Stargrave's Guide to Galactic Blunders

Chapter 7: The Poison and the Prom

"I told you," Orion grinned, adjusting his collar with a flourish. "It’s the hair. It inspires confidence."

"Confidence is one thing, Orion. Glowing is another," Lyra said, her voice dropping into a register of genuine concern. She pulled back her sleeve, and the bridge went silent. The small red mark from the dart was gone, replaced by a web of pulsing, neon-blue veins that reached from her shoulder down to her elbow. "Is it supposed to look like I swallowed a star?"

"Vela! Theron! Get over here!" Orion yelled, his bravado vanishing instantly.

Vela slid out from under a console, a wrench still in her hand. She took one look at Lyra’s arm and whistled through her teeth. "Yikes. That’s not just a tracker, Cap. That’s a Hegemony 'Leash.' It’s a neuro-toxin combined with a localized EMP broadcast. It’s designed to keep prisoners compliant by, you know, slowly shutting down their nervous system while screaming their location to every patrol within ten sectors."

"Can you fix it?" Orion asked, his voice tight.

"I’m an engineer, Orion, not a miracle worker," Vela said, backing away. "I can try to dampen the signal with some tinfoil and a prayer, but that toxin is biological. It’s out of my league."

"It’s a Specter-class venom," Theron added, peering through his replaced spectacles. "Highly rare. Synthesized only by the Lunaris Syndicate. Within six hours, Lyra will be paralyzed. Within twelve, well... she’ll be a very beautiful, very still statue."

"Six hours?" Lyra’s breath hitched, but she straightened her shoulders. "Then we don't have time to stand around. Where do we find the antidote?"

"Amara Lunaris," Orion muttered, his face paling. "She’s hosting her centennial gala tonight on the Lumina Station. It’s a masked ball for the galaxy’s most dangerous ego-maniacs. She’s the only one who keeps the neutralizer on hand."

"Then we’re going to a party," Lyra said.

"We can’t just walk in there, Lyra! I’m blacklisted from half the Syndicate territories, and you’re currently a glowing beacon for the Hegemony!" Orion paced the small space of the bridge. "And even if we get in, Amara doesn't just give things away. She likes games. She likes theater."

"Then let’s give her a show," Cassian said from the pilot’s seat. "I can spoof the ship’s signature for a few hours, but you two need to look the part. And Lyra? You’re going to need to hide that arm."

The Star-Skipper’s cargo hold had been converted into a makeshift dressing room. Orion stood in front of a cracked mirror, struggling with a high-collared velvet jacket that smelled faintly of mothballs and engine grease.

"I look like a space-pirate’s funeral director," Orion groaned, tugging at the stiff fabric.

"It’s better than the orange jumpsuit," Lyra’s voice came from behind a curtain. She stepped out, and Orion’s complaints died in his throat.

She was wearing a long, flowing gown of deep emerald silk, with a high lace collar that covered the glowing veins on her neck. Her silver hair was pinned back, and despite the paleness of her skin, she looked every bit the corporate royalty she was. She was also wearing a pair of heavy, reinforced combat boots under the silk.

"The boots stay," she said firmly, noticing his gaze. "I’m not dying in heels."

"Fair enough," Orion cleared his throat, feeling a sudden heat in his cheeks. "Okay, so, quick problem. At Amara’s galas, the 'Entry Tax' is a dance. If you can't navigate the floor, the guards assume you’re an interloper and vent you through the nearest airlock."

"I can dance, Orion," Lyra said, crossing her arms. "I attended the Academy’s winter formal three years in a row."

"The Academy formal is a bunch of people standing in a circle talking about interest rates," Orion said, stepping toward her. "Amara’s ball is the Vortex Waltz. It’s fast, it’s aggressive, and it involves a lot of spinning. Here, give me your hand."

"Is this really necessary?"

"Do you want to be vented? Hand. Now."

Lyra sighed and placed her hand in his. Her skin was cold, the blue glow faintly visible through the lace of her sleeve. Orion took her waist, his hand resting where it had been during the goat incident, but this time, the air felt different.

"Okay," Orion whispered. "Follow my lead. It’s three steps forward, a pivot, and then a dip. Don't think about the math. Just feel the ship’s vibration."

"The ship’s vibration is currently 'impending explosion,' Orion."

"Exactly! Use that energy!"

He pulled her into a turn. Lyra stumbled, her boots clunking against the metal deck.

"Ouch! Watch the toes, Stargrave!"

"You’re too stiff, Lyra! You’re leading with your brain. Lead with your feet! Like you’re dodging a pirate’s disruptor bolt."

"That is the least romantic analogy I’ve ever heard."

"It’s not about romance, it’s about survival! Again!"

They moved together in the dim light of the hold, the sound of their breathing rhythmic against the hum of the engines. For a moment, Lyra’s movements softened. She leaned into him, her head resting near his shoulder as they spun.

"You’re actually not terrible at this," she murmured.

"I have hidden depths, Lyra. I told you."

"Most of them are shallow, but this one... this one might be okay."

Suddenly, Lyra gasped, her grip on his arm tightening. She stumbled, her knees buckling. Orion caught her, holding her tight against his chest.

"Lyra? Hey, stay with me."

"It’s... it’s the toxin," she panted, her eyes flickering. "My legs are getting heavy."

"We’re almost there," Orion said, his voice dropping all pretense of humor. He looked at her, his eyes burning with a protectiveness he hadn't known he possessed. "I’m going to get that antidote. I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Captain," Lyra whispered, trying to regain her footing. "Just get me to the table."

