For once, she was glad the other women had left her behind. She never wanted them to see her like this: sitting in the ship’s command center, staring at the wall, fighting back tears.

The Evoli had blue eyes. Dark hair. Pale skin.

He had been afraid. She could see it in his face. Now she’d never forget.

“I didn’t know his name,” she murmured, shutting her stinging eyes. “I didn’t even know his godsdamned name.”

She didn’t use language like that. Her life had been comprised of poetry—soft words for reassurance, her voice never rising in anger. She could only think of that man as the Evoli. Other, according to the Tholosians. An enemy not worthy of a name. Did he have family? Friends? They would have no way to mourn him, no way of even knowing he was gone.

Gods. Gods. Her chest ached. Rhea knew the other women couldn’t have stopped it—that his fate had been sealed with his capture—but it still hurt. That was what the Empire did: forced you to be complicit in the dehumanization of others.

They reduced you to same identifiers animals are given: a species name. Orous zuinae. Extinct. Llidnian ixesuma. Extinct.

That will be you in the end, if you’re caught, Rhea thought. No name. No one to care about you. Why would they? You’re just an—

“Stop it,” Rhea told herself, digging her fingernails into the skin of her arms. “Stop it. Stop it.”

A soft beep emerged from the computers. She snapped her head up, her heart thudding hard against her ribs. Had a Tholosian guard sensed something was off with the ship’s logs? Had their identities been compromised?

Rhea checked the controls, cursing her clumsy fingers. She’d rarely touched tablets or technology. In the Pleasure Garden, such things were considered distractions. Though Ariadne had taught her the basics, she was still slow to type.

She keyed in the command to find the source of the alarm.

Oh.

There was movement on the ship—a single signature on one of the lowest levels. And it was heading for the exit near the canteen.

“Seven devils,” Rhea muttered, swearing yet again. She grabbed a Mors from Nyx’s weapon pile.

Someone else was on the ship.

She threw on one of the Mors-proof jackets stored in the cockpit. A well-placed laser would still hurt, but at least it wouldn’t slice her in half.

Rhea’s breathing was ragged as she left the command center. She’d have to deal with this herself. She didn’t want to be alone, but she couldn’t call for backup when the others were in the middle of their missions.

You can do this, she told herself as she hurried quietly down the hall toward the canteen. The ship shuddered. The exit hatch was opening.

“Damn,” she hissed, rounding the corner.