Page 17 of How to Steal a Galaxy

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

“What’s your name?” He doesn’t offer his own name, because he knows I know it.Everyoneknows 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.

Actualtelephonethat 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 wordtelephoneand 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,reallyhate 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 Iwantto 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.”

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