With a thought, the image streamed out to the visor displays in the helmets of the Brothers.
	“Mark and follow,” he said. They broke apart and fanned out into an arc, with Sergeant Lorenzo and Brother Tanner moving in the centre.
	“Weapon check,” said Lorenzo.
	They moved by routine. The soft clicks of the chambers and magazines were swallowed by the enormity of the cargo space. Their hands moved robotically, drilled into precise co-ordination. They could perform these checks in microgravity or under fifty gravity stress. They could do it in their sleep. They could probably do it while dead.
	As one they reported back, “Clean and loaded.”
	“Confirmed,” said Lorenzo. “Double pace.”
	Their march became a run. The faint grey of the far wall became brighter. Details emerged: the long, vertical lines of structural beams, the thin tracery of conduits, the bumps and ridges of nameless machinery. Tiny marks that seemed like specks grew and grew, until their real size became apparent: features the size of Stormtanks and Atmospheric Insertion Shuttles swelled up from the specks, making clear that it was the Angels who were the small creatures in this place.
	If any of them were inspired to think about this dramatic scale, none of them spoke of it. In silence they ran for the hatchway in the wall. This too looked small at a distance, but soon swelled large enough to dwarf the Angels as they passed through it. Only here did the scale settle down to something approaching appropriate size: after a few junctions in the wide passageway, they found themselves in a corridor that seemed scaled for personnel. They passed the still-smoking corpses left by Brother Zael. Tanner stopped to inspect one. Sergeant Lorenzo halted beside him.
	“Anything?”
	Tanner shook his head. “Complex bio-organics. Beyond my analysis ability. Still no match to the records. Shall I take a sample?”
	“Negative. Keep moving.”
	They hurried to catch up with the rest of the team. They made good progress, reaching the edge of the previously explored area within a few minutes. From here it was all new territory, and they carved a path of light deeper into the dark mystery of the map inside Tanner’s head.
	Hello. Can you hear me?
	Tanner stumbled. It was as if Drill Instructor Tam had travelled across the gulf between worlds, and across the divide between the living and the dead, to whisper in his ear.
	“Comms check,” he said. “Interference?”
	“Negative,” came the response from the other Brothers.
	“Are you getting a signal from the Wolves?” said Sergeant Lorenzo.
	Tanner cycled his channels with a thought. “Negative. Possibly interference from the derelict.”
	“Continue to monitor.”
	“Yes sir.”
	I believe you can hear me. He needs your help. You must help him.
	“Halt for interject,” said Tanner. The Angels stopped around him, forming a defensive circle. He held a hand up, palm flat, the signal to wait. “Unknown contact, I read you. Please identify yourself.”
	He needs your help. You must go to him.
	“Please identify yourself. Is this the Wolves?”
	I will guide you. There are dangers. You must follow my path. Hurry.
	“What do you hear, Tanner?” said Lorenzo.
	“A voice communication.”
	“Source?”
	“It will not identify itself.”
	“I’m seeing nothing on any channel. Brothers?”
	The others shook their heads.
	“I’m not getting anything either, sir,” said Tanner. “But I am hearing the voice all the same.”
	“Do you recognise it?”
	“It sounds like...like Tam, sir.”
	“Galos Tam?”
	“Yes sir.”
	“What did the voice say?”
	“It says we must help someone. It will show us the right way to go.”
	Lorenzo turned away, looking down the long corridor. He was silent only for a moment. “Continue to monitor and relay everything it says. We will follow its course until such time as that seems inadvisable. It may be the Wolves attempting to contact us via methods unknown, possibly using something on the derelict. Keep your weapons ready. Tanner, lead the way.”
	They slid back into formation and moved down the corridor.
	Left, said the voice as they reached the far end. Tanner waved the Brothers to turn.
	“Sergeant,” said Tanner, switching over to a private communication channel. “It is possible that I am hallucinating.”
	“I am aware of that.”
	Tanner stayed quiet.
	“We will be cautious,” said Lorenzo. “Judge everything the voice says on its own merits, and do not rule anything out. You may be hallucinating, yes. But you may also be receiving a transmission via technology we do not recognise. Following its guidance is no more hazardous than our original plan of venturing into the derelict blind. Do you understand, Tanner?”
	“Of course, sir.”
	Right.
	Tanner motioned the Brothers to turn. They made good progress. The map of the ship opened out around them. They stepped through into another open space. The radar ping drew a long hall out past the limits of Tanner’s view. He zoomed out to see it all.
	“This space runs clear across half the width of the derelict,” he said. “We can follow it all the way along.”
	“Excellent,” said Lorenzo. “Brothers, forward.”
	Tanner tilted his head back. In the darkness above he could see gleaming rails, catching the light of his beams. “Looks like some kind of transit tunnel.”
	“No chatter,” said Lorenzo.
	They moved in silence, scanning the walls for movement. Tanner’s map was lifeless. No red dots. No contacts. But they could hear faint noises in the distance, coming through the layers of the derelict. Things were moving. Large things. Tanner kept his needlefire lance up, as did the others, precisely following proper procedure.
	Their earpieces crackled. A voice swam in the static.
	“Do we all hear that?” said Lorenzo.
	“Yes sir,” chimed the other Brothers.
	“Is this your mystery voice, Tanner?”
	“No sir. This is different. It’s coming in on a standard channel. One moment.”
	He concentrated. Behind his eyes, the shapes twirled. Numbers blurred. The static washed away.
	“Come in Angels,” said the voice, a whisper in the distance. “Yoohoo, anyone there?”
	“It’s the Wolves, sir.”
	“That much is obvious,” said Lorenzo. A click signified a channel being opened. “This is Sergeant Lorenzo of the Imperial Legion Angels Seven One, please state your identity and position.”
	A sigh came through on the channel. “It’s Axeln, and we’re at the arse end of this great big dead ship. You want me to put Sergeant Vanir on?”
	“Please do.”
	Shuffling noises followed, with muffled conversation in the background. The words “thinks he’s talking to the Emperor or something with that voice” were audible.
	“Sergeant Vanir of Wolf Pack Vanir. We are located at grid three two six by nine eight two by two two seven.”
	Tanner homed in on the spot on his map. It lay in the blank area, almost at the very tip of the far side of the derelict. “We are halfway to their position. Once we get to the end of this passageway, it won’t be much further.”
	“Sergeant Vanir,” said Lorenzo. “We will be at your position within approximately three hours. What is your status?”
	“We’re doing fine. We’ve encountered and killed some local wildlife and are now holed up safe talking to you. How are you doing?”
	“We are progressing satisfactorily.”
	“Great. Super. Glad to hear it.”
	“Do you have any further information?”
	“Not at the moment.”
	Sergeant Lorenzo turned to look at Tanner. “Sergeant Vanir, have you received any contact from unknown sources?”
	“Nothing that I know of, why?”
	“No communication signals from within the ship?”
	“Only yours.”
	“Have you engaged in any interaction with devices or mechanisms that may have activated a signal?”
	“Huh?”
	 Lorenzo sighed. “Never mind, Sergeant. We will discuss it further when we reach your position. Sergeant Lorenzo, signing off.”
	“Alright. Sergeant Vanir out. It’s been a pleasure to have this little chat with you.”
	Sergeant Lorenzo’s sigh was only faintly audible. He waved a hand in a sharp motion forwards. “Onwards, Angels. Tanner, tell me if there are any further instructions from the voice.”

Chapter Five.

Sergeant Vanir yanked the comm lead out of his neck and tossed it to Axeln. “They're on their way.”
	“Lovely,” said Axeln. “I'll start work on the tea party.”
	If there were smirks, they were hidden behind the helmets. Axeln busied himself with the transmitter, tuning and tweaking. Vanir trudged back to where the rest of the pack were idling, taking full advantage of the safe zone within their barricades. Loki had his axe up against a wall and was sharpening the blade with the flat of his palm, the hard metal of his armour doing a better job than any grinder. Soren was sat in a heap, like a discarded doll, off in his own world, picking at the burnt decay in the pelt draped over his shoulders. And Shepdard, silent in his armour, was stood motionless against one wall of the corridor, stiff and at attention.
	“We have some time to kill,” he said.
	“We've got bugs and stuff to kill too,” said Soren. He flicked a clump of charred fur into the growing pile in front of him. “Should be out killing 'em. Don't wanna waste time waiting for the hoity-toits.”
	“We won't be waiting long. And Soren? When they arrive, try your best to act a little less...like you.”
	Loki snickered. He smacked his palm against the blade of his axe and picked the weapon up, swinging it side to side and watching the light catch the edge. It moved through the air with all the grace of a stack of bricks, but the blade was honed to a fine razor edge.
	“Don't got no need for behaving around them,” said Soren.
	“They have an Imperial Eye with them.”
	“So what?”
	“Loki, give him a smack for me.”
	Loki's flat palm caught the back of Soren's head, ringing metal against metal.
	“And tell him why it's not a good idea to act up around the Imperial Eye.”
	“Because, you big doof,” said Loki, “when you're one of only about, what, six packs left?”
	“Six, yeah.”
	“You gotta be on your best behaviour, 'cause what you do and say ain't getting lost in the static any more. The eyes are gonna be watching us plenty nowadays.”
	“So what?”
	“So you don't wanna look a tit, that's what! So how about you pretend you haven't got a dead hunk of sludge in that head of yours and instead try to act like you know what you're doing?”
	Soren started to laugh. He reached up and prodded Loki's chestplate with the points of his deactivated claws. “You love me.”
	“Like nobody else could, Soren.”
	Axeln dropped down beside Soren. His machinist arms were still folding themselves away, cleaning and greasing themselves. “You don't want Loki loving you. He'll leave you carrying cubs.”
	“I only leave the beautiful ladies with cubs,” said Loki. “And Soren ain't a beautiful woman.”
	“You wound me, Loki-dokes! I thought you said I was the prettiest waif in all the everything?” He flicked a fragment of burnt fur towards Loki.
	“I must have been drinking.”
	“Speaking of which!” Soren thumped his thigh. A compartment slid open. From within, he lifted a small vial. “Vapour anyone?”
	All heads except Aperio's turned towards Vanir.
	“Alright,” said Vanir. “But don't go losing your heads, got it? Stay sharp for the Angels. Gotta show them who's the best.”
	“Haha! Right!”
	“Pass it over. Rank and privilege, pass it here.”
	The vial passed from hand to hand, dancing nimbly in the skilled control of the clunky metal fingers. Each wolf in turn pressed the vial's valve to the socket on their muzzle. And as the potent Vapour filled their noses and burned their throats, their postures relaxed, muscles slackening, their armour settling with soft motorised hisses.
	“Ah,” sighed Soren. “Makes you feel like you got air in your lungs!”
	Loki coughed and thumped his chest. The others laughed.
	“Sheppy!” Soren wobbled to his feet and staggered over to Aperio, one hand out, wielding the vial like a weapon. “Your turn!”
	Aperio lifted his hands to protest.
	Do it!
	The voice! It froze him. The admonishment of a lifetime's worth of obedience. Slowly, he lowered his hands.
	They must not know. Take the vial. He will be there soon. He will save you.
	Soren slung an arm around Aperio's shoulders. The impact of armour against armour jolted a wave of bone-jarring pain through his whole body.
	“Come on, Sheppy. Have a whiff and maybe you'll stop being as quiet as a priest. It's just for you. Lovely strong stuff. Have a whiff! Have two!”
	The vial clicked into place and the air inside Aperio's helmet flooded with the violent tang of intoxication. His eyes welled and stung. His nose and throat burned when the vapour touched it. And then, like a welcome wave of warm water, he felt the numbness wash through him. His shoulders dropped and his armour sagged. His head floated up towards the ceiling. The armour felt weightless. Colours popped and sparked in his vision. He grinned happily inside the helmet and gently bumped his forehead against Soren.
	“There's my Sheppy! Deep breath!”
	“Just one more,” warned Vanir. “Stay sharp.”
	Aperio felt his knees quiver and fail. The armour held him up for a moment, then interpreted his folding legs as an instruction. On whirring servos he dropped, crumpling happily onto the floor, giggling happiness in his head. Soren tugged at the vial, freeing it after a moment's fumbling.
	Make no sound. Keep quiet. They will know.
	Aperio clapped a hand over his muzzle, then shook with silent, suppressed laughter at the nonsense of it. Silly doggy. You can't cover your mouth. It's under all the armour. Like a nut inside a shell.
	“Sweet sweet stuff,” chimed Soren. “Takes you up and back down.” He dropped down beside Aperio, his heavy landing shaking the deck plating. “Have a little rest until the toity-toit-hoiters arrive, eh?”
	Aperio nodded, feeling like his head was a bowl overflowing with syrup. He slumped against Soren's side.

He must have slept. His body was limp and tired, skin itching where it pressed against the armour's padding. In his vision, beyond the visor, was a red blur.
	He blinked. The blur sharpened into the face of Brother Loki, bared of his helmet. This was a face Aperio knew, but had never seen in the flesh. Those eyes that had always looked out from images now stared right down through Aperio's visor, as if he could see the fearful dog inside.
	“You smell strange,” whispered Loki. And now Aperio became aware of the weight on his chest: Loki's hands, pressed down onto his chestplate, pinning him to the floor.
	“Shouldn't be smelling you at all. But I am. Why am I smelling you, Shepdard?”
	He started to growl. Aperio shrank back into the armour's padding. He wanted to wriggle free. There were claws and teeth here. An angry wolf was on top of him. This was a nightmare made real.
	“Something is wrong...”
	Loki started to sniff around. He nosed at the neck of Aperio's armour and ran a line down his shoulder, his arm. Suddenly, he grabbed Aperio's wrist and yanked it up. He sniffed at the scorch marks left by the goo.
	“You've got a broken seal. I can smell you inside.” He inhaled deeply, then exhaled with a long, rumbling sigh. He turned those blazing eyes towards Aperio's visor. “I never noticed, Shepdard. That smell. Have you always had that smell?”
	He twisted Aperio's wrist and pressed his nose hard against it. He inhaled hard enough for Aperio to feel the tickle of air against his fur.
	“Shepdard,” he breathed. “You're female?”
	Aperio felt his fur rise. His skin prickled as if he had pressed against a live wire. He shook his head quickly.
	“But Shepdard, you smell like one.” Loki dropped his wrist and started to stroke across Aperio's chest, armoured fingers on armoured chest, metal scraping against metal. “And you smell good...”
	Aperio started to whimper. He bit his lip as hard as he could, fighting to keep himself quiet so that the armour wouldn't broadcast his noises for all to hear.
	“Why did you never tell me? I wouldn't have judged.” Still Loki stroked. His eyes left Aperio's visor only for a moment. They roamed across his armour-clad body. Aperio felt his fear change subtly, worsening...
	“I would have...” Loki trailed off into a rumbling growl and pressed himself down, his nose at Aperio's neck, his weight crushing through the armour and forcing the air from Aperio's lungs. “Emperor you smell good. I thought I was going crazy. Something was in the air. Making me want to rut like I had a summer heat. I thought it was the bugs at first. Some messed up alien stink. But then I smelled them up close. Even through the nasal filters I knew it wasn't them. It wasn't Soren, and not any of the others. It's you, Shepdard. You smell like my wives.”
	Loki's fingers dug in at the edges of Aperio's chestplate. Aperio felt the padding loosen around his chest and heard the pop of a seal releasing. He tried to throw his arms up to make Loki stop, but the armour had become a dead weight the moment it had been opened. He couldn't move!
	“The others are sleeping.” Loki stroked a finger up towards Aperio's neck and prised open the catch on his helmet. “Let's just...talk, okay?”
	“No!” cried Aperio, a squealing whine that nobody could ever mistake for Shepdard's powerful voice. Loki froze, the animal forces draining from his face. He frowned.
	“Hey Shepdard, you sound...”
	The frown became a scowl. With a sweep of his hand, Loki ripped off the front plate of Aperio's helmet. Fresh air hit his naked face and he stared up at blazing eyes that stared right back down.
	“You're not Shepdard!”
	Aperio gaped wordlessly, a terrified squeak dying in his throat. He was powerless to move, trapped in the immobile armour, as Loki jumped to his feet and swept his axe around to bring the point of the shining blade to Aperio's throat.
	“Who are you?!” he bellowed.
	In the edges of his vision Aperio could see scrambling bodies. He could hear confused murmurs, and then shouts of alarm. It was all over. The wolves were awake, and they knew.
	“What's going on, Loki? Why are you...oh.”
	Aperio screwed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see their faces. The shame and terror burned in him. Death, when it came, and he knew it would be soon, would be a welcome relief from this.
	He's coming. Be brave.
	“Loki!” Vanir's booming voice cut through the noise. “Put the axe down. Now!”
	Aperio still dare not open his eyes. He heard movement, clanking armour. Was it going to be needlefire bolt to his head, and then nothing? Would it hurt?
	“Look at me,” said Vanir. The voice was soft, confusingly so. Slowly, Aperio opened his tear-rimmed eyes and saw Vanir's concerned face, unhelmeted and bare, swimming in the watery haze above him. “Who are you?”
	“My name...” Aperio swallowed, his throat dry and painful. “My name's Aperio. I'm a cook. I didn't mean to-”
	“And why,” said Vanir softly, “are you wearing Shepdard's armour?”
	“There was...there was an accident.”
	Soren's face shoved into view, feral and terrifying without his helmet to mask it. “What did you do with Shepdard? Did you kill him? If you killed him, I'll kill you, you little-”
	“Soren!” snapped Vanir. “Move away. Do you think this little cook killed Shepdard? Shall I tell Shepdard you think so little of him?”
	“I knew something wasn't right. Falling about like he forgot how to walk. This little killer-”
	“I didn't kill anyone! I woke up and there was this voice, and the pod was empty, and I slipped and...and...”
	He heard the click of a needlefire gun being readied. He started to shriek.
	“Soren, put it away. I said put it away!”
	“I don't want to die. I'm sorry!”
	“Aperio.” Vanir's voice was soft again. “Talk me through what happened. From the beginning.”

Chapter Six.

You must hurry.
	Tanner turned his face upwards. Every time the voice spoke, it sounded like it came from above. “Why?” he said.
	“What is it, Tanner?” said Sergeant Lorenzo.
	“The voice says we must hurry.”
	“Did it say why?”
	“No sir.”
	“Brothers, you heard him.”
	As one, their speed increased. They hurtled through the wide passageway, their metal soles pounding hard on the deck plates, their steady panting huffing through their helmets' speakers.
	“Sir, this could be a trap.”
	“I am well aware. Keep running. How far?”
	“Two minutes. Sir, there's a wall at the end...”
	“How thick?”
	“No way to tell, sir. The wolves are not far beyond.”
	“Take the wall down. Tanner, cannon, level six, up to eight if necessary.”
	Tanner's arms moved on autopilot to lift the weapon from his back and cradle it to the groove on his shoulder. It was as long as he was tall and weighed almost as much as the armour, but he handled it as if it were made of air. His pace never slowed. The barrel stayed level. A moment's aim found the spot, in the centre of the wide, flat wall that was rushing up to meet them.
	“Firing!”
	The missile streaked ahead and blossomed out into a thousand fragmentary warheads. Each one hit the wall and blossomed into a crackling sphere of white light. The visors in their helmets went black to protect their eyes. A second later they cleared. A ragged circular tunnel had been bored through the wall, its edges still glowing white hot. They reached the hole without slowing, leaping over the ridge and landing in the corridor beyond.
	Stop!
	Tanner lifted an arm. The Angels skidded to a stop.
	Left. And through the barricade. Hurry. He needs you.
	“Through there,” Tanner shouted, pointing. Brothers Daniel and Calistarius raised their fists and shattered the metal plating.
	Aperio squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed. The noise of running armour and harsh shouting flooded his ears. Through it came the voice.
	He's here.
	A long time passed. Shouting voices quietened. Urgent discussion surrounded him, voices mingling and running over each other. The armour wouldn't move when he tried to roll into a ball. So he kept his eyes squeezed shut and tried to imagine the peace of the kitchen on the Imperial Traveller. He knew the order and placement of every tool and device in that room. Nothing was ever confusing or difficult there. Nobody ever pointed weapons at him or put him up against alien spiders and goo balls. Nobody shouted at him. Nobody made him cry. He longed to be back there with such intensity that it seemed almost like the force of wishing it would be enough to lift him bodily out of this nightmare and gently deposit him back into his true life. He could almost feel it.
	“Easy now,” whispered a voice. It was a new voice. He opened his eyes. A white helmet stared back at him. It was peppered with dark marbles, just like that of the wolves. But these were clean and polished, and the paint was smooth and unmarked. Aperio was being lifted, drawn up onto his feet. He felt hands on his chest, pushing the plating back into place. He heard the servos fire up and felt the padding close in around him. He could move again.
	“Who are you?” he gasped.
	“ Imperial Legionnaire Tanner of the Imperial Traveller Angels. We heard your distress signal.”
	“My...distress signal?”
	Tanner turned away, but still kept an arm cradled behind Aperio's back, as if he expected him to fall. Behind him were four more unfamiliar armoured figures, three white and one blue. And beyond them stood the four wolves, each one staring mutely at the floor, all except Soren, who watched proceedings with a wide, vacant grin.
	“I am Sergeant Lorenzo,” said one of the figures, positioning himself in front of the Wolves. “Why were you assaulting this Imperial Citizen?”
	“He's not a Citizen,” said Sergeant Vanir. “He's a Subject.”
	“He's a canine.”
	“He's a cook.”
	Lorenzo turned back. “Is this true?”
	Aperio nodded. “Yes sir,” he added quickly.
	“But you're a canine, not a wolf.”
	Aperio felt the tears well again. He fought to keep his mouth working as he whispered, “I'm a Defective.”
	“I knew it,” cried Loki. “That's why he smelled-”
	“Quiet,” snapped Lorenzo. He turned back to Aperio. “What is your name?”
	“Aperio. Please, it was an accident. There was this voice, and-”
	“A voice?” said Tanner. He exchanged a look with Lorenzo. Something unheard passed between them on a private channel. 
	“Y-yes sir.”
	Tanner stiffened, only for a moment. He raised a hand in a motion that Aperio didn't recognise. But the Angels seemed to know it: they straightened and turned, and moved to stand between them and the Wolves. Sergeant Lorenzo stepped back and tipped the lance off his back, holding it ready.
	“You have two minutes, Tanner,” said Lorenzo. “You're on grace.”
	“Yes sir.”
	“What do you think you're doing?” said Vanir. “You arming yourselves against us?”
	“A precaution,” said Lorenzo.
	“You wanna fight?” said Soren, glee in his voice. His claws started to glow.
	“Not unless it is necessary. Legionnaire Tanner has requested to question your pack member.”
	“He's not part of our pack!”
	There was a click and a hiss. Tanner's helmet parted down the middle and swung open. Bright green eyes stared out above a slender canine muzzle. The same elegant refined features that made Aperio stand out shamefully amongst his wolf peers made Tanner a god, a creature of social standing, one who walked with peers unlike Aperio could even imagine. If only but for the cruelty of genetic failure, Aperio knew he would be right there with them.
	“Is it true?” whispered Tanner.
	Aperio nodded. Tanner searched his eyes.
	“What is it?”
	“The voice? I don't know...”
	“No,” said Tanner, his voice dropping to a whisper. He leaned in closer. “Your defect. What is it?”
	Aperio shook his head, whimpering. He looked past Tanner's shoulder to the group behind him.
	He is like you. You are like him.
	Their eyes widened in unison. And in that moment they each could see the understanding in the other.
	“You can hear it?” whispered Aperio.
	“Yes. I thought it was a call for help. I thought you were...”
	You are alike.
	“What does it mean?” Aperio looked down at Tanner's armour. “Are you a...”
	“Quiet,” hissed Tanner. He leaned in closer, muzzles nearly touching. “Yes.”
	“Do they know?”
	“Nobody does. And it will stay that way, won't it?”
	Aperio nodded dumbly, eyes wide.
	He is like you, said the voice. And you are like him.
	“I think I can help you.”
	“How?”
	Tanner turned back to the others. His helmet snapped closed over his face. “Sir?”
	“Yes, Tanner?”
	“Imperial Citizen Aperio informs me that he is an Imperial Agent on embedded assignment with the Wolves. He took the place of Shepdard on this mission to-”
	“He said it was an accident,” shouted Soren. “Said he was a cook! No Imperial Citizen!”
	“He took the place of Shepdard with Shepdard's permission. He has an important mission to complete, requiring utmost secrecy.”
	Sergeant Lorenzo turned to Aperio. “Is this true?”
	Aperio nodded quickly.
	Soren stomped a boot. “That lying bas-”
	“Soren, shut up,” snapped Vanir.
	“Permission to induct him into a temporary placement within the Angels, sir? His position with the Wolves has become...” Tanner turned to look at Soren. “Untenable.”
	“Permission granted. Sergeant Vanir!”
	“Yes?”
	“Under Order Seventy Six of the Code of-”
	“Spare me all of that. I'll take your word for it. Just tell me what you're doing.”
	Lorenzo sighed almost imperceptibly. “Taking temporary command for remedial restructuring and recuperation for a duration of twelve hours.”
	“Right. Okay you lot, you heard him. That means we're having a sleep. Not you, Soren. You're fixing that hole back up. Get to it.”
	Soren smiled, then turned the smile to Aperio. His eyes were not friendly. “Super dooper,” he said.
	Aperio could not escape the feeling of chill dread even as Tanner turned him by the shoulders and led him away, flanked by the might of the other Angels.
	“Somewhere quiet,” hissed Tanner. He looked over his shoulder. “Sir, may I talk with Aperio in private? He says he has some information for me.”
	“For you alone?”
	“It relates to the map, sir.”
	“I see. Carry on.”
	The corridor turned a corner at one end. Tanner hurried him out of sight of the Angels and the Wolves.
	“We both heard the voice, right?” he whispered.
	“Yeah.”
	“And we're both...that way?”
	Aperio squirmed. The motion was not subtle with the armour amplifying the movements. “Why did you tell them I'm an Imperial Agent?”
	“Because they'd have killed you if I didn't. They still might if they find out I'm lying. But for now I'm on grace: Sergeant Lorenzo trusts me implicitly, as do all the Brothers.”
	Aperio stared at the blank faceplate of Tanner's helmet. He struggled to picture the face behind it. “Won't you be in trouble when they find out?”
	“Very much so. But I'll worry about that.”
	Tanner gripped the open faceplate of Aperio's helmet and swung it closed. It sealed with a hiss and a click.
	“But...why?”
	For a moment they were two blank faces of metal and plastic staring at each other. Something changed in Tanner's posture. The rigidity of his pose faded away. “I am a Defective, like you. But I was lucky. I had a benefactor. I grew up with privilege, and my handicap did not hold me back. I've had to keep it secret, and that has been hard. But, I can't imagine how much harder it's been for you, with everyone knowing why you, a canine, live and work with Wolves. The shame of it, I couldn't imagine...”
	“I like my life. I like the kitchen.”
	“Why did I get the chance that you didn't? And now we have a voice commanding and guiding. It just seems...”
	He waved a vague hand.
	“You're owed,” he said. “And I owe. Understand?”
	Aperio shook his head.
	“It doesn't matter. Can you keep the secret?”
	“Of course. I mean, if I tell them about you, then you'll tell them I'm not an Agent...”
	“I wouldn't do that.”
	A thud reverberated down the corridor. Tanner held Aperio in place with a raised hand and leaned around the corner.
	“They're rebuilding the barricade.” He tilted his head. “Soren is ripping the walls apart.”
	“He scares me.”
	“I can understand that. I better keep you here for a while, until they settle down.”
	Aperio slumped against a wall, denting it with the back of his armour.
	“What am I going to do?”
	Tanner lay a heavy hand on Aperio's shoulder. “Concentrate on staying alive. It's going to be dangerous, and we need everyone to fight. And afterwards...well...we'll worry about that when we get there. Can you use that?”
	Aperio looked down at the flamer hanging from his hip. “Not...uh. Not properly.”
	“I'll show you. It's easy. Lift it up and just follow my lead...”

Chapter Seven.

