Excerpt
In the 14th reign of Queen Victoria, the British Empire stretched from Earth to the Rings of Epsilon, and beyond. Even a tiny moon like Wendover was not immune to the spread of empire—not when its lush jungles held treasures beyond imagination.
Or might, at any rate. Jessamyn Pershing was not so sure.
She rested her chin in her gloved hand and squinted out the plas-glass window at the dense foliage outside. An odd violet light lay over everything—the dimness that passed for night here on Wendover. She wished she could see the stars. On the passage out, the bright points of light had seemed like promises, scattered across the universe. Now they were hidden, occluded by an atmosphere of bruised photons.
Jess was equally fascinated and repulsed by the alien jungle, the close, moist air, the overpowering smell of rotting vegetation that permeated every molecule of recirculated oxygen. But it was alive. Far preferable to the sterile habitat, the curving walls that had sheltered and constrained her since their arrival one week ago.
Behind her, a handful of couples turned and wove in the formal patterns of a quadrille. By London standards, this Welcome Ball was a dismal event.
"Dance, Jess," her mother, Lady Pershing said, pausing beside the window. "As the daughter of the outpost's commander, you must set a good example. Accept the next gentleman who approaches you."
Jess let out an invisible sigh. There were a handful of minor peers among the employees of the British Universal Company, but she did not consider any of them gentlemen.
Still, she should count herself lucky that there were eligible young men here on Wendover. Her cousin Mary frequently pinged her long, anguished communications bemoaning the utter lack of romantic prospects on the desert planet where her own father was posted.
Jess's mother was staring at her, dark eyes impatient.
"Very well," Jess said. "I will dance."
She scanned the figures standing within the curved walls of the ballroom, hoping to catch Derek Goodwin's eye. Of all the Company men, he was the kindest. The least taxing. Not the best dancer, but she was nimble enough for both of them.
A tall, silent figure snagged her attention—the impassive Yxleti ambassador, a requirement of every British outpost. The creature kept to itself, but it was always watching from its fathomless black eyes. Its respirator obscured most of its face, but Jess had seen pictures of a Yxleti's thin nostril slit, the mouth formed of sucker-like appendages. Her shoulders prickled, and she turned her head away.
A servbot coasted past, bearing a tray of ratafia, and Jess snatched up a glass. She despised the sweet drink, but it would keep her hands occupied. Perhaps it would make her appear too busy to engage in dancing.
"Miss Pershing," said a voice at her shoulder. "May I have the pleasure of the next dance?"
Jess pasted a smile on her face and turned. "Good evening, Mr. Smith."
She desperately wanted to make some excuse. Of all the men in the room, Nathaniel Smith was the one she least wanted to dance with. The Company botanist was too handsome for his own good—and hers. But her mother was watching, so Jess keyed his name into her dance card. Worse luck yet, the next dance was a waltz.
