A man in a torn uniform was slipping out of the exit hatch. Who was he? How had he entered the ship in the first place without her or the ship’s computers knowing?

Rhea slipped behind him as he slowly made his way down the ramp. He moved stiffly. Injured? Yes—a Mors blast must have glanced over his hip. The fabric was burned to his flesh. His skin at the back of his neck was yellow and covered in a sheen of sweat. He wouldn’t be as strong or as fast. She had a better chance of taking him down.

The man turned.

Rhea froze.

It was the godsdamned copilot.

She had seen him when she boarded back on Tholos. He had caught her eye, then glanced away, as if she was nothing. Just a dona. But he had escaped onto Asteria days ago after Clo shot at him—or, at least, they thought he had. Rhea fixed her eyes on the injury at his hip. He hadn’t escaped.

He’d been here the whole time.

The pilot pointed a Mors of his own at Rhea’s head.

“Put your weapon down,” he said, his voice rough.

“You first.”

They stood at an impasse. Bruises hollowed his eyes, and sweat stained his pale, jaundiced skin. His hand was shaky, and his gaze was unfocused, eyelids heavy. Would he risk the shot?

No. He darted a glance to the open hatch, and she guessed what he was thinking: lock her in, escape.

The pilot went for the door.

Rhea lunged after him, but he was faster. The pilot scrambled out of the hatch and smacked his palm against the button to close it. Rhea leaped through, skidding down the ramp as the door slammed shut behind her.

“Shit,” the pilot said, taking off in a limping run.

Rhea opened her mouth to yell after him, but they were in the hangar, with dozens of other ships around. There might be others resting in the crafts between journeys. There might be—

Two people came out from behind the crafts, moving slowly.

“Hey!” the pilot yelled, waving his hands. “Get me a fucking medic. Get the—”

Rhea lunged at the pilot, tackling him from behind. They both hit the ground. Rhea rolled hard against the concrete, letting out a soft grunt of pain.

His eyes met hers, and Rhea could see the rapid contraction of his irises. The Oracle programming was waking up. Any moment, One would fully activate and pump his system full of adrenaline. Even in his weakened state, he weighed twice more than Rhea.

He bucked against her as she tried to slide her hands down to his bare wrists . . .

The pilot shoved her off and stumbled into a run. “Hey!” he said to the people approaching. “You— Godsdamn it. Fucking husks.”