Everything was a vibrant shade of blue—the shade of blue that makes medicine taste like syrup, or perhaps the shade of blue that hides in a loaf of bread, turning it a particularly fun color of death. Yes, everything was the kind of blue that certain amphibians wear, not to blend in, but to loudly brag—eat me, and you will suffer a very painful and embarrassing end.

Even the warped shapes of all those people, standing just beyond the glass, were blue.

Olm blinked. Still blue.

He tried to wipe his eyes, but his hand moved slowly—as if he were underwater. Oh, he thought. I am underwater. He pushed the glass, and felt a sharp stiffness in one of his hearts as he did. The glass barely moved. Olm pressed his back against the vat, and kicked the glass. The liquid in the vat gurgled dangerously.

Through the glass, he saw a crowd of xenos, all of them wearing the same tan-colored tunics. They lingered, but did not look at him. In fact, none of them were moving.

He put both legs on the glass, and heaved until cracks spidered up and down the clear surface. His muscles bulged, and a few black tubes popped out of his flesh, spraying cloudy stuff into the vat’s blue juice. He bit down hard on the tube in his mouth, and slammed his feet hard. Gravity rewarded him by yanking him, and all that blue liquid, out of the shattered glass and onto the floor.

He dropped to the cold floor, tubes tugging at his chest and his orifices. The ones in orifices were easy, though extremely uncomfortable, to remove. But the one in his chest was more than skin deep; it was plugged directly into his heart.

“At least there’s only one,” he said, his throat still raw.

Apparently, the Queen didn’t know all hrutskuld have three hearts. Once again, nobody bothered to learn shit about him. In any other circumstance, it would have pissed him off.

His fingers dragged down his stone-like flesh (of course, it was nothing like stone, more like camouflage against stone, but you try making the distinction to any smooth-skinned xeno) and touched at the tube, soft and flexible and pale white, like the root of a monstrous onion.

Olm shook his head at the thought of what he had to do. And before he could even think about not doing it, he grabbed the tube with both hands and pulled. He roared, mostly so he wouldn’t have to listen to the slurping sound of a tube leaving his organ. It came out with a wet plop, and blood sprinkled the floor, turning the blue puddles a dizzying shade of purple. He rolled over, and pressed one hand to the hole in his chest, hoping the blood would stop before he lost too much. It felt like a white-hot iron was piercing him in the chest, and the chill bit against his wet skin until he was shivering uncontrollably.

Between the blood leaking from his heart, and the pain, and the cold, he almost forgot about the other xenos standing in the room, until he bumped into one of their feet. He jerked over, ready to kick out. Ready to die like a hrutskuld—

None of them moved. There were dozens, scattered around the vats, and they just … stood there. Mouths, if they had them, agape. Like patrons at a bar, watching the screens on the walls, too drunk to realize the screens were off and they were only staring at their own reflections.

One of the xenos swayed, but didn’t fall. They didn’t even realize he was there. Probably, they didn’t even know they were there.

Olm cursed his luck. He wouldn’t even get to die with honor. And then, his chest started to burn. To itch. The blood still dripped through his fingers, but he couldn’t resist the burning need to scratch. He spread his fingers, expecting the blood to gush out. Instead, he saw a shiny crust, too dark to be clotted blood. A black shape, crystallizing over the hole.

By the void, Olm thought, if I wasn’t Dys-cursed before, I am now.

He wiped his bloody hands on his naked thighs (of course, they had to take my clothes) and pulled himself off the floor. The air tasted stale, and when he looked up, he almost wished he hadn’t left the vat. Thousands of glass chambers were stacked on top of each other, rising in glass walls up to a ceiling so high it made him dizzy. Bridges and walkways strung out from floor to floor, and there were xenos everywhere. All of them were just sort of … leaning. Their spines were slumped, and they looked like a crowd of question marks, swaying in place.

“Hey,” Olm whispered at the nearest one—a squat, rotund xeno with a face like a mole lizard. “Have you seen a couran around here?”

In answer, a string of drool dropped from the xeno’s mouth. Judging by the obsidian in its eye sockets, it hadn’t seen much of anything. Olm rubbed a hand over his own eye, wondering if his would soon look the same.

The liquid crept into the cracks in his skin, making him shiver with the chill air. Olm stumbled through the hive of vats and mindless xenos, one hand clutched to his heart wound, and the other covering his nethers (for warmth, more than anything else), He stopped just long enough to strip one of the larger xenos of their tan tunic, and pulled it over his own body.