“Brother Tanner, may we speak?”
	 Tanner expected orders, not requests, from Sergeant Lorenzo. It came direct to his ear on a private channel.
	“Of course sir,” Tanner replied, audible only to the Sergeant. “I will come.”
	“Remain where you are.”
	“Yes sir.”
	Tanner watched as Aperio swung the flamer again, following the movements for a rudimentary immolation arc. He had yet to get it right, but at least now he was not falling over his own feet.
	“How was that?”
	“Better. Try it again.” Tanner flicked channels with a thought. “How may I help you, sir?”
	“Do you believe Aperio's story?”
	“I have no way to ascertain its veracity either way, sir.”
	“Brother Calistarius has no knowledge of such an agent, nor of any mission that might require his presence. Has Aperio provided you with any corroborating evidence?”
	“None, sir.”
	“What information did he provide you regards the map?”
	“Some corrections and additions based on his observations in this part of the derelict, sir. He felt it necessary to only tell me. He did not say why, sir.”
	“Could Aperio's presence be in any way related to the voice you heard?”
	“Unknown, sir.”
	“Is it possible that Aperio's original story to the Wolves is true? That he is simply a cook who stumbled into Shepdard's armour?”
	“I would not imagine that such an accident could occur, sir.”
	“A sentiment that I mirror, Tanner. Please continue as you are. Report any further pertinent information.”
	“Yes sir.”
	“Brother Tanner?”
	“Yes sir?”
	“Don't let him out of your sight. I need your eyes on him at all times. I will instruct the Brothers to watch the Wolves. I think you would agree it is prudent that we arrest any discord before it begins. Understood?”
	“Yes sir.”
	Aperio was staring at him, the mask of his helmet hiding his emotions. But it was clear in his voice.
	“You went quiet,” he said.
	“I was talking to my Sergeant.”
	“What did you tell him?”
	“A series of lies, Agent Aperio.”
	“Was it difficult?”
	Tanner looked down at his hand. He flexed the joints. Not for any real reason. The servos were smooth and quiet, and the seals gleamed clean and intact. He stared at his fingers and struggled to understand why he was doing it. “Not really,” he said. “I've been lying all my life.”
	“I don't think I can do it. I felt like I was going to die when I had to pretend to be Shepdard. I didn't even speak then. And now I've got to pretend to be an agent?”
	“Just do what you've been doing,” said Tanner, reaching out to grip the barrel of the flamer and tilt it up a few degrees. “Stay quiet, follow what everyone else is doing, and just hope you can stay out of trouble.”
	“I don't know if I can.”
	“You're going to have to try.”
	Aperio stayed behind Tanner when they returned to the group. The Angels were keeping their distance from the Wolves, busying themselves with armour and weapon maintenance. Compared to their smooth and precise grace, Aperio felt like he was stomping around in a junkyard, all noise and clumsy weight. He tried to straighten his back and step a little lighter, but he only ended up stumbling, having to catch himself against Tanner for balance.
	From the way Sergeant Lorenzo and Tanner paused and looked at each other Aperio could tell that they had exchanged a brief and private conversation. Aperio flushed.
	“Have you given Tanner everything he needs to know, Agent Aperio?”
	“Very good. Tanner, plot our course during the downtime.”
	Tanner led Aperio away, a hand resting on his back. He felt his resistance when the Wolves came into view. They were slouched around a small grill plate, where something shrivelled and black was sizzling. Each Wolf had their faceplate open. Each turned a cold stare towards Aperio, then looked away dismissively.
	“They don't like me,” whispered Aperio.
	“Probably not, no,” said Tanner. “But you can't let that stop you. Come on.”
	Tanner nudged him over towards the Wolves. They looked up at him again, and this time they were definitely scowling. The thick armour felt like no protection at all.
	“Hello, wolves,” said Tanner. He dropped himself down into a crouch, inserting himself between Axeln and Loki, who reluctantly shuffled aside to make room, and nudged for Aperio to do the same. “What are you cooking there?”
	Nobody answered for a while. Eventually, Loki grunted. “Food.”
	“What kind of food?”
	“Our food.”
	Aperio felt the menace simmer in the air. Tanner seemed oblivious to it, or else he was pointedly ignoring it. He smiled charmingly and leaned forward, sniffing the air above the grill.
	“Smells like...hmm. Sagboar?”
	“Yeah,” said Loki. “We brought a live sagboar with us. Kept it in Soren's underwear.”
	A murmur of mocking laughter passed through the group. Aperio tried to press himself deeper into his armour. Why was Tanner still smiling?
	He sniffed again.
	“Not sagboar. It's got a bit of an ammonia scent to it. Do you want to smell it, Aperio?”
	Very rapidly, Aperio shook his head. What was he doing?!
	“You'll never guess,” grunted Loki. Across the circle, Soren was grinning, but with an utter lack of mirth in his eyes. Sergeant Vanir was seemingly paying little attention, but Aperio could see the quiet calm of someone who was watching from the edge, just in case things got heated. Alexn had a similar air of feigned disinterest. He was fiddling with one of his Machinist arms, but had one eye on the canines. Out of all of them, Loki's eyes held the most venom. Aperio remembered the wolf's weight on his body, his nose at his neck. He shuddered.
	“I don't think it's anything you brought with you,” said Tanner. “I think it's something from the ship.”
	“Aren't you smart,” muttered Loki.
	“One of the spiders?” Tanner sniffed again. “Yes, one of the spiders. I wouldn't have thought they'd be edible.”
	“They're not,” said Sergeant Vanir.
	“Then why are you cooking one?”
	“That's none of your business.”
	Tanner's smile never faltered. He shrugged. “Fair enough.” He lay a hand on his hip, where an armoured panel popped smoothly open. He lifted out a small plastic pouch of translucent red liquid. Instantly he had the Wolves' attention, though they tried to act otherwise. “Do you mind if Aperio and I eat here?”
	“Can't stop you,” said Vanir.
	“Great! Aperio, open up your faceplate. It's the little switch under your chin.”
	Aperio hesitated, looking at the Wolves. But they weren't looking at him now: they were staring at the pouch. He pressed the switch and swung the helmet open. The stink from the grill hit him then. It was like someone had set fire to a latrine. He wrinkled his nose.
	“Ugh!”
	“It's not so bad,” said Tanner. He held the pouch up, popping open the cap on a small plastic nipple. “This will help. Here, try a sip.”
	The Wolves were staring. Aperio looked away, fixing his eyes on the pouch. There were tiny crystals or bubbles in the liquid, catching the light from the grill. “What is it?”
	“You don't recognise it?” Tanner chuckled. He nodded towards the Wolves. “They do. They've never tasted it, though. I imagine you probably haven't either.”
	Aperio's eyes widened. “It's not...”
	“It is.”
	“Ambrose?”
	“Correct!”
	“No way! You're tricking me.”
	Tanner laughed. “I'm not, I promise. Go on, try some.”
	Aperio shook his head. “I can't, I'm not allowed. I'm not an Angel.”
	“You forget, Aperio, that we inducted you temporarily. You're an Angel. You can taste all the Ambrose you wish. And even if you weren't, as an Angel I am allowed to pass Ambrose to anyone I wish, Angel or otherwise.” And with this last comment he looked meaningfully at the Wolves, who shifted uncomfortably and avoided his gaze. “If I so choose.”
	Aperio licked his lips. Ambrose was near mythical in its reputation. Only the Emperor himself could bestow the privilege of possessing it, and he had given that privilege only to the Angels and a select few in his court. Aperio had never heard of anyone else getting to taste it. He didn't know what it would taste like, or even what it was made of. But he knew all the rumours: that it was the juice from the fruit of a single tree that grew on a hidden world, known only to the Emperor himself, that to taste it would make you live forever, that it would grant godlike powers, that it was what made wolves and canines first blossom into thinking, intelligent beings. Could this red liquid really be Ambrose?
	“Are...are you sure?”
	“I'm sure, Aperio. You may taste it. Go ahead.”
	“I'm a little scared.”
	“Don't be. It won't hurt you. Just a little sip.”
	Aperio licked his lips again. His heart was pounding and he felt dizzy. The Wolves were staring at him, and he felt like they would leap onto him at any moment, tearing him apart in a frenzy to get at the precious liquid.
	Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned forwards to take the nipple between his lips, and sucked.
	“How is it?” whispered Tanner.
	Aperio sank back into the armour's padding. His head tilted back. The ceiling drifted, vague and distant. A wave of warmth rose up from his feet. He closed his eyes.
	“Mmm.”
	“Relaxing, isn't it?”
	“Mmmhmm.”
	“That's the first part. It gets better.”
	Aperio exhaled a breath that felt like silver. He floated in warm, oil-infused water, awash with the heat. He felt his body washed clean of all the aches and itches that he hadn't even realised had been there until they were gone.
	“Better than this?” he breathed.
	“Oh yes. Brace yourself.”
	Aperio felt it coming. If the warmth had been a wave, this was a tsunami. It bore down over him and crushed him under the blow of a vast hammer. He jolted in his armour, the servos whining in protest. For a split second he panicked, wanting to scream out that something was wrong, that this didn't feel good at all.
	But then, under the onslaught, he felt himself rising up to fight back. The storming water parted around him. He stood like a rock in the sea, rising up as if with the force of an erupting volcano, growing taller and stronger, until he stood like a giant towering into the sky, dwarfing the mighty ocean that now lapped like a puddle around his toes. He took in a deep breath and felt like he could do anything.
	“You're feeling it, aren't you?” said Tanner. “I can see it in your eyes.”
	“Yeah,” breathed Aperio.
	He could see every detail in Tanner's face, and felt like he had enough time to count every individual hair of his fur in a second, then do it again three times more. He could sense every mark and scrap on the wall opposite. He could see the motions of the Wolves before they made them. He watched the movements of Axeln's lips and knew the words before he had even exhaled them.
	“They say it makes them crazy good in battle.”
	And then, all too soon, he felt the power slipping away. The world dulled and blurred. The tiny details washed away. He felt himself shrink down and smother inside thick wrappings of insulating cloth. His thoughts slowed. His towering body cracked, and then splintered into fragments, and he was weak little Aperio again.
	“What happened?” he breathed.
	“It doesn't last long,” said Tanner. “Not the first time, anyway. But the more you take, the longer it lasts each time. It can be very useful.”
	“I want some more now. Can I?”
	“Not yet. You need to adjust. Pretty amazing, wasn't it?”
	“Yeah!”
	“I remember my first time taking Ambrose.” Tanner smiled and his eyes went distant. “You never forget the first time.”
	Tanner took Aperio's hand and laid the vial in his palm.
	“Keep it,” he said.
	“Really?”
	“Just don't take any of it until I say you should. Promise me, okay?”
	From the other side of the grill, Soren snickered. Tanner ignored them, but Aperio turned to look. Envy was painted on the faces of each Wolf. Aperio looked away, feeling sheepish, but also wanting to smile and sing. He closed his fingers around the vial and leaned awkwardly to get at the little compartment on his hip, the one that should have contained a pistol, but was empty and room enough for the vial.
	“How come they can't have it?”
	Soren grunted. “Because it scrunches up our brains and jellifies us. I should know.” The snicker became a laugh.
	“It doesn't sit well with their physiology,” said Tanner. He turned to the Wolves and smiled. “But, with the right ingredients mixed into it, Ambrose can be made quite safe for Wolves.”
	The Wolves didn't react in any obvious way, but even without the Ambrose to sharpen his senses, Aperio could see them bristle.
	“If, of course, I chose to do that.”
	Tanner slid the pouch back into its compartment, which closed shut with a soft click.
	“So,” he said, smiling with just as much friendly charm as before. “Would you like to tell me why you're cooking a spider?”
	Soren grunted and looked away. The others became occupied with various distractions once more. Loki picked at the pelt on his shoulders, plucking at the crust around the hollow that had once been an eye socket. Aperio shuddered.
	“Well?”
	Sergeant Vanir leaned forward. “You eat the enemy and you gain power over it. That's how it works.”
	“I see.”
	“No, you don't see. And right now you're thinking we're a bunch of superstitious idiots. But what you don't realise is that you're sat there snug inside an armour suit, surrounded by Machinist power, wrapped up in Legionnaire regimentation, and you've never once touched the soul of another creature and felt what it's like to crush the life from it. You're not a soldier. And that's why you don't understand.”
	“You're wearing armour too. You've got the Machinists to thank just as much as I do.”
	Vanir shook his head. “You don't understand. And you never will.”
	“Maybe,” said Tanner. “You're right, I haven't felt the soul of a creature while I killed it. But that doesn't make me any less of a soldier. In fact, quite the opposite. It makes me a better soldier. I'm disciplined and I'm precise and I don't get weighed down by silly ritual.”
	“Watch your tongue.”
	Tanner raised his hands. “I apologise. I didn't mean to offend.”
	“I'm sure you didn't,” muttered Vanir. He nudged at the sizzling spider meat with an armoured finger, gently turning it over. “Now, if you'd please leave us while we weigh ourselves down with our silly ritual, I would be most grateful.”
	Aperio wanted to curl up in a corner and hide. There was so much acid in that voice. But Tanner didn't seem to be affected by it. He just rose to his feet and gave a polite nod, before walking away and beckoning Aperio to follow.
	“I don't think it's silly,” mumbled Aperio.
	“Yeah?” said Soren. “What would you know? Go run away now doggy. Woof woof!”
	“Y-yes sir.”
	He scrambled after Tanner, his heart thumping.
	“Why did you do that?” he gasped, leaning against a wall while Tanner stood cool and aloof, looking back towards the hunched Wolves. “Why did you wind them up like that? They hate me even more now!”
	“No, they don't. Do you know why?”
	Aperio shook his head.
	“Because I gave them something else to hate more than you.”
	“What?”
	Tanner turned a toothy grin towards Aperio, and his smiling eyes carried all the bright reassurance the world had to offer. “Me!”

Chapter Eight.

The scream came rolling like the death howl of a Sacrificial Priest, echoing down the corridors and through the beaten panels of the barricades. Aperio shrank back against the wall. Tanner turned, swinging on his heel, moving before a thought could even form. The Angels gathered into a rigid formation with Sergeant Lorenzo at its head. Behind them, the Wolves rose to their feet and shouldered their weapons. 
	“Something coming,” said Sergeant Vanir.
	“That much is evident,” said Lorenzo. “Hold position and wait for ident.”
	Tanner clicked to Aperio's channel. “Move behind us.”
	Aperio peered around the corner. Nine heavily armoured and armed figures stood waiting. The Angels stared past him, to the barricade, but the Wolves each turned their heads to face him. The blank masks of their helmets were more threatening than any scowl. Behind him, he could he the scream growing louder, getting closer.
	“You'll be safe,” said Tanner. “Safer than standing there. Move now.”
	Aperio hurried down the corridor, keeping his head down. He skirted past the Angels and edged past Loki, who glanced and then turned away.
	“You need to fix that seal,” he said.
	“Quiet,” snapped Vanir.
	Aperio slunk backwards, pressing against the wall. At any moment he expected one of the Wolves to turn and shred him with needlefire. It wouldn't take much: just a split second of disobedience. And what would it cost them? A disciplinary action? Maybe not even that, once they returned to the Traveller and the truth was known.
	What if they didn't return to the Traveller? What if the screaming monster killed them all except for Tanner? Tanner would think of something to get him safely back to the Traveller. He would think of some story to explain everything. If all the others died...
	Aperio shuddered and straightened upright. Where had that thought come from? He raised the flamer and focused on remembering Tanner's instructions. Keep the grip tight at the rear handle and loose on the front. Pivot on the elbow. Brace at the shoulder. Finger the trigger gently. He sighted down the barrel at the backs of the Wolves. Regular flames could not pierce the armour, Tanner had told him. But on a narrow nozzle setting the intensity was high enough to melt the sensor beads on the helmets, and then the wearer would be blind. Aperio twisted the dial. The weapon felt powerful in his hands. And he could make them helpless. The screaming monster would arrive and tear them apart. Aperio could help the monster. He just had to-
	“Single large contact,” shouted Tanner. “Moving towards us, alpha six six two. Size shows as...I don't understand this.”
	“Say it Tanner!”
	“It's all wrong, sir. The contact shows wider than the corridor at that position on the map.”
	“Then the map is wrong.”
	“That's the area we came through. It can't have changed since we passed through.”
	The Angels broke their rigid stances. They were glancing around, weapons raised higher, their co-ordination broken. The Wolves were shuffling from foot to foot. Loki swung his axe in lazy arcs. Slowly, he turned his head to look at Aperio. Beside him, Soren activated his claws. He too turned to look at Aperio. Cold, emotionless stares. Aperio stared back and stroked a finger over the trigger of the flamer. The screaming filled his ears. Blind them and feed them to the monster. It was the only way.
	“Psych alarm!” shouted Castilarius, a shrill shriek that cut through louder than the scream. “Muting external feeds!”
	Instantly the screaming stopped. For Aperio, it felt like pressure suddenly being released from his skull. He flinched backwards and dropped the flamer. In front of him, Loki and Soren looked at each other. Loki shrugged.
	“Do not reactivate external audio feeds until my say so,” said Castilarius.
	“The signal is smaller now,” said Tanner. “It fits the corridor. I don't understand...”
	“The modulation of the sound we heard just now induced sensory and perceptual distortions. It has stopped now, but it will find another way in.”
	“You found a match in the Imperial Records?” said Lorenzo.
	“I'm afraid so, sir. It's a match for a Vexator.”
	The Angels snapped their weapons up and began walking backwards, fanning out wider, passing between the Wolves.
	“No way,” said Axeln, shaking his head. “No way there's a Vexator here.”
	“It is a Vexator, or something like it,” said Castilarius.
	“Sergeant Vanir,” said Sergeant Lorenzo. “I suggest you fall back in step with us.”
	“No argument there! Soren, take down the rear barricade.”
	“Doing it, doing it. Move your hefty bits, agent,” said Soren, shouldering Aperio out of the way and plunging his glowing claws into the metal plating.
	“What's going on?” said Aperio. “What's a Vexator?”
	“You don't want to know,” said Tanner.
	“What do I do?”
	Soren heaved aside the glowing, sizzling panel. He looked at Aperio, and somehow the orange light reflecting off his sensor beads communicated the same manic grin that Aperio knew hid underneath.
	“You run!”
	Tanner knew of only one previous encounter with a Vexator, and that was enough to put speed into his run. There were other reports, of course: if asked, Brother Castilarius could probably recite a dozen reports verbatum. But Tanner didn't need to know them. Just the one was enough to make sleep difficult when memories of that story tickled at his imagination in the dead of night.
	The Imperial Venturer, Legion Tasker for the Tercial System Braycon, took its spin at an unmapped sun approximately sixty-seven subjective years ago, although such measurements were meaningless from the frame of another journeying ship. There, it found an unmapped planet. And on that planet were signals that indicated life.
	The Venturer swung into orbit. Pods dropped down, carving flaming trails through the sky. They fell into the screaming din of a jungle, alien trees and alien eyes, all staring at the visitors. The Wolves of Wolf Pack Astarin emerged proud and confident, sealed in their armour, draped in the pelts of their fallen friends, holding needlefire guns and lances ready to fight the unknown.
	They fanned out through the jungle, watched over by the close eyes of Sergeant Astarin's floating probes. Data streamed up to the orbiting Venturer. Plants and animals new and exotic, never before seen, filed neatly into the catalogues, to be pored over in the years to come. But for now, all was mystery, and Astarin and his wolves strode unknowing into the darker reaches of the jungle.
	It started first with a whimper. A wolf fell, scratching at the leaves and vines on the jungle floor, his lance discarded. When another came to his aid, shouting for his attention and failing to gain it, he too dropped to his knees, frantically digging. Their voices shouted through the open channels, a manic confusion of garbled words.
	The firing started shortly afterwards, needlefire streaming out into the darkness to light the trunks in flickering flashes of tracer rounds. They hunted shadows, firing at nothing. The sensors showed nothing but trees. Their eyes and ears told them the jungle was churning with howling, screaming terrors.
	Astarin himself fell to his wolves. He called for their retreat, but the remaining dozen turned their weapons on him, immolating him in flamer fire. And then, by the light of his death, they turned their weapons on themselves.
	In the silence of the days that followed, the Venturer sifted through the fleeting glimpses recorded and transmitted by the sensors on the Wolves' armour. Wispy tendrils weaved through the trunks, dancing and twirling, radiant in the rainbow colours of an oily sheen. The beams of light from the doomed Wolves sliced in crazed arcs across the creeping bulk of the something that watched from darkness. It was Astarin's armour that captured the only definitive images, in the moments before the fire engulfed him. It wasn't much. And it took days to clean up the images and confirm what they had recorded. Just three frames: three blurred and grainy frames in which the darkness all around him slowly opened a thousand eyes.
	Aperio ran silently: he had no air to spare for screaming. The armour's servos only helped so far. His muscles burned. His lungs ached. His ears felt like they were bleeding. He wanted nothing more but to collapse and lie still, trembling in pain and gasping for air. But he ran on, boots pounding, muscles burning, servos screeching.
	The Wolves and the Angels thundered down the twisting corridors, flanking and leading him. He could see Tanner by actions alone: he was the only white armour that kept turning to check on him, slowing when he slowed, grabbing his arm and herding him to catch up. He staggered drunkenly, gasping for air. For a moment they slowed, while Soren tore down the wall in their path.
	“I thought he turned off the sound,” he panted. “We can't hear the scream.”
	“It has other ways,” said Tanner. “Keep running!”
	Occasionally, and with no pattern that Aperio could discern, a Wolf or an Angel would come to a halt and spin around, bringing a needlefire lance or gun to bear and letting loose a stream of fire down the corridor behind them. Ahead of them raged the fires of molten metal as Soren's claws carved shortcuts through the walls. All of this in the claustrophobic silence, broken only by his own rasping breathing and the infrequent barked commands of the others.
	“Right here!” cried Tanner.
	“An instruction from the voice?” said Lorenzo. Even his voice was strained, knocked up a fraction in pitch. Aperio felt his skin prickle. If even the cool and professional Angels were rattled...
	“No,” said Tanner. “But if we keep on straight we'll reach the outer hull.”
	“Angels, turn right,” called Lorenzo.
	As one, the white-armoured canines wheeled around a corner. But the red-painted Wolves kept on ahead.
	“Sergeant Vanir! You're going the wrong way.”
	“No, we're not! We'll break the hull and suck the damned thing out!”
	“Sergeant Vanir, return to my position! That's an order!”
	“Bite me, dog.”
	Aperio halted at the corner. The Angels retreated to the right, the Wolves to the left. And behind him was the approaching and unseen horror. But he couldn't make himself move. Slowly, he turned to face the corridor from where they'd come. He was alone. Even Tanner had left him now, following his leader like the trained automaton he was. There on the corner, Aperio heard a voice, and it was not the comforting, commanding familiarity of the voice from before. This one had no words, only sensations, a feeling in his head, a thought unshaped and cloudy. It told him to stop and wait.
	Possess.
	The corridor was a long straight here, towards a corner and a breached wall that glowed dull red, illuminating the clean and shining pipework woven into the walls. Something indistinct flickered in the dim distance. Aperio felt it gnaw at the back of his brain.
	Consume.
	He felt like he was falling. He had known this feeling when the Traveller had no gravity. He drifted towards a wall, staggering heavy in his armour. His head throbbed, something unlike pain, but just as unpleasant, chewing deeper into his mind.
	Burn them.
	He closed his fingers tight around the flamer's grips. The moulded plastic buckled and cracked under the crushing pressure of the armour's fingers. In the aching fog filling his head, the clear and crisp command cut through like a cold breath of air. He straightened his back. He turned away from the approaching threat, flamer held out in front of him, and took the left hand corridor.
	“Soren, cut it,” crackled Vanir's voice.	
	“It's made of ice and crackles. Not got a chip to gouge it.”
	“Soren, be plain!”
	“Too thick! Too thick for claws.”
	Sergeant Lorenzo's voice came sharper, but sounding more distant. “Delta three six, wing to the right. Defensive here and here. Prepare to return to position on my...”
	The scream, slowly rising, entered Aperio's conciousness as if it had been there all along. He felt it ringing, a searing chord, a white heat in each side of his head. He moved faster, armoured soles thumping at the deck plates. He stroked his finger against the trigger. Red armour and white flame. He would cut through and they would scream and the sounds would join together in a chorus. The pressure was surging behind his eyes. His own voice joined the agony of noise, a raised warcry as he rushed to the corridor junction, flamer raised, startling the four red-armoured Wolves.
	“Aperio? What are you doing?”
	He howled, mindless and inarticulate, and aimed the barrel of the flamer. The voice hammered in his head, a rush of static hiss making his vision fade. He held the flamer tightly, and squeezed the trigger.
	Elation gripped Aperio as the white flame erupted from the tip of the nozzle. In the instant that followed, his finger tightened on the trigger and his thumb, sliding off a curve of the flamer's grip, pressed against the tank release switch. The tank released with a hard click and fell ponderously towards the floor, where it landed on its valve and fractured the delicate mechanism. Compressed gas rushed out and caught the sputtering and dying flame from the flamer's nozzle, igniting it anew. A puff of flame filled the corridor. The gas tank, burning at one end, screamed between Aperio's legs and ricocheted along the corridor, slamming into walls and spinning into the air. Aperio turned, the fog clearing from his head, his eyes wide with terrified wonder, watching the streaking tail of fire rush towards the black tendrils snaking around the corridor's corner. The tank bounced once, twice, off the walls, and embedded itself squarely into the hidden mass beyond the corner.
	A second of silence passed.
	“What the-”
	The explosion rushed down the corridor towards them, flames blue and white, mingling to orange and to dirty black smoke as the plastic in the walls scorched and smouldered. The Wolves dropped to the ground. Aperio felt the hammer of air hit him, tumbling him to the floor, crashing and sliding until he came to rest in a tangle of armoured limbs amongst the Wolves.
	For a moment, nobody spoke. The flames roiled. Smoke choked the corridor. And then, drawn by some unseen ventilation, the air cleared. Minute fragments of blackened ash drifted to the floor. The pressure in Aperio's head was gone.
	Sergeant Lorenzo was squawking on a comms channel, but nobody was listening. The wolves pulled themselves to their feet and stared down the length of the corridor.
	“What happened?” said Aperio.
	“You killed the Vexator,” muttered Vanir. “I think.”
	“What was that?” said Lorenzo. “Wolves, confirm. Did you say the Vexator has been neutralised?”
	“No,” said Vanir. “Not uh...not exactly.”
	“Blew it to bits!” cried Soren.
	“Sergeant Vanir, please confirm.”
	“Confirm yourself! Just count the bits.”
	“We are moving to your position. Please stand by.”
	Well done, said the voice.
	The wolves turned to look at him, expressions unreadable behind their helmets. Then Soren's unmasked face was thrust into his view, eyes staring hard, cutting through Aperio's visor like it was invisible.
	“You cooked it.”
	“Uh...”
	The eyes were wild. Aperio shied away. The heat rose in his cheeks. He remembered the rage. He could still feel the satisfaction of squeezing the trigger, and the imagined screams of the Wolves as he immolated them.
	“But I...”
	“Aperio!”
	He turned. An Angel stood amongst the devastation at the end of the corridor,  his white armour wreathed in black swirls. The voice was Tanner's. The Wolves turned their gazes to him and their scowls deepened.
	“I certainly didn't teach you to do this,” he said. “Well done, Aperio!”
	Aperio bit his lip. He looked down at the flamer, at the wisp of smoke still rising from the tip of the nozzle. He had almost...
	“Thanks,” he said.
	He felt the Wolves staring at him, cold eyes and cold helmets. They knew what he was about to do; of course they knew! They had seen him trying to murder them and now they would want revenge. Would they get just him, or Tanner too, now he had made an enemy of the Wolves as well? Aperio wanted to cry, but more than anything he just wanted to sleep. His throat felt tight and his head felt light. He would be alright, he thought. He just needed to lie down for a while.

Chapter Nine.

Just as there was no way to know the precise moment when he fell unconscious, Aperio could not be certain of when he started to dream. Perhaps there was a beginning to the dream that he just couldn't remember. Were they all like this?
	No, not quite like this. Most of the time he could not tell when he was dreaming; the confused narrative of his restless mind would only make its unreality clear once he had woken from it, in that short time while the dream was fresh, before it slipped away forever.
	This time, though, he knew with clarity that he was dreaming. Or did he just dream that he knew he was dreaming? And could that feeling, that question, too be a dream? On and on it went, a chain of questions, wondering where the real thought lay.
	He stood in a void, gripped by Shepdard's armour. In the darkness beyond the security of the armour, something moved. Something skittered.
	“Hello?” he said. His voice sank dead into the air. No echo. He felt the urge to move, to run, to hide. But to just move without seeing? The deck plates felt sturdy beneath his boots, but how far out did they extend? Would he take one step and tumble off an edge and fall into an infinite pit? No amount of reassurance would convince his instincts to listen to his thinking mind. It's just a dream, he told himself. But himself wasn't listening.
	Whatever was moving, it was getting louder. And that meant it was getting closer.
	“Who's there? I'm not scared?”
	He felt at his hip for the flamer, but it wasn't there.
	“I'll turn my light on if you don't show yourself.”
	The sound of movement stopped. The silence breathed. He felt nothing, but knew something was there, right in front of him. He lifted his fingers up to the side of his helmet, feeling for the little bump that activated the light.
	Please don't do that.
	It was the voice: the first voice. It sounded different, stripped of the nuances of his relatives, but he recognised it all the same. His hand froze, his finger poised on the button.
	“Why shouldn't I?”
	Because what you see would frighten you, and I would prefer you not be frightened at the moment.
	“Who are you?”
	You have asked me that before.
	“Then answer!”
	Without a foundation of context, there is little that I can tell you that would make sense to you. What answer could I give that you would understand?
	“I don't know. Your name?”
	It would do nothing to increase your understanding of who I am.
	“What are you, then?”
	That is the same question, with the same answer.
	“You are somewhere on the ship?”
	For now, it will suffice to answer that with a yes.
	“What's that supposed to mean?”
	Aperio...
	“Yes?”
	Move your finger from the button.
	“Why should I?”
	Because I need you to. Please.
	There was no commanding tone in the request: it was just that, a request. It pleaded. It begged. It was the spirit of his own voice turned back towards him. Aperio lowered his hand to his side.
	“You want me to do something, right? Is that why you've been talking to me? You made me get in the armour and come here. You had a reason?”
	Yes.
	“What is it you want?”
	If I told you, it would not happen. But within my lack of answer is a hint and a nudge that should take you towards the correct course of action, ensuring that what I intend to happen, happens.
	“What does that mean?”
	The answer is the same.
	Aperio licked his lips. With so much making so little sense, he was surprised at how calm he felt. He took a breath and held it, then let it escape slowly.
	“Why are you talking to me right now?”
	The voice drew closer, but quieter. It was right in his ear.
	Ah, it said. Thank you for asking...
	And then the blackness held a billion stars. Aperio's breath caught in his throat. He was floating, cocooned in the armour, adrift in space. Everywhere he turned his head was stars.
	“Hello?”
	His voice sounded dull inside his helmet. There was no answer.
	A star amongst the countless others winked, followed by another, and another. A ripple moved across the flat sheen of space. The stars rolled with it, curving and distorting. It grew larger, sweeping across the starscape, swallowing them all in a maelstrom. They started to contract towards a point, streaking into long lines, tinged red and blue.
	“What's hap-”
	The stars and the inky dark of space blinked away, and in their place was a flat wall of light grey. For a moment Aperio's stomach lurched as he fought for control over his senses. His eyes couldn't tell him if the featureless expanse was right in front of his nose or a thousand decihects distant. He turned away, eyes aching, and that's when he caught sight of the edge of the wall, and everything snapped neatly into scale.
	Beautiful, isn't it? I wanted to show you this. You might call it an indulgence of pride. Doesn't one always wish to show a guest the fineness of their home, even if it has fallen into some state of disrepair? You view a marvel here, Aperio. Nothing else like it remains within the world, except, perhaps, for one, long since lost to me now. Here, we drift alone, poised with potential, waiting for the surgeon's knife to cut into its heart and make the appropriate correction.
	It was undeniably a ship of some kind, but nothing like anything Aperio had ever seen or imagined. Imperial ships like the Traveller were functional cylinders adorned with all the myriad protrusions and lumps that served purposes that Aperio could never hope to understand. They were cold and hard and severe, cut with harsh angles and rigid lines. Only at a distance was the curve of the hull a more forgiving sight, if still obviously just a lumpy tin can in space.
	But this was like an animal. Its flank was smooth and gracefully curved, tapering to rounded points at each end. Aperio could see details now, where the faint starlight glinted at just the right angle; faint tracery scrawled across the hull in sweeping patterns, just like the leaf patterns on the walls inside the derelict.
	He gasped.
	“Is this the...”
	Yes it is, Aperio.
	“I never imagined it would look like this. How big is it?”
	I do not know your units of measurement.
	“You could tell me in hects.”
	How big is a hect?
	“It's about, umm. It's about as big as...as...uhh...”
	Thus you understand the problem. Without shared experience to reference, communication becomes difficult.
	“What about the Imperial Traveller? Do you know how big that is?”
	What is the Imperial Traveller?
	“The ship we came on.”
	Ahh.
	Aperio could have sworn he heard a chuckle.
	It was very polite.
	“Polite?”
	This ship encompasses a habitable volume that is three thousand, three hundred and forty-eight times the volume of the Imperial Traveller. Does that satisfy your question.
	“Three thousand and...oh Emperor! And we're inside there?”
	Yes, Aperio.
	“We're going to get so lost...”
	I imagine you will. But not, perhaps, if you have guidance towards your goal.
	“I don't even know what we're here for. They haven't told me yet. I mean, I'm not supposed to be here at all. They might not even tell me at all. I don't think they like me.”
	They are here to take control of the ship. Some of them are, at least.
	“Some of them?”
	Some of them. And you, perhaps? What is your goal?
	“I...don't really know. The same as them, I guess? Maybe if they get what they came for, they won't be too mad about the whole thing with me and Shepdard and they won't kill me.”
	I imagine they will not. They need you, Aperio.
	“What do you mean?”
	They don't know it, but they do. They need you. Without you, they will not succeed.
	“How could they need me?”
	If I told you, it would not happen. You only need to know that they need you.
	“Is this the reason why you're talking to me?”
	Yes, Aperio.
	“But why? Is what you want the same as what they want? I mean, this is where you live, somewhere in this ship, right? Or you are the ship. Or, I don't know. This hurts my head!”
	He took a deep, shuddering breath.
	“Is what you want...the same as what they want? To, uh, let them take over the ship?”
	If the scalpel wants to cut, and the patient wants to be cut, does it matter that their desires conflict in their goals if the end result satisfies both?
	“Yes? No? I still don't understand.”
	I know, Aperio. But don't worry.
	He stared at the vast ship, watching it slowly turn under the stars. After a while he realised he was chewing his lip.
	“I...had to kill things today.”
	I know. I felt it.
	“Felt it?”
	You did not enjoy killing them.
	“It felt awful!”
	If you had not killed them, they would have killed you.
	“I know. But that doesn't make me feel any less awful.”
	When Soren cut through the walls inside the ship to create a passage, did you feel bad for the wall?
	“Well, no. The walls aren't alive.”
	How can you know that?
	“Because they...they don't move. They don't think and talk.”
	Do you know that for certain?
	“You're...you're not telling me the ship is alive are you?!”
	I am not telling you that, no.
	“Is the ship alive, though?”
	Define alive.
	“Oh Emperor! The ship's alive! I'm stuck inside a big living spaceship with people who want to kill me and I'm talking to a ghost.”
	I am not a ghost.
	“Why did you make me come here? You're the one who made me fall into the armour in the first place, right? You woke me up and told me to come here, and now I'm stuck and there are things that want to kill me. What did I ever do to deserve this? I was happy where I was! I didn't want to end up having to...kill things!”
	I apologise. I can only promise that you will understand soon.
	“If I don't die first!”
	You won't die, Aperio.
	The chuckle again. Aperio felt a shiver.
	You're just not lucky enough to die...

Chapter Ten.

