Zora's Aurora 1 - Glory's Shadow
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 3
The morning came with a dim glow through Anastasia’s artificial skylights, light adjusted to mimic a late-summer dawn on Earth. Zora and Sophie stepped into the private hyperloop pod that would take them across the city to Verity Ravenna’s office.
Zora leaned against the transparent wall, watching the spires of Anastasia glide past above and below them like teeth on a clockwork gear. “So,” she said, with mock solemnity, “our three stooges have been officially bewitched by the dazzling Lady Starlight. I give it a week before Finn writes her a love song. Badly.”
Sophie smirked, though her expression quickly flattened back into something more cautious. “You noticed Brian too, though. He’s acting ... different. He’s never been thick as thieves with Brax and Finn. Not until Jennix showed up.”
“Please. He was practically drooling into his steak last night,” Zora said. “Honestly, I thought Delta was going to throw water on all three of them. Jennix might be beautiful, but she’s not Aphrodite incarnate. Unless, you know, I missed the part where her hair turned into golden rays of light.”
Sophie shook her head but smiled despite herself. “Zora...”
“What? I’m just saying—if she tries to come between us and the case, I’ll find a way to have her exiled to the far side of Venus. Nice views, no boys to ogle.”
Sophie chuckled once, then her expression shifted to something more thoughtful. “Speaking of cases. Nathan didn’t tell us much about Verity, remember? Just that she’s good. No background, no context. Which is strange for him.”
Zora tilted her head. “Mystery woman. Alright then. Let’s see if she lives up to the brooding reputation.”
Verity Ravenna’s office turned out to be unassuming: a low, one-story structure of pale alloy walls, with bilingual inscriptions etched in careful lettering: Dark Matter Insights – Anastasia Branch. The building sat between two taller complexes, as though it had been wedged there and forgotten by time.
Inside, the reception was spare, almost austere. No soft couches or glossy displays, just a desk, a data wall, and the faint scent of recycled air.
Verity herself stood waiting when they entered. Tall, striking, with skin like warm caramel and long black hair that shaded into a deliberate, defiant purple at the ends. She greeted them with a firm handshake, her expression carrying both welcome and a steady current of conviction.
“Zora, Sophie. Nathan spoke well of you,” Verity said. Her voice was calm, even measured. “Come in.”
They did, slipping into the practiced composure they always used when stepping into a case. Serious faces. Sharp eyes. Few wasted words.
Verity got right to the point. She pulled up a holo of Glory Antonova on the desk display—smiling, luminous, frozen in amber light—and then switched to an image of a glass rimmed in residue.
“She was poisoned,” Verity said. “Cyanide. Delivered in a glass of fruit juice during a private gathering in her suite. She collapsed within seconds.”
Zora and Sophie exchanged a glance, their game faces holding steady.
“And what do you know,” Verity asked, her gaze narrowing, “about Dmitri Bondalenko?”
The name hung in the air. Zora tilted her head, careful. “The stage name is Dick Apocalypse, right? He’s been in films with Glory.”
Verity’s mouth curved faintly, but the expression was unreadable. “That’s correct. Their careers are tied together. And where one star rises, envy follows. Dmitri was there the night she died.”
Sophie asked, “Is he your primary suspect?”
Verity nodded once. “For now. But he’s not exactly cooperative. He’s evasive, erratic. There are ... holes in his story.”
Something in her tone, clipped and assured, made Sophie’s brows lift ever so slightly. She leaned forward a fraction. “Or maybe he’s just not talking to you.”
Verity’s eyes flashed at her, sharp. “Or maybe you’ll find he’s exactly what he seems.”
The air shifted for just a moment, taut and electric. Zora picked up on it immediately, her lips twitching with the beginnings of a grin.
“Ladies,” Zora drawled, “are we fighting over Dick Apocalypse already? Because if so, I’d like a ringside seat.”
Both Sophie and Verity ignored her, but the faint flush in Sophie’s cheeks was enough to amuse Zora all the way out the door.
