Point of Ignition

By Jonathan Cresswell

Duty, revenge, love -- in Jamal Battutah’s universe, there’s room for only two.
A young officer aboard an interstellar trader becomes the flashpoint of a war between two colony worlds. Jamal, the woman he loves, and the man stalking him from an enemy fleet all converge in a battle of warships and wits.It won’t go as any expect... for Jamal is a decent man in the wrong job.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Cresswell
• Release date: Nov 28, 2010
• ISBN: 9781476230399

Jonathan Cresswell

Jonathan Cresswell has been previously published in leading SF magazines and anthologies. Point of Ignition is his first full-length novel.

Book preview

Point of Ignition

Jonathan Cresswell

ISBN 1453847707

EAN-13 9781453847701

Published by Stellar Phoenix Books at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 Jonathan Cresswell-Jones.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To Scott Washburn, fellow imagineer, time traveler, and friend; Andy Grosland, who built Bel from electrons; and the Clan Aegys: Jenny, Donna, Barb, and Jondun.

Chapter 1

Jamal Battutah laid his cheek against the viewport’s cold surface and looked down at the abandoned world below.

KSV Belvedere’s Control compartment hummed in familiar comfort around him, monitoring the powered-down Konstantine trading vessel — keeping the air in and the radiation out, as the Konstantines said. Like the ship, Samarkand Colony had fought to keep humans alive in a hostile environment, and was slowly losing.

Unlike the colonists, though, Belvedere’s crew still hadn’t given up.

Jamal pushed away from the triangular viewport, turning gently in free fall, and scanned Con’s displays by habit although he was off-watch. Schematics showed worn but functional systems shut down to dock with the orbital station; depleted fuel tanks glared yellow and red. Nav said they were nearly two hundred light-years from home, although this clapped-out merchant ship had long since become Jamal’s true home.

The shuttle climbing up to meet them was the only moving contact in the holographic situation display in the compartment’s center. To its right, at the flight console, Second Officer Kipanthalay Dupont was entering final settings. Amber light scattered from the display grid, striking a glow from both her sculpted half-Kilimanjaro complexion and the gold silk jacket she wore. As usual, she was the best-dressed individual aboard the ship.

Jamal moved close by her and spoke quietly, mindful of the two ratings at their stations aft. Kip, has the Captain said anything to you about what cargo we’re intending to take on here?

No. No mass or trim specifications.

That’s not like him. You’re Flight Officer, after all...

It’ll be fine, Jamal. You haven’t been this nervous since you first came aboard, and that turned out all right, didn’t it? She spared a hand from the console to clasp his for a moment; he managed to smile back at her. Jamal had been fourteen standard years old when he’d joined Belvedere’s crew after exile from his home world; Kip, only a year older, had been his instructor, mentor — lover, for a tempestuous year — then friend and fellow officer. It had turned out all right.Until this year...

Captain Ontabe had said that crossing outside of Safe Zone Eight was an acceptable risk for a private vessel on the verge of bankruptcy. Jamal looked back to the ports and the bleak expanse of Samarkand’s only habitable continent sliding past below, and frowned. Doubting his own judgment was something he’d trained to overcome; doubting his captain was a far more uncomfortable feeling.

I still don’t like it, Kip. Samarkand was never rich; there can’t be much left down there.

She sighed. There’s one cargo on every world with people on it.

No. Barthe wouldn’t do that. It must — He paused as the Bosun entered Con and moved forward to the command section.

Mr. Battutah?

Yes, Fyodor.

I would like you to, ah, to take on my trading share. If you find anything groundside to buy. I cannot leave ship with empty tanks. He held out a data chit.

Jamal took the chit, blinked at the displayed figure — more than they’d been able to pay Fyodor in the last hundred days — and tucked it into a pocket of the red Hong robe he wore over white trousers and tunic. Although the robe didn’t include insignia as such, there was a subtle chevron stitched into each sleeve, a minor vanity. He was Belvedere’s First Officer, holder of a Konstantine spinship qualification ticket, a reward for a decade of hard study and work in a world very different from his past — and as proud of that as anyone could be of anything.

