The Colossus Collection : A Space Opera Adventure (Books 1-7 + Bonus Material)

by Nicole Grotepas

  The others nodded.

  Holly touched her ear. “Charly, how’s the party?”

  Darius answered for her. “She’s busy, Drake. Looks like she’s engaging Mapsoom in conversation. I got you covered. But I do see someone—a very non-friendly-looking someone—heading your way. Call me crazy, but something about them suggests that they’re after you. They’re on an elevator. I’d say wrap that baby up and get the hell out! Better safe than sorry.”

  Holly glanced down at the shadowy, stirring body of the guard on the ground. She exchanged a look with Odeon and Shiro, and, without further conversation, the three of them took off.

  Odeon headed back to the balcony, while Shiro and Holly found an exit through the main entrance of Mapsoom’s home. They managed to reach the front entrance without bumping into another surprise, and once they were in the lighted hallway, the elevator floor indicator lit up as the carriage approached. Holly led the way to the elevator with Shiro right behind her.

  "What if someone's on it?" Shiro asked, watching the light above the doors.

  "Yes, the person coming this way that Darius saw," Holly agreed.

  "Someone is," Darius boomed. "Take the stairs."

  Over the comms, Odeon began announcing his progress. “Got the powered trolley on the cable. Heading out into the alley.”

  Holly almost preferred to be in the dark. Now she would simply worry about every move Odeon was making.

  Is this how Darius and Charly feel while the rest of us are out on a dangerous job? Torture.

  Shiro opened the door to the stairs and ushered Holly in.

  “Let’s go down a few flights, then take the elevator,” she said as she passed him.

  “My thoughts exactly,” he said.

  They hurried down the steps, hoping not to be seen. The problem was that their clothing was very obviously meant to conceal them. They looked like cat burglars.

  Holly voiced her concern, speaking in a hushed tone because of the echo in the concrete stair shaft.

  “Yes, shall we stop and change?”

  “Next landing,” she agreed. After being caught without spare clothing on a few gigs, the crew always packed some lightweight items with them for emergencies.

  At the next landing, they paused, removed their packs, and stripped out of their black clothes, which they stuffed back into their packs. Holly took off her shirt and tried to avoid staring as Shiro donned a white T-shirt.

  “Your eyes will burn a hole in my chest, Ms. Drake,” he said, standing there in his boxer briefs while poking his hands through the armholes and pulling his shirt down over his stomach.

  “I’m not used to seeing you in anything other than a suit,” Holly admitted. She pulled her own shirt on.

  “Get a room,” Darius said suddenly.

  Holly felt her cheeks burn. She yanked off her boots and pants and then pulled on her standard black street jeans.

  “I agree,” Shiro answered with a teasing smile, his eyes flashing.

  “Off the zipline. Leaving it here,” Odeon announced, giving them an update.

  Thank Ixion, a distraction! Aloud, she reasoned, “Mapsoom will already know she’s been robbed. We don’t have time to gather up all the evidence. I agree with you leaving it there.”

  Holly shrugged into her jacket just as Shiro also finished dressing and put his pack back on. “Let’s go,” he said, taking the stairs down two at a time.

  It wasn’t impossible to clear a spire entirely by taking the stairs, but it was tiring. At one point, they heard someone enter the stairwell above them, and they moved into the next hallway, alerting Darius to their need for an elevator.

  He had the lift car waiting for them in the central bay of elevators, which they found after they darted through the corridor that circled around the core of the spire.

  They got on, Holly punched the button for the bottom floor, and they relaxed, finally able to catch their breath. Holly collapsed against a wall opposite of Shiro.

  Shiro leaned against the nearest railing. “Why do you keep staring at me like that, Ms. Drake?”

  She flicked her eyes away, caught again.

  “Yeah, Drake, what’s going on?”

  “Jealous, are you, Darius?” Shiro asked, switching his attention.

  “I would love nothing more than to have a pretty woman stare at me, Shiro.” He laughed.

