On the highest levels of Eleutheria, she could see the sky.

It wasn’t the real sky, of course. The true, unaltered sky was a haze of gray fog and poisonous mist; if she breathed in the real sky, she’d probably screw up her cells so much she’d have cancer on top of her cancer. The truth was ugly and dangerous, so they’d covered it all with a strange mixture of forcefields and computer-generated images of blue split occasionally by fluffy white cumulus clouds from which rain never fell. Ordinarily, the smog and grime of the lower levels permeated the atmosphere so much that it was hard to even see through the thick, smoky air, but Alestra, of course, would have none of that for her precious lungs.

Carina sighed. She didn’t know why she was so angry at Alestra; she’d never offended her personally. She was scary and intimidating and almost creepily beautiful, but that was true for all Imperatrices—supposedly. Of course, the latest coronation was the first exchange of power Carina had been alive to see; Imperatrix Harmonia Cassia died long before she was born.

Maybe she was just nervous. That was it—she was anxious and lashing out. She didn’t hate Alestra. Who hated Alestra? Everyone loved her. They had to, or they’d wake up in a gulag somewhere on the other side of the world.

The hall where she was led was large and empty, all quartz and marble carved into intricate designs, entwined with precious gems and metals to create priceless artwork. At the very end was the coat of arms of house Cipher, a white shield with silver charges of plasmids and ancient, spiky trefoil runes. A silver chief topped the shield; Aleskynn said it stood for “domination of will,” but Carina assumed she was just making things up. She did that a lot. The Imperial tiara that Acidalia had been crowned with stood atop the shield as a coronet, and the helmet from the uniform of a high-ranking TB-branch soldier made a helm. In a messy script, taken from the writings of Katherine herself, read “Igne natura renovatur integra,” the motto of the royal house. Through fire, nature is reborn whole.

Carina’s thoughts were abruptly pulled back to Alestra screaming that motto in her most recent propaganda series as she brandished an oddly elegant automatic weapon. She shoved the thought deep down back in her brain, where it belonged, and continued walking.

They turned a corner, and the Ministratoras stopped, their double helix insignias glimmering under the harsh white light. The corridor was entirely empty for a moment, then a small, pale figure bounded out of the shadows.

“Hey,” Aleskynn said. “Wanna hang out?”

A burst of anger flashed through Carina’s mind. “That’s why I’m here? You just got bored?!”

Aleskynn blew a bubble of gum, then popped it. It stuck to her shiny pink lips. “Um, yeah?”

Carina sighed. “Leski, I have a job. I can’t just randomly disappear, I won’t get paid. And I kind of need that money. I have to pay rent.”

“Rent on what?”

“My apartment,” Carina said, knowing the concept of rent was as foreign to Aleskynn as aliens from outer space. She had probably heard vaguely of the idea, but she had no reason to dwell on it; that was everyone else’s job. “And train tickets cost money, and so does food and clothing, and I have to bring my own PPE,” Carina continued.

“Never mind, I’m sorry I asked. This conversation is boring me,” Aleskynn snapped. She turned to the Ministratoras and dismissed them with an irritated “you can leave now.”

Carina took a deep breath and resigned herself to a very long, wasted afternoon.

Aleskynn set off down the hallway, her clear plastic court shoes clacking loudly on the pristine marble floor. “Anyway, Velia, Hera, Amelyx, and Raveri are all busy, and all my other ladies in waiting are so boring. I mean, you aren’t exactly exciting, either, but like, you don’t have a clue about makeup or hair, clearly, and I am so sick of hearing about that.”

“Thanks,” Carina said, knowing Aleskynn wasn’t listening well enough to pick up on the sarcasm.

“Anyway,” she continued. “I’m about to literally lose my mind, like actually, because people just won’t shut the hell up about my bastard sister, which is total bullshit because it’s not even her throne, it’s mine. I mean, I guess technically not… but that’s a technicality, which basically means it’s not even real. With every other monarchy in history, the oldest legitimate kid gets primogenitum, right?”

“I’m pretty sure most historical monarchies gave primogenitum to the eldest son,” Carina said.

“Well, I don’t have a brother,” Aleskynn shrugged, “or at least, not a legitimate one. Besides, most historical monarchies only gave stuff to men ‘cause they didn’t have the military prowess we have. If the men are off ruling the country, how can they be fighting a war, right?”

“Right.” Carina decided it was probably best not to mention that the people who led the country were generally the same people who led the military campaigns. Aleskynn had probably never even laid her precious gaze upon something as uncouth as a set of fatigues.

“My point is that all of this is totally unfair,” Aleskynn whined, kicking at a flowerpot that held strange, bright, fluorescent roses. It cracked when it hit the ground, sending a spray of dirt and neon fluid into the air. “That throne should belong to me.”