On the ride back, in another clear-walled pod, Zora and Sophie sat in near silence at first, watching the city ripple past them in its bizarre, inverted symmetry. Towers and bridges seemed to rise both up and down from a central ring, a place where gravity was less a rule than a suggestion.
Finally, Zora said, “Well. She’s charming.”
Sophie shot her a look.
“Alright, maybe not charming,” Zora corrected, with a half-smile. “Conviction, though? She’s got it in spades. She probably argues with mirrors.”
Sophie didn’t smile. She rested her chin in her hand. “She didn’t tell us everything. I could feel it. She was holding something back.”
“Which part?”
“All of it, maybe. Or just enough to keep us guessing. Either way—she’s not letting us in yet. And if she already sees Dmitri as guilty...” Sophie trailed off, eyes narrowing slightly as she thought. “We need to tread carefully.”
Zora leaned back against the glass, folding her arms. “Careful’s boring.”
“But necessary,” Sophie said. Her tone was firmer than usual, and Zora didn’t miss it.
Their pod streaked on in silence, the city flashing around them like a dream—beautiful, precarious, and utterly foreign.
The conference room had been stripped of its corporate blandness for the afternoon, the folding tables pushed against the walls and the carpeted floor scattered with cables, amps, and instrument cases. Soundproofing fields hummed faintly in the corners, sealing the band in a bubble of quiet no passerby could hear through.
Sophie struck a ringing chord on her guitar, pleased with the way it resonated, while Finn adjusted his drum kit and Brax tuned his bass with quick, precise plucks. And of course, he spent an inordinate amount of time polishing it.
“It’s a good thing Anastasia keeps full Earth gravity,” Sophie remarked as she adjusted her mic stand. She sat nearby, notebook on her knee, jotting bits of sound-check notes. “If we were dealing with Mars gravity or—God forbid—Luna, the tonal quality of the guitars would be wrecked. Strings wouldn’t resonate right. You’d sound like a pack of cats falling down a staircase.”
“Better than Brax on a normal day,” Zora said, settling in with her keyboard.
“Hey!” Brax protested. “I heard that!”
They launched into two of their new originals, the walls absorbing the crash and wail of sound. Then, by consensus, they slipped into a few fresh covers they’d worked out during transit. The set held together—tight, energetic, and confident.
When they finally called a break, Finn wiped sweat from his brow and grinned. “Solid. Tomorrow night’s crowd won’t know what hit them.”
Brian, uncharacteristically animated, leaned toward Brax. “Speaking of crowds, Jennix wasn’t at the club last night.”
Zora, perched on her amp, arched a brow. “Jennix? You actually went looking?”
“Of course,” Brax said, with Finn nodding in agreement. “We tried three places. No luck. Tonight, we’ll widen the search. She’s gotta be somewhere in Anastasia.”
Sophie’s gaze flicked between them, sharp with disbelief. “You’re serious?”
Brian shrugged, but his grin had an oddly vacant edge. “Wouldn’t hurt to try again. This place isn’t that big.”
Zora gave Sophie a look over the top of her keyboard, one eyebrow raised as if to say See? Bewitched. Sophie only sighed and closed her notebook.
After rehearsal, as the others packed up, Delta gestured Zora and Sophie toward a quiet corner. She slid a glossy tabloid out of her tote, its headline a splash of Cyrillic and English:
“Dick Apocalypse – Porn King Turned Killer?”
The cover image showed Dmitri Bondalenko in a grainy still, eyes shadowed, mouth set in something between a pout and a sneer.
“Oh my God,” Zora squealed, clutching her stomach as she laughed. “Dick Apocalypse. I swear, that is never going to get old. Who chooses that name? Like ... was Dmitri drunk? High? Both?”
Delta folded her arms, unimpressed. “The media’s already crucifying him. Every feed in the city has picked this up.”
