31. Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-One
“Listen up carefully,” Tobago instructed us a few days later as we neared the port on SuperVegas. “Everyone has an important part to play on this one . . .”
As always, a few crew members would be remaining on the ship as watchmen to monitor any law enforcement communications, keep an eye out for trouble, provide a quick getaway if needed, and make sure no one raided us while we were out raiding.
I was relieved to learn I would be part of this group, though I oughtn’t to have been surprised.
With my face all over an intergalactic wanted poster, it was safest to keep me out of sight.
The target this time? Toilet paper.
I know—I had a similar reaction when I first heard it.
How utterly thrilling! I thought TP was nothing more than a relic from Old Earth, since in the Havens we (naturally) use bidets.
There are always rumors that some of the more opulent settlements still offer bog roll in limited quantities as part of a luxury experience; apparently on SuperVegas, every hotel and casino bathroom has it.
Imagine the luxury! I admit, I’d love to see a roll with my own eyes, but to just find it in any public toilet on the street seemed like sheer, gaudy excess.
Then again, that was basically SuperVegas in a nutshell—sheer, gaudy excess.
From the buildings so high they touched the top of the settlement dome to the city lights that ran 24/7 to the showgirls who’d been genetically or surgically enhanced to have two pairs of breasts, everything on SuperVegas was designed to overstimulate.
Presumably, so people became more inclined to spend more money.
In addition to its opulence, SuperVegas was known for its galaxy-class security—all of those resources must be protected, after all.
Apparently, you can’t go into a casino without the security team immediately pinging your weight, blood type, identifier number, sexual preference, and favorite drink.
In addition to the specially trained security team with high-tech cameras and solar readers, rumor has it a highly advanced algorithm can predict a crime that will happen in the building before it's even been committed.
Trying to steal from such a place would be utter lunacy.
But Tobago’s on-planet contact had discovered a key loophole. The SuperVegas government focuses so much on guarding the banks and the vaults and the dozen high-end casinos that little attention is paid to one of the settlement’s most expensive luxury items: loo roll.
“Job is pretty simple, all things considered.” Tobago waited a beat, keeping his face completely solemn, though the twinkle in his eyes gave him away half a second before he added, “We don’t want to flush this opportunity away.”
Groans and boos came from the peanut gallery. Someone—Burt, I think—tossed a dishrag at him.
Undeterred, Tobago continued, “We’ll need a wriggler. Zenny, that’s you.”
“It sure is,” one of the men called out, spurring on a chorus of raucous catcalls. Zenny rolled her eyes but seemed rather pleased by the teasing.
Because of the response, I assumed her role might be something provocative, but later she explained to me that she would be snuck into the factory inside a cart, left inside until after working hours, then would have to wriggle her way out and open a door to give the Black Fridays access.
“Who gets her inside the warehouse?” Val wanted to know.
“We’ll need a Lord and Lady So-and-So,” Tobago explained.
These two players, I found out soon after, would be “respectable” people who entered the building under the pretense of being rich and interested customers, providing enough of a distraction that the wriggler could be smuggled inside. “You up for posing as my wife, Val?”
“Mother, surely?” Val demurred.
“I think wife plays better,” Tobago told her with a wink. “Gives ’em something to gossip about.”
She nodded, conceding. “Whatever you say, darling.”
Laughing, Tobago moved on to Croydon. “When it’s time for Zenny to come out of hiding, we’ll need you out on the street to be a Brawler.
” AKA, someone who would pick a fight and distract any security outside the building so they wouldn’t pay too much attention to what was going on inside.
“Might need to get a little tenderized this time around.”
Croydon shrugged, unconcerned. “Not like this face is one to write home about anyway.”
“You think a Brawler is the best call?” Val asked. “Won’t that just bring unnecessary manpower closer to the warehouse?”
Tobago shook his head. “Not if Croydon keeps it scaled down. More drunk belligerence than full-on violence.”
Croydon pouted. “Aww.”
Val shook her head slowly, still clearly not liking it. “On another settlement, that might work. But in SuperVegas? They have more law enforcement than citizens. Lot of bored oafs sitting around, twiddling their thumbs and waiting for some action to happen. What if they get trigger-happy?”
Tobago nodded reluctantly. “Okay, so we do Lost Tourist instead.”
