“I don’t get it,” Athena said. “is she just a miracle worker? Does she have special royal powers like a fairytale princess? Is that how this works?”

Carina shook her head. “I have no idea.”

“It’s kinda scary.”

“Agreed.”

Acidalia sat in the same position she’d been in on the way back from Mars, leaning precariously on a fancy daybed and staring out the window like she was thinking of something distant. Her face was stony, but thoughtful, and she appeared to be concentrating extremely hard, like she was doing a difficult math problem in her head. The dirt and grime of the factory pharm had vanished from her face, and her hair was miraculously curly and dry even though it’d been caked with clotted blood mere moments ago. She was beautiful, untouchable, perfect for propaganda photos, and it had been about thirty minutes since Carina had seen her drenched in mysterious organic fluid and fleeing from her mother’s army.

“It’s the way politicians are,” Cressida said dismissively. The translator the Mira had given her allowed Carina to understand her speech, but it still didn’t match up with the movements of her mouth, so she looked like a character from a poorly-dubbed foreign movie. Still, she was probably right. Like Acidalia, Cressida was utterly pristine and put-together, the picture of Martain wealth and femininity. She wore a fluffy A-line skirt that stopped short just above the knees, a white top covered in lace, and spotless Mary Janes with pointless decorative buckles, and her whole outfit was covered in flowers and bows. Martian fashion was odd—it was whimsical, sweet, and classical, without any of the simple utilitarianism that Eleutheria preferred. Athena had remarked on how unnecessarily frilly and ridiculous it looked, but Carina had to admit that there was a certain charm to it. Between Acidalia’s elaborate dresses, Cressida’s adorable neo-Victorian outfits, and David’s expensive tailored suits, she was starting to feel less than up to par.

When they’d first gotten back to the Revelation, Acidalia had pointed her to an entire closet of clothes to change into and told her to pick anything she wanted. Carina was excited—it was shallow, but could anyone blame her for being shallow when she’d just fled from a psychopathic dictator?—until she realized that all of the Imperatrix Ceasarina’s clothes had been tailored to match her highly specific, borderline absurd, surgery and GMO-enhanced proportions. Not a single garment fit Carina; she and Acidalia were about the same height, but everything was loose around the top and tight around the center, and her arms were too short for the sleeves. Eventually, she just put on a nightgown—not that anyone could really tell it was a nightgown; Acidalia’s pajamas were just as elaborate as her daywear, which probably made them insanely impractical for sleeping—and then she just felt worse, because here she was wearing borrowed pajamas in a room full of awesome, badass, good-looking people she respected.

Athena, of course, had changed from her bloodied fatigues into a set of slightly different, slightly less bloodied fatigues, claiming they were more comfortable than anything Acidalia had to offer. They looked gross, all frayed and dirty and stained, but Carina wasn’t about to ask her to change.

“Politicians are weird,” Athena decided, putting her thumbs through the holes in her sleeves—the top wasn’t supposed to have holes, but there they were. “I don’t understand it,” she said. ”I feel like everything would be easier if people just said what they meant, you know? I mean, this façade is stupid, and the efforts people go through to make themselves look better are insane. I think people could probably connect more to her if she just wore, like, sweatpants.”

Acidalia laughed softly. “Believe me, Athena, I’d love to just wear sweatpants.”

Carina blushed; she hadn’t realized that the Imperatrix had heard their entire conversation.

‘So,” Athena asked, “why don’t you?”

“It isn’t that simple.” She swung her legs down from the daybed with a sweeping movement of petticoats and a flash of her metal crinoline. “And trust me, I’m not as put together as I look. This is all an illusion.”

“What do you mean?”

“One of the most important things about being a monarch is knowing how to present yourself. You can’t be a relatable leader in sweatpants and hoodies when you’re at war. There are certainly times when it’s beneficial to act like everyone else—when you’re aiming for populist support, for example, or when your opponents come across as out-of-touch and you want to counter that—but violent, uncertain conflicts are not the time for that. During a war, people don’t want human leaders. They want superhuman leaders. And I can assure you with utter confidence that I’m no superhuman, but my supporters need me to act like one, so out comes the makeup, the dresses, the curling iron.” She shrugged. “It sounds ridiculous, but pretending to be a bit more put-together and a tad more stoic than the average person can get you far, and your appearance is a massive part of that, as vain as that sounds.”

Cressida nodded. “It’s all about playing up which values people are looking for. Eleutherians want strong, stoic, elegant, logical, and emotionally detached leaders. Martians want charismatic, paternal, traditional, and family-focused leaders. My dad pretty much won his whole campaign because he portrayed himself as a family man. I was, like, 2, and he just plastered my face over every billboard in the area. You know—pictures of him holding me, me playing with toys, me just generally being as cute as possible… it had nothing to do with agriculture, of course, but the previous guy had a scandal where he cheated on his wife and fathered a bunch of bastard kids, so.”

