Prologue
The man sat hunched over the table. The room was dark except for the bright circle of lamplight that pooled over the gleaming instruments arrayed neatly in front of him, like some macabre theatre stage. A barely perceptible rasping frayed the edges of the silence. His breath came slowly and regularly as he clasped the glass jar before him with a pale hand and carefully removed its lid. The rasping grew louder and took on a more urgent tempo as the creature inside scrabbled at the sides, struggling for purchase. Delicate legs sprouted from an iridescent, dark green body. The man took up one of the instruments, a metal tube with a soft, hollow orb at one end and a syringe at the other. His hands were steady as he lowered the orb into the jar. Immediately the scrabbling stopped as the creature followed the progress of the orb with the multitude of tiny eyes which peppered its head. A segmented tail, topped with a bulbous stinger, raised high began to sway hypnotically back and forth. When the orb was close enough, the creature let out a tiny shriek and its tail darted forwards, puncturing the soft plastic. The creature’s body trembled as it expelled a few drops of milky liquid. He replaced the lid of the jar and examined the orb with flat, black eyes. The dreadful potency of the venom filled him with a sense of awe. He shivered pleasantly at the thought of the effect that just a drop would produce if it entered his blood stream, the speed at which the smart cytotoxins would reach his heart, evading his nano-defences and punching holes in the cell membranes until the heart was unable to beat. He drew a saucer closer to him. At the centre were four minuscule sacks, each tipped with a needle only a few millimetres long and finer than a hair. With the aid of a magnifying lens, he injected a drop of venom into each of the sacks. He took up a scalpel and, without pausing, slid the blade under the skin of his right palm, slicing back and forth. The ripping, wet sound of steel on flesh was nothing new to him and he paused only to dab at the rivulets of blood running down his arm with cotton gauze. Eventually he peeled a flap of skin the width of his palm away from the meat underneath. With tweezers, he placed the four sacks evenly around the bloody, raw flesh, needles facing upwards. Finally he coated the underside of the flap of skin with a sticky coagulent gel and stretched it back over his palm. When he was finished the skin was back in place and, thanks to the gel, already knitting itself back to the muscle. Under the magnifying lens, the distorted whorls and creases of his skin resembled a landscape of high ridges and deep crevasses and, glinting delicately from amidst those features, were the whispery tips of the four needles.
Chapter 1
Snow-capped peaks, glittering in the morning light, jutted from behind the rooves of the rickety stalls that lined the path. Traders wrapped in chunky woollen ponchos against the brisk, alpine air called out their wares, hoping for a few more sales before joining the steady stream of people filing their way slowly up the mountain. Mordax and his father tramped along, following the exodus, as the storm klaxon coughed out its warning, hurrying the feet of those around them. Spread out far below was the space port. Little more than an arid plain, carved into the mountain side and dotted haphazardly with shuttles. Up ahead, looming larger with every step, was the dark maw of a cavern entrance, hundreds of feet high, into which the path led like a serpentine tongue. Striations in the rock left by the teeth of the drill that had chewed its way into the mountainside gave the cavern a ragged, disturbing appearance. Despite this, people were scurrying into it, grateful for sanctuary against the impending storm. The sight of the cavern always reminded Mordax of the unthinkable size of the machines that had once burrowed beneath the surface of Seraph, rooting out the precious minerals and ores. Dust spumed up by a passing wagon billowed in front of Mordax’s face, filling his nostrils and making his eyes sting. Coughing and wiping away dirty tears, he hurried to keep pace with Stephan’s long stride. At eighteen cycles, Mordax was almost his father’s equal in height but he lacked the thick muscle that filled out his father’s frame. Stephan squinted up at a nearby flag, whipping back and forth in the strengthening breeze. “Can’t be more than four hours until the storm hits. We’ll have to be quick if we don’t want to be stuck here for the next week.”
“You don’t get these problems in the Core systems,” said Mordax.
Stephan sighed, scratching his beard. “Not this again.”
“All I’m saying, is that these back-water systems don’t offer the same kind of profit that we can get closer to the Core. One load of pulse-shields from Angor Bore to the fringe end of the Crux would net us the same as a hundred of these spice runs. Apparently the Kudo-kai even let you take cargo on credit.”
