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T he Museum of Intergalactic History glitters almost as much as I do. The hem of my dress swishes, catching light from the circle luminaries hovering next to the camera drones. I don’t have the face of a celebrity—even though I absolutely grinned at every scanner on the way up the dramatic stairs—so none of the cams turn to capture my visage as I put one elegantly pointed silver shoe on the top step, my leg peeking through the decadent slit up the skirt as ripples of gossamer-like cloth flutter behind me. Not a single drone so much as twitches in my direction.

Which is a damn shame, because I look really hot. Especially in this light.

Rigel is a blue star system, unlike the yellow sun of Earth, and diamond hour is legit. Not only is the afternoon light casting lovely blue shadows over everything, but Rigel-Earth can see more than one star in the sky. The main star is a supergiant, but it’s got a cluster of little sisters—four of them, all blue. This world is far enough away that Rigel doesn’t look that much bigger from the surface of the planet than the Sun looks from Earth, despite being something like twenty times larger, and the sister stars aren’t always visible to the naked eye. But twilight lasts longer, the glow extending for hours, and the sunsrise—if you’re awake for that sort of thing—is almost worth putting up with the people on this planet for.

Almost.

The diamond-hour glow highlights the museum’s portico, the sculpture in the pediment angled to catch the dying light—a giant of a man, kneeling, a sword at his belt hanging down over the entrance, a bow pointed up in a way that, supposedly, lines up with the main star at the equinox. This is a bronzed version of Orion, the constellation Rigel is in, and sure enough, the foot on the right is wearing a shoe enhanced with some glittering blue gem, symbolizing the star.

So fucking pretentious, honestly.

The landing under the portico is marred by a series of scanners, and there’s a little bit of a wait to get inside. Everything here is still pretty mild, but it’s going to get chaotic fast. Part of me wants to revel in the whirlwind I know is coming in the next half hour or so as the celebrities, politicians, and generally famous-for-being-famous people arrive. But the more sensible part of me knows I need to focus. Get inside, start laying the groundwork. And this sort of party always has good food, so that’ll be nice.

I’m arriving unfashionably early. But what was I going to do, sit in Glory and while away the minutes in the docking bay? Not a chance. What I want is inside that building.

One goal. Full speed.

I don’t even bother biting back the grin that curves my perfectly painted red lips.

One of the cam drones notices me. It whirrs closer, the glassy eye in the center of its hovering body flickering as it scans me. There’s some algorithm that’s noting that I’m no one. Literally. No record of this face anywhere except a few innocuous docs in my strategically placed digital paper trail. But when I take a step, and then another, letting the sea-silk slither over my skin, the cam droid follows me. A few more join in.

I don’t mind ending up on these recorders. I know how the drones work; my face is already deleted off its data banks. I’m not naive enough to think a sexy gown and a shiny red smile are enough to splash my image across the tabbies, but it is nice to be appreciated, even if by nothing more than robotic story-chasers.

Ah, well. I turn my back to the drones and head toward the security to get in. A bright digital screen hovers over the scanners, welcoming guests and reminding us of the theme of the event: History as Art , the words written in overlay atop various images of carefully curated feed of Earth—a flowing river, waves crashing on the beach, historical footage of now-extinct glaciers. Every year, the gala picks a charity to benefit. Sol-Earth is the subject of tonight’s fundraiser, and, knowing what I know, it’s no surprise there’s a heavy emphasis on water.

“Just a minute,” one of the guards at the scanners says, pausing the queue as she examines something on her screen. Half a dozen people are ahead of me, none of whom I recognize, but all of whom are used to being important enough to not be delayed. But not important enough for the guest-of-honor entrance happening in an hour.

“There wasn’t this level of security last year,” a man complains.

“You know it’s got to be because of Strom,” his date replies, smirking. Strom Fetor, tech trillionaire, guest of honor at the gala. She’s probably right, but I tell myself that the scanners and the guards are for me. It’s nice to pretend to be important when you get all dressed up.

