I’ve never been so content to arrive at such a dismally opulent place as the Belt. It’s not all bad (Earth 57’s equatorial beach resorts are positively romantic) but it’s exactly the kind of overproduced, corruption-breeding mega star-city I joined the Artship Corps to get away from. We stood at the edge of Beltdome One, the biggest and most centrally located of the Belt’s congregation of atmosphere ports. I looked away from the proto-neon laser-array of advertisements and residential domes. We stood before the DAZZLE STAR PLAZA, a massive, gilded building, swathed in iridescent globe-light and gaudy get-quick-rich buzzwords. I got the feeling that it was a casino, but only in the way that a laundry-mat feels like a clothing store. We stood in the foyer now, having stepped through the glass wall of doors. Now, a pearly-robed assistant nodded politely and insisted that Mr. Rivallman was a busy, important, busy man whom we could not possibly see, and that furthermore, any business we had with him, Mr. Pearly-Robe could take care of on Mr. Rivallman’s behalf.

He was wrong, of course. We’d not come half-way across the milky-way to talk to some glorified intern about the fate of our lost and beloved Oren. There would be no more leaving things up to chance. We’d dropped Riggh off in Cataroc on the way to the Belt after he’d offered his ship—which we’d return after the mission—as collateral. For the success of our inquiry, it was essential that we arrive separately, Mary, Ava, and Vedod onboard the Arcton, with Sarge, Kal, and I aboard the Sojourner.

Kal, for all his volatile intensity, was keen on getting past Pearly-Robe, and not half bad at it. In the space of an afternoon, he crooned and connived his way past a small army of pearly and ivory-robed assistants, and assistants to the regional assistants. The ones that Kal couldn’t bypass, Sarge employed her own striking persuasion.

There definitely is a threat to Rivallman’s primary offshore assets, and no. Not the ones you know about, the other ones. Definitely the other ones. And so forth. I listened to Kal masterfully smother the fifth secretary in Belt rhetoric (we’d made it past the first foyer and now stood in a strangely officious space, catacombed in desks and service-windows. A bookie? A bank? Where were the vending machines filled with unexplained cash?) Nothing really made sense to me. I tried not to dwell on that, and instead appreciate how comfortably Kal maneuvered his way, socially and physically through Belt-space. I knew he had grown up out here, racing the Zeppelin Quad and competing in a variety of hairbrained thrill-junkie activities.

Sarge cleared her throat and I looked around. Kal didn’t break stride, but kept up the smooth barrage of Belt-style rhetoric. It involved a lot of insistence, repetition, and rhythmic intonation. It put me to sleep, if I’m honest, but it seemed to have a profound effect on the robed officiaries. Especially when Kal applied what he called “The Kicker”. This persuasive technique involved a barrage of suggestions. “It’d be a shame to see such a spiffy-looking fellow like you get fired over something as easy to handle as my urgent business,” followed immediately by asserting silent dominance.

“—You don’t want your boss thinking you’re an idiot, now, do you?” Kal pursed his lips, almost in pity, then he applied the Kicker and just stood there, looking menacingly concerned for roughly thirty seconds. The ivory-robed Belter swallowed and fidgeted in the silence, trying and failing to out-freeze Kal.

Sarge cleared her throat again. This time it was clear she wanted our attention. I looked up and followed her raised eyebrows and subtle head-tilt. The assistant followed her gesture as well, to the feet of a nearby watcher, clad all in dark and crimson robes. His face was long, thin, full of narrow gravitas and his green-crisp eyes glinting with clever undercurrents. Our original ivory-robed adversary let out a sharp yelp of surprise and terror, halfway between a full-out shriek and a coyote bark. He then promptly became, socially speaking, invisible.

“If you wanted to speak with me, you could have just asked,” the dark-robed Rivallman said in sultry, preacher tones. I blinked, trying to understand why he would say such an obtuse thing in such a suave and gliding voice. I wanted, in that moment, to be back on the ship. But the promise of progress, the glimpse of hope kept me focused. We would find Oren. Finally, we strode in that direction, and as much as I hated this place, it felt good to be doing something for once.

“A word with you, Mr. Rivallman?” Kal asked, tilting his head in the traditional quarter tilt.

“It depends,” Rivallman said slowly. “Come. Be my guest. You have earned an audience, if not answers. For I can see that you come here, not to tell me a story, but to ask me a question.”

