Page 70 of Phoenix's Last Heist
This is an accurate assessment of your plan so far, and the best option given all available information in my systems. Do you have any additional questions, Orion?
Our cruiser lands with a rumble and a hiss of hydraulics. Ada’s ready to open the doors, but misery and doubt make my limbs heavy. Once again, I’m overcome with the needling sensation that I’m not good enough, smart enough, criminalenough to see this through, but the mating instinct rages in my veins reminding me that it doesn’t matter if I am—Lyra deserves someone whotries.
“No, Ada,” I reply, shouldering my pack with the idol tucked safely inside. “I’m ready. Are you?”
Affirmative.
I exhale a deep breath that feels like it rises up from my toes, press the door release button, and take my first steps onto the gangway inEpsilon-6’s busy arrivals terminal. Immediately, I’m assaulted with a cacophony of sounds of busy city life—voices in countless languages, hawkers shouting about their wares from trundling robotic carts, and the deafening roar of ships landing and departing. It takes me a moment to adjust to the gritty vibrance of the station—more populous than our busiest city on Xylothia.
Before I can get too overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells ofEpsilon-6, I’m nearly bowled over by a bright blue service droid with a hologram human head.
“Please present your identity chip for registration,” the droid garbles out in staticky Kailorian.
I shove my wrist into the droid’s scanning mechanism and wait for my information to pop up. After answering a few routine questions and paying a minor fee to dock the cruiser for a day, the droid rolls away down to the far end of the dock.
“Ada, can you hear me?”
Affirmative.
“Great. Let’s do this,” I huff, almost wishing for the bedsheet disguise I wore on Amphitreas. Before we arrived, I thought about trying to wear something more inconspicuous than my Xylothian ranger uniform, but there wasn’t anything else on the cruiser for me to use. On the plus side, the station is big enough that I don’t think I’ll draw much attention, even if there aren’t any other Xylothians around.
The arrivals terminal spreads out into a spiderweb network of tunnels, moving walkways, and densely packed city streets lined with towering buildings. Thanks to the station’s artificial atmosphere generators, it rains constantly here, so every street sign, building, and passing advertisement glows in vibrant neon signage to seduce tourists and shoppers in from the dreary gray.
After getting my bearings and struggling to listen to Ada’s directions, I set off on the path that will trace Lyra’s footsteps. The further I wander into this sector of the station, the more I begin to understand why Lyra made her way here. Pink and blue neon signs flicker in the rain, turning raindrops into glittering jewels that promptly disappear into puddles on the streets below. In the steamy humidity, clashing scents from street vendors selling food do little to ease the swirling anxiety in my gut and everywhere—everywhere—it’s a crush of bodies angling into different stores.
I wind through streets that grow increasingly narrow, until I’m led to an alley that is barely wide enough for me to cross without turning sideways. There’s a stack of refuse crates blocking off the back exit to the alleyway, which makes me more than a little nervous. One way in, one way out.
In one hundred fifty meters, you’ve arrived at your destination,Ada chimes.
On my right is a low door into a dim bar that’s flanked by two burly Printhanian bouncers. They scan me for weapons—thank the stars I left the plasma pistol back in the cruiser—and grunt as I pull back the worn curtain serving as a door.
A long corridor slopes downward and when I finally reach the interior of the bar, I’m stunned into silence. I’d expected a dark, gritty drinking hole populated with drunk barflies and criminals, but what I’m met with is…not that.
It’s like I’ve inadvertently stepped inside one of Lyra’s paperback romance novels. The walls are covered in paintedmurals of grand houses and castles; fake greenery hangs down from the corrugated metal ceiling, and everyone working here is dressed in old Earth styles—long, flowing dresses with gloves and fans. A handful of males walk around in tight breeches and loose shirts that can only be described asbillowy.
As unexpected as this themed café is, it also makes absolute sense. A wry chuckle stutters out of me.Oh, Lyra.
At the sound, a young woman approaches me, her radiant purple skin set off by the dark green velvet of her gown.
“Good evening,” she says cheerily, fluttering her fan. “Have you dined with us before, good sir?”
“Uh, no,” I stammer. “I came in here hoping to meet a friend.”
She eyes me shrewdly and gestures to a table in a far corner, set between two large flower-studded topiaries.
“Before you sit, sir, we do have a dress code,” she says, clearing her throat. “There are items for rent through that door. An attendant will help you find the right size. What sort of refreshments can I offer you while you wait for your friend?”
“What do you have?”
“Tea, whiskey, hotkudvelk, eluvian nectar, and a variety of small sandwiches and cakes,” she says, then leans in to whisper conspiratorially. “Most people come here for the tea service, but you strike me as more of a whiskey gentleman.”
I’m more than a little bewildered, but I nod and tell her to bring me whatever she thinks is best. It takes me only a few moments to argue with the dressing room attendant about my unwillingness to wear awaistcoat, but the glare I level at him seems to exasperate him enough to stop pushing. I’m reluctantly dressed in a pair of slim beige trousers and one of the aforementioned billowy shirts, and directed to my table between the topiaries where my tea service is waiting.
There’s a flattering amount of attention from many of the women in the establishment, but I’m forced to be a bit brusque with them as I keep my eyes peeled for anyone who might be Lyra’s Fed. Several tumblers of whiskey and tea sandwiches later, there’s an obvious shift change with the employees, and a few more new males begin to circulate around the floor, carrying trays of little cakes and flirting with the patrons.
My gaze snags on a male from Terrin-4 who’s dressed in some kind of crimson military uniform with gold buttons—could it be him?I’ve been sitting at this damned table for over two hours, and no one else has caught my attention. Feds have a staid, stalwart reputation owing to the fact that their emotions are usually beat out of them at a young age in the academy. The soldier hasn’t smiled more than a handful of times, but as I’m about to get up and approach him, a boisterous Martian with blue-gray skin and an outlandish pirate costume drunkenly drops into the second chair at my table. Dark red tattoos swirl over much of his exposed skin and I’m uncertain if he’s an employeedressedlike a pirate or if heisa pirate.
“I’m afraid I’m not looking for company,” I tell him sourly, glaring as he plucks a handful of sandwiches from my third tea tray.