I’ll do my best. I can’t promise what I’ll find, though.

Kip pushed back from the console. Bosun, we’re secured in dock. The ship is yours.

Aye, ma’am. Fyodor took her place with a slow somersault; he had more experience in space than both of them combined.

Jamal made his way out Con’s open hatchway; Kip followed him down the mid-line corridor, gliding into Belvedere’s small wardroom. To one side and upward, Third Officer Trevor Grayling nodded to them. Grayling’s utilitarian clothing, colourless as the man himself, all but camouflaged him against the metal bulkhead.

Captain Ontabe joined them from aft. Hello, Jamal. Orbit watch is set?

Yes, sir, said Jamal. Fyodor’s got two people in Con, and two more in Engineering. The rest are looking forward to seeing a horizon again.

Barthe Ontabe moved into the wardroom. A tiny, silver model of Belvedere rode on his left lapel, identifying him as her owner and commanding officer. His graying hair was pulled back into a queue, making his features almost hawk-like, but the mild eyes softened the effect. You’d better cancel the leaves, First Officer. I don’t want anyone going groundside just yet who isn’t invited to dinner. We may need everyone aboard to handle incoming cargo anyway.

Jamal glance at Kip, saw her hesitation that matched his own. Instead of querying Barthe about the cargo to be expected, he asked, Sir, who exactly is it that we’re dining with?

Bishop Olivan of the Unity Church. There’s no government here any longer; the Church has taken over administration of whatever’s left.

Then who controls the colony?

Apparently, he does.

Supreme Leader, then, said Grayling lazily. Should we be intimidated?

With one other ship docked at this entire transfer station? said Kip. We’ll be the most interesting crew to come along in months. Well, I will, anyway. Flight Officers’ tales of exotic lands — that always translates to an extra portion at dinner, or a better room.

Not exactly, Kip. Ontabe slowly rubbed one hand with the other. That other ship’s a Cordeban, a trader. Their officers have already met with Olivan. That’s another reason I don’t want crew ashore.

Grayling had gone very still. A trader. Are they armed, sir? We didn’t get a look at them on approach.

Well, they’ve no reason to be, said Ontabe uncomfortably. No weapons at the dinner, certainly. And we have a safe-conduct for the ship — Olivan confirms it.

Jamal took that as less than a perfect guarantee. Personally, he’d never met a Cordeban that he’d cared to, and he agreed with the factions back home that rated Cordeba Colony as Konstantin’s most dangerous rival. They’d had groundside brawls before. The commoner crews weren’t permitted much in the way of genetic enhancement, but you wanted to watch for the officers…

I don’t want any trouble. Ontabe lowered his voice. We can’t afford any. I’m not sure we can even afford enough fuel to get home — unless we abandon some cargo mass. According to the Samarkand net, our currency’s fallen against the ducat, and… A soft clunk announced the shuttle’s arrival.

Well. I don’t have to tell you to be on your best behavior — if Bishop Olivan approves a deal, it could get us through this year. If he decides to wait for the next ship...Am I understood?

A chorus of yessirs answered him. "Then let’s go put Belvedere in the black again."

Jamal turned back toward Con, wondering how best to break the news.

* * *

The elderly shuttle began to shudder in the thickening air. Loose harnesses stirred among the rows of scuffed, empty seats surrounding the four Konstantine officers. Jamal felt the heavy return of gravity after twenty-four days of free fall in a ship too cramped for a centrifuge drum.

No pilot, said Kipanthalay in nervous disgust. God knows where we’ll end up. When a colony starts automating things like that...

Jamal suppressed his own jitters and studied Grayling, seated next to him in apparent unconcern, his cropped, ash-blonde head rocking idly with the jolts. The Fourth Officer had served aboard an interstellar courier before joining Belvedere several years after Jamal had. Remind you of old times, Grayling?

The Third Officer smiled thinly. The tiny couriers ran flat-out, and often put their crews through hell to do it. Not really, he said. Nothing to do here, the shuttle runs itself; that was boring enough, at times, but this...

Most courier crews only lasted a year before moving to other fields, despite high salaries. Grayling had served aboard the same vessel for five years; Jamal had no idea how he’d stood it.

