by Laura Lam
Copyright © 2020 by Laura Lam and Elizabeth May.
All Rights Reserved.
Jacket design by Katie Anderson.
Jacket illustration by Dan dos Santos.
Edited by Leah Spann and Betsy Wollheim.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1859.
Published by DAW Books, Inc.
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
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Ebook ISBN 9780756415815
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—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0
FOR THE UNDERDOGS AMONG US, THOSE WHO HOLD THE LINES, AND PROTEST, AND WRITE, AND SPEAK OUT. EMPIRES ONLY TOPPLE BRICK BY BRICK.
AND FOR HANNAH, WHO WAS ALWAYS THERE TO HELP US SMASH THE PATRIARCHY.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1. Eris
2. Clo
3. Eris
4. Clo
5. Clo
6. Princess Discordia
7. Clo
8. Clo
9. Clo
10. Clo
11. Eris
12. Princess Discordia
13. Nyx
14. Clo
15. Eris
16. Eris
17. Ariadne
18. Ariadne
19. Nyx
20. Rhea
21. Rhea
22. Eris
23. Princess Discordia
24. Eris
25. Clo
26. Nyx
27. Nyx
28. Clo
29. Ariadne
30. Ariadne
31. Rhea
32. Princess Discordia
33. Eris
34. Nyx
35. Ariadne
36. Clo
37. Clo
38. Clo
39. Princess Discordia
40. Eris
41. Rhea
42. Nyx
43. Eris
44. Ariadne
45. Clo
46. Eris
47. Princess Discordia
48. Rhea
49. Nyx
50. Ariadne
51. Clo
52. Rhea
53. Princess Discordia
54. Clo
55. Nyx
56. Princess Discordia
57. Nyx
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
1.
ERIS
Present day
Eris got the call from her commander while she was killing a man.
The guard slumped against her, dead in under thirty seconds from a blade to the throat, a stab in the carotid artery. Fast and quiet. The sharp, tangy scent of his blood wafted toward her as she hauled the guard’s still-warm body against hers and slowly lowered him to the spacecraft’s floor.
Could she have prevented this death? If she were honest with herself: yes.
But there was no time for guilt. She was doing her job.
Her Pathos, the communication chip embedded within her cerebrum, echoed through her skull with the most irritating musical tune. Commander Sher had chosen it because he knew Eris couldn’t ignore it.
Most Pathos only had a range of a planet, half a solar system at most. Sher was outfitted with a beta design that could bounce its signal off satellites as far as it pleased as long as he knew her rough coordinates.
It irritated the shit out of her. She had a spacecraft to commandeer.
Scylla was larger than most of the ships she’d taken in the past. It had the capability of growing large amounts of hydroponic food, and if there was one thing the Novantae resistance was short on, it was food, followed by weapons.
Eris grabbed the guard’s identity card and cut off his finger with a swipe of her blade.
Almost every ship the resistance had was taken through force or subterfuge, and Eris was damn good at her job. She slid the identity card through the slot, pressed the guard’s severed finger against the pad, entered the code, and hurried down a second hallway that led to the main corridor. Five seconds to get through this section before the alarms sounded.
Eris gritted her teeth. Shoved the identity card in. Pressed the finger. Entered the code.
The door slid open. Oh, shit.
Eris rolled to the ground as the high-pitched blasts of laser bullets stung her ears. They dotted the metal of the ship above her head with a deafening clang clang clang. She shoved herself behind one of the storage containers before they could correct their aim and riddle her body with seared holes. Of course there would be soldiers on the other side. Of course. She would have been better prepared had it not been for that stupid—
Son of a bitch.
She commanded her Pathos to answer the godsdamn call.
Eris peeked over the storage containers and hid again just as more blasts rained and exploded like stars. Eight against one, six blasts left in her antique gun. If she ever smiled genuinely, she would have then. Challenging odds—her favorite. Otherwise, she wouldn’t bother running around with a weapon so old most people didn’t know what the flame it was. She had back up weapons, of course—five knives and two Mors—but this was her baby: a gorgeous filigreed limited-edition RX Blaster from the turn of the last century. She was a beauty. Updated with little add-ons to keep her blasts deadly, but the shooting style was all old-school skill. No lasers to help aim.
she replied, lifting her blaster.
