Chapter 18 Orion #3
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 painted murals 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 as billowy.
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, hot kudvelk, 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 a waistcoat, 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 employee dressed like a pirate or if he is a 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.
“Nah, but company’s looking for you, isn’t it, Xylothian?” he drawls, flashing me a wink and a glimpse of fangs.
The Fed? Who else would be paying close enough attention to recognize a Xylothian? Still, his overly rakish attitude gives me pause. I scrutinize him and lean in. “What do you mean?”
With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, he matches my posture leaning over the table.
“Let’s just say I’m not the only one here who’s interested in making your acquaintance, Ranger Asterth,” he says in a low voice. “Presumably you’re here because we have a mutual friend?”
“Perhaps,” I hedge. “Who’s your friend?”
“The loveliest little constellation in the sky,” he smirks. “That Velusian hybrid is a tough little bird to cage.”
My anger surges and I stand suddenly, knocking the plates and glasses off our small table. My mating instincts want me to rip this male’s throat out for speaking of Lyra in such a way, but my clumsy move has attracted the attention of several other patrons, including the woman who seated me.
“Easy, Ranger,” he says with a dark chuckle. “Let’s go somewhere a little more private and have a chat.”
Stifling a growl, I follow the pirate into a back room. After locking it and drawing the curtains that look out over the alleyway, he shoves my clothes into my arms and tugs off his stringy wig, shucking his costume as quickly as he can.
“I don’t have a lot of time,” he says, his drunken manner evaporating instantly. “And I’m guessing you don’t, either. I’m Agent Vega—Lyra’s contact. Why didn’t she come to meet me?”
Eyebrows arched almost to my hairline, I gape for a second before Agent Vega gestures to my clothes, wordlessly indicating he wants me to leave billowy behind and get dressed.
“She was taken,” I tell him, too unsettled to feel any relief that I’ve made contact with the Fed. “A Void Stalker named Kraxis is taking her back to Ooneryx. To Brill.”
Vega swears. “Did she get it? Back on Xylothia—did she get the idol?”
My resolve wavers momentarily. “Let’s say she did. If you had the idol, and could make the swap, how does that help her now? You know Brill’s going to kill her before you all get the proof you need to send in a team,” I say, tugging the shirt over my head and reaching for my uniform.
Vega grins, but there’s something unhinged in it. With a throb of pain, I realize the expression reminds me of Lyra.
“Well, we need the intel from the fake idol to do things by the books,” he says, putting on a pair of black cargo pants and a stretchy black turtleneck. Seeing the confusion on my face, he explains.
“The fake is fitted with creep-tech. As soon as it’s in proximity to Brill’s system, it’ll start feeding us all the data we could ever want to collapse his entire fucking network.
” He laces up a pair of black combat boots and straps on a chest harness with several small knives, but it’s inconspicuous enough that you wouldn’t notice them at first glance.
I’m a little mollified that this is the undercover agent I pictured rather than a drunken pirate from a themed café, but I’m still reluctant to trust him with the Solar Mother.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” I say, eyeing his knives and wishing I had weapons of my own.
“You’re right,” he replies. “Fortunately, I have a contingency plan for swapping the idols and getting Lyra out safely. Unfortunately, there’s a gang of Void Stalkers hunting you down and they’re about 5 klicks out, which means we’ve got to get moving.”
Vega pulls the curtains back and opens the window, preparing to jump down onto a stack of trash crates.
“Void Stalkers—here? Already?” I ask, tugging on my pack. “And what kind of a contingency plan are we talking about here?”
I’ve never regretted my decision to become a ranger before, but for the first time, there’s a part of me that wishes I’d become a Fed instead.
Then maybe I’d have the skills and knowledge necessary to rescue Lyra on my own, instead of being forced to trust someone who looks like he’s on the scary side of crazy.
Rather than answer me, Vega jumps out the window, landing with a wet thud on the crates one floor down in the alleyway. Sighing, I move to follow his lead.
I knew a future with Lyra was going to require a leap of faith, I just didn’t realize it would be so soon, and so literal.