Page 47 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

No. Not quite empty. My eye follows the gray motes, which converge on the far side. There a semi-circular pillar runs from floor to ceiling, like half a pipe stuck to the wall. The flow of gray stuff rushes into it, pulled upward and out of sight, like what I saw in the pillars outside but much brighter and more powerful.

Beside the pillar are two more corpses. They sit side by side, one grinning skull on the other’s shoulder, their hands entwined between them. This place’s last defenders, perhaps, who retreated here when the crabs came. They don’t look like they died fighting, and I take a few steps forward to get a closer look.

“… soka…” The voice rises from the faint babble, stronger than the others. For a moment I think I’ve imagined it. “… Isoka…”

Rot. I turn in a slow circle, just to confirm I’m alone.

“… hear … it’s…”

“H … hello?” My own voice isn’t as strong as I intended it to be. But rot, there’s no one here. I grit my teeth and take another step forward, bringing me within arm’s length of the pillar. “Is someone there?”

No answer. The gray motes swirl around me, my legs making eddies in the flow as they rush onward. I reach down to touch them, and they swirl around my fingers like smoke.

“Isoka.” The voice is definitely stronger.

“Who’s there?” Then, without really knowing why, I ask, “Hagan?”

The voice could be his. And—rot, that was a dream. I killed Hagan, and dead is dead.

I raise my hand, and brush my finger against the pillar.

Something moves.

Perhaps not my most brilliant idea, all told.

The gray motes curl around me, thickening into spinning bands of light that spin like a berserk gyroscope. The distant voices get louder, the susuruss of quiet whispers rising into a high-pitched mosquito whine that seems to bore right into my skull. And then …

I can feel it, something vast and alien, turning its attention in my direction. The gray light mounds up in front of me, and before I can do more than blink it rushes inward like a striking cobra, streaming in through my eyes and mouth and ears. It’s spreading through me, investigating me, cataloguing me with the dispassionate attention of a naturalist dissecting a specimen. It’s gone in an instant, before I even have time to scream.

It doesn’t speak. The communication is more basic than that, a feeling blasted directly into my mind, so strong it drives me to my knees:

UNAUTHORIZED/REJECTED

“… Isoka!… coming…”

Blessed’s rotting balls in a vise. I surge back to my feet, igniting my blades. The green Melos light pushes back the darkness, fading the gray to wraith-like wisps. My heart pounds, but the familiar feeling of my power crackling through my arms helps me stay calm. I back away from the pillar, turning in a slow circle.

Something has changed. Silently, one of the walls of the room had opened, revealing a long passageway stretching off into darkness. In the depth of that shadow, something glows blue.

The glowing figure takes a step forward, and the ground shakes, sand jumping across the metal deck. It’s too big to make out, by the light of my blades, and I can only see fragments of it, sliding through the shifting radiance. Smooth, gray skin, like rock, big, bulky segmented legs surrounded by rings of waving, clutching human arms. Along its flank, a row of smooth, gray faces, living death masks with eyes that follow me and mouths open in an endless scream. High above, a faceted crystal that shines from within with pale blue light, a gemstone bigger than my fist embedded in the thing’s skin.

It’s not a crab. I saw something like this when I was brought aboard, lining the edges of Soliton’s deck.

An angel.

UNAUTHORIZED/REJECTED

It takes a step forward, shifting between me and the door, limbs stretching toward me like something out of a nightmare. I back away, closer to the pillar.

Oh, rot.

The gray light flickers. Something is moving, writhing, in the shifting mix of gray and blue and green. The motes fall inward until they’re nearly solid, shaping themselves into a man-sized figure. It grows more distinct as the angel advances, arms and legs and a head, clothes of a familiar cut, a face—

It holds out a hand. Wisps of gray light lash out, wrapping themselves around the angel, and the huge thing freezes in place. The figure turns to face me.

Hagan. It’s Hagan, though he’s warped and distorted, as though I’m seeing his reflection in a shifting pool of mercury. His eyes meet mine, though. When he speaks, there’s a crackling buzz like a swarm of wasps that nearly drowns out his words. Nearly, but not quite.

“Isoka.”