The Lumina Station was a cathedral of glass and gold, floating in the center of a purple nebula. Inside, the ballroom was filled with the elite of the underworld—masked figures in shimmering silks, sipping champagne that cost more than a small moon.

Orion adjusted his mask—a silver fox—and leaned into Lyra, who was draped against him, masquerading as a bored, aristocratic lover. In reality, she was using him as a human crutch.

"There she is," Orion whispered, nodding toward a woman sitting on a raised dais.

Amara Lunaris was draped in black pearls, her eyes sharp behind a mask made of real obsidian. Beside her sat a woman Orion recognized instantly: Mirelle Novastar, a rival captain who had tried to hijack the Star-Skipper twice in the last year.

"Orion Stargrave," Amara’s voice carried over the music, cold and melodious. "I wondered if you’d have the nerve to show your face after what you did to my brother’s yacht."

"It was an insurance claim, Amara! I did him a favor!" Orion shouted back, pulling Lyra toward the dais.

"And who is your charming companion?" Mirelle asked, leaning forward, her eyes narrowing. "She looks a bit... peaky. Is the 'visionary' finally boring his crew to death?"

"She’s fine, Mirelle. Just had a bit too much of your personality on the way in. It’s nauseating," Orion snapped. He turned to Amara. "We need the Specter-antidote. Name your price."

Amara laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "My price? I don't need credits, Orion. I need entertainment. Mirelle tells me you claim to have a 'superpower.' That you can see things others can’t."

"I do," Orion lied, standing as tall as his moth-eaten jacket allowed. "I have the Eye of the Nebula. I can see through steel, through lies, and through a deck of cards."

Mirelle smirked, pulling a deck of translucent, holographic cards from her belt. "Is that so? Then let’s play, Orion. High-stakes Nebula-Hold’em. If you win, you get the antidote. If you lose... I get your ship. And your 'First Officer' stays here as a permanent guest."

Lyra gripped Orion’s hand, her fingers trembling. "Orion, don't," she whispered.

"Trust me," Orion said, looking her in the eye. He turned back to the table. "Deal the cards, Mirelle."

The room went silent as the two captains sat. The holographic cards flickered in the air between them. Orion’s heart was hammering against his ribs, but he kept his face a mask of cool indifference.

"I’ll see your bet," Mirelle said, sliding a pile of glowing chips into the center. "And I’ll raise you the Star-Skipper’s engine core."

Orion didn't even look at his cards. He looked directly at Mirelle. He noticed the way her left eyebrow twitched when she looked at the 'King of Stars.' He noticed the way she adjusted her glove when she was bluffing.

"You’ve got a pair of Jacks and a whole lot of hope, Mirelle," Orion said, his voice dripping with false confidence. "But I don't need to see my cards. I can see yours. The heat signature on the ink? It’s amateur hour."

"You’re lying," Mirelle hissed, though her hand shook.

"Am I? Check the third card from the left. It’s a 'Void-Ace,' isn't it? I can see the blue-shift of the light passing through the fiber."

Mirelle looked down at her cards. She hesitated. She looked at Amara, then back at Orion’s smug, unwavering grin.

"I... I fold," Mirelle growled, slamming her cards onto the table.

Orion didn't move. He reached out, gathered the chips, and looked at Amara. "The antidote. Now."

Amara smiled, reaching into a small velvet pouch at her waist. She tossed a small, glowing green vial to Orion. "Impressive, Captain. Though I must tell you... those cards aren't printed with ink. They’re light-projections. There is no heat signature."

Orion caught the vial and didn't blink. "I know. But Mirelle didn't."

He turned instantly, uncorking the vial and pressing it to Lyra’s lips. She drank it in one gulp, her body shuddering as the neon-blue veins began to fade. The color returned to her cheeks, and she let out a long, shuddering breath.

"You... you cheated," Lyra whispered, leaning against him.

"I didn't cheat. I used 'visionary' tactics," Orion grinned. "Can you walk?"

"I can run," she said, her voice regaining its edge.

"Good. Because we should probably leave before Mirelle figures out how holograms work."

"Not so fast, Orion," Amara called out, her voice stopping them at the edge of the dais. She held up the glowing crystal they had stolen from the Aegis Reach. "You forgot something."

"Keep it," Orion said, waving a hand. "We’ve got the data."

"Do you?" Amara’s eyes flashed with a dangerous light. "You think this is just a data-drive, don't you? You think your father was looking for a power source."

"Wasn't he?"

"Orion, this crystal isn't a battery," Amara said, her voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a cold wind. "It’s a key. A physical, biometric key to the Tartarus Gate."

Lyra went still. "The planetary prison? The one where the Hegemony keeps the political dissidents they want the world to forget?"

"Not just the dissidents," Amara said, a cruel smile touching her lips. "It’s where they’re keeping your father, Orion. And now that you’ve activated the key... the guards know exactly where to find the person who’s coming to unlock the door."

Orion stared at the crystal, his world tilting on its axis.

"He’s alive?" Orion whispered.

"For now," Amara said. "But the Reach is moving him to a 'permanent' facility in an hour. If you want to see him again, you’re going to have to do more than dance."

Orion looked at Lyra. She looked back at him, her hand going to the pulse-pistol hidden under her emerald silk.

"Well, Captain?" she asked.

Orion straightened his moth-eaten jacket and cracked his knuckles. "Cassian! Get the engines hot! We’re going to jail!"

"I really hate your plans, Orion!" Cassian’s voice crackled through his earpiece.

"I know! That’s how you know they’re good!"