The only sound Zero heard in their helmet was their own hyperventilating and the gentle pings from their pegasus.

> waiting . . .

> waiting . . .

> communication received

> confirmation of countdown initiation: 30 seconds

The green text hovered in Zero’s vision through the neural link to their steed. This was it, everything they’d prepared for. Zero was fine. They were fine. They knew how to joust, they had trained for years—against rusted and abandoned bots on discarded shells of pegasi, and Silvi, but still.

A long span of asteroid surface stretched out before them, banked on either side by the curves of the crater. A well-polished rail delineated Zero’s side from their opponent’s, who was a famous knight and an awful man. Everyone expected him to win. Dents and small divots were the only remaining clues from joust impact after impact, set and repaired as if nothing happened. After all, these games were an experiment. Vital science, the queen proclaimed. Certainly none of this was theater performed for bored nobility, long abandoned by their empire.

Zero’s pegasus pawed the ground, fueled by Zero’s impatience and rage. Its chassis was designed to survive most lance strikes. Zero’s suit was not. A skeletal wing motif had been cut into the pegasus’s sides. Its small wings and two nacelles were welded to the main body, directly behind the riding seat.

Zero held their lance up. A targeting reticule locked onto their opponent’s chest and beeped, calibrating. It turned red and wailed a high-pitched keening tone.

> confirm target trajectory

Zero confirmed with a blink and mental yes. The long braid of the neural link cord, questionably wrapped in Zero’s haste, curved from the back of their helmet down to the right side of the saddle. It was a target as much as any other part of their body.

The countdown ended. Their breathing was still all their mind could focus on. They had to do this, they had to—

> initiating launch

Gravity nearly knocked them out of their seat. Their vision blurred and blackened, narrowing their world to that single red circle against shimmering titanium.

> WARNING: impact to helmet in 5 seconds. Suggest left lean ten degrees.

It seemed silly that moving their head slightly left while still holding their lance on target against gravity was the real challenge, but that was the true struggle. Everything after was just reaction to those actions. Zero was ready to suffer the consequences. They did as their pegasus suggested.

Their opponent also leaned—backwards and right twenty-five degrees. He meant to glance Zero’s hit off his armor. Their targeting reticule moved.

> accept adjustments to target?

This was the joust gambit: Did their pegasus guess correctly? Did its predictive analytics and course calculations aim true? Zero believed in their father’s genius. He had programmed this pegasus in his dying days. They trusted in their own updates to its programming too, and instinct. It felt like the right play. Simple. They confirmed adjustments. If this was their final act, they’d be disappointed, but there were worse ways to die. They’d imagined worse.

They turned their lance sharply up towards their opponent’s head. He in turn shifted his lance down to Zero’s chest.

The impact sent white bursts of agony through their spine, boiling their vision in black and white and nothing else. For a long, long second (actually ten seconds according to their neural link readouts) Zero wasn’t sure what happened.

> EMERGENCY PROTOCOLS ACTIVATED

> numbing administered to left shoulder

> prosthesis pain interface deactivated

> sedative administered

> please remain seated; emergency personnel have confirmed injury report

> emergency personnel arrival in 20 seconds

Zero numbly looked down at the stump where their left arm prosthetic used to be. They laughed, and the sound was strangely delayed, reverberating through their shock. “Well, it’s a good thing I already lost that arm, huh?”

They looked up at a screen now hovering right in front of them.

VICTORY: SAINT ZERO OF THE HOLLOWS

Beneath the wavering text, Zero’s opponent lay unmoving on the ground. Unmoving because his helmet was shattered, his face strewn across the gray asteroid scrabble. His pegasus pawed, ambivalent, as the neural link cord pulled taught between it and its dead rider.

Zero laughed again as darkness began to eat at their reality more intently now. “Guess he won’t be needing a face anymore.”

They slumped forward as they were trained to do by their father so, so long ago. To stay seated meant to win the match if the other rider fell. Zero would not let this end in a draw so soon.

• • • •

The nice part about entering a tournament to the death: free repairs and free healthcare.

“Zero . . . Santos?” A nurse called as she entered Zero’s sterile and impressively clean room—a room reserved entirely for Zero and not crammed with as many other patients as possible. They’d never experienced such luxury.

“Si, that’s me.” They looked at the nurse’s confused face and remembered all the little infractions stitching together Zero’s existence: not woman enough, not white enough—but kind of white, maybe, until they spoke Spanish—not proper enough. “You can call me Saint Zero. The gender marker is, well, wrong, but it’s fine.”

