Present day
“Put the Mors down and we’ll come inside,” said the woman with the piercing gaze.
Nyx recognized the shorter woman as a threat even through the screens. She didn’t look at Nyx; she looked through her. The intensity of it did not match her youthful, doll-like features. Curls framed her face. Her belt emphasized her wasp waist and somehow made the godsawful Tholosian jumpsuit look flattering. Neither she nor the taller woman with the buzz cut looked older than Nyx’s twenty-three.
The scavengers Nyx had seen caught and punished by the Empire were naturally resistant to the Oracle. They went through underground networks to get their chips removed and their programming wiped. Anyone who defected from the Empire and didn’t join an organized group like the Novantae resistance was vulnerable and desperate. They were filthy, underfed, and—if their deprogramming had gone poorly, which they often did in those disgusting makeshift med centers—fucking bonkers.
By the time the Empire caught up with scavengers, it was all too easy for the Oracle to reprogram them into gerulae.
These women were well fed, clean, and clearly sane. She wouldn’t lower this weapon until she knew who they were. “I wasn’t fished from a vat in the Birthing Center yesterday,” she said with steel in her voice. “You want off this ship with your life, then you talk. If you don’t, I put a laser through your brain. Simple.”
The women exchanged glances. A moment passed, as if a whole silent conversation occurred, before the smaller woman made a small noise of frustration. “Fine.”
They edged through the double doors into the command center.
The taller woman had a Mors gripped in one steady hand, her shorn hair making her look harsh. She was shorter than Nyx but muscular, solidly built. Not a soldier—she didn’t move or hold herself like one. Didn’t take note of their weapons.
The other woman, despite being as delicate as a doll? Soldier. Every movement she took was a woman aware of exits, weapons, potential weapons. Training had taught Nyx never to underestimate an opponent, even if they seemed physically weaker or younger.
Nyx’s gaze snagged on the odd piece of metal in her grip. Holy gods, was that . . . a blaster?
Nyx had fired every type of weapon she could get her hands on, but that thing had to be from the reign of the ninth Archon, which made it over one hundred years old. It must have been stolen from the Imperial Archives to be in such perfect condition. She wondered how far it could fire.
As if sensing her unasked question, the woman slid her finger to the trigger and bared her teeth in a false smile. A warning.
Nyx must have taken a step forward, because Rhea laid a hand on her arm. “Easy,” she said. “No one else needs to be killed today.”
Nyx’s muscles relaxed, and she instinctively shook off Rhea’s touch. She didn’t know how the other woman did it, but she could calm anyone down. That sort of thing might have made her a damn good courtesan in the Pleasure Garden, but Nyx didn’t like to be touched.
Curly Hair exhaled, frustrated. “If you’re going to keep that Mors pointed at my head, I’m going to lose my patience.” She lifted her blaster. “This may be old, but I’ll bet I can get a shot off before you pull your trigger.”
“Put that thing back in your holster,” Rhea said to the woman. “Nyx, put your Mors down.”
When Rhea was upset, she sounded disappointed. Like she’d expected better and you were the absolute worst for making her feel bad. Nyx had to hand it to her: it worked.
“Rhea’s right,” Ariadne said. “If they know how to contact the Novantae, we need them alive.”
“Kid, we don’t actually know if they can contact anyone,” Nyx said, her Mors still pointed at Curly Hair. “A pirate? A fucking lie.” She raked the strangers with a quick, assessing gaze. “I’ve seen scavengers. Neither of you look that desperate to me.”
Buzz Cut narrowed her gaze. “And how would you know?”
Nyx ticked off the fingers of her free hand. “You’re too clean, too well fed, too well spoken, you’ve still got all your teeth, and”—she craned to get a peek at the base of Buzz Cut’s skull—“I don’t see scars from some clumsy, back-alley attempt at brain surgery to get rid of the Oracle’s implant. Now I’m out of gun-free fingers.” She nodded to Curls. “That one is military. Takes one to know one.”
That woman had dead eyes. Devoid of expression. She had the look of a thousand kills to her. Back in the barracks, they would have called her Blessed. It was always clear when the God of Death chose His favorites; they carried the burden of every life they took.
Nyx would know. She had been Blessed too.
Ariadne hesitantly raised her weapon and pointed it at Buzz Cut. Rhea—damn her soft heart—carefully stepped between everyone with her hands out.
