Seven Devils
Page 8
Tholos always claimed the conquered aliens were not sentient. Eris had been so young when she’d learned that was another lie of the Empire—that most of the ones she’d killed had pleaded for their lives in the only languages they knew.
Eris was responsible for so much pain; she knew that even as her father had told her it was all for Tholosian victory.
Every room on a Tholosian ship was intended to evoke her father’s sense of patriotism and Imperial glory—at least on the surface. Its second purpose was to make sure every spacecraft, room, and building in the Empire had images to constantly re-trigger the Oracle’s programming in its citizens. These were the images uploaded into their brain implants every night, depicted on walls so they were inescapable for those with enough natural resistance to have their implants illegally removed.
Eris turned away, tamping down the traitorous remnants of pride from those images of her ancestors’ conquests. As royalty, she’d escaped the Oracle’s programming, but that didn’t mean Tholosian propaganda didn’t leave its own marks. It means nothing, she told herself. Don’t forget Xander. Never forget Xander. Don’t—
“Holy silt,” Clo breathed beside her. “Is that the Legate?”
Eris forced herself to look at the body. The fine clothing of gold, black, and silver. Those gleaming boots. That flawless, shining hair missing its pounded-gold circlet. It was a few feet away, crushed. The gaping red-black of his cut throat, the cooling blood already congealing on the metal floor.
“Whoever took the ship was willing to risk murdering a diplomat,” Eris said, keeping her voice cool, detached.
“Evoli?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. They may not be at peace with Tholosians, but relations have been relatively stable since the Battle of the Garnet.”
“Yeah? Didn’t your da just lose most of his agriculture when a giant fluming asteroid crashed into one of his planets? Tholosians are always fighting war over more resources.”
Eris let out a dry laugh. “Fair enough. But losing Charon doesn’t explain why his Legate is dead. The Evoli are fierce fighters, but it’s always been in self-defense. The Oversouls don’t start war.”
“Then we have to leave,” Clo said. “The last thing we need is to be caught in the middle of whatever this is.” Clo’s gaze flicked upward. “Where are the killers?”
“Hopefully, distracted enough not to notice the two unexpected stowaways checking out whatever was worth murdering Legate Atkis.” Eris gestured to the storage containers.
“Kyla said they’re probably weapons. I’ve decided I like that answer, so let’s go. The mission is sunk.”
Eris gave Clo an irritated look. “The Legate refused to let me in here. He wouldn’t do that if they were just standard weapons, not during a routine inspection. He must have come down to protect whatever is in these containers and then—” She drew a line across her throat with a finger.
Clo let out a breath and shoved the heavy lid off one of the containers with a small grunt. Alarms blared, high and piercing. Clo clapped her hands over her ears until Eris shot the speaker. Her ears still rang in the heavy silence.
Eris grimaced. “That was—”
Clo’s mech cuff vibrated. She twisted it, eyes going blank as the ocular display synced to her Pathos. “Reseal it,” Clo told Eris sharply. “Whatever’s in there is setting off the hazard detector.”
“Does it say why?”
Clo scowled at the cuff and tapped it. “No.”
“Then so what? Your suit has protection.” Eris plucked a pair of gloves out of her pocket and put them on. “I’m just getting a closer look, then we can go.”
Eris reached in and pulled out what looked, at first glance, like a chunk of silverite, a gray-colored mineral they used back at Nova in refractory material at headquarters. Only this was prettier, more iridescent. A meteorite of some sort? Eris twisted it back and forth, letting it catch the light.
“What is that?”
“Not sure,” Eris murmured. “I was expecting something more exciting.”
Lips pressed together, she peered around the storage hull before taking her small tablet out of her pocket. The screen fuzzed and then flickered off. Eris hit the power button a few more times, but it stayed dark.
“I’d wondered why there were no camera drones in here,” she said. “Whatever this stuff is, it makes surveillance glitch. We’ll have to take a sample with us.” Eris wrapped the glove around the rock, delicately, and shoved the lid closed over the rest. She held out the swaddled object to Clo. “Put that in your pocket and let’s go.”
“That thing set off my cuff, and your plan is to take the highly dangerous, probably hazardous, unidentified rock with us? Really?”
“The Novantae need to know why it’s so important.”
Clo let out a long sigh and took the rock from Eris. “Fine.”
They slipped back into the hallway and hurried toward the docking bay and Asteria. Eris almost told Clo to break for it—and risk being heard—but they needed a smooth getaway. They needed—
The hum of the backup generator echoed through the halls, and the lights flickered on.
“Silt,” Clo said.
Eris grabbed her arm. “Run!”
They didn’t even make it a few steps before a girl’s voice boomed over the comm system: “Stop right there!”
They kept sprinting.
“I mean, you can waste the energy if you want, but I’ve just put your ship on lockdown, so.”
Clo and Eris stopped. Eris had her gun out of its holster. “Why does that sound like a child?”