One, two, three down. Lasers in the Mors weaponry might be more accurate, but her little baby had a beautiful curve to its fall that lodged the blast right where she wanted it. It had charm. It had character. She liked its quirks.
And, yes, she felt sentimental about it.
—she pointed her gun—
Only some in the head.
The soldiers yelled—calling for reinforcements from the other part of the ship. More l
oyal Tholosian soldiers would be flowing into bullet crafts, speeding through space to close off her exits. Eris had to seal the doors and disable the comm system, or she’d never take the command center.
She could practically hear his sigh through the Pathos.
She only had the blade in her boot left and less than three minutes before the other soldiers arrived. She’d told her other superior, Kyla, that she was looking for something challenging. Eris could never decide if the other woman was obeying her wishes or deliberately trying to kill her.
Eris paused.
Eris leapt onto the last soldier, tore the Mors from his grip, and slammed her fist into his face. Her body modifications were a godsend, giving her strength unmatched by a common soldier. Her punch cracked the bones of his face. He staggered, spitting blood onto the floor. He didn’t manage to recover before she snaked an arm around his throat and snapped his neck.
Sorry, Sher. Sorry, Kyla.
She heard another bullet craft anchor to the hull. The screech as doors opened. The patter of footfalls above her as more soldiers—twenty at least—came to try their luck at killing her. Eris sprinted to the door that opened the command center. The captain was unprotected, vulnerable.
“Wait,” he only just uttered before Eris grabbed his shirt.
“Disable the doors.” When he hesitated, she seized his arm and squeezed until he cried out. “Do it.”
His fingers moved fast on the controls as he sent the commands. Captains were trained in rudimentary defense tactics, but not more than the guards stationed outside. He would have seen her through the monitors, known his skills were no match for hers. If this had been one of her captains—if she were still called General—she would have either killed him or sent him back for more training. No weakness. Only sacrifice.
So far, Eris could justify the corpses left in her wake tonight. Kill or be killed. This man wasn’t attacking. Kyla told her to end a life only if necessary, save as many as possible. Eris should at least try to keep her word.
“There.” His voice trembled. “It’s done.”
“Good,” Eris said.
She saw the exact moment his Oracle programming kicked in. The rapid eye movement and dilation of his pupils, the curl of his lips as his hand reached for his belt. His snarled words barely sounded like the voice he used before: “For Tholos.”
The captain lunged with a blade. Eris smacked the weapon away and pivoted, but he came at her and slammed her into the ground. His hands were on her throat, a tight squeeze. Eris saw stars. The Oracle’s programming was a benefit and a curse. Right now, it was pumping adrenaline through his body and running code through his brain until all that remained was the Oracle’s commands: God of Death, I kill for Thee. In Thy name I give my body.
Nothing else. No consciousness. No choice.
No autonomy.
She hit him, aiming for his kidneys. Just enough to get him off her. But it was no use; the Oracle had taken over. The programming all Tholosians had hardwired into their brains since birth was bad enough, but the chip at the base of his skull gave the AI control over his body’s motor functions.
He was so far gone, he might never come back. Shorted out into what the Tholosians called gerulae. Mindless servants. Human drones.
Eris edged the knife out of her wrist sheath and struck. She aimed for his arm, and shoved him hard enough to knock him on his back. “Captain? Captain, come on. You’ve got to fight through the—”
“In His name,” he murmured, grasping the hilt of the blade. He yanked it out of his arm in a single move.
“Captain—” Eris scrambled to her feet.
“I give my body.”
The captain slit his own throat.
Eris stopped short, shutting her eyes at the sight. “Fuck,” she breathed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She reached into her pocket, closed her fingers around her small animal figurine. The weight of it helped her breathe. But it was a poor replacement for the man who had given it to her.
She closed herself off to feelings. There was no place in her line of work to mourn the dead. There was only this: small moments after a mission. Taking stock. A quiet moment to tally up her kills.
Even the ones she’d intended to save. Or the ones she’d given quick deaths.
Did the captain count?
