Uwade, concierge and acting receptionist, swiveled to face him. "Mr. Manager, we have a request for a room upgrade. I need approval."
He scanned the papers presented to him and scribbled a signature with his tongue between his lips. "Honeymoon suite for the Appleseeds? Right. Have some roses left on the table, would ya?"
"I already sent them up."
"You're a gem, Uwade." His eyes caught sight of something peeking out from beneath the desk—a squat device, operated by a crank. "And send someone to find Reggie. He needs that hoverjack."
She nodded curtly, rolled up the signed note and sent it zipping into the network of glass tubes at her side. Carl noticed a little stiffness in her posture, an irritated curl in the mouth. He lingered a moment, elbows on the counter. "How're we feeling today?"
"Ah, fine, fine." She flapped a hand, already sensing his worry and batting it down. "I'm only stressed about this conference. These academics are always so condescending, it drives me crazy." Stacking papers briskly with her hand. Tangerine lipstick, new earrings. Carl thought her excuse was probably not the full story. But he knew better than to press.
"Take the high ground, that's what you gotta do," he said. "Keep your chin up."
"Ha! You know I shall." A quick, grateful smile. Then she shooed him away. "Get out of here. We are far too busy for you to stand around jaw- wagging. Go on. Go."
"Okay, okay. Geez." He strolled away, tried to pick up into a jog, but a gloved hand stuck out in front of his chest. "Hey, honey. Got a minute?"
Sasha, Chief Technician. Body like a chewed-up steak, braided white hair, knotted muscle and a whiff of tobacco. Never seen out of a boiler suit. He'd asked her frankly once what year she'd been born, but she only tapped her temple and growled, "Age is a state of mind."
"Glad I caught you. Listen—"
"Walk and talk," he said, beckoning her along. Checked his watch. Seven minutes.
"We need to book in maintenance on the portside engines," she went on, matching his stride. "The fuel economy is rubber-ducked right now. It's like drinking soup with a fork. But this soup is very fucking expensive, you understand me?"
"Sasha. Guests."
"'Scuse me. A lot of money for the fuel. You get it."
"I get it." He nodded. More paperwork. "Write to Kipple. I can book it ahead, but we'll have to put some money aside." Kipple was the overworked and rarely glimpsed hotel administrator who kept things afloat from an office in the basement. Their name brought a twitch of a frown to Sasha's lips.
"Kipple won't like that," she said. "Put my name on it."
"All right! Thanking you." A thwack on the back, and she was away.
It was still early morning, and the mood in the dining room was subdued. Bleary-eyed guests shuffled around, their plates glistening with fresh fruit, fried pastries, breakable cereal cubes molded around a milky core. A harassed-looking sous-chef—Dunkson, or Dunk to his friends, and Dunk was a friend to everybody—waded between the tables, balancing a platter of buttered fish on a forearm tangled over with a confusion of blue-gray tattoos. "Bream?" he called. "Please? Grilled bream?" When a hand shot up to claim it he looked ready to cry with relief.
The starboard wall was made of six-inch glass, tables set in rows of two so couples could toast against the best views in the galaxy. It was at one of these tables that the countess sat.
Adeladia itself was visible below, a misshapen landmass belted in by blood-red oceans and a muddy swirl of cloud, but the countess seemed to have no interest in admiring her territory. She was hawkishly athletic, cropped hair still damp from the pool, done up in designer fishskin sportswear with a glint of bentonite on one slim pinkie. She was dispensing instructions with ticker-tape rapidity, and her assistant, halting and ill-coordinated as a newborn doe, struggled to input everything into a digital planner flipping out from her wrist.
"That facial at three will have to be moved. Call ahead, make sure I get one of those moony girls with the strong hands. I'll not be at the gala till eight. They are not to start the speeches without me there, is that clear? Have my aircar brought round to the front at midnight. My donation check should have leaked online by tomorrow morning at the latest. The latest, Daphne. Need the headline by midday. And straighten your fringe. You don't want that forehead caught on camera." A pause at last, as she threw a thimbleful of black coffee down her throat. Carl saw steam rising from the espresso cup and surmised that the countess's insides were lined with Kevlar. "Gah." She puckered. "Machine-ground."
"Good palate," said Carl, choosing that moment to amble to her side. "Thank you for the feedback, Countess. Next time you visit us I'll be sure to mince some beans up personally."
The assistant gaped, visibly mortified, one hand poised to tug at the puff of hair above her eyes. But the countess was unruffled. She looked him up and down, and asked coolly, "I'm sorry, who are you?"
"The name's Carl. I manage this joint, believe it or not." Hands in pockets, he smiled down at her and thought: Lady you wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire. "I'm sorry to bother your at breakfast. We've got a little pickle out in the lobby. See, your flyby's still pulled up on the slipway."