“I’m not a child,” the voice said, affronted. “There’s a camera station a few steps from you. Walk to it.” When Clo and Eris hesitated, the girl added, “Your ship is trapped in the loading bay, so whatever you’re thinking is pointless. Now go to the cam and turn it on.”
Eris flicked the switch for the camera. It went over a few different views of the ship, then finally settled on the command center. At first, she could only see more Tholosian bodies, slumped in their seats or sprawled on the floor in pools of blood.
The first woman who came into view was dressed as a courtesan—all sapphire-toned silk, elaborate onyx hair, pale skin, and carefully applied cosmetics. The dress was blood-splattered. She turned and whispered to another woman with brown skin, dressed in a similar shade of blue. The cut of her clothing was less elaborate than the courtesan’s, a strange imitation of Empire army threads, her hair tied back in a sleek bun.
The third—almost certainly the one over the comm—was a mere girl. Emphasis on girl. She was tiny, with black skin and black hair in an afro of corkscrew curls, her uniform styled similarly to the second woman’s, though less martial in appearance. She looked about fourteen; it must have been her on the comms.
Eris gave a fraction of a nod. A lot of things her father and brother approved of were barbaric. If she’d stayed, she could have changed it.
But she hadn’t stayed.
Regret coiled painfully in her belly, but Eris shoved it down.
The small girl wiggled her fingers at the camera. “Hello. I’m Ariadne. Neither of you were on the manifest. Are you here on official business, or to try and commandeer our commandeered ship?”
Eris ignored the question. “Did you kill those guards? And the Legate?”
“Of course I didn’t,” Ariadne said. “I don’t like killing. That
was Nyx.” She indicated the tall, military woman next to her. Then she gestured to the beautiful woman. “And this is Rhea.”
Eris’s mind whirred, trying to figure out how to play this. Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t three women, one of whom was chatting at them like it was a garden party. They should be completely taken over by the Oracle. They should be yelling their love for Tholos, then plunging knives into their bellies.
“Enough with the introductions,” Nyx interrupted. “You should have let me kill them when I had the chance, kid. The Publican probably sounded the alarms already for backup.”
Ariadne tilted her head. “She doesn’t look like a Publican. Doesn’t sound like a Publican, either.” She gasped. “Are you Novantae? Resistance?”
“No,” Eris said, though her heart rate ratcheted up. That little girl sounded very excited. What the fuck was going on here?
“Are you pirates, then?”
“Yes,” Eris lied, then made a ploy. “But if you want the Novantae, I might know how to get you in touch.”
Ariadne clapped her hands. “I’ve always wanted to meet a pirate. You’re not here to kill us, are you? Because I’ve just decided I like you, but I take exception to someone trying to murder me.”
Eris held up her empty hands at the camera. Never mind the blaster tucked into the small of her back. “I’ve no issue with you and yours. We have what we came for. We can just be on our way.”
Too late, Eris noted the military woman wasn’t on the screen. Gods, she’d moved like a ghost. Where—
The door slid open behind them.
Nyx pointed a Mors at their heads. Her arms were marked with tattoos—Eris knew exactly what those meant. Tallymarks of her kills. This woman had seen battle—a lot of it—and those badges marked her as a royal guard.
Meaning Nyx might have once guarded Discordia or Damocles.
Eris still felt uneasy when encountering those from her other life. There had been too many royal guards for her to memorize them individually, but Nyx would have gone into training with Discordia’s face giving commands on the vid-screens. Discordia’s icon would have been projected at every military camp across the Empire.
Eris’s new face felt like nothing more than a veneer. A sham.
“Come inside,” Nyx said. “Let’s talk.”
12.
PRINCESS DISCORDIA
Ten years ago
Discordia watched her siblings train like a predator on a hunt.
The academy was intended to keep them busy, more focused on their own practices than on each other, but Discordia knew there would come a time when they’d have to hunt each other down—with the entire galaxy as their dueling grounds. The chase was part of the challenge, and Discordia was preparing herself for the possibility of fifty duels.
Only the strongest two survive, Mistress Heraia had told her. And if one of them won’t be you, then put a blade through your throat right now and don’t waste my time.
Mistress Heraia gave Discordia more time to observe her siblings than the other prefects did. It wasn’t cheating, precisely—they were encouraged to spot each other’s weaknesses—but Mistress Heraia’s methods were considered by the other prefects to be unusual. Too much emphasis on the cerebral and not enough on strength or battle.
Strategy, Mistress Heraia had told her, is as much a weapon as a blade. Let the men use brute force. You shouldn’t have to lift a finger to kill your opponent until the very end.
All fifty of Discordia’s brothers had varying degrees of skill. She had watched them from afar as they sparred with their prefects, and sometimes through the observation glass in the classrooms. She knew they did the same with her; the difference was that she never let her guard down. Every moment of her life was a performance, and her audience was fifty teenage boys eager to put a Mors blast through her skull. She counted Damocles among them; agreement or no, he would betray her in a moment if any other brother proved more competent.
No one there was worthy of trust. Not even allies.
