“Fuckers,” a woman dressed as a tree muttered from behind thick leaves.
The orange-haired stage manager fluttered by, his hands flapping. “Ignore them as usual. They’re looking for escaped convicts. Nothing to do with us.” He clapped his hands sharply when no one responded. “The show must go on, people. Imperial pricks or not.”
The woman who’d cornered us shifted her gaze back to us, and my heart lodged in my throat. The stage manager might not have put two and two together, but the beautiful actress had. I had about five seconds to convince her we were not dangerous convicts and turning us in would be a huge mistake, but it turned out I didn’t need that long.
She met my eyes, her own hardening in an instant. As I braced myself for her to scream and reveal us, she gave me a single, brief nod.
“Come with me,” she said, her tone commanding and urgent, as she swept between us.
I didn’t hesitate to follow her. I doubt anyone ever defied a word she said.
She glided through the backstage area, leading us an entirely different route than the one we’d taken from the side door to the stage. Opening a door, she ushered us into a small room with a rack of dresses, a table, and a mirror. Her dressing room, I assumed.
As much as I appreciated her efforts, the compact space would not hide us very well if guards came looking. Even with just the three of us standing, it felt crowded.
Without a word, she pushed aside the clothing rack to reveal another door, this one flush with the wall and difficult to spot. There was no handle or knob, but she pressed her hands to it and dragged the panel to one side.
A gasp slipped from my lips as an entire room beyond the secret door was revealed. I stared at her, words failing me.
“Our theatre has run afoul of the authorities before,” she said, her words delicately laced with bitterness. “They don’t seem to like it when we perform works they consider rebellious. I’ve had to stash more than one playwright here. Not to mention the time I hid here after starring in a particularly provocative musical about revolution.”
“You don’t support the Empire?” Kolt asked.
The woman laughed. “Tell me how many artists you know who support censorship or rules dictating what’s suitable to create or perform?”
Kolt tilted his head. “I know no artists, but I know many who feel the same way about living under oppression.”
The actress studied him more carefully. “There are no theatres where you’re from?”
When he darted a questioning glance at me, she put her hands on her hips. “You don’t have to pretend for my benefit. I know you’re not from here, and unless I’m reading this entirely wrong, you’re who the Imperial assholes are searching for, although neither of you strike me as the convict type.”
I thought about whether to trust her. After all, she could be saying all the right things to get us to confide in her. But something told me she wasn’t being dishonest. She truly despised the Zagrath and the way they controlled her. The words she’d spoken about being censored had been honest.
“We aren’t convicts,” I said, the words rushing from me in a mixture of relief and brashness. “But you’re right that we’re being hunted by the Imperial guards. We escaped from their prison, but we weren’t there because we committed any crimes. We were there because we’re a threat.”
Her expression brightened. “A threat? To the Empire?”
“Have you heard of the Vandar?” Kolt asked.
She straightened, as if the word startled her. “The raiders who threaten peace in the galaxy?”
Kolt stifled a laugh. “That is what the Empire would like you to believe, but it is yet another of their lies.”
“It’s true,” I added, in case the actress was having second thoughts about helping us. “I heard all the same stories about the Vandar that you did, but it’s all Zagrath propaganda. My planet is on the outskirts of the galaxy, so we weren’t on the Empire’s radar until the Vandar crippled them. As they’ve rebuilt, the Empire has moved to farther flung planets where they hope no one will notice that they’re doing exactly what they did before—taking over planets, building outposts to control populations, and taxing places that never wanted to be ruled by them.”
The woman nodded. “That’s exactly what happened here. We’ve been a small, peaceful colony for millennia. We’re too far to be much notice to anyone but those trading for rare spices, but we had a thriving arts scene and a decent quality of life. Until the Zagrath arrived.”
“Let me guess,” I said, my voice darkening as I remembered the Imperial forces showing up on Lexxona. “They promised protection and lucrative trading agreements?”
She inclined her head to me as if acknowledging that what I’d said had been true for her planet too. “Once they had troops in place, they unseated our government and installed puppet leaders who would do whatever they requested. That’s when they started controlling what everyone said and what we could perform.”
“The Vandar are not the ones who threaten the peace,” Kolt growled. “We are the freedom fighters who liberate the galaxy.”
“And you’re a Vandar?”
Kolt removed his helmet and shook out his dark hair. “I am.”
Her pupils widened, and I was surprised she didn’t lick her lips. “Then I’m rethinking my opinions on the Vandar.”
