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Authors: Scott Westerfeld
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different for the first hundred years," Zai answered. "Certainly, the first week isn't."
Fowler laughed. "Not missing the specter of death yet, are you? Well, I guess you saw enough of that on Dhantu."
A chill crawled up Zai's spine at the word. Of course, the planet that had seen his art of heroism—if that's what it could be called—was implicit everywhere tonight. But only Fowler would be graceless enough to mention its name.
"Enough for a few centuries, I suppose," Zai answered. He felt movement on one flank. It was the ants, reorganizing themselves for some vital bit of tailoring. They would pick this moment.
Then Zai realized their purpose: a trickle of sweat had appeared under his real arm.
Fowler's face was close in the pressing crowd. "Well, the Rix are playing rough again, my connections on the frontier are saying. We may need heroes on that side of the Empire soon. They say you'll be promoted soon. Maybe get your own ship."
Zai felt overheated. The sense of a nakedness had disappeared in the close air of the crowded room, as if the ants were linking ever more tightly, closing their ranks against Fowler's rudeness. Could they detect the woman's hostility and react to it as they did to light? Zai wondered. The little elements writhed in a column down and around Zai's side, carrying his suddenly prodigious sweat to the small of his back.
"And the specter of death always joins heroes at the front," Fowler added. "Perhaps you'll become acquainted again." The woman's false camaraderie was growing thinner by the word. Zai looked around for Masrui. Was he among friends here, really?
He caught the eye of a young woman by the nearest column. She returned his glance with a smile and the slightest bow of her head.
"She's quite pretty," Zai said, interrupting whatever Fowler was saying. That basic touchstone of desire had its desired effect, and Fowler immediately turned to follow the path of Zai's gaze.
She turned back with an undisguised sneer.
"I think you picked the wrong woman, Zai. She's as pink as they come. And perhaps a bit beyond your rank."
Zai looked again and cursed his haste. Fowler was right. The sleeves of her white robe were hatched with the mark of a Senator-Elect. She seemed terribly young for that; even in an age of cosmetic surgery, a certain gravitas was expected of members of the Senate.
Zai tried not to show his embarrassment. "Pink, you said?"
"Anti-imperial," Fowler supplied, speaking slowly as though to a child. "The opposite of gray. A brave defender of the living. That's Nara Oxham, the mad senator-elect from Vasthold. She's rejected elevation, for heaven's sake. By choice, she'll rot in the ground."
"The Mad Senator," Zai murmured. He'd read that moniker in the same garbage media that had dubbed him the Broken Man.
The young woman smiled again, and Zai realized he'd been staring. He raised his glass to her and looked sheepishly away. Of course Zai knew what pink meant. But his native Vadan was as politically gray as any planet in the Empire. The dead were worshiped there, everyone claiming a risen ancestor as his or her personal intermediary with the Emperor. And of course the Navy was gray from admirals to marines. Lieutenant-Commander Zai wasn't sure if he'd met a pink in his entire life.
"Mind you, I'm sure she'll accept the elevation when she's a bit closer to death," Fowler said. "Just as long as she doesn't have an accident in the meantime. Wouldn't that be a pity, losing eternity for one's principles."
"Or one's arrogance," Zai added, hoping Fowler would suspect whom he really meant. "Perhaps she just needs a talking-to."
He pushed past Fowler, feeling the woman's skin against his own as their ants briefly conjoined.
"For heaven's sake, Zai, she's a senator," Fowler hissed.
Zai turned briefly toward his adversary and spoke calmly.
"And tonight I am a hero," he said.
SENATOR-ELECT
Nara Oxham's eyes widened as Lieutenant-Commander Laurent Zai pushed his way out and
Fowler laughed. "Not missing the specter of death yet, are you? Well, I guess you saw enough of that on Dhantu."
A chill crawled up Zai's spine at the word. Of course, the planet that had seen his art of heroism—if that's what it could be called—was implicit everywhere tonight. But only Fowler would be graceless enough to mention its name.
"Enough for a few centuries, I suppose," Zai answered. He felt movement on one flank. It was the ants, reorganizing themselves for some vital bit of tailoring. They would pick this moment.
Then Zai realized their purpose: a trickle of sweat had appeared under his real arm.
Fowler's face was close in the pressing crowd. "Well, the Rix are playing rough again, my connections on the frontier are saying. We may need heroes on that side of the Empire soon. They say you'll be promoted soon. Maybe get your own ship."
Zai felt overheated. The sense of a nakedness had disappeared in the close air of the crowded room, as if the ants were linking ever more tightly, closing their ranks against Fowler's rudeness. Could they detect the woman's hostility and react to it as they did to light? Zai wondered. The little elements writhed in a column down and around Zai's side, carrying his suddenly prodigious sweat to the small of his back.
"And the specter of death always joins heroes at the front," Fowler added. "Perhaps you'll become acquainted again." The woman's false camaraderie was growing thinner by the word. Zai looked around for Masrui. Was he among friends here, really?
He caught the eye of a young woman by the nearest column. She returned his glance with a smile and the slightest bow of her head.
"She's quite pretty," Zai said, interrupting whatever Fowler was saying. That basic touchstone of desire had its desired effect, and Fowler immediately turned to follow the path of Zai's gaze.
She turned back with an undisguised sneer.
"I think you picked the wrong woman, Zai. She's as pink as they come. And perhaps a bit beyond your rank."
Zai looked again and cursed his haste. Fowler was right. The sleeves of her white robe were hatched with the mark of a Senator-Elect. She seemed terribly young for that; even in an age of cosmetic surgery, a certain gravitas was expected of members of the Senate.
Zai tried not to show his embarrassment. "Pink, you said?"
"Anti-imperial," Fowler supplied, speaking slowly as though to a child. "The opposite of gray. A brave defender of the living. That's Nara Oxham, the mad senator-elect from Vasthold. She's rejected elevation, for heaven's sake. By choice, she'll rot in the ground."
"The Mad Senator," Zai murmured. He'd read that moniker in the same garbage media that had dubbed him the Broken Man.
The young woman smiled again, and Zai realized he'd been staring. He raised his glass to her and looked sheepishly away. Of course Zai knew what pink meant. But his native Vadan was as politically gray as any planet in the Empire. The dead were worshiped there, everyone claiming a risen ancestor as his or her personal intermediary with the Emperor. And of course the Navy was gray from admirals to marines. Lieutenant-Commander Zai wasn't sure if he'd met a pink in his entire life.
"Mind you, I'm sure she'll accept the elevation when she's a bit closer to death," Fowler said. "Just as long as she doesn't have an accident in the meantime. Wouldn't that be a pity, losing eternity for one's principles."
"Or one's arrogance," Zai added, hoping Fowler would suspect whom he really meant. "Perhaps she just needs a talking-to."
He pushed past Fowler, feeling the woman's skin against his own as their ants briefly conjoined.
"For heaven's sake, Zai, she's a senator," Fowler hissed.
Zai turned briefly toward his adversary and spoke calmly.
"And tonight I am a hero," he said.
SENATOR-ELECT
Nara Oxham's eyes widened as Lieutenant-Commander Laurent Zai pushed his way out and
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