Sirius was the name Briggs used on official Tholosian records; Clo’s own name was listed as Lyra. Both were intended to come from unremarkable genetic stock, large aedifex cohorts that were bred for labor. Nothing that would raise questions when Tholosian military crafts came in and out for service.

Damocles took in the empty hangar. “Where are your attendants?”

“Gave my attendant the day off, Brigadier. May I ask to what we owe this illustrious visit?”

Damocles studied the hangar. Clo ducked down when his eyes swept the door of the dark office. “We chased a resistance spy several days ago. His damaged craft was tracked by the Oracle as far as this galaxy quadrant before it went dark, which can only mean he landed on one of these backwater shitholes.” Damocles strolled around, lingering his fingers against some of the ship parts set out on the tables. “I understand that an older Impusa such as the one he’d stolen requires special parts only a hangar like this would have on hand.” His gaze flickered to Briggs. “Seen anything like that?”

Clo heard the soft click of Sher nudging the safety off his Mors.

Briggs didn’t hesitate. “Can’t say I have, Brigadier. The only ships in and outta here the last several days are supply crafts or military ships touching down for repairs and fuel. More movement than usual in the hangars out this way, on account of storm preparation. Keeps us busy.”

Damocles tapped the worktable. “And yet so many parts.”

Briggs’s face remained inscrutable. “Some storms last a few months, Brigadier. A man needs to have a way to pass the time.”

“Mm.” Damocles’s mouth twisted. “Call your attendant back. I want my ship serviced, and it’s a two-person job.”

Brigg’s head tilted forward in resignation, and he pretended to put the call through on his comm. <Go round the side and come in the main entrance,> he sent through the Pathos.

<What about Sher?>

<Alesca, there ain’t shit around for miles, and he’ll die out there in the cold. He’s not going anywhere right now.>

“Stay here,” Clo breathed to Sher.

At least she didn’t have to hide. She snuck out the side entrance and drew in a sharp breath, wincing at how her lungs burned in the cold. An hour out there, even in her parka, and she’d freeze.

Clo shoved the door open. Warm air made the skin of her cheeks burn, and for that she was grateful. She was about to be face-to-face with the Royal Spare, and the color in her face would hide an angry flush. Damocles had likely grown up above her on Myndalia, looking down on the Snarl, an ugly blemish on an otherwise beautiful view. He would have had no pity for those in the slums. He would have felt nothing for them at all.