  “What, am I on trial?” Holly asked, crossing her arms. “You just don’t look like your usual self, that’s all.” She avoided his gaze, staring up at the glowing floor indicator. “Darius, could you program it to not stop at any other floors?”

  “Sure thing, Drake.”

  “The clothes make the man, Ms. Drake.”

  “And right now, you look ordinary,” she countered.

  “Indeed. That is never what one wants,” Shiro said.

  “You rarely blend in,” Holly pointed out.

  “Well, except when one is on a job and must blend in.”

  The carriage stopped, and they checked the lobby, which was full of Centaus and a few humans. No Constellations, however.

  They exited at a leisurely pace, blending in, laughing like they were heading out for a night of hedonism and excess. Holly leaned against Shiro as though they were a couple, and they walked together through the marble lobby to the glass entrance of the spire, and out into the cold, snowy night.

  11

  A small group of the Shadow’s Shadow—Holly still couldn’t help but laugh at their name—meandered through the slushy, zigzag streets of Analogue Alley. The group carried themselves with the air of a cluster of bullies. They feared nothing, and they wanted everyone to know it.

  Their attire didn’t fit in. In fact, the white of their jackets stood out like a black blister on the sun. They pointed and laughed at the regulars of the Alley who were dressed in the standard vintage costume.

  They had come here to mock and belittle, and they were doing a stand-up job.

  Holly scowled and narrowed her eyes. Anger bubbled up in her gut. The bustling crowd of the sidewalk jostled her as passersby parted around her and almost carried her with them.

  “Come, Ms. Drake,” Shiro said, pulling her by the upper arm with a gentle tug. “We must get this item off our hands before someone—like those prats across the way—manage to take it from us.” He pointed ever so slightly with his cane, and his gloved hand gripped her through her thick winter coat.

  The previous night when they’d left Menakil’s spire, she had been cold for too long without a better coat. The chill from traipsing through the streets of the Ice Jade district to the gondola hadn’t left her bones, even after a long, hot bath back at her condo.

  She let herself be pulled in Shiro’s direction, merging back into the moving stream of bodies. A festival was happening that day, so the Alley was busier than usual. She almost stopped in her tracks again as she spotted another knot of uniformed individuals—but these were Shadow Coalition members.

  “Well, imagine that,” Shiro said, letting go off her. “Perhaps, Ms. Drake, we’ll get lucky, and the two groups will have a rumble. A good, old-fashioned rumble. Maybe there’s a group of musicians nearby, just waiting to begin a song and dance. That’s a better way to rumble—a dance-off, eh? Wouldn’t you say?” He reached for her arm again.

  Before he could grab it and lead her, she shoved on, keeping her legs moving. “They’re the perfect batch of idiots for something like that. No, wait, come to think of it, a dance-off is too sophisticated for the likes of them.”

  Still, their presence was unnerving. Why were both groups in the alley at the same time? The urge to get out of the street and into the shop where the fence was located suddenly propelled her.

  She moved with agile feet, dodging around slower moving people.

  “Now you’re talking, Ms. Drake. That’s more like it.”

  The pack on her back weighed her down. She became hyper-aware of its contents, and felt certain that it stood out to everyone else. They would
not lose this prize like so many others they had lost. Could not.

  Soon enough, Shiro led them to the basement entrance of the shop where the fence was located.

  Holly couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been swallowed by a black vortex of peril. Everything felt threatening. She knew that seeing members of both enemy organizations made her feel out of control, and that helplessness settled over her like a dark cloud. It reminded her of being married to Graf. She could not live with a feeling like that again. Not after surviving as long as she had under his regime.

  She had to find a way out. It was time that she admitted this—she needed to make her own plans.

  Before she could delve into the idea that began to form within her, they were standing in the basement shop.

  Holly scanned the room. “It’s full of junk,” she muttered in a soft voice to Shiro.

  Most shops in the alley didn’t have a basement, since they’d been built as afterthoughts. This was an exception, the interior seemed to inhabit a garage of the spire above them. At least, that was Holly’s guess. Stacks of unopened boxes stamped with shipping labels took up the aisles, crowding the small space. She sniffed, catching a hint of wet fabric, as though the place had a drainage problem. That was probably a good reason to not create shops from basement garages.

