The cameras dispersed.  The businessmen stood up, the designers stood up, and waiters with appetizers and drinks circulated between the models and the men who outnumbered them. 

Ornette expected Varner to leave her side, go talk to someone more important, move away from her, and give her some space.  He did no such thing.  Instead, he took a second goblet from the tray and leaned in to talk to Ornette more privately.

“Actually, three of the cryochambers were set to malfunction,” he confided in her.  “But you were the only model who noticed and did something about it.”

He was quite a bit taller than her, so she had to tilt her head up to speak to him.  “Should you be telling me that?  There are cameras everywhere.”

“Yes, but I’m in charge of the show, so anything I want deleted is deleted,” he said with a throaty chuckle.

She nodded and smiled like his power somehow benefitted her.  Then she took a fake drink from her goblet.  She never drank.  Either she kept her lips closed when she put her mouth to the cup or she let the liquid enter her mouth and then swish out again.  This time she did the swish.  It looked less suspicious when someone intelligent was close by.

“I think you’re going to win this competition,” he continued, taking her by the elbow and leading her away from the thickest part of the group.

Ornette didn’t think he believed that.  He was trying to get her riled up, to ignite her fighting spirit.  He didn’t know that much about her if he thought it would work.  Did he know anything about her?

“You’ve seen our files?  Why do you think I’ll win?  Do I have more experience in fashion design than the other models?” she asked sweetly.

He blinked twice.  “It’s because your designs are so much better.”

“You’re too kind,” she said, putting up a figurative barrier between them that was as thick as a bomb shelter.  

He was lying.

She didn’t have a portfolio.  Every design she had ever done had been stolen or fallen by the wayside.  He couldn’t know what she was capable of designing unless What’s His Name told him.  What was that guy’s name anyway?  She couldn’t ask.  It was so frustrating.

“So what’s your favorite kind of buyer?” Varner asked, placing her hand with its birdlike bones against the thick meat of his forearm.

“The male ones,” she said evasively.  Saying that meant nothing.  That was one of the only qualifications she needed in her Sleeping Beauty Inc. contract.

At that exact moment, a model with hair like blue cotton candy and skin like pulled taffy approached and started gushing about how much she wanted to meet him.  Ornette took the hint and let her steal him from her.  

Once she was alone, she searched the room for Clandestine.  She spotted her, but she couldn’t get anywhere near her.  There were fifty-three men to twelve women.  Every single woman was surrounded by a knot of men.  She was mobbed as soon as she stepped away from Varner, who was effective at clearing knots.  He was the alpha male at the party whether he normally had more power than other men or not.  

The two other people Ornette wanted to see were the designer who used to own her and Desmond.  She spotted him.  He was by the door talking to a set assistant in a black baseball cap.  

Ornette couldn’t speak to him.  If she pushed aside the men who were thronging her and sought his attention, she would have two faux pas to deal with that night.  It was already bad enough that Varner had marked her as the person to beat.  Involuntarily, she gave Desmond a side glance.  Once.  Twice.  Actually, she couldn’t stop looking at him.  

No matter who she talked to or what they said, she couldn’t stop directing her eyes toward the man in the white suit with the white hair.  Granted, he didn’t look very white in the hazy orange light of Venus’ twilight, but his look held her attention so completely that she didn’t notice it when her old designer owner joined the group of men talking to her.

“Ornette, it has been ages,” he crooned.  

She took his hand, leaned in, and gave him the customary air kisses he gave everyone.  She couldn’t remember his name, but she could remember that he gave everyone air kisses?  Incredible.  His logo was a C with a cross through it.  That was it.  His name was Crois which meant cross.

“How have you been keeping your pulse throbbing?” he said with unnecessary emphasis.  

She ran her finger down his chin saucily.  “It’s been just terrible without you,” she pouted.

He gave her a double take and his eyes lit up, warming his face until he smiled.

Yes, she was acting weird, but she had to.  For starters, Crois was pansexual and he made the hugest fuss over everyone whether he thought they were a hag or diva.  At least he was pleased.  That was good for her.  

Even though he had taken advantage of her, he had taken much less advantage of her than her other owners.  She had been sad without him.  There was no exaggeration there.  If she ended up with him at the end of the show, she’d be patting herself on the back for years.