“And me?” Buzz Cut asked. “What do you reckon my background is?”
“Nobody important. You slouch too much.”
“Hey!”
Nyx lifted a shoulder. “You asked.”
Curly Hair studied Nyx, pausing at her muscled arms. Nyx’s tattoos were on full display, the black vines bristling with thorns. Every thorn represented a life taken for the Tholosian Empire. Yeah, definitely military—decorated, maybe. She assessed Nyx like she was choosing one of her officers: making sure her genetics matched up with what she saw.
Nyx knew they did. She had been the best example of her cohort, and they had all been hailed a triumph of genetic engineering. Each militus cohort had similar features—thirty different variants that made some look like siblings and others identical copies. Each was given a number before going into training that would serve as their identity. If they survived, they were named. A name was the first badge a soldier ever earned.
For Nyx, her name was special. They told her it meant night and darkness.
“You want to tell me who you really are and how you claim to be able to contact the Novantae?” Nyx didn’t ask; she commanded. For she had earned her name and the reputation that went with it.
“Pirates,” Curly Hair drawled. “Like I said. Natural-born escaped from the slums.”
Nyx slid the safety off her Mors. In the quiet command center, that muffled click seemed as loud as Morsfire. “I might believe that about your friend, but not you. So, try that answer again, soldier. I’ll give you five seconds.”
“Nyx.” The sharp warning came from Rhea.
But Nyx didn’t care. They weren’t safe out there in Tholosian territory. Flames, they weren’t safe the moment they decided to flee the palace. “Five.”
Ariadne spoke softly from behind her. “Nyx, maybe we should just—”
“Four. Three.”
Curly Hair’s hand tightened around her blaster, but she stayed quiet. She wanted a proper duel? Fine. Let them see who shot faster.
“Two. O—”
“All right.” Buzz Cut stepped in front of Nyx’s Mors. “Don’t shoot. I’m Clo. Mechanic and pilot for the resistance. This is—”
“Godsdamn it, Clo,” the smaller woman hissed. “I had it handled.”
“Killing three women isn’t handling it.” At Clo’s blunt response, the other woman’s lips flattened. “Yeah, you don’t even deny it. We both promised not to kill anyone on this mission, remember? You already broke that vow once.”
Curly Hair’s eyes slid shut briefly. “Fuck,” she muttered. She took her hand off the blaster and addressed Nyx, Rhea, and Ariadne. “I’m Eris, formerly of the Tholosian military. The two of us were on a reconnaissance mission for the Novantae and I got trapped on your ship. My partner flew in after me.”
Nyx scoffed. “No backup? So, you just walked into the hangar on Myndalia? I find that hard to believe.”
Clo flashed her a smile. “We did, in fact.” She gestured to Nyx’s gun, which she hadn’t yet lowered. “Are you going to put away your Mors or not?”
“Not,” Nyx said. “Just because you made me pause my five count doesn’t mean I believe you. Prove you’re Novantae and I’ll consider forgetting where I left off.”
Eris let out an irritated breath. “Fine. I’m not reaching for a weapon, to make that clear.” As the woman reached for the cuff of her uniform, Nyx couldn’t help but tighten her finger on the trigger. Eris noticed Nyx’s response, spreading her fingers to show her hand was empty. “Just watch.”
She folded back the cuff of her uniform, showing two metallic bracelets—inorganic shifters. Nyx didn’t have to turn her head to know Ariadne would have perked up at those. Eris typed in a few sequences on both bracelets, and the uniform threads changed color. She wore the same silver and gray as the military guards they’d just killed.
Ariadne was almost dancing with delight. “Oooh! They put shifter tech in the suits? How much can you change? Can you give yourself a tail? Can I have one?”
Nyx suppressed a sigh. She was the only one with a Mors still pointed between Eris’s eyes.
“Why would I want a tail?” Eris asked. “What would I do with—”
“You can have a tail if you want,” Clo interrupted. “Especially if you make her”—she gestured at Nyx—“lower the weapon.”
Ariadne nodded. “Put the Mors down, Nyx,” Ariadne said again, this time with more confidence.
Nyx bit her lip to keep from muttering a nasty swear. Trusting strangers over a godsdamn tail. Nyx couldn’t believe this. But Ariadne and Rhea were both staring at her.
Nyx lowered her weapon very, very slowly, but she kept her finger near the trigger.
