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T he kid is sitting right on the same step where Rian’s hands gripped my hips so hard it would have hurt if it hadn’t felt so good.

Kid’s jumpy. Spots me a mile away, shoves something in his pocket.

Fucking great.

Sometimes, I hate when I’m right.

I walk up the steps slowly, mindful of my dumb shoes. I stop two steps below the kid, wait for him to look up at me.

Those wide golden eyes flick up to me, the lenses of his specs dilating and narrowing again. Bet he’s got some processor linked in. There’s a tiny bump behind his left ear—a subcutaneous receiver that’s perfectly positioned for bone-conduction audio. His specs have scanned my face, and the receiver is reading him information no one but him can hear.

It’s good tech. Better than what I have, usually.

Good tech isn’t abnormal here. The fucking protestors that were paid by the hour had better stuff than I can afford, and they didn’t even have an invite into this shindig. No, the level of tech’s not off.

It’s his clothes.

You can fake fancy clothes. Happens all the time, especially on a planet that cares more about people’s appearance than their welfare.

When it comes to rich people, you can always tell by the clothes. It’s not a matter of style or flashiness, no. It’s a matter of quality. My dress is simple, but it’s made of sea-silk. Poly fibers could have the exact same coloring, but it wouldn’t have flowed the same way over my skin. While I bought it pre-made, it was altered to my measurements, designed for my body.

This kid’s suit was an afterthought. A disguise.

But not his tech.

That’s the key thing. That’s the thing to notice.

“Hey,” I say.

“Fuck off,” the kid says.

“Nice.”

“The party’s downstairs.”

“Is it?”

That catches him up. I’ve got probably ten minutes before Rian’s people notice I’m not somewhere in the crowd, maybe fifteen before they actively start looking for me. Kid doesn’t know that, though.

“What do you want?” he demands.

I hike my dress up a little so I can sit down on the step beside him, leaning my back against the wall, my head almost brushing the underside of the railing as I face the kid. I take a long breath through my nostrils, let it out through my red-lacquered lips. “Don’t do it,” I say.

His jaw twitches. “I’m just sitting here,” he says. And then, “Mind your business.”

I stretch my legs out on the steps. “No.”

“No?” his voice rises. He’s new to this.

“No,” I repeat. “Because you’re about to fuck everything up, and I’m going to stop you before you do.”

“The fuck do you know, old woman?”

Okay, that was uncalled-for. Rude. I lick my teeth, making a smacking noise.

“Listen here, you little fuck,” I say. “If you think you’re the only one who’s noticed there’s no security drones in this corner of the stairwell, you’re dumber than you look.”

He blanches, his skin going a little splotchy, but his shoulders roll back. This one’s all vinegar and piss, and he just wants a fight, no matter what.

Reminds me of me.

So, I forgive him for being a smartass and turn away so he can save a little face. “Came in through the back door,” I say. “Headed straight here. Better tech than you’re used to.” I give him a sidelong glance, notice the way he twitches again. That box in his pocket’s burning a hole right through him. “Jarra?”

“No,” he snarls immediately.

Yes. He’s working with the Jarra. Those fuckers like to do this sort of thing.

Sending a kid in for sacrifice.

The gala tonight has too good of security for brute force short of open warfare to work. Even the airspace above the building’s regulated. No drone in here that’s not attached directly to security. A good chunk of the guests with private bodyguards, another chunk undercover.

But this is a gala to benefit Earth. A charity fundraiser.

And while the Jarra are also from Earth, they’re not a group that really likes charity or benefits. This is exactly the shit they hate. They don’t want help from other worlds. They want Earth to separate from the United Galactic; they want everyone who’s chosen to leave the homeworld to stay gone.

I’d bet my dress the Jarra know of Fetor’s announcement, of the nanobots that are supposed to come and save everyone. More meddling from off-worlders, tied to the government at that. I know for a fact they hate Fetor on principle for all the shit he pulled with the vaccine rollout for climate sickness a decade ago; they wouldn’t mind taking him out and making a political statement against government intervention at the same time.

I glance at the kid. He’s too jumpy to be an assassin.

But he’s stupid enough to be a bomb.

“Give me your transponder,” I say, holding my hand out without looking directly at him.

“No,” he snaps. Then, “I don’t have a transponder.”

Fucking idiot. “What did they tell you?” I sigh.

He glares at me, lips sealed.

“What’s your exit plan?” I ask softly, turning back to face him.

His expression is all tight jaw and tense neck.

“Just going to do a runner?” I guess.

The barest hint of a shrug, mostly unconscious but a little bit testing the waters.

The Jarra would know that any attack on the gala would be a suicide mission. They never intended for the kid to escape. They never even pretended to give him a way out. But I bet they told him he could make a run for it in the chaos.

See, this is why I will never work for those assholes.

Because they think killing Fetor is worth killing this kid. Make no mistake. This gala is crawling with security, and it’s not all here for me. Whatever stunt this kid pulls, he will get caught.

And they didn’t even tell him that.

I hold my hand out and snap my fingers.

“I don’t have anything,” the kid insists, a hint of whine creeping into his voice.

“Listen, kid, you’re going to fuck up both my and your plans if you don’t just hand it over.”

“Your plans?” he asks, his hand moving unconsciously to his pocket. Finally.

Here’s the thing. Rian has to have files and files and files on the Jarra. And I’m sure, at the top, those files are important. But the people at the top? They don’t get their hands dirty. Or blown off.

That’s what they use kids for.

I wonder how many plans go awry because they let young idiots who think they know what they’re fighting for carry them. An event like this? It’s a shot in hell that it’ll go anywhere. But then again—

Quantity over quality, that’s the Jarra. This isn’t the only shindig in the galaxy. I bet they sent kids out to a dozen different places, scattered over all the colonial worlds. Some of them will get caught by the law. Some of them will get caught in the crossfire.

But all they care about is what gets caught on camera. And something, no doubt, will filter through.

It’s a numbers game.

Gentle chimes echo throughout the museum. Bids are closed. People have fifteen minutes before the final show begins.

On the one hand, that’s a distraction. I can already hear the ambient noise of all the guests trickling from the auction rooms into the main gallery, where the chairs are lined in perfectly spaced rows and a hover stage has been set up, waiting for Fetor.

On the other hand, that’s only fifteen minutes before this kid wants to do an entirely different show.