“Which means,” Zora chuckled, “this morning, all of the reporters are full of Dick.”
Sophie groaned and took the magazine, ignoring Zora’s giggles, and flipped through with quick, careful eyes. The article was lurid, speculative, full of unnamed sources and wild accusations. But here and there, details stood out: a timeline that didn’t align with what Verity had said, contradictory witness statements, casual claims presented as fact.
“See this?” Sophie tapped a line. “They say Dmitri left Glory’s suite before she collapsed. But Verity told us he was present when she drank the juice. Those don’t match.”
Delta leaned in. “So, which is it?”
Sophie kept scanning. “Either sloppy reporting or someone’s feeding the press deliberate misinformation.”
Zora, still laughing, said, “Honestly, if I were Dmitri, I’d confess to murder just to get a better name. ‘Dick Apocalypse’ doesn’t even sound threatening. More like a bad ska band.”
Sophie handed the tabloid back, lips pressed in a tight line. “Jokes aside, this frenzy is dangerous. Whoever actually killed Glory—if they’re watching—this kind of chaos is exactly what they want.”
Delta’s jaw tightened, her hand closing over the glossy paper. She, of course, had no stake in this case. But because of Zora and Sophie’s role in the investigation, she felt as if she did. Zora only leaned back on her amp, still grinning, but her eyes lingered on Sophie longer than usual.
The sleek van hummed almost silently as it glided along Anastasia’s thoroughfares. The city’s streets weren’t like Earth’s—broad and gleaming, edged with vertical gardens and inset lighting strips that pulsed faintly with the rhythm of the traffic grid. Delivery drones zipped overhead while other vans and shuttles floated past, their movements precise, orchestrated by the city’s guidance network.
Inside, the band lounged in soft seats that adjusted automatically to posture and weight. Zora, triumphant, held up a bag of bright silver packets. “MoonPuffs, ladies and gentlemen! Found them in a kiosk by the lobby. A taste of home.”
“You mean a taste of chemical waste,” Delta muttered, shaking her head.
Finn, hunched with his arms crossed, scowled. “At least she found her snack. You know what I found? Not one—not one—place selling meat gravel. This city is broken.”
“Anastasia is a pinnacle of human engineering and survival,” Sophie said dryly, “and your metric is meat gravel availability?”
“Damn right,” Finn replied.
Delta rolled her eyes so hard Zora burst out laughing, scattering MoonPuff crumbs across her lap.
Their destination rose ahead, a glowing tower of glassy black struts and curving panels that seemed to shimmer with its own light. The venue was called the Celestia Arena, and it lived up to its name—its entire roof a transparent dome that offered a breathtaking view of Venus below, the sulfur clouds rolling in endless waves. Holo-banners drifted across the façade, displaying the band’s name in English, Russian, and stylized neon glyphs.
Inside, the place was all cutting-edge luxury. Backstage halls were lined with silvered walls that doubled as screens, flashing orientation guides or sponsor messages. Automated loaders rolled cases of instruments toward the main stage. The arena floor itself was designed like a coliseum, a sweeping bowl of seats, with retractable holo-emitters suspended above to enhance the show with projected visuals.
As they unloaded their gear, a new voice carried over the bustle.
“Evenin’, everyone. Nigel Thackeray.”
He was tall, lean, dressed in a plain work shirt and utility trousers, but carried himself with the brisk confidence of someone who knew his way around live shows. His accent marked him instantly—London, though softened with time abroad.
“Joined the crew in Denver. Got delayed, but I’m here now.” He smiled warmly, his gaze settling—perhaps a little too naturally—on Sophie. “And you must be Sophie. I’ve heard about the genius behind the genius.”
Sophie blinked, caught off guard, then managed a small, polite smile. “Ah. That would be an exaggeration.”
“Doubt it,” Nigel said, with a lilt that hovered just shy of flirtation. “I’ll be making sure everything runs smooth for you tonight. If you need anything—anything at all—you just say.”
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