  So far, they were still alone within the shop. There was a counter lined with odds and ends—worn throw pillows, lighting fixtures, what looked like the wooden arm of an armchair, packing materials, and a flat box that had yet to be fitted together. The place reminded her of Angelo’s Golden Age, though it wasn’t as intriguing, and since it had no Angelo, it was even less impressive.

  “One man’s junk, another man’s treasure, isn’t that the saying, lass?” Shiro asked. He tipped his bowler hat back as though to let more light reach his eyes.

  He wore a dressy, wool camel coat and a light blue suit beneath it. The bowler matched his overall look, but as Holly glanced at him and took in his outfit, she remembered the night before in the stairwell, and then afterwards. Stripped down like that . . .

  She smiled to herself, then immediately felt unfaithful to Iain. Shiro had been just another man for a moment. Not the affected actor that stood before her now.

  The soft overhead lighting caught his dark brown eyes. He smiled. “What is it?”

  “What’s what?”

  “That look.”

  “Who is it we’re meeting again?”

  “Change of subject. Suspicious.” He sighed. “We are meeting a human. She runs this shop, sometimes acts as a fence for the Centaus, who wish to not dirty their precious hands.”

  “They manicure them enough, I can see their concern.”

  He laughed. “They are very good at self-care.”

  She shrugged, looking for a place to sit down. “Thousands of years of advancement will do that to a race. We had an appointment?”

  “That we did. She’ll be here soon. Likely making sure the novas add up.”

  As though she’d been awaiting a stage cue, the fence appeared in a doorway to one of the backrooms. She paused, looked at them, then swanned in, her floral print robe fanning out behind her.

  “Hello! You’re on time,” she said, smiling. Her hair was a wild, brown mane of curls, accentuating her dramatic appearance.

  “What can we say? We believe in the power of the appointment.”

  “Amaya Santino,” the fence said, holding her hand out.

  Holly took the proffered hand and shook it awkwardly. “Holly Drake.”

  “Please, please, no names,” Amaya said, shaking both hands in a stop gesture. She touched her ears like she could prevent herself from hearing them.

  “You just—”

  “Well, yes, it’s too late now. That’s on me,” she nodded. A frown replaced her grin, as though she were considering the grave error. “Anyway,” her expression brightened as she looked up. “I’m used to appointments that are a bit less complicated. Welcome to my little corner of the universe.” Amaya glanced around the shop.

  Holly still hadn’t figured out what the woman’s specialty was, and there had been no name above the stairwell that led to the basement shop.

  “It’s . . . lovely,” she said.

  “I do adore your shop, Amaya,” Shiro said. Holly glanced at him, noting that his grin suggested he found everything that had just transpired amusing. “It’s quite perfect, isn’t it?” he asked Holly.

  “Yes, it’s the best, er, shop . . .” Her voice trailed off, like maybe one of them would fill in the blank.

  She cocked her head, waiting.

  “Interior design,” she finally revealed. “Isn’t it obvious? I outfit homes, bring out their natural beauty, arrange their bones into structures befitting their inherent beauty.” She tapped her temple. “I am an interpreter. I hear what they want to say, and I amplify that. A room is alive, and I am a room whisperer.”

  “Perfect. Yes.” Shiro gave a vigorous nod.

  Was the woman sincere? Holly looked around. She supposed that made sense, now that she knew what kind of shop they were in. There were lamps, rugs, and chairs arranged in some areas, but much of it was hidden by boxes.

  “Well, let’s get on with it. First, I’ll make sure the vase isn’t a forgery, then we’ll do the exchange. Shall we?” She turned.

  Holly and Shiro followed Amaya into a room off the main floor. There were couches and a low cocktail table, as well as accent lighting. The main floor had been haphazard and busy, full of clutter with just a few zones that seemed complete. This one however, illuminated Amaya’s skill with design. Holly’s body relaxed in response to the room.

  “Have a seat and get the vase out. I’ve been looking forward to seeing it,” Amaya said.

