“Yep.” She walked over to the bar and came back with glasses and a jug of ice. She sat down cross-legged at the other side of the sofa and poured a glassful of chocolate liqueur for herself, pretending not to notice Frank’s mock shudder. “You weren’t at dinner.”

“Those fake formal feast clusterfucks don’t do anything for me,” he announced. “They’re there to make the rich passengers think they’re getting a valuable service — more valuable than traveling deadhead in steerage, anyway. I guess if you do business or are in shipping, you can make a lot of contacts that way, but in general the kind of people I’d like to talk to over a meal don’t travel by liner.” He looked at her sharply. “Enjoy yourself?”

She nearly took the question at face value, although his tone suggested irony. “I nearly threw up in a plant pot after making a fool of myself.” She winced. “She asked for it, though.”

“Who did?” Frank raised his glass: “Your health.”

“Bottoms up. Poisonous toy bitch kept going on about how great being ReMastered was—” She stopped. Frank looked stricken. “Did I say something wrong?” she asked.

“Was she a blonde? Head half-shaved at one side to show off a tattoo?” Wednesday stared at him through a haze of conflicting emotions. “Yes,” she said. “Why?”

He put his glass down, rattling on the tabletop. “You could have been killed,” he said shakily.

“What do you—” She leaned toward him. “You said they run Newpeace. Concentration camps, secret police shit. Do you think they’re that dangerous here, though?”

“They’re dangerous everywhere!” Frank straightened up and picked up his glass, took a hefty mouthful, and coughed for a while. “Never, never, push a Re-Mastered button. Please? Tell me you won’t do it again?”

“I was drunk.” Wednesday flushed. His concern was immediate and clear, cutting through the fog of worry. “Hey, I’m not crazy.”

“Not crazy.” He chuckled edgily. “Is that why you didn’t want to go out on your own?”

“No. Yes.” She peered at him, wondering why she trusted him. Alone with a gorilla after midnight and he wonders if I’m crazy? “I don’t know. Should I?”

“You should always know why you do things,” Frank said seriously. “Inviting strange men for a late-night drink, for example.” He picked up the liqueur bottle. “Want a refill? Or should I fuck off now before we both end up with hangovers tomorrow?”

She pushed her glass toward him. “Stay,” she said impulsively. “I feel safer while you’re around. Couldn’t sleep, anyway.” A faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

Aas days passed the boredom subsided somewhat. She’d stayed in her room for the whole of the next day, playing with the ship’s extensive games library, but most of the other online players were old hands who had forgotten more about strategy than the entire Magna tournament team. After a while she ventured out, first to see if there really wasn’t anything she could find to wear, then to visit a public bar with Frank. Who introduced her to fresh zero-gee farmed seafood and single malts. Then she’d spent some time with Steffi, who had hastily introduced her to her old friend Sven the clown and made her excuses. Sven, it turned out, also knew Frank: it was a small world aboard ship.

“So what’s the thing with the face paint about?” she asked Svengali, one late-shift afternoon.

The clown frowned thoughtfully. “Think caricature. Think parody. Think emphasis on nonverbal communications cues, okay? If this was a virtual, I’d be an avatar with a homunculus-shaped head and body, bright blue nose, and huge kawaii eyes. But it isn’t, and I’m not a surgical basket case, so you have to settle for programmable grease. It’s amazing what it can do to someone’s perception of you — you’d be really surprised.”

“Probably.” Wednesday took a swig from her glass — something fluorescent green, with red bubbles in it, and about the same alcohol concentration as a strong beer — and pointed at his jacket. “But the double seam—”

“Not going to leave me any tricks, are you?” Svengali sighed.

“No,” Wednesday agreed, and the clown pulled a ferocious face. “You’re very good at this,” she said, trying to be conciliatory. “Does it pay a lot?”

“It pays” — Svengali caught himself — “hey, that’s enough about me. Why don’t we talk about you, for a change?”

“Uh-huh, you don’t get off the hook that easily.” Wednesday grinned.

“Yeah, well, it gets hard when the audience is old enough to look behind the mirror. Mutter—”

“What?”

Svengali reached toward her head fast, then pulled his hand back to reveal a butterfly fluttering white-and-blue wings inside the cage of his fingers: “—hear me better, now? Or, oh dear, did I just disconnect your brain?” He stared at the butterfly thoughtfully, then blew on it, transforming it into a white mouse.

“Wow,” said Wednesday sarcastically. “That was really convincing.”

“Really? Hold out your hand.”

Wednesday held out her hand, slightly reluctantly, and Svengali released the mouse. “Hey, it’s real!” The mouse, terrified, demonstrated precisely how real it was with a highly accurate rendition of poor bladder control. “Ick. Is that—”

“Yes.” Before she could drop it, Svengali picked it up by its tail and hid it in his cupped hands. When he opened them a moment later, a butterfly fluttered away.

“Wow!” Wednesday did a little double take, then frowned at her hand. “Uh. s’cuse me.

“Take your time,” Svengali said magnanimously, leaning back in his chair as she hastily stood up and vanished toward the nearest restroom. His smile widened. “Homing override on,” he told the air in front of him. “Return to base.” The butterfly/mouse ’bot was stowed carefully away in the small case in his pocket long before she returned.

“Are you going to tell me how you did that?”

“Nope.”

“Lawyer!”

“Am not.” Svengali crossed his arms stubbornly. “Now you tell me how you did that.”

“What, this?” Her face slowly brightened from turquoise to sky-blue.

“Yeah, that’s pretty good.”

“Programmable cosmetic chromatophores.” Her face faded back toward its normal color, except for a touch of ruby on her lips and midnight blue lining on her eyelids. “I had them installed when we moved to Magna.”

“Uh-huh. Want to take a walk?” asked Svengali, seeing that her glass was nearly empty.

“Hmm.” She stared at him, then grinned again. “Trying not to let me get too drunk?”

“It’s my job to look after passengers, not line the sick-bay’s pockets. We can come back for another drink later.”

“Okay.” She was on her feet. “Where to?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said carelessly. “Let’s just walk. Have you explored the ship yet?”

Her grin widened. “That would be telling.”

Gods, but she’s sharp, he told himself. If she’s got the stomach for it, she might even make it in my field. “You’re right — this job doesn’t pay nearly enough,” he grumbled. “I’m supposed to keep you all amused, not be the amusement myself. They should have put an upper age limit on the clientele. Big kids, all of you.” They were already out in the corridor, another high-class hotel passage with sound-deadening carpet, expensively carved wooden paneling, and indirect lights shining on brightly meaningless abstract art installations every few meters. “Nine days. I hate to think what you’re like when you’re bored.”

“I can keep to myself.” Wednesday pulled her hands back into the long and elaborately embroidered cuffs of her jacket. “I’m not a child. Well, not everywhere. Legal standards differ.”

“Yes, yes, and if you’d been born in the New Republic you’d be married with three or four children by now, but that doesn’t mean you’d be an autonomous adult. I’m not supposed to keep an eye on you, I’m supposed to keep you from getting bored. All part of the service. What do you do with yourself when you want some cheap amusement, may I ask, if that isn’t an indelicate question?”