Miles shrugged.  "I've seen a fair number of worlds, met a lot of people.  Encountered a variety of systems.  I've seen worse.  Granted, Jacksons' Whole, which is run by what are in effect high-tech warlords and their thugs, has a certain refreshing straightforwardness about its corruption.  They don't have to pretend their evil is good in order to sell it to voters."

"Let me tell you, young man—the dirty little secret of democracy is that just because you get a vote, doesn't mean you get your choice."  She sighed.  "Though up till twenty, thirty years ago, it wasn't so bad, here.  There were hundreds and hundreds of cryocorps, all run by different people with different ideas, so their vote bags offset each other.  Then some of them grew big enough to start gobbling up the others.  Not because it was good for Kibou, or for their cryo-patrons, or for anyone but their top men in the grip of their greed, but just because they could.  Nowadays it's down to half a dozen big corps that control most everything, plus a few scattered holdouts too small to matter."

"Jin called you Suze the Secretary," said Miles slowly.  "What are you secretary of?"

Her lined face, briefly animated by her anger, grew more closed.  "This place, once.  It was a closely-held family corp, and I was executive secretary to our chief.  Then we were bought out—swallowed up and stripped.  Not because the buyer wanted us, but because they wanted to eliminate us."

"Who bought it out?  WhiteChrys, by chance?"

Suze shook her head.  "No, Shinkawa Perpetual.  WhiteChrys got them later, though."  A twisted smile suggested she thought this justice was cosmic, if a little too late.

"But how did you end up living in this shell?"

"A lot of us lost our jobs then, you know.  No golden tram rides to retirement for mere employees.  We had to go somewhere."  She hesitated.  "Other folks drifted in later."

"Executive secretary, huh?  I guess you would know where all the bodies were buried."

She cast him a sharp look—what, frightened?  This tough, haggish creature?  But before Miles could pursue this line further, Jin banged back in, bearing a laden tray.  It held—besides the promised rolls, redolent of cinnamon, a carton of milk, and two mismatched cups—an entire insulated carafe of coffee.  Miles, proud of his restraint, did not fall on it rabidly, but waited for his hostess to serve him.

She dismayed him with delay by shuffling to her tall cupboard and returning with an unlabeled square glass bottle.  She poured a . . . shot, Miles fancied, into her own cup, and, after a pause, raised her brows at Miles.  "Want any freshener?"

"Er, no thanks.  Just coffee."  It sluiced down his throat, tonic enough all on its own.  Jin sat back on the other swivel chair, contentedly munching rolls and swiveling with a steady squeak-squeak-squeak that made Suze wince and take a long swallow of her doctored drink.