They all returned to the command center to find Ariadne still laboring over the sample rock in a small glass side room usually reserved for pilot and copilot to rest between shifts. She’d snagged a massive dome light from the med center, and wore one of the ship’s jumpsuits for an extra layer of protection.

“Any luck with that rock, or are we throwing it into space?” Eris asked.

Ariadne brushed the dust from the rock with one of her tools and peeked inside, the light reflecting off the visor of her helmet. “Well, the interior emits a luminescence,” her voice said through her helmet’s comms. “The basic tests came up empty, and it has unique, unidentified endospores that release with any hard impact.”

Clo wrinkled her nose. “Translate that, please.”

“Dormant bacterial morphotypes,” Ariadne explained, as if that would help. “Resistant to tough conditions on certain planets. But that’s it. I can’t do much more without running it through an analyzer.”

Nyx scoffed. “So. We have nothing so far.”

Ariadne looked cheerful. “Not nothing. It’s so shiny!”

“Kid, you’re not helping.”

A high chime echoed from the comms. Every ship in the galaxy was fitted with an announcer that received royal proclamations. Even the Novantae didn’t dare remove them; they needed to see proclamations live just like everyone else. They were that rare.

Eris recalled the last proclamation vividly. Shortly after Eris had defected, she was in the medical suite at Nova, recovering from injuries sustained while staging her death. That ringing had sounded throughout headquarters—and the whole empire—a klaxon announcing her death.

Even though the Novantae had staged her ship’s crash to look like an accident, the Archon used it as an excuse to blame the Evoli, retaliating and threatening to reignite all-out war.

How many deaths resulted? Eris was the one who chose to leave. She knew what she risked.

The chimes faded. The lights dimmed and the screen over the main controls clicked on. The live feed showed the Secretary to the Archon standing at the podium of the throne room, speaking the formal introductions. Behind him was the glimmering marble slab of the dais, with the simple seat from which her father took his appointments. The Archon sat, regal in his clean, pressed black military uniform and gold threads.

It was the first time Eris had seen her father in three years. He looked so much older, even with plenty of years left in his reign. Body mods reserved only for members of the royal family allowed them to live longer than humans did naturally; her father was approaching one hundred and eighty-six Old World years. But Eris didn’t remember those gray streaks in his jet-black hair, or the sharp lines across his forehead. His expression was as stern as she remembered. Every bit as cold.