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. <Riiing riiiing this is important,> the tune sang. <Listen to meee and remember don’t murder people!>
<I’m busy,> she sent back through her Pathos.
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.
<Riing riiiing this is important—>
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—
<Riing riiiing this is important—>
Son of a bitch.
She commanded her Pathos to answer the godsdamn call.
<Finally,> came the commander’s voice.
<You had better be dying,> she said to Sher as she pulled the gun out of her holster.
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.
<We need you back at Nova,> Commander Asshole in her head said. <Now.>
<I said I’m busy,> 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.
<Get un-busy,> Sher said.
<I am>—she pointed her gun—<in the middle of>—one shot to the head of a soldier—<a job>—one shot to another’s torso—<and you are>—another soldier down—<destroying my focus. And now I’m out of shots.>
<So use one of your other weapons.> He sounded impatient, as usual. <And try not to shoot them all in the head this time.>
<I got a few in the knee and a few in the gut.> Only some in the head. <If you called just to give me a lecture, I’m turning off the Pathos.>
The soldiers yelled—calling for reinforcements from the other part of the ship. More loyal 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. <I’ve got another mission for you.>
<Are you kidding me? I’m in the middle of commandeering a ship.>
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.
<Kyla says you’re usually faster than this.>
Eris paused. <She did not.>
<She’s telling me that if you don’t finish your mission in the next fifty seconds, it’ll be your slowest run time—>
<If you’d shut up>—she lunged from behind the metal container—<for one>—threw her blade into a soldier’s gut—<godsdamn>—dove to avoid a spray of laser blasts that exploded into white lights behind her upon impact—<second.>
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.