She pulled her flat hands out of her pockets. She was wearing a pair of blue surgical gloves. They made a rubbery sound as she flicked her fingers at us.
A tiny thread snapped inside my skull, then everything went black.
Etiquette Lessons
I BOLTED UPRIGHT, SLAMMING my forehead into a low glass ceiling, then fell back on soft memory foam. I groaned.
That was what all three of the dream worlds had been missing: pain.
Well, I was definitely back in the real world. The spot where I’d hit my head throbbed, the pockmarked knife scars in my ribs ached like they were infected and full of pus, and the bloodred dragon tattooed around my bicep burned with that constant low heat that meant its script was still trying—and failing—to untangle the knotted Spirit rivers around the knife scars.
Devil corruption, Hungry Ghost hissed from his prison deep inside my brain. Once it has a foothold, it can never be fully removed.
“Great,” I muttered, rubbing the bump on my forehead. “You’re back.”
Death cultivator allowed himself to be captured by a Dream Soother, just as Hungry Ghost was captured long ago. You could hear the glee in his voice at my screwup. A wise cultivator would have stood vigilant against a sleeping attack.
“At least I didn’t get murdered and turned into a Spirit apparatus like a certain ancient khan I could name.”
Still abundant time for that, Hungry Ghost croaked. Dream Soother yet lives.
With a pneumatic wheeze, the glass ceiling of my sci-fi coffin opened. I sat up, this time without cracking my head.
Kest, Rali, and Warcry were climbing out of their own pods nearby. They all seemed fine, other than Warcry, who was holding the crooked bridge of his nose like he’d smashed into his glass, too.
I grabbed the sides of my pod and levered myself out.
The room held a dozen more of the little coffins, all in neat rows of four. The walls were dark gray stone and red wood, which didn’t fit with anything I’d seen on the mostly metal interplanetary ship.
“Welcome to Dragon Soulhome, new recruits. The gem of Shinotochi-Ryu.” The flat blonde in the business suit leaned in the open doorway, her arms crossed over her plank chest. Just like in the dream, she had on the mask and gloves, but in the light of the real world, faint scars dotted her exposed skin like she’d had a severe case of chicken pox when she was a kid and scratched open every single one.
Sanya-ketsu—the “-ketsu” meaning she had reached the final level of kishotenketsu.
Kest had warned us on the trip over how to act around gangsters of such a high rank. It boiled down to treating them like they could kill us at any second, because they could. Respect, reverence, and constant acknowledgement of their superiority. Address them by their rank or their name plus -ketsu, don’t use Spirit for anything but internal alchemy in their presence unless they ask you to, and always keep your hands where they can see them. Don’t cross your arms, don’t make a fist, don’t put your back to them—the list of possible infractions went on and on.
Around me, my friends all bowed to the Sown Dream cultivator. Rali and Kest pressed prayer hands to their foreheads, and Warcry did his usual pre-fight bow, minus the fists.
I hadn’t grown up bowing, so mine always felt stupid and unnatural, but I did it anyway. Hopefully “sucky bowing” wasn’t on the list of executable offenses.
Sanya’s face twitched in what was probably a smile under the mask. “I’m glad to see not all decorum has been lost on your generation. You may stand.”
We straightened up, and Sanya came into the room, stopping a little too close to me for comfort. She wasn’t even doing the Shogun pressure trick, but I could feel the weight of her kishotenketsu pressing in from all sides, letting us know if we made the wrong move, you would be able to pour our remains through a screen door.
That was another thing Kest had warned us about—some high rankers liked to get up in your face right off the bat to let you know who was boss and to see if you had the common sense to back down.
There had definitely been a time when I first got dropped in this universe that I would’ve said something stupid to let the Emperor’s 002-rank know I couldn’t be pushed around, but I’d mostly grown out of that.
As Sanya-ketsu stared me down, I forced myself to hold still and keep my hands out of my pockets. Surprisingly hard to do when she had her hands in hers. I’d never realized how often I put my hands in my pockets. To make sure they stayed still, I pressed my palms flat against my thighs.
After a second, the Sown Dream cultivator nodded, and the overwhelming pressure dissipated.
“Servants have already moved your belongings from the ship to your temporary quarters. You’ll be shown there after you’ve spoken with Emperor Takeshi-ketsu. Keep your hands in plain view at all times. If they move into your pockets, sleeves, or behind your back, you’ll be treated as an assassin and immediately executed. There will be no warnings in the Emperor’s presence. Kowtow when you meet him, and don’t stand again until he orders you to. Address him as ‘Your Excellency,’ ‘Emperor Takeshi-ketsu,’ or ‘Almighty Emperor.’ Do you understand these terms and their ramifications as I’ve explained them to you?”
We all answered with some version of “Yes, ma’am.”
“You’ll be expected to accept the consequences if you fail to abide by that. Spirit only knows how you were instructed on Van Diemann, but out here, a Dragon’s word is a binding contract.” Her pale green eyes roamed over us. “Now, I suppose you have questions about the last stage of your journey and my part in it. The short answer is that the Emperor doesn’t want anyone on his planet he doesn’t understand. My job is
