GENERATION WARBIORS
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whose bridge crew seemed delighted to make things tough for someone off a cruiser. They seemed to think that cruiser crews lived in obscene luxury and had all the glory as well. Ford was willing to admit that hauling supplies was less thrilling than chasing pirates, but by the third day he was tired of being dumped on for the luxuries he’d never actually enjoyed.
Auntie Q gave him a glance that suggested she had all oars in the water, and turned to speak into a grill. “Sam, my great-nephew arrived after all. So we’ll be three for dinner and I want your very best.”
“Yes, ma’am,” came the reply.
Ford wished he had a way out, and knew he hadn’t. The tank-hauler’s crew had insisted he share their mess and his stomach was still rebelling.
“You did bring dress things, didn’t you?” asked Auntie Q, giving Ford another sharp look.
But he’d been warned. Some of his outlay had been for the clothes which Auntie Q expected any gentleman to have at hand.
“Of course . . . although they may be a little out of date ...”
She beamed at him. “Not at all, dear. Men’s clothes don’t go out of date like that. All this nonsense of which leg to tie the ribbons on. That’s ridiculous. Black tie, dear, since no one’s visiting.”
Auntie Q’s favorite era of male dress had been thirty years back: a revival of 19th century Old Earth European. Ford thought it was ridiculous, but then all dress clothes were, and were probably intended to be. Fleet taught you to wear anything and get the job done. He thought of that, checking himself in the mirror in his vast stateroom. It was as big as Sassinak’s Zaid-Dayan stateroom and office combined, fall of furniture as costly as her desk. His black tie, crisply correct, fitted between stiffly white collar points. Studs held the stiff front panels of his shirt together (buttons were pedestrian, daytime wear) and cufflinks held his cuffs. It was utterly ridiculous and he could not keep from grinning at himself. He shrugged on the close-fitting dinner jacket. Like his dress uniform, it showed off broad
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shoulders and a lean waist (if you had them) or an expanse of white shirt, if you did not. He already wore the slim black trousers, the patent-leather shoes. He looked, to himself, like a caricature of a Victorian dandy. A face appeared in the mirror behind him: haughty, willful, her graying hair piled high in elaborate puffs and curls, a diamond choker around her wattled neck. Her gown, draped artfully to suggest what she no longer had to display, was a shimmering mass of black shot with silver-gray. From the top of her hairdo three great quills stuck up, quivering in shades of green and silver. Ford blinked. Surely they weren’t really. . . ?
She winked at him, and he had to grin back. “Yes they are, dearie,” she said. “Ryxi tailfeathers, every one, and you shall hear how I came by them.”
Impossibly, this visit was going to be fun. No wonder his father had been overwhelmed; no male under thirty-five would stand a chance. Ford swept her a bow, which she received as her due, and offered his arm. Her hand on his was light but firm; she guided him unobtrusively to her dining room.
Three for dinner meant Ford himself, Auntie Q, and her “companion,” introduced as Madame Flaubert. Ford’s excellent education reminded him of all possible associations, and his Fleet-honed suspicions quivered. Madame Flaubert had excruciatingly red hair, a bosom even more ample than Auntie Q, and an ornate brooch large enough to conceal a small missile launcher. The two women exchanged raised eyebrows and significant nods and shrugs while Ford attempted to pretend he didn’t notice. Then Madame Flaubert leaned over and laid her hand on Ford’s. He managed not to flinch.
“You are Lady Quesada’a great-great-nephew?” Her voice was husky, with a resonance that suggested she might have been trained as a singer.
“Only by courtesy,” said Ford smoothly, with a smiling nod to Auntie Q. “The relationship is by marriage, not by blood, on my father’s side.”
“I told you that, Seraphine,” his aunt said, almost sharply.
“I’m sorry, but you know my mind wanders.” Ford