“So you aren’t . . . ?” The nurse eyed Zero’s body with confusion.

Zero shrugged.

This nurse clearly wasn’t equipped to process Zero’s complicated gender situation—which was fine, Zero rarely was either. Why people cared so much, when gender on a good day felt like a giant shrug, they’d never understand. But that and being from the Hollows were the two defining gates keeping Zero out of the places they wished to enter. It was time to break them down, even if only a little. Even if all they managed was to kick a tiny dent in the metal, at least it was proof they existed.

“Women aren’t allowed to interface with a pegasus,” the nurse said. She emphasized allowed, which was interesting. In Zero’s home sector, it was can’t. Guess women got a few more rights when born with exorbitant wealth and privilege up here.

Zero smiled and winked. “Good thing I’m not a woman then.”

“I-I don’t, sorry. I should talk to my superior and—”

“What are you doing?” A sharp, familiar voice said.

Silvi de Aguilan stood, arms crossed, in the doorway. The Eagle Knight, their Eagle Knight. She was exorbitantly wealthy proof that privilege exempted rich women from any rule. She wore a clean purple bomber jacket over her riding suit, clearly fresh from either preparation for the tournament or marketing for her queen and sponsor. Either way, she was imposing, tall, and beautiful as always.

“You’re so hot when you demand things,” Zero said in Spanish, guessing the nurse couldn’t speak it, not really caring if she did. And if a surface-dwelling nurse did speak Spanish enough to understand? It would embarrass Silvi more, which made Zero’s grin widen.

“Out,” Silvi commanded the nurse, not breaking eye contact with Zero. After the woman all but ran out, Silvi gestured to the rock tokens and withering flowers (all Hollowers could afford), and said, “You’ve got plenty of admirers.”

“Maybe calling myself a saint was too on the nose,” Zero said.

“Your next match is in two days.” Silvi picked up a green glimmering shard off the window ledge.

“Doctor said I’d be pegasus ready tomorrow.” Zero pointed to their missing arm. “Should be printed and ready for adjustments in a few hours.”

“It’s against—”

“I know,” Zero said.

Silvi didn’t move. Statuesque and bitchy as ever, unreadable and sharp until she was underneath Zero in bed and they couldn’t help but love her. All of this would be so much easier if they didn’t love her, but they did. They waited Silvi’s anger out. They always did.

Finally, Silvi’s demeanor shifted, a weariness settling into her as she untensed and strode over to Zero’s injured side. Gently, she perched on the bedside. She ran a finger along the edge where skin grafted onto Zero’s exposed prosthetic socket. Between the numbing meds and disabled pain sensors, Zero didn’t feel it at all.

She sighed. “Your last opponent was the mine owner responsible for your sister’s accident.”

“Is that so?” Zero mused.

Silvi glanced at them, still tracing circles on their skin. “Is that your plan, then? Vengeance? Take out as many of them as you can before they get you? Naive and simple as that?”

Zero kissed Silvi fiercely. It couldn’t have been comfortable for her, but they didn’t care. “Who said anything about a plan?” They failed to sound lighthearted.

“Your next opponent will likely kill you.”

That was true. He had a lifetime of training and killed many men for sport. Zero had learned that firsthand. “What’s the matter? You said this wasn’t personal, just fun.”

Silvi yanked away and grabbed Zero’s chin, as if that would somehow allow her to regain control of Zero’s actions. It made them think about all the nights Zero taught her Spanish naked in her room after sneaking up to the Hollows, Silvi sneaking training manuals and pegasus programming booklets in exchange. Every time, Silvi would repeat this isn’t a real relationship, it’s just fun. Because in the end, Silvi would die in a tournament. As the queen’s favored, as the Eagle Knight, it was her duty.

Zero was supposed to die in the Hollows mines or get caught sneaking up to the surface to see Silvi. They had no other endpoints, until now, until Zero chose to die in a tournament, too.

• • • •

Zero’s next opponent was Augustus Pleoni IV, youngest son of the queen. Winner of last year’s joust. Being the queen’s cruelest and favorite child, most of his challengers forfeited their lives or a limb or two rather than kill him in a tourney. But not Zero. No, while Zero wasn’t here to kill him exclusively (there were a few others on their list), ending him was a high priority.

Their new arm gleamed as Zero and Augustus rode the elevator up to the prep area. It was the fanciest thing Zero ever owned, and they’d own it for a few days at best. How ironic, how annoying.

