Their target city was Alina. A large swathe of jungle had been flattened, the city built from black metal, studded with the bones of the large, catlike aliens that had been there before the Tholosian conquest. Tall buildings of black and white, with curling green vines like clasping fingers twined along the sides. The streets were narrow and high, blocking out the sunlight, almost purplish with the haze of the atmosphere. The city projected countless moving advertisements onto the sides of the buildings, the images dancing in the gloom. They praised Sennett’s famed fruits and vegetables as jewels taken from the black earth.
Peppered through those swirling colors were the reminders that the planet was loyal to the Tholosian Empire. The double scythes, the dark circle between them. The icons of the Emperor, his face smooth and serene, and of General Damocles, the new Heir Apparent. The memorials to the former Heir Apparent, Princess Discordia of Tholos. Sleek blond hair that fell to her ribs, pale skin, the same royal golden eyes she’d shared with her father and brother, narrowed in the certainty that the entire galaxy would someday be hers.
But Princess Discordia was dead and gone, and Prince Damocles would take the throne and her galaxy instead.
Good riddance.
One less member of the royal family. Though her brother was, if anything, worse. Heir Apparent Damocles was a slimy, useless muskeg lag, to use one of her favorite insults from her childhood. Unlike his sister, he hadn’t earned his place, the galaxy whispered. Damocles was not loved by the people, and he knew it.
They passed an eight-foot icon of him, gazing down his aquiline nose at his subjects as they scurried through the dusk. His eyes shone like coins. He was even paler than his sister, his skin cream against his platinum hair. If these icons had bothered with accuracy, his hands would be covered in blood rather than so white and clean.
He’d once tried and failed to murder Clo. The memories of Jurran swirled up like a murky whirlpool. Her throat closed. Dinnae think of Briggs. Dinnae think ’bout warm blood freezing on the hangar floor. Dinnae think of those months on Fortuna. No.
A few gerulae emerged from the buildings to scrub the already-spotless icon. Clo had only seen them from afar; they weren’t common on backwater planets. Gerulae were convicted criminals who had been reprogrammed so extensively by the Oracle that they no longer had thoughts of their own. They existed as drudges, performing menial work throughout the Tholosian empire.
There were other classes of cohorts; the aedifex were the architects and makers of the Empire. Opifex were the artisans and craftsmen, including courtesans. Militus were soldiers, commanders, killers. Servitors for servants. Clo had found it deeply unsettling when she’d first realized just how deeply the Empire engineered people down through their bones.
Tholosian propaganda claimed the gerulae class was a second chance for those convicted of the petty crime of acting against their initial birth programming. Sometimes, it was for something as little as refusing a superior, or stealing food when hungry. Clo was one of the few born without an implant. If she’d been caught thieving as a child, they’d likely have just killed her. Maybe that would have been a kinder fate.
“Clo.” Eris’s voice startled her. “Come on.”
Eris ignored the gerulae, as if they were no more interesting than the stone behind them. She wore a long hooded coat to cover her concealed weapons. It must have been boiling. Her hair stuck to her temples with sweat, but otherwise, she seemed unfazed by the planet and the Tholosian propaganda swirling around them in the haze.
Clo resisted the urge to take another second and spit at Damocles’s feet. She passed Eris, letting nothing show on her face.
“You all right?” Eris asked.
“Fine. Just some memories best left forgotten.”
“I have plenty of those.” Eris reached out, softly grasping Clo’s shoulder. “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we’re gone. I have a bottle of brandy back at base with our name on it.”
Clo nodded, one hand straying to the small of her back.
The factory wasn’t far from the city center. Plumes of blue smoke rose above the streets of Alina. They passed the market, and the air filled with the scent of ginger and other spices. Clo’s mouth watered. After a childhood of stolen scraps or bog berries foraged in the marshlands, she was always hungry.
Eris walked so smoothly that she disappeared into the crowd. Clo found herself craning her head before Eris startled her.
The other woman lifted her chin. “Stop staring at the food.” Her voice was quiet but commanding. “I need you to focus.”
Clo ground her teeth together. They worked well on missions, but Eris could throw barbs at Clo as easily as the others at Nova, unaware how they could sting. Eris might try to hide her past, but her amount of confidence—that unafraid way of walking through streets—spoke of a childhood with money.
They circled the factory. Shift was over, the workers streaming from the doors. Machines would be left to do some of the simpler tasks, and the Oracle was always there, the ever-watchful eye of the Empire. A program threaded through the fabric of the Empire, reporting back to the Archon. Ensuring order, compliance.
The Oracle was considered to be so powerful that they referred to the program as One. The Oracle was more than a thing, an artificial intelligence. One was an entity.
The Oracle’s programming was downloaded into the brain of every citizen engineered and bred by the Empire—and if that person’s will proved stronger than most, the Oracle controlled motor functions through a tiny implant embedded in the base of the skull, close to the brainstem. The Novantae had their work cut out for them trying to undo One’s influence. Deprogramming was messy at best, fatal at worst.
The Oracle originated in the palace on Tholos but was everywhere. One was the AI on all ships. One was on every Tholosian planet. One was in every soldier’s mind, keeping them loyal. One of the many, people would whisper of the Oracle, in corners where the cameras could not see or hear.
And here were two members of the resistance, hoping to trick the Oracle into not noticing them.
Eris reached under her coat and took out the explosive. It was such a small thing. Clo didn’t think it looked dangerous enough to kill one of the rats in the Snarl, but appearances could be deceiving. If they miscalled this, they could kill people. That didn’t seem to bother Eris. Shouldn’t it?
<How close do we have to get?> Clo asked on their closed Pathos loop.
<A bit farther and we’ll throw it from there,> Eris replied. <Then we’ll get the seven devils out and watch the fireworks.>
<We’re going to . . . throw a bomb?>
Eris gave something resembling a smile in the growing darkness. She looked feral, her white canines pointed. She was pretty, but something about her face was too symmetrical. Her green eyes were dark pools in this light. <Do you have a better idea?>