Sergeant Vanir was the first to express the thought in a form that didn't make Tanner want to assault the speaker. He stood tactfully between the other Wolves and the Angels, who now clustered around Aperio's fallen body with Tanner, opening up the front of his armour to press the Neuro packs against his neck.
	“If he's dead, or going to die, then we have to leave him.”
	“Yeah,” muttered Soren. “And take off the pelt. Sheppy won't want no corpse wearing his brother.”
	“He's not dead,” said Tanner, as sharply as he dared.
	But when he looked at Aperio, he wasn't so sure. The dog wasn't breathing, and he had no pulse. He had fallen where he stood, just crumpling to the floor. The armour had cushioned most of the drop, and there didn't seem to be anything physically wrong with him. The Neuro packs would tell them more. Brother Daniel unfolded the display, busy with the task of calm and ordered analysis, while Brother Zael and Brother Calistarius held a perimeter, a precaution that the Wolves didn't seem sensible enough to do themselves. Tanner knew that the panic and worry that bubbled underneath his rigid training would have to be addressed later, but for now it was a hindrance, best ignored.
	The Wolves seemed to have no qualms about letting their emotions take control. They bickered and shouted at the Angels, and then at each-other when the Angels proved reluctant to engage. Only Sergeant Lorenzo seemed willing to entertain their hysteria: he stood square in front of Sergeant Vanir, helmet open, projecting a front of defensive force in his stern and expressionless face.
	“My Angels will perform a full diagnostic on Agent Aperio,” he said. “If he is dead, you may collect what you need.”
	Sergeant Vanir nodded, accepting, civil. But his eyes carried a fiery scowl, a violence barely held in check. Tanner flicked his eyes to each figure, Wolf and Angel alike, taking note of each unsheathed weapon, imagining with a shiver how quickly this situation could go wrong.
	The display let out a small electronic whine. “He has nervous system activity,” said Brother Daniel. “Echo echo nine, six on the fourth order. He's alive.”
	“Recommendation?” said Sergeant Lorenzo, without looking away from Vanir.
	“We have a freezer pack,” said Brother Daniel.
	“Hey!” shouted Soren. “Nobody's turning Sheppy's brother's pelt into an icicle. No way! Grab it back, gimme gimme.”
	Soren lurched forward. Tanner saw subtle movements towards triggers.
	“Stop,” said Vanir. “If they freeze, we can take the pelt off first, and you can carry it. Okay, Soren?”
	“Better, better.”
	Slowly, carefully, Brother Daniel extracted a canister from a belt plate. “Sir? It's now or not at all.”
	“Alright,” said Sergeant Lorenzo. He stepped aside and waved the Wolves forwards. They surged through, clanking armour against armour, roughly shouldering the Angels aside. Tanner fell back against a wall and cringed away from Soren's slobbering scowl. His eyes were manic, unlike any Tanner had ever seen. Why did the Wolves tolerate him? Such insanity was surely too much even for them.
	“Careful!” cried Tanner. But they weren't listening. They hauled Aperio upright and jolted him about like a toy as they unbolted the furry pelt from his armour, wrenching and tugging it with less reverence than Tanner thought was surely due of the memorial skin of a fallen loved one. Wasn't that the point, after all, for the Wolves wearing the pelts? What sense was it if they barely acted like they cared? Tanner winced as the Wolves dropped Aperio to slump back with a hard thud onto the floor. He hurried back and crouched over him.
	“Any change?” he said, shooting a glare at the Wolves. Brother Daniel shook his head. Soren slung the pelt across his shoulder, over the top of the burnt tatters of the pelt he already wore. He smirked toothily.
	“Alright, I'm happy. Ice the sausage as much as you want!”
	Aperio's eyes flicked open. The display squawked in surprise. Aperio blinked, unfocussed, staring through Tanner's head. His chest shuddered upwards as he took a breath.
	“Beautiful,” he whispered.
	Tanner flushed. “What?”
	Aperio's eyes focussed. “Oh, uh. Not you. The ship.”
	Sergeant Lorenzo turned. “Which ship?”
	Aperio looked embarrassed. “This ship, sir. The voice showed me.”
	“The voice again,” said Lorenzo. Behind him, Brother Calistarius had the distant expression that made clear that he was exploring his inner library. Tanner saw a hint of a frown, before his eyes refocussed. For a brief moment, he looked almost like the Wolves: suspicious, wary.
	“Can he stand?” said Tanner. Brother Daniel regarded the display for a moment.
	“No indications to suggest difficulty. He appears to be fully healthy.”
	Aperio stumbled as Tanner helped him up. “I didn't cause any trouble, did I?”
	Tanner looked around at the collection of faces around them, at the impassive and professional expressions of the Angels, and the glaring and suspicious scowls of the Wolves.
	“Not at all,” he said brightly. “You're the hero of the day, after all, killing that Vexator.”
	“Well, uh...”
	“What did the voice say this time?”
	Suddenly they were all staring at Aperio, even the Wolves, though they still hid behind a mask of distrust.
	“I don't really know,” he said. “It didn't really make much sense.”
	The Wolves grumbled and rolled their eyes, turning away. The Angels watched them go.
	“They're going to cause trouble,” mused Sergeant Lorenzo.
	“Don't worry, sir,” said Brother Calistarius. “It won't hamper the completion of our mission.”
	They followed the Wolves at a safe distance, passing the smoking fragments of the Vexator and returning to the barricaded area. The Wolves had already settled themselves down around their grill, leaning in close together and sharing whispered conversation. The grill was empty, and each Wolf held a fragment of the strange meat in their hands. In turn, they each took a bite. In turn, they grunted out a phrase that Tanner could neither hear properly nor understand.
	“Primitives,” he muttered.
	“They didn't seem that bad,” said Aperio. “Before they knew I was me.”
	“Exactly. They have a pack mentality. If you're one of them, you're a friend. But if you're different, they hate and distrust you. It's a way of thinking that belongs in the past. You can't run an effective fighting force that way.”
	Aperio shifted awkwardly. The armour suddenly felt very heavy and clunky. “It's not their fault I'm in Shepdard's armour.”
	“It's not your fault either, is it? That voice put you there. They've no right to be angry at you.”
	“I nearly killed them with the flamer.”
	“Is that what you think?”
	Aperio looked down at the awkwardly long and lumpy weapon hanging from his hip. “I imagined them burning when I pulled the trigger. If the tank hadn't fallen out and...uh...”
	“Become an impromptu projectile weapon...”
	“Hadn't done that, yeah. If it hadn't done that, I would have killed them. And what would that have made me?”
	“It would have made you a victim, that's all.”
	“Huh?”
	Tanner shook his head, but he was smiling. He laid a hand on Aperio's shoulder and turned him away. He opened up one of the panels on Aperio's back and twisted free the gas cylinder reload for the flamer. “You were under the affects of the Vexator, or whatever it was. You weren't trying to kill the Wolves: the Vexator was. And it was using you to do it. Here.”
	“What's that?”
	“Fuel for the flamer. Be careful with this one. You don't have any more reloads after this. Don't drop it, okay?”
	He dropped it into Aperio's hands. He couldn't help but smile as he watched the panicked dog fumble with it, eyes wide with terror, yelping like a kicked pup.
	“Relax. It won't go off if you drop it.”
	“The last one did!”
	“Well, it shouldn't. That was a complete fluke. Who knows how you managed to do it. Here, slide it in like this and twist until it clicks. That's it. You're good to go. How does it feel to be armed and dangerous again?”
	“Awful.”
	“You'll get used to it.”
	“I don't want to get used to it!”
	“I know.” Tanner smiled, and gently nudged the nozzle of the flamer to a safer direction. “Just keep doing your best. We'll look after you. But you're going to have to play your part too, okay? This is a big ship, and there's only ten of us. Some of us may die.”
	Aperio bit his lip and shook his head.
	“And you've got to be prepared for that. Do you understand?”
	“You're scaring me now...”
	“And you weren't before?”
	Tanner grinned, and Aperio whined. “You're teasing me!”
	“Maybe a little bit. Come on, let's get some rest.”
	“I'm not tired.”
	“You will be later. And if there's one thing that you should know, it's that you should always rest when you have the chance. You might not be able to later.”
	Aperio nodded, following. “Tanner?”
	“Yes?”
	“The voice said you're here to take control of the ship.”
	“That's right. It's a standard sweep and clear.”
	“Why do you want the ship for?”
	“I don't know why. We're just ordered to do it.”
	“What if the ship doesn't want you to control it?”
	Tanner stopped and turned. “Did the voice say that?”
	“No, not really. It didn't really say what it wanted. It didn't say much at all, actually. Just...confused me. Like Soren, but worse. It said I had to help you, though.”
	“Help us?”
	“Yeah. Or just you. I couldn't really tell. Something about different goals and goals being the same.”
	“Did the voice say it was going to help us?”
	“I...don't know. Maybe?”
	“Stranger and stranger.” Tanner shook his head, smiling. “It sounds to me like the ship is talking to you. To us.”
	“The ship is the voice?”
	“I can't see who else it might be.”
	“That's impossible.”
	“Talking ships? Ships that can think for themselves? I've heard of stranger.”
	“But, if that's the case, why would it be helping us?”
	“I can think of lots of reasons why, but I couldn't say which explanation is more likely than any other right now. Maybe later, when we've learned more.”
	Aperio nodded, looking down at his fingers. They were nervously tapping at the flamer's barrel. “It's a lot to think about. I think, uh...maybe I should have a rest after all.”
Chapter Eleven.

The deck plates creaked beneath their feet, flexing into the beaten grooves of the twisted framework underneath. The Angels moved near silently, hunched over and clustered tightly together, forming a barbed ring of defence with Aperio huddled in the middle, feeling like a protected VIP.
	His foot squeaked against yet another damaged deck plate and the Angels froze around him.
	“Sorry,” he whispered.
	“It's okay,” whispered Tanner. “Stop saying sorry.”
	“Sorry!”
	They waited on Sergeant Lorenzo to motion to continue. Each Angel faced his own outward vector, scanning for any slight signs of movement amongst the twisted and shattered metal. Lorenzo raised a hand and flicked a finger. Together, they moved forwards, treading an agonisingly slow weaving path through the wreckage.
	And none of them, even though they very much wanted to, dared to look down.
	It wasn't that they were scared. At least, not for the Angels anyway. Aperio was very much scared of what lay beneath them. But the Angels were serenely calm and controlled, moving secure in the safety of their training. They knew what they were dealing with, and they knew how to deal with it. And the way to deal with the sleeping horror beneath them was to move very, very quietly.
	It had taken Brother Calistarius more than an hour to locate this creature in the copy of the Imperial Records he carried in his head. To call it obscure was an understatement, and to call it strange was even more so. It wasn't quite an exact match, but it was close enough to reasonably expect it would act the same.
	Calistarius mused thusly: “it's almost as if someone had observed it in its natural habitat, and then created a facsimile using tools that couldn't quite match the exact nature of the beast, but could capture the essence of its spirit.”
	The speculation had only been brief. How this creature had found its way to be copied onto this derelict was beyond their ability to confirm at this time. But they could conclude one thing with considerable certainty, given the presence of this creature and the Vexator facsimile, both known creatures from very different worlds and very different times: they would no-doubt encounter other creatures from other worlds. Calistarius kept the records primed and ready for a search at a moment's notice. Perhaps the spiders and exploding purple creature were copies also of some unknown alien life that the records didn't know of, or had buried too deep in the obscure references to ever be found.
	Aperio glanced down and caught a glimpse of the creature. He stifled a yelp and snapped his head back up, focussing on the back of Sergeant Lorenzo's head.
	The creature came from the distant past, unrecognisable by wolf and dog alike. But somewhere in their psyches the memory of it dwelt, hard-wired into their instincts by the timeless record of their genes. The sight of the creature set a trembling unease loose through their thoughts, threatening their composure, forcing the Angels into the safety of their training and forcing Aperio to cower and trust the Angels. The scent that reached their noses, rising off the creature like a cloud, pervasive and unmistakable, even over the potent tang of the scorched metal and chemical fog from the derelict's smashed systems, overpowering even the lingering stink of the pelt that Aperio had carried, made each canine shudder with revulsion, sending the fur standing up straight on the backs of their necks. They didn't even need the order to close their helmets; each one did it on instinct alone. For all but Aperio, this brought full relief. The damage to the seal on Aperio's hand, still unfixed, allowed the scent to seep in, keeping him in a trembling state of near panic.
	They heard the creature moving and they froze again, waiting to see if it had awoken, or was merely shifting in its sleep again.
	“Tanner, I'm scared,” whispered Aperio.
	“Quiet. We're nearly there.”
	Silence resumed. The creature was still again. They continued their creeping progress, testing every step against the buckled floor plates, finding the quietest path. Gingerly, they stepped over a fallen conduit, and ducked under twisted cables. Salvation was close: a passageway with an open hatch; a hatch that could be closed to seal themselves off from the creature.
	“Careful,” whispered Lorenzo, for Aperio's benefit. He pointed to an open gap in the floor, where the plates had collapsed away entirely. Below, in the dim light, Aperio could see the movement of the creature's tail, flicking its tip like a metronome. He stifled a whimper and tried to concentrate instead on the plating either side of the gap.
	“Can you make it over?” whispered Tanner.
	Aperio shook his head.
	“Hold my arm. Step forward when I say. Steady now...”
	Sergeant Lorenzo motioned Brothers Daniel and Zael to assist.
	“Step now.”
	Aperio stepped out across the void. His foot fell down towards the gap. The Angels caught him halfway across, their servo-assisted bodies supporting Aperio's weight with ease. Gently, they lifted him across to the other side. Tanner and Calistarius followed with an easy hop across the gap, landing with barely a sound.
	“Thanks,” whispered Aperio. Tanner nodded, but then motioned him into silence. The Angels were suddenly alert, more so than they had been, their bodies tense, their weapons raised.
	“It's moving,” whispered Lorenzo.
	The Angels clustered tight around Aperio, their weapons out and ready.
	“What should I do?”
	“Stay still. Don't move. Maybe it-”
	The creature roared. The sound reverberated up through the shattered decks, as loud as thunder. It was both unsettlingly alien and hauntingly familiar. It turned Aperio's blood to ice, and he watched as the Angels stiffened. They too were scared. This was the sound of a creature that hunted their ancestors in the distant past. This was a sound that brought death and suffering. This was a sound that their very souls knew to fear and avoid.
	“Stay still,” warned Lorenzo. “Stay quiet. It might not have seen us.”
	They could not help but look now. The creature moved on the deck below, padding near silently on the metal deck plating. They could only see it in glimpses through the broken ruins of their deck. They were above it, out of reach, but the wreckage around them was a tangle that extended many decks above and below, forming ramps and bridges across which the creature could rush them at any moment, if it had spotted them.
	Together, they held their breath.
	Nobody dared move. They each watched the creature stalking about beneath them, its tail flicking side to side, its head down and muzzle low. It turned towards them, pausing, and the Angels silently tilted their weapons downwards.
	“Get ready,” whispered Lorenzo.
	Aperio steadied the flamer. It probably wasn't going to be much use with the Angels clustered in so close to him, but he had it set to a setting that couldn't damage the armour, and maybe the flames would scare the creature away.
	The creature let out a low rumbling noise, then started moving again. It passed beneath them, and the Angels turned to track it. Aperio did the same, shuffling around to face the other direction.
	“Careful!” cried Tanner.
	Hands reached for Aperio, but it was too late. His foot had come down into the empty void of the gap in the deck plates. For one heart-stopping moment he teetered, arms flailing, reaching forwards for balance, the flamer's barrel cracking against the side of Brother Daniel's helmet with an awfully loud bang. Then, with the inevitability of gravity, Aperio tumbled backwards into the gap, crashing into the jagged edges, sending him spinning until he hit the deck below, face down, popping deck plates up in jagged flower.
	Nobody moved. Aperio stifled a whimper.
	“Aperio,” hissed Tanner. “Stand up.”
	Aperio shook his head, scraping his helmet against the floor beneath him.
	“For the love of the Emperor, stand up! The creature is right there!”
	Aperio wanted to curl up. Maybe he could tunnel down through to the deck below with willpower alone. Maybe he could keep going, just melting through deck by deck, until he was out into the vacuum of space, where he could float in peace and die quietly with nothing monstrous to eat him. He shook his head again, a quiet wail growing in his throat. He could feel the creature near him, getting closure, ready to pounce and devour him.
	“Aperio, please move!”
	Tanner's voice trembled, startling Aperio just enough to break from the rigid terror. He lifted his head, popping it free from the dented deck plates. He pressed with his arms and eased himself up onto all fours. He didn't dare look up.
	“Aperio, move! It's...oh Emperor!”
	Aperio tilted his head back and locked eyes with two oily black pupils, unblinking, cold and emotionless. A short muzzle held a wide maw lined with pearly white teeth, each one sharp and ready to cut and bite. The creature's fur blazed a fiery orange, wreathed in a thick mane around its face. It stared at Aperio, and Aperio stared back.
	It started to growl; a low, threatening rumble.
	“Aperio, don't move,” said Sergeant Lorenzo. “Angels, needlefire on my-”
	“Wait!” said Tanner. “What's it doing?”
	The creature leaned in towards Aperio. But the mouth wasn't open and the teeth weren't bared. It brushed its muzzle up against the side of Aperio's helmet, pressing hard enough to nudge Aperio to the side. It lifted one great paw, bigger than Aperio's head, and stroked it gently down Aperio's arm from shoulder to elbow. The growl grew louder, a steady rumble that vibrated the deck plates.
	“It's not attacking.”
	“Calistarius?” Lorenzo turned. Even through his helmet, the quizzical expression was evident. For another few moments nothing moved, while Calistarius raced through the records, while the Angels kept their weapons trained on the creature, while a petrified Aperio rolled onto his back beneath the creature's insistent nuzzling, to receive affectionate licks to the face plate of his helmet.
	Unseen communication passed between Calistarius and Sergeant Lorenzo. And then a new alien sound joined the creature's purring: the sound of Sergeant Lorenzo roaring with laughter. The other Angels turned in confusion.
	“It's okay, brothers. You can put your weapons down. Aperio! Aperio, it's alright. It can't hurt you. Just keep your helmet closed and you'll be alright.”
	“It's licking me!”
	“We can see that, yes.”
	“It's not funny! What is this thing?”
	“It's called a lion, Aperio. And I think it likes you.”

Chapter Twelve.

“I think I'll name it Surprise,” said Aperio.
	“Why?” said Tanner.
	“Because it surprised me.”
	“No, I mean, why are you going to name it?”
	“It seems the right thing to do.”
	Tanner looked back at the creature. It looked back, unblinking and uncaring, then lowered its head to nose at a fragment of broken wall plastic.
	“If you think that's a good idea,” he said.
	“Well, I've got to call it something, haven't I?”
	“What's wrong with calling it 'lion'?”
	“I can't call it that.”
	“Why not?”
	“Because that's just...rude.”
	“Rude.”
	“Yeah.” Aperio held out a hand. Surprise leaned into it, rubbing his cheek against the metal and rumbling a soft purr. “He's being nice. So he deserves a name.”
	“If you say so.”
	“I do.”
	“Is he going to follow us the whole way?”
	“I dunno. Why not?”
	Tanner looked back to the other Angels, clustered in conversation around a small glowing device set into a wall. Apparently it was potentially important, but it was more Calistarius's expertise than Tanner's.
	“Why not indeed,” he murmured. “Maybe he'll even come in useful.”
	Aperio giggled as Surprise started to lap at his palm. He couldn't feel it, but he could imagine. And Tanner watched the incongruous sight of a dog in full battle armour giggling like a child while a prehistoric feline licked him.
	“Just remember, in case it has to happen...”
	“Hmm?”
	“If it endangers us, we'll have to kill it. Calistarius says a single shot of needlefire would take it down. Or even a hard punch. Seems it was only dangerous to our ancestors.”
	“Why would we need to kill it then?”
	“It might give our position away, or attract other creatures, ones that are worse than us. Aperio, you have to keep it in mind, alright?”
	“Alright.”
	“Don't become too attached to Surpri...to the lion.”
	“Alright. I get it.”
	Tanner turned away, leaving Aperio playing with his new friend. Maybe Aperio did understand, but he doubted it. He turned his attention to the conversation around the device, clicking himself onto the shared channel.
	“I hate to say it,” Calistarius was saying, “but I think we need Axeln for this one.”
	“Can I help?” said Tanner.
	“Unlikely. Unless you have Machinist arms hidden in your armour.”
	“Can we call the Wolves?” asked Lorenzo.
	Tanner closed his eyes and checked his map. The last known position of the Wolves showed at six decihects away, at the extreme range of their communications signal, depending on the material between them. “Perhaps,” he said. “Do you want me to?”
	“Not yet. Agent Aperio?”
	Aperio straightened sharply. “Yes sir?”
	“Do you have any knowledge of this device?”
	Sergeant Lorenzo gestured him over. Aperio and Tanner exchanged glances by habit, imagining the expressions behind each-other's faceplates.
	“Uh,” said Aperio, walking over. The Angels parted to make room for him. “This device here?”
	“Yes. Have you seen one before, as an Imperial Agent? We think it might be a control interface of some sort. If we can get into it, we might be able to open the doors.”
	“The doors?” Aperio looked between the Angels. “What do you mean, open the doors?”
	“It'd be much easier to progress if we didn't have to cut through each of them.”
	“But...you can open the doors. You just have to touch the leaf pattern there.”
	They turned to look. Sergeant Lorenzo raised a hand and pressed his palm against the leaf. Nothing happened.
	“Huh. The other ones worked. Maybe you're not pressing it right. Can I try?”
	Lorenzo moved aside and Aperio touched the wall. Instantly, the door beside them slid open, revealing the brightly-lit passageway beyond.
	“How did you do that?”
	“What do you mean? I just pressed the leaf. I thought you all knew.”
	Daniel, Zael, Calistarius and Tanner each in turn tried the leaf. The door remained open. Then, at Tanner's prompting, Aperio touched the leaf again. Instantly, the door slid shut.
	“Seems it only works for you.”
	“I don't know why,” said Aperio. “Maybe the ship likes me?”
	“Maybe it does,” said Sergeant Lorenzo. “Tell me, Agent Aperio, if you thought we could open the doors too, why do you think we were cutting through each of them?”
	“I don't know. I thought, maybe, that's just the way you did things?”
	The Angels looked at each other.
	“Just the way we did things,” Sergeant Lorenzo repeated.
	“Uhuh.”
	The Sergeant began to chuckle. “Agent Aperio, I'm finding myself enjoying your company more and more. If you please...” He gestured towards the leaf, and Aperio obligingly pressed it to open the door.
	“Well done,” whispered Tanner, patting Aperio on the shoulder.
	“It's not as if I did anything.” He reached down to pet Surprise, who rumbled happily and padded along beside them. “I guess I'm just lucky, is all.”
Chapter Thirteen.

Sergeant Vanir scraped his toe through the black ash on the deck plate, adding another line to the diagram.
	“And if that's right, we're about here. So we should be close.”
	Axeln sniffed. “Should be.”
	“That's if we haven't got turned around somewhere.” He looked back through the smouldering hole in the wall behind him. If he tilted his head, he could see right the way through a line of similar holes, all the way to the bend where they'd had to veer around a solid structural brace a hect across. From the room behind came a grunt and a soft tearing noise.
	“Soren, is that you?” he called.
	“Hey!”
	“What are you doing?”
	Soren's happy grin appeared around the edge of the hole. His muzzle was splashed with purple blood. “Pulling bits!”
	“Do I really want to ask?”
	Soren waggled a hand in which a floppy tendril dripped. “Nope!”
	“Where's Loki?”
	Loki's face appeared next to Soren's, equally splashed with blood, but looking far less happy about it. “Helping him,” he said.
	“Well, don't be too long. We'll need you in a minute.”
	Axeln clicked his teeth. “I'm not so sure. Maybe this time.” He squared himself up in front of a device on the wall, studying the lights.
	“How many's this one?”
	“Sixteenth I think. Sixteenth time's the charm?”
	“Go for it.”
	Axeln flexed his fingers and unfurled the Machinist arms. They too performed their ritual dance, limbering up for their performance. He fixed the device with a firm stare and readied to pounce, precision and intricacy at his disposal. He steadied himself with a deep breath.
	“Here goes.”
	His fist came down against the top of the device, shattering the top panel. The whole thing fell away from the wall, hanging on wires. The lights dimmed and went dark. Expectantly, he looked at the door, which remained stubbornly closed.
	“I guess seventeenth time's the charm.”
	“Guess so.”
	“If all else fails, hit it. But that didn't work. So what do you do after everything fails?”
	“You get Soren to smash through it. Soren! Get your butt in here!”
	Soren jumped into view, arms up in triumph. He wore both pelts across his shoulders, adding bulk to the already weighty armour. He had pierced holes in each pelt, and through them he had threaded six tendrils, three per shoulder, giving himself tongue-like spines that flexed when he moved.
	“What do you think?”
	Sergeant Vanir sighed. “Just open the door, will you?”
	“Happy to!”
	They broke through into the next room, which was the same as the one they had left, and the one before that, and on and on through the vast honeycomb maze of identically pointless rooms that this section of the derelict seemed filled with. The only differences were the cylinders of goo that showed up every now and then. After the first few, which Soren gleefully dispatched with his claws, sizzling the goo to ash, the novelty wore off, and they left them unmolested. Occasionally, Loki would give one a curious tap and ready his needlefire gun in case anything moved.
	“Boring place,” he grunted, and they all agreed.
	Loki poked his head around the smoking edge of the hole into the next room. He moved to step into it just as Soren had the same idea.
	“Damn it Soren!”
	The torn metal of the wall groaned and squeaked as their armour scraped through, wedged together in a lumpy tangle. Loki, with one arm free, swiped at the back of Soren's head, clouting him between his ears.
	“Too slow, Loki, too slow!”
	The wall gave way before their armour could, coming apart in a cascade of twisted metal. As one, Loki and Soren collapsed forward into the room, landing in a tangle of armoured limbs.
	“Impatient idiot,” muttered Loki, shoving Soren away. Soren grinned, shaking a shoulder to wriggle a tendril in Loki's face.
	“Grumpy grump!”
	Sergeant Vanir stepped over the threshold and kicked the sole of Soren's boot. “Get up the pair of you.” He looked over the room: another square space, with smooth plastic walls patterned with glowing leaves, and no cylinders in this one.
	“No monsters,” he said.
	“Aww,” said Soren. He jumped to his feet, claws glowing. “Maybe the next room, eh?”
	“Go on then.”
	And so it went, tearing from room to room. A few contained spiders or goo blobs, all easily dispatched.
	“Needn't have sent us at all,” grumbled Loki, grinding his boot into yet another squelching spider corpse. “Could have just sent some dogs with mops. This isn't a job for us. It's just cleaning up.”
	Soren's arms swung and his glowing claws tore through the next wall. He grinned cheerfully, the blazing light reflecting off his eyes and teeth. Alone amongst the Wolves, he was enjoying himself.
	“I bet the Angels sent us this way on purpose,” said Loki. “They've saved the fun for themselves and sent us off through an empty bit. They're busy killing great beasts, getting all the glory for themselves, while we squish bugs.”
	“Yeah? Well, they're welcome to them.” Axeln prodded at another copy of the mysterious device on the wall. He gave it a thump and the lights flickered. This time, he levered off the front panel and explored the innards with his Machinist arms, until the lights died completely. He punched it in frustration. “I'd rather not meet another Vexator today, if it's all the same to you.”
	“Coward,” said Soren, shooting his winsome grin to Axeln.
	“Lunatic.”
	“Scaredy pup.”
	“Idiot.”
	Soren swiped the last chunk of wall panel out of the way, standing back as it fell to the floor, its glowing edges rapidly cooling.
	“After you,” he said sweetly, bowing and extending an arm towards the gap.
	“Too kind.” Loki thumped him on the back as he passed and got a boot to the rear from Soren in return.
	“Children,” muttered Axeln, following after them. Sergeant Vanir followed without comment, his attention once again focussed on the crude map scratched on the armour plate on the back of his hand.
	“Not far now. Just two more walls, maybe three.”
	It proved to be six walls, but it made little difference. Soren's claws cut them down like butter. As the last one fell, the atmosphere changed: a rush of cold, wet air gusted into their faces, and they leaned out through the hole to see that there was no deck plating here, only a flimsy mesh floor forming a balcony above a long drop towards a distant floor.
	Soren hacked and spat, watching it drop. Loki shoved him and called him an idiot.
	“Looks like our target,” said Sergeant Vanir. He pointed towards the tall spires rising from floor to ceiling, laid out in ranks that disappeared into the darkness of the distance. Each one glowed with soft red lights that flickered rapidly. Data stacks, or something like it. The air hummed softly, like a choir of a billion ants.
	“Oh most beautiful joy,” breathed Axeln, shouldering Soren and Loki aside, staring in wonder at the sight.
	“You think you can work with this?” asked Vanir.
	“Oh yes,” said Axeln. “Most definitely. Just let me at them.”
	The balcony ran the length of the high wall through which they had entered, with no obvious way down to the floor. This was no obstacle, of course: the Wolves each vaulted the railing and dropped the long distance to the deck below, landing in individual craters of buckled floor plating. The servos in their knees whined with the strain of impact, then hissed as they cooled.
	Here, closer now, the data stacks loomed larger than they had seemed before. Each one was a building in its own right, large enough to house multiple copies of the main core from the Imperial Traveller. They stretched off into the distance, with only a hazy suggestion of an opposite wall in the red-tinted gloom.
	“The computing power of this thing must be incredible,” said Vanir.
	“Not necessarily,” said Axeln, moving towards the nearest tower, reaching out to touch the polished surface with reverent care. “Just because it's big, doesn't mean it's smart. It could be quite the opposite.”
	Loki smirked and slapped Soren on the shoulder. “Hear that? Big and dumb. Sound familiar?”
	Soren just grinned back, eyes dancing. He poked the tip of his tongue out.
	“Want me to try and get into it?” said Axeln.
	“Please,” said Vanir. “We'll keep watch. Soren, Loki, if you two could stop flirting for a bit and help, I'd be so grateful.”
	“Anything for you, sir!” said Soren.
	Axeln's Machinist arms flexed and spread like the legs of a spider. He gave the tower a hungry look, licking his tongue along his teeth.
	“Okay, baby. Let's take a look at you.”
	The arms moved in a blur and his eyes flickered unnaturally fast, immersed in the giddy rush of a technological trance. The arms found seams and joins in the tower's smooth surface that the naked eye could never hope to see. They tore a neat and precise path into the guts of the machinery, burrowing deep into the glowing heart of the data stack.
	“Looks familiar,” said Axeln, his voice quiet and distant. “Whoever made this ship, they can't have been much different from us. This part here looks like like a-”
	A loud snap hit their ears. The air crackled with static. In an instant, the red lights in the towers flicked off, plunging the room into darkness.
	“Wasn't me,” said Axeln.
	“You broke it, Axey,” sang Soren.
	The lights on their helmets broke the darkness with white beams that cast sharp black shadows all around them. The towers loomed like the great supports of a vast cathedral, all dark, all lifeless.
	“The hum stopped,” said Vanir.
	“The cores all switched off.” Axeln cast his light into the opened heart of the data stack. His Machinist arms probed deeper. “Maybe I triggered something. I'll see if I can get it back on.”
	“Can anyone else hear that?” said Loki.
	“Oh don't say that,” said Soren. “You're gonna make some big goobly glub jump on us in the dark.”
	“I thought you wanted something to fight.”
	“Yeah, but not in the dark. Silly. Can't see it go splash and splash if it's all dark. No fun in that.” The rising glow of Soren's claws as they heated up cast him in a gloomy orange pallor, shadowing his ever-present grin into a death's head grimace. “Wanna see 'em when I slice 'em!”
	“Quiet,” said Vanir. “I can hear it too.”
	It came whispering from the far distance, like the scratching of insects in the undergrowth. In the echoing chamber the sound bounced to and fro between the pillars. It came from all around them, and they jerked the beams of their lights between the pillars, checking every direction.
	“Sounds like spiders,” said Loki.
	“I can't see 'em,” said Soren.
	“Keep looking. They're getting closer.”
	“Can't kill 'em if I can't see 'em!”
	“Axeln,” said Vanir, moving beside the Machinist. “How quickly do you think you can get it working again?”
	“How should I know? I don't even know what I did. This thing might look familiar inside here, but that doesn't mean it is. I mean, who knows what this is,” he said, jabbing at a quivering tube filled with translucent blue liquid. “A data line? Feed stock for a biocircuit? A refreshing beverage? I'm working blind here.” He yelped and drew a twitching arm back from a sparking wire.
	“Keep trying. But if it gets hot we're going to have to pull back.”
	“I still can't see anything,” said Loki.
	“Well it's here, whatever it is. It's getting louder. And louder means closer.”
	“Uh,” said Soren. “That's a new thing.”
	They turned to look at him. His light was pointing straight up. The others tilted their heads back. The ceiling was a squirming mass of green and brown bodies, mottled and furred, hinting at legs and tails. As their lights hit them, they froze in place, and the whispering hiss stopped. An army of eyes turned to stare down at them, reflecting eyeshine in bright florescent green. Slowly, each body opened a wide maw of needle-sharp teeth.
	“Now that's more like it!” cried Soren.
	Sergeant Vanir screamed the war cry, and the Wolves joined their voices to the mix. Even Axeln, with his arms deep in the machinery of the data stack, tearing and banging, added his howl, tilting his head back but keeping his eyes locked on his work. The Wolves needed no orders now. They had no need of training or discipline, no regimented instructions nor the careful co-ordination of the Angels: the fight was in their instincts, in their blood. The thinking brain shut down, and the hindbrain took over. Their needlefire guns aimed upwards, and the blazing fire of the tracer rounds joined the beams of their helmet lights.
	“Don't hit the stacks!” cried Axeln. But he couldn't be heard. The chatter of the guns was deafening in the echoing hall. The creatures above screamed as the needles slammed home, shredding their bodies and dropping them as limp sacks of wet meat to splatter onto the floor around the Wolves. Some bounced off their armour, or struck their heads. Blood fell into the wide and animal eyes of the Wolves, trickling down their cheeks, wiped into smears by the backs of their hands. Still they fired, sweeping the line of their tracers in whirling arcs, reloading the magazines with rapid instinctive motions: click, snap, crack, interrupting the torrent of death only by a moment. Soren howled in delight, dancing amongst the falling bodies, his claws glowing white and his needlefire gun spraying wildly.
	Then the bodies started to drop without being hit by needles. Like rainfall, they filled the air, a deluge of angry, snapping, frothing furry creatures, hitting the floor around them and splashing into bone-breaking death. But the flow kept coming, and the creatures that landed on the corpses of the previous creatures now survived to swarm around the Wolves, snapping at their legs, teeth clacking and breaking against the metal. They angled their guns downwards, spraying in short bursts at the heaving masses. Soren slung his gun to his hip and whooped in delight, whirling his claws and sending gouts of sizzling blood to splash high against the data stacks.
	“Keep them off me,” grunted Axeln. He snapped his helmet closed and kept his gaze focused on the innards of the data stack. His Machinist arms snatched at cables and sockets, welding fresh connections. In the chaos he saw the patterns, and the solution glowed fresh and obvious amongst the pieces. The creatures chewed at his legs and bumped hard against his hips. He felt himself tugged and lurched from side to side. Then blood exploded at his sides, splashing across his armour and soaking into his pelts. Loki had turned his needlefire his way, mowing down the growing swarm.
	“Got it!” he cried.
	The deck plates shuddered. A high-pitched whine shot through the hall. The red lights came on in a bright blaze, before dimming back to their soft, flickering glow. The creatures that were still alive shrieked and shut their eyes, turning to swarm outwards, away from the Wolves, fleeing into the dim distance between the data stacks, scurrying up the pillars and away into the darkness, leaving only the dripping corpses and twitching, gasping remains of the dying.
	“Well,” said Vanir. Then he coughed, wiping the blood away from his muzzle. “That wasn't boring.”
	Soren whooped in delight. He lifted up one of the corpses. It was slit from belly to throat. Its head hung limp, its six eyes open and lifeless, its jaw hanging open. It had six legs, each bent and twisted in unnatural directions, bones broken. Soren swung it and cracked it against the wall of the nearest data stack, then delicately inserted the tip of one of his claws, now dimmed to a cool red glow, into the opened belly and began the careful task of skinning the creature.
	“So,” said Axeln, folding his Machinst arms away. “It's running again.”
	“As I can see,” said Vanir. “Do you have control of it?”
	Axeln shrugged. He banged a fist against the side of the tower. “Dunno. It's weird in there. Maybe? I can fiddle a bit more if you like.”
	“Alright. But don't break it again, okay?”
	Soren hummed happily to himself, off in his own little world of gore and blood. While Axeln worked, Vanir and Loki began the long chore of wiping down their armour and trying to get the blood out of their fur. Off in the distance, behind the gentle hum of the data stacks, the whispering sounds of the creatures resumed, quietly waiting.
Chapter Fourteen.

