Zora's Aurora 1 - Glory's Shadow
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 2
One week later
It had been another successful gig for Zora’s Aurora. Now, Delta had somehow managed to round up all the band members before they scattered for parts unknown.
The first-class backstage private lounge still smelled faintly of sweat and stage fog, though the cushy couches and soft lighting were a far cry from the sticky clubs where the band had started. Delta leaned against the edge of the long glass table at the center of the room, arms crossed, surveying her so-called team.
“Getting all of you in one place,” she said dryly, “is like herding cats. Musical cats. Loud cats. Cats with ... egos.”
Zora immediately raised her hand. “I call dibs on being the sexy cat.”
“You’d be the cat that refuses to use the litter box,” Sophie muttered without looking up from her tablet.
Zora gasped with mock offense, then flopped dramatically onto the couch beside Brian, who gave her a sidelong glance but said nothing.
“Why do they even call it ‘first-class’,” she said with a mock pout, “if the snack bar doesn’t stock MoonPuffs? Do they want passengers to revolt?”
Sophie replied without even looking up. “Because civilized people don’t eat neon-pink processed starch pellets with the nutritional value of a shoelace.”
“Civilized people are boring. You’re boring, Soph.”
“And you’re going to get dehydrated from all that salt. Guess who’ll be carrying your limp body when you faint halfway to orbit? Not me.”
Zora just kicked her legs dramatically, as Brian cracked up.
On the other side of the room, Brax was polishing his bass like it was a newborn. He had a small cloth in hand and was methodically running it across the chrome hardware, then the neck, then back again, like a ritual. He hadn’t said a word since sitting down, and there was a fair chance he wouldn’t until Delta made him.
Finn, meanwhile, was hunched in the corner chair with a bag of something that looked like beef jerky’s unholy descendant. Every few seconds, a loud crunch echoed through the lounge, followed by a satisfied grunt. Zora had already dubbed it “meat gravel” after an unfortunate close-range view of the crumbs.
Delta ran her hands through her hair. “Okay. Focus. Nathan and I finalized the itinerary for Venera. I need to run it by you before we confirm travel with their officials.”
“Will there be MoonPuffs?” Zora asked immediately.
“No,” Delta said flatly.
“Then I veto the trip.”
“You don’t get a veto.”
“I do if I stage a dramatic fainting episode at the docking bay. It’ll go viral. Hashtag justiceformoonpuffs.”
Sophie finally looked up, exasperated but not entirely able to hide her smile. “Can you please act like a professional for five minutes?”
“I am acting like a professional,” Zora said brightly. “Professionally annoying.”
Brian commented, “She’s not wrong.”
“Oooooh,” said Sophie. “That’s telling her, Bri.”
Delta giggled despite herself. She tried to mask it, but Zora caught it and grinned, emboldened. Nonetheless, Delta forged ahead anyway. “We’re doing three shows in Venera. We’ll be staying in Venera Prime, at the Stratosphere Suites in Anastasia. It’s near the performance hall, central, secure. We’ll have private transport between the venue and the hotel.”
“Private transport?” Zora perked up. “Like ... hover-limos? Or do we get jetpacks? I’ve always wanted a jetpack.”
“No jetpacks.”
“Delta. Don’t crush my dreams.”
“You don’t want a jetpack,” Finn said between mouthfuls of meat gravel. “Trust me. Burns your ass hair right off.” He crunched another handful and leaned back, crumbs tumbling down his shirt.
Brax finally spoke, still polishing without looking up. “What time’s lobby call?”
“Five a.m.,” Delta said.
“Fine,” Brax murmured, and went back to his cloth.
“That’s barbaric, ” Zora said. “I refuse to be conscious at five a.m. My creative spirit doesn’t even wake up until noon.”
“Your creative spirit is a diva,” Sophie said, deadpan.
“Damn right it is.”
Delta let the bickering play out, amused in spite of her better judgment. She’d known from the start this group would never be orderly — they were too mismatched, too headstrong, too bizarre. But somehow, against the odds, it worked.
And she loved them anyway.
“Alright,” she said firmly, pulling them back. “The point is: we leave in three days. You’ll all have the schedule tonight. Pack light, don’t forget your instruments, and for the love of all that’s holy, don’t embarrass me in customs.”
Zora raised her hand again. “Define embarrass.”
Delta gave her a long look.
“Okay, okay,” she relented, sinking back into the couch with a smirk. “No striptease on the luggage scanner. Got it.”
Brian made a show out of rubbing his face with both hands. Sophie muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. Finn belched loudly. Brax’s bass gleamed under the lounge lights.
And Delta, against all reason, found herself smiling. Somehow, they’d get through this trip.
Probably.
The lounge’s wall screen suddenly blinked to life with a muted news feed. A scrolling headline caught Zora’s eye ... UNREST IN VENERA: Heightened Tensions Following Antonova Murder Scandal.
The anchor’s voice was low and serious, but Delta waved it off, more focused on wrangling departure times. Finn didn’t notice at all, too busy licking powdered seasoning off his fingers. Brax bent over his bass again. Brian leaned back, eyes closed, already halfway to sleep. But Zora and Sophie exchanged a quick glance across the room — a hint of something sharp under the surface banter. Neither said a word.
Delta’s office was a fortress of order. Stacks of tour contracts, neatly labeled case files, and a single dying plant in the corner — the only thing Delta ever seemed unable to manage. She sat behind her desk, posture crisp, but her sharp eyes tracked the two women sprawled across the armchairs like cats in a sunbeam.
Zora was drumming her fingers against the armrest, restless, eyes bright with mischief. Sophie was her counterweight, composed, legs crossed, tablet perched on her knee like a shield.