The shuttle made no course changes during its descent. There was no other traffic to avoid. What might have once been farmlands surrounding Malacca City expanded into a harsh yellow plain in the viewports; then they touched down and jostled to a halt in the open, rather than landing from a hover wherever they might choose. Jamal glanced at Kipanthalay, who nodded. Not too many flights left in this one.

Barthe was the first one to rise. He staggered, grabbing at a seat back, then moved carefully to the opening ramp. Runway’s cracked all to hell, he said as he stepped out into harsh sunlight.. Native weeds. Bad even for... He took another step downward, suddenly quiet. Jamal edged past him, squinting in the light.

A long mound of piled shoes ran beside the runway.

Kip leaned past Jamal’s shoulder. What are they doing here? There must be tens of thousands...

He nodded. Easily. How big a city was this?

The old charts, the ’sixty-fours — they said Malacca City had a population of ninety-five thousand.

Metal pinged as it cooled, a sound that Jamal had rarely heard over the bustling noise of shuttle ports. Here, all was silent. Samarkand’s sun, a searing blue-white pinpoint halfway down to the horizon, threw warm shadows over tarmac that still rippled with midday heat.

They must have walked here from the buildings, said Barthe, gesturing. The port hangars, half a kilometer beyond, had shuttered windows and closed doors. The domes and walls of Malacca City hulked further behind them. Lined up here to board, and kicked off their shoes onto the piles...They’d never stand under gravity again, so why would they need them?

Styles and colours varied among the decomposing mounds, but almost all looked adult size. There’d been few children on Samarkand in the final years, when the shuttles lifted every hour — draining the colony away, back across the lightyears to Sol system and the Unity.

Kipanthalay tried to smile. Maybe I can find a pair that fit.

Jamal glanced toward the rising whine of a motor. Between two of the port buildings, a six-wheeled jeep raised an orange cloud of dust.

Customers, he said in a hopeful tone.

The vehicle was open-topped. Two outriders perched high at the rear, holding shoulder weapons. Jamal, sharply aware of the order that their party be unarmed, glanced at Barthe; but the Captain waved confidently, and when Jamal looked back, a white-robed figure seated forward on the vehicle returned the wave. In a few moments the jeep whined up to them and halted.

Welcome! I’m Bishop Olivan. His wrinkled face was burned as dark as the teenaged Malaccan outriders, who added brilliant grins to his gentle smile. They both held heavy military coilguns in very unmilitary slouches. At least they weren’t being pointed anywhere near Jamal and his companions.

A beautiful sight, isn’t it. Olivan gestured along the mounds. His Trade English carried a soft accent — Samarkand’s mark upon him. "The buildings are full of possessions and trinkets, but this has more meaning for me. They’d never take another step, except the greatest one of all...

Please, climb on. I’m sorry about the lack of proper transport. Olivan lifted a hand, frail but unyielding, to steady Barthe as the Captain twisted onto the seat next to him. The others followed. Olivan spoke a few words in what Jamal guessed to be Malay; the jeep backed, turned, and rumbled towards the port structures.

Malacca City flowed past in tan and yellow shades — wide, deserted streets, drifts of sand. Although a few structures were scorched and one gutted, there was surprisingly little damage beyond an odd broken window: few looters or vandals, then. The two guards clinging as the jeep jounced over debris, however, indicated that there might be expectation of that from time to time.

The jeep slowed as it passed a mural of a seascape, and halted.

Bishop Olivan dismounted without aid from his guards; they hopped down and wandered toward the building’s side. Please, he said to the Konstantines, come inside. I understand that you wouldn’t feel comfortable at my temple — but I’ve always found this a peaceful place, and I hope you will as well.

Three high entryways were carved in fossil-shapes and ferns. Their powered doors stood still and dusty, but the emergency panel in one had been kicked out. Jamal stepped through into the cool dimness of a lobby lined with kiosks, signs in Malay, large glass tanks brimming with water — and smiled for a moment. He’d been to this city years before, when Samarkand had still been a functioning society among thirty other colonized worlds; but he’d never visited the city aquarium.

