Page 7

7

O h, excuse me!” The woman in red, right on time, according to the schedule my contact got me alongside the tickets into this shindig. Well, I didn’t know it would be her specifically, but I was betting that it would be someone from Rian’s team. I break away from Rian, whose skin is flushed, eyes glassy.

And then he sees the woman who interrupted us. She has radiant dark skin, the perfect complement to the bright dress, and she wears her hair in braids that have been done up into two big, black buns atop her head, woven through with strands of lights that shift yellow-orange-red, like tiny licks of flame.

She fits in with the elite, but she’s not one of them.

She’s one of his.

They’re so subtle, it’s adorable, but I absolutely notice the way Rian’s shoulders straighten, the way the woman bites the inside of her cheeks. She turns on her heel, heading back downstairs despite the way she had been going up before she caught us.

“What’s her name?” I ask in a low voice. The way the woman’s heels stop clicking for a microsecond on the steps tells me she heard, despite my best efforts.

“Phoebe,” Rian allows, sighing.

Phoebe did not come up these out-of-the-way stairs because she was following Rian—he doesn’t need a tail. And she wasn’t following me, either, because that’s Rian’s job. Rian’s my babysitter; Phoebe is someone else’s.

I suppose technically I could be wrong. It’s a guess that the person Phoebe’s keeping an eye on happens to be my personal target on my little side mission today. But I got Rian on these steps on purpose. Okay, so, testing the no-cams theory was an added perk of that purpose, and I’m almost upset that Phoebe interrupted us, but Rian’s not the only one who checked the guest list. If there’s someone at the gala who needs an assigned person from the intergalactic security team checking up on him, it’ll be the person I’m pretty confident is upstairs right now. Not because he’s a security threat. He’s the opposite.

He’s an ideal target for someone like me.

Rian may think he’s spent the better part of this evening watching me scout locations, but I was just acting on the information I’d gathered weeks ago, the information that told me I had time to kill.

The fact that Phoebe left without going all the way up the steps says that she’s leaving the task of fetching my target to Rian. Not that either of them know my sights are zeroed in on their guest of honor. I’m pretty sure my meandering around the gala has thrown Rian off at least a little.

This is the one part of my plan that relies on chance. No, that’s a lie. A lot of this plan relies on chance, which is why I don’t like it. But this was a big chunk, and Phoebe, bless her, just tipped me off.

There’s a man at the top of the stairs who has no idea I’m going to ruin him.

I glance at Rian, who still looks a little dazed. I’m going to ruin him, too, but in an entirely different way.

“By the way, you’re welcome,” I say, standing up and using the handrail so I don’t slip in these horrifically useless shoes.

“For what?” His face is still flushed. I can practically feel the heat radiating off him as he stands up too.

I tap my lips. “Color-sealed.” None of my bright red is on his lips, despite our impromptu make-out session. A look of horror flashes over Rian’s face as he touches his mouth. His shoulders sink in relief when his fingertips come away without any crimson.

“Well, that was fun,” I say, turning to continue upstairs, “but I’ve got work to do.”

“On the second floor?”

“Mm.” I head up the last remaining steps. “You’ve spent all this time worried about what I came to steal.” At the landing, I turn, pushing a finger against Rian’s chest, stopping him, then I lean in close, right next to his ear. “But I’m not here for something. I’m here for someone .”

I can see the question already forming on his lips, so I move my finger from his lapel—right beside that fucking rose—to his mouth, shushing him as I jerk my head toward the door visible around the corner. A swath of light cuts over the white stone, a triangle of false gold made by electric lights.

“I’ll give you this one for free,” I continue. “I’m going into that room, and I’m going to talk to the man I know is inside. And if you want to listen at the door, by all means.” I sweep my arm graciously toward it.

Rian’s a step behind me as I swish my gemstones around and head inside the gallery room. His footsteps are silent, and they stop altogether as he takes my offer, eavesdropping.

Listening to exactly what I want him to hear and not a single damn thing more.

I knew his curiosity would get the better of him.

Inside, I ignore the man who looks up curiously at me as I inspect the display.

This room is large, with a sloping floor to showcase the metal desks lined up. Archaic black screens with various dials, meters, and buttons are interspersed along the four rows of metal desks, each painted a pale bluish-greenish color a step above pastel. There are no chairs behind the desks, but I spot the black receptors to indicate an interactive display. A thin red line surrounding the display warns people not to get too close to the artifacts. On the far wall, digital displays recreate a map of the land masses on Earth as they were centuries ago, as well as a series of numbers and letters and data that mean nothing to me.

And there, off to one side of the desks, exactly where I expected him, right on time: Strom Fetor.

My dress isn’t exactly whisper-quiet, and the middle-aged white man homes his attention in on me, raking his eyes over my body. He wears the humored smile of someone used to being unthreatened and unbothered.

I hate him so much.

“Hello,” he says. His sight is glued to me; Rian’s stayed out in the corridor, so it looks like I’m alone. I should not like the way Rian follows my orders so precisely, but I certainly do.

“Hello,” I say.