Stephan shook his head. “You don’t want to be in debt to the Kudo-kai, believe me.”
“Fine, we could start small. Work our way up.”
“Mordax, you know the Starling doesn’t have the kind of muscle to protect a cargo that hot. And for Barshamin’s sake don’t call Seraph a back-water system in front of the merchants. If Bayram hikes his prices because you’ve pissed him off again, I’ll leave you ship-side at our next stop.”
Mordax blew out his cheeks. “Come on! With a pilot like Lazarus, we don’t need muscle and the Starling’s so juiced she can outrun any pirate.”
“You take a cargo like that, you paint a target on your back,” said Stephan. “We earn a decent enough living out here. Besides, word is the Blackhands are getting bolder.”
“If we keep avoiding risk, we’ll never get ahead. We’ll just keep on treading water,” said Mordax.
Stephan looked wearily into the sky and shook his head.
“The answer’s no, Mordax.”
They lapsed into silence as they approached the entrance to the cavern. It was wide enough for ten wagons to drive through abreast. Inside, despite the cathedral roof that rose hundreds of feet above them, it was an oppressive riot of scents and colours. Hanging lanterns of coloured glass criss-crossed over the grand avenue which led deep into the mountainside. The roar of traders and customers bartering at tightly-packed stalls mixed with the squawking and lowing of animals brought to market for slaughter. The air tingled with the electric energy of commerce. Mordax breathed deeply of the earthy smells and felt his pulse quicken. They joined the tide of sweaty bodies pressing their way further into the seething belly of the bazaar. As they did so, Mordax caught some of the locals staring their way. He was used to odd looks. The rings in their ears and bright scarves around their necks marked out Stephan and him as Travellers, the community of wanderers who moved between the stars not merely as a way of making a living but as a way of life. It seemed to him, however, that there was an unusually hard, hungry edge to the looks they were receiving now. Stephan quickly led them off the main thoroughfare and through the intricate maze of alleys between the stalls. They passed grain merchants weighing sacks spilling over with plump maize seeds and farmers haggling over racks of cured fleeces. Mordax smelled their destination long before they got there. The pungent odour of stasarine permeated the air. Starsarine was the precious spice harvested from the stamen of the starcereus flowers which were cultivated on Seraph and bloomed only one night a cycle. The stalls in this quarter were of noticeably better quality, made from varnished wood covered with thick, brightly coloured cloths which put the rickety stalls of their brother merchants to shame. At the centre was a large white pavilion which Stephan strode purposefully towards. A crowd of traders were milling around outside the tent, awaiting an audience. Two guards in heavy woollen coats flanked the entrance and watched the men approach with dark, suspicious eyes. Each cradled a battered pulse rifle. The nearest, a young man with a scraggy beard stepped forwards, gesturing with his rifle. “Stop. You wait over there. Effendi Hakan is busy,” he said in thickly accented Basic. Stephan gave him a kindly look and replied in fluent Spatoir, the trading dialect used throughout Seraph and its neighbouring systems, “You must be new here, my friend. I hope you are enjoying the job and old Hakan isn’t working you to the bone.”
He looked over the young guard’s shoulder to the older guard who was leaning nonchalantly against a tent-pole. “Greetings, Asuman. It’s been a while. I hope your master’s well. The air’s fresh today and I brought you a little something to keep the chill from your bones.”
With a flourish Stephan produced from inside his own padded overcoat a small bell-shaped bottle of golden liquid. Asuman stepped forward, a grin cracking his weathered face, and the bottle disappeared into the folds of his coat.
“Greetings, Effendi Stephan. Relar brandy is it? I didn’t realise the embargo had been lifted.” With a theatrical glance over his shoulder, Stephan leaned closer and said in a quiet voice “It hasn’t quite so don’t go splashing that around too freely. Now,” Stephan leaned back rubbing his hands together, “we need to see your master quite urgently I’m afraid. We’re only dirt side for a few hours and we need to get moving if we’re to fill our cargo bay with your quality stasarine.”