He thought he might like Olivan at that.

Barthe made introductions as they walked, his voice wavering over their footfalls. Jamal didn’t offer to shake hands in Konstantine fashion, bowing instead. Olivan returned the bow, touching three fingers to the gray, spherical Unity pendant resting between the lapels of his white robe — a tiny representation of the colossal shell that had engulfed inner Sol system, the final destination of the emigrants from here and a dozen other worlds.

He was still a small and wizened man; but for a moment, his presence seemed to fill the passageway. The man and the pendant channeled the power of an idea that had drawn millions of people over light-years’ distance — abandoning their physical bodies, like the shoes that lay beside a runway nearby; abandoning their solid worlds for a Dyson shell of drifting microprocessors that drank a sun for power; abandoning their lives for an infinite afterlife.

They still called it uploading, even after almost a century. Jamal shivered under his own robe. He glanced away from Olivan, and looked ahead to the open, brighter space that they walked toward. It was the Konstantine way, to look out instead of inward — and it had been Jamal’s way since before he’d joined this ship and these people.

The passageway opened out into a hall forty meters long — longer than Belvedere’s pressure hull. Whitewashed concrete walls curved together overhead; the two long sides were pierced with several tall viewports. Shapes moved in the cool green depths behind them. One fluked creature, long and sinuous, swam in a lazy sweep from one port to the next.

Lengthwise in the hallway, a table was laid for a meal. The three figures already seated along one side had all turned to face the passageway and the newly arrived guests, but they didn’t trouble to rise.

Cordeban officers weren’t noted for courtesy to the lesser breeds of man.

You said they’d be gone, muttered Barthe.

I’m sorry, we are still negotiating their shipping fees. If you wish, I can have food served to you in the lobby, until we—

No. Barthe straightened slightly. I won’t hide from competitors. We can still teach them a thing or two about trade.

"May I present Estan cagt Rohdahl, captain of the trading vessel Nero Augustus, said Olivan. It seemed that Trade English would remain the language during dinner — perhaps the only tongue that Olivan and his Cordeban guests had in common as well. His officers — Vulpes Vettius, and Septimus cagt Quintillus."

Jamal watched the Cordebans as Olivan rattled off his companion’s names in turn. Cagt Rohdahl’s dress was the most elaborate: a sort of kimono, several overlapping panels, each longer and of a darker shade of cool gray; the others wore simpler versions. His eyes flicked idly across the Konstantines. Cordebans didn’t think of themselves as supermen; they were simply the most up-to-date version of humanity.

Of course, that meant that in their view, everyone else was now subhuman.

Please, join us, said Olivan, waving the party towards the table. Four places were set along the left side, with white napkins folded into the four-pointed Konstantine star.

Barthe took the place to Olivan’s right; Jamal took the next, leaving Kipanthalay and Grayling to round out the order. He picked up the napkin, which unfolded into soft fabric when touched. The Cordebans settled opposite them with equal elegance.

Servants scurried about, placing chafing-dishes laden with food along the table’s centerline. Olivan gestured at a platter. Some livestock are kept in the city parks — we breed enough to feed the few of us that remain. He smiled. And our infrequent guests.

On that topic... cagt Quintillus, the one a touch shorter and slighter than his fellows, leaned forward as he draped his own napkin. He cocked his head, nostrils flaring. Second Officer, I notice that you’re ovulating today. Do you have a gene record I might see? My people are always in need of co-breeding material, and I’d enjoy siring a vassal by you.

Jamal’s fork clashed onto his plate; Barthe’s hand stopped him halfway out of his chair. He controlled the hot pulse of rage, noting the deceptively casual poses of the Cordebans — and also the glare that their senior shot sideways at cagt Quintillus. Something’s not right, he thought; the Cordys hadn’t traveled here just to start a brawl. He’d known Kip a long time, and she didn’t need a protector; but his fingers touched the knife at his place setting, and his eyes stayed on the Cordys. Protection and backup were two different things.

