Seven Devils

by Laura Lam

  The stars streamed by as they moved through the galaxy, and Clo’s new favorite scent was lilies.

  37.

  CLO

  Three years ago

  “It’s colder than a snowman’s balls today,” Briggs grunted, rubbing his hands together. “Hand me my gloves, Clo Alesca.”

  Briggs leaned forward, peering at the innards of the engine of Sher’s ship. He was still a mountain of a man, massive and burly, with jet black hair and equally dark eyes. But Briggs was all hard exterior and soft interior.

  Sher rolled his eyes. His ship had come in last night. Sher needed it detailed from a close clip with a Tholosian warcraft. “Not that cold,” he said.

  “Don’t pretend with me, boy. You might be a commander, but I’ve been on this fucking planet since you earned the title,” Briggs said.

  Laughing, Clo handed Briggs his gloves. He leaned his hip against the craft, put them on. “Sher, you’ll have to tell Kyla Asteria ain’t spaceworthy for another few days. I’m tired and my own balls are gonna freeze off if I try to push this any faster. You’ll have to bunk with me and Clo.”

  Clo shivered in her massive parka. She’d been sent to Briggs’s hangar in Jurran for pissing Kyla off, basically. So, she’d had a little trouble adjusting to the chain of command. So, one of her fellow recruits had bogged her off. So, she’d left him stranded for two days in the desert. He had water! It wasn’t her fault he was a complete marsh-for-brains. She figured Kyla’d give her a scolding, tell her to apologize and stop calling people by Snarl insults.

  But no. Kyla sent Clo to this frozen silthole to learn “character” as she helped Briggs smuggle ships to the resistance. If she didn’t freeze first.

  The weather on most of Jurran was as cold as Novantae was scorching: it could kill people within minutes. The hangar was warm enough to keep them alive but not comfortable. At night, Clo curled up with her knees to her chest, wearing all her winter clothes.

  “So my balls can freeze off?” Sher asked, bringing her back.

  “Why not your fingers?” Clo asked, rolling her eyes. Men were so fluming dramatic. “Or your nose?”

  “Can’t speak for the commander here, but my face ain’t my pride and joy. And my fingers are fine. So’s my—”

  “Nah, don’t finish that sentence,” Clo said, making a face. “Gross.”

  Briggs snorted, taking off the gloves and settled his hands on the cold engine again. Clo winced. As frigid as it was, they couldn’t wear gloves while working with the delicate parts of the Tholosian engine. “Because I need ’em both. Right, Commander?” He settled the digital panel back into place for the navigation system.

  “I’d rather all my body parts remain attached,” Sher said, deadpan.

  Clo snorted.

  “One day, I’ll have a lady who’d definitely mind.” Briggs hunched over a part of the engine.

  “Huh. Would have to be a desperate berm of a lass,” Clo said.

  Briggs threw a glove at Clo. “I got more charm than the commander here. You don’t even know.”

  “Aye, and I’m Princess Discordia, preening about in my robe during the coronation.” She straightened and gave a mocking royal wave.

  Briggs gave a whistle. “She’s feeling feisty today. Must be all that angst and teen hormones.”

  Clo flashed him the two bent fingers of the scythe and he stuck his tongue out at her in reply. A screeching beep from the command stopped them short. Sher went still, and a flash of fear crossed Briggs’s features.

  “Commander, get in my office and stay hidden,” Briggs said, all traces of humor gone from his voice. “Clo, I need a cover for the ship.”

  Sher moved quickly but Clo remained frozen.

  “Now, Alesca!”

  She sprinted to the utility closet, grabbing a tarp. The thing was heavy as she dragged it to the ship. Briggs was at the deck, working the controls, his skin pale beneath the dark stubble. Covering their tracks. The tarp covered the ship, the surface changing to meld with the hangar behind. As long as someone didn’t touch it, they’d never know it was there.

  Another beep. Whoever was arriving had been cleared for landing. “Fuck,” Briggs muttered.

  “Who is it?” Clo asked. “What’s goin’ on?”

