Zora's Aurora 3 - the Serengeti Exchange
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 1
The last chord still hummed faintly through the studio monitors as the reverb died away. Zora let the final note ring, then flicked the standby switch on her amp with theatrical gloom.
“And thus concludes,” she declared, sweeping her arm wide, “another earthbound rehearsal in the thrilling vacuum of predictability.”
Finn, sprawled across a battered couch with a half-eaten protein bar balanced on his chest, squinted at her. “You’ve been to Luna. And Venera. You don’t get to complain about ‘earthbound’ ever again.”
Zora slung her guitar over her shoulder and flopped into the swivel chair near the mixing console. “I’m developing atmospheric claustrophobia,” she said gravely. “Too much oxygen. It’s stifling my creative genius.”
Brax, polishing the chrome hardware on his bass with absurd care, nodded in agreement.
“A tragic affliction,” Nigel put in thoughtfully. “I believe the cure is a sold-out international tour and a mild dose of dramatic peril.”
Sophie snorted softly from her seat on the floor, where she was coiling cables with mechanical precision. “The last time we had ‘dramatic peril,’ we nearly got aerosolized into a social experiment.”
“Yes,” Zora said brightly. “And wasn’t it invigorating?”
Brian leaned back against his keyboard, folding his arms. “Invigorating is one word.”
Natalia, seated on a drum stool and spinning a stick between her fingers, shot him a look that melted somewhere between fond and exasperated. “Thunderboy, you loved it.”
“Did not,” Brian said automatically.
“You absolutely did,” Zora chimed in. “You were all brooding and heroic. Very cinematic.”
Natalia grinned at him. “You were heroic.”
Brian’s ears pinked. “Sugarbeat, please.”
Zora gagged theatrically and clutched her chest. “Careful, Lovebirds. You’re going to short out the amps with that voltage.”
Finn laughed. “I give it another five minutes before she writes a ballad called ‘Oh Thunderboy, My Thunderboy.’”
Nigel perked up. “That does scan nicely.”
Sophie tossed a coil of cable at Zora’s boots. “Ignore them. Both of you.” But she was smiling.
The studio—Delta’s polished but comfortably worn rehearsal space in Denver—felt unusually still now that the music had stopped. Late afternoon light filtered through the high windows. Outside, traffic moved along steadily, predictably.
Too predictably.
Zora swiveled in her chair and stared at the ceiling. “When was our last non-Denver gig?”
“Fort Collins,” Finn said.
“That does not count as ‘travel,’” she replied flatly.
Nigel tapped his chin. “There was that corporate gala in Boulder.”
Zora groaned. “I rest my case.”
Brian chuckled. “We just got back from Luna a few months ago. It’s not like we’ve been chained to the basement.”
Sophie stood and leaned against the console, folding her arms. “He’s right. Recovery time. Stabilization. Normal life.”
Zora squinted at her. “You hate stabilization.”
Sophie hesitated. “I tolerate stabilization.”
“That’s worse,” Zora said.
There was a pause—an unspoken acknowledgment settling over them. Since returning from Luna, everything had been ... small. Local gigs. Regional press. Zora and Sophie’s cases had been tame—insurance fraud, corporate spying over proprietary soil enhancers, one extremely petty art theft involving a holographic koi pond.
“No secret labs,” Zora said wistfully.
“No rogue bioengineers,” Sophie added.
“No glittering villains monologuing in lunar penthouses,” Nigel sighed.
Natalia tilted her head. “I don’t mind calm,” she said softly. “Calm is good.”
“It is,” Brian agreed, squeezing her hand.
Zora noticed and narrowed her eyes. “Oh look. They’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?” Brian asked.
“That thing where they gaze into each other’s pupils like they’re searching for buried treasure.”
Natalia laughed, leaning her head briefly against his shoulder. “You’re just jealous.”
“I am not,” Zora replied primly. “I merely object to public displays of sugary percussion.”
Sophie gave her a look. “Sugary percussion?”
“Sugarbeat,” Zora said, pointing at Natalia. “Thunderboy.” She gestured at Brian. “I’m just adapting to the established nomenclature.”
Finn nearly choked laughing. Nigel slapped the arm of the couch in delight.
Brian shook his head. “You’re impossible.”
“Thank you.”
Natalia squeezed Brian’s hand again, softer this time. “Let her tease. It means she approves.”
Zora’s grin flickered—just a little more genuine. “I approve conditionally. Provided you two promise not to duet at rehearsal.”
“No promises,” Brian said.
Sophie pushed off the console. “Speaking of travel—if something did come up, we’d have to figure logistics fast.”
Brian nodded. “Kids would stay here. School’s in full swing. Aleigha would riot if she missed robotics week. Come to think of it, Brice would riot if he didn’t.”
Natalia smiled. “Miri would keep them in line.”
“She always does,” Brian said, warmth edging his voice.
A quiet settled again—not heavy, just reflective.
Zora drummed her fingers on the armrest. “You know what we need?”
