To Falise’s amazement, a line of armored marines—facing outward—had weapons at port arms as if to guard the approach to the gate. And then she fixed on the lone woman standing in front of the main gate. Dressed in what Falise understood to be a quetzal-hide cloak, knee-high boots, a Donovanian-style wide-brimmed hat, and wearing a chamois leather shirt and britches, she held a battered looking and polished rifle at the ready. At first glance, Falise took her to be some genetically engineered caricature of a woman. The oddly proportioned face and too-large eyes, they sent a shiver of unease through Falise’s blood. Something about the musculature, the almost feral grace, bespoke an alien quality. And danger. The woman narrowed those oversized eyes, was giving Falise—in her flaring and glowing luminous gown—a distasteful appraisal. The alien bitch’s mouth pressed into a thin line, and a muted chuckle trapped in her throat.

The woman said, “You’ve got to be Falise. Bit overdressed, don’t you think?”

“You will address me as Lady. And whatever license you might think you—”

“Lady? We’re in the middle of a quetzal alert, so you’ll get your bright-orange ass through that gate and follow directions on the way to the cafeteria so that we know for a fucking fact that you’re not being eaten alive. Now, move it!”

Falise, started, stunned that anyone let alone this comically dressed cartoon figure of a woman . . .

“Lady?” Ednund whispered in her ear, taking her arm. “Let us not make a spectacle that the others can use against us. Rather, let us deal with this in our own way, in our own time.”

“Yeah, try it, pretty boy,” the Donovanian muttered. “Now, move it, you’re holding up the freak show.” The tone she used was absolutely intolerable. But how could she have heard Ednund’s barely uttered words?

Falise made her hand sign for agreement, and forcibly ignored the woman, striking forward on her elevated translucent shoes, raising her hem so that they reflected the auburn light from her dress. Not that walking wasn’t a challenge. Dirt! Not even concrete, let alone sialon.

Fuming—and in a rage like she’d never known—Falise stumbled her way forward. A gust of wind blew her glowing tangerine hem up past her knees and whipped it around. She stumbled, clutching at the light fabric of her gown. Strands of her perfectly coiffed hair were torn loose, flapping in the breeze. She would have fallen but for Ednund’s quick hand on her elbow.

“Steady, lady. Steady,” he told her.