“What does your father do?” Carina asked. She had no experience with elections whatsoever; the concept of choosing someone to tell you what to do instead of just letting tradition take care of it was rather foreign. It seemed like a pretty big responsibility to have, and she wasn’t sure the average person was prepared for it.

“He’s the Secretary of Agriculture,” Cressida said, “not that he knows anything about agriculture. Mars is a meritocracy, but in practice it’s kind of a popularity-ocracy. And he’s pretty popular—or at least, little toddler me was—cause he racked up social points really fast once those campaign ads went out.”

“Oh.” Carina didn’t know what else to add on to that; she felt like her knowledge of democracy—or meritocracy, or whatever the technical term for a government ruled exclusively by the popular would be—was limited, and her knowledge of agriculture was definitely abysmal. She didn’t even think Eleutheria had farms outside of pharms. They grew everything in labs and imported the rest from Mars.

“Eh, it’s a job.” Cressida looked unimpressed. “He’s seventh or eighth in line to the presidency, but realistically, what are the odds of someone assassinating the President, Vice President, speaker of the house, president pro tem, secretary of state, secretary of the treasury, secretary of defense, attorney general, and secretary of the interior? He has seven undersecretaries that do everything, so his job is basically being a figurehead for farmers and waiting around for someone to murder the people in front of him.”

“Is there really a chance he could be president, though?” Athena asked.

“I guess. But it’s never going to happen. Besides, I don’t think he has enough social points for that.”

“Social points?”

“They’re like a strange blend of power and currency,” Acidalia explained. “Mars has an algorithm that assigns them to citizens based on things like popularity, citizenship, community service, grades in school, degrees, parentage… it’s just real-world popularity put to a number. You have to have a certain amount to do certain things, like get into top universities, buy houses in some areas, and run for office in higher-level positions.”

“Normally the system works pretty well,” Cressida said, “except for the fact that my points are probably plummeting right now, since I ditched an exam to come fight in a war for a planet I don’t even live on.” She sounded bitter, resentful.

“It’ll be fine,” Acidalia said dismissively. “Once everyone realizes that I’m alive, and they see you next to me, your social credit will skyrocket. I believe points sort of rub off on your surroundings, correct?”

Cressida nodded. “Yeah, I guess. Wait, why do you have social points? You’re Eleutherian.”

“I have them on a technicality. They don’t mean much; half of Eleutheria seems to resent me anyway.”

“You’re seem pretty popular to me,” Athena shrugged.

“It’s mostly older generations, traditionalists, who dislike me,” Acidalia said. “The same sorts of people who support eugenics and hate Martians. Those people are mostly supporters of my mother.”

“Your mom sounds lovely,” Cressida sneered.

“She’s awful in every conceivable way, but she is the type of person who looks good on TV,” Acidalia laughed. “But don’t get me wrong, she’s extraordinarily dangerous. She’s a brilliant orator and a strong presence, and she knows how to work the propaganda machine.”

“And she’s just good at being a terrifying dictator in general,” Athena added. “Like installing secret cameras to monitor people and telling her kid that it’s okay to attempt sororicide.”

“Don’t ask,” Carina added. Cressida looked like she didn’t want to.

“Anyway,” Acidalia continued. “Politics. They’e complicated. As much as I’d like to appeal to people like you, Athena—it would be much more comfortable for me—that’s not what Eleutheria needs right now.”

Athena made a face. “That’s why I’m never going to be a politician. I like sweatpants too much.”

“That’s fair,” Acidalia said, looking amused. She glanced at her reflection in the window and frowned, then stood, taking her enormous skirts with her. She wasn’t that tall, but she still managed to make Carina feel small. “I’m going to go reconvene with Andromeda for a few minutes—she’s probably asleep—and then I have to call the rest of the Revolutionary leaders and discuss the events that just transpired. And I should fix my hair.” Acidalia made a face as she smoothed down her updo, which looked completely and utterly fine to Carina. If that was what Acidalia considered messy, everyone else probably looked like garbage to her. Or maybe she just had very high standards for herself.

“You should fix your makeup, too,” Cressida pointed out. “Your left smokey eye is a disaster.”

“Thanks.” Acidalia said it in such a dry tone that Carina didn’t know if she was offended or not. “I’ll be back.”

She set off down the hallway, her long dress trailing at least six feet behind her. Then, halfway through, she suddenly paused. “Incoming transmission,” she said. “I can feel it. Just wait—“

“INCOMING TRANSMISSION,” blared an obnoxious robotic voice from speakers around the foyer.

“Yep,” Athena groaned, covering her ears. “I felt that.”

