“Lovely,” I say, “to see you, too, dear sister. Cut me a break, okay? My shuttle just docked an hour ago.”
Fiona snorts haughtily and surveys my room. The room is small and economical, crammed away in a far arm of Sector A like an afterthought. A lot like me. I suspect that my father forgot to reserve quarters for me, and that someone installed a bathroom in a closet only a day before my shuttle arrived, and probably only because my mother threw a fit.
Not because she really cares, but because of how it wouldlookif I had to be stashed in an economy sector.
“But thatiswhat you’re wearing,” Fiona says, with a disapproving shake of her long mane and a roll of her eyes skyward.
“I’m space-lagged, Fi, and I don’t even want to be here,” I snarl, rifling through the contents of my suitcase, which are scattered all over the bed. “So just be happy I’m even wearing a dress.”
Another haughty snort.
“It’smade,” Fiona sniffs disdainfully, “ofcloth.”
She’s still on my dress.
“Actually, Fiona,” I say, pushing my still un-coiffed hair from my face. I’m sweating a little, entirely caused by stress—Fiona standing around in my ‘room’ with her ice-blue eyes judging everything with icy criticism. “It’s made of single-filament titanium fiber. So fuck off.”
I look at her to see how this went over. Her arms fold across her chest and her left eyebrow arches as she assesses the dull gold (polymer, not titanium) dress with renewed interest.
“Hmm,” she comments. Then she steps forward to touch it.
I slap her hand away. “Hands off!”
“It’s still just so… boring,” she retorts. “I have loads of extras. This is a very big deal.”
I stand up straight, letting out an exasperated sigh, and turn to her.
Fiona is almost six feet tall, and she’s the sort of well-sculpted skinny that trophy wives confer upon precisely half of their progeny. She also inherited every other possible trophy-wife trait my mother possessed: a tiny upturned nose, plump lips, big blue eyes, full boobs where the only fat in her body resides.
My mother also gifted her a terribly snotty, boring coolness that reeks of wealth.I’m talking to you,Fi always seems to be saying,but it’s frankly beneath me.
I, on the other hand, am not a goddess at all. I’m average height, average build, and decent-looking. My hair is blonde, but a reddish shade, and my eyes are… well, gray. Errant flecks of yellow and brown speckle them the way errant freckles speckle my skin. I look a little bit like an unfinished version of Fiona. Like someone ran out of the good paint, and had zero varnish to polish it off.
Whatever. Fiona is a dizzy bimbo and I wish her all the best in her life as an intergalactic socialite twat. From the pool of genetic material available, I drew what I tell myself were more important qualities: I have a brain, a heart, and a fucking personality.
However, in the world of trans-system mineral speculation tycoons, appearances are (evidently) a big deal. A show of family values, my father says, demonstrates trustworthiness to some of the more conservative species.
Or barbaric clans. Take your pick of descriptor.
The point is, whatever rare-species, gold-infused dresses that Fiona has ‘loads of’ will look idiotic on me. Too tight, too long, too obviously tailored for a paper doll and not a human being.
“Thank you, Fi,” I say sweetly. It’s my new tactic with her. Overloading the sugar until she gets sick and leaves me alone. “I really appreciate it. I simply don’t have time.”
She sniffs. “Well, at least do something with yourhair.I have a marvelous robot—”
“Fi.”
“—or you could use one of those… what are they called? The wig-skin things. I never use them, myself, I just have some. You could have a lighter color of hair—well, no, that really wouldn’t suit that color.” She frowns. “It’s just that… the dress is almost thesame coloras your hair, Anya.”
She says this like I have murdered a baby.
“Okay. Whatever,” I say.
Fiona’s eyes pop out of her head, and she claps her hands together with glee. “Really?” she squeals.
And she’s gone, before I have time to stop her.
* * *