“No,” Sophie said cautiously.
“A horizon,” Zora replied. “A different skyline. Something that doesn’t smell like recycled rehearsal air and protein bars.”
Finn sniffed his wrapper defensively. “Hey.”
Nigel sat forward, eyes glinting. “You’re restless.”
“I’m orbiting,” Zora said. “But I want trajectory.”
Sophie studied her for a moment. She felt it too—the faint hum under the skin, the awareness that they’d been coasting.
“Careful what you wish for,” she said quietly.
Zora flashed her a grin that carried equal parts mischief and inevitability. “Oh, Soph. Since when has that ever stopped us?”
Outside, an aircraft crossed the sky—silver against blue—climbing westward. Zora watched it through the window until it disappeared.
“Next one,” she murmured, “we’re on it.”
Zora had assumed her normal seating mode when inside Delta’s office. She was slouched sideways in one of the guest chairs, boots hooked over the armrest. Sophie sat upright beside her with a tablet open on her lap. Brian and Natalia shared the small couch against the far wall, their shoulders touching, hands loosely intertwined.
Delta stood at the head of the desk, stylus poised like a conductor’s baton.
“Three local shows next month,” she said crisply. “Boulder, Colorado Springs, and the Denver Tech Forum benefit. Media interviews are manageable, provided no one—” she glanced pointedly at Zora—”decides to antagonize the hosts.”
“I never antagonize,” Zora said solemnly. “I illuminate.”
“You air-horned a journalist on Luna.”
“He said ‘synergy’ six times in one sentence.”
Natalia covered a smile. Brian coughed into his fist.
Delta exhaled slowly. “We are in a rebuilding phase. Stability. Consistency. That’s the objective.”
Zora tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling. “You keep using words that sound like beige paint.”
Sophie nudged her knee. “Beige paint pays the bills.”
Brian squeezed Natalia’s hand gently. “I don’t mind beige for a while.”
“Of course you don’t, Thunderboy,” Zora said sweetly. “You’re domesticated now.”
Natalia leaned against Brian’s shoulder. “Sugarbeat approves of beige.”
Zora made a strangled sound. “Please. Not in Delta’s office.”
Delta cleared her throat. “If we are finished renaming interior design palettes, I’d like to finalize—”
The office doors flew open with a force that set the glass panels trembling.
“Ladies and luminaries!”
Lawrence Prospero Remington the Third breezed into the room as though propelled by a theatrical wind machine that only he could feel. His jacket today was a deep emerald velvet, embroidered with gold constellations. A silk scarf trailed dramatically over one shoulder.
He paused mid-stride, arms flung wide.
“I come bearing proclamations of your steadfast terrestrial dominance!”
Zora blinked at him. “Did you rehearse that in the hallway?”
Lawrence placed a hand over his heart. “Rehearsal is for lesser men, my incandescent virtuoso.”
Nigel would have applauded. Thankfully, Nigel was not here.
Delta pinched the bridge of her nose. “Lawrence.”
“Yes, yes, logistics, numbers, decorum,” he waved airily. “But first—recognition! Since your triumphant return from lunar acclaim, your Denver performances have been nothing short of resplendent. The critics are dazzled. The streaming metrics—astonishing. Your local foothold? Phen—”
Zora’s eyes sharpened like a hawk spotting prey.
“Careful,” Sophie muttered under her breath.
“—omenal,” Lawrence finished grandly.
The word barely cleared his lips before Zora’s hand slipped inside her jacket.
Brian’s eyes widened. “Zora—”
Delta snapped, “Don’t you dare.”
Zora froze, fingers grazing the familiar plastic edge of the air horn. She looked from Delta ... to Lawrence ... to the ceiling, as if calculating moral cost versus entertainment value.
Lawrence, sensing danger at last, took an involuntary step backward.
“I—ah—merely wished to underscore the fiscal brilliance of your grounded strategy,” he said quickly.
“Grounded strategy,” Zora echoed. “That’s Lawrence-speak for ‘boring but profitable,’ isn’t it?”
He gasped. “I would never describe your artistry as—”
“Beige?” she offered.
Natalia giggled. Brian tried and failed to hide a grin.
Lawrence straightened, gathering his dignity like a cape. “Very well. I shall retreat before my earnest praise is weaponized against me.”
“Wise,” Sophie said mildly.
He backed toward the door. “Nevertheless, the numbers are strong. The brand is luminous. And the trajectory—should you choose to ascend again—will be, I assure you ... remarkable.”
He paused, glanced at Zora’s jacket pocket, and amended hurriedly, “Exceptional.”
Then he pivoted and exited with surprising speed for a man in velvet.
The door hissed shut.
Silence.
Zora withdrew her hand slowly from her pocket. “He’s learning.”
Delta exhaled. “You are impossible.”
“Disciplined,” Zora corrected.
Before Delta could respond, the holo-display embedded in the far wall flickered to life with a soft chime. The Dark Matter Insights insignia resolved in crisp silver light.
Everyone stilled.
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