“So,” Delta began carefully, “this Antonova case. I know you two are ... involved.”
Zora immediately threw up her hands in mock innocence. “Involved? Me? Never. I’m just a humble singer with a pure heart and a loud voice.”
Delta arched a brow. “And an inability to keep her mouth shut.”
“Guilty.” Zora grinned, then suddenly sat upright and began to belt.
“Glory, Glory Antonova!” she sang, stretching the name into an overblown, operatic refrain. “Her scandals marching on!”
Delta blinked. Sophie blinked.
“What the hell was that?” Sophie asked flatly. “Are you trying to write a song based on this murder we’re investigating?”
“It’s a classic!” Zora said, incredulous. “Battle Hymn of the Republic? US Civil War? History? Anyone?”
Blank stares.
Zora groaned. “You uncultured heathens. Don’t you people know anything about Earth’s greatest hits that aren’t on Top 40 rotation?”
Delta exchanged a look with Sophie, and for once, they shared the same baffled expression.
“You make things up sometimes, don’t you?” Sophie said.
“Never! Well, sometimes. But not this time!”
“You know, it’s not nice to poke fun at the deceased,” pointed out Delta.
“Who’s poking fun at her?” giggled Zora. “Not me. I’m a singer, and if I find something to sing about, then I’m singing. Oh, and by the way. Why did they ask all of us to get blood tests yesterday?”
“I’m not sure,” Delta shrugged. “Probably some immigration thing that Venera requires. That’s outside my area of expertise.”
For a moment, though, the fun subsided. Delta leaned forward, hands clasped. “Seriously. I don’t need the details, but—be careful. Venera is a powder keg right now. And...” She hesitated, her usual control slipping just a fraction. “I’m worried about Brian.”
The air softened. Even Zora stopped fidgeting.
“He still laughs at all of our jokes, but ... it’s obvious that he’s carrying too much,” Sophie said quietly.
“Always has,” Zora murmured. She tapped the armrest in a gentler rhythm now. “But at least the kids are coming with him. That’ll help.”
Delta nodded. “They’ll keep him grounded. And maybe remind him there’s more to life than...” She trailed off, but they all knew what she meant ... more than loss, more than shadows.
The silence stretched a bit longer than comfortable — then shattered as the door burst open.
“Behold!” Lawrence Prospero Remington the Third swept into the room in a blazer so blindingly silver it nearly shorted out the overhead lights. “Your star has arrived to grace you with his presence!”
Zora clutched her chest. “Oh, thank God! I was starting to miss the sound of my own voice.”
Lawrence struck a dramatic pose, chin lifted. “Do not mock what you cannot comprehend. I bring glad tidings — income statements and balance sheets! I am the future of performance incarnate.” He’d really gone overboard with the faux-Shakespeare schtick.
“You’re the future of disco balls.”
Delta buried her face in her hands. Sophie covered her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Zora leaned back, absolutely delighted, watching the absurdity unfold like a private show staged just for her.
The spaceport was a humming cathedral of glass and steel, its arched windows giving a dizzying view of the great launch gantries. Dozens of passengers milled about in neat queues, luggage floating on little hover trolleys. A faint smell of ozone clung to the air — the scent of engines being coaxed awake.
Delta kept a mental checklist scrolling in her head as she shepherded her people through security: instruments tagged, luggage loaded, IDs scanned. It was like wrangling a circus act disguised as a band.
Zora stretched dramatically as they entered the boarding concourse. “Two days in a tin can, accelerating nonstop at a full G? At least I’ll keep my girlish figure.”
“It’s the same as standing on Earth,” Sophie said, adjusting her jacket. “That’s the point.”
Zora wiggled her eyebrows. “I know. I just wanted to say ‘accelerating nonstop at a full G.’ It makes me sound like a pilot.”
“You sound like a tourist,” Sophie replied.
Delta gave them both a sidelong glance but said nothing. She knew the nerves were hiding under their banter — she felt them too. The headlines about unrest in Venera had been hard to ignore.
A steward in a sleek gray uniform guided them into the boarding tunnel. “Welcome aboard the Charon Express, ” he said smoothly. “Please make yourselves comfortable. You won’t feel the flip, thanks to inertial dampening.”
“Flip?” Zora asked, eyes wide.
“The skew-flip,” the steward explained cheerfully. “At the midpoint we turn the ship around to decelerate toward orbit. Perfectly safe, perfectly smooth.”
“See? Tin can acrobatics,” Zora muttered to Sophie as they walked. “That’s how horror holos start.”
“Relax,” Sophie said. “You’ll sleep through it.”
“Unless I’m murdered in my sleep,” Zora whispered dramatically, which earned her a glare from Delta sharp enough to cut metal.
The ship itself was vast, a charter liner with wide lounges and enough passenger cabins to hold thirty or forty people. Most were business types in pressed suits, faces already glued to datapads. A scattering of families wrangled excited children. Against this backdrop, the band looked like exotic birds.
Finn immediately hunted down the onboard snack bar, triumphant when he discovered a fresh supply of his beloved meat gravel. Brax disappeared with his bass case before anyone could stop him. Brian followed his kids down the corridor, their laughter echoing faintly. For the first time in a while, his face had softened.
Delta exhaled slowly as she sank into one of the lounge seats, finally letting herself feel the weight of it. Anastasia. That was their destination. A floating city strung like a jewel above Venus’ clouds — beautiful, precarious, and newly infamous. The Antonova case had suddenly etched its name across every newsfeed, and now they were flying straight into it.
Sophie slid into the seat beside her. “Nervous?”
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