Page 32 of How to Steal a Galaxy

“Let’s hear it for the auction winners!” the female voice of the presenter calls from her position on the acrylic stage on the other side of the curtain. Fetor steps forward, depressing a button hidden under the front lip of the hover stage. It slowly rises in the air, about thirty or forty centimeters, not too high. Lights spark under the hover stage, the holos already warming up. I remember then what Phoebe said earlier, about how this tech stage is a new prototype. I wonder if Fetor would get the blame if I let those holos overheat and he smashes into the crowd below. Actually, a pretty smart hack—but also another reason why people would then call into question whether or not the nanobots to clean Earth should be used.

The presenter on the other side of the curtain says, “And now, let me introduce the man of the hour!”

So much for the easy way out.

I start running. The grand corridor is wide, but even with my shit shoes, it takes me only a few minutes to reach Fetor. I can feel people backstage watching me, curious about the woman darting across the hall, but they probably think I’m on some errand or something. No one stops me when I reach the stage, and no one, especially not Fetor, expected me to dive at it. I feel the slit in my dress rip as I scramble up.

“What are you doing?” Fetor whisper-shouts at me.

“Houston, we have a problem,” I mutter.

The presenter is still droning on about how awesome Fetor is, and fuck, do I hope, for once, that she’ll keep at it. I see guards now, uniformed security heading straight toward us, but at least I can get a sense of the controls from here. The stage is designed to be remotely operated—that’s what the command center is for—but some simple directional buttons are built into the base. I stomp on the big red arrow labelledup, and Fetor and I lift from the ground, almost to the top of the black curtain, well beyond the jumping grasps of the security guards below.

The stage judders, dropping a dozen centimeters in a stomach-whooshing movement that makes Fetor curse and stumble. The command center. They operate the stage remotely. I step on theLockbutton, the abrupt stop putting us still well beyond the security guards’ reach.

Outside, the crowd titters in polite laughter at something the presenter said. Her intro has to be winding down now. And no one of the other side of the curtain knows that I’ve hijacked Fetor’s stage.

“The show is starting; get off!” Fetor says, reaching for me. The platform’s not that big, only wide enough for five or so people to stand if they don’t mind not having much elbow room. He grabs for my arm, but as soon as he touches me, I yank away. What’s he going to do, shove me off stage? At this height, I could break a leg.

I skim the faces at the command center, settling on one man glaring at me, the only person not moving among a flurry of frantic workers.

Rian. His eyes slice right to me.

“Get off!” Fetor says, louder. Loud enough that maybe the people in the audience can hear.

I stomp his foot with my stiletto heel, and Fetor yelps in pain. Finally, those stupid shoes prove worthwhile. I ignore Fetor entirely, my focus on Rian, as I lift my hands, my reticule swinging, bulky with the kid’s transponder inside. Rian’s had space training. I have to hope . . .

Do you trust me?I sign, beseeching him with my eyes to understand the stakes have changed, the game’s different now.

He shakes his head frantically, and then, just in case I didn’t get the picture, signs,Absolutely not, whatever you’re planning, absolutely NOT.His hands are in such a flurry, I can barely comprehend them, but the gist is clear.

I shrug. Well, I tried.

With a wink at Rian, I kneel on the platform. On the other side of the curtain, the audience’s clapping grows louder. Seconds now. I scan the wiring, sending a prayer of thanks up that this stage is a prototype. Behind the lip at the front, the wiring is still exposed. Hell, maybe the kiddidn’tneed to hack the stage; this thing really is not well designed. There’s a distinct smell of burning ozone. The kid said the hack wouldn’t overheat the holos until later in the speech, but I don’t trust that to hold true.

“And now!” the presenter calls over the claps of the audience. “Our guest of honor, Strom Fetor!”

Here goes nothing.

I tangle my fingers in the wires and yank a handful of blue and red and purple and white, ripping them out.

“What the—” Fetor starts.

And the stage smashes down.

Fetor and I both go sprawling, the wind knocked out of us, but I’m sensible enough to appreciate that the guards who’d been trying to grab for us are unharmed, if dazed and shocked.

For one split second, the entire museum is silent, the reverberations of the crash behind stage fading. This wasloud. The audience didn’t know Strom was going to fly out from behind the curtain like a god, but that cacophony didn’t sound planned.

Then the noise picks up. The guards rush the cracked remains of the stage, grabbing and pulling me bodily away. Someone’s shouting. I see more people run to Fetor, who’s already standing up and brushing off his jacket, his face purple with rage. Some people dressed to the nines talk frantically to him, and there’s a grim set to his jaw. The presenter is trying to calm the concerned audience, and some people—likely with the museum—rush from that side to this side of the curtain.

And then the guards slam me through the employee entrance. Waitstaff go scattering.

“In here,” one of them says, and I’m shoved into a conference room.

I get just one line from Fetor, his voice amplified over the noise and chaos. “Folks, sorry about that loud crash,” he says. He must have walked through the curtain and taken the clear stage after I broke his toy. I get part of his next sentence: “Tonight’s all about history, so I shouldn’t be surprised the museum couldn’t handle some of my newer technology!”

There’s a wave of relieved laughter. They’re all going to pretend nothing happened.

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