  He jerked his head toward his office. “Get behind the desk with Sher, sweet. It’s all right.”

  Sweet? Briggs was more likely to insult someone than use a pet name. The last time he’d called her sweet had been during one of the coldest nights of Clo’s stay on Jurran. Her teeth had chattered so loudly that Briggs had given her one of his blankets, still warm from his body. “Here you go, sweet,” he’d said before darting back to his bunk. “Don’t die on me. I need those hands for the engines.”

  “Clo,” Briggs said, bringing her back. “Go.”

  Clo didn’t want to hide. The last time she’d hidden, she’d regretted it. But she did what he asked. The office was dark, but Clo knew her way around. She settled with Sher behind Briggs’s massive desk in his darkened office, peeking over the table so she could just see Briggs through the office window. He fiddled with the controls until the roof overhead opened with a shuddering screech.

  “Sher?” Clo breathed. “What is it?”

  “Nothing good,” he said, gesturing.

  Clo looked over and watched as a ship slowed, then hovered over the launch pad to land. It wasn’t massive, but what it lacked in size it made up for with capability. It was Cetus, an M class Tholosian ship still in the experimental stages. She’d only seen one once before, but she knew the weapons systems were top-of-the-line.

  But the only people who would have access to these were high up in the military. Much higher in rank than anyone who ever passed through this frozen silthole to refuel.

  “Fuck,” Clo muttered.

  Sher nodded. “Exactly.”

  The hatch opened. A young man strode down the ramp. She barely noticed the other Tholosian soldiers behind him. Her gaze was riveted on the color of his uniform, the sheer number of gold buttons that lined the tops of his shoulders.

  It was Prince Damocles, Brigadier to the military and second in line to the Tholosian throne.

  Damocles looked every inch the Heir Apparent. The Royal Spare. From his flawlessly brushed-back blond hair to the pressed lines of his coat, his entire appearance was immaculate. His eyes shone metallic gold.

  Four guards flanked him. They were all nearly identical, grown from the same cohort. Their Mors glinted in their hands.

  A shiver ran down Clo’s spine. Beside her, Sher shifted, his hand on his own Mors. Clo couldn’t tell if he touched the weapon out of instinct or if he was readying for a fight. Perhaps both.

  Briggs bowed stiffly, and his face flickered with pain from his old back injury. “Brigadier Damocles, sir,” he said. It sounded respectful to anyone else, but Clo heard the hint of unrestrained hatred. “Sirius Alcore-G5, at your service.”

  Sirius was the name Briggs used on official Tholosian records; Clo’s own name was listed as Lyra. Both were intended to come from unremarkable genetic stock, large aedifex cohorts that were bred for labor. Nothing that would raise questions when Tholosian military crafts came in and out for service.

  Damocles took in the empty hangar. “Where are your attendants?”

  “Gave my attendant the day off, Brigadier. May I ask to what we owe this illustrious visit?”

  Damocles studied the hangar. Clo ducked down when his eyes swept the door of the dark office. “We chased a resistance spy several days ago. His damaged craft was tracked by the Oracle as far as this galaxy quadrant before it went dark, which can only mean he landed on one of these backwater shitholes.” Damocles strolled around, lingering his fingers against some of the ship parts set out on the tables. “I understand that an older Impusa such as the one he’d stolen requires special parts only a
hangar like this would have on hand.” His gaze flickered to Briggs. “Seen anything like that?”

  Clo heard the soft click of Sher nudging the safety off his Mors.

  Briggs didn’t hesitate. “Can’t say I have, Brigadier. The only ships in and outta here the last several days are supply crafts or military ships touching down for repairs and fuel. More movement than usual in the hangars out this way, on account of storm preparation. Keeps us busy.”

  Damocles tapped the worktable. “And yet so many parts.”

  Briggs’s face remained inscrutable. “Some storms last a few months, Brigadier. A man needs to have a way to pass the time.”

  “Mm.” Damocles’s mouth twisted. “Call your attendant back. I want my ship serviced, and it’s a two-person job.”

  Brigg’s head tilted forward in resignation, and he pretended to put the call through on his comm. he sent through the Pathos.

