Page 8 of How to Steal a Galaxy

No wonder Rian’s on edge.

I nervously twist my earring, a little silver stud, the only thing I’m wearing right now that’s actually mine. I’ll sell off this gown later, and I have no use for silver shoes. My entire outfit is just a costume, with everyone here seeing only what I want them to see: A rich person blending into a crowd of rich people. Only Rian knows my dress is a disguise, but at least he appreciates how well I wear it.

Tickets to get in the door cost more than my ship, but my client paid for all of that, as well as arranging who among the guest list they could bribe out of a spot. Or, I don’t know, maybe they had some sympathizer who was willing to hand it over for the greater good. All I know is they needed me inside to secure the asset, so they got me inside. They also gave me some pretty good tips on recon that I hope pay off in more ways than one, but as of this moment, I’m on my own. I either get what I came for and then get paid, or I don’t. And if I don’t...well, that would be pretty shitty. I wouldn’t get paid.

Plus, I spentevery fucking centof my payment already. On credit. From someone Idefinitelycannot stiff. So, I better get the loot I’ve come here for. And I sure as fuck hope that what I bought was worth it.

There’s also the minor fact that maybe Earth will die like those protestors outside want, but I’m just not going to think about that. There’s pressure, and then there’spressure, you know?

Instead of thinking about how my Earth will die, I think about how Rigel-Earth’s main star is going to collapse in on itself and burn up this entire planet. Sure, it’ll take a few million years, but that blue star will eat itself into becoming a black hole long before my sun will.That’ll show ’em, I think, gazing at the crowd that will absolutely not be alive by the time any of that happens.

My eye catches Rian’s. There have to be a hundred people in this one gallery room, clustered around and pretending to appreciate a climate-controlled box displaying a page that was ripped from Abd al-Rahman al-Sufi’sBook of Fixed Stars,but somehow, the only one I see is him.

Which is why I walk straight into a woman, hard enough to make the gold bangles on her wrist clink together. Before I can apologize, she turns a thousand-watt smile on me, and I recognize her as a feed star. If we’d been outside on the street, I bet she’d have a bodyguard who would have made sure I didn’t even share a city block with her, and if I did happen to klutz my way into her personal bubble, I doubt she’d look at me like a friend. That’s what a seven-figure ticket price to get in the door will do for a girl: it makes everyone on the other side of that door think that riff-raff like me are filtered out, and that everyone left on this side is a friend.

Which is going to work great for me.

“Sorry,” I tell the feed star, nodding congenially. She’s really quite short in person; that’s surprising.

“Not a problem, darling,” she says, and I suddenly understand what a “sparkling smile” actually means. I make a note to watch more of her feeds.

“I love your dress,” I say, because it feels like I have to saysomething. “Eva Charming?”

She laughs. “Who?” She makes a show of looking down at her gown before giving me the name of her designer. I make all the appropriate praises despite having no clue about couture, and the feed star smiles some more before drifting away.

Ostensibly, the gala raises money for Sol-Earth conservation, because of course they have to look like they give a damn about charity, and most people don’t mind “saving the homeworld” to tick that box, even if it’s not really charity. Anything that costs this much is about the show, not the benefit. There’s not just the ticket price; there’s the gems and silks and people paid to do hair and makeup and film it all for the feeds and negotiate contracts with the tabbies and ensure they’re spotted—and recorded—being with the right people before coming inside. And let’s be real—the museum gets its cut, Rigel-Earth takes a piece, the workers have to be paid...but the rest. I guess Earth gets that.

Which is something, at least.

Too much for the protestors outside, obviously. But they only minded enough to file a permit for an hour.

They did cause some buzz, though. I overhear more than one of the other attendees talking about it. And most of them agree.

Earth’s not worth saving.

It is, however, worthbuying.

All the showrooms on the ground floor of the museum strategically highlight different items for sale. It’s subtle—I suppose others would call it “tasteful.” The big, open rooms have holos, art, and other exhibits, but it all directs people to look at what’s on display in the center. One item per room—a historical artifact, a rare piece of art, a significant archeological find.

Available.

For a price.

This is the cost of charity to help Earth. We have to buy our aid.

By merit of being here, at the gala, each item will likely fetch an ungodly sum of money. That’s the point, after all. But each item is also worth more than any price that could be paid. The last verified brick of the Great Wall of China, most of which was destroyed in the Second Eurasian War. A panel cut from the Bayeux Tapestry, preserved in a climate-controlled case. Feathers from the now-extinct North American bluebird. Each with a digital number beside it.

The current high bid.

4

The main gallery hall branches into several smaller rooms, each with a different display and a different item to bid on. I drift around. I know Rian’s watching me; I can feel his eyes tracking my steps, but every time the crowd thins, I move on to another display.

I have been hunted before; it wasn’t like this.

When I was younger, before the volcanic eruption at Yellowstone, my parents and I lived at the park. The park itself—by then privately owned, of course—was enough of a money-maker that some of the best security wrapped around it. I joke about how most civilized areas of Earth are under bubbles, but for the most part, that’s not literal. Obviously, the bigger cities have protection, but there are plenty of smaller areas, mostly manufacturing districts or production zones, that just rely on people using their own gear rather than filtration bubbles. If it’s raining, get an acid-proof umbrella; if it’s sunny, take a radiation supplement.

At Yellowstone, however, the protection zones were very literal. I mean, the area itself was over three thousand square miles, so there wasn’t, like, a huge glass bubble over the entire park. But the tourists who came to Yellowstone were usually of two groups. One type liked the adventure and danger of a wild nature reserve. Extreme sports enthusiasts want a challenge, regardless of the planet, and having to backpack for survival appeals to some weirdos. And Yellowstone remained remote enough—before it exploded in a supervolcano eruption—that it wasn’taspolluted as some other areas. Acid burns were only a danger during particular rainy seasons, and while pollution is slowly killing the planet, it does make for a gorgeous sunset, you have to admit.

---