Seven Devils

by Laura Lam

  All performances. Nyx bit her lip so she didn’t curl it in disgust. She had not missed the drama of ceremony.

  Tonight, the ball was held in the upper levels of the palace, with grand views over the grounds and the skyscrapers rising into the mist. Impressive, and easier to protect from a security standpoint. All the palace watchtowers had a view of the ballroom, with sniper weapons trained and ready in case of attack. Far-off towers and farther-off mountains were hulking shapes in the gloaming. The setting sun tinged the mist rose gold.

  As the double doors of the grand elevator opened, Nyx caught her breath. Her memory of this place after the Battle of the Garnet paled to seeing it again in person. The grand dome of the ceiling rose above them, painted deep indigo, the many conquered planets illustrated in gold foil. There were already one or two more than the last time Nyx had attended her tour.

  Nyx froze as she spotted the familiar faces that belonged to members of her regiment. There was Alava Cordesian-13, one of the generals on Circe, her medals shining brightly on her chest. Near her was Conori Molkos-56, who had fought alongside Nyx in the trenches at the Garnet. She’d handed him her Mors to hold once, and trusted him to have her back. The Molkos cohort had nearly been wiped out in the battle, and yet Conori stayed with Nyx—a member of his regiment, yes, but not of his own cohort. She owed him her life.

  Stop, Nyx told herself. You can’t think like that anymore.

  Trust on the battlefield didn’t mean anything while soldiers were controlled by the Oracle. If Nyx were caught there tonight as a traitor who broke with the Empire and her coding, Conori would stand in the crowd, righteous as he watched her execution.

  Ariadne’s voice was in her head.

  She realized she had paused just outside the elevator; the other women were looking back at her with worry. Nyx shook her head.

  Eris asked.

  Nyx said, catching up to them.

  Eris sounded like she was praying for a swift death.

 

  Ariadne said.

  Eris said dryly. She swept her vomit-of-color dress out with her hand and led them farther into the ballroom.

  The room was full of people resplendent in the latest fashion of their various planets. Women laced into corsets, the skirts of their gowns trailing behind them. Tholosians favored jewel tones—rich greens, blues, and reds—to match the heavy jewelry glittering at their throats, their ears, or in circlets across their brows.

  Many wore wigs braided with ribbon, more jewels, or mechanical birds or butterflies, their wings fluttering softly as the women glided through the ballroom. The gowns were as much of a uniform as many of the men’s military threads, medals shining at their chest, posture ramrod-straight beneath epaulettes.

  Eris made sure to match. Her hair was somehow even more complicated than it’d been for the meeting with Prince Damocles yesterday. Deep purple braided silk, silver filigree set with gems. It looked heavy, like it pinched.

  Nyx spotted others she knew, and self-consciously hunched her shoulders. It was difficult not to feel exposed, as if her lies were written upon her face.

  Eris paused beside Nyx. she whispered.

  The other women followed her gaze and went equally still. The Archon sat on his throne, still as one of the marble statues ringing the room. Nyx’s breath caught, and she forced herself to let it out slowly.

  Even from there, his golden eyes blazed. His crown sat upon his brow, studded with precious stones from the worlds he had conquered in bloody battle, but the metal was the same Old World steel as the ancient palace on Tholos. The long, flowing robes of his office puddled on the floor. Dark blue velvet, a tapestry of his conquests stitched in gold and silver thread, just like the dome above him. Every aspect of his bearing a reminder that everything belonged to him. That he had the power to take anything he wanted. Their homes, their possessions, their lives.

  The Archon’s gaze traveled around the room, taking in his loyal subjects.

  Nyx asked through the Pathos.

  Eris’s eyes fixed on Damocles as he noticed her and left his father’s side.

  “General.” Eris dropped into a deep bow. As she rose, he took her hand, raising it to his lips.

  Nyx argued.

  Eris said firmly.

  “Zoe,” General Damocles said. “I’m glad to have someone here who doesn’t infuriate me.”

  Eris smiled. “Is that what you say to all the ladies?”

  “Only ones who give me things I like.”

  “Ahh, excellent answer.” Eris edged closer. “Then as payment, you must show me around. I’ve never been up here before.”

  General Damocles offered her a small smile, and Nyx tried not to show her astonishment. He was usually so cold—unless, of course, he was furious. Then the prince was terrifying.

  She had to hand it to Eris: she was damned good at her job.

  “Deal,” he replied, taking her hand in his. “I’ll take you to the gardens.”

  Eris waved off Clo and Ariadne. “We don’t need company.” She narrowed her eyes at Nyx. “You. Trail behind in case we’d like a drink. But not too closely; I don’t want to have to look at you.”

  Nyx gritted her teeth as Ariadne and Clo drifted to the edges of the ballroom, both taking a brief pit stop at the buffet table to nibble some treats and appear casual. Nyx sighed, wishing she could be the one doing the breaking and entering rather than the subterfuge.

  Instead, she kept her head down and pretended to be a servitor.

  28.

