7
At the last station west of Montalban, Jason and I stepped off the gravrail into a blaze of lights. Three reporters lobbed questions at me all at once.
I watched myself engage the knot of journalists, as though from over my left shoulder.
“One question at a time, please,” I said, looking between them. “Lord Florio,” I said, pointing at the shortest, Florencio Hernandez, the son of a prominent politician.
“Lady Minister,” he said, brightening, “what are you going to do about the price of elixir? It's jumped five galacti in the four days since the clone riots.”
I felt Jason draw back behind me. Probably not comfortable with such direct questions. “Are you asking about that thirty-second work stoppage? Sorry, your exaggeration confused me. As you might imagine, Lord Florio, markets flu
