PROLOGUE

  Earth, 2081 CE

  ‘From darkness sacred rivers ran, divine in their decree,

  And from their waters—Blood of Man—now grew a golden tree.

  No longer should they fear the dark, that which will always be,

  For all the vessels carried out did bless the Sunless Sea.’

  – from ‘Divinations of the Monad’ by Dr Mujahid Shah

  The auditorium steepened in half-mooned tiers, red-plush seats softening the arrears of the city's societal elite. History—legacy—clung to every stretch of plaster: archways, handrails and velveteen curtains, all neatly cloched beneath an ironwork dome. Sitting within the Royal Box, Sioned Hines, deputy minister and Right Honourable first secretary of the Neo-Britannian Commission, took in the space.

  All in all, not the worst place to die.

  The intercom chimed for the second act: fading house lights, the expectant swirl of a re-tuning orchestra, cueing for a collective hush.

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  'Anything else for you, ma'am?'

  Sioned looked up as their box attendant set down a bottle—weighty, liquorish, sumptuously pre-Collapse. She considered offering a tip, a colossal hint to clock off early, but her instructions had been clear.

  Koenig mustn't suspect a thing.

  'We'll be fine from here. Thank you.'

  'You righ'?' her husband asked, his accent attracting stares. 'Don' tell me you wanna dip my boy Puccini.'

  Sioned turned. She could see his concern plain beneath the mischief. So much she wanted to say—apologise for—but ...

  'Koenig mustn't suspect a thing.'

  She had tried to argue reason, that his demands—Her demands—were absurd, but the words she had received in return ...

  'Others have given for less.'

  Christ, if that wasn't the truth. She thought of her comrades, their mission, and all they had sacrificed to get them thus far. She would have to be a traitor of cosmic proportions if she did not commit now.

  Below, a "maid" knelt before a foamed mockery of Buddha, praying for the production's lead soprano to be relieved of her tears. Stepping out onto a water garden stage, the heroine then emerged, loosely robed and dark-haired, a totem of enduring faith. Ethereal and lustrous, she sang to her maid.

  Sioned's breath hitched. 'I ... I love you.'

  Her husband studied her once more, an inch from understanding. But then came that signature smirk; the playful reach for the bottle sat between them. 'How 'bout sharin' some of that good stuff, skunker.'

  Sioned smiled through the tears. She couldn't help it; his words, the soul-wrenching swells of the performance below. The draw of the inevitable was pooling, blue-vein tendrils spider-wicking upon a dune-dark tract, too fluid—too dense—to grasp completely. Fear scratched about the boundary, the soprano taking breath for that final ascent, that piercing summit of delectable woe.

  But the moment was fleeting, replaced by clarity—screaming. Sioned willed her thoughts outward, surrendering to the Infinite, to that Great Wise-Unformed, before the gunshots rolled in.

  Descendant is in danger. Threat level: certain. Fifty hours until Contact. Twenty-eight days until Convergence.