In a galaxy that bears the scars of millennia of war, peace is maintained by the Dioscuri, a near-mythical group of assassins.
Mordax LâAmfour is a Traveller, an interstellar trader, scratching out a living on the fringes of civilisation with his father and the crew of their ship, the Indigo Starling. When cargo haulers begin disappearing, Mordax canât understand his fatherâs insistence on investigating. But after his family is attacked, he has only one goal: revenge. Even if that means knocking on the door of the Dioscuri themselves.
Akira Kudo is the daughter of the leader of the Kudo-kai. Once their empire spanned half the galaxy and innumerable worlds. Thatâs all gone. Dismantled by the Dioscuri until all thatâs left to them is a single star system. But now the supply of fuel for their starships, their lifeblood, has been cut off and even the remnants of their empire are under threat. Akira must travel to a hostile planet and negotiate with a madman to save her familyâs fortunes. That is, if she can stay alive long enough to get there.
In a galaxy that bears the scars of millennia of war, peace is maintained by the Dioscuri, a near-mythical group of assassins.
Mordax LâAmfour is a Traveller, an interstellar trader, scratching out a living on the fringes of civilisation with his father and the crew of their ship, the Indigo Starling. When cargo haulers begin disappearing, Mordax canât understand his fatherâs insistence on investigating. But after his family is attacked, he has only one goal: revenge. Even if that means knocking on the door of the Dioscuri themselves.
Akira Kudo is the daughter of the leader of the Kudo-kai. Once their empire spanned half the galaxy and innumerable worlds. Thatâs all gone. Dismantled by the Dioscuri until all thatâs left to them is a single star system. But now the supply of fuel for their starships, their lifeblood, has been cut off and even the remnants of their empire are under threat. Akira must travel to a hostile planet and negotiate with a madman to save her familyâs fortunes. That is, if she can stay alive long enough to get there.
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 creatureâs 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 Mordaxâs face, filling his nostrils and making his eyes sting. Coughing and wiping away dirty tears, he hurried to keep pace with Stephanâs long stride. At eighteen cycles, Mordax was almost his fatherâs equal in height but he lacked the thick muscle that filled out his fatherâs frame. Stephan squinted up at a nearby flag, whipping back and forth in the strengthening breeze. âCanât be more than four hours until the storm hits. Weâll have to be quick if we donât want to be stuck here for the next week.â
âYou donât get these problems in the Core systems,â said Mordax.
Stephan sighed, scratching his beard. âNot this again.â
âAll Iâm saying, is that these back-water systems donât 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.â
Stephan shook his head. âYou donât want to be in debt to the Kudo-kai, believe me.â
âFine, we could start small. Work our way up.â
âMordax, you know the Starling doesnât have the kind of muscle to protect a cargo that hot. And for Barshaminâs sake donât call Seraph a back-water system in front of the merchants. If Bayram hikes his prices because youâve pissed him off again, Iâll leave you ship-side at our next stop.â
Mordax blew out his cheeks. âCome on! With a pilot like Lazarus, we donât need muscle and the Starlingâs so juiced she can outrun any pirate.â
âYou take a cargo like that, you paint a target on your back,â said Stephan. âWe earn a decent enough living out here. Besides, word is the Blackhands are getting bolder.â
âIf we keep avoiding risk, weâll never get ahead. Weâll just keep on treading water,â said Mordax.
Stephan looked wearily into the sky and shook his head.
âThe answerâs no, Mordax.â
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. âStop. You wait over there. Effendi Hakan is busy,â 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, âYou must be new here, my friend. I hope you are enjoying the job and old Hakan isnât working you to the bone.â
He looked over the young guardâs shoulder to the older guard who was leaning nonchalantly against a tent-pole. âGreetings, Asuman. Itâs been a while. I hope your masterâs well. The airâs fresh today and I brought you a little something to keep the chill from your bones.â
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.
âGreetings, Effendi Stephan. Relar brandy is it? I didnât realise the embargo had been lifted.â With a theatrical glance over his shoulder, Stephan leaned closer and said in a quiet voice âIt hasnât quite so donât go splashing that around too freely. Now,â Stephan leaned back rubbing his hands together, âwe need to see your master quite urgently Iâm afraid. Weâre only dirt side for a few hours and we need to get moving if weâre to fill our cargo bay with your quality stasarine.â
âYouâll be disappointed then,â the young guard said. âEffendi Hakan is occupied and there is a long waiting list today.â Asuman barked a few angry words in Seraphian at the young guard who stepped back, regarding them sulkily.