The ground shook. His knees almost gave out, and he had to spread his feet to keep his balance. Deep in the alien architecture, something groaned, and the ground shook again. Above, a row of vats came down in a violent crashing of metal and glass, crushing at least one xeno under its fall.

Vaguely, Olm wondered if the Poets considered getting pancaked by a vat an honorable death. The walls groaned.

“Okay,” Olm said. “I get the hint.”

He had to find Caly. And if her heart is pierced like mine? Unlike hrutskuld, courans were deficient—they only had the one.

He rushed up the metal steps, across two catwalks, and through an open door which dumped him into a hallway that looked like every other one before it. This damn Spirine. Polished floors and near-organic curves displayed rows and rows of vats that lined the walls, most of them full of xenos. Some of the poor creatures even had their eyes open, and stared straight ahead at nothing. Some looked like they had been floating for years, maybe longer, for their skin had turned wrinkly and pale. I didn’t know you could pickle people, Olm thought, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

But it was the ones out of their vats that bothered him the most. They littered the hallways, leaning and dangling their limp arms behind their backs, their heads lolling to the sides. Obsidian growths drew lines down their flesh, and some had limbs that grew into tools whose purposes Olm could only guess at. Worse, they all breathed in unison—a gentle, quiet gurgling that made it feel like the walls themselves were inhaling. And exhaling. And…

At first, Olm stepped gingerly around them. Then, when the floor trembled, he started pushing the catatonic xenos out of the way. Eventually, he was barreling through them, shoving them out of the way while running and shouting Caly’s name. The echoes of his own voice chased after him. And chasing the echoes, was the breathing of countless, empty-headed xenos. Inhaling… Exhaling…

A scraping sound caught his ear.

“Caly?” Olm stopped, and listened. One hand clamped to his chest, where the obsidian clot still itched. His hearts were beating in his ears, making it hard to hear.

The scraping turned to hammering. It was coming from behind one of those bird-wing doors. Olm waved his hand in front of the door. Nothing. He tried knocking. It didn’t budge. He gripped one wing with both hands, and pulled. It started to slide. He pulled harder, gritting his teeth and straining with all his might.

It burst open, and so did the obsidian clot over his heart. Warm blood trickled down his chest, and no matter how hard he pressed his hand to it, it kept bleeding. And the air… He gasped. Why was the air so thin?

A muted thumping caught his attention.

These vats were different. There were only a handful of them, and white, ornate metal wrapped over the glass in intricate patterns. In each one, another couran floated in peaceful, mindless sleep.

Except for one. Caly looked furious. There were so many tubes coming out of her, Olm almost couldn’t tell that she was naked. And then he saw her face. It had been so long since he’d seen her without her helmet, he almost didn’t recognize her. His eyes traveled down her body, searching for signs of damage. Caly, unashamed, held out her hands as if to say, “I’m fine.”

Or, knowing Caly, she probably meant, “Get me the fuck out of here.”

A set of steps, a kind of polished metal made to look like marble, led up to her vat. When Olm started up the steps, he swooned. His vision went dark around the edges. He had to go slow, one step at a time, and his chest was heaving by the time he reached the top. And when he thumped a fist on the glass, it barely made a sound.

“I’ve lost,” he gasped, “Too much blood. Caly—I don’t think—I can break it.”

She was pointing at something behind him. Some xeno was leaning in the corner, a string of drool hanging from his lip. His hands looked like pickaxes made of obsidian. In what world, Olm wondered angrily, is that better than just giving the xeno a damn pickaxe? Olm had to guide Pickaxe Hands up the steps like a nurse guiding a patient drugged out on nitrous oxide. “Come on. Another step. And another.” And when he lifted the xeno’s arm, the xeno held it hanging in the air.

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“No,” Olm said, his words barely a wheeze. “Hit the glass. The glass. Hit it.”

The xeno, arm still in the air, smacked his forehead on the glass.

Olm sighed, which came out more like a gurgle, given the blood in his throat. He gripped the xeno by the shoulder, which was harder than it seemed, and swung his arm. When the glass shattered, Caly spilled out, and all that blue liquid filled the room with a stinging, cloying, chemical smell that made his eyes water.