  CLO

  Present day

  Clo’s heart wouldn’t stop hammering. She was convinced the guards would take one look at her and realize she was a threat. One shot of a Mors and then they’d incinerate her corpse, her ashes scattered to help fertilize the crops on one of the moons above her.

  Ariadne was just as wary. She might meet her maker this evening, and the Oracle did not strike Clo as a creature who easily forgave betrayal.

  Clo followed Ariadne’s lead. They made their way to a quieter corner of the ballroom, as if heading toward the facilities. Ariadne took them a little farther along and then reached for Clo’s arm. She put her hands on Clo’s shoulders, as if they were having a slightly drunk but earnest heart-to-heart.

  “This is a camera blind spot,” she whispered. Clo could barely hear her over the music. “A small flaw in the building’s security design, and a bad one since it’s right in front of a cloak closet. I noticed it last year while watching the wintertide festival and never told the Oracle.”

  Ariadne took a quick glance around, made sure the coast was clear, and then took out the commander’s copied pass from her small clutch. With the smuggled inorganic shifter cuff, she’d made it look like a thin notebook. She opened the door and ushered Clo inside, closing it behind them.

  “Pretty sure the guards know about the flaw, but people have trysts in here and no one talks about it. Lucky for us.” Ariadne’s teeth gleamed white, visible even in the low light. The closet smelled of lingering chemicals and clean linen. “You sure your leg is ready for this next bit?” she asked.

  “It rubs,” Clo said, curt. “But I’ll deal with the blisters tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry. Was that rude?” Ariadne bit her lip. “Humans aren’t as easy for me to interact with as machines. The same action won’t work on
the same two people in an expected response.” The almost-robotic intonation of her voice was an eerie echo of the Oracle. Clo shivered.

  “You’re doing fine, kid.” Clo forced her voice to soften.

  “Your leg does hurt, though?”

  Clo sighed. “Yes.”

  At first, it had throbbed all the time. Real pain and phantom pain hurt just the same. Eventually, her body grew used to the change.

  “Okay. Right,” Ariadne said. “Follow me.”

  Clo reached up, popped the hatch of the vent at the back of the closet, and gave the much-shorter Ariadne a boost before using a storage box to climb up herself. Her leg twinged, but it didn’t slow her down. They shifted forward carefully to dull the echo of their movements. Within moments, they were covered in dust. Clo fought the urge to sneeze.

  The air duct opened directly onto the elevator shaft. Ariadne sidled onto the support beam first. Clo leaned out.

  “Don’t look down,” Ariadne warned.

  Too late. “Silt,” Clo breathed.

  The shaft was the entire height of the building, lined with glimmering bones. She wasn’t even sure she could see the bottom. Normally, she was fine with heights—she climbed around spaceships all the time and she’d been raised in the Snarl—but the drop there dizzied her.

  Ariadne moved back along the ledge. “Come on, Clo,” she urged. “We only have to go down two floors. The ball is enough of a distraction that we won’t have people coming and going.”

  “And if the elevator appears . . .” Clo began.

  Ariadne grinned, as if the thought delighted her. “We’ll have to jump on the top of it so we’re not squished. Easy.”

  Easy? Was she flooded? “And then we’ll have to hope no one hears the thump, raises the alarm, and finds us on top of the damn elevator.” Clo let out a breath and looked down again. “This is such a bad idea. Getting squashed by an elevator sounds like a terrible way to die.”

  “I mean, yes. It would be. But we’ll be fine!” Ariadne said, falsely bright. “We just have to go along to the end there. There’s even a service ladder. Ten minutes, tops.” She started back along the ledge. Clo muttered a silent prayer and followed.

  The ledge was barely wide enough for her feet, and she was wearing dress shoes borrowed from Nyx’s stash—with flat soles, at least, but nothing like her grippy mechanic boots—and they were a size too big. She tried not to think about slipping, dangling from the narrow ledge, and losing her grip on the smooth metal. She tried not to think about those awful, few moments she’d have after she fell.

  Ariadne reached the corner and descended the service ladder. Clo followed, making sure not to look down. The ladder was older and needed painting. Her hands were soon stained with rust. She gripped each rung as tightly as she could, moving slowly, surely.

  Ariadne finished one level and started on the next. Clo steadied her breathing. Almost halfway there. Nearly done. With the first step of a series of dangerous tasks. She still couldn’t believe they were actually trying to take down the Tholosians from the inside. It seemed a fool’s errand. They were tiny gnats trying to take on a Procolian snow beast.

  “I’m down,” Ariadne called up softly.

  Before Clo could answer, the shaft filled with an echoing metal shriek.

  The elevator.

  “Fuck!”

  Clo clambered down the ladder faster. The one on the second level was in even-worse condition. The paint flecked off, making her hands slippery. She held on tighter and put her foot down on the next rung.

  It slipped.

  Clo’s breath left her lungs in a rush. Her other foot lost purchase and she hung on by her hands. Ariadne was too far away to be of help. Clo kicked out. The clanking grew louder.

  She managed to step onto the rungs again, and crawled down the ladder like a spithra bug. She had no time to check her grips. She could only move as fast as possible and hope her borrowed shoes didn’t betray her again.