“You look familiar,” Augustus said, looking down at them. “Surely we haven’t met before. I don’t interact with many of you Hollowers.”

“Does the name Noe Santos mean anything to you?” Zero asked.

He shook his head. “If it’s supposed to, well, I guess it would be polite of me to apologize. But I’m not feeling very remorseful.”

Of course not. Why would he be? Noe Santos was just another servant or maybe a courier or some Hollower mechanic as far as this asshole was concerned.

Zero smiled at him. “Don’t worry, you will.”

There were moments well-rehearsed and fantasized that, once transpired, left an empty ache. Zero supposed, in their scenarios and unspooled confrontations with Augustus, that it would mean something. The time would dilate, their father’s name would have meaning. But why would it, to someone like Augustus? The name Noe Santos was just a strange name uttered by a strange person he assumed he would kill shortly in the crater.

Zero slipped into their riding suit and donned their armor. Their new arm ached, and they did their best to ignore it. The lance was lighter at least. That would make aiming it easier.

• • • •

Augustus’s pegasus was a brilliant red that matched his armor. A purple plume billowed all the way down from his helmet, tangling in his neural link. He initiated countdown start.

> waiting . . .

> waiting . . .

> message received from SILVI: last chance, back out now

Zero felt the weight of the neural link on the back of their head and didn’t move, didn’t reply, didn’t do anything but wait and wait.

> communication received

> confirmation of countdown initiation: 20 seconds

With each new round, the timer grew shorter. It forced knights to use all their skills rather than rely on an extended countdown to prepare plans. In this case, it was also so Augustus could get it over with—he was notorious for his countdown boredom. Zero was relying on it.

> command AUGUSTUS PROTOCOL received

The reticule moved until it stilled and turned red, keening.

> confirm target trajectory

Zero confirmed with two seconds to spare. Their pegasus bolted forward until the speed grew fast enough for its engines to take over. They didn’t have any trajectory suggestions, no defensive maneuvers. They hadn’t lied to Silvi—there was no plan, only a defiant scream into the ether as they roared their father’s name. Zero’s lance contacted something. Their arm jolted, and everything went white.

Augustus was a weak knight because everyone let him win. He never varied his stance, and he always left his neural link wide open on the side. It was easier than Zero expected to thread the lance in the open space between his side and the neural link. What they hadn’t expected was the sickening pop as the force ripped the link out of Augustus’s skull.

Zero turned their pegasus around, blood dripping down their lance as red as Augustus’s warped armor. Bits of braided wire and viscera dotted the gray ground leading up to his pegasus. He slumped forward onto its neck, twitching with every motion in a ghostly reaction, until he finally fell.

VICTORY: SAINT ZERO OF THE HOLLOWS

Zero looked up at the screen and pumped their lance into the thin asteroid air. Their father wouldn’t approve of this in his name, but they didn’t care. He was dead, their sister dying, their mother disappeared long ago. What was left?

• • • •

Turned out, assigned personal quarters were even better than a private hospital room. Despite the constant and unskippable ads decrying Saint Zero as a menace for murdering beloved Augustus and news reports of riots in the Hollows, Zero didn’t pay it any attention. Instead, they marveled at the space and luxury of their short-term reality—it had a huge kitchen and a formal dining space and a viewing room for guests and a massive bed.

The imperious and demanding knock at their door could only be one person. Silvi strode through into Zero’s extremely temporary housing, they kissed her and kissed her and didn’t stop as the two stumbled back to it immediately.

“I hope you’re satisfied now,” Silvi growled.

“I need you to do me a favor,” Zero said afterward, in a temporary lull while they caught their breath and savored Silvi’s warmth pressed into their shoulder.

Silvi gave a sleepy scoff. “You presume too much,” she said in Spanish.

It was an old call and response. Zero met Silvi when they had snuck up to find out what happened to their father and had asked for a favor. Silvi had answered in peak noble fashion but ultimately gave thin guidance. Zero showed up the next day, and the day after, and soon they were teaching Silvi Spanish because Silvi wanted to learn more about her heritage.

“Your accent has improved, a little,” Zero noted in Spanish. In English, they asked, “Who’ve you been practicing with?”

“Your ghost,” she murmured, kissing Zero’s collarbone and down to their breasts, down and down until Zero moaned.

After a few moments longer, Zero far too spent to cum again easily or anytime soon, they said, “You can’t avoid it forever, you know. You know my next opponent is . . .”

