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The golden age of the Space Opera House is past. Its velvet curtains are leprous, its holograms blank; no infrared gowns file in on Saturday nights. The regulars now come at midnight, through the broken basement door.

Because the acoustics–oh, the acoustics! You can sit on the apron and clear your throat, and the House will turn you into a roaring lion. Can’t get that sound in a hypertrain tunnel. Not for free.

Milandra’s turn, tonight: seventeen eyes on seven beings watch her ascend the stage. Villi pluck a lasertar.

Milandra opens her facial sphincters and sings the Neptunian blues.