âApologies, Effendi,â Asuman said. âItâs Kerimâs 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.â 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. âStephan, Mordax, my friends!â 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 Hakanâs belly strained at his silk tunic and his bushy beard covered at least one extra chin. âCome, come, sit,â 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 morningâs 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.
âTell 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.â
âNot far,â said Stephan. âMicrochips from Destelworth II and heavy metals from New Talbot. Nice easy runs for an old man like me. Seraph is the furthest out weâve come along the Crux.â
Bayram nodded thoughtfully.
âYouâre becoming less adventurous in your old age. Heard any interesting news from your fellow Travellers? Anything from NagâSami?â
Stephan paused then shook his head. âSeems like some increased pirate activity along the trading routes near New Rome but apart from that nothing unusual. Nothing at all about NagâSami. Iâd have thought youâd be in a better position to get any news from there with your contacts. You heard something?â
Bayram waved his hand dismissively. âAh, no. Iâm just interested in other perspectives. You never know if thereâs something the local traders arenât telling you.â
There was a tightness in his voice, however, that belied his nonchalance and excited Mordaxâs interest.
âSpeaking of traders who are reluctant to share their gossip,â Bayram continued, ârumour has it that you stopped in at Relar, though considering the embargo it would seem to be an unprofitable stop before coming to Seraph.â
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.
âRumour travels fast,â said Stephan âbut not every trip has to be profitable. I am getting old and the Relar climate agrees with me, thatâs all.â
Bayram snorted twin jets of smoke out of his nostrils and gave a wheezy chuckle. âThe day you stop at port without a view for profit is the day I start giving away my starsarine for free.â
âI suppose I may have picked up a few choice items,â said Stephan. âA few bottles of brandy, for example. Purely for the consumption of my crew, of courseâŚand certain of our close friends.â
Bayram turned to Mordax. âMordax, tell me, is Relarian brandy as delicious as Iâve heard.â
Mordax gave a slow, wide smile. âBayram, youâve never tasted brandy like this. Itâs as sweet as the laughter of your children. As deep and rich as the sunset in midsummer.â
He leaned closer and gave a conspiratorial wink. âAnd itâs said that it does wonders for the energy and performance of men of a certain age.â
Bayram gave a great bark of laughter, belly jiggling.
âMordax, my boy, you have your fatherâs silver tongue. And none of his tactful reserve. A dangerous combination. Come, Stephan, letâs have a taste. I imagine youâll want to talk spice next and bargaining with you is always thirsty work.â
As Stephan produced another bottle of brandy from his coat, Mordax rose to his feet pulling his weathered satchel over his shoulder.
âWell, while you two get down to business Iâve got a couple of errands to run,â he said. âGood to see you again, Bayram.â
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 spiderâs 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 Starlingâs 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 engineerâs 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 couldnât pass for a local but he could hold himself out as something a little less exotic than a Traveller. The Relar system was Seraphâs 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.
âHello, friend. Mind some company?â 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. âNice to get away from the crowds.â
âSâalright,â muttered the farmer, âbooze is cheap and itâs quiet for the most part.â His voice was gravelly and his breath left the prickly flavour of whisky on the air.
âSpice farmer are you?â asked Mordax, taking a nonchalant sip of his beer and looking pointedly at the manâs hat. âHowâs business?â
âWhassit to you?â
âJust making conversation, friend. Donât get many opportunities to meet new people cooped up in an engine room for weeks at a time.â
The man squinted at the badge on Mordaxâs tunic. âRelar navy?â
âThatâs right. Three cycles now.â Mordax nodded at the manâs glass. âFancy another one? Pay day was yesterday so Iâm feeling pretty flush.â
The hard edges of the manâs frown softened slightly. âKind of you.â
Mordax gestured for two more drinks and the waitress quickly set refills down in front of them.
The man raised his glass in Mordaxâs 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. âMy 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. Heâd always get a round in whenever you lot were dirt side.â He took a ragged breath before continuing with a twisted smile. âOld bugger would throw a fit if he could see me now. I can barely scrape the coins together to get meself pissed.â
âSounds like a difficult time,â said Mordax carefully.
âAy, theyâve been better,â said the man.
Mordax glanced at the farmerâs sunken eye sockets and patched clothes.