  Clo reached the platform, and Ariadne grabbed her. They both pressed themselves flat against the wall as the elevator whooshed past. The wind buffeted them, and they closed their eyes tight. Within half a second, it was far above them.

  “Fluming bogging fuck,” Clo said, for good measure.

  “Are you all right?” Ariadne asked.

  “Just thankful I’m not greeting the gods face-to-face right now. Salutem, God of Survival, my heart.” She took deep, ragged breaths and wiped her grimy hands on her dirtied top.

  “Hopefully, that’s as exciting as things get tonight,” Ariadne said, pulling a small non-organic shifter cuff from her pocket. “Here.”

  “How’d you sneak that past the guards?” Clo asked.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she answered with a grin.

  Ariadne turned it on and gave them each a quick once-over. The dirt disappeared from their clothes, their faces, their hair. Their suits’ creases smoothed, changing from private security to Tholosian guard uniforms. Underneath the illusion, Clo could still feel the dirt clogging her pores. She twisted around. All perfect, right down to the ID tags. It was risky, but it was easier to hide an energy signature than the amount of muck they were covered in.

  “We don’t have Mors,” Ariadne said critically. “So don’t brush against anyone.” She’d created the illusion of a gun holster, but as it was flat against the fabric, it wouldn’t hold up under the slightest hint of scrutiny. “Best I can do. Come on.”

  They left the shelter of the air duct and sneaked out of another storage closet. They were underground, in the depths of the palace. Labyrinths behind the walls. Clo wondered who else used them and for what purpose. They walked confidently, chins up, shoulders back, as if they had every right in the world to be there.

  People, even guards, were not nearly as observant as they thought they were. Routine made people comfortable. Complacent. Even with the threat of Tholosian justice should they fail, it was easy to miss the little details. If someone walked confidently, looked the part, made eye contact, gave a little nod, then carried on with their business, few tended to question that assurance. It was easier for the guards to fall back into the routine programmed into their minds.

  The command center only had one officer out front, with more on the neighboring hallways to come if he sounded the alarm. The hubris of depending on the Oracle for protection and surveillance would help Clo and Ariadne tonight.

  Ariadne found the next blind spot, and they popped another hatch and boosted each other back up into the vents. They crawled farther through the dust, making toward a mainframe panel. Clo could barely fit, her shoulders brushing against the metal sides. The darkness closed in around her and Clo steadied a breath.

  Forward, she told herself.

  Ariadne opened the panel, fingers snaking into spirals and swirls on the small adjacent screen. She slotted in another small chip of her own design. Another feat of magic, slipping this past the guards.

  “This isn’t connecting properly,” Ariadne whispered. “I’m more software than hardware. Can you help?”

  She shimmied back. Their bodies had to press against each other to pass through the tight space. Clo could feel Ariadne’s ribs. The Oracle might not have starved the girl, but Clo had heard enough about Ariadne’s limited, dull diet to understand that eating had brought her no pleasure. Rage at how the girl had been treated burned hot and bright. Ariadne ate every chance she could, but Clo would be glad to see the former engineer healthy and happy.

  Clo turned her attention to the chip. Something was interfering with the connection—the green light kept flickering on and off. Clo put her tongue between her teeth, dragging her chipped nails into the wire. Ariadne had warned her the electronics this deep in the building were older, less reliant on the Oracle’s coding, and more prone to being finicky.

  It only took Clo a few tries before it connected st
rongly enough that the green light glowed bright and steady. “Got it.”

  “Thanks,” Ariadne whispered. “The cameras have recorded a loop for fifteen seconds, and it’ll keep replaying on monitors.” She fiddled for another few seconds. “I just turned off the weight and heat sensors in the hallways, but if the lasers trigger, I can deal with those.”

  They edged back to a vent just above the guard.

  “Filters,” Ariadne warned, and Clo took them from her pocket and shoved them up her nose as Ari did the same. They held their breaths just in case, mouths shut tight. Another tiny gadget emerged from Ariadne’s pocket, and she tossed it down. The guard startled, then dropped to the ground as the sleeping gas took effect.

  Clo looked at Ariadne in astonishment once the younger woman gave the all clear. “Are you sure you don’t want to be a spy?” She took out the filters, wrinkling her nose at the itching.

  Ariadne gave her a quick grin. “I have a knack for it, don’t I?” She returned her attention to the vent. “Quickly.”

  Ariadne jumped down from the vent and landed without a sound. Clo followed more clunkily. They dragged the fallen soldier into that floor’s supply closet. His heartbeat was steady.

  “Now take his place,” Ariadne told Clo.

  “I look nothing like him,” Clo whispered back.

  Ariadne waved a dismissive hand. “They swap this post a lot. If anyone comes down here, tell them there’s a security health check that will finish in one hour; cite code 11159. They’ll leave in a panic. Got it?”

  “11159. Got it.”

  “I’m going in. Remember what I told you.”

  “Good luck.” Clo’s heartbeat quickened.

  “I don’t need luck.”

  Ariadne keyed the code to the door and slipped inside.

  29.

  ARIADNE

  Ten months ago