Cosmic Cabaret

by SFR Shooting Stars

  She swallowed past sudden dryness in her throat. If she caught another glimpse of that sigil while she was in zero-gee, it could spell disaster.

  Portia didn't notice her startle, and she was grateful. Portia could be a bit gossipy. "Oh yes. Blue Star is going all out to welcome him on board and give him the real royal treatment. He's got VIP access to every single one of the ship’s facilities, as well as top-level clearance access to anything relating to the star drives. The only place he can't go is the dressing rooms." Portia chuckled. "Unless he buys a pass, which he could probably afford with the loose credits he finds in his pockets."

  Milady forced herself to breathe deep, uncertain at the reason for the sudden rush of her pulse. It's just nerves, she thought. Some rich noble is going to be in the audience, watching you make a fool of yourself in Portia's place, just because you can handle null-grav. Who cares if he thinks you look like a brok-calf stumbling around the paddock? It's not your problem. All you have to do is put the costume on, show up, do a a few turns, and get out.

  "How long is that abbreviated performance music again?"

  "A minute 30," she replied. "Just make sure you smile. Now put the costume on and quit dithering."

  Milady couldn't avoided any further any longer, and unfastened her coveralls. The overstuffed pockets dragged the garment to the floor around her ankles with a number of clanks and clicks and bumps. The cold air swirled around her service-oriented small clothes, and Portia’s sharp laugh made it colder.

  "Girl, you do not have a scrap of the romantic in you, do you?" Portia gestured with her free hand. "Undies, too. You can't wear those underneath the costume. In fact, you can't wear anything underneath the costume."

  "Ew. Gross."

  Portia rolled her eyes. "They go through the sonic after every performance. Molecularly disinfected."

  That didn't make Milady feel any better. She couldn't plead a sudden case of asteroid pox and disqualify herself from wearing the costume. With a belly full of nerves, she shucked her unders. Under Portia's critical stare, she crisscrossed straps of gem-encrusted fabric around her body, fitting narrow triangles over her important bits, and getting tangled more than once in fringe that was supposed to be playing peekaboo with her navel and not her knees. The fringe tickled, and made her want to scratch.

  Portia motioned regally, ordering Milady to come closer. She put down her info slate and picked up a long handled spray nozzle connected to a tube leading into the wall near the rest of the cosmetics piled on the glamour table. "Come on, it's only cold for a minute."

  Milady sighed, mincing over to Portia's side. Without thinking, she opened her mouth. "You know, cosmetic nanites would make this so much easier."

  Portia began to spray. "Cosmetic what?"

  Milady opened her mouth, but she couldn't articulates the words on the tip of her tongue. At least not at first. "Cosmetic nanites? I — must have heard something about them somewhere."

  Portia snorted. The spray was cold on Milady’s bare skin, and the glittery paints that settled over her body felt like a wrapping that could easily suffocate her.

  "Cosmetic nanites, huh? In case you haven't noticed, Milady,” Portia drew out her name as the title it was, “We’re working girls here. I wouldn't dream of wasting medical nanites on something as frivolous as tinting my skin when paint will do just fine."

  "I don't —" She trailed off. She couldn't remember where she'd heard of the notion, or why the idea seemed so pedestrian to her. Nanites of any sort were ridiculously out of reach back in the sub levels on Landfall. Nanites only used as ornament? Unheard-of. Out of reach. Wasteful in the extreme.

  “Of course!” Portia’s eyes widened. "Who knew you were a Royal follower.” Her painted lips curved into a smirk. “Princess Ione wore them! I remember when that scandal came out with her and that Hades heir—"

  The inside of Milady’s head suddenly burst into Technicolor reverse image fireworks. Feedback squealed in both her ears and she joined it, her own voice screaming in sudden abrupt pain.

  Dimly, she heard the spray wand clatter to the ground. Portia's voice, calling out for help. The door opened and several of the other cabaret girls rushed in.

  Hands pressed her, forcing her down into a sitting position. Pushing her head between her knees. Not roughly, but she still fought against the direction.