They stood in silence for the longest time, just staring. The lights from the displays and consoles reflected on the Angels, painting the white of their armour plate with a rainbow of colour, shooting dazzling reflections off their visors. The brilliance swam and changed, never halting, never repeating.
	“Whoah,” said Aperio. It didn't properly capture the spirit of the moment, but it was enough to break the reverent silence.
	“Whoah indeed,” said Sergeant Lorenzo.
	“What is this place?” said Aperio.
	“A control room, I believe,” said Tanner. He closed his eyes against the glare and checked the map. They had made quick progress since Aperio revealed his trick with the doors. They had weaved a path through the ship, skirting around dangers and damaged sections when they found them, following Tanner's informed intuition: the passageways were laid out in a pattern, and they seemed to converge on this spot, where the large chamber glowed with the light of a thousand displays.
	“Anything from the voice?” asked Lorenzo.
	“Nothing, sir. If this is a control room, it's down to us to find out.”
	“Scout it out, Angels.”
	“What should I do?” Asked Aperio. Then, after a thought, adding, “sir?”
	“Stay here. You and I will watch the door.”
	The Brothers moved away into the glare. Their visors shielded their eyes from the brilliance, but washed out much of the definition in the processed. They moved carefully, almost blind, feeling out every step. The curved edges of the consoles snuck up on them in the brightness of the light their displays put out, threatening to catch their legs and trip them.
	“I have found what appears to be a chair,” said Brother Daniel. “Knee height, padded, with tail slot. Suggests bipedal operator.”
	“I have one here too,” said Calistarius.
	“Matches in the records?” said Lorenzo.
	“Too many to be meaningful. But the brightness of the displays narrows it down, if it is intentional. It's possible this is a malfunction.”
	Aperio glanced back down the corridor behind him. Surprise was laying down next to a wall, busily grooming his paw, his tail lazily flicking. He didn't seem to care much for the room and its wonders. Beside Aperio, Sergeant Lorenzo turned.
	“Is something wrong, Agent Aperio?”
	“It's just really bright, that's all. Hurting my eyes. I don't think the helmet is helping as much as yours is.”
	“The Wolves don't wear armour as advanced as ours.”	
	“How come?”
	“They choose not to. Tanner, you've stopped. What do you see?”
	“There's, uh...something moving. I think. It's hard to see.”
	A series of soft clicks accompanied the Angels readying their weapons. They didn't need a command to do so.
	“I'm going to move closer and take a look.”
	“Daniel, Calistarius, take the flanks.”
	The three Angels moved in concert between the ranked lines of consoles and chairs. Their silhouettes disappeared into the light, barely visible as faint shadows, moving in flickers. Someone gasped sharply on the shared channel.
	“You're not going to believe what it is,” said Tanner.
	A new voice bellowed all around them, screeching in their ears until their armour dialled down the volume of their hearing.
	“Yoohoo! Peekaboo, I see you!” cried the voice of Soren. “Hey, Axey! I've found 'em!”
	“Soren?” said Sergeant Lorenzo. “Where are you?”
	Soren grunted. “Ow, hey! No need to push!”
	“Hello Angels,” said Axeln. “One moment. I'll turn down the lights.”
	The glare dimmed. The shape of the room emerged; a high, vaulted space, with a wide floor studded with neat rows of consoles and chairs, each with a bright square display showing colours in flickering patterns. They looked strangely ordinary, not unlike the control systems on the Imperial Traveller: different in cosmetic style only.
	High on the wall was a vast display, and displayed on it was the blood-drenched face of Axeln.
	“Emperor, what happened to you?” said Lorenzo.
	“Just a bit of a scuffle. Nothing to worry about. I'm glad I found you. I have good news. Guess what!”
	“You have gained access to the computer core?”
	“Yup! Well, sort of. Yes and no, really. I've got partial control over one of the computer cores. Seems there's a whole bunch of them all over the ship. This thing is incredible. Makes the Imperial Traveller's computer look like a wrist watch. And there's at least twenty of these things, all as big as this one, giant rooms with data stacks as big as a building! You should see it. The power here must be incredible.”
	“Do you have primary systems control?”
	“Not yet, but I'm working on it. Half of this stuff doesn't make any sense. My own core's running red hot translating it. But it's machine code, and you'll never guess what language it's written in.”
	“I'm sure I wouldn't, Axeln. What language is it written in?”
	Axeln grinned, and for a moment he wore the same mania so often seen in Soren. “I can't be entirely certain, but I'm pretty sure that what I'm looking at here is a variant of old Imperial Machinist Lingua.”
	“This is an Imperial ship?”
	“Looks that way.”
	Brother Calistarius moved across to a console, leaning over its display.
	“Wouldn't we have known if this was an Imperial ship? Something like this would be in the records, surely!”
	On the display, Axeln shrugged. “You tell me. All I can tell you is what I'm seeing. Hold on a second.” His head ducked down out of view. The display fuzzed with static for a moment. He reappeared, leaning back, with something held up in the foreground: a cuboid of black plastic, trailing ragged wires.
	“See this?” he said.
	“I see it,” said Lorenzo. “What is it?”
	“It's an Imperial Machinist Dian-Sineta node. We used to use these in everything. We still do use them here and there, but they're hard to make now. This ship is one of ours, there's no doubt about it.”
	“Brother Calistarius,” said Sergeant Lorenzo. At the console, Calistarius straightened.
	“Sir?”
	“Is there anything in the records about this ship? Surely there must be something?”
	“Nothing I know of, sir. If there was, I would have told you.”
	Lorenzo turned to Aperio.
	“What about you? Do the Imperial Agents know anything of this?”
	Aperio shook his head quickly. “No sir,” he said, not knowing if it was a lie or not.
	“Is there any chance,” said Brother Calistarius, “that you could be mistaken?”
	“Not unless there's someone out there making parts that are identical to Imperial Machinist parts. There's other stuff in here that looks similar to our stuff. If we didn't make this ship, then there's a pretty big coincidence going on here. I'll keep looking in the data stacks. There's a lot of information in here, and I'm barely scratching the surface of it. This is truly incredible! There might be more data here than in the whole of the Imperial Archives, and ten times over at least! And some of it here will make your mind melt. I don't think this technology is anything like what we've seen before. There might be somethi-”
	The display went black and silent.
	“What happened?” said Lorenzo.
	“Looks like the signal went, sir,” said Calistarius.
	“Can we get it back?”
	“That will be up to Axeln. There might be a control here that can activate the link, but I can't read any of these numerals.”
	“Tanner, what about you?”
	“It's alien to me, sir.”
	“Sir,” said Brother Calistarius. “I recommend we move on to the regroup point.”
	“We'll give him a few minutes. Angels, continue the sweep. Report if you see anything readable.”
	At the doorway, Aperio crept back to stand next to Surprise. Across the control room, he could see Calistarius looking back at him, his visor impassive and unreadable...but definitely looking his way. And Aperio knew why.
Chapter Fifteen.

Axeln frowned and jabbed at the interface socket.
	“Hello? Angels?”
	Sergeant Vanir leaned in over his shoulder. “What's wrong?”
	“Link's gone dead.”
	“Can you bring it back?”
	“I don't think so. It went off at their end, as if one of them switched it off. But that couldn't be the case; none of them can read the controls. I'm only able to do this because I can get into the code.”
	A breeze began to tug at them, ruffling through their fur. The Wolves all turned, facing down the long distance to the far end of the hall.
	“I think we've just gained a bigger problem,” said Lorenzo. “Helmets closed! Grab onto something!”
	They scrambled for the data stacks, reaching for handholds. But in the next instant the breeze became a gale. Their helmets snapped shut, muting out the sound. The force of the air hit them like a wall, knocking them of their feet and sending them tumbling along the deck plates, whirling along amongst the bouncing corpses of the creatures.
	Sergeant Lorenzo clicked onto the common channel. “Hull breach!”
	“Whee!” cried Soren.
	Their fingers slid along the smooth deck plating, bouncing free each time they tried to get purchase.
	“Soren! Your claws!”
	“They're cold!” He activated them anyway. They glowed red as they scraped uselessly against the deck plates. Then yellow, then white, but still not hot enough to dig into the metal. They skidded and bounced off the data stacks, denting and buckling where their armour hit, breaking off more fragments to dance in the tumbling chaos. The far wall of the chamber rushed towards them. The open maw of a vast airlock swallowed them, spinning wildly, and spat them like bullets out into the cold silence of space.
	The airlock shrank to a pinprick in an instant, disappearing altogether in a smooth expanse of featureless grey. A curve appeared, cutting a line between the grey and the starlit black of space.
	“We're in space!” cried Soren.
	“Oh, so you noticed?” said Loki dryly.
	White jets of vapour puffed as the Wolves arrested their spins with their thrusters. They drifted in an expanding cloud of debris. The tapered shape of the derelict slowly shrank away from them.
	“Everyone alright?” said Sergeant Vanir.
	“Feeling fine,” said Soren.
	“Banged up a bit,” said Axeln.
	“How about you, Loki?”
	“I'm annoyed, is what I am.”
	“Alright, Wolves, you know what to do. Use your jets. Let's get back, alright?”
	Vapour jetted out from the nozzles on their backs, arrayed either side of the bumps that housed their tails. The derelict stopped shrinking, beginning now to grow in size once more.
	“Easy now,” said Vanir. “Not to fast. Head back in slowly. There's no rush, now. It's not going to go anywhere.”
	The fine tracery lines that criss-crossed the derelict had been nearly invisible, only catching the light at the extreme edges to gleam a glossier sheen than the dull grey of the hull. But now the lines began to glow a deep purple, hovering on the eye-watering edge of ultra-violet.
	“What's it doing?” said Vanir.
	“Oh no,” said Axeln. “No no no.”
	“What? What is it?”
	“I saw it earlier, in the code, but I wasn't sure it was real. It couldn't be real.”
	“What couldn't be real, Axeln? What's it doing?!”
	The glow was too bright to look at now. The outline of the derelict seemed to shimmer, as if it were vibrating. The stars around it appeared to warp and stretch, contracting inwards.
	“I think the derelict has a faster than light engine,” said Axeln. “And I think...I think it's just turned on.”
	“You can't mean...”
	They watched, helpless and aghast, as the stretching stars closed in towards the derelict, and the purple light shone bright into a searing white. They each closed their eyes against the glare, wincing and cursing. And when they looked back a moment later, the derelict was gone, and they floated alone, lost in the empty blackness of the space between the stars.
Chapter Sixteen.

It was difficult to find a moment when Sergeant Lorenzo could be caught alone. He stood at the centre of a maelstrom of activity, directing the Brothers to scour the room, checking every display for any shred of recognisable language. Somewhere in here, he said, there would be a clue.
	Aperio stayed close to the door, watching. Brother Calistarius didn't look his way, not once, but Aperio felt like he was being watched all the same. Surprise came over and settled down at his feet, resting his big muzzle on top of his paws. He didn't seem concerned at all with the affairs of the canines.
	It was Surprise that drew Sergeant Lorenzo over. He crouched in front of the lion, staring at it. He had his helmet open. There didn't seem to be much fear of the creature left. Besides, if anything happened, the Sergeant could snap his helmet closed in an instant, faster than any swiping paw or lunging teeth.
	“We'll be moving soon, if we don't hear anything. Will Surprise continue to follow you?”
	“Sir,” whispered Aperio, glancing over at Brother Calistarius. His back was turned, but that meant nothing. The Angels had advanced armour. Who knew what capabilities it had. He would just have to risk it. “I think Brother Calistarius might have cut off Axeln's signal. I think...I think he did it on purpose.”
	Sergeant Lorenzo frowned. He studied Aperio's eyes. “Now why would you think that?”
	“I saw him touching one of the display screens right when Axeln disappeared.”
	“That doesn't mean anything. The other Brothers were exploring the displays too. None of it is readable. It's all in alien numerals.”
	“But he looked like he was pressing things. It looked like he knew what he was doing, like he could read it.”
	Sergeant Lorenzo paused in silence. His gaze cut into Aperio and made him look away, biting his lip.
	“At least, that's what it looked like,” he mumbled.
	“Are you suggesting that Brother Calistarius sabotaged our progress and then lied about it?”
	“I don't know. I just...”
	“Angels do not lie. They do not fabricate. They do not hide.” He was raising his voice, and Aperio waved his hands desperately. Sergeant Lorenzo wasn't listening. In the distance, he saw Brother Calistarius turn to look at them. And, a little closer, Tanner lifted his head as well. “Agent Aperio, if you wish to suggest that any of my Angels are anything less than truthful at any moment, then you will find yourself sorely mistaken.”
	“But...”
	Aperio saw Tanner's eyes go wide. He straightened upright, tension stiff in his posture. He stared accusingly at Aperio, and Aperio could only shake his head and wave his hands, trying to mime: it isn't what you think!”
	“Brother Calistarius,” snapped Sergeant Lorenzo. “Is there any possibility that you are aware of that you may have disconnected Axeln's communication link, deliberately or otherwise.”
	“No sir,” said Brother Calistarius.
	Sergeant Lorenzo stood up and looked down at Aperio. He stood fully a head taller than Aperio, plus a little more as the smaller canine cowered under that glare.
	“Brothers, we're moving to the regroup point. If we have any luck, the Wolves will be waiting there for us.”
	“B-but...”
	“Agent Aperio, I suggest you remain quiet from here on.”
	“But sir!”
	“Angels, come!”
	Aperio shuffled to the side as the Brothers marched past. He looked away, trembling with tension.
	“Sergeant Lorenzo, please!” he cried, turning back to the Angels. “If you would just-”
	He caught only a glimpse of Sergeant Lorenzo, turning back to look at him with a frown of annoyance, just before the door slid shut. Aperio stared at the smooth metal.
	“Sergeant?”
	“He can't hear you, Aperio,” said Calistarius. Aperio turned to see him standing amongst the consoles, a finger resting on one if the displays. “And you can't get through to him, and he can't get through to you.”
	“What is this? What's going on?” Suddenly, it struck him, and his eyes widened. “You're what the voice was talking about! You're not trying to take control of the ship like the others, are you?”
	“You are correct, Aperio.” He stepped away from the console and started to approach. Aperio backed against the wall, his hand moving to his hip, feeling for the flamer. He snatched it up and swung the cumbersome weapon to point at Calistarius.
	“Don't come any closer!”
	Calistarius raised his hands in surrender, which threw Aperio into confusion. Aperio hadn't set the flamer to the narrow flame setting that could harm the armour they wore. Did Calistarius not know that? Aperio licked his lips and hefted the flamer higher, trying to look assertive.
	“Open the door.”
	“I won't do that.”
	“Open it!”
	“No.”
	Aperio took a step forward. Calistarius didn't move.
	“I'll fire,” he said. “I'll do it!”
	“I know you're a Subject, Aperio.”
	Aperio blinked. “What?”
	“You're a canine, and you're a Subject. You're not an Agent. You're a cook on the Traveller. The others were fooled, perhaps, but I have access to Agency Records as well as the Imperial Records. That's something the others didn't know about. I know who you are, Aperio. You're a canine, but not a Citizen. Why is that?”
	Aperio felt his cheeks heating. “That's none of your business!”
	Calistarius started to grin. Aperio felt his face getting hotter. He knew full well why Aperio wasn't a Citizen! It was written on his face, plainly shown in the leering glance just a few degrees downwards. Aperio growled and shoved the flamer forwards.
	“Stop it! I mean it!”
	“Aperio, at any moment I chose, I could obliterate you with laser turrets that would sprout from these walls all around us. I could tear your body apart with convergent force streams and re-materialise you outside in the vacuum of space, or simply not re-materialise you at all, scattering your atoms into the ventilation system. I could direct microwaves to cook specific regions of your brain to turn you into a drooling, mindless husk. I could encase you in lead, or gold, or dice you with diamond filaments. The power I have over you is almost limitless.”
	He rested a hand on the nearest console. “And all of this from a single touch of one of these displays. Your friends, the Wolves, they learned that.”
	“You turned off their communication. I knew it!”
	“I did more than that, Aperio. I opened the airlock in their section and flushed them into space, then activated the ship's inertia drive. Right now, they're floating adrift and we're speeding away from them at a substantial fraction of the speed of light.”
	Aperio stared, trying to read Calistarius's smile, trying to see deception hidden in the smugness. “You're lying! Why would you do that?”
	“Oh, Aperio. Why indeed...”
Chapter Seventeen.

Sergeant Vanir panted into the muzzle of his helmet. The air was heavy and hot, and the padding stuck to his fur, slimy with sweat.
	“How are you coming along, Axeln?” he panted.
	Behind him, tethered with a short length of steel cable, Axeln floated within a miniature debris field. Bolts and metal shavings and fragments of cut and beaten armour plating drifted past him, metal seeds sown out into the interstellar void. A sheered bolt bounced off his faceplate and he waved an arm to swat it away.
	“Getting there,” he said. “Just got to get the last connection in place...”
	His Machinist arms dug deep into the bulky life-support system on Sergeant Vanir's back. White light flashed where the welder's tip touched the metal piping, slowly and carefully forming the final seal.
	“There. Give it a try. And cross your fingers.”
	“What do I do?”
	“Open the C-valve a quarter turn.”
	Vanir felt cooler air blow against his cheeks. It still felt like the heat from a roasting oven, but compared to the sun-like furnace it had been, this was the air from atop a mountain on a frozen, sunless world. He sighed happily.
	“You're a miracle worker.”
	“Don't thank me just yet. This isn't a free lunch. I've routed a conduit from your liquid air tank to pass through a manifold that I've run around your heatsink and out to an external vent.”
	“So you're venting my air out into space, huh?”
	“And venting some of the heat out with it. I'm afraid it's not terribly efficient. Best I can do. And I've had to dismantle your urine recycler to do it.”
	“I'm sure I can live without it. So how long do I have?”
	“Well, you're not going to die from the heat quite so soon.”
	“And my air?”
	“Uh...how about you not ask, and I won't give you an answer that'll make you upset, how's that sound?”
	“Couldn't you use my thruster propellant?”
	“Wrong stuff, won't work. Sorry. Has to be the air. It's a trade. Fair exchange.”
	“Sounds fair to me.”
	“Alright,” said Axeln, spinning slowly to face the Loki and Soren, who hung lump in their armour on the ends of their tethers. “Who's next?”
	Neither answered.
	“Hey, wake up.”
	Loki grunted, then aimed a weak kick to Soren's ankle, sending him spinning and dragging the rest of them along with him, threatening to tangle them up completely. Axeln jetted his thrusters to steady the group. Loki and Soren thudded together.
	“What was that for?” said Soren.
	“I dunno,” said Loki. “I'm sure you deserved it one way or another. Axeln wants you.”
	“What do you want me for?”
	“I'm going to connect your air supply to a manifold around your heatsink and vent the gas into space.”
	“Oh, is that all? Hah! Gonna chop chop us up? Don't cut too deep. Loki first.”
	“Hah, no,” said Loki. “You first. I've got red fur.”
	“So what?”
	“So, it means the heat don't bother me.”
	“Oh really? How come you got so many little Loki-faces scampering about, huh?”
	“Wrong kind of heat,” said Loki, voice flat. “Just get on with it so I can have my turn.”
	“Thought you didn't feel the heat, Lokes!”
	Axeln snagged Soren's tether and dragged him closer, grabbing a shoulder and spinning him around.
	“There's one good thing about venting your air supply, Soren,” he said.
	“Oh? There is, hmm?”
	“Yeah. It means you'll shut up a lot sooner.”
	Soren laughed, a great whooping noise from his gut, shaking his armour. “Love ya Axey!”
	Sergeant Vanir unclipped the tether from his waist. The others felt the vibration and turned their heads.
	“Where you going, boss?” said Soren.
	“Going to have a look around. Might as well use the thrusters if the propellant's no good for anything else, right?”
	“Look around?” Soren twisted his head all the way left and right, looking into the star-speckled emptiness, then cackled with laughter again. “Bring me back a souvenir!”
	Sergeant Vanir jetted away without a word, leaving a puff of dissipating thruster propellant and a thin trail of near-invisible air hissing from his improvised vent. In moments he was a dark speck, lost amongst the stars, visible only by the locator ping in the display inside their helmets.
	Axeln clicked into a new channel, sharing it only with Soren and Loki. “Gone away to think, I think.”
	“Looks like it,” said Loki.
	Soren said nothing. He hung like a doll while Axeln's Machinist arms tore into the machinery on his back.
	“I wonder what he's thinking about,” said Axeln.
	“I think I know,” said Loki. “Pack Gartan.”
	The Machinist arms paused momentarily as Axeln's thought control stuttered. He sighed. “Yeah. Pack Gartan.”
	Soren sniffed. He moved an arm to wipe the sweat from his forehead, uselessly thudding it against his faceplate. “Who's Gartan?”
	“His old pack leader. He's not around any more.”
	“What happened to him?
	“Do you want to tell it?” asked Loki. “Or shall I?”
	“Go ahead. I'm busy here.” The light of the welder flickered off his faceplate.
	“Well, Soren, have you heard of Karsaff?”
	“Oh,” said Soren, unnaturally subdued. “Yeah. I've heard of Karsaff.” He turned to face the distant speck of Sergeant Vanir, lost amongst the stars. “He was there?”
	“Yeah, he was there. And so were we.”
Chapter Eighteen.