Kipanthalay’s breath hissed in. Her voice was flat as she said, You son of a bitch. If you—

"Gentlemen! Milady! shouted Olivan. For a moment, his voice carried as it must have once to thousands. Please! Let us have no discord here. Estan cagt Rohdahl, I have given my word to these people — and that carries the weight of the Church behind it as well."

cagt Rohdahl bowed where he sat, but then glanced at his host. There are those within the Church who would say that a word given to a heretic is of...lesser value.

They are not here.

That is evident. He smiled. Perhaps if you were more progressive in your outlook, you would not be here, but at Corcanya with the Brethren, leading five worlds instead of sermonizing to a deserted heap of sand.

Olivan shrugged. I serve where I may. But while you are my guests, you will be courteous to these others.

cagt Rohdahl bowed again, and turned to cagt Quintillus.

The smaller man shook his head ruefully. I see that I have forgotten myself, he said. We are your guests — and even at home, I tend to be, shall we say, too direct? My apologies.

Some of the savage tension eased around the table; Jamal settled back slightly. Cutlery clattered as guests tried to resume a conventional meal.

Kip did not. What does ‘too direct’ mean, Quintillus?

Barthe shifted. Kip, drop it, he said quietly, although he didn’t look at her as he said it.

The Cordeban swallowed a forkful and smiled. You understand our relationship with the original colonists of our world? Many years ago, we rescued them from a plague that would have killed them all, and in gratitude they granted us dominion over them. His eyes moved to Jamal. Much as your alArabi ancestors did at Halsbraad, Mr. Battutah. With so many of the colonies failing, even collapsing, it’s the duty of those who are capable to lead those who are not.

It was an entirely unexplained plague, of course, said Jamal. He rarely spoke to strangers about the society he’d been exiled from, and he wasn’t about to now — not to aristocrats who abused those they ruled over. None of the slander suggesting that the Cordebans themselves arranged it in the first place has ever been proven. Of course.

One of the mysteries of Near Space, agreed cagt Quintillus. "Of course. But the plague left genetic damage in its wake, and without the resources we once commanded in Sol, we were unable to help them as much as we would have liked to. Still, we can make contributions to their genetic welfare. Droit de seigneur, it was called once. They will never meet the true standards of Homo proteus, but they can be brought along somewhat…At any rate, you asked a more specific question. He smiled tightly as he looked back to Kipanthalay. Some of us have genomes that do not cross well with unimproved humanity’s. I’m one of those — and so when I go a-wooing among my family’s vassals, the results are generally poor."

Jamal wondered what the ratio of stillbirths to monsters was, over cagt Quintillus’ extended lifespan. He continued to eat stolidly.

I had high hopes for the seventh attempt; the gene scans were excellent. But when I arrived at my nest, my fine hen had flown, and her fine eggs along with her.

She didn’t suit your fancy after all? said Kip.

She had cut her own throat, actually. cagt Quintillus made a moue of distaste, and ate another forkful. A sad waste. It does demonstrate that rationality is not the province of the unimproved, though.

He quirked a chilling smile at Kip. Vassals do talk amongst themselves. I find it necessary to be more direct now. And so it may be that I have forgotten how to woo.

I think you’ve forgotten what it means to be human, Quintillus. Kip stared back for a moment before she lowered her gaze to her food.

* * *

Talk shifted to trade, which had the virtue of inviting less outrage, and another course came and went without further clashes. The Cordebans claimed to have made great inroads in the field, with their own small vessel and its crew made up of vassals drawn from the families of its officers. Jamal had doubts. They didn’t seem well versed at all. Of course, the Cordebans were tyros, just beginning to venture into interstellar trade after years of isolation.

And at each opportunity, Olivan spoke of the Unity; how it had uplifted a crowded Earth from disease and poverty to transcendence; how the risky scrabble of life on colonies like Samarkand was coming to an end. Only holdouts and fanatics remained; the latter were doomed, but Olivan claimed that he wouldn’t leave himself until the last inhabitant woke to their future.

Barthe stared at the table during those times.

Wine came with each course; Vulpes and Cagt Rohdahl only sipped it, but cagt Quintillus drank heavily. It didn’t appear to have any effect, other than an increasing restlessness on his part. The Konstantines drank in moderation, following Barthe’s cautious example; or at least most of them did.