Eris still didn’t move. “You aren’t with the Novantae. Our leadership didn’t mention another team assigned to this mission, and there is no way they’d appreciate two dozen corpses of soldiers that could have been deprogrammed.”
Nyx tensed. All of them had been her kills. Nyx thought it was easier to leave them behind and do what she’d been born to do.
Nothing in Nyx’s training had taught her how to spare someone. They only worshiped seven gods in the Tholosian Empire: Letum, Bel, Rem, Salutem, Phobos, Algea, and Soter. Death, War, Honor, Survival, Fear, Agony, and Salvation. There was no place in their pantheon for Mercy.
“We had no choice,” Rhea said, hands folded in front of her skirts. She was good at playing demure and nonthreatening; that made her more dangerous. “We escaped to join the Novantae.”
“So, let me get this straight. Your plan was to murder a Legate and his guards, commandeer a ship, and just . . . find the resistance?” Clo asked. “That’s not even a plan. Seven devils, that’s barely even a fraction of a plan. That’s like a note to self after a night of carousing.”
Ariadne bristled. “We knew where to go; we just needed a way to get there. We planned this for a year.”
Clo’s assessment had struck the kid’s pride; Ariadne was nothing if not confident of her skills and knowledge. Without her, none of them would have made it this far. Nyx and Rhea would have been found out and executed, their heads left out on the fringes of the royal palace on Tholos as a warning to anyone who dared to rebel against the Archon and the Oracle’s program uploads.
“And why did you think the resistance would welcome you?” Eris asked. “It’s a nice ship, but if the Empire thinks the resistance was involved in killing the Legate, they’ll redouble their efforts against us. You three might be more trouble than you’re worth.”
“We know our worth,” Ariadne insisted, angling her chin up. “Rhea”—she pointed to the other woman, who gave a little curtsy—“is a magnificent, highly talented courtesan who is very prone to extracting interesting details post-coitus.”
Nyx shut her eyes and muttered, “Please, seven gods of Avern, never let me hear that kid say the word coitus again.”
Ariadne ignored Nyx and pointed at herself. “I happen to be an excellent engineer. There’s nothing I can’t hack.”
Clo scoffed at that. “Nothing? Even the Oracle?”
Ariadne smiled, thin-lipped. “Even the Oracle. One is nowhere to be found on this ship. I made sure of it.”
That got their attention. Good.
“Hacking the Oracle . . .” Clo echoed, almost awed. “That shouldn’t be possible.”
“I know.” Ariadne flashed her teeth. “I’m marvelous. I even helped Rhea deprogram Nyx.”
Clo’s mouth hung open.
“Did you?” Eris asked. Eris remained expressionless, but Nyx caught her gleam of fascination. As if Nyx were some new species to be inspected, catalogued, and studied.
Nyx laid her hand on Ariadne’s shoulder before the kid responded. “Yeah, she did. After my training, it wasn’t easy, either. I was the best soldier in my cohort, and I reported to General Damocles directly. I rose seven ranks in two years.”
Eris didn’t seem convinced. “The courtesan would be easy enough to get approval for permanent transport from Tholos. But an engineer so good that she can hack the Oracle and a soldier skilled enough to report to the General don’t seem expendable enough. I should think the Archon would want to keep you both close.” She flickered a glance at Rhea. “Not meaning any offense to your work, of course. It’s only that dona often come from the Pleasure Garden.”
“None taken,” Rhea replied. “I know that.”
“We were never meant to leave,” Nyx said. “Ariadne had never even left the Temple. She hacked the manifest and added our false names and identities as dona, and that was the easiest part of her job. So, don’t pretend the Novantae wouldn’t be desperate to welcome us into your ranks.”
“Plus, we were going to come with a ship,” Ariadne said, smiling more broadly at them. “A ship they already wanted.”
“A mutually beneficial arrangement,” Rhea added. “Safety and a new life for us, and in return we tell you everything we know.”
“The resistance could have saved us a trip, if they had known,” Eris said. She glanced at Nyx. “And if you ever point a Mors at me like that again, I’ll put a bullet in you.”
“With that ancient hunk of metal?” Nyx said mildly, nodding at the gun.
“I’ve got great aim.”
“So do I.”
“Enough dick-measuring,” Clo said in exasperation. “We’re interested in the cargo. Were you planning on using it as another bargaining chip to the Novantae?” She reached into her pocket. Nyx brought up her Mors again, and Clo made a placating motion with her free hand. She held up a swaddled object. “Someone tell me what the salt this is, please.”
