An announcement pings softly over the intercom and then we’re easing into the dock, and, with a series of soft clinks, safety harnesses are coming undone around us, the staff rising to their feet to usher us out. Sofia yanks my hand out of my pocket when I look too casual, forcibly bending my arm at the elbow so she can slip hers through it, so we’ll match the other couples. It’s been years since I had to go through this kind of parade, and the small tricks of it are gone. “Pretend you’re in a period drama on the HV,” she whispers. “That’s what they’re all doing.”
We head through the doors and find ourselves in another world. The vaulted ceiling soars above us, glittering chandeliers refracting crystal light across every surface, the finishes all velvet and gold, priceless polished wood. Hovertrays glide through the crowd, taking orders and offering up food and drink, and the guests swirl in a kaleidoscope of color, the men in sober black and the women in every shade I’ve ever seen. Musicians play on a dais at one end of the hall, and for an instant I’m a child again, looking for my mother somewhere in this crowd.
Then Sofia’s nudging me and nodding to a red rope cordoning off one exit. A group of partygoers appear through it, led by a tour guide dressed as a soldier—as one of the dead passengers from the Icarus.
“This is sick,” I murmur, forcing my gaze away. “This should be LaRoux’s greatest shame. Fifty thousand people, dead. Does he think if he puts it out in front of everyone, like he has a right to show it off, they’ll just accept that it wasn’t his fault?”
“It was the biggest headline in decades,” Sofia replies softly. “For these people, the only thing worse than dying on that ship was missing it. This lets them pretend they were there.”
“Without the inconvenience of dying,” I mutter. “LaRoux deserves to have his plans exposed to the galaxy.”
She looks away as the musicians shift to a waltz, the music growing a little louder, and couples start to spill onto the dance floor. “He deserves justice.” There’s steel in her tone that sends a shiver up my spine—that makes me wonder for a moment what the word means to her—though her smile’s as soft and pleasant as ever. Both dimples—not the real one. Maybe I’ll never see her real smile again.
The folks around us are starting to migrate toward the dance floor to join the waltz, and soon we’ll be left standing on our own. Before I have a chance to ask her what that justice she’s chasing might look like, she’s tugging me after them and into the thick of it. No better place to hide.
Moments later I’ve got my arms around her like I did just the day before yesterday—a lifetime ago. It’s exactly the same, and nothing like, our Butterfly Waltz. I’m still transfixed by her face, aching to lean in and kiss her, feeling her touch like electricity. And it’s a world away, because though I’m gazing at her, she’s looking away, tracking the ebb and flow of the crowd, watching the exits, soaking in every detail. For her, this is duty. She’s counting down the moments until our work is done and I’m gone forever.
“The speeches should start in about ten minutes,” she says, finally turning her face toward me so she can speak in my ear, if I bow my head. “That’s why I wanted to be on the last shuttle. Less time to blow my cover. You see the guys at the edges of the room?”
I spin her around so I can take a look, letting my gaze run along the folks who aren’t dancing, men and women ranged around the room at regular intervals. They’re watching the crowd just as Sofia is, and like the view has suddenly come into focus, I see them for what they are: LaRoux’s security detail. “Got them,” I breathe. “Let’s hope one of them doesn’t decide to go for a stroll during the speeches.”
“They won’t,” she says confidently.
“Give me machines any day. Throw people into the mix and all bets are off.”
“Not really,” she replies, as we turn past another couple, the music swelling. “People are predictable. It’s when you think they might not be—that’s when you get in trouble.”
And that’s enough to shut me up. I spend the next few minutes practicing and discarding apologies, searching for the words that will convince her to look me in the eye without that wariness that lives in her gaze now. Trying to ignore the ache that wants to close up my throat and render me completely silent. And while I do all that, I follow her whispered instructions, guiding us through the crowd, trying to hide the way her breath on my skin sends a spark straight down my spine.
She guides us across to a pillar beside the exhibit entrance, where we can pause a moment out of sight of the security team. We’re still visible from some angles, though, and without hesitation she leans back against it, twining her arms up around my neck to tug my head down so she can whisper in my ear. “LaRoux will be here in a moment,” she murmurs, and I make myself smile for anyone who’s watching.