Acidalia darted over to a control panel, which was impressive given her seven-centimetron Annabelle heels. “Unknown number. I wish my secretary could take this. I don’t particularly want certain people knowing that I’m here.”

“Let it go to message,” Athena suggested.

“Good idea.” Acidalia stood watching the hologram projector, but the message appeared in the old-fashioned way, a two-dimensional image on a screen. It was the alien lady from before, the ambassador. She was stranger up close, with odd, bulbous, kaleidoscopic eyes and tiny pinprick lights clustered around her face. Was that makeup, Carina wondered, or was she glowing? She sat with her hair unbound, trailing down her shoulders in a cascade of purple, sparkling with an iridescent sheen. Despite the fact that she was clearly sopping wet, she wore a thick, knitted gray sweater, which dripped onto the table before her. And, oddly, she had no translator.

“Salve,” she said, her accent thick and unidentifiable. Her voice was high-pitched and alien, but pretty. “Vel… salvete? Vel—manere, Quid sum faciens? Illic es?”

“Has she never seen a telephone before?” Athena snorted.

“I mean, she’s a purple mermaid alien from outer space,” Cressida said, “so that could be true.”

“Something tells me you shouldn’t refer to visiting ambassadors as mermaid aliens,” Carina said. “Besides, don’t mermaids have tails?”

“Yeah. So the Mira are like lame, depressing, less cool mermaids.”

“If you say so.”

“Rune, agē,” continued the ambassador. “Quam operor vos facere—manere, reapse et obtinuit eam.”

“She has most definitely not ‘got it,’” Cressida snarked.

The ambassador smoothed down her hair and brushed some invisible dust off her sweater, then looked into the camera like it was a mirror, apparently not realizing that she was being recorded. Then she took a deep breath, like she was nervous, and began.

“Salve, Imperatrix Ceasarina Acidalia-Planitia e gens Cipher. I come seeking aid not for military reasons, but for a severe issue plaguing my home planet. I need Eleutheria’s technical—wait, technological, not technical—help. We lack the resources we need, and you have them. Please know that I would be eternally grateful if you could meet me at some point, and soon. And, finally, there is no need to make Ambassador Cadé aware of this—not that it’s illegal or anything, but...”

Her voice trailed off. Carina realized suddenly that what they were discussing might, in fact, be very illegal on whatever world these strange people came from. She didn’t know how, but the fact that they’d sent a delegate of about three people to deal with a planet they considered dangerously violent was suspicious all on its own. Coupled with the fact that Raeilya didn’t seem very experienced, Cadé acted like he didn’t want to be here, and Ajax sounded bitter every time he spoke, it sent a message that Cirya didn’t care enough to send their best people.

The screen faded into a deep black, and the ambassador’s face vanished. The screen read One (1) Message.

“Well,” Acidalia said, “I suppose I had better deal with that first.” She heaved a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure how they intend on getting into the Revolution’s base without me, but we’ll see.”

“I’ll come with you,” Athena offered.

Acidalia shook her head. “No. Not happening. It was bad enough when all we were doing was talking to them, but I’m not getting you involved in this if it could possibly be illegal and get you in a lot of trouble with a galaxy we know nothing about. And, no offense, but I need someone who is trained in politics to navigate this. We don’t know what their cultural values are, and what might seem innocent to you could be extraordinarily offensive to them.”

“How would you know that any better than I could?” Athena challenged.

“I don’t, but I’m perceptive.”

“Whatever.” Athena frowned, annoyed.

“All right.” Acidalia said it with an air of finality, like she was coming to a conclusion. “Now I’m going to reconvene with Andromeda and the rest of the Council, then we’ll deal with this, and... okay. Okay. This is fine.”

“Doesn’t sound fine,” Cressida said.

“It’s fine. Completely fine.” Though she was clearly anxious, the way Acidalia spoke made Carina almost feel content, like everything really was totally okay and normal. She had a point when it came to politics—she had a way of speaking that made it easy to believe that everything she said was true. Athena was practically guaranteed to say something stupid and screw up, while Acidalia could navigate this minefield easily.

Still, she looked almost tired, almost wearied. Upon closer inspection, one of her wrists had swollen up quite a bit, though she hid it well with elegant white gloves and a pearl bracelet that constricted it somewhat. She walked with an odd gait, not quite limping but close to it, and there was something in her eyes that suggested sleepiness. It had probably been hours since she’d last sat down.

Carina wanted to say something, but it was hard to voice her concerns without sounding weird. If Acidalia was in pain, Carina didn’t want to tell her and let her know that everyone could see it, and if she wasn’t, it’d be embarrassing for Carina. There was no non-awkward way to go about fixing the problem, if there even was one, so she sat down and just let it be. After all, the Imperatrix wasn’t exactly the type of person a hopelessly awkward, altogether unremarkable Scientia could ever make friends with.