The Little Green Book of Chairman Rahma by Brian Herbert Page A

Now it’s the favored social establishment of a different sort of elite, one that’s risen on the crest of the Green Revolution. And make no mistake about it; they’re robber barons too, but of a different sort, camouflaging themselves behind liberal causes.” She grinned as she fell into step beside him, going through ornate gold-emblem doors that were held open for them. “Meet the new bigwigs; they’re exactly like the old bigwigs.”
    Joss felt uneasy at her conversation, noted that one of the doormen had overheard her and was looking at her strangely. Joss took a deep breath, resisted the urge to say anything. She had a playful, bemused expression on her face, and sometimes she did this sort of thing to get a rise out of him, to see how he would react. He presumed she was doing it again.
    Just inside the entrance, a man in a red uniform and tails bowed and said, “Greetings, madame et monsieur . I am the maître d’, and I will show you to the dining hall.” He motioned toward a grand staircase, where the waitstaff and chefs were lined up on either side of the steps. Men in black or white tuxedoes and women in ball gowns were going up the stairs between the rows of servants, along with a number of high-ranking SciOs in white robes. A number of the people were pink-cheeked and quite portly.
    Kupi excused herself and slipped into the ladies’ room. When she emerged a few minutes later, she smiled prettily at Joss and slipped her arm through his. “Shall we?” she asked. He presumed that she had swallowed a purple peace pill in there, or some other calming drug from the pharmacopoeia she carried in a pouch on her person. Her brown eyes looked more relaxed as a result, which could be good or bad—it might make her less agitated, but she could still slip and say the wrong things.
    The maître d’ led the way up the grand staircase to the next level, where a long dining table had been set with fine linens, silver, and crystal goblets, while men in red tuxedoes and top hats were helping guests into their chairs and placing white lace napkins on their laps. The walls and high ceiling of the great hall were covered with electronic murals from bygone eras, depicting old sailing ships, timber mills, frontier forts, and battlefields with opposing soldiers in red or blue uniforms, with natives on both sides, dressed as warriors. Three crystal chandeliers hung over the table, illuminated with soft lights that cast interesting, multicolored prism patterns around the room.
    Two chairs were at one end of the table, side by side. “For our guests of honor,” the maître d’ said, as he seated Joss and Kupi. The man looked at Kupi, added, “We have heard of your exploits.”
    â€œUh-oh,” she said with a smile, as men in top hats made them comfortable.
    â€œI mean, the way you fought off attackers with your Splitter Cannon, madame. Very brave, everyone is saying.”
    â€œWell, perhaps that will make up for some of the other stories about me,” she said.
    He bowed stiffly and backed up to take his leave.
    For half an hour, the two of them sipped fine sauterne wine from crystal goblets. When all of the dignitaries were seated, murals on one wall faded away, revealing an expanse of clearplex that featured the seaway, the harbor, and the early evening lights of ships glimmering on the water. Joss had never been on a waterborne vessel himself, because that was something reserved for SP3 cargo seamen and other specialists, or for military purposes. In contrast with the old buildings of the French quarter of the Quebec reservation, the ships on the seaway were quite modern, with blinking electronics on their superstructures and speedbarges secured alongside for loading and unloading purposes.
    At the far end of the long table, bright green lights sparkled like a small display of fireworks, and as the brightness diminished, Joss saw Chairman Rahma