Nyx crossed her arms. “Looks like a dirty, wadded-up glove to me.”
“Thanks, genius.” Clo rolled her eyes. “I mean what’s in the glove. We found a bunch of rocks in some containers near the back of the ship that set off my hazard detector.”
“We aren’t sure what they’re for,” Rhea said, coming closer. Her skirts swished against Nyx’s leg as she passed. “We thought it was explosives, ammo, something. We checked it out before we boarded the ship, but Ari didn’t have the time to look through the Oracle’s system.” She nodded to the covered glove. “Mind if we take a look?”
Clo eyed Rhea’s dress. “Unless that flimsy thing offers protection against potentially hazardous materials, you might want to either step away or put something else on before I remove the glove.”
Nyx sighed and holstered her gun so she could reach behind her and grab one of the military officer’s coats hanging on the back of a nearby chair. Every boot, glove, and uniform in the Empire was designed with internal tech to withstand most of the dangerous shit planets could throw at them. “Here.”
She passed the thick material to Rhea. The dead man’s coat covered Rhea like a blanket, but it swathed her body to protect her. It was probably a lot warmer than that dress, too.
Clo waited until Rhea buttoned the coat, then uncovered the rock. Nyx edged forward to get a better look. She’d only seen it in the shipping bay days before they’d boarded, and the light hadn’t been all that great; it had looked black. In the overhead lights of the comm center, the rock was gray with a sheen of blue, purple, and green, like multicolored feathers. The outside was rough and bulbous.
“Oooh,” Ariadne said. “Pretty! We should turn the med bay into a lab and bust it open.”
“Bust it open?” Nyx snorted. “Are you cracked? No. You don’t even know what it is.”
“But—”
Eris put up a hand before anyone could say anything else. “As much as I’d like to discuss the rock, we ought to put more distance between us and Myndalia first. Clo, can you prep the ship?”
“Fine.” Clo held the rock out to Eris. “Here, take this stupid thing.”
Ariadne slid between them. “Can I have it?” she asked brightly. “I love rocks. I’ll take good care of it.”
Clo pressed her lips together and gave Eris another meaningful look.
Eris muttered something that sounded like reluctant assent. Clo wrapped the rock again and passed it over to Ariadne. As she did, her arm brushed the courtesan’s. Clo inhaled and pulled away as though the small touch burned, and Rhea’s mouth curled into a smile.
Well, flames of Avern, Nyx thought. Looks like someone wasn’t immune to Rhea’s charms.
Ariadne stuffed the glove-covered rock in her pocket. “It won’t be easy to start the ship up again.”
Clo seemed flustered. “I’ll go down and double-check the engines are okay after the electromag blasts. I take it you can sort the computers?”
The girl wiggled her fingers. “My specialty.”
“I’ll deal with the bodies,” Nyx said, voice steady.
She knew none of the others would be able to. They’d avoided speaking about what had just happened. Rhea had small splatters of blood on the back of her skirt. She hadn’t noticed yet, but she would when she undressed—and it would hurt her to see. Rhea wore her heart on her sleeve. So did Ariadne. It was Nyx who knew to tuck hers away, somewhere dark and quiet and deep inside.
Eris stepped forward. “I’ll help, if you need. I’m not squeamish.”
“No,” Nyx mused. “I don’t expect you are.”
“Are you taking us to Nova?” Ariadne sounded so hopeful, Nyx almost winced.
Clo and Eris exchanged glances before the smaller woman answered. “I haven’t decided. Make sure we’re safe, and then we’ll talk.”
Nyx didn’t ask what would happen if Eris decided she didn’t like their talk. If she refused them safe passage . . . well, Nyx still had her weapon, and she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
Even if they reached the Novantae, the resistance might not be as brilliant as Ariadne had always hoped they’d be. The girl spoke about rebels like they were the last bastion of humanity and light in this dark, twisted universe. Nyx didn’t have the heart to tell her that the resistance was likely as messed-up as the Empire. They’d have their own motivations. If that didn’t suit her? Nyx would find some way to escape from them, too. She was done with her life being decided for her.
She’d be damned if she’d let someone else get inside her head or make her into their weapon again.
Nyx wore the tattoos on her skin. She had sacrificed to the Gods of Death and War too many times already. Her honor was in shreds.
Now she prayed only to Salutem. To Survival.