She lay on the ground, gagging and tugging the tubes out of her mouth, even as her stomach heaved, and she vomited clear, bluish liquid gel. Olm sat down beside her. Partially for moral support, but mostly because the world was getting a bit dark.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Absolutely fucking not,” she said, right before retching again. Olm put a hand on her back, patting her gently. The world swayed a little. Whose blood is that on my shirt? He thought. And then he remembered.

“I had her. I thought I had her. I should have had her!” Caly gathered the tubes in a fist and yanked them out of her body. They left tiny, needle-point holes in her skin, nothing like the gaping wound in Olm’s chest. “I don’t know what I was thinking, Olm. I mean, I know why we came here—the money. But this was fucking stupid. I thought I was good enough, but I’m a fool. You’d need half the Navy to fight whatever that is—”

Her eyes went wide. She pulled Olm’s hand away from his chest, where a rosette of blood stained his stolen tunic.

“It’s nothing,” Olm said.

“Fuck you, that’s not nothing. Olm, we need to get you—”

“I’ve had worse.”

“When?”

“Caly, we have to go get him.”

“Who?”

“Caly…”

“The human? You want to walk back down there, where that thing is? She’s not couran. Not anymore. She’s probably painting the walls with his blood right now.” Caly started to stand up, when the floor jumped up and punched her in the chin. She cursed.

“You know he’s not.”

“I know he’s not worth it. You’re my partner, Olm. And it was insanely reckless of me to put us both in this position. Look, I’m sorry—”

Olm breathed in deep, trying not to cough up his own blood. And he used her name like a spell, in that tone she had taught him, “Caly.”

It actually worked. She actually stopped talking, and listened.

“When you first told me we were going to chase after him, I thought that was reckless. I didn’t know what he was, but I knew he was dangerous. Reckoned you were going to get us both killed. I followed, because I trusted you. And I’m glad I did, because you were right about him. And you’re still right. If you want the money to get off this rock—if you ever want to join the Cavs—you need him.”

“Fuck the Cavs!” she said. “And fuck the human.”

He knew she didn’t mean it. Well, at least the part about the Cavaliers. Ever since he’d known her, joining the Enforcer’s Elite had been her guiding star, and by extension, his. Something about her had helped him, when he was nothing more than a shell, a brutal beast fighting in the Pits. It was her dream that led them across the stars. It was, for better or worse, why they’d got stuck on New Nowhere. And it was her dream that kept Olm, a useless exile, a hrutskuld who should have died in battle long ago, purpose. Even though it was only an empty fantasy.

“You must face the danger. Do not be afraid.”

“It’s not my safety I’m worried about,” she said, her voice cracking with pent-up fear. “You need medical attention, Olm. Right now.”

“Caly,” he said, his voice rumbling like a boulder rolling down a gravel hill. “He’s our partner.”

She glared at him. She spit a string of blue fluid on the floor.

Olm didn’t blink. “You need him. Not me.”

And though her expression didn’t change at all, he felt the oppressive power of that look, the one he thought of as her death stare. It had worked on many a poor xeno before him. Stars, it had worked on Olm once or twice. But not this time. Olm owed her everything, and he had long searched for a better way to pay her back. Following her, helping her with her plans—even the dangerous ones—it had never felt like enough. There was a reason they were always broke, and wandering across the desert, running from one Mayor to another, taking any job that came their way. The Cavaliers … a fantasy.

But now?

He had seen what the human could do.

“Our partner is just as crazy as Yole,” Caly said. “He actually thinks he started a war. And not just any war, Olm. And what do I need with an idiot whose afraid of hurting people?”

“You’ve seen what he can do.”

Her nostrils flared. But they both knew the truth: they couldn’t keep going like this, just the two of them, against the universe. Olm could never give her what she deserved.

But the human…

So, they glared at each other. Two stubborn fools, each trying to throw it all away to help the other.

The Spirine rumbled. Olm heard a crash, and somewhere a pipe burst, making a spraying, hissing sound. Worse, he didn’t see any gas.

“Fine,” Caly said. “But first, lift your shirt.”

Olm wasn’t wearing anything underneath. And with the tubes out of her system, Caly wasn’t wearing anything at all. Anyone other than her, and he would have blushed (which looked like forge flames breathing through the cracks in his skin). She ripped the tunic off Pickaxe Hands, and ripped the fabric with her teeth, tearing it into long strips.

“Turn around,” she said, and she looped the strips around his shoulders, crossing them over the wound and pulled tight enough to make Olm give a grunting gasp.

“Too tight?”

