Robbie Cutter

“Not much fun, is it?”

Lathe thought nothing of the inquiry at first. She was perpetually processing a few hundred conversations at once, and this was no exception. The Regents of the House of Lugh had crammed a few hundred of their best and brightest into this manor–the name in the guest book was some House Minor she’d never heard of and didn’t care to investigate–so they might be a flock of cackling magpies in porcelain masks. Just the ceiling painting–a fairly boilerplate depiction of the Empress’ apotheosis at Resplendent Kitezh, doves and whales and harsh non-Euclidean geometry erupting from the green waters behind Her throne–must have been worth more than Lathe’s Captain took home in a standard solar cycle. Security jobs were easy ducats, though, and she’d be thankful for a quiet gig after the action on Lucretia. Less men dying in her arms this time.

She was going back to her pint when she heard it again.

“Well? Not much fun, is it?”

For whatever reason, amidst this crowd of decadents, all free to worship no other altar than hedonism after the great renouncement of the Godhead that was the Heresy, Lathe Monaghan was beginning to suspect she was being addressed.

“Sorry, I’m not sure I–oh!”

Lathe turned and felt her already stress-blitzed neurons begin to snuff out one by one. The officer addressing her had a Commodore’s pips, not quite full Admiralty but well on her way. Chest candy was nothing to scoff at, either; Lathe spotted an Iridian Rostrum of Service decorating the Commodore’s dress uniform, so this was a Whaler’s Whaler. Pure soldier, a woman who had been on the top decks staring the Enemy in the eye.

Not that Lathe was looking at her chest.

Evidently, the Commodore had noticed Lathe’s widened eyes, her agape jaw. She smiled, the scarring trailing up to her bionic right eye lending strange, raw comfort to her warmth. “You can relax, privateer. I’m not interested in seeing you stand at attention for the moment. I can’t promise Lord Kutuzov will agree with my informality, but you’re a guest same as the rest of us as far as I care.”

By the Deep…

“Yeah, umm–” Lathe said, and pretended to cough. “I’m still not sure what you mean, ma’am.”

The Commodore gave a polite laugh, suave and short through closed lips. Her dress uniform and cloak were dark blue with yellow accents, dark as the black beyond the generation ship’s walls, but she radiated almost calculated warmth. “Forgive my terrible lack of clarity. Well, if at first you don’t succeed, as the trite turns of Kitezh phrase go,” she brushed a loose thread of hair from her face, copper red with lavish streaks of gray tightly braided at the back while leaving some volume at the front, “Drinking alone? I imagine it’s rubbish.”

Lathe tried finding her composure in her pint, which was of course a genius idea–the only kind she ever had. She slurped. “It’s not bad, ma’am.”