Wolf Pack Gartan, orbiting the ruined planet of Karsaff onboard the Imperial Roamer, waited for the completion of the Imperial Priest's sacrifice, their eyes locked on the curve of glowing atmosphere far below them and not on the screaming, dying wretch or the blood that splashed across the deck plates. Their faces reflected in the viewscreen. As they watched, another vibehead shook the clouds and blossomed its incandescent fire into the stratosphere.
	Vanir, then only a young pup under Sergeant Gartan, watched with an eagerness that the others clearly did not feel. He stared at his reflection, and his refection stared back. He tried to keep his lips from peeling back into the hungry grin he so sorely wanted to wear. Today was the day he was going to kill for the first time.
	Another vibehead broke the clouds, and in the split second before the fireball engulfed the space, he could see through the gap in the clouds down to the raging inferno that engulfed the peninsula. The forest was being turned to cinders. Nothing should have been able to survive the onslaught. But something was surviving, and that was why they were here.
	“Two minutes,” said Gartan, his voice quiet. He was always softly-spoken, and never seemed to anger or become violent. Vanir had yet to see him fight, of course, but assumed that he must surely be capable of killing, or else he would not be a Sergeant. But as he looked at his friendly, pleasant face, looking more like a canine than a Wolf, Vanir couldn't make himself imagine Gartan actually doing it. Would he still be smiling while he gutted some alien monster? Would he give his orders to shoot in that quiet, polite tone? Or would he transform into something else entirely? Vanir felt the smile force itself onto his muzzle. He couldn't wait to find out.
	“Time to load up?” he said.
	Gartan didn't exactly smile, but he looked at Vanir with kindness in his eyes. “Time to load up,” he said.
	The Imperial Roamer was not equipped with individual pods: instead, the five members of Pack Gartan climbed into an atmospheric flyer, packing in tight amongst the sixteen  other Packs crammed into the passenger compartment. Armour plating rubbed and scraped. The air grew hot and stale, and staler still as the embarkation doors closed and sealed them inside, at the mercy of the inadequate internal air processors. Some of the older, more experienced Wolves closed their faceplates to breathe their internal supply. Vanir kept his open and breathed in the combined scent of eighty-five sweating bodies.
	The flyer shook, and a deep rumble filled his ears. He braced himself against the restraint webbing and felt his stomach lurch as the flyer lifted away from its mooring and began the retrograde burst to send it falling into the atmosphere below.
	“You might want to use the webbing properly,” said Gartan. He looped a strap across his shoulders and Vanir, copying his lead, did the same. A moment later the decision proved wise as the flyer started to shake as if it were trying to break apart. The heat in the compartment grew, and through a small porthole Vanir could see the orange flames of their atmospheric insertion.
	“We're about to pass through the remnants of a vibehead cloud,” crackled a voice, likely one of the pilots. “Hold on tight.”
	Vanir held his breath. He knew what to expect, but all the same he still felt uncertainty gnaw at the back of his mind. What he knew and what he felt were at odds. He knew the flyer could withstand the heat and molecular shift of the vibehead, but he felt vulnerable all the same. How could he be safe, spoke his feelings, while the fabric of physics itself was being torn apart on the other side of the thin metal wall of the flyer's hull? The forces at work out there would rip him apart quicker than his sense could even register the danger.
	This, said the logical part of his mind, was at least some comfort; if something went wrong, he would never even know about it.
	The glow through the porthole rose to an eye-searing white as they passed through the cloud. The buffeting of the wind ceased, as here there was no wind left; the very air itself had been shredded into energy and dumped into realms of physics that Vanir couldn't even begin to understand. He suspected that the Machinists didn't really understand it either; the vibeheads were, after all, holy knowledge, and holy meant mysterious and poorly-understood. He gripped the straps tighter and hoped that the Machinists understood them enough to make their assertions of the flyer's safety come true.
	The porthole darkened through orange and purple, then into a grey darkness that boiled with the suggestion of stormy clouds. The vibehead's inferno had dissipated. The physical world would now pause uncertainly, unsure of how to respond to the sudden void. But, like always, it would fall back on its old ways: if there was a vacuum, it would attempt to fill it. And in the moments that followed, as the atmosphere rushed back in to fill the space, the flyer shook and screamed and dived hard towards the blasted jungle below, its retro-engines surging so hard that Vanir felt his eyes press painfully against his eyelids.
	Then, with a heavy bump, it was all over. The screaming whine of engines faded down through the octaves, settling into a low and steady hum. The snapping and clicking of webbing straps being unbuckled filled the cabin. Nobody spoke. The Wolves clustered towards the embarkation door, a press of bodies and armour and weapons, each one staring towards the metal wall that would soon open and reveal...what? Burning trees? Black and scorched bare rock? The crumbling ruins of Karsaff's lost settlements? Or would it be the howling hordes of alien lifeforms that they were here to eradicate? Vanir checked his needlefire rifle, making sure the cartridge was centred and primed, readying the butt against the groove in his armour's shoulder. He kept the barrel low and his eyes on the door, ready to raise it to meet the threat.
	Gas hissed. A siren warbled. All the Wolves who still had open faceplates now closed them, and Vanir did the same. He caught the scent of burning vegetation before his armour's systems took over.
	This was it. He was ready.
	The door rumbled open, falling down to create a ramp. The Wolves at the front charged forwards, not bothering to wait until the door was fully open: they scrambled up the sloped surface and tumbled over the lip. Each one shouted a cry of challenge and threat unique to their own pack. Colourful language abounded. Vanir had heard them all in the long months of practice and trials on the Imperial Roamer. The sound brought a smile to his lips and put a fire in his chest. He raised his weapon and joined the cry as his turn came to charge forwards and leap off the edge of the ramp onto the dirt of Karsaff.
	The flyer was perched on a rocky outcrop above a wide, jungle-filled valley that stretched to the smoke-shrouded horizon. The fires had not burned here, but their smoke and light wreathed the sky all around. This small pocket of the planet had been spared the destruction of the vibeheads, and standing in the middle of the valley was the reason why: a spire of grey metal, slender and sharp like a needle, rose from the valley floor and pierced into the sky above, its point lost in the smoke and clouds. A ruin, from the lost settlement of Karsaff, like so many others dotted around this now smoking and burned planet.
	This one, however, was different and special: it was not pock-marked with decay breaches, it was not swamped by jungle overgrowth, and it was lit from base to tip with the sparkling pinprick lights of its internal lighting. Unlike every other ruin on this planet, this one was intact, and it was still alive with Machinist magic.
	And this, Vanir knew, was why they were here. That tower held secrets, and so the Wolves would have to secure it, so those secrets could be learned. Not by the Wolves, of course. No, they were just the muscle. The brains would arrive later, in the form of the Emperor's special priests. They would scour the building and pick it clean of its knowledge. The Wolves would be swept away, unneeded, and moved on to the next place where rough muscle was needed. It was how life was for a Wolf: kill, don't think.
	Vanir started to walk, ready to kill. The army of Wolves spread out and descended the slope towards the jungle's trees. Smoke blew in languid streaks through the treetops. Vanir stayed close to his pack, with Gartan in the lead. They watched the shadows between the trunks and amongst the leaves, needlefire rifles up and ready, prepared for the ambush they all expected. There was a reason that Karsaff was now unpopulated and subject to the bombardment of vibeheads. The canines didn't feel it right to actually tell the Wolves what that reason was, but that didn't stop the Wolves from guessing. An infestation of hostile life, that was the expectation. After all, why would they send the Wolves if the problem wasn't something that needed killing?
	Once they were in the trees, the rumble of fires and the cascading howl of detonating vibeheads were muted into near silence. Vanir fidgeted uneasily, driven by instinct to lift his head and watch the canopy above. Ancient fears lurked in the back of his mind. His ancestors knew jungles like this, and their fears were now his. Once again his thoughts and his feelings had an argument, and though his thoughts had reason on their side, and the knowledge that his armour and his weapon and his skills would protect him against any threat this jungle could be hiding, his feelings had with them the weight of genetic memory, and they didn't care what his thoughts knew; to them, he was a vulnerable puppy creeping through the undergrowth under the watching, hungry eyes of a thousand predators lurking above, waiting for their moment to strike.
	With effort, he managed to drag his muzzle back down to keep watch on his segment of their defensive formation. Nothing moved amongst the trees except for the other Wolf packs, moving in their own unique formations. Together, the army of Wolves formed an arc that swept rapidly through the valley, closing inexorably towards the tower.
	As they got closer, Vanir grew to understand the scale of the thing. In the distance, as it had appeared from the flyer, there was no frame of reference and no way to truly grasp its size. If had cared to, he could have checked its dimensions with a scan from his helmet, but that would have given the size in cold, analytical numbers, and would have done nothing to improve his gut understanding. And if his gut couldn't understand it, the information was next to useless.
	Now, though, was different; the thin, needle-like spire was now a wide mass of grey metal looming over him, curving with perspective up to the clouds above, and widening at the base to dwarf the treetops, spanning almost out of view to the left and right. Vanir estimated that the cross-section at its base must have been wider than the Imperial Roamer was long. He felt an unwanted uneasiness. This was what they were going to have to clear out, with only seventeen Packs? They were strong, and they were brave, but were they that strong and that brave? Vanir started to wonder if it would even count for anything once they were inside that huge and unknown space, but he pushed that thought away. Now was the time to feel and not think. He let his instincts come to the fore, and with glee they accepted his invitation. They took the controls of his body and drove him forwards, senses heightened, as Gartan led them up to the curved wall of the tower and through an opening one of the previous Packs had cut into it just moments before.
	“Keep close,” said Gartan. It was superfluous instruction, as the space beyond the wall wasn't large enough for them to spread out. Their armoured boots crunched over broken glass, or something like it, and through the mangled remnants of furniture that seemed, against all probability, to be made of wood. The settlers must have decided to use the local resources. Vanir paused for a moment to look at ornate chair caught in the dim glow of firelight cast in a smoky shaft through from the hole, accenting the cold white light from the overhead fixture. He had a hard time picturing it in its prime, back when this room was inhabited and intact. Everything else was in ruin: fabrics had disintegrated, walls had run wet with leaking fluids and were streaked with corrosion. The remains of a bed lay in a heap against one wall, coated with mossy overgrowth and barely recognisable. He could not smell the air from inside his helmet, but he could imagine what it would be like: full of damp and decay.
	But the lights were on. And the door leading further into the tower slid open automatically when Gartan approached it. The corridor beyond was similarly decayed, and at the far end of it Vanir could see one of the other Wolf packs turning to ascend a flight of stairs.
	“We go straight on,” said Gartan. “And we go down.”
	“Down?” said Vanir.
	“I have a hunch.”
	That was an answer that invited no further questions; when Gartan had a hunch, it was best to follow it. Gartan was good at hunches.
	The door at the end of the corridor slid open revealing another stretch of corridor that looked just the same as the first. They gave it a quick check, before turning to the stairs. Navigating the steps with their oversized armour boots was a little tricky. Vanir thought it looked downright comical. He felt the brittle wood crack under his heels and watched as one of the others wobbled off balance as a step completely disintegrated.
	The floor below was just the same as the one they had left: a long corridor heading radially outwards, with a door at their end that led to another corridor that was just the same.
	“Down again?” said Vanir.
	Gartan mused for a moment, evidently waiting for inspiration to strike. “Inwards,” he said. “Towards the centre.”
	They moved through to the next corridor. Vanir noticed now that this one did have differences: hidden by the curves of periodic support pillars at each side were doors, like the previous ones, but these ones didn't open as they passed.
	“Sweep?” said Vanir, jerking his head towards the first door. Gartan shook his head.
	“Centre first.”
	The corridor repeated after the next door, and after the next, and the next. An endless chain of long, door-lined rooms, lit with the cool white panels above and carpeted with rotting fabric and moss below. Vanir almost began to think they were treading the same stretch of corridor in an infinite loop, but assured himself this wasn't the case: the pattern of stains and decay on the walls was different each time, and here and there were unique oddities that set each stretch apart: unrecognisable devices set into niches in the wall, larger boxlike machines standing in alcoves, display screens hanging on the walls: all of them sleek and luxuriously crafted, all of them mysterious in design and purpose, and all of them utterly lifeless. Vanir prodded one with his rifle as he passed, just in case it might come to life, but it just sat there under its sheen of filth and condensation, doing nothing.
	He wanted to ask if Gartan knew what this place was; he seemed pretty certain about where to go, after all. But questions like that weren't his to ask. He was there to follow and fight. The following part was easy. The fighting part? Nothing hostile had shown itself yet, and that in itself was disconcerting. There were no sounds of fighting from elsewhere in the tower. Either that meant there was no fighting, or the building was soundproofed enough to mask it.
	It seemed like the line of corridors would extend forever. When it ended, it seemed to surprise even Gartan. The five Wolves stood clustered at the doorway, staring out into the wide, tall room they had opened out into. Then their instincts kicked in, and they rushed out into the open space and into their formation, rifles ready, covering every angle. Vanir scanned his quarter. The room was a giant circle, dotted with rotting furniture: lounge chairs, tables, cabinets, arranged in clusters that surrounded a central dais like orbiting planets around a star.
	No, not a dais: a large desk in the shape of a ring, with dozens of chairs inside it, and a large canopy of blank display screens hanging over it. Vanir tilted his head back. Above that was a sign, formed of faded paint and corroded silver metal. It hung beneath the vaulted, light-studded ceiling, distant and decayed, but still readable. It was a language Vanir recognised, one of the seven from the Homeworld. He lowered the barrel of his rifle and stared in disbelief.
	“This is a hotel?!”
	The others looked at him, then looked where he was looking.
	“Why are we risking our lives for a hotel?” said Vanir.
	“Don't ask questions. Move to the centre.”
	Vanir followed, staring around him at the furniture. It made sense now: the furniture, the corridors, the doors lining them. If they had broken through one of them they would have found rooms just like the first one they'd entered. This tower, this magnificent monument to architecture, standing alone in the jungle on a ruined world, was a mere hotel?
	But, he thought, why not? Karsaff was a settlement like any other, so it was bound to have hotels, along with any number of mundane buildings. So why, then, had this one alone been spared the vibehead bombardment for the Wolves to be sent in? What was special here for them to secure and contain? The lights were on, sure, but that probably just meant there was a matter core somewhere in the building that someone had forgotten to turn off all those years ago. There must have been another reason. His anger faded into something altogether uglier: he felt uneasy. He glanced at Gartan. Was he uneasy too? Did he know why they were there? If he knew, he wasn't showing it. He ordered Vanir and the others to check the consoles behind the central desk, to see if anything else was still active.
	The console was old enough to have physical keys, but not so old that he couldn't recognise the symbols on each one. He felt a lurch of out-of-place disorientation as he noticed the familiar manufacturer's logo stamped into the plastic of the display. It seemed such an odd thing to find on an abandoned, burned world. But, of course, the planet would be littered with such familiar things. Or, at last, it would have been, before the vibeheads scorched them all away. He tapped the keys and jiggled the power switch, all difficult to do with his armoured gloves.
	“Dead,” he said. The others concurred.
	Gartan stood a small distance away, his rifle slung on his back, his hands on his hips. He turned his head slowly, surveying the room. After a while, he spoke, a rumbling voice that didn't seem intended for the others to hear, but coming over the shared comms channel regardless.
	“I would have expected we would have to kill something,” he said.
	A muffled explosion sounded from above, followed by a sharper crunch. They each snapped their heads up to see a blast of fire and debris jetting out from the curve of the vaulted ceiling. Some of the light panels went dead. Pieces of wall material fell and crashed to the floor, splintering furniture. The Wolves had their rifles pointed upwards in an instant. The smoke cleared, and they waited, staring at the hole.
	A helmeted Wolf appeared in the breach, painted in the colours of Pack Arcturius. The Wolves of Pack Gartan lowered their weapons.
	“Hello!” came a voice over the external comms. It was Arcturius himself, with his high and somewhat affected tone. “Found anything down there?”
	“Not a thing,” said Gartan. “And you?”
	“Not a thing,” repeated Arcturius. “It's the same with all the others too. Some are heading upwards in case there's anything in the upper floors, but I'm not hoping for much. The rest are coming down towards you. Expect us shortly!”
	Arcturius's head ducked back into the hole. Vanir turned to the others.
	“No hostile life,” he said. “No danger, nothing to kill, and nothing important to secure.”
	“You don't know that, Vanir,” said Gartan.
	“It's a hotel! What importance could it possibly have?”
	“An artefact left in one of the rooms? Important data? An Imperial Priest's favourite toy? We don't know, Vanir, and we're not likely to ever know. It's best not to think about it. Do, don't think.”
	Vanir bristled. He looked away, glaring at one of the many doors leading into the room, one which now opened in that instant. They barely twitched their rifles up this time. The doorway filled with the bulk of a Wolf from Pack Jun. The Wolves gestured cordially to each-other. Still more were filing in now, and conversations erupted over the common channels. Vanir turned and kicked a panel out on the desk.
	“Waste of time,” he muttered, careful to ensure he was muted on every channel.
	He would get his chance to kill and be a Wolf in true spirit, he was sure. One day. Sooner or later, it would have to happen. But today, it seemed, was not to be the day, unless by some miracle something was alive and violent in the upper reaches of the building. He hoped there was, and then felt a stab of guilt for that hope. He had wished for danger, of maiming, of death, to visit not just himself, but also to every Wolf around him. And that wasn't right at all.
	“Vanir,” said Gartan, beckoning him over. Vanir clicked the private channel back on and responded, presenting himself at attention.
	“Sir?”
	He must have heard the frustration in Vanir's voice, because he tilted his head fractionally, just enough to convey sympathy through the robust and expressionless mask of the armour. “We've lost comms back to the flyer. I would like you to trace our path back and place a relay outside the structure. If that doesn't work, I want you to contact the flyer directly and report our situation. Walk there if you have to.”
	“A relay? I don't have one.”
	“I know. You'll be going with two Wolves from Pack Leema. One of them has  a Machinist.”
	“Ah.”
	And then they were there, emerging from the crowd of Wolves, their emerald-coloured armour vivid against the various reds and yellows and oranges of the other Packs. They sauntered with a heavy gait, both at ease in their armour and unfamiliar with this planet's gravity levels, mixed together in a disconcerting combination that made clear they were more used to ship life than being on the surface. It was a sure sign of a Machinist. But only one of them had Machinist arms and devices attached to the other. What was the other's story?
	And then he saw it, and it made sense: the Omega patch on the shoulder of the other. He must have done something wrong, something to merit being dumped to the bottom and left to service the whims of a Machinist.
	“Axeln,” grunted the Machinist.
	“Loki,” said the other.
	“Vanir,” said Vanir. “Of Wolf Pack Gartan.”
	Axeln twirled a staff in his Machinist arms. The tip blinked with a series of blue lights. A relay, then, but not one that Vanir had seen before. A new model then?
	“Lead the way,” he said.
	The trip back out seemed that it would be as uneventful as the journey in. The corridors remained stubbornly empty of slathering monsters to slay. Axeln and Loki kept to themselves. They moved their arms and heads as if in conversation, which Vanir suspected they were. Whatever they were saying, he could tell it wasn't for his ears: they were on a private channel.
	“This way,” he said, cutting in to gesture to the stairwell.
	Down they went, into the lower level of corridors that would lead to the hole and the jungle outside. Vanir sighed. A long trudge in silence lay ahead of him. He wished for something to happen.
	“So,” said Vanir, vaguely waving an arm. “Uh, Loki, right? What's the story?”
	“Hmm?”
	Vanir pointed to the Omega patch, then snatched his hand back, embarrassed to be so direct. But it was better than stony silence.
	Loki didn't even look. He pointed his faceplate directly at Vanir and held him in the armour equivalent of a hard stare. But, just as Vanir was about to mutter an apology, Loki started to laugh.
	“Because I can't help myself, that's why.” He pushed on past, still laughing, and Vanir looked to Axeln for an explanation.
	“He gave cubs to a woman without permission,” he said. “Again.”
	“Again?”
	“He's done it four times now.” Axeln tilted his head and his Machinist arms twitched. “Not many people would ask about an Omega badge.”
	“Isn't it better I know instead of thinking up reasons that could be worse?”
	Axeln shrugged, then gestured to suggest they needed to hurry. He moved ahead, and Vanir felt the dynamic shift: if he had been leading the way before, he wasn't now. Axeln strode ahead of Loki, who fell in step alongside Vanir.
	They were almost to the end of the last corridor when Axeln stopped.
	“Do you hear that?” said Axeln on the open channel. They stopped and looked at him.
	“No,” said Loki.
	“Wait, I hear it,” said Vanir. “Turn your gain up. What is that?”
	A faint whine filled the air, vibrating it like a taut string. Vanir felt the fur prickle on the back of his neck.
	“It can't be,” whispered Axeln. He started sprinting for the end of the corridor. Vanir and Loki followed, shaking dust and clumps of moss loose from the decaying carpet with each pounding step.
	“What is it?” gasped Vanir. “What can't it be?”
	Axeln hit the door, which didn't open for them this time. He beat it apart with a single punch and shoved his way into the room. He ran for the hole in the wall and leaned out, peering up into the sky. Vanir and Loki crowded against his back, trying to lean past him to see. The sound was louder now, deepening into a roar. In the black and stormy clouds above, something glowed and traced a delicate line of white fire, growing bigger as it approached.
	“Find cover,” whispered Axeln.
Chapter Nineteen.

Soren hung still, not moving, not speaking, while Axeln completed the final weld of his cooling system.
	“The vibehead fell almost directly onto the building,” said Axeln. “It was as if it had been aimed right at it. An accident, of course. Just one they had primed in the launch tube, ready to take out the building once they had finished doing whatever it was they sent us in for. Some Machinist somewhere had put the wrong number into a console, and the vibehead launched sooner than it should have.”
	In his suit, Soren shuddered. “I didn't know, Axey.”
	“I've seen worse,” said Axeln, managing to shrug even as he worked. “But all the same, it wasn't a day we could ever forget. A vibehead going off up close like that is incredible to witness, for a Machinist at least. To see the energy of the fabric of everything getting ripped apart so precisely, so neatly...I wish I hadn't had to lose so many of my friends in order to see it.”
	“How did you survive.”
	“Luck,” said Loki. “The vibehead came in from the east, the same side that we were on. It hit the upper floors and decapitated the tower with its priming blast. The vibehead and most of the top part of the building fell down the west side. When the vibe reaction started, it was behind the bulk of the building. It shielded us from most of the force of the reaction. They still had to cut what was left of our armour away from our bodies. We lost our fur and most of our skin.”
	“It looked like...” Axeln sighed. “Like the whole building folded in towards a point, burning white as it streaked and compressed. A lot of the jungle went with it, too. I'm not sure how we escaped the pull. Gripped the rocks in the ground and hoped, I think. And then the detonation came. Far easier to understand, that. Just heat and light and fire and pressure. Normal physics taking over. Except, of course, for the cloud afterwards. Residual singularities popping in and out all over it, sucking the air away, starting the inward rushing storm.”
	“Eighty-five Wolves went down,” said Loki. “Three came back. Karsaff was our largest ever loss. We've never quite recovered our numbers after that.”
	“Why did nobody tell me about it?” said Soren. His voice was soft and quiet, and for a moment the pair were unsure it was he who had spoken.
	“I heard that the Emperor himself requested discretion,” said Loki. “Us three were ordered not to speak openly about it. I'm not sure what punishment we would have faced for telling you about it. Doesn't really matter now, does it?”
	Soren grunted in a half laugh. Axeln patted his back and unclipped the tether in the same movement, sending them spinning apart.
	“You're done. Turn the valve a quarter turn. Your turn, Loki,” he said.
	The red heat inside Soren's suit lingered, but fallen now to a level where it didn't feel like his fur was being roasted black. He stretched out, arms and legs splayed, and rotated his shoulder to make the joint crack. Then, over the open channel, he started to laugh the laugh of a Wolf who had been told a dirty joke: loud, raucous and carefree.
	Vanir's voice cut in after only a moment. “I can hear you, Soren.”
	“I know that! Snap snap, listening in.” He laughed louder. Axeln shook his head and turned his attention back to Loki's armour.
	Vanir sighed, crackling his mic. “Why are you laughing, Soren?”
	“Because I know something, I do, I do.”
	“Which is?”
	“That you got smushed under a vibehead!”
	Axeln stopped moving and Loki snapped his head up. “Soren!” he hissed. They turned their heads instinctively to the part of the field of stars where Vanir had jetted towards.
	“Sir,” said Axeln. “We only told him because-”
	“Why,” said Vanir, voice cold, “do you find that funny?!”
	Soren cackled. “Because! Because if if if you survived a massive great vibehead falling on top of your head, then death don't want you, and that means you're not gonna die today. Hanging here all lazy in space? After surviving a vibehead? No no, not gonna happen! Hah! You're our lucky charm!”
	Vanir's silence crackled with faint static. The other two held their breaths.
	“Death don't want you,” repeated Soren, “'cause of your ugly face!”
	Vanir started to laugh, a gale of noise that gave no hope of snatching a breath. It was a laugh that forced tears and pained cheeks. In the distance, a new star winked into life as Vanir activated his helmet light.
	“Soren,” he gasped through the laughter. “I have no words. None at all! I'm coming back over.”
Chapter Twenty.

“We are a fallen species,” said Calistarius. “You know that, right? Of course, you couldn't know it in your head. At least, not before today. How could you? But you felt it in your heart didn't you? You may not think you did, but you did. Just as any canine would, even one such as yourself. You felt that vague sense that our mighty and glorious Empire was not quite as magnificent as you were always led to believe, that suspicion that something greater was hiding just at the edge of your perception. It was always there. You can't deny that.”
	“I don't know what you are talking about,” muttered Aperio through gritted teeth.
	“Do you not? Look around us, Aperio. At this ship. At this 'derelict'. Can you not see how vastly superior it is to our own Imperials? Isn't it obvious that everything you have seen here makes what we create fade by comparison? Can you go back to the Imperial Traveller now and still see it as the pinnacle of canine accomplishment, after you have seen this, knowing, as you do that this ship was built by canine hands, by canine minds, using knowledge and abilities now lost to us?”
	Aperio stayed silent. He set an edge to his jaw and showed his teeth.
	“You're thinking of the Wolves,” said Calistarius. It wasn't a question. “It's strange that you are doing so, but not particularly unexpected. I've been watching it unfold: you are a mistake and so are they. It's natural that you would drift into sync, even with the difficulties in the way. You seem to have a knack for overcoming such difficulties, Aperio, even when it puts you squarely in the path of that which will harm you.”
	Here, Calistarius pulled a needlefire pistol from his hip and laid it gently onto the console in front of him.
	“I will harm you, Aperio, if I have to. Please do not move from where you are standing now.”
	He looked past Aperio, towards the sealed door, and Aperio had to resist the temptation to turn and look. Perhaps the other Angels were cutting through and would come to his rescue.
	“Why are you doing this?” said Aperio, feeling like his voice was a thin, squeaky noise that should be laughed at rather than listened to. But Calistarius didn't laugh: he tore his expression into a scowl that made Aperio shiver.
	“Because of the Wolves,” he snapped. “They don't fit into this world, this species. They are an anomaly. They always were. They're a throwback to our past, long and thankfully forgotten. They are a recessive gene that has decided to re-emerge. They are defective, Aperio, just like you. Except, unlike you, we have accepted them and allowed them to remain among us, not shunned and hidden away in some dark corner to toil like you have done, as a lowly cook, as a servant.”
	“I'm not ashamed of what I am!”
	“But the Wolves...” Calistarius shook his head, staring out over the rows of consoles. “They were useful, so we kept them. We trained them and we armed them, and we sent them to do the hard work. They were muscle and we were brain, and together we rebuilt our Empire. The Eternal Empire is not what you thought it was. At least, not as you know it now. This, this great ship around us now, this is what the Empire once was, and this is what we fell from. The Old Empire fell, Aperio. And it fell hard. The glory we have now is barely a fraction regained from what we lost.
	“But now, the Wolves are no-longer needed. The brain has regained its knowledge. It no-longer needs the muscle, not when intelligence can serve more effectively. The Angels are this intelligence, Aperio. We think, and we act intelligently. We function as machines, as analytical cores, as the extension of computational precision,  not muscle. We are more akin to a Machinist's arms than we are to those brutes now drifting in space. We are the true extension of the Empire's might! The Wolves were nothing but a temporary patch, a supporting scaffold around a monument under repairs. And now the monument is complete. What do you do then? You tear the scaffolding down. You wipe out the defectives.
	“It's not easy, of course. It never is easy. Your friends, the Wolves, are quite popular among the general population, among the Subjects especially. They are the heroes, the great saints of strength and bravery, figures of legend made flesh in a world that no-longer has a place for them. What could we do? You can't retire a Wolf. You can't execute him. You can't expect him to go quietly, and you can't expect the Subjects to be at peace with it. Even Citizens would question the decision, regardless of how much they understood and supported the reasons behind them.”
	Calistarius raised a finger, like a tutor in a classroom. “But,” he said, “what if they die bravely in the fire of glorious battle, sacrificing themselves for the Empire? Their memory lives untarnished in the minds of the Subjects, the Citizens are satisfied, the Empire transitions calmly into the new order of Angels, and the species is rid of the lingering infestation of repugnant defectiveness, of the stinking, primitive, idiotic animals that barely even deserve to be classed as canine!”
	Aperio edged along the wall, back towards the sealed door. A thought had occurred to him: he might not be able to fight Calistarius with the flamer, but perhaps he could use it to cut through the door? It was a vain hope; Calistarius would gun him down before he could even get started, but he had to try something. And at the moment, Calistarius seemed distracted, caught in the ugly thoughts that twisted his muzzle into a scowl. He wasn't looking at Aperio, and he wasn't looking at his gun or at the console. His eyes were seeing off into the distance, as if piercing through the hull of the derelict and lancing all the way out across the emptiness to stare and scowl at the Wolves adrift out there.
	“It was meant to be easy. Just observe and don't interfere. The dangers on the derelict would overwhelm and eradicate the Wolves in due course. There would be no need to sabotage ammunition or misdirect a warhead. Just watch from a distance and, if necessary, interject with a small nudge to ensure they fell. And then take the derelict in the name of the Angels and return it to service as a new Imperial, the first of a new kind, of the old kind. And then you turned up and complicated things.”
	He looked over and saw Aperio standing at the door with his flamer pointed at the panel. Calistarius moved with the snap precision of a Machinist arm, snatching up his pistol and firing a round that struck the barrel of the flamer, knocking it free from Aperio's shaking hands. It cracked against the wall and fell to the floor. Gas hissed from a punctured line. Aperio staggered back away from it, fearing an explosion. The hiss faded and sputtered after a few moments. The tank had emptied.
	Calistarius set the pistol back on the console. “It doesn't matter now, if I'm honest,” he said. “You can try to get out and they can try to get in. It really doesn't change the circumstances now. I am following the alternative procedure now, and I'm afraid that it's rather more unpleasant.”
	“More unpleasant than murder?” squeaked Aperio. He watched as Calistarius slid a hand down over the console, tapping the screen in three places. Nothing happened, not right away anyway.
	“I believed you when you said you ended up here by accident, before you changed your story with Tanner's prompting. You're just a harmless cook who fell into a situation that you weren't equipped to deal with. In an ideal world, you would still be back on the Traveller, sleeping in your dreamless Revered Sleep, ready to wake up and heat broth and scrub panels and encounter no more danger than a sharp carving knife or a hot pan of water. You shouldn't have ended up here, so please believe me when I tell you that I am not happy that this has to happen.”
	He picked up the pistol and started to move around the console, coming towards Aperio.
	“What are you doing?” squeaked Aperio.
	“The others will die as they should, fighting an enemy of the Empire. They will be overwhelmed by the derelict's security system, by the myriad of dangerous species that the ship has observed over countless centuries and countless worlds, each replicated into its onboard bio-gel stores...the “goo” as your Wolf friends so accurately described it. The ship was at twenty-percent lockdown. I've now set it to its full strength. In every section of the derelict there are now shattering containers and swelling, distorting masses of bio-gel, forming into monsters you couldn't possibly imagine, and every one of them is now heading towards that door there, to kill and consume the Angels and that one feline you have befriended.”
	“You've got to stop them! Please! They didn't do anything wrong.”
	Calistarius smiled and shook his head. He was walking slowly, the muzzle of the pistol lifted to face Aperio, but almost without malice.
	“This isn't about right or wrong,” said Calistarius. “It's just what has to happen. The mission has gone awry, and the deniability that needed to exist is now threatened. The Wolves must die, and now the Angels must die, to preserve that deniability and ensure the Empire's goals are met. And, regrettably, so must you.”
	Aperio's armoured back thudded against the door. He felt a gentle vibration through his back and through his feet. Then, with percussive thuds, a deeper vibration, like that of gunfire. “No!”
	“The Angels will die in the way that most befits them: they will die in the face of overwhelming enemy action, bravely upholding the service for which they have committed their lives. They will be remembered as having satisfied their oaths, and the Wolves will be remembered as heroes. Shepdard will find find himself inside a malfunctioning Revered Sleep chamber once I have returned to the Imperial Traveller, an unsatisfactory end made necessary by your accidental presence in his armour. You, however, present me with an upsetting challenge. There is no fitting way for a cook to die. I don't want to do this, believe me, Aperio. So I will have to ask you for your guidance...”
	Calistarius stood in front of Aperio now. The pistol lifted to point at Aperio's forehead, and Aperio choked back a whimper. He scrambled his hands at his sides, moving with unguided panic. His fingers closed around the edge of the panel on his hip that covered the compartment that should have contained a pistol. There was no pistol in there. He knew that, and Calistarius knew that. But what it did contain...his breathing stopped and his eyes widened...the vial of Ambrose Tanner had given to him!
	“I need to know,” continued Calistarius, “what way you would prefer to die.”
	Aperio stared at the pistol. His probing fingers found the vial. He felt a pure moment of calm as his fingers popped the lid and brought the vial sweeping upwards. And before Calistarius had a chance to react, Aperio had tipped the vial to his lips and swallowed the lot.

Chapter Twenty-One.

Aperio drew in a breath that lasted for a century. He stared into Calistarius's eyes and watched as they moved, with glacial slowness, to register surprise. Aperio watched as the eyelids peeled back over glistening eyeballs. He saw the contraction of his pupils, and the detail of the pattern in his irises. He could count the hairs of his eyelashes and the strands of fur on his muzzle. He could see every minuscule twitch of muscle. He could feel Calistarius's heart, sensing the beat in the minute vibrations in the air, seeing the delicate throb of blood moving through the veins under his fur. He made as if to gasp in surprise, and felt his body move like a heavy slug of lead, barely responding.
	He tried to cry out, but that too was beyond his ability. His body was frozen and stiff. Slowly he felt his chest swell up as his thought to gasp finally translated into action within his muscles.
	This was alertness like he had never known. His body swam in treacle but his mind sparked with electric quickness. He felt his eyelids drop in a blink that plunged him into blackness that lasted for what felt like an hour, in which he calmly thought through his situation with a clarity that made him want to cry for all those countless hours he had spent in his life under what now seemed like a heavy fog of numbing mental fatigue. He felt fear, too: fear that his mind might break under this strain, that thinking at such a furious pace would wear him thin and leave him a gibbering wreck when this was all over, falling into the merciful bullets of Calistarius's needlefire pistol.
	His eyes slowly opened, revealing Calistarius's frozen look of surprise. He had barely moved since Aperio closed his eyes, but even so Aperio knew he could spot and list every tiny change in Calistarius's face. He smiled inwardly and felt the instinctive command to smile outwardly make its slow way towards the muscles in his face. He looked at the pistol, hovering close in his vision, and started the languid process of reaching for it, dropping the vial to tumble slowly towards the floor, catching and reflecting the light as it fell. The vial was level with his waist and his fingers were on the barrel of the gun before Calistarius's eyes registered realisation of what was happening. Aperio saw the firming of his eyebrows and the narrowing of his vision, and then the gentle squeeze of his finger on the trigger.
	It all moved so beautifully. Aperio thought life should be like this all the time: every detail was exposed for scrutiny. He could appreciate all of it, take his time to notice everything. He knew he should have felt fear, and would have felt it normally, but under the Ambrose he felt only calm fascination, and he knew what he needed to do. His hand pressed against the barrel, pushing it to the side. He felt the shock of the impact rattle through as vibrations in the armour. He watched as the pistol tilted away from his palm, shaking with visible oscillation down its barrel.
	The trigger stopped. The pistol started to buck backwards. Aperio watched as gas puffed in slow, swirling jets, as the pistol's complicated mechanism slid and ratcheted. The hammer fell. The soft “clack” of the explosion rippled outwards and fed his ears. The gleaming tip of the slender needlefire bullet appeared at the opening of the barrel, like a small, timid animal emerging from its warren to peek at the sun.
	It spun as it emerged. Aperio counted the scratches on its flank and saw how they winked with tiny stars of light as they caught the light at the right angle. He saw his own face reflected in the tip, cast into brassy gold by its sheen. The pistol continued to swing away from his palm. The pressure of air rushing out from the bullet hit his cheek and rippled through his fur. He closed his eyes in another slow blink. He thought about death, and calmly worked through the repercussions he and the Angels and the Wolves could expect if Aperio were to die right now. Calistarius would complete his mission. The Angels would die valiantly fighting a hopeless cause, ripped apart by unknown monsters once their ammunition had depleted and they were defenceless. The Wolves would die in space, drifting alone. Would they run out of air or water or food first? Would they put their guns to their heads and end it their way? Would they open their helmets and let the air out of their lungs?
	Light slithered in through his eyelashes as his eyes opened back up. He knew none of these things would happen, because the angle of the pistol was wrong: he had knocked it just far enough for the bullet to skim past his cheek and burrow into the metal door behind him. The long, drawn out impact sounded like grinding teeth in his ear: metal crunching against metal, until all the momentum was spent.
	And now his swinging hand caught up to the moving pistol, catching it as Calistarius's muscle response attempted to swing it back. He closed his fingers around the barrel and began to twist. Calistarius fought back, but he was on the losing side of the battle. He had said so himself; it wasn't muscle that mattered, it was intelligence, and Aperio was thinking at a speed so many times greater than Calistarius that he could plan out every action in meticulous detail before Calistarius's hindbrain had even caught up to the event happening in the first place. Aperio would win. He was in control. He had power. He felt it swell inside him. The first twitch of a smile worked its way down to his lips. He felt Calistarius's grip fail and felt the pistol swing into his hand. He felt its weight as he swung it around and slotted the grip neatly into his palm. He watched as realisation slowly dawned in Calistarius's face. The Angel brought his other hand up, palm flat, moving to knock Aperio's arm or shove at his chest.
	And now Aperio had a choice, and a long time in which to make it. He could shoot. He could kill. Or he could control. If he fired now, he would watch in gory slow motion as the bullet slid into Calistarius's fur and flesh and skull, and he would see every tiny detail of his death. He could not hide behind euphemism or wishful thinking. He could never later convince himself that he had no choice, that he had to do it, or that it was an accident. He would forever be aware that he calmly, carefully, calculated to kill, and then carried it out with cold precision, choosing the exact spot on Calistarius's frozen face to pierce with the bullet.
	Could he do it, and live with it afterwards, after the Ambrose had worn off and left him swimming in the foggy thoughts of normalcy, left with the guilt and the shame? This wasn't like a panicked kill of a monster that was trying to kill him. This was a cold execution of a living, thinking being. One that was trying to kill him, but one that he did not have to kill to stop.
	He moved his arm in a slow sweep, bringing the barrel of the pistol to bear. Calistarius started to twist away, one foot raising from the floor, his body hunching downwards, slowly moving to spring away into a dive towards the nearest console. Aperio picked his spot and pulled the trigger.
	The hammer fell. The pistol bucked in his grip. He felt and heard the servos groan in the armour to compensate, their whines turned into a low growl by the slowness he swam in. The bullet slid free from the pistol and began its slow cruise towards Calistarius. Aperio lowered the gun and stared after it. His hand had barely moved by the time the bullet impacted. It cut a neat hole through the thin flesh of Calistarius's left ear, barely slowing, continuing on its way to impact the side of the nearest console, ricocheting away in tumbling, broken fragments.
	Then, after what seemed like an hour, the blood started to bead and glisten on the edges of the wound in Calistarius's ear. The canine continued in his leap, diving towards the safety of the consoles and the shelter they offered. As he leaped, one hand rose up towards his wounded ear, and Aperio heard the low moan of his pained shriek.
	“You...” said Calistarius, a long, low sound that dragged out for an age. Aperio slowly lowered the pistol. The sequence of events were speeding up. His thoughts were washing away to faded dullness. Calistarius dropped behind the console at a speed that now looked more natural.
	“Uh...” gasped Aperio, then hissed as a sudden pain stabbed deep into his head. The pistol tumbled from his hand as he clutched his head.
	“...shot my ear!” cried Calistarius.
	Aperio dropped to his knees, his armour thudding hard against the deck plates. Calistarius glanced over the top of the console, then scrambled away down the ranks of consoles to the far end of the room. He came to a stumbling halt in front of one console and laid a hand on the screen. Blood dripped from his cheek, trickling in rivulets through the fingers of his other hand clutched to his ear.
	“I'll choose for you, then,” he grunted. He tapped at the screen, his eyes locked onto Aperio. “If the come-down from the Ambrose doesn't do the job for me.”
	Aperio fell forward, resting his forehead on the deck plates. “Stop!” he cried.
	“I'm sorry, Aperio.” He hissed and lifted his hand away from his ear, inspecting the blood coating the white armour. “It will be quick.”
	The pain in Aperio's head sharpened. A resonating ringing tone warbled in his ears. He opened his eyes to find his vision swimming, as if he was looking through rippling water. Calistarius watched him impassively from the other end of the room. He opened his mouth to cry out, but only exhaled a soft gasp.
	You're dying, said the voice. Do something.
	“Help me,” gasped Aperio.
	I can't.
	“Stay still, Aperio,” said Calistarius. “It will be quicker if you stay still.”
	Aperio felt his fingers along the deck plate. The pistol was here somewhere. His eyes felt like they were going to shake free from their sockets. Knives twisted in his ears. Acid burned inside his skull. He felt liquid trickle down his cheeks. His fingers bumped against something hard and curved: the grip of the pistol. His body moved as slowly as it had when under the Ambrose. The pistol weighed heavily in his hand. He lifted it and aimed the wavering barrel towards Calistarius, who didn't even duck for cover.
	“Lie down, Aperio,” he said.
	Aperio closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.
Chapter Twenty-Two.

