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“Harder, sir?” the robot asks in a hollow human voice.
“Always! Ow! Ow! Not that hard, are you trying kill me?”
“Impossible, sir. The First Law of Robotics states—”
“I know what it states, you toaster.”
I sip my ginger tea, wishing Philippe were here to lend his wry opinion. My own is not needed among the servants. I’m still an outsider to this little club of valets. Most, except Alban, are in their forties or fifties and have served since they were younger than I am. Their parents served and their parents before them, just like Garla and the docker Red
s.
Everything in Quicksilver’s tower is shiny and sparse and silver and white, except the racing ships that roar out sound from a holographic projector on the far side of the room. Some valets and political staff sit there in tuxedos smoking or tapping away importantly at their datapads. Bethalia enters from the hall, speaking with Quicksilver’s steward and the Sovereign’s, a happy, plump man with quick fingers. Looks a bit like a giddy pig surprised to find himself in a tuxedo.
We’re here for Quicksilver’s birthday. It was a sight as our caravan taxied in through the air to his skyscraper dock. Spotlights carved the November dark-cycle sky. Onlookers with cameras filled dirigibles and rooftops. I watched out a staff compartment window from one of our armored ships as the Sovereign and her son exited onto the silver carpet with the Telemanuses. For a moment I felt like I was back with my family watching the HC from half a billion kilometers away. The Augustans looked mighty fine. But I resented them all the same. This is their life. Galas and parties. I feel guilty for that resentment. I owe so much to Kavax.
The guilt dissipates when I remember the feel of mud. The sounds of the flies on my sister’s body. They’ll never hear that sound. None of these serious, pompous servants have heard that sound. I think of Philippe, feel the weight of his Bacchus pendant, and take comfort in the fact that I’m not alone.
My datapad vibrates on my wrist. I hesitantly approach Bethalia and wait till she notices me so I don’t interrupt her conversation.
“Yes, Lyria?”
“Kavax pinged me. Should I go in to the banquet?”
She adjusts my collar absently. Unlike the men, the women don’t wear a tie. Our collars are stiff and high, and without undershirt. “Yes, but they’re not at the main party. Cedric, could one of yours guide her?” The other servants watch me jealously as I leave the room. I grin back at them for a little fun.
One of Quicksilver’s security captains, a tall dead-eyed Gray, guides me through the halls past Lionguards. The woman has no interest in talking with me, so I return the favor. We divert to a small lift and take it down to a quieter level that’s more darkly lit by lights that run along the ceiling. Water sweeps under the glass floor. Strange shapes swim through it. I try to stop and get a better look, but the valet tuts at me, so I hurry along behind her. She leads me in to a large ivory door where several serious Grays in tuxedos with Augustus Lion pins on their chests loiter outside, weapons bulging under suit jackets. Two Obsidian men watch me from the shadows. I eye them warily, still terrified around their kind. They scarcely seem human.
“She’s here for the fox,” the valet says.
“You class two, citizen?” The Gray at the door makes me show him my ID, another pushes open the door for me. Kavax’s voice is the first I hear.
“Come, now, Victra. Dancer is not so bad a creature….”
“He’s a pompous, churlish, three-inch backstabbing rat,” a woman drawls. “A little rust-livered rat that has half the Senate eating out of his germ-infested hands.”
“You do not have to defame the man’s honor,” Kavax says. “He’s still our friend.”
“You big idiot. Socialists don’t have honor, they have psychoses.”
The woman speaking is half naked. A pregnant Gold with jagged white-blonde hair and a profoundly scandalous black dress with green spikes on the shoulders and a neckline that plunges almost to her navel. Trying not to look at her is like trying not to look at a burning house. A dozen people join with her in intense conversation in a sitting room with a glass-domed ceiling. Several servants bring them coffee and liquor. I spy Sophocles and pat my leg. He looks blankly at me, comfortable on Kavax’s lap.
“Hear, hear,” a rotund bald man says through his jowls. He holds whiskey in his fist and has a ring with a Gold eyeball in it. Quicksilver in the flesh. A picturesque Pink man sits at his side, gently holding the stem of a wineglass. “Sadly, the diagnosis is terminal for that lot.”
“Does he really have six blocs?” Kavax’s wife, Niobe, asks a grandmotherly Pink.
“The Coppers have not yet decided,” the old Pink says, glancing at another woman, who stands with her back to the room, looking out the window at the glowing city.
“So we have six blocs and they have six. And the Obsidians still won’t talk. Who would have thought that war and peace comes down to Copper?” Kavax rumbles. “I warned you of this…demokracy.” He spits the word.
“Caraval told me in my office this morning that Dancer promised him a bill on lowColor and midColor reparations,” the old Pink says.
“Reparations…” the pregnant woman says with a laugh. “It was a fine Republic. A bold Republic. Until it went bankrupt in its eleventh year because of socialist lunacy. They take the Senate, they’ll gut the war effort to pay for their agenda. Or they’ll raise taxes.”
“Or?” the old Pink says with a smile. “They’ll do both.”
“I’m already being taxed into oblivion,” Quicksilver says. “How much more blood do they think they can draw from this stone?”
“I think you’re doing quite well enough,” Daxo says from behind his brandy.
