For well over a year Ishmael followed meaningless orders at Norma Cenva’s complex, though he felt as if his heart had died inside him. He toiled with a hundred and thirty other Buddislamic captives. The secret project was complex as they slowly built, refit, and tested the strange components of a large new ship.

None of it meant anything to him.

The woman scientist was not a difficult taskmaster. She was so intent in her focus that she blithely assumed every other person shared her obsessive dedication. Her Tlulaxa partner Tuk Keedair— Ishmael shuddered with loathing each time he saw the former slaver— enforced the long work shifts.

The assistants, administrators, engineers, and slaves spent their days and nights in a small settlement whose sole purpose was to build the experimental vessel. The Buddislamic slaves slept in plain, clean communal barracks erected atop the plateau where the nights were windy but full of stars. Ishmael had no opportunity to return to Starda, not even for a day.

Ishmael had received no word of his wife or daughters, had found no one of whom he could even ask questions about them. His family was lost to him. Each day he prayed they were still alive, but in his memory they had become ghosts inhabiting his dreams. His hopes dwindled to no more than thin threads.

Amid the loud hammering and shouts of the construction hangar, he watched his friend Aliid changing the cartridge of a sonic tool. When the slaves had first come upriver to work on this new, isolated project, Aliid had managed to get himself assigned to a daily work detail with Ishmael. Now the Poritrin slavers had taken both men from their wives and families.

After adjusting the sonic tool, the Zenshiite man spoke sharply. “You tried, Ishmael. You did what you thought was best— I cannot fault you for that, though I have always disagreed with your naïve faith in the fairness of our captors. What did you expect? The slavemasters rely on us being spineless, exactly as you demonstrated. When we are capable of nothing more than toothless threats, they feel no obligation to treat us like human beings. We must speak a language that our oppressors will heed. We must show fangs and claws!”

“Violence only brings down greater punishments upon us. You saw what happened to Bel Moulay—”

Aliid interrupted, grinning wolfishly. “Yes, I saw… but did you, Ishmael? In all the years since then, what have you learned? You fixate on the pain Bel Moulay suffered, but you forget everything he achieved. He brought us together. It was a clarion call, not just for the Poritrin nobles who overreacted and crushed every sign of resistance, but for all Buddislamics who continue to suffer. We slaves have a sleeping strength within us.”

Clinging to his nonviolent beliefs, Ishmael shook his head stubbornly. The two men had reached a familiar impasse, each of them unwilling to cross to the other side of the chasm separating them. Once, they had been good friends thrust together by common circumstances, but they had always been so different. Even their common miseries had not drawn them closer. Aliid, in his determination, kept trying to achieve the impossible— in so many ways. Ishmael had to admire him for his convictions, but Aliid showed only frustration.

When Ishmael had been a boy, his grandfather had taught him what to believe and how to live, but sometimes adults simplified matters for their children. Ishmael was thirty-seven years old now. Had he been wrong all these years? Did he need to find new strength within himself, yet still remain within the boundaries of Zensunni teachings? He knew deep in his bones that Aliid’s dreams of violence were wrong and dangerous, but his quiet confidence that it was all for a reason— that God would somehow rescue them and melt the hearts of their slavers— had accomplished nothing during his life. Or during the lives of generations of Buddislamic slaves.

He had to find another answer. A different solution.

Though Ishmael had failed utterly, wresting no comforts or concessions from Lord Bludd, the Zensunni faithful still came to him in the communal barracks at night, asking him to preach, to tell them stories, to reaffirm their patient acceptance of Buddallah’s will. More than a hundred men and women came to see him regularly— most of the workforce.

At first, Ishmael didn’t think he could do it. How could he recite the Koran Sutras and sing songs of God’s benevolence, when Ozza could not be beside him, when his beautiful girls did not sit across the story fire and listen to his familiar parables? But then Ishmael grew strong and realized that he could not lose everything. He had his own strength, even if Aliid could not see it.

As the months stretched past a year, though, Ishmael noticed a gradual but clear separation open up between his Zensunni brothers and the smaller group of Aliid’s Zenshiites. They still worked together inside the enclosed hangar where Norma Cenva and her team tinkered with the gutted prototype ship, but he sensed that Aliid was hiding secrets not only from the Poritrin slave masters, but also from Ishmael and his people….

