But as the lights in the craft dimmed, throwing the other woman’s face into sharp relief, Clo heard Eris release a shaky breath. Maybe the perfect princess had her own nightmares from this place, after all.
“Takeoff in ten seconds,” the ship’s calm voice intoned.
“Let’s go spy on the Empire,” Eris said. Clo didn’t reply, her fingers tightening around the throttle.
The ship’s computer gave them their final warning. “Three, two, one.”
Clo shoved the throttle forward and the pod burst out of the ship and toward Myndalia.
* * *
—
It’d been a long time since Clo had barreled through the atmosphere in such a small craft. She’d forgotten how much she hated it.
The interior grew warmer, until the controls were almost too hot to touch. A halo blazed around the small ship. The world grew clearer, closer, the ground seeming to rise up to meet them. A few thousand feet from the ground, Clo swallowed hard and wrenched the controls, slowing their descent and making sure the cloaking tech was engaged.
They landed, the craft skipping the swamp mud until it slowed to a stop on mostly dry land.
Clo powered down the engine and took off the safety belt, stumbling from the ship. The smell of the planet hit Clo first, and her stomach heaved. Too many memories. The dampness of the mud, the rotting stench of decomposing greenery and algae on stagnant water. The sulfur. The far-off scent of too many people living together in such a small space.
Her boots squelched in the puddles as Clo staggered to the edge of the path. There, she bent over and threw up the scant remnants of her breakfast.
Godsdamn transport sickness.
Clo was fine with larger beasts of ships, but these little bullet craft sometimes made her violently ill. It’d take a few minutes for her stomach to catch up with the rest of her body. She hated feeling weak. She was a bogging pilot.
After she finished, Clo wiped her streaming eyes and straightened to look over at Eris. The other woman was standing, hands on her hips. She looked perfect, no trace of sickness. Of course.
<Ugh, I hate you and your steel stomach.>
Eris caught Clo’s message through her Pathos, and she lifted her lips in a hint of a smile. “Do you need the med kit or something?”
“I’m fine,” Clo said, shortly, steadying her ragged breath. Myndalian air was so heavy; it tasted like lead at the back of her throat.
“I’ll bring it anyway. You almost puked on my boots.”
I wish I had, Clo thought to herself as she rubbed at her false knee. The temperature shift affected the metal and squeezed her skin.
Eris’s eyes flickered to Clo’s hand, and her expression briefly faltered. Aha. It seemed the princess felt a little guilty. That was something, at least.
As if hearing Clo’s thoughts, Eris looked away. “Grab your shit and let’s go.”
Clo clenched her jaw and reached into the ship’s side compartment for her tool belt—mostly filled with unscannable weapons, of course—and her Tholosian mechanic’s jacket.
“Oh, and Clo?” Eris reached into her pocket and tossed something at the other woman. Clo caught it. “Take one of those.”
Clo’s eyes narrowed in suspicion at the small blue case. “What is it?”
“Neutralizers,” Eris said sweetly. “Your breath stinks.”
6.
PRINCESS DISCORDIA
Ten years ago
The training academy on Myndalia was a prison made of gold and glass.
“Up!”
A slap across the face jolted Discordia awake. She shook her head to clear it. “Sorry, Mistress Heraia.”
The papers blurred in front of her eyes. She had been awake for four days in this room, with its single desk surrounded by the glass walls of the training academy.
It overlooked the clouds, tinged pink and orange with the rise of the twin suns. Sometimes, Discordia wished she could open these windows, spread a pair of wings, and fly.
Mistress Heraia snatched the book off the desk. “Recite chapter five for me. Precisely.”
Tholosian history—the reign of the fifth Archon. He had expanded his Empire well beyond the Tholosian solar system, ruthlessly conquering planet after planet. It was his idea to engineer a cohort of royal children, each with the potential of becoming his successor. Natural-born male Heirs were too risky. All it took was one spoiled lackwit with more bluster than sense to lose control over the Empire he’d built.
No, the fifth Archon decided his royal cohort should be engineered to his exact specifications, trained up to his brutal standards, and forced to compete for the throne until only two were left standing. One to be Heir of the galaxy. To lead the charge against the Evoli threat and defeat their enemy once and for all. The other the trusted right hand, still royalty, but no Archon. The Spare.
That had been the tradition for hundreds of years, down to Discordia’s own father. The tenth Archon.
After more than one hundred years as ruler, Discordia’s father began growing his potential successor. The first three batches of one hundred were failures. The first two never made it out of the vats. The third survived and grew to age sixteen. They began dueling as they should, for the title. An Heir and Spare were named, but they killed each other less than a year later. That was not supposed to happen—they were meant to respect the final decision, to set aside their bloodlust and work together.
Discordia was part of the fourth cohort. One hundred children had been grown in vats—fifty assigned male at birth and fifty female, just like all the others. Only fifty-one had survived through childhood.
Discordia was the only female left.
Mistress Heraia, as cruel as she was, had placed her bet on Discordia precisely because she was the only female to make it past age six. She instructed Discordia in all areas—intellectual, physical, and emotional—that would lead to her becoming the best candidate. The strongest. The fastest.
The one who lived.
Discordia shut her eyes and recited the chapter verbatim.
Her prefect didn’t smile. She didn’t congratulate her. Mistress Heraia gathered her bag and digital tablet before saying, “Come with me.”
“Where?” Discordia just wanted to sleep.
“Where else?” Mistress Heraia raised an eyebrow. “To the gymnasium.”
Discordia pressed her teeth together against the urge to beg for sleep. “Practice?”
“To start.” The prefect’s gaze sharpened. “Combat training this morning. History and philosophy this afternoon. And this evening, you run.”