by Laura Lam
Do you think she’ll still love you if I lift the programming? Mistress Heraia had asked mockingly.
Yes, Discordia had said. She was still a child. So stupid. So foolish. Yes.
As soon as she was free of the Oracle, Livia had tried to smother Discordia in her sleep.
And Discordia had killed the woman who had raised her to save her own neck.
She blinked hard, bringing herself back to the present. “I need you to be better than this. Do you understand me?”
Damocles’s lip curled. “You’re not my damn prefect.” He sounded so young, so petulant. Almost a man, still behaving like a boy.
“No, I’m not, and your prefect should have done his job.” When Damocles didn’t respond, Eris said, “You’ll never make it if you keep letting emotion get in the way. It’s why you’re losing this game, over and over. You want to make it to the final two? Stop. Caring.”
She wondered if he’d hit her again. If he did, she would walk away. One of her other brothers would ally with her. Maybe Xander; he was still unpaired.
“Fine. Let’s start the moment the ban is lifted.” His lips curved into an unexpected smile. “Lucky for us, Adrian is back from field training.”
Startled, Discordia lifted her blade from his throat. “You’re eager, aren’t you?”
“Eagerness has nothing to do with it. Father is leaving on the night craft tomorrow.”
There it was. During their training, they had so rarely seen their father; they had been raised in the academy since birth. He came only for special ceremonies, Tholosian military grand tours after their victories, and the occasional progress assessment. Once, Discordia had glanced up from her sparring to the window of the observation deck to find him watching her. She’d thought she had caught his nod of approval.
“You want him to see,” she said.
Damocles raised an eyebrow, as if the answer were obvious. “Don’t you?” He shoved her off and stood. “Meet me at Adrian’s gymnasium tomorrow at sundown.” As he started for the door, he said over his shoulder. “I can’t wait to see the look on Father’s face.”
The next night, Damocles and Discordia hid behind the foliage at the edge of the gymnasium as Adrian trained with another of their siblings. Xerxes had a similar technique to Adrian’s, a brutal fighting style that relied too much on strength. Damocles had hoped to find Adrian alone—but he and Xerxes were allied, and the dueling ban was too close to being lifted.
The time for solitude had passed.
“Fine,” Damocles said in irritation. “Two at once.”
He moved to stand, but Discordia grasped his wrist. “What are you doing?”
“Challenging our brothers,” he said, as if it should be obvious.
Idiot, Discordia thought to herself. “We wait,” she said, “until the dueling ban is lifted. Only another hour. Our brothers will still be here and they’ll be more prepared. You said you wanted a challenge.”
Damocles bared his teeth. “Father will be getting on the night ship any minute, and he’ll come if security detects a duel,” Damocles hissed. “I’m not waiting.”
“It doesn’t matter if he sees—Damocles—”
Her brother jerked out of her grasp and shoved his way out of the foliage. She heard his voice, high and authoritative: “Adrian and Xerxes, I challenge you—”
Discordia leapt through the foliage.
But it was already too late. He’d issued his challenge. The duels had begun.
Discordia darted into the melee, engaging Adrian while Damocles took care of Xerxes. Adrian recognized Discordia as a bigger threat than her brother, and he didn’t waste time. He threw himself at her and swung hard. His massive fists were fast, barely missing her face as Discordia ducked and wove. She had trained for this. This was like breathing. This was like dancing. Mistress Heraia had taught her to move like water across rocks, and she did—oh, how she did. She spun away from Adrian’s kicks and hits as if she were in a Tholosian waltz, every movement deliberate, smooth, beautifully orchestrated.
She played with him. She toyed with him. She teased him with the ease of her skill, with how easily she dodged, just waiting, waiting, for him to tire and slow from the force of his movements.
Adrian didn’t see the blade until she struck. He managed a single word—her name, a ragged sigh—before she plunged her knife into his chest. Her aim was perfect: right through the heart. Quick, merciful. Mistress Heraia would have been proud.
Her brother collapsed to the ground, and Discordia looked over at Damocles’s progress as she wiped her blade. Damocles stood over a prone Xerxes, who was bleeding out onto the hard floor of the gymnasium.
“You did it,” Discordia said, breathless. “You—” She paused at Xerxes’s struggle for breath, his eyes wide. Their other brother choked on Damocles’s name. “He’s still alive. Finish him off, Damocles.”
Damocles stared down at their brother emotionlessly. “Father isn’t here yet.”
A chill went across Discordia’s skin. “He’s suffering. Finish him.”
His eyes snapped up to hers. “This is my duel. It’s done when I say it is.”
Xerxes looked at her, pleading. They were all taught to dispatch each other quickly. No prolonged, painful death, but a death with the respect given to fellow soldiers. Theirs was a difficult deity to please, but Letum did not reward torture. He only rewarded for the collection of souls.
This isn’t right.
Discordia knew she and Damocles were never destined for a merciful alliance—their upbringing and expectations were too violent for compassion—but this? This was the only thing that came closest. This was what separated them from monsters.
One small act.
“No,” Discordia said. “The duel is done when the God of Death gets his sacrifice.”
Discordia dove to her knees. With a quick strike of her blade, she slid it into Xerxes’s throat.
“No!” Damocles grasped her wrist hard, pulling the blade out. Their bloody hands gripped the knife as they struggled over it. “This was my duel. My death. Mine. You had no right to—”
Slow, steady claps came from behind them.
Discordia and Damocles startled. Their father leaned against the door frame. His body was so broad, he commanded the space of the doorway. His gaze was steady as he took in the two dead bodies bleeding out on the ground. If he cared at all for his two sons, it didn’t show. He stopped clapping and lowered his hands, but the sound still echoed in the gymnasium.
The duo scrambled to their feet, bowing. “Father,” they said at the same time.
The Archon came forward, his eyes only on Discordia. “Duels weren’t supposed to be issued for another hour.”
Damocles let out an almost panicked breath. “Yes, Archon, but—”
“Your excuses don’t interest me.” Discordia went still as the Archon reached out and grasped her chin. He studied her for what seemed like hours. He released her. “I’ll be seeing more of you, I believe.”
Without even a glance or a word to his son, the Archon strolled from the room and shut the door behind him.
Damocles stared at Discordia with an expression she couldn’t place. Anger. Or hatred. Before she could decide, his features smoothed to indifference. “I’m going to my room,” he said, walking away from her. Then, over his shoulder: “Say a prayer to the God of Death for me. He seems to favor you.”
With a shuddering sigh, Discordia took off her necklace. She pressed the small scythe into her palm, and whispered her prayers over the bodies of her brothers. She tamped down the heaviness in her chest as their blood pooled at her feet. An unfamiliar feeling made her ache. A burden she didn’t recognize. Didn’t understand.
Years later, she would realize that was the first time she had ever felt guilt.
13.
NYX
Pr
esent 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 s
aid. “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.