Page 36 of How to Steal a Galaxy

Rian touches my shoulder. When I release my hold on myself, I see the lingering traces of my handprints on my arms.

“Eight years of profit before he sold the patent to the government. Three more years before the government was able to manufacture enough vaccines and distribute them widely. Eleven years, total, before anyone who wanted the meds got them.” I don’t look at him. “A lot can happen in eleven years.”

“Thank you, thank you!” Fetor shouts into the amp as gold and silver confetti falls from the ceiling over the crowd. The audience roars in approval.

While the kid hacked into the holo display of the hover stage, there are permanent display holos built into the museum’s network. The holo projection of Sol-Earth that illuminates and reflects through the metallic confetti is safe, although I expect Winters to have triple-checked to ensure it wasn’t sabotaged as well. Music swells as the projection of the planet slowly twirls midair.

Not Earth as it is now, no, but as it was centuries ago. White at the caps. Blue in the oceans, green in the land. No bubbles of protection over specific landmarks. No America broken by plates shifting after the supervolcano erupted. No garbage island in the Pacific, so dense that it’s now inhabited by bands of independent rovers.

Earth as it was.

As it will never be again, even with all the money of all the people in this room.

I glance at the O-ring pinned to Rian’s rose corsage. Sometimes, when something breaks, it stays broken.

Rian’s not watching the people. He’s watching me.

“It takes time to distribute medical care to every inhabitant of a planet,” he says. “In the history books, it’s considered a miracle that in just a little more than a decade, everyone had access to a life-saving treatment.”

I nod silently. Then I say, “How much of that time was wasted on haggling over the sale price of the patent on the vaccine?”

He doesn’t answer.

One thing both Fetor and Rian have in common is this deep desire to save the world. Fetor wants the credit. Rian just wants to do good.

But...I don’t need to save the whole world.

I just needed to save my father.

And he didn’t have eleven years to wait.

The museum coordinator strides past us, and I startle. I was so lost in my own thoughts, I almost forgot about the purpose of the chaos around us. Winters mounts the acrylic stage in front of the black curtain, waving his hand for attention from both Fetor and the audience. “It has been our joy to host you tonight, and I must extend my deepest gratitude for our guest of honor, Strom Fetor!” The cheering from the audience gets even louder, and servers pop up, glasses of fizzy wine on silver platters.

“You know, the climate-cleaner nanobots that we’re rolling out...they’re nothing like the vaccine distribution.” Rian tugs on my arm, pulling my attention to him. I blink rapidly, refocusing. “Maybe the climate-sickness vaccine could have been distributed more efficiently. But this is different.”

“Because you’re in charge?”

He flinches at the bitter bite of my words. “Because it’s already in motion.” He turns me away from the stage, enclosing me in our private conversation. “I don’t know what the people you’re working for told you, but what you stole from theRoundaboutcrash? It delayed us, but it didn’t stop us. You took a prototype on its way to the final stage of testing and development, and while we had to recreate the data and send an entirely new one to the facility, you did nothing more than hold up production.”

There’s an accusation in his voice, an undercurrent of blame that makes bile rise in my throat.If Fetor’s family made Earth wait more than a decade for climate sickness treatment,Rian’s saying in his tone,how are you any better for delaying climate cleaners from spreading all across the planet?

I want to tell him everything.

Not yet, though. Not here.

Instead, I say, “I know.”

I pull a tube out of my reticule and slick shiny gloss over my red-stained lips.

The museum coordinator makes a motion, and a woman crosses to the stage, a black box in her arms. When Fetor lifts the lid, he grins in delight, showing the red telephone from Mission Control to the audience, who—somehow—cheers even louder.

Rian’s voice is so soft that I almost miss his words in the cacophony around us. “What do you know, Ada Lamarr?”

I lean close to him, tugging on his shoulder so I can whisper in his ear. “More than you,” I say, and then, before he can pull away, I let the tip of my tongue dart out and lick the shell of his ear, just so I can watch him try not to unravel at the galaxy’s biggest event of the year.

16

The fizzy wine is flowing, and while some groups are starting to break up, the party is still going strong.

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