Clo’s hands tightened on the controls. From above, the planet looked even more like fire. The oranges and rust of the mountains, the yellow sand. All of it interspersed with the dusky blue of small, rare pockets of water dotted along the planet’s surface.

Most of Nova was practically uninhabitable due to the massive storms that covered almost the entire planet’s surface in dust. Novan headquarters were nestled in a valley surrounded by high desert mountains, protected from the brunt of the winds. Even then, the occasional storm rocked the facility. The resistance was forced to pump most of their water from deep underground.

A tiny, overheated planet in a forgotten corner of the galaxy. The stronghold of the resistance, hidden in the outermost quadrant of the Iona Galaxy—still Tholosian territory, but barely acknowledged. Full of stubborn, fierce fighters, determined to be a thorn in the Empire’s side.

There were no illusions on Nova. It would take time and effort to topple the Imperial family. But maybe, if the resistance grew and flourished, they could make a difference. Skirmish by skirmish, ship by ship, soldier by soldier freed of the Oracle’s programming.

One. At. A. Time.

And maybe, she thought wryly, long after my aged corpse is launched intae space, those shitegoblins will be off the throne.

Clo landed right where she’d started. The Valkyrie X-501 set down like a dream. As she swung out of the cockpit, she uselessly patted at the shirt of her oil-splattered uniform. There was sand in the creases of the fabric, and her buttons were tarnished despite a polish from the harsh wind. She looked a damn mess.

<Do I have time to wash and change clothes?> Clo asked Kyla as she motioned for Felix, one of the other mechanics, to bring the Valkyrie back into the hangar.

<No,> Kyla said.

<Seriously? I stink. Like sweat and oil.>

Clo could practically hear Kyla’s annoyed sigh. <Now, Cloelia.>

She broke into a reluctant run, grumbling at the use of her full name. Only her mother had called her Cloelia, and only when she had been well salted with her daughter.

Clo opened the barracks door and stamped in, shaking sand from her boots. Sher and Kyla stood together; this must be one Avern of a mission for both Novan co-commanders to be there. They were often apart—training recruits, checking ongoing missions, or surveying their growing spy network.

Clo’s face softened at seeing Sher. He’d been away too long. Sher was technically her commanding officer; he’d been the one who plucked her out of the swamp water and given her something to believe in. Though she’d never tell him, she thought of him as a sort of older brother or uncle. The closest thing she had to family.