“Their resources are the only valuable thing about that mudball. Though I admit their females have a kind of fleshy aesthetic appeal. Perhaps we should acquire one while the market remains unregulated.”
I maintain my professional demeanor while my rage bubbles beneath the surface.
When the guests depart, Lira looks at me with concern. “I can’t apologize for every guest, and I wish I didn’t have to tell you that you'll probably hear worse. Many guests will assume you haven't been given a Reima Two translator and that you only speak Imperial. So, they’ll speak freely in their own language and activate Imperial to be broadcast on their translator when conversing with you. Denise and Yasmin asked Dr. Veil to?—”
“No,” I say firmly, interrupting her. “There’s a certain pleasure I will take in serving guests who think humans aren’t fit for the job I’m doing for them.”
“Good. That’s the best way to look at it.”
We don't get to finish our conversation. The front desk becomes busy, and the shift progresses with me absorbing more protocols, practicing greetings, and handling guest inquiries under Lira's guidance. By the time our replacement team arrives, I’m more than ready to call it a day. My mind has been overloaded with information, and my emotions have been rubbed raw from the constant reminders of humanity's low status in the galaxy.
“You did well today,” Lira says as we prepare to leave. “The Sovereigns will be pleased.”
“Will they?”
“Yes. And the more you work, the better you’ll be able to field the slights better than I can protect you because I can’t gauge when they’re coming.”
“What do you mean?”
“The more you work, the more you’ll develop a look that says, don’t-you-dare-call-me-a-human-companion and guests will pick up on it.” She then adds when I don’t reply, “I have a don’t-you-dare-comment-on-a-woman-working-off-planet look. When I first started, men used to say the most horrible things to me because they could. A lot ofthem carry resentment about the matriarchy, and they’d never be permitted to talk to a woman on-planet as some of them have taken the liberty to do off-planet. I know this pales in comparison to your situation, but I hope you’ll see the same change.”
“Was it the same for Denise?”
“No, but she wasn’t you. And between you and me,” Lira says conspiratorially, “I think she enjoyed being admired by guests as more of a companion than a receptionist.”
“I hope you’re right,” I say, but at the same time I wonder if that was really the case or if Denise just found it easier to go with the status quo.
As we part ways, I wonder how much the Sovereigns are paying Lira to work off-planet and if this is something that she wanted. Or, like me, was seduced by the prospect of more money.
There is so much I don’t know about the galaxy and its cultures.
Alone in my suite, I sit down at my desk and try to quiet all the echoes of the day in my head:
“Does the human speak?”
“Is she a gift to the guests?”
“Can she be programmed as a bed companion?”
It was all dehumanizing and I can’t help but wonder if it would have been worse if I hadn’t been wearing the Venus Lock.
On impulse, I access my computer’s search function and I type “Denise Donaldson” into the search field, expecting to be blocked.
To my surprise, several files appear. Most are locked, but one personnel record is accessible, likely an oversight in security protocols. I open it, and my heart begins to race.
The screen displays two images side by side. The first shows Denise in a Celestial Spire uniform identical to mine. She appears just as Iremembered her—late twenties, wavy blonde hair, and dark eyes that crinkle at the corners. Her posture conveys confidence, professionalism, and clearly a woman who took pride in her work.
The second image stops me dead.
It shows the same woman, but transformed. She kneels naked except for an elaborately jeweled collar. Her hair has been styled in an ornate arrangement designed for visual impact rather than comfort. But it's her expression that horrifies me most—blank submission that erases any trace of the confident professional from the first image.
The file designation reads:
How did she go from employee to companion in just a few years? What happened to her here? I search for more information, but I can’t find anything useful except for this public file.
I switch off my terminal as if whatever happened to Denise is contagious and look out at the twin moons thinking about the conflicting stories Dr. Veil and Lira have told me.
It occurs to me; I know someone who will know exactly what happened to Denise. I spring up and rummage through my wanna-be Chloé handbag to find the square black card Cal gave me. Then, I ask the computer how to use it.