Again, Val shook her head. “In that part of town? Too suspicious.” She held his gaze a beat before adding, “We need to do Peep Show.”
Croydon sat up, looking all at once highly interested. “Yep. Yes. Yeah. Let’s do that!”
I had no idea what “Peep Show” was—and based off the hard set of Tobago’s jaw, I was afraid to ask. But after a moment, he nodded, conceding. “Okay, so . . . we only do Lord So-and-So, no Lady, and you’ll be outside with Croydon—”
Croydon rubbed his hands together with lascivious relish. “Yeah!”
But Val, once again, shook her head. “It doesn’t play with only Lord or Lady So-and-So on their own. You know it doesn’t. Two people together gives it legitimacy.”
“We can’t sub Zenny out,” Tobago countered. “She’s the only one small and flexible enough to be the Wriggler.
“You’re right. Zenny has to be the Wriggler.” The words hung in the air a moment before she nodded deliberately over at me. “But what about Mina for Peep Show?”
Silence. Then Croydon dramatically fist-pumped into the air.
Just like a Brawler, the whole point of Peep Show was to distract the guards.
Instead of getting into a fight, though, Croydon and I would be doing more salacious activities—or rather, simulating them convincingly enough to fool an audience.
In short, we would be distracting the guards by pretending to engage in sexual activities.
“There’s an alley about forty feet from the guard station,” Tobago informed us. “Street’s fairly deserted to foot traffic, and the angle should be just right for them to catch glimpses of you without realizing you’re putting on the show for them.”
“To the left or right?” Croydon wanted to know.
“Right,” Tobago said.
A beat, then Croydon pressed, “Right when you’re facing the guard station, or right when you’re inside the guard station?”
“When you’re facing the graveyard at midnight under a full moon.” At Croydon’s confused expression, Tobago gave him an exasperated look. “It’ll be the only alley across from the guard station. Don’t overthink it—that isn’t usually a problem of yours.”
At this, Croydon was forced to concede.
What Croydon and I would need to perform would be equivalent to a highly choreographed dance—one that, to anyone observing, would appear as though we were lost in the throes of passion, but would actually be quite exacting and precise in its timing.
First, Croydon and I would stand very closely and carefully angle our heads so that to anyone standing at a distance, it would appear as though we were kissing passionately.
Tobago and Val, observing us practice from the other side of the galley, confirmed that it looked realistic—our heads, at least. “You’ll have to touch a bit,” Val called out.
“Otherwise you look like two kids being dared to kiss for the first time but afraid of cooties.”
Croydon’s eyes gleamed. “I ain’t afraid of cooties.” He moved his hands toward me and began running them up and down my back as we continued to awkwardly angle our faces back and forth. “What if my hands slip and I accidentally grab your ass?” he murmured, winking.
“What if my leg slips and I accidentally knee your groin?” I returned sweetly.
He huffed but obediently stopped the downward trajectory of his hands and began moving them up my spine again.
The whole scenario was rather strange, but it didn’t feel too different from putting on a theatrical.
In fact, it reminded me of when I’d starred as Romeo2 in Romeo and Juliet back at the academy.
This time, of course, our audience wouldn’t know they were an audience, but that was all part of the fun, wasn’t it?
And it was, oddly, sort of fun. Despite all his bawdy bluster, Croydon was actually rather respectful when it came down to it.
He didn’t touch me anywhere I didn’t give him permission, and he kept his lewd jokes to a minimum.
Even when it was decided that the next step in the choreography would be that Croydon should lift me so I was straddling his torso, and there was a lot of back-and-forth with Val and Tobago about which angle looked most like we were dry humping, he kept his eyes on my eyes. Like a gentleman.
Until all at once, his gaze slid over my shoulder and caught on something behind me. “Oh, shit.”
Craning my neck back, I saw that Ursa had entered the galley and was pacing the back of the room like Menelaus stalking along the wall of Troy, waiting for his chance to fight Paris.3
I should probably explain. I had, of course, informed Ursa what role I would be playing in the heist, but it seemed he hadn’t fully understood me.
Though it had surprised me how readily he allowed Burt to lead him off to the cargo hold, I’d let myself believe Ursa wasn’t threatened by my staged proximity to another man and was fine with me doing Peep Show.