“No,” he squeaked. “It’s good.”

When he turned to face her, their eyes met. Worry was written all over her face. He smiled, the best he could. His eyes traveled up to those stunted tips on her forehead, the ones that would never grow. Then, to her close-cropped hair, still dripping with vat juice. She shivered.

“Come on,” Olm said. “Let’s find you some clothes.”

The walls shuddered. One of the tanks shattered and gushed fluid all over the floor.

“What the void is doing that?” Caly asked.

“I think the question is who. And I think we both know the answer.”

***

“Let go of the Spirine,” the human pleaded, “It’s only you and me here. You can let—”

The Queen loosed a banshee cry, heedless of the rawness of her throat. Fresh spears sprouted from the column’s tattered, misshapen mass. The spears swelled into branches, or curled into thorny, black vines that shed obsidian dust as they whipped and flailed and churned the air. And yet, she couldn’t touch him. She could feel his boots running, jumping off her own Spirine, but she couldn’t touch him.

This worm thought he was above her—above even the power of the Dys.

The obsidian on her jaw had split apart, cutting her lips into a vicious grin. Pain seared her lungs, and her heart couldn’t keep up. Her body (this body) was almost used up. Yole would’ve held back, but the Spirine’s urges were louder. Kill him.

She filled her lungs with one last clean breath.

Vines and branches jutted up from the ramp, transforming the length of the pillar into a massive vortex of thorns and briars and grasping branches. Mixed in with the vines were hollow tendrils, full of gas that escaped through pores in the metal. When the gas mixed with oxygen, it began to fizz and crackle.

“Don’t do this,” the human said.

“It’s too late to beg,” she said. The electric crackling amplified as the molecules in the air began to react. It only took one, and all the others flashed. An explosion ripped the air. It threw her off the shredded ramp before the laughter could even leave her lips—

Arms as strong as iron collided with her, knocking the wind from her lungs. His body, all slender muscles and hard angles, shielded her from the flames. Silvery threads covered his skin like spider silk covers a forest floor. Only his hair burned, and by the stars did it burn. Did he care?

“I won’t let you die,” He whispered with gritted teeth, “I can’t.”

As if it was his choice.

Yole clawed at his face. Her nails came back bloody. The human didn’t even have the decency to scream. He only glared at her, as if she had done nothing more than slap him. So, she swiped again.

He flickered (how?) and she fell back to the ramp and something snapped beneath her. It took a moment for the pain to register, and then she gasped. But the Spirine didn’t care. It screamed at her to find him, find him and kill him! Only, she couldn’t see move. It felt like ice water was running down her legs, and she couldn’t move them.

The eyes of the Spirine rolled in their thousands, raked the dark chasm below.

The human found her first. He crouched over her, his brow wrinkled with worry. “I can fix this,” he said, gingerly laying his hands on her side. “I can help you.”

KILL HIM. KILL THE WORM. KILL—

“Stop it,” he said. And Yole felt the Spirine rear up, all the vines and limbs and tendrils of deadly obsidian lifted their heads to strike—and froze.

The human had pulled out his gun. That absurd barrel was aimed at the column that fed the Breaker, one finger laying across the trigger. The weapon’s chamber glowed, and through the Spirine she could feel that impossible, infinite vibration emanating from that chamber. Like it was pulling her in.

Oh.

Not even the Scriptures of the Dys spoke of this.

What is it? The Spirine longed to taste it. To touch at its power. It almost wanted him to squeeze the trigger, just so it could know.

“You can’t win,” he said, “Not like this.”

And the Spirine laughed, an electric, shrieking sound like live wires dragged across ice.

Again, he was right. They couldn’t win. Not like this.

Not alone.

With the column so damaged, to use the Breaker now would be an act of faith. If the coils were unbound, the feedback might destroy everything. But why be cautious now?

Yole couldn’t move, but she didn’t need to. The Spirine was there for her, just like it had always been. Vines cradled her, and dragged her across the floor until she could touch the column. Feel its humming lifeblood in her own veins. She pressed her hand into it, and the column opened to let her in.

To an observer above, the low-hanging branches of the Spirine, now burrowing into sand and stone, would have drained of all their color—from that shining white to pale red to shining obsidian. Immense reserves of matter were broken and consumed, and through the Breaker, catalyzed into something more.

A delicate sound rang out: Ping!

Only, this time, from the depths below, with a dreadful reverberation, something rang back.