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Inside the shuttle, the drone of the city fell away into a velvet hush. Carl drank everything in: plump cushions on every seat, each crowned with a complimentary mint; a faint rose-petal smell in the pressurized air; the sweet prerecorded warbling of a string quartet. They hadn't even left the atmosphere yet, and already Carl felt like he was in a different universe. He found an unobtrusive spot on the back wall and stood there, willing himself not to be noticed.

Bodies moved busily up and down the aisle. The chauffeur said, "Gentlefolk, to your seats, please." And the gentlefolk sat.

Quietly as he could, Carl placed a hand on the back of the nearest chair, his fingers sinking deep into the covering. A low rumble sounded somewhere beneath his boots. Everything was trembling, even the walls, even the plush seat. One of the passengers was sipping coffee from a patterned saucer; Carl watched the liquid ripple, waiting for it to upend into the man's lap as they soared into the air.

Then the humming stopped.

"Thank you," said the chauffeur. "We have arrived."

There was a lengthy hiss and a clunk as the docking tube attached on the other side; a light pinged green, and the hatch swung open.

The guests stood, and Carl fell in with them, lifting extraneous luggage—"Let me get that for you, sir." "Thank you, lad."—trotting through the disembarkation hall and into the reception.

And there he stopped. They all did.

 

Stopped, simply to marvel.

There is a level of wealth above wealth, a level of luxury that surpasses the common idea of luxury, which is all about holograms and loudspeakers and moving images, gilded statues and subservient bots. There is an idea that rises beyond those ideas. It is called "class."

Class, the story goes, cannot be purchased. This is not strictly true. Money is an integral piece of the puzzle. The difference is that, in the case of class, money is a means to an end. It is not the end itself.

The Grand Abeona Hotel was an analog paradise, a place where the walls distinguished themselves not only by fine papering, but by the complete absence of screens. The restaurant menu was displayed on a sort of mechanical abacus, and when the options updated, they twirled about of their own volition, click-clacking as the correct letters slid into place. Music was live and performed throughout the day. Important documents were sealed in tubes and sucked through a network of hydraulic glass pipes.

The crowning glory was the feature known as the Galactic Diorama. It was a disc-shaped display in the middle of the lobby showing a model of the current solar system, each planet spinning on an independent axis around the central sun—and called "galactic" because it could supposedly be altered to display every occupied system in the Milky Way. Stored in the artist's cupboard on the ground floor were over a thousand hand-painted stars, planets, moons, gas giants, attachable rings, asteroids and other celestial detritus. And, of course, there was the Abeona herself, moving freely between them all on a magnetized mobile that was programmed to reflect the present coordinates of the ship.

Not for the Abeona were the sharply curled edges of a gilt pedestal, the bone-bruising hardness of a veined marble floor, sallow gold and lace trim. It was built from warm blocks of color, fan lights up the walls, varnished wood paneling, armchairs waiting to eat you up, bristling potted plants as high as the arches, and all of it arranged carefully, with a painter's eye. The hotel was not designed by committee. It was the work of singular vision. It looked like something somebody loved.

Carl's mind was young; the shape of reality was still something loose and malleable to him. Taking in the sight of the entrance hall for the first time, he sincerely believed that he was dreaming. His eyes rose to the ceiling, searching for shoals of shimmering fish that he thought might be circling the chandelier. His ears listened keenly for the rustling of angels' wingtips.

A polite murmur brought him back to himself. He was standing in the path of the crowd, and moved, apologizing, slipping further in, then further still, past the reception, up the curving steps, a waterfall of color. He padded from hall to hall, following his ears, or his nose. Listened to the wandering notes of a saxophone from the raised stage. Watched people in the pool from the windowed gym, hexagons of quivering light cast through the speckless water, inhaling the scent of chalk and chlorine. A sudden squeak as a foot pivoted on the tiles.