âSome are still doing alright though?â Mordax said. âI 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.â
âBayram Hakan, head of our guild,â muttered the farmer. âGreedy bastard but heâs a necessary evil. If he wasnât buying our starsarine weâd be fucked.â
âWhat do you mean?â asked Mordax. âWhyâs he buying your starsarine? I thought the guild heads only negotiated prices with off-worlders and took a cut of the sales?â
The man waved his hand in the air as if batting the questions away. âDonât 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?â
Mordaxâs interest had been piqued. He thought he might be close to getting some useful information but didnât want to push it. âNext stop is NagâSami,â he said instinctively, recalling Bayramâs questions. âShould be interesting. I hear they have pretty relaxed attitudes to coupling.â
At this, the farmerâs head shot up and his blood-shot eyes widened. âYou say NagâSami, boy?â When Mordax nodded his head the farmer gripped his arm with rough, stained fingers. âYou donât get back on that ship, you hear me? You find somewhere to hide til they leave.â
Mordax stared into the farmerâs sun-weathered face, now creased with worry. âWhat? Why?â When the farmer said nothing, he continued, playing his part. âLook, I canât desert. Theyâd lock me up or worse if I got caught.â
The farmer let out an exasperated hiss. âGetting locked upâs betterân never coming back at all.â
He glanced around twisting his glass nervously in both hands then seemed to make up his mind. âLook, starsarine harvest is over. âRound this time of year we get three or four NagâSami super âaulers coming by which pick up almost a third of our entire harvest. Not a one has turned up though. Far as we can tell theyâve up and vanished somewhere between NagâSami and here. No bloody sign of âem. Thatâs why Bayramâs been buying all our spice off of us. Weâve got surplus cominâ out our ears. If he hadnât most of us wouldnât be able to put food on the table.â
Mordax experienced a moment of fluttering excitement as the pieces fitted together in his mind.
The farmer continued, âYou keep this to yerself, hear me? If the other off-worlders find out thereâs no demand, our starsarine wonât be worth shit and even Bayram wonât be able to keep us afloat.â
He was right, of course, Mordax thought. Whatever the reason behind the disappearance of the NagâSami haulers, Seraph would now be sitting on a huge over supply of starsarine. Mordax placed a few coins on the table and stood up.
âThanks for the advice, friend. Iâll think about what youâve said.â
The farmer looked intently into Mordaxâs 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.
âThat would be an insult to my country men who have toiled hard for this yearâs excellent crop,â said Bayram, lazily, his bulk spread among the embroidered cushions and hands clasped over his belly. â320 credits a kilotonne is a fair offer. Come, it is beneath us to quibble so over such a paltry difference.â
âIf youâre tired of quibbling, Bayram, then letâs settle at 280 credits. It is a paltry difference after all,â 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.
âWhere are we up to? No price agreed I take it?â Mordax said.
Bayram looked at him suspiciously, eyes squinting through the haze.
âYour father and I are just ironing out the final details,â he said.
âBayram thinks 320 credits a kit would be a fair price,â said Stephan. âAny thoughts?â
Mordax sucked in a breathe. â320 credits? No, I donât think that will work at all. Especially since Bayramâs still sitting on half of this yearâs starsarine crop with no way to get it off-planetâŚâ
Bayram blinked quickly and tried to straighten himself in the pile of cushions.
âI uh- thatâs ridiculous. We ahâŚâ he began âThe NagâSami haulers, Bayram,â Mordax said. âI know theyâve disappeared. With that much starsarine still to shift, eighty credits a kit would be generous.â
Mordax glanced at his fatherâs face expecting to see his own excitement reflected there but Stephan was staring into space, a slight frown creasing his brow. Bayramâs eyes flicked between Mordax and Stephan, calculating. Eventually he let out a resigned sigh and massaged his temples.
âWho told you?â He held up a hand before Mordax could respond. âNo, it doesnât matter. Youâre right. We have no idea what happened to those haulers. Iâve been spending hundreds on nethercasts but no one knows a damn thing.â
Bayram turned to Stephan, a pained expression on his face. âStephan, my friend, this has caused us real problems. I have been buying starsarine from our farmers myself.â
Stephan glanced at Mordax who gave a grudging nod.
âIf I hadnât theyâd be starving now but Iâm reaching the limit of my reserves. Mordax is probably right, if you offer eighty credits Iâd have to accept it but the lower the price, the less I can buy from my farmers and the worse off they are.â
Stephan pursed his lip. âTwo hundred credits a kit is fine, Bayram.â
Mordax looked sharply at his father. Stephan continued. âAnd Iâll send a message to a few of the other Travellers in the area. I donât think any were planning to head any further towards the Reaches but if I let them know that youâll cut them the same deal I think they might make an extra trip.â
Bayram closed his eyes and sagged with relief, if possible spreading further into his cushions. âThank you, Stephan. You are a good man.â
âWait a minââ â began Mordax.