I was impressed and concerned. I tried not to let either emotion show.

Kal repeated his gesture of respect. I was impressed with him as well. His fiery intensity seemed distant and cool now—his demeanor completely remolded for the greater purpose of our mission. I could respect that, but I tried not to let it show. Oren’s fate was at stake.

Rivallman led the way through a spacious entrance hall, past a dozen rugged, space-suited guards carrying katanas and crit-blasters. I wondered whether the space-suits were for show, or if the Beltdomes lost atmosphere regularly enough to warrant extra precautions.

“Have no fear, my entourage carries its own portasphere. You are safe with me.” He sent a wink toward me, as if he’d read my thoughts. Could he read my thoughts? I swallowed and clenched my fists tighter. This place, this man’s greasy vocal chords, made my skin crawl for some reason. It wasn’t dirty enough on the surface, especially considering all the grime and corruption underneath. A lot of money moved through the Belt at any given year and “legal” tradings didn’t explain nearly half of it. But they also offered the best interstellar protection contractors, so the Artship Corps threw ethics to the wayside and stayed off their back.

We entered a grand set of doors, finally, opened by two more suited guards, sporting automatics and nano-fabric armor. I expected a marvelous viewing balcony, wall-to-wall three-inch plexi-glass and an army of pearly-robed attendants ready at Rivallman’s beck and call.

Instead I was greeted with the smell of oil and the crisp stench of burning bantoc fuel. An army of mechanics and racing pilots scrambled across a wire-ridden, massive garage, completely ignoring the heavily armed entourage that had just entered.

Rivallman strode up to a particularly ancient looking, but clearly refurbished rally-ship—chariot style. All sleek lines and stupid speed, no safety, stability, or smarts.

“It’s all about the body,” he was explaining, thumping a thin book against his hand. Where had he gotten the book? No idea. He handed it to Kal, insisting that he read the parabolic text. “You take care of your body, your body takes care of your mind, and your mind returns the favor.”

I could see Kal’s eyes light up when he saw the racer. I tried to appear attentive and interested.

“I know where your brother is, Kal,” Rivallman said, his voice suddenly so low and casual that I almost missed it entirely.

Kal jolted out of his reverie. “You what?”

“I know the answer to your question. And my question is, what do you have to offer? I mean, surely you didn’t come all this way empty-handed, hoping for free advice.” His voice ran dangerously flat.

Kal looked up, met his eyes, calm and collected again—yet this time I could practically taste the brimstone burning just beneath the surface. “I’ll race for you,” he said, after a moment. I could hear the tension, the hate for Rivallman grinding his voice as he spoke. There was no forgetting that this narrow, shrewd man had deprived Kal his only brother. Not to mention that Kal and Oren had left the Belt in the first place, under no uncertain and gracious terms. Rivallman was a mean, sharp kingpin. He ruled Beltdome One, and by extension most of the belt, with an invisible but cold vice grip.

Sarge’s left hand twitched, ever so slightly. I could see it out of my periphery but I resisted the urge to glance at her face. I kept my eyes locked on Rivallman.

“Race for me. Hmm.” Just like the good old days, his eyes said. Rivallman grinned suddenly, straightening up and looking at me. “He’ll need a co-pilot, won’t he?”

I looked my mortality in the eyes and prepared to consider it forfeit.

“I’ll do it.”

The voice was not my own. I coughed, surprised and confused. Burning visions of myself consumed in fiery rally-ship folly, faded from my mind.

Sage stepped forward. “I’ve flown a few times.”

“Why, yes. Yes you have. Sage Quarin, isn’t it? Wouldn’t be the same Sage that flew the Zeppelin Quad Course under 4 hours?” He asked, but it wasn’t a question. Rivallman was a man who knew things—not as a living, or a career, but professionally, innately, intuitively, but most of all, correctly. He stepped closer to Sage, who held her ground admirably. He glanced down at her mech-arm. “We won’t have any slip-ups this time, will we?” He gave a sly grin. “Don’t disappoint me, honey.”

My skin tensed and crawled. I tried not to think of what would happen if he caught us, and felt the sudden urge to do something, but once again, I restrained myself and instead hoped, hoped that things were going well with the other crewmates. Had Ava, Mary and Vedod managed to slip away from the ship? Had they found what they were looking for? I let my mind wander in the daring thought.