I step sideways to look past him, but my eyes are swimming with red and gold afterimages. One of the photographers is buzzing around me, his voice a low drone. The women are still chattering and pressing in close, and I can’t see the man with the weathered face. I can feel that low, stabbing pain at the base of my skull that promises to explode into a fully fledged headache.
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A series of flashes erupt all around me, blinding me. “Sure, I’ll just come back in a minute, if-” Before I can finish, all three women are posed around me, lips pursed and lashes lowered. I’m barely more than a dog walking on its hind legs, here-they know it, and I know it, but they can’t pass up an opportunity to be seen with a real, live war hero. “Oh, you simply must take a picture with us.” “Oh, Major Merendsen!” It’s the leader of a gaggle of women in their mid-twenties, descending on me from the direction of the viewport. And if he is dangerous, any sudden shift in the energy of the room could trigger him.Ī brilliant flash lights up the world as a camera goes off in my face. I want to know why he’s here, but I’m forced to move slowly, navigating the push and pull of the crowd with agonizing patience. I ease away from the bookshelves and start to weave my way toward him, past a pair of women sporting monocles they can’t possibly need. I’ve spent too long in the colonies, where anything out of place might kill you. He’s nervous, shoulders rounded, fingers gripping the lapels of his jacket and letting go again.
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There are lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth, his skin weather-beaten and marked by the sun. I’m trained to notice the thing that doesn’t fit, and in this sea of surgically perfected faces, his is a beacon. His black tailcoat is too threadbare, and his top hat is missing the shiny satin ribbon that’s in fashion. There’s nothing about him that fits here, although he’s trying to blend in. My eyes fall on a man who’s just entered, and it takes me a moment to realize why. The ebb and flow of the crowd is unsettling-patterns I’ll never get used to no matter how many times I’m forced to rub elbows with these people. I scan the room, taking in the clusters of women in brightly colored gowns, officers in dress uniforms like mine, men in evening coats and top hats. What they call heroics, I call a tragic debacle. If it wasn’t for what happened on Patron, I wouldn’t even be here. If hick boy can make good, why can’t you? You too can rocket your way up to riches and fame. The military look good, the rich people look good, and it gives the poor people something to aspire to. It still makes for a nice story in the papers. These folks love a good rags-to-riches tale, even if my riches are no more than the medals pinned to my chest.
I keep thinking that the photographers will get their fill of shots of me with drink in hand, lounging in the first-class salon, but in the two weeks I’ve been on board, they haven’t. The brass keep thinking that mixing field officers with the upper crust will create some sort of common ground where none exists, let the paparazzi infesting the Icarus see me, the lowborn boy made good, hobnobbing with the elite. I’m almost done for the night, smiling for the cameras as ordered. Nobody will miss one, and I need a dose of reality. Chosen for the richness of their leather bindings, not for the contents of their pages. Nobody here reads them the books are for decoration.
I reach behind me and let my fingers trail over the rough leather of their antique spines, then pull one free. I’m leaning against the bookshelves when it occurs to me that one thing here is real-the books. The Icarus, passing through dimensional hyperspace, would look just as faded, half-transparent, if someone stationary in the universe could somehow see her moving faster than light. Outside the viewports, the stars are like faded white lines, half-invisible, surreal. I’d give anything for a laid-back evening joking around with my platoon, instead of being stuck here in this imitation scene from a historical novel.įor all their trendy Victorian tricks, there’s no hiding where we are. The string quartet is only a hologram-perfect and infallible, and exactly the same at every performance. Hover trays weave among the guests, like invisible waiters are carrying drinks. The candles in the sconces do flicker, but they’re powered by a steady source.
People would be listening to each other, instead of checking to see who’s watching them.Įven the air here smells filtered and fake. Candles and soft lamps would light the room, and the wooden tables would be made of actual trees. If this were a party at home, the music would draw your eye to human musicians in the corner.
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