A glass with you, Mr. Battutah? called out Olivan from the table’s head.

Jamal covered his glass with a palm as he had done once already, when the servant behind him made to fill it. I don’t drink, sir, he said. One of my birth culture’s ways that I’ve kept.

I understand. We do not ban such things in the Church, but the notion of intoxicating a physical body to change its senses and emotions — well, that seems a poor substitute for what may be done by uploading, if you see my meaning.

It’s one thing to drink wine, said cagt Quintillus. He swirled the glass that a servant had topped up. It’s another to destroy one’s body, or neglect it. Or abandon it.

Cagt Rohdahl flicked a glance at his subordinate — who wasn’t wearing a Unity pendant. Jamal formed a sympathetic smile. How frustrating for you, cagt Quintillus. All those years of genetic research and engineering...only to create a more expensive carcass to be abandoned after uploading.

Jamal turned to Barthe; after a few moments of silence during which Barthe didn’t meet his gaze, he looked past the captain to Olivan. Sir, we’re here to trade. I don’t mean to be rude...but this philosophical talk isn’t getting us anywhere.

Olivan nodded. Captain?

He’s right, grunted Barthe. Let’s get on with it. What do you have here to trade, and what can you pay us with?

We aren’t quite as poor as we seem. The bishop waved at the two servants remaining in the hall; one came forward with a satchel, unfastened it, and thumped it onto the table. Coins spilled onto the polished wood: glittering Outcast ducats that could only be manufactured at Sol.

Jamal leaned past Kip to stare. Unlike the fluctuating colonial currencies, this was solid wealth — enough to refit Belvedere from Con to stern, pay off the crew’s salaries, redeem a dozen overdue docking charges...

At the table’s other side, Estan cagt Rohdahl chuckled.

My place here is a minor one, Captain, but I can buy what you’re brought me — and pay well for another voyage from here to Sol. Olivan leaned forward. But there is only one cargo to be carried there. You will be doing them a great good.

Jamal froze. Barthe, you knew already. There were Konstantine shipowners who’d grown rich on the Upload Runs, taking pilgrims from one of several failing colonies to the Unity at Sol, then hauling nano-manufactured components back to Konstantin. But for Barthe to commit to this, without including his officers in the decision—

God damn it, sir, said Kip. She leaned forward to face Barthe. We’ve never taken ‘pilgrims’ aboard!

Kipanthalay. Please.

"You’d help these people do what they do?"

Barthe shoved his chair back from the table. You don’t understand. The government’s going to take her away from me!

Jamal’s shoulders sagged. The drive repairs were on credit, he muttered. First Mariners Bank, wasn’t it? Collapsed, no recovery payouts.

"Yes. One Upload Run — one — can put us in the black again. If we go home now with empty holds..."

But, sir, said Kipanthalay, there’s other ships to fly in, other crews. We don’t have to do this.

They want to go, insisted Barthe. They’re not slaves, or implantees with a computer overseeing their brain. It’s their own goddamned choice! We just have to haul a pressure can to Sol.

Sir, said Jamal. Barthe turned a haggard face to him. I know what it’s like to lose everything; it happened to me twelve years ago, and you took me in then, gave me a place. Someone will do that for you too, without making you do something like this. And it’s your own people, too, sir. You won’t have to run offworld like I did—

"Goddamn it, Jamal, your people did it too! They still ship the implantees out from Halsbraad to reward them!"

He flinched; Barthe sucked in his breath. I’m sorry, Jamal, I didn’t mean it that way. But you know that they weren’t evil to do that...and we wouldn’t be wrong to do it either. You see?

Sir, said Jamal with great care. We would not be breaking Konstantine laws. We’d be doing good by this man’s standards. He nodded to Olivan. But I know that all of us would rather be bankrupt and working hand-to-mouth in the Belt, before we’d do this. And I’ll speak for the crew in my division on that as well.

Mine too, said Kip, although Grayling was as silent as the Cordebans opposite.

"Bankrupt," whispered Barthe; in a way, it was the foulest word a property-class Konstantine could speak. His genecode record would be tagged for ten years as a non-property-owner. If he had children, they would be tagged so from birth. It was a long, long way to fall...but there were worse ways.

