Still dreaming of gunmetal, the bonesmith purrs. Envelope through the wrist, come out of the sheathe through the night, strung together highline flywire. At once six bodies in the guardtower fall, drift to the ground.

We are here for the prisoner in the inner sanctum. Cold wind whips the lunar dust. She folds back into my sternum pretty-neat and I take a step into the shaft to the vents. There are outgassings of heat and tripwires to avoid. She shields me foxlike, sends myself into myself. We can do this for a short time before we have to re-emerge. Down the steel halls my heels clink like starlight.

Inside, there are no cameras. I avoid the first patrols until she is ready, then she takes out the few that surprise us. From my ribs she springs through theirs and punctures their hearts. They still have them up here. It is not so easy lower down.

Past the gates I ready her with whips of sharpened spine; we are more than happy to see our approach opposed by the fleshless warden, tungsten-cold, spiderlimbed, swift.

I love you, I sing. The warden swings, she flashes her osseous plates, we curve ourselves into the walls. Break and rebreak and emerge like snakes to grab a leg. Crack two, trip a few. The warden wails. Its guns are useless; it cannot risk ricochets, blades fumble hopelessly beneath us. My passenger bleeds into her guts. Metal snags on boneflakes and the machineheart sputters to a halt.

Ninety-eight more levels to go.