I want to find the answer.

I take Harper by the hand and pull her across the room to the karaoke corner, between a throng of cosplayers dressed as gender-bent Disney princes and princesses (Elsa is among them). Bran hands us two microphones.

“Are you sure about this?” Harper asks, hesitant. Her eyes dart around the room.

“Are you scared?” I challenge, and moment by moment, Jessica Stone unravels like a piece of yarn caught on a snag. The room is loud and I can hear all of the songs in my head—

No. One song.

Bran hands me an iPad; I quickly select the tune and hand it back.

Harper eyes me curiously. “What did you pick?”

I smile at her. “You’ll see.”

The sweet trill of a violin rushes over the karaoke speakers. The view through the camera lens sharpens. I’m not supposed to really know this song. I’m not supposed to care. I don’t, do I?

Her eyes glitter. “I knew you’d pick this.”

I want to believe it’s true as the words to a song filled with perfect notes begin to spin over the TV screen. I don’t need to look at the lyrics. They’re as familiar as the fit of Amara’s corset, and the pinch of her heels, and the heavy tiara in her hair.

As the music begins, I remember the Amaras posing on the grass, and the passion in Imogen’s voice as she spoke of saving a lost princess, and the familiar exuberance in Dare’s face whenever he talks about this stupid show…

Most people only know the opening thirty seconds of the Starfield theme song, “Ignite the Stars,” but in a secret all my own, I’ve turned up the song a thousand times in my dented bumblebee-yellow Volkswagon Beetle and let the lyrics spill out from the windows into the infinite expanse of sky and clouds and stars—

I’ve never seen the TV series, but I’ve most definitely listened to the soundtrack.

But what if someone finds out? What if someone is filming? whispers that voice in the back of my head, and I miss the first word, but Harper saves it, singing in that brash and bold way she seems to do everything. She glances over, daring me to join in.

At the first bridge, she mouths, “Chicken.”

Like hell I’m chicken.

When the second stanza starts, I catch the words first, singing about all of the constellations and stars in the night sky, and being brave, and seeing your friends until the end of the line. Living boldly. Burning bright and lighting a way in the dark.

Igniting the stars.

I mean, I wish I could tell you it’s like High School Musical where we absolutely slay karaoke but…well. By the end of the song, we’re almost in tears because neither of us can sing and we’ve about broken everyone’s eardrums, but we howl the last note and mime the slick drum solo at the end—

And then the song dies, and the room crashes into silence. I’ve never done that before—just let myself have fun. Be uncool.

I’m wheezing so hard, I can’t even laugh anymore, holding my sides because it hurts to breathe.

“That was SO BAD!” Bran cries from the crowd. “You should feel ashamed!”

Harper presses two fingers to her lips and blows a kiss to the crowd. I mimic her and we drop our microphones, quickly vacating the stage before someone throws something at us. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand as we escape to the balcony and close ourselves outside.

“We were horrible!” she gasps, unable to stop laughing.

“But it was worth it,” I reply.

We’re grinning like two idiots.

Oh God, how I want to just be a part of this strange universe.

But you are Jessica Stone, says that voice in the back of my head, and I wish I could shove it into a box and bury it. There is no universe where this exists.

But then the other half of me, the part that remembers the look of all those Amaras through the camera lens, the contagiousness of Dare’s enthusiasm before each take we filmed, the passion behind Imogen’s eyes when she talked about saving Amara…

The view of letting go. Of being yourself.

That part of me whispers, Or this could be the best idea of your life.

“Imogen,” she says quietly, and goosebumps prickle up on my skin because, even though it’s not my name, she means me. The real me. Not the me behind the veneer of Jessica Stone. I like the sound of it.

And I like the sound of us.

My phone dings, and at first I try to ignore it. But then it dings again.

“Are you going to get that?” she asks.

“It’s just Twitter,” I say dismissively, and then I snap out of my daze.

It’s Twitter.

I pull my phone out of my back pocket and check the notification. Oh no. I think I might just vomit.