 

 

  “Stay here,” Clo breathed to Sher.

  At least she didn’t have to hide. She snuck out the side entrance and drew in a sharp breath, wincing at how her lungs burned in the cold. An hour out there, even in her parka, and she’d freeze.

  Clo shoved the door open. Warm air made the skin of her cheeks burn, and for that she was grateful. She was about to be face-to-face with the Royal Spare, and the color in her face would hide an angry flush. Damocles had likely grown up above her on Myndalia, looking down on the Snarl, an ugly blemish on an otherwise beautiful view. He would have had no pity for those in the slums. He would have felt nothing for them at all.

  She made her way across the hangar, tracking snow across the floor.

  “Brigadier,” Briggs said, “this is my assistant, Lyra Nekkar-Z1. She’s responsible for many of your ships running in top shape.”

  And your enemies’ ships, Clo thought with an inward smile.

  She bowed, with no idea whether the form was correct or not. Avern, she hated showing this muskeg the back of her neck. “It’s an honor, Brigadier.”

  He ignored her. “I want you both finished by moonrise. In the meantime, show me your logs. I want to see every ship that’s come and gone.”

  Damocles’s demeanor never changed, his expression a perfect, emotionless mask. Clo noted the way his eyes took in the boots in the corner, the blankets, the coveralls, and skidded right over the tarp that kept Sher’s ship hidden from view.

  “Of course,” Briggs said smoothly.

  He handed a tablet over to Damocles with a short bow. Clo admired how steady Briggs’s hand was, his easy confidence shot through with the right amount of deference. Her own heart felt as if it were going to beat out of her chest.

  As Damocles scrolled through the logs, his guards watched closely while Briggs and Clo started on the repairs. As they worked with numb fingers, Clo’s nerves grew. The logs always looked like rubbish to her, nothing but time stamps. Hundreds of spacecrafts coming in and out, their models, the work required, and whether they were destined to be disposed of or launched into space.

  Clo looked over at Briggs, catching the pinch of his frown. He glanced up, smoothing his expression with a small, reassuring smile.

  She wasn’t fooled.

  What had Briggs put into those logs? How had he hid the Novantae coming and going, making off with Tholosian supplies? Clo wanted to curse herself for not asking, for taking such little interest in the details of how their operation worked. All she’d wanted to do was build and repair ships.

  And if anything happened today, the consequence for Clo’s incuriosity could be execution.

  Clo tried to focus on her task. They got the ship fueled and checked over the engine. If it hadn’t been piloted by Damocles himself, it would have been a joy to see such a new ship up close. She might have lingered a bit longer on that engine, puzzled over its parts and how it worked. But she couldn’t allow herself to be distracted, not with Damocles and those soldiers so close by. She hated being watched.

  Briggs patted the side of the hull. “And she’s star-ready again.”

  Damocles looked up from the tablet. “Finished?”

  “It wasn’t too big a job. We’re happy to help, Brigadier,” Briggs said. He seemed to be holding his breath. “Is there anything else you require?”

  Seeing him so diffident made Clo uneasy. No dirty jokes, his head bowed.

  He was afraid.

  “For the ship, no,” Damocles said. “You’re shockingly thorough for a gene pool created in this disgusting backwater.”

  “Thank you, Brigadier, I—”

  “Pity there’s a discrepancy in these logs.” Damocles’s gaze was so sharp that Clo felt it like a blade to the chest. “You checked every inch of my ship so carefully, and yet made such small, seemingly careless mistakes in your entries.”

  Briggs went still. She saw his hand inch under his parka for his belt.

  Clo thought quickly.

  “Oh, no,” she said, clicking her tongue. “Is there? That would be my fault. I get numbers mixed up sometimes.” She spoke in a perfect Imperial accent and gave her best vacant smile. Why not play stupid? Damocles already thought her to be part of a backwater gene pool. “I’m sorry; I’ll do better next time, Brigadier.”

  Damocles’s lip curled in disgust. “I see this one is exactly what I’d expect of low genetic stock.”

