often affected by null gravity.”
Amaya, her Centauri prickliness aroused, said, “I have spent the last six years in space, Daimyo.” In fact, the opulence of the salon aboard the Shogun’s barge rather dismayed her. Its classic Japanese elegance attracted her, and she disapproved of the attraction. There was still much New Earther in Glory 's Sailing Master. “It takes a great deal more than null gravity to upset me,” she said primly. She knew she must restrain herself from marching into a feminist confrontation with the Lord of Yedo.
Anya stood with her eyes fixed on the distant horizon of the planet below. The vast stretches of empty, copper-colored sea moved swiftly beneath the climbing Dragonfly and her MD consorts. Directly ahead of the flotilla, all of Yamato’s natural satellites hung in one of their frequent conjunctions. Hideyoshi, smallest and brightest of the moons, and the scientific base that produced the MD ships accompanying Dragonfly , had only just risen from the planetary ocean. Above it, Nobunaga, the mining-colony moon, reflected with the color of rusting iron.
Above the smaller pair, the methane yellow and baleful disk of Tokugawa dominated the celestial zenith. It was surrounded with a halo of stars and the soft luminescence of Amaterasu’s zodiacal light. Many of the constellations familiar to Earth’s night sky could be seen here, only slightly distorted by distance. There were others, named by the Yamatans, that no native of Earth would recognize: the Shark, Amaterasu’s Comb, the Crucified Warrior. At the zenith shone the bright beacon of Alpha Carinae, known on Yamato as Ryukotsu--the Keel of Argo--and to Glory 's syndics as Canopus, 165 light-years from Yamato, an impossible distance even for Glory 's far-reaching wings.
For a moment Amaya allowed herself to think what space travelling might become if the ugly little ships accompanying them were the precursors of true hyperlight flight. The idea both thrilled and repelled her. Human reach would be unlimited, but mankind had a way of cheapening whatever became easy.
Perhaps, she thought, that was the purpose allotted the Terror in the great plan of the Universe. She grimaced. It was a thought more suited to her dour Thalassan Captain than to a woman of New Earth.
The Dragonfly's compartment was filled with magnificently clad--and armed--daimyos. Each lord of a Domain had with him a dozen retainers, all dressed in the manner of a Sixteenth-Century feudal-clan court. There had to be five hundred kilograms of archaic, useless, beautifully wrought weaponry in the barge’s salon. What odd people the Yamatans were, Amaya thought, modern in almost every sense of the word, skilled in technology beyond any other colonials, yet still choosing to costume themselves for special occasions as did their ancestors of nearly two millennia ago.
How human, she thought.
And then she smiled again, secretly, thinking that the phrase was better suited to the small, feral mind of Mira, Glory 's cat.
Shogun Minamoto no Kami left the group of daimyos around Duncan and appeared at Anya’s side. “Does my spacecraft please you, Anya-san?”
“She is quite beautiful, Minamoto-sama,” Anya said as tactfully as she could manage. The ship’s salon was actually reminiscent of the teahouses she had studied in Glory 's database on the inward journey from the Ross Stars. The room was panelled in real wood and there were brocaded tatami on the floor. Anya Amaya did not truly approve. Elsewhere in the vessel the flight crew worked in titanium compartments lined with flight instruments and gear, but here one stood in a Sixteenth-Century Japanese manor.
It was perplexing--and oddly touching . But take care not to sentimentalize these people, Amaya , she warned herself. They are not what they seem to be . “I have never seen a spacecraft quite like it,” she said neutrally.
A veiled smile crossed the old man’s lips. “Are you certain there are no
Amaya, her Centauri prickliness aroused, said, “I have spent the last six years in space, Daimyo.” In fact, the opulence of the salon aboard the Shogun’s barge rather dismayed her. Its classic Japanese elegance attracted her, and she disapproved of the attraction. There was still much New Earther in Glory 's Sailing Master. “It takes a great deal more than null gravity to upset me,” she said primly. She knew she must restrain herself from marching into a feminist confrontation with the Lord of Yedo.
Anya stood with her eyes fixed on the distant horizon of the planet below. The vast stretches of empty, copper-colored sea moved swiftly beneath the climbing Dragonfly and her MD consorts. Directly ahead of the flotilla, all of Yamato’s natural satellites hung in one of their frequent conjunctions. Hideyoshi, smallest and brightest of the moons, and the scientific base that produced the MD ships accompanying Dragonfly , had only just risen from the planetary ocean. Above it, Nobunaga, the mining-colony moon, reflected with the color of rusting iron.
Above the smaller pair, the methane yellow and baleful disk of Tokugawa dominated the celestial zenith. It was surrounded with a halo of stars and the soft luminescence of Amaterasu’s zodiacal light. Many of the constellations familiar to Earth’s night sky could be seen here, only slightly distorted by distance. There were others, named by the Yamatans, that no native of Earth would recognize: the Shark, Amaterasu’s Comb, the Crucified Warrior. At the zenith shone the bright beacon of Alpha Carinae, known on Yamato as Ryukotsu--the Keel of Argo--and to Glory 's syndics as Canopus, 165 light-years from Yamato, an impossible distance even for Glory 's far-reaching wings.
For a moment Amaya allowed herself to think what space travelling might become if the ugly little ships accompanying them were the precursors of true hyperlight flight. The idea both thrilled and repelled her. Human reach would be unlimited, but mankind had a way of cheapening whatever became easy.
Perhaps, she thought, that was the purpose allotted the Terror in the great plan of the Universe. She grimaced. It was a thought more suited to her dour Thalassan Captain than to a woman of New Earth.
The Dragonfly's compartment was filled with magnificently clad--and armed--daimyos. Each lord of a Domain had with him a dozen retainers, all dressed in the manner of a Sixteenth-Century feudal-clan court. There had to be five hundred kilograms of archaic, useless, beautifully wrought weaponry in the barge’s salon. What odd people the Yamatans were, Amaya thought, modern in almost every sense of the word, skilled in technology beyond any other colonials, yet still choosing to costume themselves for special occasions as did their ancestors of nearly two millennia ago.
How human, she thought.
And then she smiled again, secretly, thinking that the phrase was better suited to the small, feral mind of Mira, Glory 's cat.
Shogun Minamoto no Kami left the group of daimyos around Duncan and appeared at Anya’s side. “Does my spacecraft please you, Anya-san?”
“She is quite beautiful, Minamoto-sama,” Anya said as tactfully as she could manage. The ship’s salon was actually reminiscent of the teahouses she had studied in Glory 's database on the inward journey from the Ross Stars. The room was panelled in real wood and there were brocaded tatami on the floor. Anya Amaya did not truly approve. Elsewhere in the vessel the flight crew worked in titanium compartments lined with flight instruments and gear, but here one stood in a Sixteenth-Century Japanese manor.
It was perplexing--and oddly touching . But take care not to sentimentalize these people, Amaya , she warned herself. They are not what they seem to be . “I have never seen a spacecraft quite like it,” she said neutrally.
A veiled smile crossed the old man’s lips. “Are you certain there are no
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