That’s how I find myself now, gawking at the girl I usually make an effort to avoid, but only because I like what I see: Glacia’s silky blue dress—no doubt fashioned by her mother—flutters to the floor. Her eyes glitter between two locks of dark-blonde hair dangling in front of her ears, while the rest of her hair drops over the dark crimson shawl draped around her shoulders.

What am I doing? I tear my eyes away. That dress is a disguise. Under it, she’s still the same Hologis addict who asks too many questions.

The banquet hall is on Floor 50 of the Crown. Holographic pictures of landscapes from around Undil shimmer on the walls of the corridor leading to it. In one scene, mesas rise from the desert. In another, golden dunes ripple endlessly toward the horizon, sand trails whipping from their tops in a battering wind. Yet another picture shows Undil’s only ocean with sand dunes looming in the distance beyond the shoreline.

Inside the banquet hall, Recruits and Officials occupy dozens of circular tables, talking amongst themselves like they’ve known each other for years. Most are my age or a little older, and some are as old as Ellin, John, and Michael. I sit next to a guy who’s rambling away with another Recruit. Thick curls of light ginger hair bounce on top of his head, and he pays no attention when I take my seat.

Just as I’m getting settled, Glacia slides into the chair beside me, as if my short-lived attention gave her permission to follow me around everywhere.

I ignore her and pretend to listen to the two guys. When I sneak a glance back, Glacia is examining the table’s centerpiece, a glass prism carved in the shape of the Undil Embassy crest.

Chefs donning silver hats stream out of the kitchens and wind their way around the room. Each carries a tarnished platter of food imported from around the galaxy. Crisp crustaceans caught in the seas of the planet Daliona are tossed into leafy salads, marmalade oozes over slabs of Killari steak from Yillos, and seasoning from Rygin peppers the vegetables grown on Artaans. Carrots, potatoes, beans, and rice sizzle in their trays. My nostrils flare, inhaling the aromas of those savory juices.

I slice some steak and drop it on my plate, then choose a drink from an assortment of glass pitchers. There’s Glycate Fizz, Marl Blend, and even Glowbull, a soda that coats your teeth in a phosphorescent film that glows blue in the dark.