“You’ll be disappointed then,” the young guard said. “Effendi Hakan is occupied and there is a long waiting list today.” Asuman barked a few angry words in Seraphian at the young guard who stepped back, regarding them sulkily.
“Apologies, Effendi,” Asuman said. “It’s Kerim’s first week on the job and he has yet to learn the way of things. He will be much more accommodating after he has tasted the brandy.” Asuman gave them a wink and gestured towards the thin curtain that covered the entrance to the tent. Stephan inclined his head gracefully and strode forward with Mordax following closely behind. Inside the air was warm and thick with the scent of shisha and stasarine. Soft light diffused from glass lanterns and deep rugs covered the floor. A large figure merrily puffing at an ornate pipe rose from a pile of cushions in a cloud of sweet, cloying smoke. “Stephan, Mordax, my friends!” bellowed Bayram Hakan as he bore down on them. He seized Mordax in a bear hug that lifted his toes from the floor and planted scratchy kisses on either cheek. He then embraced and kissed Stephan. The two men were of a similar height but Hakan’s belly strained at his silk tunic and his bushy beard covered at least one extra chin. “Come, come, sit,” said Hakan, gesturing to the mounds of silk cushions and then clapped sharply. A serving girl swept into the tent, slippers whispering against the rugs and carrying a silver platter with three steaming cups of spiced coffee. Mordax grasped his cup appreciatively, warming his hands and breathing in the rich aroma before taking a tentative sip. A warm glow spread out from his belly, soothing away the morning’s chill. Bayram inhaled deeply from his pipe, the water in the glass bowl bubbling furiously. He let out a thick cloud of fragrant smoke and regarded them side-long from narrow eyes.
“Tell me, Stephan my friend, where have your travels been taking you? Life is slow here and I enjoy experiencing the wonders of the galaxy through your eyes.”
“Not far,” said Stephan. “Microchips from Destelworth II and heavy metals from New Talbot. Nice easy runs for an old man like me. Seraph is the furthest out we’ve come along the Crux.”
Bayram nodded thoughtfully.
“You’re becoming less adventurous in your old age. Heard any interesting news from your fellow Travellers? Anything from Nag’Sami?”
Stephan paused then shook his head. “Seems like some increased pirate activity along the trading routes near New Rome but apart from that nothing unusual. Nothing at all about Nag’Sami. I’d have thought you’d be in a better position to get any news from there with your contacts. You heard something?”
Bayram waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, no. I’m just interested in other perspectives. You never know if there’s something the local traders aren’t telling you.”
There was a tightness in his voice, however, that belied his nonchalance and excited Mordax’s interest.
“Speaking of traders who are reluctant to share their gossip,” Bayram continued, “rumour has it that you stopped in at Relar, though considering the embargo it would seem to be an unprofitable stop before coming to Seraph.”
Bayram said this last with a wry smile. He knew better than anyone the multitude of ways Stephan was able to smuggle goods into Seraph.
“Rumour travels fast,” said Stephan “but not every trip has to be profitable. I am getting old and the Relar climate agrees with me, that’s all.”
Bayram snorted twin jets of smoke out of his nostrils and gave a wheezy chuckle. “The day you stop at port without a view for profit is the day I start giving away my starsarine for free.”
“I suppose I may have picked up a few choice items,” said Stephan. “A few bottles of brandy, for example. Purely for the consumption of my crew, of course…and certain of our close friends.”
Bayram turned to Mordax. “Mordax, tell me, is Relarian brandy as delicious as I’ve heard.”
Mordax gave a slow, wide smile. “Bayram, you’ve never tasted brandy like this. It’s as sweet as the laughter of your children. As deep and rich as the sunset in midsummer.”
He leaned closer and gave a conspiratorial wink. “And it’s said that it does wonders for the energy and performance of men of a certain age.”
Bayram gave a great bark of laughter, belly jiggling.
“Mordax, my boy, you have your father’s silver tongue. And none of his tactful reserve. A dangerous combination. Come, Stephan, let’s have a taste. I imagine you’ll want to talk spice next and bargaining with you is always thirsty work.”
As Stephan produced another bottle of brandy from his coat, Mordax rose to his feet pulling his weathered satchel over his shoulder.
