The critic’s body was a curvaceous female, Terran classic. Top-of-the-line one, made with quality material and beautifully kept: skin tender and pale, brilliant turquoise eyes, golden hair streaked with blue and white pulled up in a chignon in order to bare a neck draped with a few careless curls. Meticulous was the first word that came to Niko’s mind.

Lassite appeared out of nowhere, it seemed, and bowed gravely toward the woman. “May I lead you to your table, madam?” he asked in a tone that somehow managed to convey pleasure in her presence and gratitude for it.

Niko gave praise to Sky Momma for the recent training. Maybe there’s hope for this meal.

She drifted in the pair’s wake as Lassite led the critic toward the table that had been selected for her. Blue ghosts writhed across the ceiling as she walked, making the silverware gleam, the glow cubes take on a lapis hint from time to time. Lolola looked at them but did not, as many did, reach out to touch any when they slid through the air near her.

Lassite pulled the chair out for the critic, waiting until she was fully seated before handing her the menu. He paused to adjust the salt and pepper shakers on the center, a minute gesture conveying an infinite world of care. Priests had a sense of theater; the little Sessile was no exception.

As Lassite moved away from the table, Thorn was there immediately, filling the water glass and bowing before stepping back to disappear again. Niko relaxed, watching the well-rehearsed ballet. She’d match her team against any in the universe, whether it was in battle or the execution of an exquisite meal.

Jakka presented herself, an elegant shadow in the gray Last Chance wait uniform, ready to take the drink order. A back and forth, two questions from the critic, a gentle nod from the Dlin before she glided toward the bar and her fellow Dlin, Brineke, behind it.

Lolola studied the menu.

Niko had gotten real paper for this night’s menu rather than the usual paper-textured plas. That had meant going out to the Sprawl at the edges of the station, where artisans made such things, most of them for sale for tourists. Dabry had written out a dozen of them in his careful penmanship, using an ancient fountain pen he’d produced from nowhere, much like the eggplant. The result was a pretty thing, Niko had to admit. She tried not to stare now to see the critic’s reaction, but rather moved around the room, adjusting a few tables and clearing another.

Jakka returned to the table carrying a drink, a multilayered thing that gleamed in the ghost light. Dlin were graceful by nature, gesture part of their language, and Jakka’s grace was a deadly one, capable of a spinning flurry of shots, all the while moving. Now she smiled and handed the drink to Lolola.