She pulled out of the call, stepped over the captain’s body, and entered a command into the ship’s computer. She might have killed to take the ship for supplies, but sacrificing the few to save the many was the way of the resistance. It was sure as shit more merciful of an end than those the Empire gave. The ship’s survivors would have the chips at the base of their skulls removed and be deprogrammed of the Oracle’s influence. They’d be given another chance on Nova. And who survived was simply the luck of the draw.
The God of Death did not have favorites. He simply took.
Eris locked the other soldiers in and directed the ship back to Nova headquarters. Maybe some of the soldiers would be freed of the Oracle’s programming and could be turned to the cause. Most would fail, and she was delivering them to their death.
She unclasped the necklace at her throat, with its tiny metal scythe, and bent over the captain’s corpse. She might not have been able to save him, but she could offer last rites. The ones she would have given in her previous life. His fate would be decided in a level of the Avernian underworld, all seven the realm of a different god. For the Tholosians, the gods and devils of the Avern were one and the same. Light only shown by the dark.
And her patron god was Letum, the most powerful of their pantheon. Death Himself.
Eris whispered a prayer to her insatiable god.
In His name.
2.
CLO
Present day
“Dinnae do this tae me, ye temperamental piece of silt,” Clo cursed.
Last night was a late one. Chrysaor had given up yesterday, and Clo had been dragged out of bed closer to midnight than dawn. The weather had been humid and hot, and the water system was completely bogged. She’d spent an hour cursing the mechanic who had let it go dry.
But that was the resistance—never enough of anything to go around, equipment held together with little more than tape, strategic welding, and a prayer. Clo had managed to fix the damn thing and the ship had taken off for its mission. Less than five hours of sleep and she was back at it again.
Every pore was drenched in sweat, sand, and engine oil. If she got hungry, she could probably cook an egg on the flagstones. Clo had been working on this engine all morning beneath the Novan sun. The sand dunes rising around the compound were a gradient of orange, yellow, and red ablaze in the light.
It was another world to the damp, marshy swamplands where Clo had grown up. She never thought she’d miss the smell of sulfur, peat, and stagnant water. Sometimes, the resistance itself seemed as dried out as this empty planet they’d claimed as their own—a movement that coul
d crumble into dust.
Clo wiped the sweat from her forehead. The Valkyrie X-501 in front of her should be flying like a dream, but the damn ignition wasn’t lighting up the engine.
Ugh. “Useless,” she muttered.
Maybe if she changed tactics, cajoled instead of insulted, the thing would listen to her.
“We need yer wings, my snell one.” With only the metal of the spaceship to hear, Clo always slipped back into the Snarl dialect of her youth. “Wouldn’t ye rather be out among the stars than mired on this blarin’ rock?”
A frustrated curse drew Clo’s attention.
On the next landing pad, Elva battled her own engine. Like Clo, she worked alone—but unlike Clo, it wasn’t by choice. Elva’s skin was stippled with swirls that branded her as different from Clo or the other Tholosians at Nova. The markings fell down Elva’s neck like stripes and curled around her collarbones. She had told Clo that the pattern followed the lines of cell development in the skin.
Clo had become very familiar with those dappled marks one night in her bunk. Their intimacy hadn’t repeated itself, instead giving way to an easy friendship. One mechanic to another.
Elva was one of the few Evoli in the resistance. Her people had been at war with the Tholosians for over five hundred years, the two empires competing for resources across their separate galaxies as their populations expanded. With the Tholosian resource-rich planet Charon experiencing a mass die-off as a result of an asteroid strike, the Empire’s food stores were strained to support all their citizens. They were desperate to conquer the farming planets owned by the Evoli.
Elva’s knowledge was vital to the resistance; the Evoli tech she wove into the machines made them sing. Though the Tholosians at Nova had been deprogrammed of the Oracle’s influence, superstition ran deep, and some still whispered that the Evoli were majoi, especially their leaders, the Oversouls. Sorcerers that knew your every thought and emotion. They claimed no secret was safe. That they’d eat children, sucking the marrow from their bones.
Elva didn’t even eat meat.
“Elva!” Clo called. “Can I borrow your welder? Mine’s sunk!”
The woman nodded, crossing over to pass it to Clo. The sun highlighted the darker dapples in her red-gold hair, throwing her features into sharp relief. They were a pretty people, the Evoli. Taller, almost ethereal, even when covered in engine grease. Unfair.