Barthe Ontabe sighed. He studied his officers’ faces, then turned to face Olivan. Sir, we’ll carry messages for you; we’ll carry masks, or glassware, or pornographic recordings. We won’t carry two hundred sedated pilgrims to remove themselves from existence. If that’s your only offer, then we’ll buy four hundred liters of He-De and depart.

And dump the cargo we brought here, in order to make it home on that small an amount of fuel. Jamal couldn’t be happy; but still, he was relieved.

I’m sorry, said Bishop Olivan. He gestured to the waiting servant, who gathered up the spilled ducats and the satchel. I had hoped we would work together in this. But I respect your decision, Captain; may you yet find the Unity yourself. He inclined his head, touching the gray pendant once again.

Rhythmic slapping filled the quiet. Cagt Quintillus was applauding, three fingers against a palm.

Gentle cagt Quintillus! said Olivan. The bottle stands by you.

The Cordeban sniffed and picked up the bottle of red wine. Perhaps it’s time to move— he began as he tilted it.

The stream of wine splattered along the tablecloth. The Cordeban gave an angry cry and jerked the bottle upright again. From the mistake, he was obviously used to centrifugal gravity and to compensating for its Coriolis effect; but the small trader he was supposedly serving on wouldn’t have a centrifuge. It was obvious that he’d lied.

cagt Quintillus slammed the bottle back onto the table. He snapped out a flurry of words in what must be the High Tongue of Cordeban nobles; cagt Rohdahl answered coldly. Before the exchange had even finished, Quintillus rose from his chair.

Estan cagt Rohdahl switched to Trade English. "You will continue with the plan we agreed upon with the good Bishop."

cagt Quintillus snapped his fingers. That’s for courtesy...You may be the eldest at playing trader-games, but my family rules yours, Estan. And this is a family matter. He began to walk behind his fellows towards the table’s head.

Of all the insolent — very well, then! cagt Rohdahl wiped his mouth with his napkin, then tossed it on the table. Settle your affairs as you wish. But don’t delay us past the next launch window.

Olivan twisted in his seat. Return to your place, cagt Quintillus.

"Don’t tell me my place, cleric, rasped cagt Quintillus from behind him, circling the table’s head. You are wasting our time." None of the others seemed to be paying attention to the tensed Konstantines opposite them; but Quintillus was intent upon Barthe.

What the Hell is this, Olivan? cried Barthe.

If these officers came from a larger ship or station, thought Jamal, then where are the real traders?

He slapped at his throat com before he completed the thought. "Fyodor, watch out for an attack from the station! Alert all hands, draw arms. Fyodor!"

You fool, said Vulpes tiredly, he’s been jamming your coms since you arrived. Did you think everything here was as decrepit as you saw? Your ship is already ours, your crew are our prisoners. They will travel to Sol with the bishop’s blessing...and you will come to Cordeba with ours.

God damn you all, said Barthe. You don’t dare. Outright piracy...

This is insane, thought Jamal. Brawls, yes, but boarding and capturing a Konstantine-flagged vessel...What about your safe-conduct, Olivan? he called out.

You will all be safe, in the end. I wish that it could have been easier for you — doing the Church’s good works, in command of your ship, as I offered — but you refused. Your way will be hard now, but it will still take you to the Unity. And nothing that you suffer along the way will diminish that...

But if the officers and crew never come home, how would we know?

cagt Quintillus halted a few steps from Barthe. You, Trader Ontabe. As captain, you hold yourself responsible for your crew’s conduct, yes?

Of course, said Barthe. He straightened with a brittle dignity. And I demand that you treat my crew as civilized—

"Not today! Their conduct two years ago — when a cargo-handler from Iojanic, my countryman, my vassal, was killed in a brawl with your precious crew!"

Barthe gaped in incomprehension. Jamal himself remembered that bar fight in Briggs’ capital only as a blur. There had been three Cordeban spacers down when the Konstantines had regrouped and fled the authorities, but he hadn’t known that one had died — if cagt Quintillus wasn’t lying again.

