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An hour spent poking around the shops on F deck convinced her that she was right. The names were unfamiliar, but the attitude of the staff — and the items in the displays — said it all. They were priced to satisfy exactly the sort of rich bitch Herman had suggested she play, but as far as Wednesday was concerned they were a dead loss: the target audience was too old, even if they were well preserved. The ultrafemme gowns and dresses had icky semiotics, the shops for people from cultures with sumptuary laws and dress codes were too weird, the everyday stuff was too formal — What would I want to do with that, wear it to a business meeting? she thought, fingering one exquisitely tailored jacket — and there was nothing flaky or uplevel to catch her imagination. No fun.
In the end, she bought a lacy white trouser-skirt combination to wear to di
I’m already bored! And there are still three hours to go before di
“Feeding time at the zoo,” Max muttered darkly. “Wonder who they’re feeding?”
“The social director, with any luck. Stuffed and basted.” Steffi kept a straight face, staring right ahead as they headed into the dining room. “Stupid custom.”
“Now, now.” Max nodded politely to a plumply padded dowager whose thirty-year physique belied the fact that her formal business suit was at least a century out of fashion. “Good evening, Mrs. Borozovski! How are you tonight?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Fromm!” She bobbed slightly, as if she’d already been hitting the martinis. “And who’s your little friend? A new squirt, or am I very mistaken?”
“Ahem. Allow me to introduce Junior Flight Lieutenant Stephanie Grace, our newest flight operations officer. If I may beg your pardon, it’s considered bad form to refer to trainees as squirts, outside of the training academy; and in any case, Lieutenant Grace has graduate degrees in relativistic dynamics and engineering.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” To her credit, the dowager flushed slightly.
“It’s perfectly all right.” Steffi forced a smile and breathed a sigh of relief when Max peeled off to steer Mrs. Borozovski toward a table. No, I don’t mind being patronized by rich drones one little bit, Mrs. Borozovski. Now, where’s the table I’m supposed to ride herd on?
It was a completely spurious ritual, from Steffi’s viewpoint. All the business class and higher suites were fully self-catering. There was no damn need to have a central galley and serve up a restricted menu and waste the valuable time of human chefs, not to mention the line officers who were required to turn up wearing mess uniforms and act like di
Steffi made her way to her table, guided by a discreet pipper on the cuff of her brocade jacket. A handful of passengers had already arrived, but they knew enough to stand up as she arrived. “Please, be seated,” she said, smiling easily as her chair slid out and retracted its arms for her. She nodded to the passengers, and one or two of them nodded back or even said “hello.” Or something. She wasn’t so sure about the sullen-looking girl in the deliberately slashed black lace top and hair that looked as if she’d stuck her fingers in a power socket, but the three hail-fellow-well-met types in the similar green shirts, two blond men and a straw-haired woman, all looked as if they were about to jump up and salute her. The fat probably-a-merchant-banker and her anorexic beanpole of a male companion just ignored her — probably offended that she wasn’t at least a commander — and the withered old actuary from Turku didn’t seem to notice her, but that was par for the course. Senile old cretin, Steffi thought, writing him off. Anyone that rich who wouldn’t stump up the cash for a telomere reset and AGE purge when their hair was turning white was not worth paying attention to. The middle-aged lady cellist from Nippon looked friendly enough, but a bit confused — her translator wasn’t keeping up with the conversation — and that just left a honeymooning couple who had predictably elected to call room service instead.
“I’m Junior Flight Lieutenant Steffi Grace, and, on behalf of WhiteStar Lines, I’d like to welcome you to our table for the first night banquet en route to New Dresden. If you’d like to examine the menu, I’m sure your stewards will be with you shortly. In the meantime, I’d like to particularly recommend the—” she glanced at her cuff — “Venusian Cabernet Sauvignon blanc to accompany the salmon entrees.” Imported at vast expense from the diamond-domed vineyards of Ishtar Planitia, the better to stroke the egos of the twenty-four-thousand-ecu diners.
Things went all right through the entrees, and Steffi made sure to knock back her antidrunk cap with the first mouthful of wine. It was an okay vintage, if you could get past the fact that it was wine, and — stripped of the ability to get drunk on it — wine was just sour grape juice. “Can I ask where you’re from?” she asked the square-jawed blonde as she filled her glass. “I’ve seen you around, I think, but we haven’t spoken before.”
“I am Mathilde, of clade Todt, division Sixt. These are my clade-mates Peter and Hans,” said the woman, waving one beefy hand to take in the strapping young men to either side of her. Are they young? wondered Steffi: they looked awfully self-assured and well coordinated. Normally you didn’t see that sort of instinctive grace in anyone who was less than sixty, not without martial arts practice. Most people eventually picked up that kind of economical motion if their bodies didn’t nose-dive into senescence by middle age, before they had time to mature, but this looked like the product of hard training, if not anabolic steroids. “We are traveling to Newpeace, as a youth enlightenment and learning mission.” She smiled superciliously. “That is, we are to learn about the other worlds that have discovered the benefits of ReMastery and spread harmony among them.”