“Put the Mors down and we’ll come inside,” said the woman with the piercing gaze.

Nyx recognized the shorter woman as a threat even through the screens. She didn’t look at Nyx; she looked through her. The intensity of it did not match her youthful, doll-like features. Curls framed her face. Her belt emphasized her wasp waist and somehow made the godsawful Tholosian jumpsuit look flattering. Neither she nor the taller woman with the buzz cut looked older than Nyx’s twenty-three.

The scavengers Nyx had seen caught and punished by the Empire were naturally resistant to the Oracle. They went through underground networks to get their chips removed and their programming wiped. Anyone who defected from the Empire and didn’t join an organized group like the Novantae resistance was vulnerable and desperate. They were filthy, underfed, and—if their deprogramming had gone poorly, which they often did in those disgusting makeshift med centers—fucking bonkers.

By the time the Empire caught up with scavengers, it was all too easy for the Oracle to reprogram them into gerulae.

These women were well fed, clean, and clearly sane. She wouldn’t lower this weapon until she knew who they were. “I wasn’t fished from a vat in the Birthing Center yesterday,” she said with steel in her voice. “You want off this ship with your life, then you talk. If you don’t, I put a laser through your brain. Simple.”

The women exchanged glances. A moment passed, as if a whole silent conversation occurred, before the smaller woman made a small noise of frustration. “Fine.”

They edged through the double doors into the command center.

The taller woman had a Mors gripped in one steady hand, her shorn hair making her look harsh. She was shorter than Nyx but muscular, solidly built. Not a soldier—she didn’t move or hold herself like one. Didn’t take note of their weapons.

The other woman, despite being as delicate as a doll? Soldier. Every movement she took was a woman aware of exits, weapons, potential weapons. Training had taught Nyx never to underestimate an opponent, even if they seemed physically weaker or younger.

Nyx’s gaze snagged on the odd piece of metal in her grip. Holy gods, was that . . . a blaster?

Nyx had fired every type of weapon she could get her hands on, but that thing had to be from the reign of the ninth Archon, which made it over one hundred years old. It must have been stolen from the Imperial Archives to be in such perfect condition. She wondered how far it could fire.

As if sensing her unasked question, the woman slid her finger to the trigger and bared her teeth in a false smile. A warning.

Nyx must have taken a step forward, because Rhea laid a hand on her arm. “Easy,” she said. “No one else needs to be killed today.”