So she made nice with him by chatting him up, complimenting him, and drawing him into an exclusive little world that she made in the middle of the crowd until her knot of men dispersed.  The party wasn’t supposed to be long anyway.  It was just supposed to be an appetizer, not a full-course meal, so once the men had had a nice long look at the models, the party ended.  Ornette said goodnight to Crois and then glanced at the door for another sneaky look at Desmond before she was carted off to her room.     

Taking the time to look for him was surprisingly worth it.  He was alone, leaning against a wall.  He was looking at her and his expression read that he was frustrated.  He hadn’t been wearing a tie, but his shirt had been done up to the second-highest button.  Ornette had glanced at him just in time to see his eyes connect with hers. He let out an aggravated huff before he unbuttoned that number two button, and gave his throat a little extra room to breathe.

The models were lined up and escorted out.

That was when they met The Coordinator.  

Ornette didn’t usually refer to anyone in that way.  The Coordinator was a person who required capital letters.  It was a man in his late twenties who had made a career out of being uptight.  Even his teeth looked like they had been set too straight and too close together.  

He started out by briefing them.  “You’ve all been assigned numbers from one to twelve and you’ve all been assigned individual suites in case any of you were afraid you’d have to share.  Your suites include a bedroom, a bathroom, and a walk-in closet.  Meals will be served in the cafeteria on most nights, but tonight you may order room service as our way of welcoming you.  You should order as soon as you get in your room.  The kitchens will close in an hour.”

Ornette was starving, undoubtedly because she had been woken mid-cryosleep for a makeup session that took hours.

“Number one,” The Coordinator called, “Claudia Clements.”

She was a platinum blonde and Ornette knew for a fact, she cost a lot more than Ornette did.  Actually, seeing her there scared the crap out of Ornette.  She wondered why she hadn’t noticed her before.  She usually commanded the attention of the entire room.  

The Coordinator called out the next model. “Number two!  Silvania Taiki.”

That was not that girl’s real name.  She was Asian and cute as a row of buttons.  

“Number three: Orpah Tenor.”

She was black and managed to look exactly like a deer.  That was how graceful she was when she moved.  She was made for the catwalk.  If she was a designer to boot, none of the other women had a chance.

“Number four: Clandestine Frost.”

Red-haired Clandestine was next.  That made Ornette wonder if she would be after her.  After all, their cryochambers had been right next to each other.  

“Number five: Mikayla Harvardson.”

Mikayla was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and white-skinned, but she was not Asian.  

“Number Six: Ivanka Channels.”

She was an Amazon.  She was the only woman there of the correct size to get together with Varner.  If he pushed her around, she’d laugh and push him right back.  She had blonde hair, done in Viking braids.  She was the last person you’d want to tick off.

“Number seven: Starling Jenns.”

She was a member of the Church of Voynich, so she had black skin, blue eyes, and forest-green hair.  On paper, it was a terrible combination.  In-person, she caught the eye in a way no other women there did.  She looked fierce and indomitable.  Ornette admired that.

“Number eight: Summer Evans.”

That was the woman with the peach hair and the creamy brown skin.  She was very sweet.  Ornette hoped she stayed sweet.

“Number nine!  Tania Martins.”

She had blue eyes and blue hair and looked like a mermaid who had just got her land legs.

“Number ten: Jane Eiderdown.”

She was another blonde.  

“Number eleven: Yilin Sweet.”

She was the porcelain doll from before, another Asian though not as impressive as Silvania.

That was when Ornette made an unpleasant realization.  They had been called out in the order that had been decided upon by the organizers.  They started with the most impressive models (Claudia and Silvania) and ended up with her.  Why had Clandestine been ahead of her?  Something had happened since Ornette had last surfaced that made Clandestine more valuable than her.

She was the least valuable woman there.

They had organized them by purchase price and she was at the bottom of the stack.  

She was called out as number twelve and when she entered her room, she found that a lot of time had passed in the hallway as The Coordinator had given everyone their rooms.  Not everyone had been in the same wing and there had been quite a lot of walking around between rooms.  The suites weren’t small and that made for long hallways.  The Coordinator had taken too long and the hour he mentioned, as a window where the contestants could order food from the kitchen, had passed. It was too late for Ornette to order anything.