  Shiro helped Holly shrug out of the bag, and they placed it on the cocktail table. They unzipped it and removed the vase with careful motions.

  Amaya gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in awe. She moved to touch it, then drew her hands away and covered her mouth once more. She began to circle the table in slow movements, stepping sideways. The sleeves of her floral print robe fell down her arms and nestled in the crooks of her elbows.

  Holly exchanged a look with Shiro as Amaya’s response intensified.

  Once more, she gasped and shook her head, blinked slowly, and sighed. “It’s—it’s . . . ,” She shook her head again. “It’s more than I’d imagined. So much more. It’s exquisite.”

  Holly moved her gaze to the vase, cocking her head to the side as she studied it. What does Amaya see in this?

  The vase was perhaps twenty-eight inches tall. And while Holly would have expected it to be a wheel-thrown specimen of symmetry, it was bulbous and wide near the base, tapering into a thin neck at the top, and terminating at an uneven mouth that was lined with a deep burgundy glaze.

  Holly leaned forward to get a better look. The inside of the vase was fully glazed, while the exterior was the copper tone of the clay, perhaps unglazed. Something innocent about it made Holly think of a child who had discovered a vein of red clay in a faraway hill, and formed it into the unexpected object that stood before her.

  Upon first laying her eyes on it, Holly had considered it a bit off-putting. There was a sinuous nature to its vertical edges, something primitive and nearly repugnant. But as she considered the object more—studied it, and contemplated the meaning of it—she realized something important: it was layered and built from the ground up, one layer of clay at a time. The edges of each flattened layer were pressed together, constructed like bricks in a fence. It was meant to resemble a wheel-thrown pot, but had been built painstakingly by hand. It announced its nature. It spoke of its creation in a surprising way—meant to be one thing, but was, without mistake, another.

  “Do you know the story of this vase?” Amaya asked suddenly, her dark brown eyes flashing up to lock with Holly’s and then Shiro’s.

  “Somewhat, lass. It was made by an original Earth colonist. He came here and merged two s
tyles—a wheel-thrown style with a Yaso hand-building method. But that is all I know.”

  Amaya waltzed around the cocktail table, trailing her fingers along the body of the vase. Her eyes smoldered as she turned her attention back to it. “Yes, those are its origins. The creator, Vin, came from old Earth. It is said that he always believed and hoped that aliens would one day appear on Earth. Vin was one of the first to sign up when the Centaus announced their plans for the 6 Moons. He came to Kota, and studied the art forms of the other races. Vin was drawn to the Yaso style, which is very balanced between form and function, though it often leans almost entirely to form. A beautiful aesthetic that is meant to remind people of their place within the natural world.”

  She sighed, her gaze flicking to Holly and Shiro, then back to the vase. “It requires incredible patience to build a vase like this. One this tall, formed on a potter’s wheel, is a complex task that demands great strength. But building a vase this large by hand requires something even more immense—desire. Willpower. The attention to form, to the beauty. It is more than a vase. It is a sculpture.”

  Holly watched as Amaya caressed the vase and admired it with eyes that alternated between fiery heat and the cool looks of a lover, between inviting and then resisting the allure of the object of desire.

  “So, is it really for you?” Holly asked.

  Shiro shifted on his feet. He began unbuttoning his coat. Either the room was hot, or they were suffering the intensity of Amaya’s obvious lust for the vase.

  The woman sighed. “I wish.”

  “It’s a vase,” Holly pointed out.

  Amaya laughed. “My dear girl, that is insulting to art.”

  “Is it a forgery or not?”

  Amaya paused and lifted the vase, hefting it, her face reflective as she considered the weight. She motioned for Holly to help her hold it as she inspected the bottom of the vase. “It bears his signature, a clunky, blocky affair, and the weight is right, indicating that it is made of clay and not a replica cast.”

  I don’t care what that means. Holly clenched her jaw shut. She had no wish to continue another half hour of lecture by the woman. She sighed inwardly, her curiosity getting the better of her. “What does that mean?”