Page 7 of How to Steal a Galaxy

I bite my lip, watch as he watches. “You didn’t think I’d come as a guest.”

“Invitations are linked and tracked,” he says, shaking his head. “I saw your name, of course...”

“Like my dress?” I do a little spin. “I got sea-silk just for tonight.”

Rian’s eyes crinkle. The clues are subtle but there—water imagery in the entry display, the color blue being used. Tonight’s guest of honor and closing ceremonies being led by Strom Fetor, who owns Fetor Tech. All signs point to a certain announcement about nanobots being released into Sol-Earth’s water cycle happening tonight. But he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t want to give me a single inch, even if I already stole the mile.

I’m standing right in front of him, but he’s looking for the con, not seeing me. And that just won’t do. His eyes flick to the scanners at the entry.

“If you want to know what’s in my purse, just ask.” I pull on the strings, showing him inside. “What trouble could I get in with nothing more than a data recorder and some lip gloss?”

He flinches, then he glowers at the way I laugh. “You and a data recorder? Dangerous.”

“I don’t need a data recorder to be dangerous.” But a girl does like to be appreciated for her talents.

“Ada.” Rian sighs, his breath of frustration enough to almost move my shellacked hair, coiffed and studded with little glittering gems at each lacquered wave. “What are you doing here? Really?”

I slip a little closer, just a hairsbreadth. Close enough so that my eyes meet his, but everything past them blurs out of focus. “I came to steal something,obviously.”

Blink. He leans back. Not much. “I knew you would come.” He sounds disappointed. Odd.

I snort. “Well, that’s a surprise to me. Because I was offered this gig months ago. I kept declining.”

“Don’t tell me you were considering giving up your life of crime.”

“No, of course not.” I laugh. “They weren’t paying me enough.”

“Who?” Rian latches onto that word. “Whowasn’t paying you enough?”

“My client,” I say, deflecting. “But that’s beside the point. See, I only agreed to this job for one reason.”

I let silence do the heavy lifting.

“And that is?” Rian asks when I don’t elaborate.

I lean in close. Closer. The little hairs he’s tucked behind his left ear sway with my word.

“You.”

I wait just long enough to spot the goosebumps sprouting on his neck before I swirl away from him, the glittering hem of my gown brushing his legs. I tilt toward a group of people who’ve just cleared security and entered the museum. I can feel Rian’s eyes on me, on the dress swishing over my curves, on the sparkle of silver flashing under my hem.

But I don’t look back.

• • •

Rian can’t approach me again without drawing attention. See, the thing is, Idohave a legitimate scan-code invitation, linked to my name and identifier and everything. It’s entirely legit. Plus, I’ve done nothing wrong.

Yet.

It’s the same reason he couldn’t arrest me when I stole the nanobot prototype and the coding from theRoundabout. Scavenge rights exist for any shipwreck that’s not declared off-limits by the government, and the government didn’t declare theRoundaboutbecause they didn’t want to draw attention to it, so that meant I couldtechnicallyloot whatever I wanted. Fortunately for me, technicalities matter to someone who believes in the law.

But Rian still follows me as I drift through the galleries, floating between different groups, never lingering too long over any one display. As I predicted, the joint fills up over the next hour, more and more people cluttering inside. The MIH annual charity gala is strictly limited. Last night, the honored (rich) guests had their own private showing of the charity auction. The only way to get intothatshowing was to be hand-selected by the notoriously strategic gala director, Jacques Winters.

Today, attendance is still restricted, but the tickets to get inside were bought with cash, not connections. The open gala is still a big-enough deal that the MIH has been accused of influencing politics by granting tickets to one candidate over another. More typically, the only life-or-death situation happening here involves the vitality of a fashion designer’s career, especially because camera drones are allowed inside during the closing ceremony, something not permissible during the prestige night.

The charity gala is a place for the rich to gather in one spot, preen about for each other, end up in all the tabbies, toss some cash around to look like philanthropists, and then trot off to be rich elsewhere.

The exclusivity is what makes this event work. I gaze around the crowded rooms. There are enough big names here to be a little unnerving, even for me. Without cams on the inside, deals get made. Handshakes happen without witnesses; promises are whispered in shadows. It’s not just wealth here; there’s power, too. Deals can happen in a place like this, unspoken agreements with more than one type of auction taking place.

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