  She heard Palma's voice in the chaos. "Out of the way! Back! Leave her alone, you harpies! The girl needs space!"

  Palma’s broad palms pressed against Milady’s temples. The scream of internal feedback faded as Palma stroked her cheeks, drawing her fingers down over Milady’s ears and stroking behind the lobes. "It's okay girl. I've got you. Just breathe."

  Milady latched onto the older woman's voice like a lifeline, drawing in deep breaths and exhaling them as she forced her mind to count one, two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four, and on until she passed ten thousand and the feedback tuned down into mere static that clogged her ears with white noise underneath everything.

  She kept up the accounting until Palmer's soothing voice became the only thing she heard, the whispers and chattering of the other girls drowned out in the focus of numbers and safety. It's okay, she thought. The numbers will steer me right.

  As she focused on breathing, snippets of conversation came slowly into her hearing. Portia’s troubled voice. "I don't know! I was painting her up, and she mentioned a thing about cosmetic nanites, of all things."

  A twitter went through the assembled cabaret girls.

  Palma’s firm tone shut back right down. "You mean medical nanites?"

  "Cosmetic nanites," Portia repeated. "Ridiculous, I know. Then I remembered that I'd heard of them before, a few years back when the Princess —" Portia broke off. "I, uh, said the name of the princess and Milady just — lost it. I can't explain."

  Palma snorted. "If that's who I think it is, I hear tell she has that effect on a lot of people.” Palma's tone took a decidedly disapproving turn.

  Milady lifted her head "she's not — she's not that bad —"

  One of the other cabaret girls murmured. “Is Milady--a Royal fan?"

  Milady heard the girl’s costume beads clacking together as her companion whacked her in the arm. "Okay! I doubt that the most important thing to discuss right now.”

  The first girl sniffed. "Some people would say it's the most important thing to discuss at any time."

  "Some people," the second girl said, "are dim."

  Palma shut it down. "All right you all, go on. She's coming back."

  Milady heard the shuffling of feet as the girls exited the room and she was left alone with Portia and Palma. Palma spoke again. "Milady, honey? How's your head?"

  Milady breathed deep one last time, then lifted her head. Afterimages flashed in front of her eyes as if she'd been dazzled by the stones and gems on her own costume. She pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose. "I'll be okay, just something made my head scream again."

  "You were acting like cosmetic nanites were no big deal," Portia said. "I'm thinking you need a set of medical nanites. If Blue Star is paying you enough to afford them, I’d get them right away. But that's just me."

  "Nobody here can afford medical nanites," Palma said sharply. “Although I hear tell that there are some places down in the sublevels of Landfall where you can get them, if you know the right people. Not sure I trust ‘em, though."

  From the hallway, a drinks girl who’d been in the back of the cluster spoke up. “Does she have a neural?”

  “A neural what?” Portia asked.

  The girl stepped further into the room and glanced from Palma to Milady. She seemed familiar, but so did all the drinks girls, and the dancers, and the other techs. Not all were on a first-name basis with her, but she passed them all in corridors and staff residence decks, and spotted them in employee rec rooms.

  “A neural interface. It’s like an info-slate in your brain.”

  Milady kept her lips sealed and gl
anced at Palma. It’s a possibility, her raised eyebrows said. Palma frowned. “She’s an engineer. Putting an info-slate in her brain’d be redundant.” Palma lifted Milady’s chin and looked her in the eyes. "Your noggin done being scrambled, girl?"

  Milady nodded. "I am. I can do it." she pushed to her feet, only stumbling a little. At least null-grav didn't require the ridiculously high heels that some of the cabaret performances demanded. "But I am going to look at that leg of yours after this performance, Portia. I don't think I want to do this again."

  Eight

  Kella had kept her ears as open as her cleavage. Snippets of conversation trickled in – mostly about the coronation, – and she used her brand-new neural interface to record and analyze. Most of the recordings weren’t quality enough to risk blowing her cover, but they did provide her the detailed notes for write-ups that she worked on long past the end of her shifts as a drinks girl and well into what should have been her beauty sleep.