Strom Fetor doesn’t know me from a hole in the ground, but that’s fine. I know him. And he’s exactly who I’ve been hoping to meet today. See, I knew Rian would be here.

Fetor? A bit of a gamble.

Not in terms of the gala, of course. Fetor was announced ages ago as the host, and he’s going to be making the end-of-the-night speech. But I had to do my research to figure out when and where I could corner him alone. Well, I think, considering Rian outside, mostly alone.

My stomach twists, though I don’t let any of that show on my face. See, I really like plans that are simple. Smash-and-grabs, that’s my style. The Roundabout job? I wasn’t even supposed to be seen, much less make my way into the Halifax crew. I work alone, and I prefer to be a shadow on the wall, easily overlooked. That’s the only reason I’m wearing glittering jewels and shiny sea-silk tonight: at this gala, this flashy costume is what I need to blend in.

But I’m my own worst enemy.

My client’s job—yeah, that’s basically smash-and-grab-style, easy-peasy, I’ve already got it in the bag, even if Rian doesn’t realize it yet.

But my job, this little side hustle? It’s a long con. And while finding a way to take down Strom Fetor is a nice little side perk, it’s about more than that.

And it’s not going to be done any time soon.

It relies on multiple moving pieces, some careful manipulation, and a little bit of luck.

And tonight? Tonight, I’m just tipping over the first domino.

“Surprised to see anyone leave the ground floor,” Fetor says.

“That’s me.” I smile, tightlipped. “Surprising.”

“What’s your name?” He doesn’t offer his own name, because he knows I know it. Everyone knows Strom Fetor, whether they want to or not. To some, he’s an innovator. He owns half a dozen companies, at least. Got his start in medicine before going into communication, buying himself the CEO position of the portal-comm tech that every ship in the galaxy uses to ping messages through the black. That set him up for a reputation of being a genius, at least to the people who just see his name plastered on their tech and think that means he’s smart enough to have invented it.

“Ada Lamarr.” I move farther into the room, putting the main display between us, nervously fidgeting with my earring as I studiously ignore Fetor. I read the info hovering above the massive multi-person metal desk while Strom Fetor tries to read me. But while I can tap my cuff band to make the language on the display shift to one I know, I’m indecipherable to him.

Mission Operations Control Room 2: the Flight Control Room for Apollo 11, the first crewed Moon landing in human history.

This room replicates the MOCR 2 used during the Apollo missions performed by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, an independent agency of the United States of America on Sol-Earth. All artifacts on display are restored originals.

“These are the exact same units used in the twentieth century to put a man on the moon,” Fetor says, which is the exact same information I just read. He steps past the tiny line of red light caging the desks.

“Aren’t alarms going to go off?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Fetor smiles at me, and I want to puke, because I can tell he wanted me to ask him just that. “They turned off security in this room for me.”

Of course they fucking did. No laser barriers, no security drones, just Phoebe coming to check up on him and remind him of the schedule. Strom Fetor could buy this whole museum. The rules do not apply to him.

Which means they don’t apply to me, either.

Convenient.

I cross the security laser line too. No alarms go off. Handy little trick, that. All you have to do is be rich, and you can take anything.

Then again, I knew that already.

My hand trails the cool metallic surface of the desk. Above us, the display switches from informational text to a holo. Light shoots down from the ceiling, creating the images of chairs filled by people in front of each station of the recreated control room. The people—mostly white men—generally wear button-down shirts with collars that are far too wide and thick glasses. Muted sound pipes into the room, recreating chatter from ancient transcripts.

Fetor steps closer to me, his hand going to a red, boxy item on the table. As soon as my eyes land on it, it triggers a display drone that gives additional information.

Actual telephone that provided a direct line between NASA and the United States of America’s Department of Defense. Read more?

I do a hard blink, sending the data away, although I’m tempted to select the word telephone and double-check the definition. I’ve seen phones before, obviously, but not one like this, so big and wired. Fetor lifts up the receiver with the coiled red plastic-coated wire and holds it so one round part is by his ear, the other by his mouth.

“Houston, we have a problem,” he says, grinning at me.

I step back, putting some distance between us. His grin falters but just a tiny bit. I think about Rian outside. Apparently, I’m enough of a threat to stalk across the whole museum; Strom Fetor, meanwhile, can ignore security and play with centuries-old historical artifacts and that’s just fine.

I lean my head back, letting the holo-projector lights pierce my vision. When I look up, he’s watching me, a gleam in his eye like he has a secret. “Wow,” I say, awe threaded through my voice like a glimmer of lightning in a storm cloud.

“Wow...what?” Fetor smiles, clearly thinking he’s in on some joke as he puts the telephone receiver back down in the cradle.

Crooked.

That artifact was used during the original Space Race, a witness to the unbelievably high tension in the room as the entire world waited to find out if men could escape the bonds of Earth or if they would die in the attempt, and this asshat puts the receiver down crooked.

Ugh.

I cut my eyes to him. “Wow, I really, really hate you.” I roll my shoulders back. It helps, actually, to be honest like that, even if I spoke in a friendly voice to counter the harshness of my words.

