I can’t help but shake my head as we make our way up one of the ramps. My minor outburst is thankfully soon forgotten. As we regard more of the pieces, I realize they’re not all that expensive. Still stupidly so—the cheapest and smallest piece is still in the tens of millions of Credits—but not warship-level expensive.
Still out of my price range anyway.
As we walk along, Mikito and I do our best to blend in. Unsurprisingly, Mikito does better than I do. She’s a little more socially savvy than me. She knows how to blend in, become part of the crowd.
I’ve rarely had the chance to do so. Not in these kinds of circles at least. It’s a novel sensation, being relatively unknown. I actually don’t mind it. It’s a little reminder of my forgotten humanity, of a time when I was your basic geeky programmer. Infamy was never something I cared about, except as a tool.
There’s also something weird about wandering through an art gallery when you’re public enemy number one. Knowing that if you’re caught, chances are it’s the end of it all. Thankfully, nervousness from being an outlaw and nervousness at being in a social situation is all the same.
The artwork is varied. Mostly sculptures of one form or another, but in detail, it’s different. The artist is working in multiple dimensions, not just within simple sight, but sound, smell, Mana, time, and sometimes even pure chaos.
Something made of stone twists and turns, rising up in the sky before swooping down, a never-ending spiral whose lines makes you fall with your eyes into a blank hole in its center that becomes something. An exhibit so hidden that you’re not entirely sure what it is you’re seeing. You smell it, leaning forward, then it’s gone.
Another notification, another boost.
Mikito moves differently than I do. I stop, regarding each work for a bit, watching the various visitors dart about the gallery, paying attention to the works until I get a bonus, then I move on. Mikito, on the other hand, brushes past the vast majority of the work, only pausing once in a while to fall into deep thought before a piece. She’s specific in her taste, whereas I’m dabbling.
And in the midst of all of this, attendants move with drinks, snacks, and notepads. Waiters feed us while salespeople try to talk up each particular work. After the first one I decline, they leave me alone. In fact, they hover around Mikito, almost as if they can sense that she’s more of an opportunity than myself.
I have to admit, after staring at the prices, I’ve lost any interest. Frankly speaking, I’d rather pay for premade foods from Master Classers to give me a boost than run around with artwork. Consumables are still expensive, but overall cheaper. Not that I bother too often. Alchemists can generally generate the same effects with potions at a lower cost. Though if you really want to min-max, you could consume both since they’re often separate stacking bonuses.
I know some of the more focused individuals do that, and while I’m not opposed to bonuses, the issue is cost, supply, and reliance. Grow too reliant on something that costs too much and when you don’t have it, your entire performance level drops.
It’s kind of like doping in the pre-System world. Sure, you can dope and you can do well—even better than your competitors. But what if you get caught? Or have to stop? The withdrawals and the lack of ability afterward is significant as you retrain.
In either case, we make our way up the art gallery until we arrive at the doors of the VIP section. Ali’s been paying attention to the guests, but thus far, Katherine and her date have yet to make an appearance. We’ve been delaying our movements as long as possible, hoping she’ll come out and see the rest of the exhibition. But it seems they’ve chosen to hang out with the VIPs, leaving us to wait.
It’s frustrating, but luck is with us since we have a way in. A little more Credits, a smile, and a good word gets us in where we weren’t meant to be. Though I assume, to some extent, there are exceptions already built in socially for cases like this. I can’t help but wonder how much of our entrance is because of Luck or Charisma, how the System gently nudges things when it needs.
“Oh, this is much more like it!” Ali crows and darts over to the VIP buffet table.
I look it over and wince, since this is a Galactic event. The offerings are wide ranging, from meats of identifiable—read, with bodies and heads attached—and unidentifiable variety, as well as other forms of consumables. There are crystalline rods filled with raw Mana, electricity, and radioactive material. There are swirling globes of smoke that can be broken open and sniffed, and glass flutes of liquid nourishment.
While I’m pretty open about food I’m willing to eat, I do draw the line at sapient creatures. Which, in a few cases, are displayed on the buffet table. There are even a few living creatures, pain receptors neutered via Skills and technology, that are ready to be consumed.
Ali sweeps in, grabbing hold of one of the crystalline rods. He proceeds to open his mouth wide, swallowing the rod and the sparkling energy within in a sword-swallowing act that would win awards. For a moment, his tiny form shifts colors, growing more solid and opaque before he stabilizes.
“Whoa! Good stuff.”
I snort and almost miss the waiter who replaces the energy flute. There’s enough food on the hovering multi-tiered tables to feed every single visitor in the gallery three times over. But the gods forfend that it look as if they might run out.
“Gallery,” Mikito says, elbowing me in the side.
I bring my attention back to the gathering and blink when I realize more than a few eyes are fixed upon us. More than one gaze is filled with disdain, and for the bodyguards, professional suspicion.
I wave, offering them a weak grin. “Hi?”
***
Thankfully, my smile and greeting seems to diffuse the situation. Not so much because it’s what is expected but because they automatically label us as hicks and proceed to ignore us. Of course, that doesn’t let us off entirely. A quartet of uniformed security personnel sweep in, their fixed stares daring us to try to run.
“Oy! Find Katherine. Fast!” I send to Ali while sweating mental bullets.
The Spirit does a little bob and freezes in place, flicking through sensor data.
There’s no real danger in getting my ass kicked, but any altercation will lead to our identities being revealed. And that, more than anything else, is what I intend to avoid.
“Evening, gentlepeople,” I say when they close. Of course, gentlepeople isn’t the exact word I use in Galactic—the closer translation is something like “worthy and honored sapients,” but gentlepeople is much nicer.
The four that close in on us are made up of three Hakarta—two men and a woman—and a single crystalline figure. It moves with a grace that belies its appearance, more liquid rock than sharp-edged body.
It’s the living crystal that speaks. “Passes please.”
I give them a smile and extract our tickets, handing over the two slips.
Crystal takes one look at them and hands them back to me, its voice still pleasant. “These are for the general viewing floor.”
“There’s more than one kind of floor?” I give them big eyes. “I didn’t know. But the works here look so much nicer…”
“How did you acquire these tickets?” Crystal says, not at all affected by my poor attempt at charming them.
Mikito steps up next to me and places an arm around mine, almost leaning into me, and giving them a cool smile at the same time. “My husband’s Spirit took care of it. We don’t really bother with such trivial things.”
“And what do you bother with?” Crystal says, its gaze sweeping over us and our clothing. Thankfully, with so many individuals, high culture for clothing isn’t so much a specific type of style and more to do with cut and expense. Still, I’m getting the feeling that our attempt at fitting in is insufficient.