âWeâll take five hundred Kits,â continued Stephan, cutting over Mordax, âbut in return youâll let me have every piece of information you learn about the disappearance of those haulers, if necessary by direct nethercast.â
âOf course,â agreed Bayram readily.
***
As soon as they were outside the tent Mordax rounded on his father angrily. âTwo hundred credits?! What the hell was that for? We had Bayram over a barrel.â
Stephan turned to his son âAnd what happens when weâre down on our luck and need to take a consignment of starsarine on credit? What do you think Bayram will do if weâve screwed him for every penny we could get today?â
âWho knows whatâs going to happen tomorrow?â said Mordax âWe had an opportunity to make hard cash and we should have taken it. I canât believe youâre more worried about hurting Bayramâs feelings!â
âLook, it was good work finding out what you did but youâve got to use your advantage tactfully instead of clubbing people over the head with it, Mordax. Weâll still make good money and now Bayram owes us.â
Mordax shook his head and said nothing.
Stephan continued, âBesides, 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.â
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 didnât 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 couldnât deny a twinge of relief that they werenât making the situation any worse for him. Stephanâs thoughts had clearly moved on as he was frowning again.
âThe disappearance of those haulers worries me,â he said.
âBlackhands?â suggested Mordax. âWe know theyâve stepped up raids recently. Itâs not their usual hunting ground but it would have taken some heavy firepower to overcome an entire transport convoy.â
âCould be,â said Stephan, sounding sceptical, âbut it doesnât smell right. Iâll feel much better when weâre away from here.â
âI guess a stop over in NagâSami would be out of the question then?â asked Mordax with a rueful glance âonly, without their haulers our starsarine load would fetch a great priceâŚâ
Stephan shook his head.
âNo, weâre getting out of this sector as soon as we can and weâre staying out until I can figure out what the hellâs going on.â
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.
Indigo Starling is a 'rogue trader' story: we are out amongst dangerous worlds, too far from 'the Core' for our protagonist's comfort. That protagonist, Mordax, is the son of the ship's Captain. We learn early on that he's still a bit green when it comes to the art of the deal, and we know that he (and us) are in for a learning curve. So far, so good, but there are other elements at work.
Firstly, if you like your settings sprawling, and your galactic history deep, you're aboard the right ship. Glass, in his bio, reveals he studied classics - but this is SF, right? So what? Well, civilisations have tons of history, and history shapes everything. Underneath a bubbling narrative of missing freighters, falling commodity prices, and redirected mineral supplies are ancient wars and fallen empires. Glass understands his ancient civilisations, and puts that understanding to good use giving depth to his story's backdrop.
Secondly, characterisation. His main characters are interesting and complex in a way that's a must for a well-written novel - but let's look deeper. You can gain an interesting side-light on an author by looking at the way they handle lesser characters, and one that sticks in my mind is Stamford: a minor member of the crew, who might just be a bit of onboard muscle, with a quirky way of speaking to help you remember who he is. But Glass uses him to accentuate Mordax's comparative naivety, and Stamford's backstory (he's from a planet where people have been genetically manipulated to survive harsh conditions), reinforces the 'shattered empires' theme.
Then, there's quite a lot of interesting tech of various kinds and levels here, from the shipbuilding station Fornax, where ship sections are 3D-printed then glued together, to ancient AI 'survivors' that are ten thousand years old. Oh, and let's not forget the wooden ponchos, right at the start. Wooden ponchos? Just one of those throw-away details in a book like this that says 'I want to know more about these people and these places'. If the plot bubbles, the ideas fizz.
If I have a slight quibble - every review has to have one - it is that in the later stages of the book there are some MIGHTY long paragraphs that are more than a page long. These make for quite some reading, but on no account let that put you off.
Finally, there are the influences. Glass lists these as Asimov, Vance, and Philip K Dick, and this book reads on the grand scale of those greats, without losing its sense of vibrant adventure on an individualistic scale. Ideal for fans of galaxy-spanning adventure where the future is looking a bit on the grim and grimy side, like Asimov's Foundation trilogy, Alistaire Reyonold's Revelation Space novels, or E. C. Tubb's Dumarest Saga (the original 'rogue trader' tales and inspiration for the Traveller RPG).