the cogs turning. She’s so small. She’s ten meters away. How could she be dangerous?
“I have a question,” she says, in that solemn way she has.
The quartet look at one another blankly.
“In entertainment sims,” she continues, “I’ve often seen scenes in which groups of guards are accosted by a seemingly harmless infiltrator, while a larger, more dangerous infiltrator uses the distraction to incapacitate them. I was wondering if you thought this was realistic behavior for trained security personnel.”
The four blink at her, the way people often do around Zila Madran.
“Are you c—”
The guard doesn’t get any further before Kal drops from the air vent above and clocks him at the base of his skull. In a handful of seconds, he’s laid out the other three with barely a muffled shout. No disruptor required.
“I genuinely believed you would get shot there,” Zila muses.
Kal turns to look at her, eyebrows raised. “You said I had an eighty-seven point three percent chance of success.”
She tilts her head. “I did not want you to be nervous.”
“Okay, you two,” I say. “I gotta check on the A-Team. Grav-generators are just through those blast doors. Kal, hide the bodies. Zila, you’ve got my instructions.”
“Is she dating anyone right now?” Dariel whispers, eyes on Zila.
“I will cut your toes off,” I tell him. “One by one, and then you can watch as I feed them to your damned fish, if you don’t stop interrupting me.”
He holds his hands up in a whoa no problem what’s your deal gesture, and I grit my teeth, turning back to the cameras.
I’m scanning the jam-packed ballroom sector by sector, looking for the distinctive blue of Bianchi’s skin. But that stands out like a Betraskan in a snowstorm, which is to say not at all. He’s blue, and thanks to the light cast by the aquarium and the star-studded ceiling, so is every other thing in the room. Doesn’t help that every being at the party is wearing a damn mask over their faces.
I keep my search methodical, working through each grid square, until finally I find him. He’s got all four hands in the air, waving them in time to the bone-shaking beat, razor-sharp teeth bared in a wild grin. He’s surrounded by what I can only describe as a harem, a dozen beautiful young things of a dozen different species, male and female, both and neither, all clustered around him. They’re dancing along with him, turned toward him like maza flowers to the sun.
Beyond them is a ring of security personnel I’d safely describe as terrifying. They’re Chellerian like Bianchi—big and blue, with more teeth than head. Their muscles barely fit into the suits they’re wearing, and given the quality of Bianchi’s tailors, that’s probably a deliberate choice. They stand in the crowd around their boss, four eyes apiece watching the throng, suspicious bulges in their jackets.
“Okay, kids,” I tell my team. “Bianchi’s in the northwest corner. The amount of security he’s got around him, there’s only one way you’re getting close.”
“And that is?” Goldenboy asks.
“Dance like there’s ass in your pants.”
“On it,” Ty says without hesitation, grabbing Aurora’s hand and hauling her into the crowd. I can just make out her squeak over the low thud of the music.
Scarlett and Cat stay by the aquarium a moment longer. Scarlett’s studying the others who line the wall, but on her micro-cam I can pick up the nearest fish on the periphery, and now Dariel’s got me looking at the damn things, too.
Casseldon Bianchi really does have one of every species in the galaxy, as best I can tell. This fish is serpentine, two meters long, as fiery orange as Scarlett’s hair. The real party trick, though, is the pair of huge venom sacs on either side of its face, each one bigger than its head, giving it the appearance of wildly ballooning cheeks. Its white eyes bulge, as if it’s as surprised by this development as I am.
Cat, on the other hand, is staring straight at our Alpha and our stowaway, like she has been all night.
I don’t like where this kind of fixation leads. We already saw one outburst, and even after she slunk back to Dariel’s den smelling like Larassian semptar, there’s been an uneasiness about her.
“Uh, Zero,” I say. “Can you give me a sweep of the room?”
She obliges, turning in a two-hundred-and-seventy-degree arc, giving me a good look at the crowd. There’s nothing to be seen that I couldn’t pick up through the overhead cams, but