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I’ m three steps into the museum when a firm hand grabs my elbow. I whip around and there he is, eyes and all.

“I knew you’d be here.” He speaks in a low voice, biting off each word. There’s no triumph in his announcement, only grim bitterness.

Well, that just won’t do.

“Hello, Rian, how are you?” I make no move to pull my arm away from his grip; in fact, I spin a little closer to him. Flustered, he drops my elbow. But he doesn’t step back. And neither do I.

I’ve seen him in a spacesuit, but I’ve never seen him dressed to the nines like this, all buttoned up and neat. It suits him. Very well. His white shirt has just two tiny triangles downturned at the collar over a silver ascot tucked into a vest hidden beneath a slick black jacket. A single white rose decorated with a black ring at the base is pinned to his lapel. I wonder if he got it from his family’s luxury farms that sell produce for a premium. Roses are common on Sol-Earth, and it’s hard to import flowers . . .

My mind wandered enough for this to get awkward. Then again, while I was staring at Rian’s flower, he was taking in my gown, and the look on his face makes me glad I insisted the tailor cut slits in the material right at my hips, showing just enough skin to not be indecent while still inspiring indecent thoughts. Inspiring indecency is something of a specialty of mine.

“Isn’t it ridiculous,” I say casually, “how formal wear for men means layers and layers of cloth, but formal wear for women is the exact opposite?” I look down at my own chest, the neckline purposefully draped loosely so that, despite the secure design, it looks as if I’m one good sneeze away from scandal.

“What are you doing here?” Rian demands. Voice low. Warm breath, right on my skin. A laser-focus gaze that refuses to drop below my chin again, despite my best efforts.

“Invited guest.” I flash my data band just to prove the point, my reticule swinging. He grabs my left wrist, inspecting the scan code. I lift my right hand, trailing my fingers along his knuckles until he looks up at me. “If you manhandle me one more time without my consent, I am going to hurt you,” I promise sweetly.

He drops my arm.

But he doesn’t step back.

And neither do I.

“I thought you may come, but...” he starts.

I bite my lip, watch as he watches. “You didn’t think I’d come as a guest.”

“Invitations are linked and tracked,” he says, shaking his head. “I saw your name, of course...”

“Like my dress?” I do a little spin. “I got sea-silk just for tonight.”

Rian’s eyes crinkle. The clues are subtle but there—water imagery in the entry display, the color blue being used. Tonight’s guest of honor and closing ceremonies being led by Strom Fetor, who owns Fetor Tech. All signs point to a certain announcement about nanobots being released into Sol-Earth’s water cycle happening tonight. But he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t want to give me a single inch, even if I already stole the mile.

I’m standing right in front of him, but he’s looking for the con, not seeing me. And that just won’t do. His eyes flick to the scanners at the entry.

“If you want to know what’s in my purse, just ask.” I pull on the strings, showing him inside. “What trouble could I get in with nothing more than a data recorder and some lip gloss?”

He flinches, then he glowers at the way I laugh. “You and a data recorder? Dangerous.”

“I don’t need a data recorder to be dangerous.” But a girl does like to be appreciated for her talents.

“Ada.” Rian sighs, his breath of frustration enough to almost move my shellacked hair, coiffed and studded with little glittering gems at each lacquered wave. “What are you doing here? Really?”

I slip a little closer, just a hairsbreadth. Close enough so that my eyes meet his, but everything past them blurs out of focus. “I came to steal something, obviously. ”

Blink. He leans back. Not much. “I knew you would come.” He sounds disappointed. Odd.

I snort. “Well, that’s a surprise to me. Because I was offered this gig months ago. I kept declining.”

“Don’t tell me you were considering giving up your life of crime.”

“No, of course not.” I laugh. “They weren’t paying me enough.”

“Who?” Rian latches onto that word. “ Who wasn’t paying you enough?”

“My client,” I say, deflecting. “But that’s beside the point. See, I only agreed to this job for one reason.”

I let silence do the heavy lifting.

“And that is?” Rian asks when I don’t elaborate.

I lean in close. Closer. The little hairs he’s tucked behind his left ear sway with my word.

“You.”

I wait just long enough to spot the goosebumps sprouting on his neck before I swirl away from him, the glittering hem of my gown brushing his legs. I tilt toward a group of people who’ve just cleared security and entered the museum. I can feel Rian’s eyes on me, on the dress swishing over my curves, on the sparkle of silver flashing under my hem.

But I don’t look back.

· · ·

Rian can’t approach me again without drawing attention. See, the thing is, I do have a legitimate scan-code invitation, linked to my name and identifier and everything. It’s entirely legit. Plus, I’ve done nothing wrong.

Yet.

It’s the same reason he couldn’t arrest me when I stole the nanobot prototype and the coding from the Roundabout . Scavenge rights exist for any shipwreck that’s not declared off-limits by the government, and the government didn’t declare the Roundabout because they didn’t want to draw attention to it, so that meant I could technically loot whatever I wanted. Fortunately for me, technicalities matter to someone who believes in the law.

But Rian still follows me as I drift through the galleries, floating between different groups, never lingering too long over any one display. As I predicted, the joint fills up over the next hour, more and more people cluttering inside. The MIH annual charity gala is strictly limited. Last night, the honored (rich) guests had their own private showing of the charity auction. The only way to get into that showing was to be hand-selected by the notoriously strategic gala director, Jacques Winters.