“Well, while you two get down to business I’ve got a couple of errands to run,” he said. “Good to see you again, Bayram.”
Bayram, mid-drag on his pipe, waved and made no move to rise from his cushions. Stephan shot him a questioning glance but Mordax twitched his finger, a signal for forbearance, and made his way through the swirling smoke and out of the tent.
***
Lilting music and the rich smell of hops filled the air as Mordax stepped into the bar. It was built into an alcove at the top of the main cavern and offered a view out over the lamplit streets far below, twinkling like the golden strands of a spider’s web. Patrons huddled around tables, escaping for a few moments the frenetic pace of the market. An antiquated server droid stood motionless behind the bar, waiting to pour drinks from the myriad bottles that lined the deep gouges in the rock wall where ancient drill bits had ripped their way through. Mordax almost always stopped in here on the Indigo Starling’s visits to Seraph as the gossip you could pick up was worth far more than the half-credit entry price. Mordax walked over to the bar and ordered a weak ale. His overcoat was now stuffed into the satchel at his hip, replaced by a dirty but genuine Relarian naval engineer’s uniform. He had wound a handkerchief around his head, concealing the rings in his ears. Mordax found that people relaxed more around those they could place neatly into a familiar box in their minds. He couldn’t pass for a local but he could hold himself out as something a little less exotic than a Traveller. The Relar system was Seraph’s closest neighbour and their naval cruisers frequently stopped in for shore leave. The droid clunkily filled a glass, mechanisms whirring and ticking. Mordax leaned against the counter and took a sip, grimacing at the taste. He surveyed the other occupants of the bar casually. Most were traders, large, bearded men and windburned women shouting happily at each other and guzzling drinks. Mordax spotted his mark quickly. A lone figure, hunched over a table towards the back of the bar, nursing an almost-empty glass. His wide-brimmed hat and ochre-stained fingers marked him out as a starcereus farmer. Mordax picked up his glass and strolled over to the table.
“Hello, friend. Mind some company?” asked Mordax.
The man squinted up at him from under the brim of his hat, eyes bleary and cheeks unshaven. He shrugged and gestured at the seat opposite him with a grunt.
Mordax lowered himself to the table and glanced around as if admiring the place. “Nice to get away from the crowds.”
“S’alright,” muttered the farmer, “booze is cheap and it’s quiet for the most part.” His voice was gravelly and his breath left the prickly flavour of whisky on the air.
“Spice farmer are you?” asked Mordax, taking a nonchalant sip of his beer and looking pointedly at the man’s hat. “How’s business?”
“Whassit to you?”
“Just making conversation, friend. Don’t get many opportunities to meet new people cooped up in an engine room for weeks at a time.”
The man squinted at the badge on Mordax’s tunic. “Relar navy?”
“That’s right. Three cycles now.” Mordax nodded at the man’s glass. “Fancy another one? Pay day was yesterday so I’m feeling pretty flush.”
The hard edges of the man’s frown softened slightly. “Kind of you.”
Mordax gestured for two more drinks and the waitress quickly set refills down in front of them.
The man raised his glass in Mordax’s direction before taking a deep gulp. He set the glass back down and stared absently into the amber liquid. Reflected flecks of gold danced over his face. Mordax was thinking of ways to restart the conversation when the man spoke in a voice thick with fatigue, barely more than a whisper. “My pa was ensign with the Seraph fleet during the worst of the Blackhand pirate raids. They were getting their arses handed to them until a Relar battleship pitched in and drove those bastards back to the Reaches. He’d always get a round in whenever you lot were dirt side.” He took a ragged breath before continuing with a twisted smile. “Old bugger would throw a fit if he could see me now. I can barely scrape the coins together to get meself pissed.”
“Sounds like a difficult time,” said Mordax carefully.
“Ay, they’ve been better,” said the man.
Mordax glanced at the farmer’s sunken eye sockets and patched clothes.
“Some are still doing alright though?” Mordax said. “I was wandering through the spice quarter earlier and one of the traders has built himself a tent palace or something. Trains of gorgeous women and silver platters of sweet meats heading in and out.”
