"Oh." This time it's "galactics" that sticks out to her, and the way it sounds like her grandmother used to say Yankees. The meaning is clear without asking.

Everything else is kind of a mess in her mind, the sort of thing that sounds like it belongs in a fairy tale, or at least a history lesson. Emperors, good deeds (she imagines service must be akin to slaying a dragon), granted titles and the promise of a castle (or at least a big old house) somewhere beyond all this snow.

At least it's not hard to remember. Vor, the ruling class. Be prepared to fight for your share of attention. "So you're not from around here?" she asks, gesturing vaguely at the snow and the autumn-looking plants. "Or are we near the, um, the Western Coast?"