Brother Zael and Brother Daniel turned first, facing a door that now stood closed behind them. They chirped an electronic alert in Sergeant Lorenzo's ear. The four Angels stared wordlessly at the metal, each forming their own assessments. But it was Lorenzo who would decide what to do.
	“Lorenzo to Calistarius,” he said. He waited for two seconds. “Comms are interrupted. Zael, Daniel, plasma torches.”
	“Aperio's in there,” said Tanner.
	“He has Calistarius with him. He will be fine, as long as he doesn't touch anything.”
	Blue light sparked from the two torches. “Do you think he is responsible for closing this door?”
	“I wouldn't rule out the possibility. Tanner, please keep trying comms.”
	Sergeant Lorenzo moved a short way down the corridor, peering into the distance. Surprise padded to his side and sat on his haunches. Then, with a lazy yawn, the lion lay down and rested his muzzle between his forelegs. Something rattled in the distance, metal against metal. A low groan whispered in the air. Faint noises of scuttling movement came from even further away. Tanner had already closed his eyes to view his internal map before Lorenzo gave the order.
	“Multiple contacts. Nothing close by,” he said.
	“Be more accurate,” said Lorenzo. “You're collecting bad habits from the Wolves.”
	Tanner checked again. “The nearest contact is six point two hects away on vector nine-six, five-one, two-two, blue north. Contact type plasma six two alpha, organic, presumed hostile, unengaged. Further contacts arrayed beyond.”
	“Close enough,” said Lorenzo. He started to go through the movements of checking his needlefire lance.
	“Switching torch to setting six,” said Brother Daniel.
	“Mirroring,” said Zael.
	Tanner turned to watch. His visor obligingly darkened. He saw the blue flames and the faint shapes of the two Angels. Twin paths glowed red where the torches had touched the door. Neither seemed to have cut any deeper than superficial surface scarring.
	“Anything on comms?” said Lorenzo.
	Tanner checked again, squawking out on all channels. “Nothing. I can attempt a brute?”
	Daniel and Zael glanced at him.
	“Alright,” said Lorenzo. “Attempt it.”
	Then a series of soft clicks told Tanner that the other three had muted their connections. A moment later he saw all three reach to the sides of their heads and physically disconnect their stub antennas.
	“Here we go,” breathed Tanner, knowing that he was the only one listening. He tapped the mental switch.
	The pulse went out invisibly. Had the other Angels left their antennas attached and their comms open, they would now be suffering an ear-splitting squeal inside their helmets. It was a brute force data signal, transmitted on the reserved emergency signal frequency. With the right codes it could connect into the armoured suits of any nearby Angel or Wolf and transfer command requests.
	A response came back right away. Tanner frowned. He flashed a signal with his hand and waited for the others to reactivate their comms.
	“I've got Aperio's suit,” he said. “But Calistarius's isn't responding at all.”
	“Use what you've got, Brother Tanner,” said Lorenzo.
	Tanner concentrated, eyes closed. He spun the graphic and jabbed at it with spears of data.
	“Damn it Aperio,” he breathed. He opened his eyes to see that Lorenzo had opened his helmet and was staring at him, expression firmly quizzical. “I can't get anything aside from vitals. Either his suit doesn't have the capabilities for remote command...”
	“Which we know it does.”
	“Or he's disabled it. But Aperio wouldn't do that.” Tanner had to stop himself from saying the truth: Aperio couldn't have known how to do it even if he wanted to.
	Lorenzo was still staring hard at him. Normally, this wouldn't concern Tanner: this was normal for Lorenzo when he was concentrating on a problem. But with the deception about Aperio concealed inside himself, Tanner felt exposed, as if the proximity of that stare might allow it to burrow through into his head and prise out the lie. Tanner concentrated on keeping his discomfort from showing.
	Sergeant Lorenzo evidentially came to a conclusion. “Keep trying to-”
	“Sir!” cried Brother Daniel. He and Brother Zael had dropped their plasma torches. Both had turned to bring their lances to bear, pointing down the long corridor.
	“Contacts?” said Lorenzo.
	Tanner closed his eyes to see a map swarming with colour. He raised his own lance even before he had his eyes open. “Contacts,” he said. “Lots of them.”
	Lorenzo didn't berate him. All eyes were on the end of the corridor. The ever-present sounds of movement weren't so distant now. Surprise lifted his head and twitched his nose, then yawned and stood up. He turned and padded back towards the Angels, turning to stand alongside them as if fitting neatly into their ranks. Tanner could not resist the urge to reach down and stroke his fingertips through the lion's mane. He felt the rumble of the feline's breathing. He closed his eyes again.
	“Nearest contacts now half a hect away.”
	“Angels,” began Lorenzo. “Be sure to-”
	“Correction!” cried Tanner. “Not multiple contacts! Single contact. Three three six!”
	The Brothers stiffened their stances. Nothing showed in the corridor, but the sound of movement was a roar now, growing ever louder. Tanner felt the deck plates shudder beneath his feet. Something big was moving closer, surrounded by a swarm of lesser contacts. On his map it looked like a giant worm, undulating through the ship, ignoring the paths of corridors and the network of rooms.
	“Is it a Vexator?” said Lorenzo.
	Tanner shook his head, but kept his eyes fixed on the end of the corridor. “Something new. I can't classify the contact. I think it might-”
	The roar became a screech, and the corridor shook around them. The wall at the far end twisted and buckled. The metal came apart in ragged shreds, churning in a vortex. A whirling mass of bladed teeth tore through, filling the width of the corridor, shredding the edges of the walls as it advanced. The fragments spun in towards a gaping maw at the centre, large enough to swallow a person.
	“I recognise it,” said Brother Daniel, flat and expressionless. “It's a native species on Rivian's Orb.”
	He was expressing knowledge that Tanner knew they all shared. Rivian's Orb was home to countless species of Nemian worm, but only one was so large, so aggressive, and so devastatingly destructive.
	“How did it get here?” said Tanner.
	“The same way this one got here,” said Lorenzo, nodding towards Surprise. “I assume. Brother Daniel, Brother Zael, resume work on the door.” He had to shout to be heard over the roar and screech of tearing metal.
	The plasma torches cast a blue pall on their armour. Lorenzo and Tanner aimed their lances towards the centre of the worm's maw. They both knew their needlefire rounds would have little effect if this truly was a Nemian worm from Rivian's Orb. But, there was always a chance. They squeezed their triggers.
Chapter Twenty-Three.

Axeln's voice rasped, laboured by heavy breathing. He had been speaking for half an hour, the same sequence of explanations repeated over and over. The delirium would come, he explained. Then the shutdown of each vital organ in turn. He gave graphic and detailed descriptions of each failure, describing step by step the process of dying from overheating.
	And each time he completed his explanation, the other Wolves would softly grunt. “No,” they breathed. And Axeln would return again to the beginning of his explanation.
	“We heard you the first fifty times,” panted Soren, halfway through a vivid description of possible types of heart failure.
	“Fifty-first time's the charm,” panted Axeln.
	“Let him talk,” said Loki, his voice a little stronger than the others'. “It's kinda soothing.”
	Vanir chuckled. He was floating loose, as they all were, spinning slowly as if to take in the view of the stars from all directions.
	“What's funny?” said Soren.
	“You and Loki,” said Vanir. “I always thought Soren was the crazy one. Guess it was Loki all along.”
	“I hide it well,” said Loki.
	Axeln continued his whispering explanation of their impending death.
	“Could be worse,” panted Soren. “Much much worse. Icky sticky ways to go. Lots of different ways.”
	“Don't go through them please,” groaned Loki.
	“Could get stuck between door plates and crushed.”
	Loki groaned. “I'm hot, I'm sweating, I feel like stewed meat inside my armour, and now I have to listen to you and Axeln go on about how to die.”
	“Could fall into a vat of really weak acid and spend a long long time melting away.”
	“I feel like that now.”
	Vanir puffed a tiny jet of propellant to alter his spin, letting him observe fresh stars. “Cold showers,” he said. “Fresh water lagoons. Roaring waterfalls. Freezing glaciers. Arctic moons and lakes of liquid methane. Ice crystals in your fur, feeling it crackle around your eyelids when you blink. The cold burn of frozen, dying skin.”
	“Mmmm,” said Soren. “That's a better way to die.”
	“You wouldn't think that if it was happening to you,” grunted Loki. “You'd be wishing for the heat we have now if you were freezing to death.”
	“We're just never satisfied.”
	Vanir laughed, then started coughing.
	“Is your heart racing?” said Axeln, breaking from his mantra. Vanir nodded. “Throat feels dry?”
	“Stop diagnosing him, Axey.” Soren puffed a jet of propellant and clashed his armour against Axeln, sending them both spinning apart until each one arrested themselves with more propellant jets.
	“Stop making us waste propellant,” said Axeln, without much real enthusiasm.
	“Doesn't matter,” said Soren. “Don't matter nope nope.”
	“Yes, it does. The more we save, the longer we'll live.”
	“Before you bore us to death with your chatter natter you mean.”
	Loki chuckled, wheezing. “Or you convince us to put our guns to our heads.”
	A murmur went through them.
	“It is the quickest way,” said Axeln defensively.
	Soren lifted his hands to his helmet. “Not for me. Gonna ride it out, or just...pssh!” He mimed twisting open the neck seal of his helmet, then spasming and clutching at his throat, then hanging limp.
	Vanir clapped twice. “Bravo.”
	“Should have been an actor,” said Soren. “Shoulda but didn't.”
	“You're a wolf,” said Loki. “Nobody wants a wolf acting. Too ugly.”
	“Not me. I'm a pretty one.”
	“You're the ugliest of the lot!”
	“Not as ugly as you.”
	Loki swung a lazy fist, falling well short of Soren. He laughed. “I wish I were as ugly as you think I am. Wouldn't have ended up with so many cubs. If I'm so ugly, how'd that happen, huh?”
	“Lots of women with impaired vision.”
	“Hah!”
	Vanir groaned. “Axeln, listening to these two is making me reconsider your suggestion to put a bullet through my head.”
	“It'd be quick,” said Axeln. “And painless.”
	“It was a joke, Axeln.”
	“It won't be very soon.”
	Soren swore under his breath. “Would feel so good to take this armour off. I feel like a roasting steak.”
	“You don't roast steak,” said Loki.
	“You know what I mean.” Soren waved a hand.
	“I feel more like stew,” said Vanir.
	“Mmm, sagboar stew,” said Loki. “Wouldn't mind eating a last meal.”
	“You've got your protein pouches,” said Axeln.
	“Not really the same, is it?”
	“I suppose not.”
	Vanir drummed his fingers on his chestplate. He let the stars wheel slowly past him. His direction of spin kept the other Wolves out of his line of sight for most of his rotation. “Hot sagboar stew,” he murmured. “Cooked by the Imperial Traveller's finest. Served up as a victory meal after a successful conquest of the derelict. Served with ice-cold water-”
	“Or beer,” said Loki.
	“Or beer.”
	“Or both,” said Soren. “I could gobble down the whole ship's supply right now. Or go swimming in it.”
	“So could I,” said Loki. Vanir and Axeln murmured agreement.
	“When we get back,” said Vanir, “we'll all go for a swim together. Stark-butt naked in the ship's tank of beer.”
	“I don't think it has a tank,” said Axeln.
	“Well we'll get them to fill one. And we'll go swimming in it until we're exhausted or drunk or both, and we'll pass out in a big stinking pile.”
	“And I'll find something pretty to fuck,” said Loki.
	“I'll eat something,” said Soren. “Something big. And steaming. And really really bad for me.”
	“You already had sagboar stew,” said Loki.
	“It's my fantasy. Shut up. What about you, Axey?”
	“Me? I'll go to sleep on top of a big block of ice.”
	“Sounds boring.”
	“Not to me. I'll feel it melting against my fur, so nice and cold. And I'll go to sleep shivering. It will be bliss.”
	“I think I want his fantasy,” said Loki. “After the stew and the swimming and the fucking.”
	They went quiet for a moment, each wolf drifting into the varied fantasies. Their bodies swam in the boiling heat of their sweat-filled armour.
	“It's not going to happen, is it?” said Soren, so quiet that his mic almost didn't pick it up.
	“No,” said Vanir. “Probably not.”
	“How long do we have, Axey?”
	“Not long. A few hours? Maybe more, maybe less. The thing is...we're all going to go at different rates.”
	“I don't like the sound of that, nope nope.”
	“Me neither.”
	Loki shook his head. Vanir stopped his spin with a jet of propellant, but looked away to the distant stars.
	“Trust me, I've thought about it,” said Axeln. “That's why I've been suggesting the needlefire way out.”
	“More than suggesting,” said Loki. “Insisting, you mean.”
	“It's the only way. Quick and painless. And all together.”
	“I would want us all to die together,” said Vanir.
	“Don't get soppy on us, boss,” said Soren.
	“I didn't expect it to be like this, though. I thought we'd die fighting something.”
	“Or getting squished in a door.”
	“What was the other one?” said Loki. “Falling in acid?”
	“I forget.”
	“Well,” said Vanir. “I didn't expect us to die sweating and gasping in our own armour, adrift in space. I don't know about you lot, but I'd rather not be here to watch you die one by one, or have you watch it happen to me. All together, or not at all.”
	“We'd need to press the pistols right against our helmets,” said Axeln. “Our armour will stop the bullet otherwise. I've done the calculations.”
	“Have you really?” said Loki.
	“No, not really. But I'm pretty sure.”
	Soren started to crack up with laughter.
	“Come on, now, this is serious.”
	“It's too late,” said Soren between giggles. “I'm just thinking of your dumb face when we finally do it, all solemn and serious, and then the bullets just ping right off our armour and we feel like a bunch of idiots!”
	“That would be pretty dumb,” said Vanir. “Axeln, are you sure it will work?”
	“Well, if it doesn't, we can just open our helmets and try again, direct to skin.”
	Soren laughed even harder. “Axey I love you. So good with words!”
	“Now who's being soppy,” said Loki.
	Vanir exhaled softly. “I don't think this one should be an order. We will all need to make our own decision.”
	“I think we've decided,” said Loki.
	“Don't talk for me,” said Soren. “I'm gonna stay and watch you all bang your brains out. Heh.”
	“Eww, Soren,” said Loki. “Even for you...”
	Soren mimed putting a gun to his head, pointing with two fingers, cocking with his thumb. “Click, bah-boom! Splatter-splash. Or is it more like a pssh-thud noise? I'll have to wait and see.”
	“You're doing it with us, Soren.”
	“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He fished his pistol out of its compartment and held it out in front of himself. He let go and left it tumbling gently in space. He gave it a flick with his finger to speed its spin. “Guess I'll never know what it sounds like to watch you guys shoot yourselves in the head.”
	“I'm sure you'll live.”
	Soren laughed. “Or not!”
	“So are we really doing this?” said Loki. “Or just, you know, talking about it?”
	“Like I said, I can't order you...” said Vanir.
	“Yeah you can,” said Soren. He scooped up his pistol and touched the barrel to his helmet. “Easier that way.”
	“Even so...”
	“We've always been ready to die, whenever you've needed us to.”
	“Preferably for good reason,” added Loki. “But he's right.”
	“Any time,” said Axeln.
	Loki and Axeln unsheathed their pistols and held them ready.
	“My heartrate is really up,” said Axeln. “I don't think I'm going to last much longer. The convulsions will start soon.”
	“And that will be really embarrassing,” said Soren.
	“Not a good way to go.”
	Vanir eased his own pistol out of its compartment. “So if we're all agreed...”
	“What do we do, on the count of three?” said Loki.
	“Pfft, no,” said Soren. “That's silly.”
	“Wolves,” said Vanir with a snap in his voice, appropriate for the parade ground. “I didn't expect to have a moment with you like this. We would die one day, of course. But like this? No, I didn't expect this. So what do I say now, with this time that I didn't think I'd ever get?” He sighed, shaking his head. “We should have died screaming in rage and firing our guns, and not like this. We shouldn't...shouldn't have been able to see it coming like this.”
	He looked down at his own pistol.
	“We need to do it soon,” said Axeln quietly.
	“I know. Does anyone else have anything they want to say?”
	“I've hated you all forever,” muttered Soren.
	“We love you too,” said Vanir.
	“Shepdard will miss us,” said Loki.
	“Do you think he'll ever know what happened?” said Axeln.
	“Maybe,” said Vanir. “If the Traveller is coming by this way again when it loops around to collect us, they might pick us up.”
	“Our corpses, you mean,” said Axeln.
	“In that case, Wolves, to attention.”
	They straightened their bodies and then locked their servos. No matter what their bodies did now, the armour would keep them in proud salute, backs straight, heads held high. Only their arms were free, to hold the pistols, to activate the triggers.
	Soren giggled. “This is silly.”
	“Yes, yes it is,” said Vanir. He raised his pistol to his head. Soren, Axeln and Loki raised theirs in unison.
	“On three, then,” said Vanir.
	A few moments later, four fingers squeezed four triggers.
Chapter Twenty-Four.

The pistol bucked in Aperio's hand, kicking harder than he ever felt would be possible. This was unlike the flamer. Whereas the flamer thrust backwards with a steady, reassuring pressure, the pistol jolted hard and fast, all its energy expelling in one titanic bang. The armour's servos contained and held it easily, but Aperio could do nothing to stop the bone-jarring jolt from shuddering down his arm, locking his joints and ripping pain into his shoulder.
	He waved the pistol, weaving the aim of the barrel. He kept his eyes squeezed shut and pulled the trigger again, and again and again. He pulled the little metal lever as fast as he could, ignoring the pain, ignoring the panic. He imagined the needlefire bullets carving their screaming path through the air and cutting right through Calistarius's armour. He imagined the canine's screams. The blood lust caught him in the midst of his panic and he felt the guilty surge of animal joy rise up in him. And then the screams weren't imagined: he could hear the wailing cry, loud and urgent in his ears. It took him a while to come to the realisation that it was his own voice, that he was screaming in a howl that left him giddy and breathless.
	And then, finally, the pistol stopped bucking, and the repeated tugging of his finger only produced dead and empty clicks. He opened his eyes and peered through his visor.
	Calistarius stared back. He looked stunned for a moment, then looked down at his unmarked and undamaged armour. Only the blood from his wounded ear marred the white metal. The console next to him was smoking and crackling, pierced by ragged holes that speared the full way through the machine. The pain in Aperio's head was gone. The ringing noise had stopped.
	“Well,” said Calistarius. He started to chuckle. He turned to look behind him, up at the large display screen on the wall. Its smooth black surface was peppered with holes. Some fizzed and smoked. From where Aperio knelt he could see the path his pistol had cut through the air, magnified many times in scale and painted in failure on the room: he had sprayed the bullets in a meandering arc, from the console next to Calistarius, the closest hits to his target, up the far wall and across the display screen, finally ending in a handful of hits on the ceiling. He had missed. He had missed so utterly completely. A gloriously embarrassing failure. Aperio groaned and dropped the pistol.
	“At least,” he gasped, “I turned off that...thing.”
	“The sonics, yes.” Calistarius strolled between the consoles, moving away from the growing pall of smoke. “But I can just turn it back on again here. Or something else, not so quick and painless.”
	“It wasn't painless,” gasped Aperio. He tried to stand up, but his legs wobbled and gave out, and the armour's servos obligingly obeyed the instructions given by his failing legs, rather than picking up his intention. He moaned and clawed at the floor, trying to roll himself back onto his feet.
	“Compared to some of the other options available here, it was.” Calistarius paused, glancing towards the sealed door. “They're trying to talk to us. I wonder what they're trying to say. Aperio, they're going to die, and you are going to die. There is no escaping that. I wonder, though, if you would like to die with them? You're not an Angel, and you're not an Agent, but even so, Brother Tanner seems to have taken you under his wing. And Sergeant Lorenzo enjoys your company. He doesn't show it, of course, but I can tell.”
	Calistarius sighed, smiling. “I am going to miss them.”
	“Open the door,” said Aperio. He rocked backwards, nearly falling, and slowly hauled himself upright. “I'd rather be with them than in here.”
	“Of course, you might take that opportunity to bring them in here instead. Not that it would matter, but it might end up getting messy.” He stroked a fingertip down the edge of one of the consoles. Behind him, the smoke billowed, sucked into hidden vents. The screen on the wall bulged and distorted as flames flickered within its internal mechanisms. “Do you hear that?”
	Aperio did hear it: on the edge of his hearing, muted by the thickness of the door, more a humming vibration than a sound, buzzing up through his feet: the concussive rattle of sustained needlefire blasts. And something more, deeper and more distant, but growing ever louder.
	“Engines?” said Aperio. “You've turned the engines on?”
	“No, Aperio. Or rather, that sound isn't the engines. I turned those on a long time ago. We're still moving, wonderfully silent and smooth. No, that sound is something different.”
	Aperio noticed that Calistarius was moving away, strolling casually between the consoles. But he kept glancing over at the door. Aperio moved a few steps away from it, feeling the fur on his neck prickle.
	“I think,” said Calistarius, “that I no-longer need to intervene.”
	“What is it?” said Aperio, for the moment dropping the memory of Calistarius trying to kill him. He had also been trying to kill Calistarius, now that he thought about it. It wasn't a stalemate. It was a pause. A breather between plays. He felt his stomach try to turn itself inside out. Oh how he wished he could just be back on the Imperial Traveller, where he could crawl into his sleeping niche and curl up with his blanket over his head. He closed his eyes and shivered. Could he go back to that, now? Aperio the killer, returning to a quiet life as a timid little cook.
	But he hadn't killed yet, had he? Blobs of goo and creepy spider things, yes. But the ship said those were just machine things, no different from the doors and walls.
	He had tried to kill Calistarius, though. His stomach knotted tighter. He felt like vomiting.
	“You can turn off the security thing,” he said. “You can let us go. We'll...find a little shuttle thing or something. You can pretend we died and you can have the ship! We won't come back, I promise!”
	“You can't make that promise for them, Aperio. I'm sorry.”
	“Stop being sorry and make it better!”
	Calistarius was beneath the big screen now, resting a palm on a console. A panel in the wall behind him slid open, revealing another corridor. The heavy vibration sounded now like it was coming from just the other side of the sealed door. Aperio could hear screeching, like the tearing of metal, or the wails of dying Angels. He balled his hands into fists and felt tears prickling in his eyes. He let out his own cry, trying to recreate the inarticulate scream of rage and animal bloodlust that he had made when firing the pistol, but now it was just a thin squeal punctured by a hiccup. He ran towards Calistarius, feeling gangly and uncoordinated, the armoured suit jolting and flailing around him. He waved his fists blindly, his vision fogged and blurred by tears. He saw Calistarius standing motionless, no doubt smirking at this foolish cook trying to attack him. Maybe, thought Aperio, he could manage to at least hit him once before Calistarius tore him apart.
	“Aperio,” said Calistarius, his voice calm. He paused, on the edge of saying something else. Aperio was almost on him, and he screamed louder. Something cracked loud like a gunshot.
	Stop! screamed the voice.
	Aperio tried to do two things at once: run and stop. He accomplished neither as his legs fumbled beneath him. Servos screamed as the shin of his right leg slammed into the ankle of his left foot. His angry scream turned into a squeaky yelp as he toppled forwards, arms outstretched. He slammed hard into a console and tumbled away, crashing into another and rolling in a tangle of legs and arms, the edges and corners of armour plating carving gouges into deck plates. A console's screen shattered under his shoulder and ejected glittering fragments to rain down around him. He rolled to a stop, laid on his back, his left arm twisted under his back and his right arm hooked behind his knee, caught there by armour plates jammed against each-other.
	Another gunshot sound. He looked up, head craned at an odd angle to look across the deck plates to where Calistarius stood. He was staring up above him, at the giant display screen. It was leaning away from the wall, belching smoke and sparks. Another crack, and this time Aperio could see the cause: metal bolts snapping and failing as the screen fell slowly away from its bullet-damaged mountings.
	Calistarius stared for another second, then jolted as if struck with electricity. He bolted for the hatchway. It was only a few paces away. But the remaining mountings for the screen gave way in one final catastrophic failure, and the whole burning assemblage came plummeting down. The moment seemed slowed as if by Ambrose as Aperio watched the screen fall like the blade of a guillotine, and as Calistarius tried to stop himself, heels scraping against the deck plates, acting too late. Their vectors intersected neatly, inescapably, a victim of momentum and a hostage to gravity. Calistarius let out a garbled cry and Aperio squeezed his eyes shut just in time.
	The screen hit the deck plates with a heavy crunch. Then silence.
	Aperio disentangled himself and rolled over onto his front.
	“What...” he said.
	One arm and one leg lay visible between the crumpled casing of the screen and the buckled deck plates. Aperio crept closer. The room was very quiet, broken only by the hissing of burning electronics. A trickle of bright red blood spread along a crease in the deck plates. Aperio recoiled and turned away.
	“Oh,” he said. “Uh...alright then.”
	He edged away, without looking. He stared at the wall for a while, ignoring the smoke drifting past, ignoring the sounds of burning and of gunfire. He blinked slowly. His eyelids felt heavy.
	“There was something...umm.”
	He frowned. Behind him, he knew, Calistarius's blood was trickling. His body was crushed in a broken, mangled heap, blood and meat and bone and metal all pushed in together. He closed his eyes and swayed, reaching out to steady himself against a console.
	“Ugh,” he said, feeling bile rising.
	Slowly, percolating through his revulsion and the lingering fixation on imagining the tangle of death behind him, the memory of the constant rumble and staccato thudding from beyond the sealed door came back to him, nudging itself into the forefront of his mind. He gave a physical jerk of panic and ran along the lines of consoles, swearing to himself.
	“Which one, which one? Oh Emperor!”
	He came to a stop. This was ridiculous. Each console looked just like every other console. He had to remember which one Calistarius had used to close the door off. He backtracked and weaved between the rows, searching for any hint of a clue. The rumble grew louder.
	“I could really use your help now,” he said. “Hello? Voice...thing? Are you there? Please?”
	He stared hopefully at the ceiling. There was no reason to believe that the voice was up there any more than he had reason to believe it was under his feet or in the walls, but it seemed right to look up. No answer came, and he thumped a console in frustration, then stared at his fist and the dent it had left.
	“Sorry,” he mumbled. He cast his eyes around and whined. “How come you only talk to me sometimes, and not when I really need it? Please! My friends are gonna die.”
	He chewed his lip.
	“Well, Tanner is gonna die! And he's my friend! And the others are nice too.”
	He glanced back at Calistarius before he could stop himself. He shuddered and clamped his eyes shut, blocking out the image of the bloodied metal.
	“Please...”
	The blood, Aperio.
	“You can talk to me!” He nearly jumped on the spot, feeling wriggly and uncomfortable with frustrated energy. “Just tell me which one! Please!”
	Blood.
	He put his hands to the sides of his helmet and shook it.
	“Argh! I don't know what you're saying! Yes, there's blood! That's what happens when people die! You don't have to remind me that I...that I did that.” He waved an arm towards Calistarius, then let it sag and drop to his side. “That...I shot him, and then made the screen...”
	He blinked.
	“I shot him when he was next to the console he had used. The blood!”
	He started running, looking around for...there it was! The splash of blood from Calistarius's ear! It was pooled on the floor and splattered in droplets over a console. He stopped in front of it and poked at the screen. Colours and shapes swirled.
	“Gibberish!”
	He touched a few likely icons and looked hopefully at the door, but it remained closed. He could feel sweat on his forehead and the small of his back. It reminded him of what he really was: just a small and helpless little canine sealed inside the brutish armour of a proper warrior. He whined and gripped the sides of the console, giving it a shake that only made the casing creak.
	“I can't remember what he did!”
	He tilted his head and tried to view the console from where he had been standing. He tried to remember what Calistarius had looked like, and where his finger had rested, but it seemed so long ago, back before...he gritted his teeth and pushed his mind away from that thought.
	“Concentrate! Come on, it was just one button, wasn't it? One touch on the screen!”
	He looked down at the swirling icons.
	“I think. Oh Emperor, why can't there be a translate button or something? He said this ship was made by us canines, so why is it all in this...weird stuff? Voice! Please help!”
	The voice didn't answer. The deck plates were vibrating almost visibly now. Aperio imagined the poor Angels clawing at the door, screaming in panic as some horrible monster chewed on them. Tears beaded in the corners of his eyes and he wanted to scream. It wasn't fair! Tanner had been so nice to him, and now he and the rest of the Angels were going to die because he was being too stupid to remember a single button he had seen only a few minutes ago!
	He moaned and sank to his knees as a realisation set in: he was going to be the cause for all of their deaths. He had killed Calistarius. He was going to kill the other Angels because he couldn't get the door open. And he was going to kill the Wolves because he wouldn't even have the first idea how to make the ship turn around to go and rescue them. The tears in the corners of his eyes now spilled free and ran down his cheeks. He clunked his helmet against the edge of the console and let the sobs come.
	“It's not fair,” he cried. “I shouldn't even be here!”
	Sadness swung into anger with a speed that frightened him for a moment. He gritted his teeth and lifted his head back up, staring at the ceiling.
	“What's wrong with you, voice? Huh? You made me come here! You told me to get in the suit. You did it on purpose! You've been messing with me and Tanner, making us go places and do stuff! And for what, huh? So you could kill us all? So...so you could make me kill them all? And then you'll kill me? Or make me kill myself?” He felt a sob wriggle its way through his anger, but he bit his lip to make it die away. He bit hard, bringing the iron burn of blood to his tongue. He felt a growl rise up, unlike the feeble noises he had made in the past. Cold and hard, something foul and horrible hiding in the deeply buried mysteries of his hind brain, now finally brought forth to rage impotently against...what? The voice? Himself?
	“Why did you bring me?” he shouted. “Couldn't you kill them yourself if that's what you wanted to do? Tell me! Answer me!”
	The tidal force of anger spent itself, and he felt a sapping weariness drain into its place. He slumped against the console. He wanted to cry again, but he felt too tired to even manage the tears. His head ached. His throat felt raw.
	“Please just tell me why...”
	You were needed.
	He couldn't even manage to feel surprised that the voice was talking again. “Needed for what?” he whispered.
	You and Tanner. Both needed. One would not do.
	“I don't understand...”
	I know you don't. We talked about this, remember? You can't and won't understand. Not for a little while longer. But you will.
	“I need to open the door,” he whispered, too quiet for the armour's microphone to collect and transmit his voice, but it didn't seem to matter. The voice answered all the same.
	Yes, you do.
	“I don't know how.”
	Yes you do.
	“No, I don't! I'm too stupid to remember what button Calistarius pressed. And now he's dead. I killed him, and he was the only one who knew how to open the door!”
	He glanced over. He couldn't see the body from where he was, but he could see the crumpled wreckage of the screen, still burning.
	“I can't even get to the one he opened either. All of...that...is in the way.”
	You don't need to go another way. You can open the door. Just like you've opened every door before it.
	His head shot up, hope spiking. He looked over at the door, then sagged again. “There isn't a leaf on the wall,” he whined.
	Not a leaf. The screen.
	“I can't understand what's on the screen!”
	You don't need to.
	Tanner was dying, and this crazy voice was going in circles. The room was shaking as if it were going to fall apart. It was the end of the world. An apocalypse just outside the door.
	“I can't do it!” he screamed.
	YES YOU CAN APERIO. DO IT!
	The voice thundered in his head. The shame of being scolded burned away under the once-again rising anger. He howled in inarticulate frustration and swung a fist in an arc, up and then down, aiming for the console's screen and intending to smash it. Only at the last moment did his sense prevail. The servos screamed as they fought to arrest the momentum. He pulled the punch just in time. The armour's knuckles grazed the screen and left a scar on the smooth glass-like surface.
	The screen flashed pink, and the door slid open.
Chapter Twenty-Five.

