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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