  Briggs gently nudged Clo aside. “She means well, Brigadier, but—”

  Damocles raised a silencing hand. “I’m not interested. Sort out your logs and don’t let this fucking fool near the records again.” He signaled to his guards. “Get ready for lift. I’m tired of this planet.”

  Clo held a sigh of relief as Damocles strode back to the ship.

  Just before he reached the ramp, he paused, eyes glancing over to where Sher’s ship lay hidden beneath the tarp. Clo bit her lip to keep from swearing. She’d missed the smallest corner—a curve of a wheel was visible. From their angle, it almost looked like a spare part discarded on the floor.

  Almost.

  Fool.

  “Brigadier Damocles,” she said, too brightly, “is there anything—”

  “You two put on a good act,” he said, striding over to the ship, pulling off the tarp to reveal Asteria. The metal nose of the ship gleamed in the harsh overhead light. “Shoot them.”

  The soldiers pointed their weapons, but Briggs was faster. He had his Mors in hand. One shot, one soldier down. The other trained his weapon on Clo and fired. Briggs’s massive body slammed into Clo’s to shove her out of the way.

  “Briggs!” Clo’s cry echoed through the hangar as she felt his body jerk. Warm blood slid across her palms as she pressed her hands to his side.

  Morsfire echoed through the hangar as Sher rushed out of Briggs’s office. He returned fire, ducking his way over to Clo and Briggs. He took one look at the older man and swore.

  From the way Briggs was looking up at them, eyes glazed over in pain, he didn’t expect to survive.

  Flood that.

  Clo reacted without thinking. She grabbed the Mors from Briggs and shot at one of the guards and Prince Damocles. Damocles’s face dropped in surprise as he darted out of the way. The Oracle’s programming would have prevented her from firing on Tholosian soldiers, and especially the Spare. But she was like Briggs—born, not engineered, the Oracle never in their heads.

  Clo and Sher helped Briggs to Asteria, the craft shielding them from Mors shots.

  “Leave me,” Briggs gasped. “Leave me.”

  “We’re not doing that. You had better not die on me, you old son of a marsh cat. Sher, cover me.”

  Sher opened fire once more, creating just enough of a distraction for her to
haul Briggs the rest of the way into the ship. As the guards took cover, Sher scrambled after Clo and hurled himself into the craft.

  Clo slammed the button to bring up the ramp and seal off the ship. Blasts sparked off the metal body from the hangar. Any moment, Damocles and that soldier would be in their spacecraft—

  “I know this ship better than you,” Sher said as Clo took over the captain’s chair.

  “I’ve worked on this damn ship from top to bottom,” she said, flipping switches to turn the engines on, “and you’re a shite pilot. Strap Briggs in.”

  Sher locked the older man into the copilot’s chair. Briggs could barely keep his eyes open. His skin was pale. “Hold on, Briggs,” Sher said. “We’re getting you out.”

  “Told you both,” Briggs said, sounding hoarse. “Asteria ain’t ready to fly yet.”

  “She can fly,” Clo snapped. “She might not be able to outrun that monster of a ship he’s got, but I’m a better pilot.”

  Briggs passed out.

  Sher sat in the passenger chair behind her. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Alesca.”

  “You and me both.”

  Clo eased the gears by her side forward. When the spacecraft was up in the air, she slammed the side lever forward and the craft jetted up. This was going to be bad. Even if Damocles managed to get his own aircraft up and running, he would still end up calling—

  She let out a foul curse when she saw the military spacecraft coming toward her as she exited Jurran’s atmosphere. She couldn’t outrun them. Asteria was a beaten old military junker that Sher had brought to her and Briggs with serious damage, and they hadn’t even finished repairs.

  “You don’t have any speed-drive capabilities,” Sher reminded her.

  “I know that,” she snarled. “We’re just going to have to outsmart them.” She flipped the switches for the ship’s program mainframe. “Find me the nearest planet within an asteroid field,” she told the ship.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Sher leaned forward. “Alesca, you failed this simulation run on Nova.”

  “I got farther than anyone else, including you!”