Page 6 of How to Steal a Galaxy

Even my blood runs cold at the name of that group. The Jarra are “freedom fighters” who want to rid Sol-Earth of every non-native by any means necessary and consider anyone who immigrated to one of the other planets to be a blood traitor. They want to separate Earth from every other world, cutting my planet away from the rest of the galaxy, and they have no qualms about being extremely liberal with the concept of “cutting.” They’re such a nasty lot, I don’t ever take jobs with them, no matter what they offer.

Everyjob a Jarra does ends with blood.

I guess permits and holo drones are a little better than that.

The security guard’s attention has shifted from his comms to me. I give him my best smile.

“Scan pass?” he says.

I hold out my data band. A moment later, his handheld reader flashes green. “Welcome to the gala, Ms. Lamarr.” The guard holds his arm out, gesturing to the enormously oversized double doors flung open.

I take a step. Pause.

“What do they want?” I ask, casting a look over my shoulder at the silent protestors. Without looking through the film on my band, I can no longer see what the holo drones are displaying, just the glittering little orbs bouncing around the sky. The protestors below stare straight ahead. It feels like they’re watching me, but there’s a hollowness to their collective gaze that’s deeply creepy.

It’s part of the demonstration, I know that. Protests on Earth are messy, sometimes violent things. But protests on Rigel-Earth are scheduled and performed.

I would mock it, but...itiskind of getting to me. Unnerving.

“Oh, it’s the aid tax.” The guard waves his hand at them, as if he could brush the holo drones from the air.

“Of course,” I say, smiling as I step past him and toward the entry.

The aid tax.

The aid for Earth. It makes sense to protest it here, at a charitable gala being held to raise additional funds for Sol-Earth’s conservation.

But damn. That’s gutting. Of all the taxes on this planet, of all the stupid elitist surcharges, the one that made three dozen people file a permit to send enormously expensive holo drones into the sky is the tax providing humanitarian relief to my home.

Fucking Rigel-Earth.

3

I’m three steps into the museum when a firm hand grabs my elbow. I whip around and there he is, eyes and all.

“I knew you’d be here.” He speaks in a low voice, biting off each word. There’s no triumph in his announcement, only grim bitterness.

Well, that just won’t do.

“Hello, Rian, how are you?” I make no move to pull my arm away from his grip; in fact, I spin a little closer to him. Flustered, he drops my elbow. But he doesn’t step back. And neither do I.

I’ve seen him in a spacesuit, but I’ve never seen him dressed to the nines like this, all buttoned up and neat. It suits him. Very well. His white shirt has just two tiny triangles downturned at the collar over a silver ascot tucked into a vest hidden beneath a slick black jacket. A single white rose decorated with a black ring at the base is pinned to his lapel. I wonder if he got it from his family’s luxury farms that sell produce for a premium. Roses are common on Sol-Earth, and it’s hard to import flowers . . .

My mind wandered enough for this to get awkward. Then again, while I was staring at Rian’s flower, he was taking in my gown, and the look on his face makes me glad I insisted the tailor cut slits in the material right at my hips, showing just enough skin to not be indecent while still inspiring indecent thoughts. Inspiring indecency is something of a specialty of mine.

“Isn’t it ridiculous,” I say casually, “how formal wear for men means layers and layers of cloth, but formal wear for women is the exact opposite?” I look down at my own chest, the neckline purposefully draped loosely so that, despite the secure design, it looks as if I’m one good sneeze away from scandal.

“What are you doing here?” Rian demands. Voice low. Warm breath, right on my skin. A laser-focus gaze that refuses to drop below my chin again, despite my best efforts.

“Invited guest.” I flash my data band just to prove the point, my reticule swinging. He grabs my left wrist, inspecting the scan code. I lift my right hand, trailing my fingers along his knuckles until he looks up at me. “If you manhandle me one more time without my consent, I am going to hurt you,” I promise sweetly.

He drops my arm.

But he doesn’t step back.

And neither do I.

“I thought you may come, but...” he starts.

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