The Warp-tunnel was a screaming kaleidoscope of violet and silver outside the viewports. Inside the Mercy of Silence, the air was thick with the smell of ozone and the quiet, rhythmic breathing of a ship that was now a predator.
Kane sat in the Bishop's high throne. He wasn't resting. His skin was pale, and black veins were spiderwebbing up his neck. The Bishop's Rank-8 core was sitting in his gut like a swallowed sun, trying to burn its way out.
"Sarge, you look like hell," Vance said, walking onto the bridge. He was carrying a tray of "Consortium Manna-Cakes"—the high-tier food the officers ate. It tasted like honey and electricity.
"It's... resisting," Kane rasped, his eyes flickering between silver and solid black. "The Bishop's soul doesn't want to be digested. It's trying to rewrite my code from the inside."
"Then let me help," Doc said, stepping out of the shadows. She didn't use her spores. She placed a hand on Kane's chest, her emerald energy acting as a stabilizer. "I can't eat it for you, Kane. But I can keep your heart from stopping while you do."
Kane groaned, his armor shifting and groaning. "Vance... how's the crew?"
"The pirates are restless," Vance reported, leaning against a gold pillar. "They're used to raiding freighters, not steering a Tier-9 cathedral. But Korgos is keeping them in line. He cracked a few skulls this morning to remind them who's boss."
"And the High-Artificers?"
"Elara is a quick study," Vance grinned, a jagged, dangerous look. "She's terrified of you, Sarge. Every time she looks at your throne, she shakes. She's been teaching Sully how to overclock the main thrusters. We're moving faster than the Consortium's own pursuit fleets."