I’m going to do it now like I’ve always belonged here.
Scarlett and Cat step up beside us, Scarlett outwardly serene, Cat scowling, and the four of us look out into the ballroom for the first time.
And it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen, or imagined.
Because it’s underwater.
We’re in a huge, round cavern of a room, and we automatically peel away to the right, following the curve of the wall as we get our bearings.
The walls themselves are made of glass, and as I study my reflection, I realize I’m looking at an aquarium that stretches back as far as I can see. It’s a bright, shimmering aquamarine at its base, darkening to a velvety blue, and then a deep violet as I tilt my head back to trace its path up.
I can’t see where it meets with the roof, an endless midnight dome blanketed with delicate lights that’s …
Oh, holy cake, the dome above us is the galaxy. Star clusters and nebulae dance slowly around its edges, moving gracefully along their predetermined paths, gliding around and through each other like old-fashioned dancers. Millions of years are sped up before my eyes in a cosmic ballet.
Cat’s mirrored boots and the silver beads on Scarlett’s dress sparkle in the endlessly shifting blue light, and Ty’s teeth gleam white when he grins. There must be a thousand people here, and I can’t see more than a few dozen humans.
I’m underwater, on a space station.
The room is a thumping kaleidoscope of bright colors, glittering beneath the lights. Every possible silhouette is represented in the living, breathing creature that the crowd’s become. The entire place is moving to music, a low, pounding bass that runs straight up my spine with a perfect thrill. I can hear talk and laughter over it, coming at us in waves as the crowd’s hands rise as one to mark the changing beat.
It’s like an underground club, like a very grown-up intergalactic fairyland with a dangerous undercurrent, every face and secret hidden behind a mask. And when I smile, I’m almost baring my teeth, the last of my uncertainty falling away. What I want is here. And somewhere out in the dark, I can feel it calling to me.
Mr. Bianchi …
Come out, come out, wherever you are. …
21
Finian
So it turns out Dariel’s really into fish. I did not see that coming.
“Look at that one!” He’s like a kid on his first outing to the Muthru Bazaar, his attention darting from one thing to another. I’m trying to guide my team through the overhead security lenses and a dizzying array of micro-cams attached to their very fetching selves, and he’s too busy staring at the aquarium ballroom to help.
“That’s not a fish,” I tell him. “That’s a rock. Are you sure we’re related?”
“Fish,” he says, triumphant, as the purplish, lichen-covered rock is startled by a cloud of garishly pink-and-yellow micro-squid. Its eyes snap open, it moves what I thought were shells but turn out to be fins, and scoots away in a cloud of sand.
“Fine, it was a fish,” I concede. “It’s gone now. So help me out.”
“Finian?” That’s our fearless leader, sounding a little confused about the sudden turn in conversation.
Crap, I forgot to mute my uni.
“Nothing, Goldenboy,” I say cheerfully. “I’m checking in on Zila and Kal, Dariel’s scanning the cameras looking for our host. Have you g—”
I glance at my cousin’s virtuascreen, and find it occupied by another damn fish. It’s a huge, oval-shaped thing, sort of looks like a kebar ball with six eyes slapped onto the front. They’re freaky eyes, though—forward facing. And the dome of its head is completely transparent, the blue water visible behind it.
“That’s its brain,” Dariel whispers, entranced, pointing at a blob of white inside the thing’s see-through head.
“Jealous that it has one?” I snap. “Keep yours on the job, yeah?”
He huffs as I switch my screen to Zila’s cam, trying not to reflect on the fact that I sound like my least favorite mother right now.
I’ve got Kal and Zila on a separate comms channel. Goldenboy’s listening in to make sure he’s across both sides of the action tonight.
There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere.
The pair have made good progress, and they’re almost at their entry point, marching down a crowded public corridor and looking only marginally suspicious in their brightly colored and definitely stolen uniforms. Kal has his hands full of flat insulated boxes, marked Uncle Enzo’s—30 minutes or less. Zila’s wearing a pair of earrings with tiny pizza slices dangling