Nysus sighs. “Tratorelli, the sculptor? CitiFutura commissioned him to make two sculptures for theAuroraspecifically. Both of them based on the emblem for the ship.” He pauses. “It looks kind of like an angel in flight.”
His description rings a vague bell in my memory, maybe something I saw in the news stories at the time.
“You’ll find it everywhere, on the walls, in the flatware design,” Nysus continues, “but the sculptures are one of a kind. They’re a matched set.GraceandSpeed.”
That sounds exactly like what we need for our claim. “Great job, Ny,” I say.
“And Tratorelli died shortly afterward, which ups their value even more,” Nysus adds.
“Even better,” Voller says.
“So where are they?” I ask.
“Well,” Nysus says. “That’s the tricky part. Did you by any chance bring a saw?”
“No,” I say, drawing the word out. “I don’t think we even—” I stop. “Why?”
“The sculptures, they’re, uh, kind of attached to the main staircase. One at the top and one at the bottom. On these tall post things.”
The stairway base is angled away from us, but over the lowest curve of the stairway, I can just make out what might be the tips of angel wings, peeking out over the top. Tall is right.
Shit.
Voller laughs. Because he’s an asshole.
“Great,” I say. Cutting anything without gravity—never mind a saw—is almost impossible. No leverage, no weight.
“Plasma drill,” Kane speaks up, reminding me.
“Yeah, okay,” I say to him. “Let’s see what we can do, Voller.”
Voller and I make our way carefully into the atrium, gently pushing off and leapfrogging from furniture cluster to furniture cluster or planter.
The Tratorelli sculpture is exactly where Nysus said it would be and looks to be in good condition. It’s a delicate female figure, raised up onto her toes, her head and back arched backward, wings pulled back to a point, mid-flight. Fabric is loosely draped around her otherwise nude body, like an artfully arranged toga, though still revealing one breast. Because, of course.
Nysus lets out a breath and a shaky laugh. “She’s even more beautiful in person.”
I can’t argue with him. She,Grace and Speed—or perhaps one sculpture isGraceand the other isSpeed—is incredibly, almosteerily, lifelike. This close, I can see the curve of her high cheekbones, the individual tendrils of her hair blowing backward. But the arch of her back, the pull of her wings in the metaphorical air, looks painful and the details of her expression include a tight smile that seems more like a grimace and a tiny furrow in her otherwise smooth forehead.
If she must be one or the other, I’m guessing this one isSpeed.
The sculpture is attached to a wooden base at the top of the newel post. The tips of her wings reach probably three feet above my head. And my feet aren’t even on the floor.
I fumble for my screwdriver with my gloved hands. If I can find where they attached the base, the drill might not be necessary. I really don’t want to take the risk of damaging the sculpture in trying to remove it.
It takes me a minute to find the cleverly concealed screw holes and then another few minutes to chip away at the wood putty covering them. And it requires both hands, leaving me no way to hang on.
I push a little too hard at one point, and when the screwdriver slips, I start to slide past the post from the force of my effort.
With one hand on the newel post, Voller grabs the back loop on my suit to haul me back.
“Thanks.”
He grunts in acknowledgment.
“Everything okay?” Kane asks.
“Don’t worry, chief,” Voller says. “I’mfine.”