  Still, if it brought the reclusive Thann Zalco out out of hiding it just make her night, and it might make her career, too.

  Don’t get cocky, she heard her mentor’s voice in her head. Get the story.

  Jaris Pulne was right. Cocky turned the attention onto you, and not the people you were tracking. Her articles might have had a hand in turning certain events on the Imperial stage in favor of a certain young lord of a noble house, but she’d be a fool to claim all the credit. Just because you’ve got one noble ally doesn’t get you an invite to their parties.

  She spotted the old Trustee man--Garibaldi--in the crowd a number of times and always avoided him. Even when the aforementioned grandson was at his side. And wow, what a grandson he was. Tall, muscular, with a ruggedly swarthy complexion that only made his dark, penetrating eyes more compelling…

  Thank the Torch she could splice neural video footage and speculation on who the compelling stranger might be in her sleep. Or rather, in five minutes during a ‘fresher break. She whisked the puff piece off as part of her Coronation coverage for the Royal Tattler. Pulne’s response a few moments later made her smile.

  Is that the best you can do? Second cousin off the main trunk of House Tinavra.

  She sent back a tart response. You want to switch places with me and shoot champagne out of your tits to get the gossip?

  Get me a candid of the Emperor, and I’ll shoot champagne out of my tits without needing the costume.

  Kella’s snort echoed through the ‘fresher cubicle. Outside, another girl banged on the door. “Hey, hurry up in there!” Kella scooted out, still grinning, even under the glare of a fellow drinks girl who shoved her aside in desperation.

  All things considered, any gossip or information at all about the Coronation Anniversary was guaranteed to bring eyeballs in onto the Royal Tattler's feed. The Anniversary was high excitement – the culmination of 30 years of rule of house law and the House Ra’s first anniversary celebration. There were the boring political analyses of the House’s first generation of rule, speculation on the direction the House wished to take the government, and of course, who’d be named heir--as if there were more than one choice. That’d be something, if the Emperor named his daughter instead of his son, she thought. Something not bloody likely.

  There was also a much juicier side of things. Who attended which ball with whom, which Houses were allied, and which House heirs cast longing looks in the direction of someone not on their alliance shortlist. Ordinary people couldn’t control much about Magnus Ra’s Imperial choices, but they loved a good pile of dirt on the people around him. The Tattler made most of its money on all the delightful dirt kicked up by the Emperor’s daughter, but Kella had branched out to grow the feed’s readership from a focus on the princess to a focus on a number of other young “movers and shakers” in the world of the nobility. She’d already bet her career and her livelihood on one of those young Scion-candidates staging a real upset in the noble world.

  But star-crossed, romantic tales were her personal favorite. They also seem to appeal to her core readership, and Kella was learning to listen to her readers as much as they listened to her. Kella took the opportunity to refill her champagne tanks during an intermission between shows when she caught a snippet of conversation about Zalco Stardrives between two of the stationary bartenders. “Did you say Zalco Stardrives?”

  Rashid, darkly handsome and very popular with the older ladies, turned his class-five supernova smile on her. “Indeed, Lovely. Once the Imperial entourage has boarded, Quantum will be making the Lunar Spiral.”

  His companion interjected. “That’s a gravitational maneuver.”

  Kella’s expression flattened. “You don’t say. And here I thought we were parked out here around Hareem for the health benefits.”

  Rashid smirked at his partner’s chagrin. “Dated a space jock, have you, Lovely?” He began to polish one of the bar glasses with a snowy towel.

  More like written their obituaries after their stunts don’t go as planned. She turned her lips upward. “You might say I’m familiar with what powers their personal stardrives. The Lunar Spiral uses all four moons’ gravitational influences to ride a wave from Landfall to Yelena at the L4 LaGrange point. It’s the fastest way to--” She was about to say it was the fastest way to escape Yelena when done in reverse, but she stopped herself. Only Shapers want to “escape” Yelena. “It’s the fastest way to get from Landfall to Yelena.”

