Page 5 of How to Steal a Galaxy

I want to relish this moment.

Usually, Rigel-Earth is just a pain in the ass. The paperwork alone to get to this planet makes it absolutely not worth it. It’s rare that I have stacked and coded invites and visas and a waiting docking bay, much less a pretty dress that lets me fit in with the richy-rich locals.

Here’s the thing. We’re alltechnicallyfrom Earth. I mean, real Earth. Sol-Earth. The original. But then we found other planets that could host life, and we named them Earth, too, distinguishing them by which sun they orbited. Centauri-Earth was first, of course. We all know the history.

Anyway, most everyone on Rigel-Earth is a dick. It’s nothing personal, obviously; it’s just statistically true. Rigel-Earth was super easy to set up compared to, say, Gliese-Earth, and it was discovered and ported really quickly thanks to some wealthy jerks who then leveraged their funding to ensure they and their buddies got first dibs on the best spots. They purposefully city-planned for their benefit, creating this hierarchy of towns that price out any of the workers who have to take the (admittedly kind of nice) public transport to work in the cities they’ve inflated to match their egos.

Basically, Rigel-Earth is the homeowners’ association of the universe, and everyone knows it. The difference is, the people of Rigel-Earth think turning a planet into a gated community is swell, and everyone else thinks it’s shitty. Who can beproudof being from a planet known to rig its own taxes and ensure only the elite can claim full citizenship?

Still, I let myself forget all my gripes as I perch atop the landing in front of the Museum of Intergalactic History. And I’ll be damned if I don’t pose a little in my shiny dress.

After all, at least some of these camera drones have to be linked to security feeds. If Rian’s watching, I’m going to use the cool blue light to capture my best features.

I was lucky that I took the deal from my client at a station with a high-end tailor and charged my contact’s accounts for the gown. This dress has crossed worlds to get to me—the raw material came from a seaweed in the oceans of Centauri-Earth. The blue-green base of the dress shifts in the light; the circle lums hovering nearby make the dress shine like a supernova. And tiny chips of glittering gems from Gliese-Earth litter the bottom, making rainbows scatter on the pale stone with every step I take.

There are tricks to clothing. The same effect could have been made with bits of glass sewn into the material or electric strands of illumination beads. But this place, these people? They would know the difference between real sea-silk and gems and knockoffs. Hell, even the cam drones would know the difference.

They’re already buzzing off toward the hover ramps, bored with me. Someone whose face dinged a little check box next toImportantmust have showed up.

My eyes drift past the flurry of lights and drones and general static of anticipation toward the street below.

The MIH is in the most elite part of the most elite city on Rigel-Earth. Built into a hill, a river wraps around the back end of the enormous building. In front, the street is carefully regulated—only someone with a scan pass can get any vehicle within spitting distance of the museum.

I knew this already. I know every entrance and exit into this building, from the receiving door for deliveries to the employee entrance in the back to emergency exits linked to alarms. As well as other possibilities—the grand corridor that cuts through the center of the building is topped with a glass roof, so if one were to need to get a little creative, well.

Anything can be a door with the right motivation.

It’s not in the plan, but. You know. Just in case. Always nice to have options.

The line to get in still hasn’t moved, and there’s now a handful people behind me. My eyes skim past the gowns and suits to the uniforms. While the guests are loud, the guards are not. There’s an undercurrent of tension. One looks up and happens to catch my eye. My gaze flitters away, suddenly enraptured by the dangling gem-crusted foot of Orion above me.

Thing is, this is a high-profile event. This is going to attract a lot of attention from a lot of people who like to cause trouble. And I would very much like them to just be chill tonight so thatIcan be the cause of trouble.

But there’s a small crowd gathering in the park across the street. At least three dozen people, all wearing a white drape with a big red stamp on the shoulder. I squint, watching them, but I can’t read whatever badge they’re all wearing.

Great. A protest.

“Next,” a guard calls, and the line moves forward.

The crowd gathering across the street all stop in a line parallel to it, heads tilted toward the museum. I can almost make out the circular red design on the drapes the people wear, but then they all lift their arms at once, raising their palms toward the sky.

Small glittering orbs rise up, hovering in a line above the crowd before zipping into patterns.

Oh, fuck me, Rigel-Earth even has pretentious protestors.

I wave a couple to go in front of me to the scanners. I don’t have fancy holo specs on my eyes, but I know exactly what this is—a silent protest. About the charitable gala, no doubt. Anyone rich enough for an invite to this function would have specs, but I have to lift my wrist and hold my data band in front of my face in order to peep through it and see what the holo drones spell out in the sky above. My small purse dangles in front of me, attached by a magnetic clip to the band.

Squinting through the thin film on my data band, I see...a planet. Earth. My Earth, I mean. Sol-Earth. The holo drones aren’t that great—only two contrasting colors, making it a bit hard to make out the details. But I guess not much detail is needed when the holo projection of my homeworld melts, lava-like slime dripping over the sphere until it’s nothing. The drones swirl around, then spell out the message the protesters want the gala’s attendees to see:

Let Sol-Earth Die.

Cam drones zip across the street, capturing the display for tabbies. Everyone tuning in across the galaxy is getting this message.

“Classy,” I mutter, turning on my silvered heel and walking through the scanners. The guard waves me through. The only things in my wristlet are a small data recorder and lip gloss, nothing unusual.

Before I get through the main doors, I overhear one of the security guards talking into his cuff, confirming that the protestors have a permit and there’s nothing they can do. The red badges. They’re permits, bought and paid for, because nothing says activism like perfectly filed paperwork.

“They’ve only got an hour; just leave it,” the guard says before looking up at me. “It’s not like they’re Jarra.”

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