Silvi worked her way back up to kiss Zero fiercely, until Zero tasted their own blood on their lips. “Stop thinking about tomorrow when we only have tonight, or I’ll kill you now. Give me all of you.”

Zero happily, achingly, sadly obliged.

• • • •

They stared balefully down at their next opponent the next morning. Silvi de Aguilan’s pegasus was a beautiful, deceptively delicate pegasus. Its silver filigree and visible interior mechanisms whirred, enhancing Silvi’s grace. Small eagle wings sprouted from either side of her helm. She saluted Zero with due deference and respect, which neither opponent prior had bothered to do.

Neither initiated countdown for as long as legally allowed. They stared each other down. Better to let the crowds watching safely from their surface boxes and those crammed together in filthy rooms in the Hollows believe they were bitter enemies. Saint Zero’s legacy was growing beyond Zero’s wildest imagination. They were practically a mythological Hollows figure, a knight for justice—when all Zero wanted was to scream with their pegasus and their lance powerfully enough for someone to hear.

As they watched Silvi, unreadable in her helmet, they began to wonder if it was worth it. Maybe Zero and Silvi could’ve run away together. What if they had gotten on some cargo ship off-asteroid bound? But Silvi had never promised anything so silly and childish as that. And Zero? Well, Zero didn’t like running. This was their home. The Hollows deserved better. Zero’s family deserved better. Maybe one day, long after Zero was dead and gone, the Hollows would get a better life.

> waiting . . .

> waiting . . .

> communication received

> message received from SILVI: I did as you asked. Don’t you dare back out now.

> confirmation of countdown initiation: 10 seconds

Zero had a protocol prepped for Silvi, had trained for her the same way she had for Augustus and any other potential opponent. But they didn’t initiate targeting. Instead, they held their lance up into the emptiness, listening to their own fast breathing and nothing else.

> initiating launch

Despite wanting time to slow or stop, nothing shifted. Nothing froze, nothing changed. Zero hurtled toward Silvi and Silvi toward Zero. They’d been hurtling towards each other for years, why was this any different? This was a final destruction. Zero knew Silvi was ruthless. She’d killed opponents in jousts for over a decade. To the crowds, Zero was just another number to add to the total. She was unstoppable. Maybe that was fitting, since Zero wasn’t going to stop either. A part of them wanted to stop, to lift their lance and call off the match.

They focused on targeting without the reticule, focused on the memory of Silvi’s bare skin against theirs, of sheets twined against legs and pressure and groaning. They never should’ve left that bed. They were always going to leave that bed.

There were two jolts, almost simultaneous. Zero’s arm half ripped out of its socket from the force. Something heavy weighed on their chest. Breathing was difficult, almost impossible. It took all their willpower not to collapse off their pegasus and onto the dirt. They didn’t know what happened to Silvi yet. To get off the pegasus was to lose, and they were not going to let this wind up in a draw. Zero would stay seated—they had to make this worth losing her.

With a quick mental command, the pegasus turned back to face the opposite side. Silvi was slumped forward. A shard of Zero’s lance cut into her helmet, blood seeping from it. The rest of Zero’s lance pierced through her stomach.

Silvi’s intricately carved lance, in turn, pierced through Zero’s chest, pinning them to their seat.

The screen descended.

VICTORY: SAINT ZERO OF THE HOLLOWS

That was it, it was done and over. They wheezed, struggling to gasp in anything but the tang of blood. The screen’s image crackled, becoming pixelated until new text appeared.

HOLD ON SAINT ZERO. WE BROKE THROUGH. HOLD ON.

Zero looked at Silvi’s motionless body on the ground, feeling numb and anything but victorious. Silvi had opened the Hollows elevators like Zero asked. In Zero’s most fanciful imaginations, the Hollows overtook the surface and killed the queen and restored peace to the asteroid. It wasn’t a plan, not really. All of these thoughts were more akin to simple hope and reckless action. Zero was supposed to care. They were supposed to be some valiant hero—a knight of the people, or something.

In this moment, all they cared about was being near Silvi as they died. There was nothing left, and Zero had done all they could.

They commanded their pegasus to walk up to Silvi’s body. With a scream, vision blurring, Zero un-skewered themself from the seat and fell to the crater floor. The pain flooded over them like a thousand pinpricks, unceasing, until the world grew dim and distant. They were absolutely in shock. They were dying. They got on their knees, somehow, and knelt before Silvi’s body and cradled her head in their lap.

“Of all the ways I was scared to die,” Zero mumbled to the body, “I’m glad it was with you.”