“Bayram Hakan, head of our guild,” muttered the farmer. “Greedy bastard but he’s a necessary evil. If he wasn’t buying our starsarine we’d be fucked.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mordax. “Why’s he buying your starsarine? I thought the guild heads only negotiated prices with off-worlders and took a cut of the sales?”
The man waved his hand in the air as if batting the questions away. “Don’t worry about it. Hard times and desperate measures and that. Anyway, enough of this depressing crap. Where are your lot headed next? Back to Relar?”
Mordax’s interest had been piqued. He thought he might be close to getting some useful information but didn’t want to push it. “Next stop is Nag’Sami,” he said instinctively, recalling Bayram’s questions. “Should be interesting. I hear they have pretty relaxed attitudes to coupling.”
At this, the farmer’s head shot up and his blood-shot eyes widened. “You say Nag’Sami, boy?” When Mordax nodded his head the farmer gripped his arm with rough, stained fingers. “You don’t get back on that ship, you hear me? You find somewhere to hide til they leave.”
Mordax stared into the farmer’s sun-weathered face, now creased with worry. “What? Why?” When the farmer said nothing, he continued, playing his part. “Look, I can’t desert. They’d lock me up or worse if I got caught.”
The farmer let out an exasperated hiss. “Getting locked up’s better’n never coming back at all.”
He glanced around twisting his glass nervously in both hands then seemed to make up his mind. “Look, starsarine harvest is over. ‘Round this time of year we get three or four Nag’Sami super ‘aulers coming by which pick up almost a third of our entire harvest. Not a one has turned up though. Far as we can tell they’ve up and vanished somewhere between Nag’Sami and here. No bloody sign of ‘em. That’s why Bayram’s been buying all our spice off of us. We’ve got surplus comin’ out our ears. If he hadn’t most of us wouldn’t be able to put food on the table.”
Mordax experienced a moment of fluttering excitement as the pieces fitted together in his mind.
The farmer continued, “You keep this to yerself, hear me? If the other off-worlders find out there’s no demand, our starsarine won’t be worth shit and even Bayram won’t be able to keep us afloat.”
He was right, of course, Mordax thought. Whatever the reason behind the disappearance of the Nag’Sami haulers, Seraph would now be sitting on a huge over supply of starsarine. Mordax placed a few coins on the table and stood up.
“Thanks for the advice, friend. I’ll think about what you’ve said.”
The farmer looked intently into Mordax’s eyes for a second then sighed, nodded his head and resumed his hunched contemplation of his drink.
***
The air inside the tent was still syrupy with shisha smoke. Mordax, his disguise folded away again inside his satchel, halted just behind the entrance curtain and peeked in.
“That would be an insult to my country men who have toiled hard for this year’s excellent crop,” said Bayram, lazily, his bulk spread among the embroidered cushions and hands clasped over his belly. “320 credits a kilotonne is a fair offer. Come, it is beneath us to quibble so over such a paltry difference.”
“If you’re tired of quibbling, Bayram, then let’s settle at 280 credits. It is a paltry difference after all,” said Stephan.
Before Bayram had a chance to reply, Mordax stepped inside shrugging off his coat.
Both men looked up at him and watched as he settled back among the cushions.
“Where are we up to? No price agreed I take it?” Mordax said.
Bayram looked at him suspiciously, eyes squinting through the haze.
“Your father and I are just ironing out the final details,” he said.
“Bayram thinks 320 credits a kit would be a fair price,” said Stephan. “Any thoughts?”
Mordax sucked in a breathe. “320 credits? No, I don’t think that will work at all. Especially since Bayram’s still sitting on half of this year’s starsarine crop with no way to get it off-planet…”
Bayram blinked quickly and tried to straighten himself in the pile of cushions.
“I uh- that’s ridiculous. We ah…” he began “The Nag’Sami haulers, Bayram,” Mordax said. “I know they’ve disappeared. With that much starsarine still to shift, eighty credits a kit would be generous.”
Mordax glanced at his father’s face expecting to see his own excitement reflected there but Stephan was staring into space, a slight frown creasing his brow. Bayram’s eyes flicked between Mordax and Stephan, calculating. Eventually he let out a resigned sigh and massaged his temples.