  Rashid’s partner spoke up. “If you’ve got the perfect stardrive. Something goes wrong, the gravity slingshot stalls, and you end up a sitting cluckbird, hoping there’s a friendly mining tug passing by to set you back to rights.”

  “And if that should happen when Emperor Magnus and the Queen are on board…” Rashid’s grin turned into a grimace.

  “We’ll all look like cluckbirds,” his companion finished, emphasizing his point by setting the rack of glasses he’d been carrying down on the bar with a rattle.

  “Look like? We’ll all be cluckbirds,” Kella said. “Trussed up and roasted on open-flame spits, for good measure.” There were few patrons in this little side lounge, with the bulk of them jockeying for good seats for the upcoming show, but a steady stream of drinks girls, wait staff, and hosts passed through in both directions.

  Kella was less than enthralled about that particular aspect of the trip — she was a planet dweller, and proud to stay that way. When space jocks got cocky they did stupid things and people ended up decompressed. “I gather Blue Star Lines is ensuring that cluckbird is only on the menu and not on the travel itinerary?” Still, she was after the story. “And that Zalco Stardrives is part of that insurance?”

  Rashid tapped the side of his nose. “Indeed. Word is, they’re sending someone high-level to retro-fit a critical engine system. Today. I wonder who it is.”

  Kella grinned. “I bet I know. And I’ll tell you if you promise to tip me off when he shows up.”

  Rashid’s partner leaned in. “You know something.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “I know a lot more than people give me credit for.” She motioned to her costume. “This isn’t just window dressing over an empty room, you know.”

  If there were space jocks and Zalco Stardrives involved, that meant one particular Zalco space jock who maybe couldn't resist the idea of emerging from his self-imposed exile to play with the engines of the largest cruise ship in the system.

  “Tell us, and we’ll track his every move. You looking to score a paramour?”

  “Pfft.” She rolled her eyes. “Not this one. There’s a reason why he’s been out at the edge of the N’Tar Cloud where only miners and pirates lurk.”

  Rashid set down the glass he’d been redundantly polishing and leaned forward. “Tell. All of it.”

  Kella grinned. “I wasn’t exactly there when the scandal first broke between House Zalco and House Michado, but I’ve seen the fallout.” Some would say that fallout was shaping the very landscape of the Empire itself. She didn't know if she’d go that far, but
she wouldn't rule it out either.

  The tray of glasses lay on the bar, forgotten as both Rashid and his partner cozied up to her. “Spit it out, girl.”

  Kella glanced from one to the other, making sure they were both focused on her. “Once upon a time, Thann Zalco and Meiji Michado were a power couple to rival the princess herself. Everyone thought the alliance was in the bag. Nobody on the Probabilities Exchange would even think of taking an entry where Zalco-Michado didn’t play out. According to all the top-notch trade houses and every broker out there, it was a Sure Thing.” She glanced at the two men again, and noticed that she’d earned a few more faces in her little audience. “Until the morning of the pronunciation, when it wasn’t.”

  She expected gasps, but nobody here was from the nobility, so she filled in the blanks. “The Trust rejected the alliance, forever forbidding the power couple--and their Houses--from ever forming an alliance.” She leaned forward. “Something in that database of theirs said the alliance was rotten, and everyone was dying to know whether it was from Zalco or Michado...but we never found out.”

  “No!” Rashid exaggerated his reaction. “But so what?”

  “Not long after, Meiji Michado disappeared! Right off the side of the Imperial House’s skyboat! It was a scandal even bigger than the usual ones from Princess Ione. Meiji disappeared and Thann was devastated. He set out for the Cloud shortly after. His family all but disowned him--oh, they still admit he’s the fourth son, but they withdrew him from alliance eligibility and as far as the Probabilities Markets go, he doesn’t even have a Social Capital entry anymore. Nobody’s expecting anything from him.”

  Rashid’s partner put a hand on his chest. “He’ll die alone and unmourned.”

  Rashid snorted. “Or maybe the guy just had to get a job like the rest of us.”