Fetor’s eyes widen a little. “You hate me? You don’t even know me.”

See, that’s why I fucking hate him. Of course I know him. He has more wealth than my entire homeworld. He’s always on feeds and lives for the tabbies. And that’s just the publicly available data.

What I want to do is shove him against the metal desk and punch his smug face in. But I don’t. I can be civil. Well, mostly. When I’m paid to be.

Fetor decides to ignore what I said. I can almost see him consciously shrug off my very clear and explicit opinion of him. Surely, she doesn’t hate me, I can practically read on his face, like a drone displaying data over his head. Everyone loves me. She must have been joking.

“I think I’m going to buy this,” he says, shooting me a conspiratorial look. “It would be funny.”

We have vastly different interpretations of funny .

“The telephone?” I ask. “For your communications office?”

“Oh, that’s good,” Fetor says, nodding appreciatively. “I was thinking of the desks, but the phone...yeah ....” He probably thought it’d be funny to put a mission control center in his house or something, which isn’t funny at all. I, on the other hand, am actually quite hilarious, and I can see the moment he connects the facts and decides my idea was his all along.

“Exactly.” He wags a finger at me. “You get it. The comm office should totally have this.”

“Problem,” I point out. “It’s not in the auction.”

Fetor shrugs. That’s not a problem to him.

“Hello, Mr. Fetor,” Rian says, announcing himself as he steps into the room. I guess he didn’t think he’d hear anything important. That’s what he gets for not paying better attention. If he’d waited just a little longer . . .

Fetor doesn’t look surprised to see him. But his eyes do widen when I stride over and slip my arm through Rian’s, pulling him close.

“You know each other?” Fetor asks.

“Not really,” Rian says at the same time I say, “Absolutely.”

Fetor’s eyes switch to me, a wry look at my conflicting answer. I cup my mouth in a faux stage whisper and say, “Rian’s mine .” My fingers tighten in Rian’s elbow.

“I don’t get a say in that?” Rian asks.

“Nope.” I don’t let him go as I lead him farther into the room. “Fetor here is going to buy this historical exhibit to use in his communications office,” I tell him.

Fetor beams like this is something to be proud of, as if his communication network was worthy of stealing—I mean buying —a display out of a museum.

I fucking hate him. I know I said it before, but it bears repeating. He’s such a sham. Fetor himself did nothing to develop the tech needed to make portal comms work, just like he did nothing with his prior businesses. He just swooped in and bought the company after the tech was already in prototypes. Being the money behind a project is nowhere near the same as being the brains. Anyone can have money. Especially people like Fetor, who was born into it.

I mentally shake myself.

Can’t get distracted now.

I turn to Rian, a much more appealing face to look at. I smile sweetly, full of innocence. “Was it Fetor’s communication office that developed the new nanobots for Sol-Earth?”

The color drains from Rian’s face.

Fetor, meanwhile, barks in delight. “Oh, you told her about that? Well, keep it secret for another hour or so, sweetheart.” Bastard’s already forgotten my name. “The official announcement is tonight, right, Rian?”

“Tonight,” Rian chokes out. “And right now, you’re supposed to go down now for a last tech check, Mr. Fetor.”

That’s what Phoebe was coming up to remind him about. That’s what’s behind the black curtain in the grand corridor—a hover stage and probably a pretty elaborate light show to go with it. That Fetor’s style. And while cams aren’t allowed in the charity gala, the closing remarks are recorded live and fed through all the tabbies.

“This is Strom Fetor,” I tell Rian, waving my hand in the man’s direction. “He invented most of the tech being used tonight. I don’t think he needs a rehearsal.”

I’m an amazing liar. Rian glares at me, but Fetor chuckles smugly. “We’ll be fine. I’ve already gone over the specs. Well, my people have. Lighten up, White. It’ll go off without a hitch!”

“Yeah, White, lighten up,” I say, smiling at him. Rian looks like he would very much like to murder me, which makes my grin even bigger. “What a grand finale this is going to be.”

That was a guess, but neither of the men object, so I figure I’m right. Fetor’s speech is the conclusion of the gala. And during that speech, he’s going to announce a plan to “save” Earth with the climate cleaners.

His announcement is at the end of the night so as not to reduce any bids at the charity auction. Get everyone to donate for Earth’s conservation before showcasing a possible solution that’s already in the works.

Clever. I bet it was Rian’s idea.

“Hey, did you see the protestors I hired?” Fetor continues, oblivious. “I tipped off some of the tab reporters to cover it in advance. Should make a nice, contrasting point to the story, no?”

Rian drags his eyes from me to Fetor. “You should have cleared that with security.”

Fetor shrugs. “Think of the headlines. Early feeds are focused on the protests, not whatever designer made Luxa Ng’s gown. Leads right into our announcement tonight.” He spreads his hands out, envisioning the headline: “ Strom Fetor Leads Way to Cleaning up Sol-Earth’s Broken Climate . And then we can open with a quote about how generous of a donation I gave.”

There it is. The reason he’s doing this.

The credit.

Earth needs saving. And he’ll do it.

As long as he gets the credit.