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... said, the words soft as cotton yet sharp enough to cut.

The tune crackled louder, filling the shaft like rising water. Rodion's audio meters spiked red. He flicked his wrist; a compartment slid open. Five matte-black discs clicked into his palm. Each bore a single crimson rune that pulsed to the distorted rhythm—as if the hymn itself tried to invade their circuits.

He snapped his fingers. The runes blinked green, re-calibrated. One by one he lofted the Ghost Beacons into the gloo ...

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