After a year of massive effort, a huge expenditure of funds and resources, and countless slaves dying in industrial accidents, the final components of the decoy spaceship fleet were assembled in orbit over Poritrin. With the work nearly finished, the foundries in the delta shipyards would be closed down.

Late one afternoon, work supervisors summoned the slave crews from their stations. Squinting, dirty captives emerged from the smoke-filled hangars and stood outside on the paved landing ground from which the final shipments were launched into orbit. Hundreds of unfortunate souls milled about in disorganized ranks.

Ishmael knew that he and his fellow slaves could expect to be assigned to new tasks soon. As always, a time of changes made him uneasy, for fear that he would be separated from Ozza or his two daughters, as Aliid had been taken from his family. Nevertheless, he clung to the hope that Buddallah would keep his family together. The Poritrin slave masters had no reason to separate them.

But every day at the factories, Aliid simmered with unhealed emotional wounds, always looking for his chance. “Long ago, they took from me my wife and newborn son. I no longer care what they do to me.” Ishmael feared what his friend might do, given enough provocation.

When Ishmael had been a boy, his grandfather always insisted that he have complete faith in God, that it was arrogance for any person to take matters out of Buddallah’s hands and into his own. Still, uncertainty formed icicles within him… and Aliid showed no willingness to accept those terms.

As the crew bosses bellowed orders, trying to arrange the slaves into assigned groups for the assembly, Ishmael slipped through the crowd toward a polishing and finishing crew where his wife was stationed. Presently he touched Ozza’s arm, and she reached over to take his hand, sensing her husband’s nearness without needing to look at him. With so many slaves all in one place, the workmasters would not bother to take attendance or herd the people into appropriate groups. That would take all day.

Through no choice of their own, Ishmael and Ozza were jostled toward the podium where two small men stood beside the main work supervisor. The sunlight was bright, and Ishmael still had trouble adjusting his eyes after the dim and cavernous foundry.

“I wonder if they will announce another celebration of their great society,” Ozza asked close to his ear, so that no one could hear her sarcasm.

“I can think of worse reasons for this summons.”

He peered up at the two strangers, both of them obviously Tlulaxa… the hated slavers. The younger man had sharp features, including a narrow face and dark, close-set eyes. But Ishmael was more intent on the familiar features of the older man with a long, iron-gray braid that hung like a noose rope over one shoulder. In his opposite ear dangled a triangular bronze earring. More than two decades had passed, and Ishmael had been only a terrified boy at the time… but he would never forget the face of the man who had led the raid on Harmonthep.

His heart pounded as fresh fear and righteous anger swelled within him. He had sworn vengeance against this man, vowing to crush him. Right now, Ishmael wished he could lunge to the podium and wrap his work-strengthened hands around the slaver’s throat. It was what his friend Aliid would have done— Aliid, who had always scorned Ishmael’s patience and blind faith.

But vengeance was not what the Zensunni sutras taught. Ishmael’s grandfather would have been deeply disappointed in him. It is in God’s hands, not mine.

But must I simply forgive and forget?

Ozza looked at him, touched his face with gentle fingertips. He saw concern there. “What is it, Ishmael?”

“That man… I—” He stopped himself, unable to tell her. His grandfather would have insisted on acceptance, even forgiveness. The old man would have demanded that Ishmael look for a deeper lesson from Buddallah, to grow from every trial and experience. God did not guarantee a soft and peaceful life to every member of the faithful— at least not in this world. The sutras instructed the Zensunni to accept, endure, and wait for Buddallah to choose the right moment.

But it was so difficult.

After nearly half an hour of passive chaos, the hundreds of slaves had finally arranged themselves and quieted down. At the front of the throng, Ishmael heard the work supervisor speaking to the younger Tlulaxa. “Rekur Van, these are all the members of our slave crew working today. They have been assigned to the ship construction project for months. We cannot spare them.”

“Nevertheless, I wish to see them.” The leaner, rodentlike Tlulaxa scanned the faces and the bodies in the crowd. Tuk Keedair, the slaver who had hunted down Ishmael and so many innocent Zensunni on Harmonthep, stood beside him, looking bored. Keedair seemed to have no interest in acquiring new slaves, but had come to Poritrin for another reason entirely.