You are of the property class; he would have been nothing to you. But he was my vassal.

I’m sorry, said Barthe. And I am responsible. But that cannot justify what you’re doing. Sending my crew to be uploaded—

They will have a new life. And so will I. Your Second Officer will bear me a new vassal, to serve my family in place of the one who was killed. Quintillus pointed the first two fingers of his left hand at Barthe; they were rock-steady despite his rage. Step to the side, Captain — unless you wish your officers to suffer as well.

He slipped a small object from one pocket, grasped it with both hands and twisted it.

Mister Battutah… said Barthe in a hollow voice. Jamal. Take care of my people — keep talking to the Cordy officers — negotiate. Get them out if you can. Forget the ship, just try to save the people.

Sir! cried Jamal. Wait—

Barthe Ontabe took two long steps to his left, away from his officers, and turned unsteadily to face cagt Quintillus. Get them out, he repeated.

Jamal shifted forward. Olivan, stop this! he cried; but the bishop looked as shocked and overwhelmed as his Konstantine guests.

cagt Quintillus threw the object; it twinkled in the air, splitting into two pieces that struck Barthe. Nothing more seemed to happen for an instant —

The two long scything cuts that opened on Barthe’s torso were deep enough that for an instant Jamal could see pale bone; then a spray of blood gouted from them. Barthe coughed more blood to join it, twisted, and fell.

Jamal stared in frozen horror. The weapon had been a monobolo, a section of single-molecule wire joining two sapphire crystals.

A few meters away, Bishop Olivan stood stock-still, right hand locked around his Unity pendant. You murderous blasphemer, he mumbled. Behind him, one of the teenaged guards burst through the south entrance, followed closely by the other, who was fumbling a power cell into his weapon’s foregrip. They both pulled up short; the second took another hesitant step forward.

Jamal looked to Kip, then Grayling. He realized dully that he was now the senior officer of the group. God, how will I protect them? He tried to think as he looked back toward Barthe — if any other ships had spoken them on the voyage, if he could somehow convince the Cordebans that the trick was known; but it was too sudden, too great a shock, and the fear and rage surged through him. Barthe had said to negotiate — but Barthe was dead because of his misjudgment, and you couldn’t negotiate with someone who smiled while they killed…

He’d always had the Captain to back his decisions, or to overrule them if need be. Now that man lay still in a spreading pool of blood, his face seemingly relaxed; as though he’d given up a long burden, the burden of command. The replica of Belvedere on his lapel had been sheared clean in half by the monowire that had killed him. Jamal’s right hand strayed to the chevron stitched onto his own left sleeve. That burden settled onto him, into him — a weight, but an anchor as well. Goodbye, Barthe.

He turned back to face the men who’d attacked his ship.

Now that you’ve satisfied your family honor, Septimus, said Cagt Rohdahl, "you and Vulpes get them aboard Nero Augustus, and then you can return to your own magnificent vessel. Just—"

Do you confuse high blood-vengeance with common murder, then, cleric? rasped Quintillus. "D’you think me common as well?"

You had no right, said Olivan. No right. To end a life before it can find the Unity? Get out of my house — leave my world!

"Or you will do what? Deprive me of the Unity? Quintillus sauntered toward the nearer of the two guards; she glanced toward Olivan, lifting her weapon hesitantly. Would you like a blood-vengeance laid at your own throat?"

"Septimus, enough!"

All three Cordebans were shouting now — but both doors were a long way away. Kip cursed softly, venomously. What the hell do we do, Jamal?

Listen to me, Kip — both of you. We are going to get our people out of this, whatever it t-takes. He fought down the shudder that tore through him. Any advantage, anything we can exploit, we will. We know space, and they don’t — always remember that.

Kip’s face was tight with fear and anger, but tensely alert now, and Grayling…didn’t have much expression at all. He was hunched — no, crouched, ready for any opportunity. Understood, he said for both of them.

Three of us, three of them — but they’re damned lethal, and there’s likely more of those butcher-weapons. Jamal was frankly terrified; but he was a Konstantine officer, and officers didn’t panic. If he let go now, he would