At a booth in Milliways sits a woman in her thirties, stirring a cup of tea, watching the stars explode. There is a fat boring-looking lawbook under her elbow, and a barcode across the back of her right hand.
"Yeah, exactly. I mean, I'll be the first to admit Jacksonian culture has precious little to recommend it, but that's hardly the fault of the grubbers and clones and sex slaves and brainwashed bodyguards and bio-experiments."
"I have known some staggeringly evil people, and some people who didn't distinguish themselves much either way, and some decent people. And then there's my brother - my original, if you like - who is a shining beacon of goodness inspiring everyone in his path. He hardly even knows he's doing it, it's amazing."
Ashley doesn't volunteer a comment on her own original. "All that and he has the wherewithal to make your very expensive apology present. Maybe he'll get somewhere."
"A few choice highlights from my brother's career so far: When he was seventeen he blundered into the middle of a war, stole part of the winning side's army with a combination of charisma and outrageous lies, and won the war with it. Last year he liberated an entire POW camp, ten thousand prisoners, from conditions that managed to strictly follow the letter of every galactic regulation on the subject while still amounting to psychological torture. Had to go undercover as a prisoner to do it, too."
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