The ballroom was a vast chamber of marble floors and walls, with stained-glass windows depicting battles, while chandeliers of crystal and bone hung from the vaulted ceilings, and a raised dais held Goethe's throne-like seat.

Servants glided through, offering drink and rare delicacies to the recessed alcoves where nobles and officers sat whispering.

The gold-inlaid dance floor saw rigid, formal dances to somber music, interspersed with partnered minuets and waltzes, performed by a small ensemble on a shadowed gallery.

The ballroom thronged with nobles, naval officers, and their jeweled consorts, their finery not the martial austerity he had expected.

Marine, Albion, and Ierne officers clustered in tight knots, their laughter sharp and hollow, while a few Sanguineous Sisters speckled the crowd, the strange crimson habits of their Ordo Sanctus Puritas sticking out roughly.

Angar stood apart, moving around, studying the attendees for an hour or so, his bandaged jaw, probably bleeding through, drawing sidelong glances.

It didn't take long for him to loath this crowd of preening sycophants and posturing weaklings, their piety as thin as their silks.

A knot of young naval officers caught his eye, their laughter drawing his attention.

Nearby them, a girl wept, her girthy frame trembling as she hid behind a tattered kerchief, the part of her face Angar could make out marred by pock scars, with a hairline grossly indented from a terrible burn.

Her cheap gown marked her as lowborn, her presence here, among the elite, an anomaly, as were her tears.

Angar's mind churned as he tried piecing together the scene. And failing.

As she was hard to recognize unarmored, when Hierarch Pumatay appeared beside him, it took a moment to realize it was her.

"God and Empire, Sir Angar," she said in her loud and gruff voice. "Frieden sends regards."

"He's not here?" Angar asked.

"No. Viscount Designate Kharab, his old captain, is though." She nodded toward a cadre of Ierne officers. "Frieden squirreled out of this muck, and Kharab somehow squirreled his way out of standing with the other dignitaries in the reception line."

"Send my regards to Frieden, please, then," Angar told her, distracted.

Silence hung between them until Pumatay followed Angar's gaze to the weeping woman.

"It's a cruel game they call 'Dogfight,'" she said in a flat, disapproving tone. "Each officer vies to escort the most undesirable woman. That one's the last here, still enduring their mockery for some reason. The others fled in tears."

Rage surged in Angar's chest, a molten tide threatening to drown his reason. His grip tightened on the maul. He took a step forward before halting himself.

He needed to think this through.

He tried understanding the men's mindset. He couldn't. He couldn't understand how they stood there, laughing, continuing to make cruel sport of the girl, or how her cries weren't breaking their hearts, their souls yearning for forgiveness and penance.

He had orders from Hidetada to behave. His penance stood with fifty-five souls yet to save. Nine officers stood laughing. He weighed repercussions against his desires.

He decided anyone that could torment this woman so callously were depraved, unworthy, undeserving of the Lord's grace.

He couldn't leave until Harc left. Until then, he was done studying these people, these vipers, or caring what the attendees thought of him, or how it'd reflect on his chapter, or what Hidetada wanted.

Setting it down, Angar asked Pumatay to watch his hammer, nodded curtly to her, and approached the girl, her sobs muffled by the kerchief.

Extending a gloved hand, he asked, "Good woman, I'm no dancer, and unskilled, but if you'll forgive me that, may I have this dance?"

Her eyes, red-rimmed and wary, met his, expecting only more cruelty.

Diligence Pelden, as she introduced herself, taught him the rigid steps of many dances, her patience a balm, her comportment a counter to his unskilled awkwardness.

And they danced through the evening, her smiles and laughter easing his embarrassment, along with the weight of his fury, uncaring what others thought as the two enjoyed themselves.

She'd been naturally born and raised, graduating parish schooling instead of Cloisteranage the year before. Her scars came from a United Front attack in her childhood.

Her father, an enlisted sailor, was excited, hoping her invitation to accompany an officer to a formal ball would secure a good marriage, and her future, fearing she'd become an old maid.

As Harc signaled their departure, Diligence pressed a gentle kiss to Angar's lips, telling him, "Thanks for making this night so wonderful, Sir Knight."

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"And the same to you," he replied, "sweet Diligence."

As Harc departed, Angar escorted nine very frightened young officers to the nearby cathedral, leaving forty-six souls left for his penance.

Simo walked through the administrative district of Lerig Imperial Megastation, headed to the Task Consoles, the now familiar weight of his Doombringer slung over his shoulder.

He'd been on-station for well over a week. Veerta loved staying in that fancy hotel, but Simo disliked it, and the people in it.

The food, though, was amazing. Most of the time. Some of the stuff rich folk ate was disgusting beyond words.

He wished to spend more time with his kids and grandkids, especially Jon, but Saint Hidetada and Harc consumed the boy's days, burying him under endless assignments and crushing responsibilities.

Even during rare family outings, moments meant for laughter and connection, Jon would pull out a slate, his eyes fixed on the screen, muttering, "Sorry, reading assignment. I must finish this."

Simo's heart sank, swimming with worry. He'd hoped his own influence might soften Jon, make him less cold, less calculating. Instead, the boy grew more distant, shaped by duty's unyielding grip, slipping further from the man Simo prayed he'd become.

The Peregrines had been ordered to complete as many local tasks as possible while on station.

