“Such things are not unheard of,” her present self said. “It is not impossible. The more important question is, however, is it likely? There are no records of an Empress sending heirs off-planet without their knowledge for tests disguised as something else.”

Atlanta tried not to be discouraged by this. Every Empress or Emperor, according to the history books, had improvised or changed things at least once. And it was rumored that the current one was more progressive, that in her youth she had questioned policies and criticized issues, for all that she seemed to have fallen into line since ascending the throne close to 150 years ago.

That was the other thing. Atlanta did know she was the youngest heir. She’d appreciated that because it had, at least, let her know that no one younger than she was her rival. As the youngest, she was the least tested, the least tried.

And that in itself was discouraging as well. She was the least likely to be tapped to replace the Empress. When the transition occurred to whomever the Empress actually picked as her successor, Atlanta would be set aside. She would stay at court, become part of that pointless mob whose main existence was simply to cloak the presence of the actual heirs among them.

No, surely all of this was a test. A game. A means to prove herself. She said to her advisors, “The captain has not told me her plan yet for when we arrive.”

“Which is soon,” the self her own age said. “Perhaps she will do it today.”

“Just ask,” her child-self said. “It’s your right to know. And you will be able to serve it better if you know what she intends. The sooner, the better. Perhaps go now.”

The bakka stood silent, patting its nose with a reflective paw.

To one side, a bubble contained her view of the room in which her body sat. It pinged and flashed violet to show something was happening that she might want to pay attention to.

The door finished opening, and a biomachine came in. One of the ones operated directly by the ship. It looked like a small, squat barrel covered with a barklike olive skin in whose crevices a golden, softer skin was visible, expanding slightly when the machine breathed. It moved on four legs above which it had a matching four arms set at regular intervals.

Currently two of these carried a small tray with a cup of steaming liquid and a plate of cookies that smelled of sugar and cinnamon.

“These are baked,” the ship’s voice said in the bubble. “That is, exposed to a contained heat of a specified and constant temperature until the entirety experiences a chemical reaction. Dabry informs me part of the aesthetic experience is to consume them while they are still within the optimal temperature range. You are to alternate consumption with drinks of this beverage, which is called black tea.”