The Museum of Intergalactic History stands imperiously atop a small hill. Ramps with moving treads curve along both sides of the white stone steps, and most people lining up used them. That wouldn’t have made for quite as dramatic an entrance, though, and I don’t mind waiting now.

I want to relish this moment.

Usually, Rigel-Earth is just a pain in the ass. The paperwork alone to get to this planet makes it absolutely not worth it. It’s rare that I have stacked and coded invites and visas and a waiting docking bay, much less a pretty dress that lets me fit in with the richy-rich locals.

Here’s the thing. We’re all technically from Earth. I mean, real Earth. Sol-Earth. The original. But then we found other planets that could host life, and we named them Earth, too, distinguishing them by which sun they orbited. Centauri-Earth was first, of course. We all know the history.

Anyway, most everyone on Rigel-Earth is a dick. It’s nothing personal, obviously; it’s just statistically true. Rigel-Earth was super easy to set up compared to, say, Gliese-Earth, and it was discovered and ported really quickly thanks to some wealthy jerks who then leveraged their funding to ensure they and their buddies got first dibs on the best spots. They purposefully city-planned for their benefit, creating this hierarchy of towns that price out any of the workers who have to take the (admittedly kind of nice) public transport to work in the cities they’ve inflated to match their egos.

Basically, Rigel-Earth is the homeowners’ association of the universe, and everyone knows it. The difference is, the people of Rigel-Earth think turning a planet into a gated community is swell, and everyone else thinks it’s shitty. Who can be proud of being from a planet known to rig its own taxes and ensure only the elite can claim full citizenship?

Still, I let myself forget all my gripes as I perch atop the landing in front of the Museum of Intergalactic History. And I’ll be damned if I don’t pose a little in my shiny dress.

After all, at least some of these camera drones have to be linked to security feeds. If Rian’s watching, I’m going to use the cool blue light to capture my best features.

I was lucky that I took the deal from my client at a station with a high-end tailor and charged my contact’s accounts for the gown. This dress has crossed worlds to get to me—the raw material came from a seaweed in the oceans of Centauri-Earth. The blue-green base of the dress shifts in the light; the circle lums hovering nearby make the dress shine like a supernova. And tiny chips of glittering gems from Gliese-Earth litter the bottom, making rainbows scatter on the pale stone with every step I take.

There are tricks to clothing. The same effect could have been made with bits of glass sewn into the material or electric strands of illumination beads. But this place, these people? They would know the difference between real sea-silk and gems and knockoffs. Hell, even the cam drones would know the difference.

They’re already buzzing off toward the hover ramps, bored with me. Someone whose face dinged a little check box next to Important must have showed up.

My eyes drift past the flurry of lights and drones and general static of anticipation toward the street below.

The MIH is in the most elite part of the most elite city on Rigel-Earth. Built into a hill, a river wraps around the back end of the enormous building. In front, the street is carefully regulated—only someone with a scan pass can get any vehicle within spitting distance of the museum.

I knew this already. I know every entrance and exit into this building, from the receiving door for deliveries to the employee entrance in the back to emergency exits linked to alarms. As well as other possibilities—the grand corridor that cuts through the center of the building is topped with a glass roof, so if one were to need to get a little creative, well.

Anything can be a door with the right motivation.

It’s not in the plan, but. You know. Just in case. Always nice to have options.

The line to get in still hasn’t moved, and there’s now a handful people behind me. My eyes skim past the gowns and suits to the uniforms. While the guests are loud, the guards are not. There’s an undercurrent of tension. One looks up and happens to catch my eye. My gaze flitters away, suddenly enraptured by the dangling gem-crusted foot of Orion above me.

Thing is, this is a high-profile event. This is going to attract a lot of attention from a lot of people who like to cause trouble. And I would very much like them to just be chill tonight so that I can be the cause of trouble.