“What would you even do if you had the throne?” Carina asked. “A, you’re not twenty yet, so you’d be led by your mother acting as regent anyway. And B, you hate responsibility. Why do you want it that badly?”

“For starters, my mom is co-empress anyway, that’s how it works. Rule of two.” She rolled her eyes like it should have been obvious. “A mix of new and old blood, the splitting of power, a backup for the empress—it’s in the rule book. Who cares if she’s acting regent or co-Imperatrix? It’s pretty much the same, and she lets me do basically whatever anyway. As far as responsibility goes, isn’t that what advisors and ladies in waiting are for?”

“Sure, but you’d still have to be a figurehead—“

“I can do that. I’m gorgeous.” She batted her eyelashes, smiling. Her bright pink lip gloss glistened under the buzzing white lights.

“Yeah,” Carina sighed. “You’d be good at that.”

“Much better than Acidalia,” Aleskynn added, rolling her eyes again. “I don’t get what’s so damn special about her. Whatever. When she dies I’ll have her throne anyway, and then the working class can lick my boots and fawn over how ‘relatable’ and ‘special’ and ‘interesting’ and ‘unique’ I am, too. As if their opinion even matters.”

“What, does the working class really like her or something? I’m sorry, I don’t keep up very well with politics.” Truth be told, it wasn’t really that Carina didn’t keep up with politics—it was more that Alestra’s regime was notoriously difficult to get any information on, and most of the news reports were inferences pieced together by bored gossip columnists who cared more about whether Alestra was wearing silver or white gold than about her actual policies. If they did report on anything political, discerning what was true and what was a result of a biased agenda was tough, sometimes impossible. Alestra liked it that way, so nobody had ever bothered to tighten the restrictions on what could be considered ‘news.’

“Yeah, all the Cantatores and Laborum just love her. It fits, I guess. She really is one of them.” Aleskynn made a disgusted face. “Can you imagine? A half-bred bastard on the throne? I can’t wait until someone assassinates her. Like, I’m legit counting down the minutes.”

“Why, is something going to happen?” Alarms suddenly flashed through Carina’s mind. She didn’t know Acidalia very well, but if she was at all better than Alestra, Carina didn’t particularly want her dead.

Aleskynn snorted. “Trust me. It’s not a matter of if it’ll happen, it’s when. Everyone in the court thinks she’s making a mockery out of house Cipher, which honestly, she is, and our mother hates her guts.”

Carina probably should have found it difficult to fathom hating one’s own child, but if there was anyone who could say they wanted to murder their own daughter and be taken seriously, it was Alestra Cipher. She almost shuddered, picturing her icy blue eyes staring down the body of a long-range laser pistol, her white gown stained with blood like a demented Osiria rose. It was an image that was all too easy to envision—they’d put up similar pictures as propaganda more than once, whenever some new plot was uncovered or some politician said something stupid that offended the Cipher matriarch.

“I wish it’d just happen already,” Aleskynn continued to whine, playing with a curl that had fallen out of her updo. “Everyone just keeps talking about it. And it’s like, why the hell do you keep complaining about Acidalia? Can we just shoot her in the face and be done with this whole ridiculous thing? It’s my first year as a teenager and it’s like nobody even cares because stupid Acidalia is being crowned. You know what my mother said to me yesterday?”

"What?” Carina asked, not entirely wanting to know the answer.

“So I saw this girl on TV,” Aleskynn began, “and she just had an amazing voice. Like, just amazing. She was so good. And everyone paid attention to her—what did they call her, an idol? So I decided, I want to be an idol.”

“Like, an idol singer? But you don’t sing.”

“Exactly! So I told my mother to get me a singing career, since clearly I can’t hold one on my own,” Aleskynn said. “You know, she has so many friends who have ties to the music industry. They could make me a superstar literally overnight, and I would barely even need vocal cord surgery or voice-enhancing sound effects. Hell, I bet I wouldn’t even have to sing. They’d just have someone do it for me. But you know what she said?”

“What’d she say?”

“‘Not now, Leski.’ That’s what she said!” Aleskynn stomped her foot. “Isn’t that such bullshit?!”

Carina thought momentarily, god, I wish I lived in your world. The idea that one could become a pop sensation in one day with zero talent just because their family knew someone was entrancing. This world of giant palaces and fifty-car garages and family trees stretching back to the early 2000s seemed as glamorous as life could get. Then she remembered that, according to Aleskynn, people were already conspiring to assassinate Acidalia because her mere existence annoyed them, and then being a middle-class astrophysicist didn’t seem quite as bad.