The thief posted another screenshot of the script.

@starfieldscript337

I’m happy you guys are loving this. Tomorrow, we’ll show you how legit it is. #ExcelsiCon

GENERAL SOND lifts CARMINDOR’S chin. CARMINDOR struggles against his bindings. A video screen comes to life behind them.

GENERAL SOND

That is Velaris Six, one of your colony planets on the edge of the Federation.

About six million people, wouldn’t you say?

A beam of black and purple light hits the planet. Then Velaris Six fractures apart.

CARMINDOR stares at it in shock.

CARMINDOR

NO!

GENERAL SOND

And now there are none.

The Council politely applauds.

CARMINDOR

You killed them all of them.

GENERAL SOND

Every one of them. Their leaders refused to conscript to the Path of the Sun, and so I gave them my judgement. This will happen, again and again, thanks to the powers given to me by the Black Nebula – no, gifted to me. Every planet that refuses to conscript will be terminated.

(pauses)

Unless the Federation Prince shows them the way.

CARMINDOR

You want me to become a mindless follower?

GENERAL SOND smiles, and it’s so deceiving because it is earnest.

GENERAL SOND

I merely want to save you, my Prince, because no one else will.

My hands are shaking. Somehow it feels like a threat. No, I know it is. And this time there’s no clues, no signifiers. It’s just a cropped photo of the script. Whoever the thief is, they’re learning—and that means I have even less chance of finding them.

I’m ruined.

Harper lays a concerned hand on my shoulder. “Imogen, are you okay?”

I look up and I want to scream that I’m not Imogen. That I’m about to be no one, the girl who leaked the Starfield sequel script and no Hollywood studio would ever work with her again. My career will be over.

But I can’t tell her that because she thinks I’m someone else.

She says softly, surprising me, “Are you hungry?”

“I don’t have any money with me,” I reply tightly. I can’t look at her.

“Lucky for you I am also very, very broke. C’mon, we haven’t had dinner yet.”

She takes my hand—her fingers folding between mine—and drags me in from the balcony and out of the Stellar Party, knowing before I even said anything that I was trying not to fall apart.

* * *

HARPER FISHES AROUND IN HER BACKPACK for her keycard and lets us in. We aren’t even in the same hotel anymore, but one adjacent to where I’m staying. It’s a modest room, like most are, I guess; there are two double beds and a minifridge and a pretty outdated TV on a dresser. I can tell from the suitcases strewn across the room and the bathroom full of shampoos and straighteners and toiletries that she’s rooming with three other women, but they’re all gone.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she says as she dumps her purse in the doorway and walks over to her suitcase.

I don’t exactly know what kind of food is supposed to be in a suitcase until she unzips it to reveal a jumbo-pack of those ninety-nine-cent ramen noodle cups. She asks me to fill the coffeemaker carafe—after washing it out—so I do that while she pulls the desk out from the wall and sets it up as a table, the edge of one of the beds serving as a bench.

My mind is still buzzing with the new script leak. I don’t want to think about it—can’t think about it. If I do, I fear I may lose all hope.

This is impossible. Why am I here? Pretending to be Imogen? It doesn’t make sense anymore. I’ll never find the thief. But I don’t want to be Jess again yet.

I pour the water into the coffeemaker and turn it on.

“Make yourself at home,” she tells me, but I’m not exactly sure how to do that. I feel like strange sharp edges right now, catching on everything I rub against. So I just sit down at the table that she prepared. “Do you want anything to drink? We have…” She pops open the minifridge and assesses the contents. “Bottled water, sparkling champagne—but oh, you’re underage, aren’t you? Seventeen, right?”

“Nineteen,” I say without thinking, and then bite my lip. I shouldn’t have corrected her. I should’ve just said yes, but…

“Oh!” She laughs and shoots me a look. “Eighteen.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but it’s weird. Since I’m so, you know, internet famous quote-unquote,” she says, “because of my trash Tumblr, everyone expects me to be thirty or something. It’s like we can’t be successful young.”