“Who told you?” He held up a hand before Mordax could respond. “No, it doesn’t matter. You’re right. We have no idea what happened to those haulers. I’ve been spending hundreds on nethercasts but no one knows a damn thing.”
Bayram turned to Stephan, a pained expression on his face. “Stephan, my friend, this has caused us real problems. I have been buying starsarine from our farmers myself.”
Stephan glanced at Mordax who gave a grudging nod.
“If I hadn’t they’d be starving now but I’m reaching the limit of my reserves. Mordax is probably right, if you offer eighty credits I’d have to accept it but the lower the price, the less I can buy from my farmers and the worse off they are.”
Stephan pursed his lip. “Two hundred credits a kit is fine, Bayram.”
Mordax looked sharply at his father. Stephan continued. “And I’ll send a message to a few of the other Travellers in the area. I don’t think any were planning to head any further towards the Reaches but if I let them know that you’ll cut them the same deal I think they might make an extra trip.”
Bayram closed his eyes and sagged with relief, if possible spreading further into his cushions. “Thank you, Stephan. You are a good man.”
“Wait a min–– ” began Mordax.
“We’ll take five hundred Kits,” continued Stephan, cutting over Mordax, “but in return you’ll let me have every piece of information you learn about the disappearance of those haulers, if necessary by direct nethercast.”
“Of course,” agreed Bayram readily.
***
As soon as they were outside the tent Mordax rounded on his father angrily. “Two hundred credits?! What the hell was that for? We had Bayram over a barrel.”
Stephan turned to his son “And what happens when we’re down on our luck and need to take a consignment of starsarine on credit? What do you think Bayram will do if we’ve screwed him for every penny we could get today?”
“Who knows what’s going to happen tomorrow?” said Mordax “We had an opportunity to make hard cash and we should have taken it. I can’t believe you’re more worried about hurting Bayram’s feelings!”
“Look, it was good work finding out what you did but you’ve got to use your advantage tactfully instead of clubbing people over the head with it, Mordax. We’ll still make good money and now Bayram owes us.”
Mordax shook his head and said nothing.
Stephan continued, “Besides, judging by the look of some of the farmers around here I suspect Bayram was telling the truth about how hard up they are at the moment.”
Mordax bit back a reply. What did they owe these people? The life of a Traveller in the Shattered Empires was not an easy one. If you showed weakness, the galaxy would chew you up and spit you out. The farmers had been unfortunate but if the crew of the Starling didn’t take the chances that came their way then they might not survive the bad times that would eventually follow. Still, recalling the lonely figure in the bar, drinking alone to numb his loss, he couldn’t deny a twinge of relief that they weren’t making the situation any worse for him. Stephan’s thoughts had clearly moved on as he was frowning again.
“The disappearance of those haulers worries me,” he said.
“Blackhands?” suggested Mordax. “We know they’ve stepped up raids recently. It’s not their usual hunting ground but it would have taken some heavy firepower to overcome an entire transport convoy.”
“Could be,” said Stephan, sounding sceptical, “but it doesn’t smell right. I’ll feel much better when we’re away from here.”
“I guess a stop over in Nag’Sami would be out of the question then?” asked Mordax with a rueful glance “only, without their haulers our starsarine load would fetch a great price…”
Stephan shook his head.
“No, we’re getting out of this sector as soon as we can and we’re staying out until I can figure out what the hell’s going on.”
Outside the wind had strengthened, whipping the dust into frenzied eddies at their feet. Mordax pulled his scarf up to cover his nose and mouth as they made their way back down the mountainside. As they approached the rocky expanse of the spaceport, Mordax noticed a hazy brown smudge on the horizon, the dust storm which would rise hundreds of feet into the air. A warm gust ruffled his hair, bringing with it an earthy, metallic scent. The storm would soon be raging where they stood and expending its fury against the impassive mountain, while the people of Seraph waited safe inside their network of tunnels. Mordax knew the seasonal storms brought with them the rich alluvial soil from the river plains far below and were vital for the starcereus flower cultivation. However, as he gazed at the approaching wall of natural violence his heart was filled with a strange foreboding.
