“Oooh!” chirped Barsala, folding her goggles down over her eyes. She peered at the man’s leg, an image of the limb’s internal circuitry magnifying in her goggle’s lens. “The quality on your inner gyros is excellent. Liquid carbide receptors?”

“COLLISION IN THIRTY SEC...” Keskodai punched a flashing button and the ship computer fell silent, but the cockpit was still roaring from re-entry. From behind, he heard the shrieking of metal as the ship’s rear quarter twisted into collapsing fragments.

For those inducted into the faith of Pharasma, the Lady of Graves, death is not an ending, but a doorway: an entry into a new existence and way of being. The shirren Keskodai understands this transition well, and greets it with the joyful reverence it deserves—an outlook that's not always comforting to the patients in his medical bay.