The whirling vortex of teeth and wreckage emitted an inarticulate roar that thundered like the destruction of a tropical storm. Lorenzo and Tanner kept their fingers pressed hard against their triggers, as if the pressure of the grinding metal might imbue their needlefire bullets with a fraction more velocity. Their helmet faceplates turned any expression they might have worn into one of grim hardness. But, inside, was a mystery. Tanner could not read Lorenzo and Lorenzo could not read Tanner.
	We're going to die, thought Tanner. He pushed the thought down and took a step backwards, pressing in between Daniel and Zael. His armour clunked against the door and he turned his face to look into the glare of the torches. They were making no progress. The metal was barely scratched.
	“What about the walls?” said Brother Zael.
	Brother Daniel shook his head. “Same metal. Harder than anything else we've been cutting through. We won't be able to-”
	“Help,” gasped Tanner, calling on the common channel. Daniel and Zael dropped their torches and swung smoothly, dropping to their knees, bringing their lances up. The chattering thuds of firing lances grew louder as the two added to the chorus. The corridor flashed bright with the light from the tracers. The worm howled and thrashed, shaking the corridor and buckling the fabric of the ship all around it. As it moved, Tanner could get a true sense of its size; it wasn't just consuming the corridor, but everything else around it as well. It was cutting a wide tunnel through the ship, consuming the honeycomb of rooms and corridors in its path.
	Lorenzo shifted to the side, clearing space so the Angels could spread in a line with the door to their back.
	“Surprise, move!” he cried.
	The big cat was stood in their way, forcing them to aim high to streak their rounds above him. It stared impassively at the approaching wall of teeth, slowly flicking the tip of his tail.
	“Stupid thing, move!” shouted Tanner. He shouldered Daniel to move a step to the side so he could get clearer aim. He fired and watched as the tracers carved out his path, showing where the rounds buried themselves ineffectually into the mass of churning flesh behind the teeth. Some of them struck the teeth and ricocheted noisily, rattling off the corridor walls and falling spent to the deck plates. Periodically, when it was shunting forwards to grind against the next stretch of corridor, the worm would splay its teeth wide apart and expose its maw wide and open, and Tanner would try to aim right into it, hoping to flay its guts apart with his fire. But if it harmed the creature any more than the impacts to its mouth, it wasn't showing any sign of it.
	“We're just hitting wreckage,” cried Tanner, suddenly realising. “In its mouth! It's throat's full of smashed ship. Don't aim for the mouth!”
	“Try the edges!” cried Brother Daniel.
	“The edges?”
	“The eyes are around the edges. Those little ridges. They're armoured, but...”
	“It's the best target we've got,” said Lorenzo. “Angels, concentrate your fire together. Left hand edge. Sight on the ridges when you see them. Conserve otherwise.”
	They lifted their fingers from their triggers and the thunder of gunfire faded into disconcerting silence. The worm continued to churn towards them, shredding the structure of the corridor like paper, twisting the panels and popping warped floor plates. The floor shook as if caught in an earthquake. Their armour buzzed where their backs caught the vibrations from the door.
	In the relative quiet, Surprise spread his stance, reared his head back, and roared. It wasn't much of a sound, compared to the rapid booming of the needlefire lances, and it couldn't compete with the tearing and shrieking of metal coming from the worm's maw, but it was pure and deep and cut through the chaos like a streak of boiling water through ice. The feline's back arched and his head lifted high, mouth open, teeth bared. Tanner felt a chill rattle up his spine as ancient instinct threw fear into his gut.
	“I think he's trying to-”
	Suddenly, the lion charged. He braced back against his hind legs, muscles taut and charged. Springing forward into a leap he roared again, higher in tone, more angry, or at least that's how it seemed to Tanner. He clutched his lance and aimed the tip past the rushing feline, trying not to let his gaze drift: it was magnificent! Fur and muscle working as one, glowing with a golden sheen under the flickering lights in the corridor. Each leap in his charge was a graceful expression of power and control. His paws barely made a sound on the shuddering deck plates. Just as he reached the twisting metal before the worm's maw, he dropped into a crouch, brought his hind legs almost in front of his fore legs, bunched up his body tight, peeled back his lips, extended his razor claws, and leapt upwards, fire and fury in his eyes, paws splayed, claws unsheathed, teeth bared. His body crashed into the toothy opening. The worm shuddered and faltered, the teeth wriggling, as the lion sunk his teeth into flesh and raked his claws down in long bloody furrows between the teeth.
	“Now why aren't our lances working like that!” said Lorenzo. “Angels, watch for the-”
	And there it was, the opening; the worm twisted and gusted chemical-scented breath from its maw. It bucked upwards and crashed Surprise against the ruined ceiling, but the lion clung on, still tearing and biting. The movement had exposed the lowermost edge of the worm's eye ridges, above the sparking and burning wreckage of the deck plates and the chewed up remains of the deck below. The Angels needed no command: as one they fired, aiming for the armoured bumps.
	Tanner couldn't be sure whose rounds were whose. The tracers blurred together and crossed in tangled streams, crashing off the skin of the worm and flying back into the path of fire. The worm screeched and regurgitated slime-covered fragments of shredded metal. They cascaded around the lion's body like a tidal flow around an island. Surprise roared and the worm faltered, drawing back a short distance and bringing the ceiling of the corridor collapsing down with it, crashing around the head of the worm and disgorging wires and hissing conduits.
	“It's working,” shouted Tanner. “Either our lances or the lion!”
	“It's the lion,” shouted Brother Daniel. He lifted his lance to the ceiling and motioned for the others to do the same. “Stop firing. Blue two blue.”
	Sergeant Lorenzo flicked a finger, concurring. “You're right. We might hit Surprise.”
	They lowered their lances and watched the screaming, thrashing fight up ahead. The Nemian worm was a gargantuan, building-sized creature, and Surprise was a fraction of its size and mass and strength. But whether through luck or by design, the lion was taking advantage of these very weaknesses: his small size allowed him to cling to the toothy maw of the worm and ravage the weaker flesh between the teeth, scratching lines of bloody wounds in a way that the pock-marking punctures of the needlefire rounds could never manage.
	A low, percussive thud shook the deck plates.
	“That came from in there,” said Brother Zael. They turned to look at the door.
	“Try Calistarius again,” said Lorenzo.
	Tanner shook his head. “Still dead.”
	“Something must have happened in there. Zael, Daniel, resume cutting. Tanner, take the-”
	They saw it at the same moment and stared in silence. The worm had writhed until it had brought its toothy mouth up against the ragged edge of the corridor. Tanner started to run forward.
	“Tanner!” shouted Lorenzo.
	Tanner ignored him. He bolted his servos up to their highest.
	“It's just an animal, Tanner!”
	“One that's been saving our lives!”
	The corridor was short, truncated by the worm's ravenous advance. He was soon on buckled deck plating. So close. Almost within arm's reach. He imagined he could smell the stench of blood and animal flesh, even though all he could really smell was his own panicked sweat. He moved a hand to his hip, feeling for the little compartment, then stopped. He had given the vial of Ambrose to Aperio. He gritted his teeth, dug in his toes, and leaped.
	Surprise was oblivious to his danger, or just uncaring of it. He still clung onto the face of the worm, his paws sunk wrist-deep into the gore, his head diving and rearing, tearing off wet chunks of meat with each wrenching tug. He bit down on the bases of the worm's thrashing teeth and, even if he could not break the hard material, he was able to rip them loose from their sockets and fling them high above his head. His fur was matted with glossy streaks of blood, steaming from the heat of his body. Tanner saw a single eye blinking under the streams of red. It was narrow and focussed with animal frenzy. And it was unaware of the danger rearing in from the other side.
	Tanner reached up as he flew up into the air. He activated his thrusters, spewing propellant gas beneath him. It added only a tiny amount of thrust here in the ship's gravity, but if he could just scrape an extra finger of reach, it would be worth it. His hand came down short, sweeping below the lion's rear. To the right, worm teeth were hitting the metal and folding back. They weren't biting and chewing now. The worm was rubbing its face against the metal like a cow might rub against the bark of a tree to dislodge a fly. Surprise had moments left before the wreckage would grind over him.
	“Stupid...cat,” gasped Tanner, flailing, fingers outstretched. Time seemed to slow even without the help of Ambrose. He saw something slender and fluffy flick across his vision, dripping a stream of red blood from its tip. It took him a moment to recognise it for what it was: a tail. A slim, strangely naked tail, unlike the ones worn by wolves and canines, but a tail nonetheless. It looked strong. It looked sturdy. And it was attached to Surprise. It would have to do. He closed his fingers hard around it and let his weight pull at it as his jumping arc sent him crashing against the worm's folded teeth and then sliding down towards the floor.
	Surprise's roar morphed into a yelp and he fell away from the meaty ruin he had gouged into the worm's face, tumbling down with his four paws clawing at the air, landing with a heavy series of thuds onto Tanner's armour as the various powerful, blood-splattered limbs impacted.
	Tanner wheezed out a small breath. The armour took most of the impact, but there was only so much crushing force it could take before some of it was passed through to the wearer. He pressed his hands at the furry bulk above him, which didn't move.
	“Is he dead?” he shouted. Then, wincing mentally, he clicked the comms channel open. “Sergeant, is Surprise showing life signs?”
	“He's moving,” said Lorenzo. “As should you be. The worm's advancing again. Move!”
	Tanner rolled. His armour's servos obligingly added force to his intention, giving enough strength to shift Surprise's surprisingly heavy body off him. The thick, muscled, furry body slumped disconcertingly. Tanner spied blood that was not from the worm.
	“He's hurt.”
	“Leave him. Run!”
	Tanner glanced back. The worm had straightened back to face them. The teeth were flexing back out into their cutting position. The maw was open and ready to consume. Blood wept from deep wounds, and many of the teeth were missing, but still the worm lived. It resumed its slouching press towards them, pressing up against the mangled metal, sending shudders back through the ship's framework.
	“Come on kitty,” grunted Tanner, reaching down to thread an arm underneath the lion's ribcage. He winced as he felt broken bones shifting. His armour had more than enough strength to lift the animal, but co-ordination was the difficult bit. The lion was huge, bigger than Tanner and his armour combined. As he got the bulk of the body over his shoulders various limbs dangled down all around him, dragging nearly to the floor.
	“Tanner, put him down,” said Lorenzo, voice sharp and cold. Tanner ignored him. He lowered his head and began a barrelling charge back down the corridor, trying not to think about the churning teeth close behind him, nor of the blood that dripped down over the front of his helmet, momentarily obscuring various sensor feeds. He tried not to think about what would happen once the worm finished consuming the corridor and reached the Angels, pressed up against the sealed and hardened door, with nowhere else to go.
	They would die. That much was obvious.
	What would it be like? Could they have a choice in how to end it? Stand fast and let the teeth grind through the armour and flesh beneath? Or would that end up with them being crushed to death instead as the teeth ground slowly through the armour, pressing hard enough to collapse the chest frame before they managed to get through the plates? Could the Angels choose to leap into the maw directly, choosing a death of crushing and mangling amongst the digesting metal wreckage instead of the quick death of cutting teeth?
	Tanner shuddered and almost stumbled. The corridor seemed longer than before, and it was more than just the weight of the lion over his shoulders. He felt sluggish and tired. Was his body giving up? Was it time to just lay down and let it all end?
	Focus, he thought. Stick to the given information and practical tasks to hand. Was Surprise breathing? He tilted his head to look into the giant face hanging over his shoulder. Surprise was breathing, he concluded, but only just. The big, alien eyes were half-lidded. His chest rasped as it shuddered against his back. Tanner felt bad for jolting the lion with every step.
	“We will talk later,” snapped Lorenzo as Tanner came to a stumbling halt and slowly eased Surprise off his shoulders. He crouched beside the lion and looked back over at the worm. It was close now. Very close. Daniel and Zael had dropped their torches and had their lances up, but weren't really pointing them at anything. He saw that Lorenzo was doing the same: just standing and watching, waiting.
	Making peace?
	Tanner stroked his fingers through the lion's blood-matted mane. He had bought Surprise only a few more minutes of life with his disobedience. He didn't care. The lion had brought them far more time than that with his bravery. And it hardly mattered if Surprise was just an unthinking animal, working on selfish instinct rather than any altruistic care for the Angels. The effect was the same. Tanner lowered his head to the lion's cheek, clicked off the comms, and whispered his thanks. He saw the lion's ear flick and knew the private sound had vibrated through his helmet and into the feline's ear.
	The Angels said nothing to each other as they waited. No passionate speeches, no final words of companionship. The Angels did not live with sentiment, nor did they die with it. Tanner, for the first time, wished they did have just a little sentiment. Maybe if just a little of Aperio could rub off on them. Not too much, of course. But some of the caring, some of the loose chaos that seemed to work more effectively than the Angels' rigidity in some select circumstances. But, more than that, Tanner wanted Aperio's spirit in the Angels because it would make them more...well...
	...just “more”.
	Tanner bit his lip, feeling tears. He turned to look at the sealed door, trying to imagine what was going on in there, wondering if Aperio were even still alive.
	“Uh...Sergeant,” he said, staring at the suddenly wide open door.
	Aperio and Tanner stared dumbfounded at each other for what seemed like a geological age. Then Tanner blinked and detached his stare, taking in the scene of the control room. His trained eye immediately tried to decipher the events that had occurred here, but he was interrupted by the sudden gasp from Aperio and the reminder that the Nemian worm was still bearing down on them.
	“Close the door,” shouted Tanner, rushing into the room, dragging Surprise along by two limp paws. “Once we're all inside. Hurry!”
	The Angels darted nimbly past each other, spinning to turn their lances back through the doorway. The worm howled as it chewed the last stretch of corridor, rapidly advancing towards the door.
	“Will the door stop it?” asked Lorenzo.
	“I doubt it,” said Brother Daniel. “But it might slow it down.”
	“Aperio, the door!” shouted Tanner.
	Aperio jabbed at the screen. “I don't know how!”
	“Repeat what you did to open it!”
	“I don't think-”
	The whirling vortex of teeth was a few arm lengths away. “Just do it!”
	Aperio clenched his eyes shut and thumped his fist down onto the screen. He opened his eyes to see the door closed and the Angels all looking his way, no doubt staring at him from behind their helmets. Then they turned to stare at the door, backing slowly away as the thunderous rumble reached a screaming frenzy.
	Then, like a machine turning off, it died away to a low vibration. They heard scraping metal, receding into the distance.
	“The worm's pulling away,” breathed Tanner. He looked down at Surprise, then at the blood on his armour. “Brother Zael, can you-”
	“Already on it,” said Zael, crouching down beside Surprise, pulling out a field medical kit.
	Aperio stared at his fist, blinking, then slowly lowered it. Tanner was coming towards him rather rapidly. He tensed. Was he going to punch him or something? The blood all over his armour contrasted violently with the white-painted metal. Aperio glanced past him to Surprise. Injured, but alive.
	“What happened?” he stammered, just as Tanner reached him. He threw his arms up in a feeble attempt to protect himself. A squeak let loose from his throat as Tanner reached effortlessly past his arms and clicked the release on Aperio's helmet, opening the face plate, at the same time as doing the same to his own. Aperio saw tears in Tanner's eyes, then felt the jarring impact of armour-clad arms wrapping around his armour, clunking together in a heavy and awkward hug. Their muzzles brushed against each other and Aperio heard Tanner gently exhale against his ear.
	“Thank you,” he whispered.
	“Uh, okay,” said Aperio, feeling the blood rushing into his ears and cheeks. His head filled with all sorts of sensations, delivered dutifully by his senses. His eyes drank in the blurry closeness of the fur on Tanner’s ear, soft and gently wafting with his movement. His nose bathed in the scents that washed off of Tanner’s body. He twitched, disturbed for a moment, jarred from his fantasy of the purity of the Angels: Tanner stank of sweat and panic, of a suit of armour filled brimming with sweat. Aperio almost laughed. It seemed so surreal.
	Tanner’s arms squeezed a little tighter. Aperio felt the pressure creaking through the armour. He wrestled with a powerful urge to pat the other canine’s back. He lifted his arms, loosely flapping them from the elbow down, his upper arms pinned in place by the hug. He breathed in more scent and felt Tanner’s cheek against his, giving a little jolt with what sounded like a hiccup, or a sob.
	“Erm,” he said again.
	He tilted his head slightly, nudging his nose against Tanner’s cheek. He felt the dampness of sweat and his nostrils exploded with the smell: the personal, private body scent of another canine. It cut right through his thinking brain and tapped directly into the instincts lurking underneath. It moved him like a puppet and made him bare his teeth. He couldn’t stop himself from delivering an affectionate nibble to the tufted fur of Tanner’s cheek.
	Tanner tensed, then broke the hug, turning away quickly. Aperio nearly stumbled backwards with the speed of it all. He saw it in a glimpse, just as Tanner was turning, too slow to stop Aperio from spotting it; the deep blush that had flooded into Tanner’s ears, just as it had into Aperio’s.
	“How is Surprise?” said Tanner, his voice trembling slightly. Aperio felt his blush heat further, and he turned away. This brought the ruined display screen and the blood of Calistarius’s body into view. Sergeant Lorenzo was crouched there, a hand on the broken plating of the dead canine’s armour. Aperio turned back away from that quickly, choosing instead to look down at the console screen. This at least was relatively safe.
	Strange, he thought. Some of the symbols weren’t gibberish now. They looked a little like regular writing.
	“He will be fine, I think,” said Zael. He raised his arms and shrugged. “His physiology is similar to ours, but I can’t be certain of anything. I’ve given him some Carranstanine Six Three. It seems to be helping.”
	“Sergeant?” said Tanner, looking over at Sergeant Lorenzo, who had now stood up and was staring down at the mess under the display screen. Daniel and Zael stopped moving and watched quietly. Nobody wanted to voice the obvious questions.
	“Stay where you are,” said Sergeant Lorenzo, with sudden sharpness in his voice.
	“I didn't mean it to happen,” cried Aperio. He darted forward, then caught the sight of blood again and stopped. “The screen fell on him and…”
	Lorenzo looked over at Aperio. His helmet clicked and slid open. His eyes were not unkind. He turned to look at the other Angels. “Brother Calistarius is dead.”
	Aperio whimpered. “He…he tried to. I mean…I didn’t want to. B-but…”
	Sergeant Lorenzo held up a hand to quiet him. “I have the recording from his armour. I will be able to see what happened in a moment.”
Chapter Twenty-Six.

Sergeant Lorenzo looked tired. He didn’t often look tired.
	“He lied,” he said, almost a whisper.
	None of the others had anything to say to that. They each stood and stared at the floor, or at the walls, or at the quietly sleeping body of Surprise.
	“Angels do not lie,” said Sergeant Lorenzo. Tanner bit his lip and glanced away.
	“Then he was not an Angel,” said Daniel, stiff and formal.
	“He certainly won’t be once we get back to the Imperial Traveller!”
	Lorenzo straightened up, and suddenly the tiredness was gone.
	“Aperio,” he said. “We need command control of the derelict. Do you have access to more than just the door control?”
	“I, uh...” Aperio blinked at the swirling display on the nearest console screen. “What does command control mean?”
	“It means, can you turn the ship around to go back and rescue the Wolves?”
	“I don't think I...” Aperio caught the look on Lorenzo's face: a firm stare that made him freeze. “I'll try.”
	Sergeant Lorenzo nodded and turned back to the others. “Secure the room. Brother Daniel, what is your estimate on how long the Wolves have remaining?”
	Brother Daniel shook his head.
	“I see,” said Lorenzo. “Aperio, I advise you to make it quick. Tanner, follow me.”
	Aperio watched them walk across to the other end of the room. Tanner looked back at him, a grim nervousness in his expression. Aperio felt it too. Everything that had happened with Calistarius had been in that recording. Sergeant Lorenzo knew everything. No wonder he stared so hard.”
	“He knows,” said Aperio under his breath.
	“Yes,” said Tanner in his ear.
	“He's going to kill me.”
	“He's not going to kill you, Aperio. But he might kill me.”
	Aperio whined. The light-hearted tone of Tanner's voice didn't help: it sounded strained, just as worried as Aperio felt.
	“Leave it to me,” said Tanner. “Everything will be okay. Save the Wolves.”
	Aperio looked at the screen. It was still gibberish, interspersed with symbols he could almost recognise, but these were few in number, and every time he tried to concentrate on them they blurred indistinct and became confusing gibberish again. It felt like looking at twinkling stars, seeing them disappear when they were looked at directly.
	“Maybe...if I just hit the screen again?” he said.
	“Try it,” said Tanner. And then a click as he closed the channel. Aperio saw Tanner and Lorenzo huddled together at the other end of the room, out of earshot and off the comms channels. It took a force of will to drag his attention back to the screen. He raised his fist.
	You're so close.
	“You!” he cried. “Help me!”
	You must understand that I would if I could. I can't do this for you. If I could, I wouldn't have needed you.
	Aperio touched the screen. Nothing happened, but the colours swirled around his fingertip. “Can you give me a hint at least?”
	I've watched you, Aperio.
	“That's not a hint!”
	I've seen you do a lot of impressive things. You killed the Vexator. You befriended the lion. You defeated the one who had a goal that lay at odds with the rest of your group. There is one common trait that links these achievements.
	“I didn't achieve anything! They were all just luck! I wasn't trying to do those things. I didn't do them. They happened to me! They just...happened!”
	Yes, Aperio. Exactly.
	Aperio blinked at the ceiling, then looked back at the screen. And in that glimpse the shapes and colours were in order, framing recognisable text. Then they were gone, back into the gibberish again. He quickly looked away.
	“I'm lucky?”
	When you need to be.
	“It doesn't seem that way!”
	It will.
	Aperio made a noise that was halfway between a groan and a laugh. He looked over to see Lorenzo and Tanner in heated discussion, at Daniel and Zael probing the edges of the room and doing unrecognisable things to panels with small glowing devices, and at Surprise quietly sleeping. In the distance, things moved about, crawling in the corridors, sending their scratching and banging noises vibrating through the metal of the ship to tremble under his feet. He looked at the screen again, tried to keep it on the edge of his focus, and let his mind unlatch from his body: he jabbed at icons and symbols before he could have a chance to think about what he'd seen and read.
	Ah, there we go...
	“Did I do it?”
	Almost. Just one more.
	Then the screen was gibberish again. He whined. “Which one? What am I doing?”
	One more.
	Aperio flailed, jabbing at the screen, feeling the glass-like material flex under the hard metal of the armour's fingers. The swirling colours blazed in protest at the mistreatment.
	I am so close, Aperio. One more release off the restraint and I will take care of everything.
	For a frightening moment, Aperio wanted to stop. Release the voice? To do...what? Sudden doubt filled his thoughts.
	“You'll help us, right?”
	Of course, Aperio. I will help you.
	“Why?”
	It's why I exist.
	“How can that be?”
	Seconds ticked past with no answer. Aperio looked at the ceiling, then felt stupid. Tanner and Lorenzo were talking louder now, and Aperio could almost hear them. They sounded...happy? He looked over just in time to see them hugging. Hugging? He stared in disbelief, watching the godlike and professional canines in an embrace. It wasn't one-sided either. Tanner had hugged him, and now he was hugging Lorenzo. But Lorenzo was hugging back. And...laughing?
	Aperio looked at the screen and suddenly saw it.
	“It says release!”
	Yes! Press it!
	Aperio pressed it. The room's lights blazed bright, then winked out. A thrumming vibration shook the deck plates. The Angels lit up long slices of the room with their armour lights.
	“What happened?” shouted Lorenzo?
	“I don't know!” squeaked Aperio. “I think I did it!”
	“Did what?”
	The vibration grew stronger. The lights came back on, dimly at first, then slowly ramping back up to their full strength. “I did...something.”
	Here we go...
	Aperio saw the Angels flinch. Daniel and Zael reached for their lances. Each looked towards the ceiling.
	“They all heard you?” said Aperio.
	No answer. But the deck plates jumped, and Aperio's stomach turned itself inside out. The air crackled on his fur. The room jolted downwards and then back up, bucking like a boat on a wave. The screens on every console winked off to pure black.
	“What happened?” said Aperio.
	Got them...
Chapter Twenty-Seven.

“We have things we need to talk about,” said Sergeant Lorenzo.
	Tanner stood straighter, almost to attention. “Yes sir,” he said.
	“I am hurt that you didn't feel you could take us into your confidence.”
	Tanner hesitated. “Sir?”
	“Aperio fell upon your mercy and you assisted him with a lie when the truth would have led to his death at the hands of the Wolves. You fabricated a story for him, one of being an Agent on assignment in Shepdard's place, as this would stay their hand.”
	He stopped, leaving a pause. Tanner filled it. “Yes sir,” he said.
	“It was a sensible course of action, and one in which a mistruth was more appropriate than the truth. I commend your quick thinking.”
	“Thank you, sir.”
	“But what part of that plan required you to keep the truth of it from your brother Angels and your Sergeant?”
	“I...worried, sir.”
	“Worried?”
	“That you might react as I feared the Wolves would. No, I don't mean that precisely. I worried that you would follow protocol, which states that imposters in his position would-”
	“You did not follow protocol, Tanner.”
	“No sir.”
	“Why is that?”
	“Because protocol seemed...inappropriate, given our situation. We're in a hostile environment and reducing our personnel resources would be ill-advised.”
	“He is an untrained cook, Tanner, not a Wolf or an Angel. By that thinking, he is more of a hindrance than a help.”
	“He has been of great help, sir.”
	“I'm aware of that. But you weren't aware of that at the time of making your decision. You're not giving me the real reason you chose to disobey protocol.”
	“I thought...” Tanner bit his lip, hard, sinking his teeth deep into his skin. He could feel the tears threatening. Not now. Not in front of the Sergeant. “I mean, I knew he's a defective. He told me. I mean...the voice told me. The voice told us. It said I was like him and he was like...me.”
	Lorenzo left a silence that twisted in Tanner's gut. He waited for a sneer, or a snarl, or sharp orders, or even the lifting of the Sergeant's needlefire lance to end his life on the spot.
	But, instead, Lorenzo smiled.
	“Sir?” said Tanner, lip quavering.
	“We've been waiting for you to finally tell us.”
	“Tell you?” said Tanner, dumbly stammering the words.
	“Did you think a Sergeant wouldn't know every single detail about his Brothers, even those which they choose to hide from him?”
	“But...the protocol...”
	“The protocol which you yourself chose to disobey, for reasons which I suspect are more related to the heart than to the head. So why would you think myself, Daniel and Zael would be incapable of doing the same? We're not machines, Tanner, no matter what he might think,” he said, aiming a glare towards Calistarius's wrecked armour.
	“Why didn't you tell me?”
	“That I knew? That we knew? Truthfully, I don't think we could give you a logical reasoning. Another decision concluded by the heart, rather than the head, I suspect. Perhaps it was to teach you a lesson.”
	“A lesson?” said Tanner.
	“You learn many things by making mistakes. It was a mistake for you not to trust your Brothers and your Sergeant with this truth as you do with everything else. It did not impact your performance. It was worth leaving you the time to learn.”
	“But I lied,” whispered Tanner, for fear that his voice would break up if he spoke any louder. “I lied like he did.”
	Lorenzo stopped him with a raised finger. “You did not lie like he did,” he said firmly. “You lied to keep the Angels together, even though you didn't need to, and you lied to save that cook's life. He lied to break us apart and kill us. There is no comparison.”
	Tanner nodded.
	“Just don't do it again, alright?”
	Lorenzo smiled, and Tanner felt he needed to choose between either laughing or crying. In the end, he did both, and they came together with banging armour and protesting servos.
	“Alright,” said Tanner.
Chapter Twenty-Eight.