“And this isn’t even the first time,” Aleskynn continued. “You know how many times someone’s told me to ‘wait’ because they were busy preparing for Acidalia’s coronation? Those preparations took months, and it was all for a ceremony that was over in one day, for a woman whose reign will be over in one week!”

“A week?” Carina asked.

Aleskynn scoffed. “If she’s lucky.” Her voice dropped to a low whisper. “Listen, I’m not really supposed to tell you this, but house Generalis thinks she’ll be dead two days from now. And Raveri’s mom says if house Generalis doesn’t do it, house Vulgaris will put a knife through her chest by the day after. When I say nobody likes her, I mean it.”

Carina’s mouth went dry. “What?”

“Shhh! You don’t want her to hear. She could be around literally any corner!” Aleskynn pulled Carina away from the nearest doorway. “But yeah. Did you really think people would stand for this? They don’t want some Martian-born whore wearing the crown. They’ll just kill her and put the blame on someone else, just like they put the blame on that AX soldier.”

“They can’t just—“

“Oh, they absolutely can.” Aleskynn smiled. “And wait until you see the celebration when it happens. You thought the coronation was big?”

“But… I don’t understand.” As much as Eleutherian nobility disliked Martians, especially half-Martians, and as reluctant as they were to break the precedent of war heroes’ daughters inheriting the throne, she couldn’t envision a world in which nearly everyone was willing to risk the empire’s stability by assassinating the Imperatrix. Even if they didn’t like or agree with her, there were ways to pull strings to get leaders to do what you wanted—there had to be.

Why would every noble house suddenly decide that Acidalia Cipher must die?

Carina racked her mind for reasons why people would hate Acidalia as much as they did. She was Martian, she was illegitimate, and she didn’t get along with Alestra, which were all important factors. But were they important enough to warrant this type of response? The noble houses had never done anything so coordinated together. Under any normal circumstances, house Vulgaris would sell out house Generalis immediately so they could get brownie points from the Imperatrix. Never before had they worked as one like this.

But there was one reason Carina could think of, something more political than mere genetic differences and complicated mother-daughter relationships.

“Is Acidalia with the Nova?” she whispered, knowing full well that if she was overheard asking that question, she could be legally shot dead on the spot.

Aleskynn’s eyes glowed blue, like she knew something she wasn’t supposed to and was taking great pleasure in the fact that she was breaking the rules. “Wanna hear a secret?”

Carina felt like screaming is this a game to you?!, but she already knew the answer was yes. Everything was a game to Aleskynn; she had the money, power, and popularity at court to get away with anything.

“Acidalia’s not with the Nova,” Aleskynn said slowly, like a movie character in a melodramatic film attempting to build anticipation. “And that’s the problem.”

“Wait.” Something clicked in Carina’s mind. “So everyone else—“

Aleskynn nodded. “Yeah. So of course they want her dead. Can you blame them?” She said it like she was talking about something stupid, something trivial, like a sports rivalry or a fandom war, not a political terrorist group infiltrating the top layers of the government and trying to kill the Imperatrix not because of her policies but because of her breeding.

Horrified, Carina flinched away. “That’s…”

“Exciting, isn’t it?” Aleskynn finished for her, like she was unable to see the situation from the perspective of anyone else. “Two days, and the throne will be mine in all but name. Seven years, and I’ll have my own coronation. Won’t it be awesome getting to tell people you’re friends with the Imperatrix?”

She took Carina’s hand and pulled her over to a bridge, a pearlescent, ornate connection between two absolutely massive palace columns. Above them was the swirling, artificial nighttime sky, filled with nebulae and constellations that didn’t really exist, like a careless child had dumped glitter on the starscape. “All this is gonna be mine,” Aleskynn said, pointing up at it. “And Acidalia can rot in hell, for all I care.”

“Should—should you be telling me this?” Carina asked, not knowing what to say, hoping Aleskynn couldn’t feel how clammy her palms were.

She shrugged. “It’s not like you have any other friends to tell it to. Besides, my mother would kill you if you let the cat out of the bag. And listen, I didn’t initially want to ask you this because I’m a Cipher and you’re caste Scientia and I don’t want it to get weird, but—“

She trailed off awkwardly, which wasn’t a very Aleskynn thing to do. Carina wondered if she’d done it intentionally, to garner more attention, but she didn’t seem like she was smart enough to be that manipulative.

Aleskynn swallowed. “You know, I don’t know a whole lot about the Nova. But, uh… they don’t like the lower castes very much. And it’s not like they’d want to kill you or anything, but they’d make sure you and I could never, ever talk to each other again. But I kinda don’t want that to happen, since you’re the only person who actually listens to me when I complain instead of telling me to be less shallow or just shamelessly parroting whatever I say in the hopes of gaining favor with my mom.”

