“Found him trying the exit hatch near the canteen. My guess is he’s been in the vents for days.” Rhea gestured to his injury. “Clo shot him. His wound is infected and he’s running a fever. I injected him with a hormone blocker to prevent the Oracle from triggering a stress response, so that’s keeping him calm for now.”

Eris scrutinized the intruder. His greasy blond hair covered his brow, and his beard was as filthy as his pale skin. He appeared to be from one of the colder planets, perhaps Lethe, where there was a large military outpost with its own Birthing Center. New cohorts of soldiers were grown there, built for brute strength. Most of this new lot tended to have fairer skin than the darker-skinned crops of DNA used in the warmer Three Sisters region of the galaxy. He certainly looked big enough to be Lethean.

As she decided what to do with him, something on his trousers caught her eye. Were those . . . “Crumbs?” She snapped her head to Rhea in disbelief. “You’ve been feeding him?”

Rhea crossed her arms. “What was I supposed to do? Let him starve? He could barely walk.” At Eris’s silence, Rhea’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re going to torture him, he’ll need his strength, won’t he?”

Damn. The woman had some cutting sarcasm.

Ariadne shoved through. “What did you give him? Because I smell . . .” The girl inspected closer. “Aw, you fed him the proto-bars! Those are my favorites!”

“Oh, enough of this.” Nyx strode to the table and grabbed her Mors. She pointed the gun right at his head. “Eris?”

If Eris gave the command, Nyx would carry it out.

Eris met Clo’s eyes, and the other woman shook her head slightly. Even with that small movement, Eris saw Clo’s hesitation. They were thinking the same thing: what could they do with the pilot? They’d have to get him back to headquarters for deprogramming, and they didn’t have time for that. They were in the middle of a mission. He was a liability.

“Do it,” Eris said.

Nyx cocked the gun.

“Wait.” Rhea grasped the end of Nyx’s Mors before it could fire. “I think we should speak to him and see if he knows anything about . . . uh, Josephine.”

“Josephine has an official name, by the way. Ichor.” Ariadne looked proud. “Means blood of the gods. Pretty fancy.”

Nyx scowled at Ariadne before returning her attention to Rhea. “Pilots aren’t paid to know what their cargo is, just to deliver it. He’s dangerous.”

Rhea was insistent. “He didn’t reach out to anyone.”

“Yet,” Eris said quietly.