Discordia crossed her arms, eyes narrowed at Adrian in his gymnasium below. Both the observation deck and the gymnasium were ringed with trees. It helped them feel like they weren’t trapped on a golden ship, and the roots could also trip up an inattentive student. Adrian diligently switched through every combat weapon in the collection, displaying a familiarity with each one that made his prefect nod in approval.
Adrian was agile. Incredibly strong. The problem she spotted in him was a fatal one: he lacked focus. Badly.
A small rustle came from behind her. The shadow out of the corner of her eye moved.
Damocles still made stupid mistakes.
Discordia seized Damocles by the wrist and flung his hand away. “Clumsy,” she said with a click of her tongue. “I’m not in the mood for games.”
Damocles looked annoyed. “I should have brought a blade.”
“You still would have failed.”
He made a sound in his throat—loathing or an admission of truth—taking in the sight below them. Adrian was practicing with a quarterstaff: not a terribly effective battlefield weapon, but exceptional for honing reflexes. His prefect smacked him across the face with the staff and Adrian reared back with a fist that sent his prefect sprawling. Discordia almost snorted. He hadn’t even bothered with his own staff.
“He has fists the size of boulders,” Damocles murmured. “Formidable skills. Probably the best among our cohort.”
“He might be big, but he’s sloppy.”
Damocles rolled his eyes. “Snob.”
Discordia lifted a shoulder. “Stating facts. Adrian has six months to practice before we’re permitted to fight duels. There’s still time.”
“You think he’ll improve by then?” Damocles asked. His expression was hard. “Considering replacing me?”
“No,” Discordia answered honestly.
“Good.” His eyes burned fire-bright. “Because I’d punish you if you did.”
Discordia went still. There was a promise in his voice, a dangerous finality. She’d always wondered if Damocles hated her. If, in the privacy of his room, he imagined ways of killing her. Theirs was an alliance based on survival, nothing more. Replacing him with a weaker brother wasn’t an option. Perhaps, if Discordia became the first Archontissa, she’d find a way to deal with Damocles.
For now, she had to let Damocles live.
“Don’t threaten me,” she told him. “You’re not being replaced.”
“Good.” He refocused on Adrian. “Then he’ll be our first.”
“Our first?” Discordia snorted. “I assumed you’d want to go after easy pickings. Leo and Marcus still can’t beat their prefects at combat. Xander can, but doesn’t seem interested in allying himself with anyone. That makes him vulnerable.”
She peered down at where Xander trained with his own prefect—just beyond Adrian’s gym.
Discordia scowled. She had yet to figure Xander out. Her other brothers were easy. Like Damocles, they wanted power by any means necessary—even weak ones like Leo and Marcus grew frustrated by their inability to overpower their own teachers. That made them defenseless.
But Xander, he had potential. And yet he seemed . . . bored?
Xander dealt a final blow to his prefect and left the trainer sprawled on the floor. Without a backward glance, her brother strode to the massive glass windows overlooking the clouds. He sat on a bench, tilted his head back against the glass, and shut his eyes.
Bored, yes. And . . . weary?
“What has you so captivated?” Damocles asked. He missed nothing. That made him a great ally.
That made him a dangerous enemy
.
Discordia shuttered her expression. “I was thinking that Xander ought to be first. A brother who refuses an ally has no one to defend him.”
“I prefer a challenge.”
Damocles had gone back to watching Adrian. His small smile—the barest lift of his lips—was absolutely chilling. “Father will be so proud, don’t you think?”
* * *
—
In the months that followed, Discordia began to wonder if she’d chosen the wrong brother.
This close to the ban being lifted, allied pairs were almost inseparable. Discordia spent most of her time with Damocles. He had become difficult to manage; his competitiveness was stifling and it made him violent. Lately, their games of zatrikion had grown turbulent.
“Queen kills King.” Discordia uttered those same words—as she had done a hundred times before.
Damocles knocked the table aside and slammed his fist into her face.
They brawled on the floor of Discordia’s bedroom. The zatrikion pieces scattered across the carpet as they punched and kicked and hit. Discordia flipped Damocles to the ground and had her blade to his throat, pressed to the flesh just over his artery. One wrong move, and he was dead.
“Either you calm down, or I make you my first sacrifice,” she snarled. “Choose.”
He huffed a breath, his eyes cold. “The ban doesn’t lift for another two days.”
“I’ll risk it if you don’t get it together,” Discordia said, voice low. “Stop caring so much. Feelings are a weakness, and weaknesses get you killed.”
Every potential Heir learned this from the moment they could walk. They all had tests to determine their flaws; Discordia’s was deemed excessive empathy. She’d been given an Evoli nurse as a toddler. A majority of Evoli minds were incompatible with programming, but Livia had suffered a minor brain injury that rendered her mental empath defenses useless. As a result, the Oracle’s programming was threaded through Livia’s mind even deeper than the average Tholosian. She was compliant. She was docile. She was kind. Discordia was purposely allowed to bond with Livia for years, had come to love the nurse.