Carina wished she could have said well, maybe you should be less shallow, but the compliment—or at least the admission of friendship—was weirdly nice, especially coming from Aleskynn Cipher, so she decided not to.

“So,” Aleskynn continued, “I was maybe gonna… make you an advisor. Sorta. That wouldn’t technically boost your caste, since you were born with it, but I was thinking we could maybe just not tell people?”

“You would lie about my heritage to protect me?” Carina asked. Even though it came with virtually no consequences whatsoever for Aleskynn herself, it didn’t have any immediate monetary benefit, either, which was more than what could be said for most of her actions.

“Only because you’re friends with me,” Aleskynn added quickly, “and only cause I feel kinda bad for you.”

But the reasoning behind it didn’t really matter, did it? Carina could be a royal advisor. She had absolutely no idea what that entailed, but according to Aleskynn’s other friends, being a noblewoman wasn’t a lot of responsibility; it seemed to mostly involve sitting around in between lessons on everything from psychology to ballet, accompanying the princess on fancy overseas trips, and attending the theatre and the cinema to watch elaborate productions of plays or premiere screenings of movies.

She could envision herself and Aleskynn, sitting together in the best seats in the house, watching the world’s best actors and singers preform some classical show like Oedipus Rex or Macbeth or Hamilton. She could see herself amongst throngs of women in white and gold, surrounded by waiters in tuxedos who would bring them anything if they only asked, and this time she wouldn’t be an unwelcome intrusion in the world of the rich and famous, but a personal friend of the Imperatrix Ceasarina. She could be paid in millions or billions of credits; it would barely put a dent in the Ciphers’ quadrillion-credit fortune. Aleskynn could make or break her entire future if she so desired—and right now she was offering to make it.

But if Carina was to be a noblewoman, she had to keep a secret. And if she didn’t tell anyone that Acidalia was about to be assassinated—no, murdered, she was about to be murdered, assassination wasn’t emotional enough a word—then an innocent woman would die. What would be the consequences of the only non-Novagenetica member of the court getting killed before her time?

Alestra would be on the throne for the next seven years, not as co-empress with anyone, but exclusively the Imperatrix. There were no checks and balances, no rule of two, under that system. And as nice as Aleskynn’s offer was, Carina knew that there was no way the young princess could ever be half the politician her mother and her sister were without a lot of growing up. Eleutheria would be lead by a dictator and an incompetent teenager, and if that weren’t bad enough on its own, Alestra was part of a group of genocidal maniacs who wanted half the planet dead or more subjugated than they already were.

“You look nervous,” Aleskynn said, knitting her eyebrows.

“No, no!” Carina actually laughed, praying that Aleskynn couldn’t tell it was borne not from excitement but from hysteria. “No, I just… wow. Wow, that’s a lot to, um—“

“I know.” She grinned smugly, relishing the power she had.

Carina knew there was no way she could keep this secret to herself—not in good conscience, at least. But who would she tell? It wasn’t like she could just march up to the Magistratum and report a homicide threat when the perpetrator was the leader of their entire civilization. And anyone she told would be incriminated, too—even knowing certain information was enough to get somebody killed, or worse, erased from existence entirely.

Aleskynn had no idea what she’d just unleashed by telling this to Carina—not the internal battle that was raging in her mind, nor the consequences that would happen when she inevitably let it slip, because intentionally or not, someone would find out. And when that happened…

Carina gripped the railing of the bridge tightly to steady herself. She could just yes Aleskynn to death and accept the fact that there was nothing she could do; then she’d be a noblewoman, a royal advisor, more or less welcome in the court of a slightly more familiar Imperatrix. But that would mean a lifetime of regret and an ever-present fear of Alestra. The promise of luxury came with a steep, steep price. And even if everything went to plan, if Alestra turned out to be not that bad—which was doubtful—and Aleskynn became semi-competent, Carina would still have to abandon her lab, her work, her colleagues, Athena.

Oh stars almighty, Athena. She had the sudden realization that Athena wouldn’t last five minutes under a stricter, tighter, uncontrolled regime with Alestra at the helm. Modern Eleutheria was bad enough, but there was no way to keep tabs on all fifteen billion citizens, so a lot of what she did could fly under the radar. But if Alestra was willing to murder her own daughter in cold blood and join a terrorist group that wanted the lower castes dead, she’d also be willing to kill any opposition. And Athena would oppose her until the day one of them died, not because she had any real reason to, but just because Athena was just like that.

Either Carina could be a terrified royal advisor permanently stuck under Alestra’s watchful eye, or she could tell somebody and pray for the best. Neither option was desirable, but one was slightly less awful than the other.

Carina took a deep breath. She knew what she had to do.