THE NEW RESORT IS IN every possible respect different from the old resort, and is simultaneously in every possible respect the same. Where the previous resort towered high into the air, this one plunges deep into an artificial flooded cavern, the water lapping against the crystal windows, the distant shadows filled with the motion of imported fish and aquatic mammals. Instead of being staffed primarily by indentured organics, it boasts a fleet of droids, each of them programmed to a specific need.

They were able to tell the sisters apart within seconds of their arrival. The clerk, whose name the pair still have not asked, feels more than faintly uncomfortable as she considers this fact. None of them would ever have been caught as she has been.

The similarities between this resort and the last are even more striking than the differences. The rooms follow almost the same layout, which saves on programming costs for the cleaning droids that sweep through every resort save for a few that charge a premium for organic cleaning—not as prestigious as being driven by an organic, as so many resort guests have things in their room they would rather not be touched by another’s hands. The toiletries in the bathroom are relabeled and rethemed to smell of ocean and air rather than flowers and soil, but they come from the same manufacturer, the same basic set of options.

This is the same resort, remade into something new by a simple change of the superficial, still perpetually and utterly itself.

One of the sisters drapes herself across a bed, eyes on the window to the water, and waves a lazy hand. “Souvenir, go to the desk and tell them we will need a speeder called for us precisely at sunset. Not a second later, nor a second before.”

The clerk is unsure that sunset can be measured with that sort of precision. She says nothing, only bobs her head and asks, “Will there be anything else?”

The second sister emerges from the bathroom with the bromeliad in her hands. She has managed to find a vase for the thing, and it spills out on all sides, vines like tendriled roots reaching for the ground.

“There must be a manager,” she says. “Tell them we will wish to speak to the manager come morning. The manager must be an organic. If they do not have an organic manager, they will need to find one before the sun comes up. That gives them all of a night and some small sliver of a day. Quite reasonable, don’t you think?”

The clerk blanches. “I don’t—”

“When we came to Canto Bight, they told us this was the city of dreams,” says the sister on the bed dreamily. The clerk decides she must be Rhomby, as Parallela was the one enamored of the lobby bromeliad. “They said whatever we could see when we dreamed of hyperspace would be found here, walking the avenues, shining in the sky.”

“We dream of an organic manager,” says Parallela. “This resort dreams of our money. Let us hope that tonight both of our dreams come true.” She places her bromeliad, vase and all, lovingly on the room’s second bed.

There is no third bed. The clerk has yet to ask where she is intended to sleep. She is afraid that none of the available answers would be pleasant ones.

“I also dream of food,” says Rhomby. “Of sweet food and savory food and something to tear with the fingers and something to tear with the teeth. You should go, Souvenir, and find us these things. We want them.”

The clerk considers objecting. Considers shouting. Instead, she says in a small voice, “My name is Calla,” and exits the room, leaving the door to slide shut again behind her.

Silence reigns. Rhomby looks at Parallela. Parallela looks at Rhomby. Rhomby is the first to sigh.

“A person?” she asks. “When I said you should acquire something charming to make the resort remember our stay, I meant—”

“The lobby décor? Small. Provincial. I’m sure they have people wandering off with their centerpieces and shiny objects all the time. A desk clerk, now. That makes an impression.” Parallela sits daintily on the bed’s edge, stroking one of the bromeliad’s leaves with a thoughtful hand. “It will ease things tonight to have someone native to the city as our guide.”

“As native as any of them get.”

“As native as any of them get,” Parallela agrees. “I have never seen any place so eager to pretend itself entirely rootless. No one comes from here. They all speak of away as if it were a dream, and this the place they found themselves on waking. It is a glorious showpiece of a city. I think I will want to return here, when we go.”

“Then we should not be seen to be acquiring too many people,” says Rhomby. “People make poor collectibles. They always ask after one another, and I’ve no stomach for keeping them.”

“We will resettle her. Find her a position here, or at another resort. One that will view her as a rare commodity for knowing our ways, for how many on this world can boast such an intimate association?”

Rhomby heaves another sigh, louder this time. “How many on any world can boast such an intimate association?”

“Sister. We are here for business as much as pleasure.”

“Yet it pleases me to remind you that we are in the business of creating a certain amount of confusion about our pleasures. She will see too much.”

“She will see what we choose to show her. Let them think us this kind of capricious, that we would acquire and then discard a sentient. Let her carry stories of us out into the world.” Parallela strokes her bromeliad again. “Nothing convinces the ear like a story from a source who was there.”

Rhomby is silent for a moment before she asks, “Is everything prepared for this night?”

“Oh, yes,” says Parallela. “The stage begins to set itself; the pieces fall into place.”

Rhomby smiles.