But there’s a small crowd gathering in the park across the street. At least three dozen people, all wearing a white drape with a big red stamp on the shoulder. I squint, watching them, but I can’t read whatever badge they’re all wearing.

Great. A protest.

“Next,” a guard calls, and the line moves forward.

The crowd gathering across the street all stop in a line parallel to it, heads tilted toward the museum. I can almost make out the circular red design on the drapes the people wear, but then they all lift their arms at once, raising their palms toward the sky.

Small glittering orbs rise up, hovering in a line above the crowd before zipping into patterns.

Oh, fuck me, Rigel-Earth even has pretentious protestors.

I wave a couple to go in front of me to the scanners. I don’t have fancy holo specs on my eyes, but I know exactly what this is—a silent protest. About the charitable gala, no doubt. Anyone rich enough for an invite to this function would have specs, but I have to lift my wrist and hold my data band in front of my face in order to peep through it and see what the holo drones spell out in the sky above. My small purse dangles in front of me, attached by a magnetic clip to the band.

Squinting through the thin film on my data band, I see...a planet. Earth. My Earth, I mean. Sol-Earth. The holo drones aren’t that great—only two contrasting colors, making it a bit hard to make out the details. But I guess not much detail is needed when the holo projection of my homeworld melts, lava-like slime dripping over the sphere until it’s nothing. The drones swirl around, then spell out the message the protesters want the gala’s attendees to see:

Let Sol-Earth Die.

Cam drones zip across the street, capturing the display for tabbies. Everyone tuning in across the galaxy is getting this message.

“Classy,” I mutter, turning on my silvered heel and walking through the scanners. The guard waves me through. The only things in my wristlet are a small data recorder and lip gloss, nothing unusual.

Before I get through the main doors, I overhear one of the security guards talking into his cuff, confirming that the protestors have a permit and there’s nothing they can do. The red badges. They’re permits, bought and paid for, because nothing says activism like perfectly filed paperwork.

“They’ve only got an hour; just leave it,” the guard says before looking up at me. “It’s not like they’re Jarra.”

Even my blood runs cold at the name of that group. The Jarra are “freedom fighters” who want to rid Sol-Earth of every non-native by any means necessary and consider anyone who immigrated to one of the other planets to be a blood traitor. They want to separate Earth from every other world, cutting my planet away from the rest of the galaxy, and they have no qualms about being extremely liberal with the concept of “cutting.” They’re such a nasty lot, I don’t ever take jobs with them, no matter what they offer.

Every job a Jarra does ends with blood.

I guess permits and holo drones are a little better than that.

The security guard’s attention has shifted from his comms to me. I give him my best smile.

“Scan pass?” he says.

I hold out my data band. A moment later, his handheld reader flashes green. “Welcome to the gala, Ms. Lamarr.” The guard holds his arm out, gesturing to the enormously oversized double doors flung open.

I take a step. Pause.

“What do they want?” I ask, casting a look over my shoulder at the silent protestors. Without looking through the film on my band, I can no longer see what the holo drones are displaying, just the glittering little orbs bouncing around the sky. The protestors below stare straight ahead. It feels like they’re watching me, but there’s a hollowness to their collective gaze that’s deeply creepy.

It’s part of the demonstration, I know that. Protests on Earth are messy, sometimes violent things. But protests on Rigel-Earth are scheduled and performed.

I would mock it, but...it is kind of getting to me. Unnerving.

“Oh, it’s the aid tax.” The guard waves his hand at them, as if he could brush the holo drones from the air.

“Of course,” I say, smiling as I step past him and toward the entry.

The aid tax.

The aid for Earth. It makes sense to protest it here, at a charitable gala being held to raise additional funds for Sol-Earth’s conservation.

But damn. That’s gutting. Of all the taxes on this planet, of all the stupid elitist surcharges, the one that made three dozen people file a permit to send enormously expensive holo drones into the sky is the tax providing humanitarian relief to my home.

Fucking Rigel-Earth.