Page 52 of Stalker

The photon scatter field hums to life, bending light around my body until I fade from view. Time to find out just how deep my father's crimes really go.

The guard's keycard beeps, and I slip through behind him before the door whooshes closed. My heart pounds, but the photon scatter field holds. He never notices me.

"East corridor clear," Vorpa's voice crackles in my ear. "Your father's in a meeting across the station. Office should be empty."

My boots whisper against the polished floor as I navigate the familiar halls. How many times did I visit Dad here as a little girl? The memory of sitting in his big chair, pretending to be important, turns sour in my throat.

The office door yields to my old access code. Still works - he never changed it. The room smells of leather and his favorite cigars.

"Starting search pattern alpha." I slide my hands along the walls, checking for seams. "Nothing yet behind the paintings."

"Check the desk. Most egomaniacs hide their secrets close."

The massive mahogany desk dominates the room. I trace my fingers underneath, finding only smooth wood. But when I push against the wall behind it...

"Got something." A panel clicks and swings inward. "Hidden door. Looks like it leads down."

"Careful, kid. No telling what's down there."

Bass-heavy music throbs up the narrow stairwell, along with the sound of glasses clinking and raucous laughter. The steps curve down into darkness, lit only by strips of purple neon along the walls.

"I'm going in."

"Maryse, wait for-"

I switch off the comm. The music grows louder with each step down. My stealth field flickers in the pulsing lights, but the party sounds should cover any noise I make.

Whatever's at the bottom of these stairs, I have to know the truth. Even if it destroys everything I thought I knew about my father.

The stairwell opens into a corridor that takes my breath away. Plush crimson carpeting muffles my footsteps. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across marble statues of ancient Greek goddesses. The air carries notes of jasmine and vanilla.

"This can't be right." I trace my fingers along the mahogany paneling. Nothing about this matches the utilitarian admin building above.

Music and laughter drift from an open doorway ahead. I edge closer, keeping to the shadows despite my stealth field.

The lounge sprawls before me, all leather and chrome and mood lighting. Father sits at the center of a curved booth, sharing drinks with Merchant Captain Ross and several other faces I recognize from station society pages.

"Another round!" Father raises his glass, and a Vakutan woman in a shimmering bodysuit gracefully refills it. She laughs at something he says, her golden scales catching the light.

My stomach unclenches slightly. The servers move freely among the guests, some pausing to dance or chat. A human woman perches on the arm of a merchant's chair, sipping her own cocktail as she runs fingers through his hair.

No chains. No guards. Just what looks like a very exclusive gentleman's club.

"Here's to another profitable quarter." Captain Ross clinks glasses with Father. The women raise their own drinks in response.

Could I have been wrong? These women seem happy enough. Well-paid entertainment staff at a private club isn't exactly a crime.

My collar pulses warm against my throat. What would Bruticus think of all this? He was so certain Father was guilty of something terrible at Rakura IV.

But maybe there's more to the story. Maybe we both jumped to conclusions without all the facts.

A crash from the far end of the lounge shatters my doubts. My breath catches as two massive Grolgath in ill-fitting tuxedos drag someone between them.

My heart stops. Red scales catch the light - Vorpa? No. This female is smaller, more delicate. The same golden eyes though, wide with fear and rage.

"Let me go!" Her voice carries the same gravelly undertones as her sister's.

The chains binding her arms behind her back force her shoulders at an unnatural angle. Another length of chain circles her throat, pulling tight with each struggled breath. No fancy dress or makeup for this one - just torn clothes and defiance.

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