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Vashti hated genetic theology. Yulia, of course, loved it. If the weather was good, class met in an atrium illuminated by sunlight reflected off the cloud bands of Vado, the giant gas planet looming high overhead, bright as a Ghost Night lantern. The monastery style was deliberately archaic, so aspirants had to perch on lumpy, ass-tormenting cushions. Designed by sadistic priests to keep you awake during a tedious class? Vashti shifted restlessly, rocking from side to side to alleviate the irritation, as she contemplated the verse of the day, hovering in front of the class, a squadron of glowing hologlyphs