Three women clustered in the washroom in the North corner of the 18th floor: hogging the counter, putting up clear ‘do not disturb us’ vibes. I waited. No rush. Life wasn’t going anywhere.

One of them leaned over the counter, checking her eyes, her hair. Face smooth, eyes tight. She’d been retro’d once, maybe twice. Worth the money she paid, if it’s more. She pursed her lips, teeth carefully hidden behind dark red flesh, and the skin between her perfect eyes showed the shadow of a crease.

“I hate it” she announced, not into the mirror but over her shoulder, to her companions, without moving her face out of its lurched-over pose.

“I don’t know, I like it,’ the other human said, but her eyes shifted towards the Dreggin.

“Blow job red” the Dreggi says, voice neutral-cool. Oh, damning, damning. No one ever questioned a Dreggi on matters of color. Maybe their eyes, maybe their brains, but they’re rarely, no never wrong.

The first woman snatched a tissue, wiped her lips bare in a smear of color. Tissue went into the cycler, a new tube of color comes out of her catchall. I stared unabashed, fascinated, as she applied it carefully, outlining in deft strokes.

“Better,” says their arbiter. Praise gives the first woman an unhealthy glow. They leave; sleek in their low-heeled boots, close-cropped hair. Human skin peach, Dreggin, puce: foreheads forever tattooed with their caste. Spacers. Worst kind.

‘Worst’ is such a malleable phrase: a marker you keep pushing further and further out with every thing you experience. Every thing you learn.

I stared in the mirror as I washed my hands, watching my eyes like a stranger. Pale brows and pale lashes over washed-blue and white. My skin is smooth, the color of bio-cream, my cheekbones flat, my chin square, my lips wide and pink, my teeth when I pull back those lips to expose them neat and clean.

The Dreggin pick up the most amazing phrases from humanity. But she’s wrong. Blow job red is no color. They never want a trace left behind.

I dried my hands with a blast of dehydrated air and got back to my station. Such a nice word for a strip of lino, a corner where two walls intersect, from the silver-and-black entryway to Makoy & Ree, Jewelers to the brick red door of Mme Latour’s. I worked long and hard to get here. It’s a prime location.

But the location doesn’t mean anything if you can’t make the connection. Lean, just so. Tilt head, like that. Be obvious, but subtle. If body language was important, then accent is essential. The caretaker who looked the job.

I slide the flat of my palm down the silky coolness of my trousers. Spacers wear black, Port-workers are green, Admin’s blue. Nobody’s given my profession a coded coverall yet, but there’s irony left in the universe yet, so when they do it will be red. Blow job red.

Prostitute. Caretaker. Solicitor. Whore. Just words.

We’re invisible. They don’t see us, not the chubby little girl who works the arcade one floor below mine, or the soft-eyed, lean-flanked boy who haunts the café on the corner just outside the main entrance. Not me. We reflect the viewer’s gaze back onto itself.

It’s something you learn you do, not something you set out for. Like a destination discovered only after you’ve lived there forever.

We have no color at all.

Mme Latour herself came in for the afternoon, trailing prettyboys and prettier girls. Too lovely to be touched; Latour sells the image that sells the merchandise. I watched the parade, toting up my day’s tally in my head for lack of anything better to do. This shift’s been decent, nothing better. In general, I do okay. Not great, but there are regulars, and I know how to walk past someone, pass a key, pick up their money and never indicate I’ve noticed them. The tips are better if they can tell themselves nobody saw, nobody noticed.

It’s not like that outside. Beyond the Port, people hold hands when they walk. I’ve seen it. Even done it a time or two. But it makes me nervous, twitchy. I’ve been too long Portside.

Over the piped-in soothe-sounds, there’s harsh breathing, the sound of light little feet coming towards me. “G’day” Whisker whispers as she moves past. She runs errands, carries packages. Sunflower child, golden hair and stem-green eyes. She told me once she’d never seen outside, never wanted to. Just waiting for the day her mother comes back and takes her offplanet. Until then, she gets by.

I slump a little, the wall rough against my back. My bones are weary inside my clothes, and the arcade’s half-empty the way it gets mid-hour; mostly just us regulars, trying to look like we’re not looking. Asenmere’s Rebellion shut shipping lanes for almost a week’s turn, crammed us to the gills wit -- [End of Preview.]