“What’s this?” I ask, pointing to the suit. Because I’ve never seen anything like it. Typically I wear a gray, bespoke business suit with skinny trousers, a hip-length jacket, and a shirt of contrasting color—typically light blue. On my feet I wear simple black shoes with soft soles. If it’s a ceremonial occasion, such as today, I also carry a weapon and wear a black sash with white tassels.

This suit consists of tight black trousers and a black, double-breasted jacket with military buttons that look like ruby coins. The ceremonial ornaments are also unusual, a red sash with dark gray tassels, and off to the side are highly-polished, black, knee-high boots.

“Where did this even come from?” I ask.

The tailor blabbers and jabbers on about… something. Presumably the suit. And I realize there’s not going to be any conversation. It’s do-as-you’re-told time.

I put it on with the tailor’s help and he makes little adjustments with his fabric laser, tucking in the waist and giving me more room in the shoulders.

I stand, looking in the mirror. And then he comes at me with a… a crown.

“What the hell is that?” I ask, taking a few steps back.

Again, there’s jabbering in another language.

“Can you get my father?” I ask.

“No,” the little tailor man says. “You’re late. Put it on.” He has a very thick accent but his words are clear. “Face the mirror.” Then he pulls out a rolling step stool and climbs up to position the crown on my head.

What the fuck is going on here? Since when does the governor’s son wear a crown?

“There,” the tailor says.

I stare at myself in the mirror, barely recognizing the eyes staring back.

And then I notice the people coming up behind me and turn.

“Sir Crux, this way, please. Everyone is waiting.”

Sir? I wonder silently.

What the fuck is going on?

I’m led out of the apartments, flanked on each side by three unfamiliar soldiers, also wearing this new uniform, and up several levels to the ballroom. But they whisk me right past the large front entrance as more unfamiliar people whisper behind their hands.

We walk quickly down a long, side corridor and stop at a door.

It opens. A woman is there. Also weird. Because other than the sex bots on X level and the princess and her entourage of sisters, there are no women on Wayward Station.

“Oh,” this woman coos. “You are quite spectacular. Come, everyone is waiting.”

“Who are you again?”

She looks over her shoulder at me. Tight smile. No teeth. Then looks forward again without answering. We stop at a red and black curtain and she turns, pausing for a moment to suck in a breath of air like she’s got a lot to say.

And she does. “I’m told you can follow instructions. Is that true?”

“Sure,” I say.

“Good. On my signal, the curtain will open. Walk through. Enter the ballroom, stopping in the center. The princess is waiting for you. Bow. Not too low, not too high. Then take her hand. The music will begin and then you dance.”

“Dance?” I say, as she raises one arm into the air.

“Now,” she says, dropping her arm like she’s starting a race.

“What the fuck is going on?”

She glares at me, then growls, “Follow. Instructions,” between her clenched teeth.

I sigh and walk forward into the ballroom—which has been transformed into some kind of hellish black and red nightmare of floor-to-ceiling nyla-silk banners. There is an oval of people. On one side the Cygnians are all dressed in gold and white. On the other, the Akeelians are all dressed in black and red.

And standing in the center of the room is Princess Corla, frowning in her stunning silver and pink gown.

I walk forward, drawn to her. Eager to do my part and take her hand. Something comes over me, some kind of trance-like state and I get tunnel vision.

I don’t remember bowing, but I must, because she bows back. And then I’m reaching for her, my fingertips pulsating with the anticipation of taking of her hand.

And when they touch the room lights up like the sun.

No. She lights up like the sun.

And my whole body responds with an electric shock that flows down into the floor and shakes the walls of the ballroom.

And then everyone begins to clap and cheer.

CHAPTER FIVE

After I introduce ourselves to the sex bot called Xyla, we take off our suits and hang them up in the lockers. My first impression of ALCOR Station is that it’s dark. Also empty. Also silent, except for the constant hum of cleaning servos bustling along the floor.

“This place really is abandoned,” I say, leading my troop of friends as I follow Xyla down a… walkway, I guess you’d call it. Only it’s wide. Wide like thirty meters across. And it’s just one level among hundreds of levels. It’s sliced down the middle by an open-air space with some kind of clear plasti-glass acting as walls along the edge, and occasionally there are bridges leading across, or people mover-type things that crisscross up and down, leading to higher or lower levels.

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