These came from Task Consoles, assigned by various Officia Imperii, from local bureaus to Imperial Command, and even Holy Theosis itself sometimes.

Hidetada pushed for combat-focused tasks to get the crew comfortable fighting alongside Simo, probably to test his mettle too.

Three brutal missions had already bloodied the crew. Today, Simo had to pick a task to tackle with just one other Peregrine assisting. He'd pick Kong. The man was a beast in a fight, whether up close and personal, or at mid-range.

The console offered plenty of combat-focused tasks alongside simple and easy ones, such as fraud investigations, deliveries, escorts, guarding, or standing up to local thugs, each with a credit award. Divine Theosis also awarded XP to registered Free Agents at a task's completion.

But one task, posted by a slum district clergyman who taught at a parish school, gnawed at Simo's gut.

A young girl had stopped attending classes, nor was she at home when the brother checked. Her parents, workers at the Bey's Pure Water and Volatiles factory, claimed she'd gone to an uncle in a nearby cluster, but no record transfer was filed.

The clergyman, suspicious, learned both parents were Cloisteranage-born, meaning they had no siblings. He'd gone to the vigiles, but they wouldn't act without the parents reporting the girl missing.

He'd dug deeper, asking around. Whispers pointed to the parents as mist addicts, a highly addictive synthetic opiate, indebted to a gang called the Eighth and Echo Boys. These gangers ran one of the massive residential buildings filling the slum districts, dubbed poor houses.

Regardless of city or world or station, poor houses had the same S-shape design of forty floors with 613 units each, up to sixty thousand souls packed in like rats.

The credit award was near nothing, but Simo had to take this task.

After his father had died, he'd grown up in a poor house before going off to Cloisteranage as an ascendent.

After his discharge from the army, he and Veerta had settled on Erim for their daughter and grandkids. When Mari moved to corporate housing in Ur-sag, on the other side of Zanaya, after her husband's promotion a few months later, unable to have extended family live with them, Simo and Veerta had been stuck in a new poor house.

He knew the stench, the layout, the gangs that ruled like petty lords, peddling flesh, drugs, and gambling while also acting as the local government, the only protection and law the residents had.

The Eighth and Echo Boys were no different, fortifying their poor house near the district's sole tramway, cracking down on crime, keeping their non-slummer customers and the local merchants safe, and ensuring the elderly and cripples went to Sunday Mass and tithed the Church, avoiding the gaze and purges of the Ordines Sanctus Puritas.

All for a price. Protection money bled from every resident and shop in or around the poor house.

The gang's turrets and shielding barriers marked them as well-armed, especially for slum gangers, fortifying every entrance. They were doing well.

He and Kong questioned the parents. Those two were disgustingly depraved, beyond redemption. Their gaunt faces twitched under addition's grip, lips cracked, and teeth stained, reeking of a sick sourness that turned Simo's stomach.

A little pressure broke them, spilling the deal, their girl kept as collateral on a debt. They had two days to pay it off, but no plan to.

Simo and Kong moved on the gang, working through stragglers, finally getting their hands on someone who recognized the girl, and knew her location.

Rappelling from the roof, they slipped through a window into a darkened unit reeking of filth, stale air brimming with sweat and despair.

The girl was there. She wasn't alone. A half dozen others huddled with her, wide-eyed, trembling.

The bedroom beside it held young boys, and the living area was crammed with adults, muttering to free them quickly as the guards would return soon. They also said other nearby resident units held more folk, and most of them weren't hostages held for debt.

They were taken as slaves, bound for the processing, refining, and recycling plants, working the materials collected from the circumstellar debris belt.

And Simo had thought the Eighth and Echo Boys had sunk too far into depravity, using children as collateral. Slavery was much worse.

"Take the girl, stick to the original plan," Deli's voice crackled through the comms. "I've alerted the authorities."

Simo's jaw tightened and he shook his head. Vigiles hardly ever entered the slums, usually only to quell riots. If and when the authorities arrived, there wouldn't be a single piece of evidence left in these residents, or the vigiles would be bribed to say so.

If a sect of the Ordo Sanctus Puritas got wind of slavery, they'd come in force, and purge ganger and slummer alike. They'd get it done, but that was a cure worse than the disease.

Simo turned to Kong, unslinging his lancer. They were both just about as powerful as third Tier Laymen could be. "I say we go full Sir Angar right now, do the Lord's work, slaughter all these slaving bastards."

Kong frowned, shifting his bulk, then shook his head. "Too dangerous. You really want to die for some slummers?"

"No," Simo replied, hoping Kong was just testing him. "But I won't walk away and leave kids here. None of these folk. I'm staying and fighting."

Kong sighed, checking his auto-pistol. "Deli, any Peregrines free? We're going hot."

"That's a no-go," stated Deli. "Extract the girl, stick to the original plan."

"Comms are bad," lied Kong. "I missed that last part. If you hear me, we're going hot. Send backup."

As Deli barked out drivel, Simo couldn't stop his lips from splitting his face. He knew Kong was a good man, God-fearing, with a good heart, willing to do the right thing.

"Prepare for one Hell of a fight, old man," said Kong. "We'll clear the gangers from this hall and secure this wing's Central Lift Nexus. That's our kill zone. I'll hack the building and activate its defenses. No need to worry about our six and windows after the duracrete sectioning and shutters fall."

Simo nodded, and both men turned, heading to the hallway, to battle.

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