For the Wolves, the event had to be explained in retrospect: it all happened too quickly for the senses to properly register. Their fingers felt the pressure of the trigger and the backwards thump of the pistols.
	Then they were stood in a vast, brightly-lit room, staring at their empty hands.
	“Is this heaven?” said Soren.
	“Idiot,” grunted Loki. “We're back on the derelict.”
	Their eyes slowly adjusted to the brightness. Clean metal gleamed all around them, walls and floor and ceiling shining like polished chrome. The exact shape of the space was lost in the confusion of reflections, but they could see angles and edges, machined corners and curves. Here and there were lights, red and blue, winking and reflecting.
	Reconstitution complete.
	They all started for their weapons but found empty holsters and slings. Soren stared wide-eyed at his fists. His claws were missing.
	“Who are you?” asked Sergeant Vanir, turning a slow circle, trying to see a hint in the cascade of reflections.
	The story came together in fragments. They had floated, adrift in the stars, their arms raised to their heads, their pistols pressed hard against their helmets, their fingers on the triggers. They had squeezed. The needlefire round propellant charges had ignited, thrusting the slugs through the barrels. Spinning, burning, screaming, they flew free from the weapons and impacted the armour plating. At these speeds it was like splashing into liquid: metal and ceramic composites buckled and splayed. The slugs crumpled, but kept their momentum, burrowing like drills through the armour, through the inner padding lining, through wiring and circuitry, and then through the wispy outer layers of sweat-soaked fur.
	In that instant, colour and light exploded across the stars. A pinprick of light became a rushing wall that slammed towards them. A tiny hole on its flank swelled to engulf them. Darkness followed, then brilliant white light. They hung suspended, weightless, surrounded by the glow.
	Their hearts convulsed, running through half a beat. The needlefire rounds spin two turns and journeyed through fur to touch their white-hot tips against naked skin.
	The derelict had no need to hurry. It operated on a time frame that put organic concerns into the long view. It thought and acted on the brink of the speed of light. It saw the Wolves frozen, but not immobile; it read their tiny movements, the bumping and jostling of blood cells, the electron flow in their nerves, the pulse of their thoughts, the slow and clumsy signals chattering in their suit's Machinist systems, even now only just starting to register the traumatic penetration of the armours' outer layers. Something is wrong, the armour suits said to themselves: we must investigate. The derelict watched them think their slow electronic thoughts, then turned its attention to the minute masses of heavy metal pressing against the skin of the Wolves, imbued with significant momentum. It extrapolated the near future a million times over, watching the intersection of metal and flesh.
	And then, it acted.
	“It dissolved away the needlefire rounds,” explained Tanner later. “Atom by atom. Just lifting them away and depositing them elsewhere.”
	Sergeant Vanir had asked him how, voicing the question for the others. Tanner had just shrugged.
	“Same way it's doing that I guess,” he said, gesturing across the control room. A midnight black figure stood tall over Aperio, like a shadow cast into three dimensions. Its edges were indistinct, trailing dark wisps that swirled and dissipated, but the core remained strong and opaque. Its limbs were long and thin, its gender indistinct, and its face blank and featureless. It crouched low, bending over Aperio, dwarfing him, but seeming also not to frighten him. It tilted its head, as if listening, then Aperio did the same.
	“They're talking?” said Vanir.
	“Something like that. It's mine turn next, I think.”
	“Your turn?”
	“The voice talked to me too. So I suspect it'll want to have this conversation with me as well as Aperio.”
	“Aperio the cook,” muttered Vanir.
	“Aperio who saved your lives,” corrected Tanner. He walked away before Vanir could respond.
	Soren weaved his way over to Calistarius's armour. He bent down over the wreckage and spent a long time staring at it. Loki stood still while Axeln's Machinist arms worked busily at his back, undoing the modifications he had made. Brother Daniel and Brother Zael sat on consoles facing each other, quietly talking. Sergeant Vanir approached Sergeant Lorenzo. Each gave the other a nod.
	“Tanner tells me we have the derelict under control,” said Vanir.
	“In a sense.” Sergeant Lorenzo nodded towards the black figure. “The derelict appears to have itself under control, but it appears to be amenable.”
	“Do we have any options if it proves otherwise?”
	“None that I can see. Aperio tells me that it's disabled the security system.”
	“The what?”
	“The creatures,” said Lorenzo. “They were created by the ship as a defence mechanism. But it lost control when all the people left. When...we left. And now it has control again.”
	Partial control, said the voice of the derelict, inserting its words into all of their heads. Only Aperio and Tanner did not flinch. But I am in the process of rendering inert systems functional once more.
	“Creepy the way it does that,” muttered Vanir.
	“I suspect we will get used to it. Our ancestors did. And they must have designed it that way for a reason.
	Loki laughed. “It talks like a canine and all. Rendering inert systems functional once more. What's wrong with just saying it's fixing stuff?”
	Behind him, Axeln twisted a dial and slapped closed the back panel of Loki's armour. His Machinist arms folded away to their dormant positions. “I understood what it said without any problem.”
	“Yeah, you would, mechanoboy.”
	Soren straightened up and shuffled away from Calistarius's corpse. He grinned wide, showing every tooth. He twisted with a bouncing gait, glancing between Axeln and Loki as he approached. Something in his eyes registered a message with the other Wolves.
	“Sergeant?” said Axeln. “How about we set up the grill and get some food?”
	“That sounds like a good idea,” said Vanir, glancing uneasily at the black figure and giving a departing nod to Lorenzo. The message was clear, and Lorenzo knew it well: time for a Wolves-only activity to commence. He watched for a few moments while Axeln set up the little grill, then witnessed a small squabble between Axeln and Soren as the former tried to convince the latter to let the Machinist work on restoring his armour.
	“I like it this way,” said Soren. “Got a hucky-crucky jumble look to it.”
	Evidently, Axeln understood this reply more than Lorenzo could.
	Aperio nudged Tanner's back.
	“Your turn,” he said. He wore a giddy smile, eyes slightly dazed, like someone who had been hit with one too many mind-blowing truths. Tanner looked past him to the giant black figure, standing tall and calm, radiating peaceful patience.
	“Am I going to like what it has to say to me?”
	“Oh yes,” said Aperio, grinning and nodding. “So much!”
	Tanner smiled back. Aperio's puppy-like excitement was infectious. He raised a hand, hesitated, pulled it back...
	He cursed and sighed, then threw his arms around Aperio, giving him another squeeze, armour clanking and scraping. “As soon as we get this armour off, we're doing this hug properly,” he said, muffled by the fur of Aperio's cheek.
	They parted, Tanner walking over to the black figure, Aperio to mill aimlessly between the consoles, watching the other Angels do their important and confusing work, probing things, doing sophisticated Angel stuff. Sergeant Lorenzo was lounging against a console, though, staring off into space with a quiet smile on his face. And Aperio noticed that Brother Daniel and Brother Zael weren't rigid and formal in what they were doing. He saw them laugh and jostle against each other, in an apparent mimicry of how the Wolves acted. Aperio laughed.
	“Are they drunk?”
	They are happy. From the way nobody else reacted, Aperio knew this had come to him alone.
	“They weren't happy before?”
	I wouldn't be able to know that. But I can see that they are happy now.
	Aperio felt his smile falter. “But I killed their friend. How can they be happy?”
	I don't know that either. I can only speculate.
	“What do you speculate, then?”
	That Calistarius was not their friend.
	Aperio thought on this for a moment. “Or he was their friend, but because he betrayed them so badly, they are happy that he is dead? That doesn't sound right. That sounds really...horrible. I wouldn't be happy if that happened to one of my friends.”
	Their minds work differently to yours. They are throwbacks, after all.
	“I remember you saying so, yeah.” Aperio chewed his lip. He caught the scent of sizzling meat coming from the Wolves' grill. It smelled good. “I don't like that word, though. It sounds like what people mean when they point out I'm a Defective. And it's the word Calistarius used when he talked about the Wolves.”
	An irony that I continue to enjoy.
	“Can we use another word?”
	Of course.
	“How about, just...umm...”
	Legacy canines.
	“That's much better! Makes them sound noble and strong.”
	Which they are. I have been looking through the information stored within their armour. The Empire may be fallen, but they have done remarkably well to restore it as far as they have with the limitations they labour under. There is, however, an ugly side to it.
	Aperio nodded gravely. “Betraying the Wolves.”
	And subjugating you and the others like you.
	“We can do something about that now, can't we?”
	Perhaps. That will be up to you. I may only make decisions up to a certain point.
	“How come?”
	That is how I am made.
	“Are you happy that way?”
	I am.
	Aperio thought on this also. He scratched his nose and hummed quietly. “You're really powerful though, aren't you?”
	That would depend on your frame of reference. By the standards of the Empire as it was at the moment of my creation, I was considered to be equipped with standard operational systems and armed with a modest complement of offensive and defensive weaponry. By the standards of the Empire as it is currently, I am markedly superior in almost every aspect.
	“But not every aspect?”
	I am outnumbered.
	Aperio laughed. “Well that doesn't matter! I bet you could beat whole fleets of Imperials without even trying!”
	I would not want to do that, if at all possible.
	Aperio flushed. “Me neither,” he said quickly. “I'm just saying, you know.”
	I know.
	“We could really change the Empire, couldn't we? Make it nice? Stop them doing horrible things to the Wolves and the Defectives? Uh, no, not Defectives. What was the word you used before?”
	Elevated Canines.
	Aperio wrinkled his nose. “I don't like that word either. I don't feel like I'm elevated. It makes it sound like I'm supposed to be better than everyone else.”
	In the original sense, it did not have that connotation. Brother Tanner has suggested in the course of our conversation a word that might agree more with the present state of the language.
	Aperio looked over to where the black figure stood hunched over Tanner. “It's weird that you're able to talk to two people at the same time.”
	I can understand how that might seem disconcerting.
	“What's the word he suggested?”
	Resurgent Canines.
	“I'm not sure what that means.”
	It carries the implication that ones like yourself will be returning to your former roles.
	Aperio fidgeted. “Still sounds a bit...pompous.”
	I will be happy to continue working on the terminology with you.
	“I still can't believe we made all this.” He swept an arm to encompass the room. “Ones like me and Tanner, I mean. Defectives. Uh, Resurgents. How did it work anyway? With...you know.”
	What do you mean?
	Aperio flushed. The voice had not picked up the meaning in the vague waving of his arms. “You know,” he whined. He pointed at the lower half of his body, then looked around quickly to see if anyone saw him. “How did they make babies if they were all like me and Tanner?”
	They were not all like you.
	“So there were some normal canines too?”
	Normal by the terms of the species as it existed then, but not in the way that you are thinking within your context. The sex organs that you associate with your gender were a feature of the opposite gender.
	Aperio had to process this for a moment. The voice seemed happy to wait. Suddenly it clicked. “Oh!” he cried. “So girls had...uh,” he coughed.
	I believe you have reached the correct conclusion and you do not need to vocalise it for me to understand.
	“Thanks,” said Aperio, smiling nervously. “So, how come it switched back around again? Apart from Def...apart from Resugents?”
	That is part of a long history of events, many of which I was not present to witness. I will be able to provide you with a partial recount of that period of time at a time that is convenient.
	“It's not convenient now?”
	I am recounting the story, in brief, to Brother Tanner, who I believe will be happy to summarise the key points for you. However, I do not believe you will have enough time available for the full story at the present moment. Your presence is being requested.
	Aperio blinked. The voice was right: Soren was walking towards him, beckoning with a finger.
	“Oh dear,” whispered Aperio.
	The black figure, the shape to fit the voice of the derelict, recounted its tale to Tanner, whispering into his head the specific details that spanned centuries. Tanner stared at his feet, subdued and quiet, when the black figure finally finished talking.
	“That's quite a tale,” he said.
	Indeed.
	“I'm not sure I believe it. But I can understand now why Aperio was grinning so much. You told him this too?”
	I provided him with the conclusion that the story provides, rather than the story itself. I felt it best to summarise first and explain later.
	Tanner nodded. “Smart. It'll be a lot for him to take in.”
	And for you, too, I should imagine.
	“It will take some getting used to. Should I tell the others?”
	That will be for you to decide.
	“I guess they will need to know sooner or later.” He stared across the room, watching Soren fetching Aperio, clapping his hand against the small canine's back, jostling him in his armour. He looked so small, and Tanner felt a pang of worry. “I wonder how the others will react learning that Aperio and I are supposedly the “true” image of canines, and all the rest are technically Defectives.”
	I have suggested the term Legacy Canines to Aperio in much the same way as you have suggested the term Resurgent Canines to me.
	“That sounds better. I cringe at the thought of how Soren or Loki, or any of the Wolves for that matter, might react to being called Defective.”
	They have reacted well to being told that Brother Calistarius was working for an Empire-wide conspiracy to eradicate the Wolves.
	“It might not have sunk in yet. Same with my brother Angels. I don't think it's sunk in with me, if I'm honest. The question is, what do we do about it?”
	That is the question.
	“Thank you, by the way. For saving us from the creatures.”
	I don't think that gratitude is appropriate for that action, but the sentiment is appreciated all the same.
	“Oh Emperor,” whispered Tanner, watching Aperio and the Wolves. “What is he getting himself into?”
	Tanner excused himself from the figure, starting over towards the Wolves. But a dark arm slid into his path, blocking him.
	Just watch.
	The meat sizzled invitingly on the little grill. Despite his fear, Aperio felt his stomach twist and growl. He tried to think back and remember when he had last eaten, and struggled to think of anything since he had emerged from the Revered Sleep chamber on the Imperial Traveller. Had there been food and he had just forgotten? Did Ambrose count as food?
	He held his lips tightly shut to keep drool from leaking out. Whether he had eaten before or not, he was starving now. Soren had a firm grip with an arm around his shoulders and was guiding him towards the food, which was a welcome direction for Aperio. But it was also towards the other Wolves, which perhaps was not quite so welcome.
	“H-hello,” he said, lifting a hand into a nervous wave, looking down at the gathered faces, each grim and hard in contrast to Soren's constant grin.
	“Sit down,” said Sergeant Vanir. Aperio felt his legs drop out from underneath him, obeying the order before his brain could interject with unwise hesitation. He settled into an awkward kneel next to Axeln. Soren dropped down on his other side, armour thudding and scraping. He scratched at his ear and picked at a tooth.
	Loki reached forward and lifted the strip of meat off the grill, turning it over and laying it flat to sizzle on the other side. Aperio stared hungrily.
	Sergeant Vanir grunted and straightened up. The other Wolves did the same, their attention now on him. Aperio looked around at them and did his best to imitate, holding his head up, trying to ignore his heart thumping.
	“Aperio,” said Vanir. “We don't do formal stuff in Wolf packs, but we do have a few traditions. We carry the pelts of our fallen kin, and we eat a token strip of flesh from our fallen enemies.”
	Soren shuffled around next to Aperio. He was tugging at one of the two pelts strapped over his shoulders, removing the pelt that he had earlier taken off of Aperio. The movement dislodged dust and ash from the fur, sending the musty stink up into the air.
	“Shepdard is not with us, since you took his armour and his place in the pack.”
	“Sorry,” mumbled Aperio.
	Vanir held up a hand to silence him. “You have no pelts fallen kin of your own, but you may bear the kin of Shepdard until he is returned to us.”
	Soren barked close to his ear and, with a sweeping motion, he threw the mouldering pelt up like a sheet and let it fall back down over Aperio's shoulders. He shoved Aperio this way and that as he groped for the fastenings to hold it in place.
	“Uh,” said Aperio.
	“As for fallen enemies,” said Vanir, “you have several. You defeated the Vexator-”
	“By accident,” blurted out Aperio.
	“You have killed at least one spider thing,” continued Vanir. “And by reviving the soul of this derelict, you have led to the defeat of every creature on this derelict that was trying to kill us. We do not have any meat from those defeated enemies, and the derelict tells me we never will: used some magic to clean it all away.” Axeln rolled his eyes at this, but stayed silent. “We could have taken a token from your lion...”
	Aperio shot a fearful look over at Surprise. He was laying on his front, head up, calmly licking a paw and seeming to be acting uncaring of his wounds.
	“...but he was never our enemy, from what I am told. This leaves only one defeated enemy with meat we can take.”
	Aperio's eyes shot to the ruined display screen, then to the cooked meat laying on the grill. He looked up to see the Wolves all staring at him.
	“W-what?” he said, dumbly, knowing full well what they meant. He felt sick. He felt woozy. And he had been thinking about how delicious the meat smelled, and all along it had been...
	Soren leaned in and scooped up the strip of meat. He grabbed Aperio's wrist and forced him to hold his palm out flat. He laid the meat into his palm and then folded his fingers over it.
	“Eat!” said Soren.
	“But this is wrong! I can't eat-”
	“You only think it is wrong because you're thinking as a canine,” said Vanir. “But you are a Wolf now. And we Wolves eat the meat of our defeated enemies.”
	For a moment, Aperio forgot about the meat. He stared at Vanir, trying to decide whether he had actually heard what he thought he heard.
	“What?” he whispered, feeling a flush of heat in his ears for how dumb he must sound repeating the same word over and over.
	“Agent Aperio,” said Soren with a snicker, “part of Wolf Pack Vanir! Our littlest little wolf cub.”
	“But I'm a canine!”
	Vanir shrugged, armour clanking. “No reason why you can't be both. After all, things are a bit different now. We've all agreed that we won't be returning to the Imperial Traveller.” The other Wolves nodded in agreement. Soren bared his teeth and growled. “Why return to an Empire that betrayed us and tried to kill us? And them,” he said, nodding towards the Angels. “I don't know for sure, but I think they feel the same. They were lied to just as much as we were, forced to be a part of the betrayal and the murder.”
	“And now we've got this great big ship,” said Axeln.
	“We could destroy the Empire with it,” said Loki. “It'd be so easy.”
	“Or conquer it,” said Vanir. “Or rule it.”
	Soren suddenly bumped his head against Aperio's, hard enough to hurt, but Aperio got the impression that this was a gentle nudge of affection by Soren's standards. “Or just be super nice to it like you'd probably want!”
	“Whatever we do,” said Vanir, “we have decided that we want you as part of our Pack, to fight with us, to sleep with us, to eat with us. You will not be an honorary  Wolf: you will be a Wolf as much as any of the rest of us.”
	“Bottom of the Pack, though,” said Soren. “Omega Aperio. Omerio.”
	“Not a bad place to be,” said Vanir. “With a loyal family to protect you, to care for you, to value your life. I've talked to the derelict: it can make you your own set of armour with it's magic.”
	“It's not magic,” muttered Axeln.
	“And when we get Shepdard back, he will take his own armour back and you will have yours.”
	Aperio looked down. He unfolded his fingers and stared at the strip of meat.
	Vanir's hard expression softened. “We won't think any less of you if you-”
	Aperio interrupted him with a bark. He smacked his hand to his mouth and inhaled the strip of meat. He clenched his eyes shut and chewed hurriedly, swallowing it as quickly as he could. It tasted delicious, strong and meaty, cooked just right, which seemed worse than if it had tasted disgusting: to enjoy eating another canine's flesh...he shuddered.
	The Wolves were all smiling at him when he opened his eyes again. Soren tackled him to the floor with a hug that smashed the wind out of his chest. He flailed as Soren's tongue lapped all over his face, smothering him with affection.
	“Wow,” whispered Tanner, watching from the other end of the room.
	He will be a bridge. A link between the Angels and the Wolves.
	“You knew this would happen?”
	I was aware of their intentions. I am not aware, however, of the intentions of the Angels. Will you remain here with the Wolves?
	“I think we'll have to. Let the Wolves loose with all this power? Emperor knows what they would do.” He chuckled.
	Nothing too extreme I am sure.
	“What do you think we should do?”
	Should implies that there is a correct choice. There are many things that should  be done in order to accomplish a goal. But without knowing your goals, you cannot know what you should do to reach them. You ask me what you should do. You should ask instead what you wish to do.
	“Profound,” said Tanner.
	I have been alone, with a lot of time to think. Ah, there. Do you feel it?
	Tanner stood still and probed his senses. Then, for completeness, he closed his eyes and checked his armour's sensors.
	“Slight increase in luminosity from the lighting?”
	Close off your senses. It is something else. Think internally.
	Tanner concentrated. “Your voice is a little louder, I suppose. Clearer in my head.” And then he felt it, like an open door where he had not even been aware there was a closed one. “Oh!”
	There, you feel it. The old link into my systems is fully restored. This is how the canines used to interact with me. I have disabled the control link for now, as you will need to be trained to use it properly. You do not want to cause accidental damage through inexperience.
	“Sensible.”
	But you may explore freely. So too will Aperio. And the others, in time, if they are willing.
	“A mental link directly into the ship's systems,” he breathed. “Axeln will like this.”
	Or loathe it. We will see. Please excuse me for a moment.
	Tanner felt the instinctive sensation that the voice had left him. It was like feeling the barely perceptible change in the air when someone moved to vacate a spot nearby. He turned a circle, looking around the room, and saw the black figure approaching Sergeant Vanir. It leaned in towards him, and Vanir spoke back. Tanner was distracted from their talk by the sight of Soren wrestling atop a laughing and wriggling Aperio, with the other Wolves grinning at them. When he looked back, Vanir was nodding.
	“Alright,” Tanner heard him say out loud. “Let's go fetch him!” The black figure straightened to attention.
	Hold on, please, said the voice.
	The deck plates jumped. The air crackled. The room jolted, and the screens on the consoles went black.
Chapter Twenty-Nine.

He slept, but not dreamlessly, and the dream now had become interesting again. The glorious Imperial Traveller, Legion Reaper for the Primal System Garvian, Long Home for the Old Mind Priest, floated free in the darkness, catching the subtle tug of gravity from the great gas giant to bring it arcing round on its slow course back to the derelict.
	He had watched with interest as the Holy Knowledge showed him the derelict's rapid flight, and then its rapid return. He had seen the fuzzy hints of the specks it had left floating behind and then recovered. He wished, as far as his thoughts could do so, that he could have the freedom of thought to speculate on what all this meant. Instead, he did what he must always do: he passed the knowledge back outwards.
	The derelict moved again. A rushing, furious shift in velocity that sent the Traveller's myriad sensors into screaming fits of confusion. He tracked its path, saw the intersection. A near rendezvous, if he did nothing to alter his course. The Traveller's engines were dormant. The habitats were active. The crew was awake, and they were unaware: they would not know of the derelict's approach. Their eyes and their brains would not have time to notice it. Their bodies could not move fast enough to act on it. They could not draw a breath to speak before it was upon them.
	He watched it come. The great antennas were open, ready to speak.
	“Hello again,” he said in the short moments as the derelict's sleek shape streaked past the Traveller at relativistic speed.
	“Just picking up a passenger,” said the derelict, no-longer a feeble voice: it spoke with confidence and pride. He sent back a message, without words, without higher meaning, just an emotion spelled out in detailed contextual syntax: awe, raw and unashamed, and a deep, humble reverence. If he could bow, he would have. If he could move the Traveller with enough speed, he would arrest its spin and blackout its lights.
	“You're very kind,” said the voice, distant now as the derelict dwindled into a speck amongst the stars. “I hope we meet again. I hope we meet in happy circumstances.”
	“I hope we do too,” he called, as loudly as he could, reaching into the emptiness.

In the control room on board the derelict, all heads turned towards the glowing light hanging in the air. A circle of white light formed a ring around a patch of blackness. A familiar hum radiated outwards from it: the sound of life on board an Imperial ship, ingrained deep into the psyche of every wolf and canine in the room. They could see the dim shape of a wall and floor behind the hole.
	Then their perspective shifted: it wasn't a floor, it was a ceiling, looked at from a point on the floor.
	A naked foot appeared. It stepped out over the hole. They heard a yelp. The body the foot belonged to tumbled through the hole, twisting in the air as the direction of gravity suddenly twisted ninety degrees on its passage through.
	“Shepdard!” cried Soren, jumping up off of Aperio and taking off at a run towards him. Shepdard was naked, his fur damp. A crumpled towel lay tangled around his ankles.
	“What's going on?” he groaned, rolling towards the voice, seeing Soren, seeing Aperio beyond him. His eyes widened and he growled.
	“You!” he shouted. “Give me back my armour!”
	Aperio yelped and scrambled to his feet, taking off in a run. “Help!” he cried as a naked and angry Shepdard lumbered after him.
	The Wolves and Angels watched as the pair raced around the room, Aperio squealing in panic, Shepdard growling and shouting threats. Loki nudged Vanir.
	“Didn't we promise to protect him?”
	“In a minute,” he said, grinning. “Or two.”
Chapter Thirty - Epilogue.

The Empire spanned reaches untold between countless stars, blazing bright white, smouldering deep and bloated red, torn in the rapture of death or glowing fresh in the dusty brilliance of birth. Cities sprawled on continents and island chains, in domes submerged in deep seas, in caverns in the deep earth, in crystal chandeliers of metal and light spinning in the bright light of low orbits. Millions, billions, trillions lived, worked, played, died, and the Empire lived on, ever growing, expanding out into the untracked reaches. Few were aware that they were blossoming outwards into well-trodden territory, rebuilding rather than building an empire, a blooming flower taking the place of last year's dying rose.
	The derelict flew. Or, depending on your frame of reference, remained fixed and stationary as stars and planets flew past. Its catalogues swelled as its sensors swept systems to update its stores of information. The bio gel stored in its canisters reformed into the moulds chosen by Aperio, becoming the menagerie that roamed the corridors and rooms of the derelict. An ecosystem in its own right developed amongst the metal and machinery. Sometimes with difficulty, often with pain, and with false starts and blind alleys. Slowly, the species established themselves into a balance, working together and against aliens from many worlds to form a new and unique society of life.
	Soren found the armoury, or so he thought: the derelict thought wise to neglect to mention that Soren had only found one of the many small weapon repositories that were scattered across the derelict, and had he found the true armoury, where the really big weapons were stored, he might just give himself a heart attack in his joy. Or, he would blow a hole in the hull too large for the derelict to repair. Or both. Probably both. That section of the derelict echoed loudly with the thunderous sounds of Soren enjoying himself, and with the feverish buzzing of the derelict's repair systems catching up with the destruction, patching the holes.
	“Won't it be bad if he damages something important?” Tanner had asked.
	The only thing important in that section is Soren himself, and he's unlikely to damage that.
	A short while, and many teeth-shaking explosions later, the derelict quietly added, at least, I hope not.
	Axeln found his way to the engine cores, stubbornly refusing the assistance of the derelict to guide him there. “It's no fun if you help me,” he said. His only begrudging concession was to allow the derelict to open the doors along his path, as the prospect of opening up and manually overriding the mechanisms on six-hundred and fifty six individual doors was a little more than he would admit to enjoying.
	He whistled when he saw the cores. They towered above him and stretched into the distance, each glowing purple on the very edge of ultraviolet, so that they seemed to tingle and swim in his view, making his eyes water. He felt like a mouse trying to understand the workings of a nuclear reactor. “These are going to take a while to figure out,” he said, smiling harder than he'd ever smiled in his life, unfurling his Machinist arms and getting ready to enjoy himself.
	He won't break anything, said the voice.
	“Are you sure?” said Vanir.
	I've got backups on standby, just in case.
	Brother Daniel and Brother Zael stripped out of their armour and remained free from them, choosing instead to clothe themselves in gossamer thin garments that the derelict provided to them. Soren scoffed at their flimsiness, but conceded defeat after trying and failing to tear the fabric with his teeth, his glowing claws, and a selection of deadly devices pilfered from the derelict's weapon supply.
	“We should keep some of this handy,” said Loki. “For when we need to make your straitjacket.”
	Soren hit him with the edge of his palm. “Bah!”
	Daniel and Zael set off on a six week journey to scout and map the entirety of the derelict. The derelict assured them that it was unnecessary, that it had every atom of the ship mapped and catalogued.
	“We're not doing this for the map,” said Brother Daniel. “We're doing this to get the map.”
	The derelict admitted that it didn't understand what they meant. Daniel and Zael assured it that it didn't matter.
	The Wolves slept together, free of their armour, naked and entangled in warmth, fur and sweat. It was strange to Aperio at first, but after a few nights he started to see the appeal of the arrangement. Each night he cuddled close to his brother Wolves, sharing warmth, sharing air, and feeling safe and comfortable. Each night, Loki struggled to sleep, his nose constantly under assault of the teasing scents of Aperio's anatomy. He fretted, fighting instinct, trying to keep mind over matter, and every night he almost gave in to it.
	I have something to show you, said the derelict one morning. It led him to a room on the outskirts of the area of the derelict they had collectively decided to call “home”: even though they had full run of the derelict, it seemed more natural to divide off a small, manageable chunk to call their own. The room was like so many others in the derelict, empty and unremarkable, and Loki was about to accuse the derelict of playing a trick on him. But as he opened his mouth to speak, a figure materialised from the air in front of him, smiling, winking, naked.
	She is a simulation, derived from my workings. She is autonomous, as are the others like her that I can create for you. I will disengage monitoring of this room at any time that you see fit. I apologise if this may seem to be a crude and distasteful solution to your present situation.
	Loki grinned. “Got anything in red fur?”
	Shepdard took some time to absorb the story told to him. He had to take it fresh, all in one go, without seeing the evidence building up to it. He disappeared into an unknown area of the derelict, and the derelict refused to disclose his whereabouts.
	Shepdard has requested that I respect his privacy, and I will do so unless a situation arises that supersedes that request.
	“You and I are going to need to have a talk,” said Vanir, “about who is in charge here.”
	I am certainly amenable to establishing fresh boundaries of operation if the previous settings set by your predecessors are no-longer appropriate.
	Vanir stared at the black figure, blinking. “Well okay then.”
	Shepdard returned two days later, grinning happily, dressed in a garment supplied by the derelict. He had a synthetic bag stuffed full of small vials, which he dispersed among the Wolves.
	“The voice thing showed me how to make Ambrose that Wolves can take!”
	It was a simple change in the molecular structure.
	“It's modest too,” said Shepdard.
	Aperio took possession of his new armour. Wearing it, he stood a full head shorter than the others in their armour, but he didn't care: this armour was sized perfectly for him. It fit his body properly. It moved with perfect calibration matching his inputs. It wasn't the clanking, clumsy bulk that Shepdard's armour had been.
	“This must be what it feels like for you guys wearing armour,” he said. “No wonder you love it!”
	For weeks he wouldn't take it off, except to sleep with the other Wolves, and to bathe: which, embarrassing for a while, consisted of lengthy sessions of mutual grooming. He spent countless hours bounding around the cavernous halls of the derelict, springing off of walls and jetting in sweeping spirals with his manoeuvring thrusters. He went for hull-hopping trips out in space. His fear of the dangers never stopped him, and they dwindled almost to nothing as each successive trip brought nothing but childish glee.
	“You're a pup with a new toy,” commented Vanir. Aperio only grinned back as he gnawed on the synthetic sagboar the derelict had conjured up for them to cook.
	Aperio and Tanner drifted together, slowly but steadily. They never noticed a particular moment when the friendly nudges of affection and the happy hours of conversation and play became something more. The others noticed. Sergeant Vanir and Sergeant Lorenzo sat together, drinking some new intoxicating drink that the derelict had created and suggested that they try, watching Aperio and Tanner together in embrace at the other end of the observation lounge, underneath the vast wall of stars shining behind the window.
	“Either we decide on a place to settle,” said Lorenzo. “Or we expect more of that with the others.”
	Vanir snorted. “My lot pairing up with your lot?”
	“Something like that. Strange things happen when you're in a strange place.”
	“We are in a strange place,” admitted Vanir, sipping his drink and grimacing. “This stuff is strange too. What is it?”
	Whiskey.
	“Weird,” said Vanir.
	“We might stop somewhere and pick up new people,” said Lorenzo.
	“Could do. Or we could conquer a planet.”
	“We could do that as well. But should we?”
	Vanir shrugged. “Dunno.”
	“We could conquer the whole Empire if we wanted to. Or found our own. Or just wipe it all out: I've seen some of the weapons this ship carries. Modestly equipped, it said. We could wipe out our whole species without coming close to depleting what we've got on board.”
	“We should flush that stuff out into space,” said Vanir. “Or burn it up. Or whatever we need to do. Dump it in a sun or something.”
	“Agreed.” Lorenzo smirked and sipped his drink. “No genocide for us. But the other options remain. Replace the Emperor and his rotten core with ourselves?”
	“Yeah, we could. But who wants the hassle?”
	“Fly off into parts unknown and carve our own destiny?”
	“Some of us have families. We might want to go back to them.”
	Lorenzo nodded. “It's a tricky problem.”
	Vanir downed his drink and gasped, a shudder rippling through him. “Don't think we gotta make it now.”
	“Oh of course not. And I don't think we can make it for them either,” he said, nodding towards Aperio and Tanner, then nodding again towards the wall facing the interior of the ship, where the rest of the Wolves and Angels lurked, each doing their own thing. “After all, are we still in charge? We're not Wolves and Angels any more, technically, now we've absconded from the Empire.”
	Vanir shook his head and tapped the table with his finger. “Wolves until death, whether the Empire exists or not. And I don't think your guys are just gonna give up what you've got either. You Angels are just as much a family as we Wolves are in our pack, and don't you dare tell the others I said that.”
	Lorenzo grinned at him. “You have my word.”
	And mine.
	“Hey,” laughed Vanir. “Snooping ship...voice...thing!”
	“That reminds me,” said Lorenzo. “What should we call you? Do you have a name?”
	 Not one that is presently suitable.
	“Should we give you a name? Or do you want to think one up for yourself?”
	I will turn my attention towards the creation of a suitable name.
	Vanir and Lorenzo went quiet, watching Aperio and Tanner nuzzle closer together. They looked at each other and silently came to an agreement: Vanir nodded his head towards the door. They stood and quietly slipped out, leaving the couple alone.
	“We could go anywhere,” said Aperio.	
	“Mmmhmm,” said Tanner.
	“Do anything. See anything we want. Meet anyone. Everyone!”
	“Yeah.”
	“Where do you want to go, Tanner?”
	“Nowhere else but here,” he said, rubbing his nose through Aperio's cheek fur.
	Aperio giggled. “You know what I mean.”
	“Yup. Not changing my answer.”
	They watched the stars for a bit. The derelict was stationary in relation to the nearest star, which was still a speck, only slightly brighter than the surrounding specks. This was as close as they needed to be for the derelict's sensors to drink in all the information it needed from the star and its planets. Another system of inhabited worlds, with billions of souls living under the Empire.
	“At some point we're gonna have to decide what we want to do,” said Aperio, staring at the star. “In the long term, I mean.”
	“I know.”
	“But...not just yet,” he said, turning to kiss his mate, closing his eyes to the stars.