As Ishmael watched, Rekur Van paced the podium, sweeping a small device across the crowd, with which he took images and analyzed the gathered slaves. “I am required to inventory your captive personnel. They are to be considered resources for the Army of the Jihad. We Tlulaxa desperately need a large number of healthy slaves from a wide range of body and tissue types. This is our highest priority.” When the workmaster showed his alarm, Rekur Van lowered his voice to a growl. “If you object, I can obtain a signed warrant from Grand Patriarch Ginjo himself.”

“No doubt you can, Rekur,” said Keedair, in a patient, reasonable tone, “but it is not necessary to insist on the first and most inconvenient alternative.”

With a flurry and bustle, a boatcar skimmed over the shallow water of the delta, then drove up on the ground to reach the staging area. Flustered, Tio Holtzman strode imperiously up to the podium. His eyes were narrow, his face a mixture of anger and confusion. “Why do you interrupt my slaves in this important project? Their work is vital, and delay is inexcusable.”

“We have a suitable excuse, Savant Holtzman,” said Rekur Van, just as imperiously. “The Jihad has an immediate need for slaves, and Poritrin is the nearest world on my route. The Tlulaxa require many new candidates.”

Ishmael swallowed hard, then clutched his wife’s arm. Both of them looked around for their daughters, but Chamal and Falina had been assigned to different support teams and were nowhere in sight.

“Not from my workers,” Holtzman said in a huff. “All of these workers are dedicated to a project vital to the protection of Poritrin and our weapons factories. You’ll have to get your slaves someplace else.”

“But I am here, Savant Holtzman, and I need slaves now.”

“So do I.” The scientist made a rude snorting noise. “Why didn’t you just capture some of those cowards on IV Anbus? It is my understanding they refused to fight even against the thinking machines that were attacking them… and they actually sabotaged the brave jihadis. Could there be any people more worthy of serving the human race?”

“Perhaps that is an indication of their inferiority,” Rekur Van suggested. “Besides, they were scattered, and their numbers were… insufficient to meet our needs.”

Through rumors and slow news, the Poritrin captives had only just learned of the battle on IV Anbus, the Jihad’s pyrrhic victory at the cost of so many lives and holy relics. All Buddislamics, including Zensunnis and Zenshiites, revered the sacred city of Darits, storehouse of the original manuscripts of the Koran Sutras. The Poritrin slaves were dismayed to hear of the ruin caused not only by the robot army, but by the forces of the Jihad.

Looking around, Ishmael noted that the humans in control here didn’t seem to care. Why is their religious fervor acceptable, while ours is a matter of scorn?

He watched the older slaver step between the indignant inventor and the eager flesh merchant. Though he despised the man, Ishmael had to concede that Tuk Keedair seemed wiser and better versed in the ways of interaction.

“Slaves are available in many places, Rekur. There are plenty of Buddislamic backwaters for the harvesting of flesh. Since these captives are already serving a useful purpose for humanity, I see no need to remove them from the custody of Savant Holtzman.”

Rekur Van scowled at his fellow Tlulaxa, as if they were rivals. “And why are you here, Tuk Keedair? You are no longer a flesh merchant, but prefer to sell spice and glowglobes with that alien Venport. Why should you meddle in my important assignment?”

“My partner and I are here on another business venture. Your task is not the only legitimate job in the Army of the Jihad.” In a paternalistic manner, Keedair placed his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Listen, I know where you could raid for more slaves, a large group that is a nuisance to me and, by extension, to the League of Nobles. Come, I will tell you where to hunt them, and everyone will be happy. Are you familiar with the desert world of Arrakis?”

Still frowning but somewhat mollified, Rekur Van accompanied the veteran slaver off the podium.

Ishmael put his arm around Ozza’s waist, drawing her close. His pulse continued to race, and he sensed that they had narrowly dodged disaster. He and his family could remain here, together. And, as much as he resented his captivity on Poritrin, he felt in his heart that serving the Tlulaxa would have been far worse.

Holtzman looked satisfied and stared down at the gathered workers. Finally, the inventor waved his hands imperiously. “Why are you just standing there? We must finish this project on schedule! Get to work.”