Today, attendance is still restricted, but the tickets to get inside were bought with cash, not connections. The open gala is still a big-enough deal that the MIH has been accused of influencing politics by granting tickets to one candidate over another. More typically, the only life-or-death situation happening here involves the vitality of a fashion designer’s career, especially because camera drones are allowed inside during the closing ceremony, something not permissible during the prestige night.

The charity gala is a place for the rich to gather in one spot, preen about for each other, end up in all the tabbies, toss some cash around to look like philanthropists, and then trot off to be rich elsewhere.

The exclusivity is what makes this event work. I gaze around the crowded rooms. There are enough big names here to be a little unnerving, even for me. Without cams on the inside, deals get made. Handshakes happen without witnesses; promises are whispered in shadows. It’s not just wealth here; there’s power, too. Deals can happen in a place like this, unspoken agreements with more than one type of auction taking place.

No wonder Rian’s on edge.

I nervously twist my earring, a little silver stud, the only thing I’m wearing right now that’s actually mine. I’ll sell off this gown later, and I have no use for silver shoes. My entire outfit is just a costume, with everyone here seeing only what I want them to see: A rich person blending into a crowd of rich people. Only Rian knows my dress is a disguise, but at least he appreciates how well I wear it.

Tickets to get in the door cost more than my ship, but my client paid for all of that, as well as arranging who among the guest list they could bribe out of a spot. Or, I don’t know, maybe they had some sympathizer who was willing to hand it over for the greater good. All I know is they needed me inside to secure the asset, so they got me inside. They also gave me some pretty good tips on recon that I hope pay off in more ways than one, but as of this moment, I’m on my own. I either get what I came for and then get paid, or I don’t. And if I don’t...well, that would be pretty shitty. I wouldn’t get paid.

Plus, I spent every fucking cent of my payment already. On credit. From someone I definitely cannot stiff. So, I better get the loot I’ve come here for. And I sure as fuck hope that what I bought was worth it.

There’s also the minor fact that maybe Earth will die like those protestors outside want, but I’m just not going to think about that. There’s pressure, and then there’s pressure , you know?

Instead of thinking about how my Earth will die, I think about how Rigel-Earth’s main star is going to collapse in on itself and burn up this entire planet. Sure, it’ll take a few million years, but that blue star will eat itself into becoming a black hole long before my sun will. That’ll show ’em , I think, gazing at the crowd that will absolutely not be alive by the time any of that happens.

My eye catches Rian’s. There have to be a hundred people in this one gallery room, clustered around and pretending to appreciate a climate-controlled box displaying a page that was ripped from Abd al-Rahman al-Sufi’s Book of Fixed Stars, but somehow, the only one I see is him.

Which is why I walk straight into a woman, hard enough to make the gold bangles on her wrist clink together. Before I can apologize, she turns a thousand-watt smile on me, and I recognize her as a feed star. If we’d been outside on the street, I bet she’d have a bodyguard who would have made sure I didn’t even share a city block with her, and if I did happen to klutz my way into her personal bubble, I doubt she’d look at me like a friend. That’s what a seven-figure ticket price to get in the door will do for a girl: it makes everyone on the other side of that door think that riff-raff like me are filtered out, and that everyone left on this side is a friend.

Which is going to work great for me.

“Sorry,” I tell the feed star, nodding congenially. She’s really quite short in person; that’s surprising.

“Not a problem, darling,” she says, and I suddenly understand what a “sparkling smile” actually means. I make a note to watch more of her feeds.

“I love your dress,” I say, because it feels like I have to say something . “Eva Charming?”

She laughs. “Who?” She makes a show of looking down at her gown before giving me the name of her designer. I make all the appropriate praises despite having no clue about couture, and the feed star smiles some more before drifting away.

Ostensibly, the gala raises money for Sol-Earth conservation, because of course they have to look like they give a damn about charity, and most people don’t mind “saving the homeworld” to tick that box, even if it’s not really charity. Anything that costs this much is about the show, not the benefit. There’s not just the ticket price; there’s the gems and silks and people paid to do hair and makeup and film it all for the feeds and negotiate contracts with the tabbies and ensure they’re spotted—and recorded—being with the right people before coming inside. And let’s be real—the museum gets its cut, Rigel-Earth takes a piece, the workers have to be paid...but the rest. I guess Earth gets that.

Which is something, at least.

Too much for the protestors outside, obviously. But they only minded enough to file a permit for an hour.

They did cause some buzz, though. I overhear more than one of the other attendees talking about it. And most of them agree.

Earth’s not worth saving.

It is, however, worth buying .

All the showrooms on the ground floor of the museum strategically highlight different items for sale. It’s subtle—I suppose others would call it “tasteful.” The big, open rooms have holos, art, and other exhibits, but it all directs people to look at what’s on display in the center. One item per room—a historical artifact, a rare piece of art, a significant archeological find.

Available.

For a price.

This is the cost of charity to help Earth. We have to buy our aid.

By merit of being here, at the gala, each item will likely fetch an ungodly sum of money. That’s the point, after all. But each item is also worth more than any price that could be paid. The last verified brick of the Great Wall of China, most of which was destroyed in the Second Eurasian War. A panel cut from the Bayeux Tapestry, preserved in a climate-controlled case. Feathers from the now-extinct North American bluebird. Each with a digital number beside it.

The current high bid.