A BRIGHT SPOT returned to Ishmael’s life with the suddenness of the dazzling fireworks that the Poritrin lords so often launched in their river celebrations. The news was all the more welcome for its very unexpectedness.

As the massive experimental ship entered the final phase of testing and demonstration, Tuk Keedair hired another group of slaves from Starda and brought them to operate the colossal machinery and assist in last-minute operations. Among the fifteen sullen new workers, Ishmael was astonished to find his elder daughter Chamal.

She saw and recognized him, and her expression unfolded like the petals of a brilliant flower. Ishmael’s heart leaped, and he wanted to rush to her, but armed escorts had accompanied the reassigned slaves. Also, narrow-eyed Keedair watched the newcomers as if taking a silent administrative tally.

Ishmael remembered the vindictiveness of Lord Bludd, who had willingly torn his family apart simply because he had asked for fair compensation. Now he could not risk drawing any attention either to himself or Chamal.

Ishmael gave his daughter a quick signal, shaking his head and averting his eyes. He would talk with her later. That night they would embrace and tell stories in quiet whispers. For now, he dared not show joy, for fear the slavemasters would steal that away as they had taken most everything else….

The rest of the day was agony for him. The new group of slaves went through orientation and training in a different part of the compound. The sun itself seemed to have stopped in the sky for Ishmael, since time passed so slowly.

But after the long work shift was over and the Zensunnis retreated to their communal barracks, with Aliid and his Zenshiites in their separate dwellings, Ishmael hugged his daughter and they both wept. Content just to be together, they explained nothing for a while.

At last Chamal spilled the story of how she had been separated from her mother and her younger sister. As far as she knew, Ozza and little Falina had been taken to the cane fields on the far side of the continent. She had heard nothing from them in a year.

After talking with Ishmael for hours Chamal summoned a young, determined-looking man named Rafel. She took him by the hand and pulled him close to meet her father. He seemed intimidated, as if he had already heard much about Ishmael. She said, “This man is my husband. When I turned sixteen and reached marriageable age, we were given to each other.” She lowered her dark eyes, avoiding Ishmael’s obvious surprise. “I had no one else, Father.”

He felt no displeasure, but in his own mind he could not believe that his little daughter— a girl who had always seemed so young to him— was now an adult, a woman and a wife. Ishmael smiled warmly, welcoming them both. “He looks like a fine young man.”

Bowing his head slightly, Rafel replied, “I will try to be, for the sake of your daughter and our people.”

Chamal stood close to her husband, obviously fond of the young man. “After I married Rafel, their administrators must have lost track of the fact that I was your daughter. They did not know who I was when they transferred me here. Otherwise, Lord Bludd would have kept me away from you.”

Ishmael reached forward to take her hand, squeezing it tightly. “You are my daughter, Chamal.” Then he reached out to grasp her young husband’s hand as well. “And you are now my son, Rafel.”

WEEKS LATER, ISHMAEL discovered by accident what plans Aliid had already put into motion. In the isolated group at the canyon job site, one of the Zensunni women in the crew had taken a Zenshiite as her husband, observed him hiding makeshift weapons and reading secret notes written in a nearly forgotten Buddislamic language that no League noble could read. Seeing Ishmael as their leader, the interpreter of the sutras and the reluctant decision maker, she told him what she had learned and suspected.

Within a month, the twenty-seventh anniversary of Bel Moulay’s uprising would come. The lords of Poritrin again planned raucous celebrations that would remind the slaves of their failure, the fate that always awaited them. In defiance of this, Aliid intended to use it as a springboard for his own violent rebellion. He had already put operatives into position and surreptitious messages had been sent back to Starda, where— invoking the name of Bel Moulay— the plans spread like a virulent disease.

The Zenshiites intended to launch a rain of violence upon the complacent Poritrin masters who believed they had squashed all resistance decades ago. Ishmael was beginning to realize that his own peacemaking overtures to Lord Bludd had done much to cement that impression among the nobles. But the realization did not spell a shift in his beliefs.

Obviously, Aliid knew that Ishmael would not condone violence and would instead quote Koran Sutras forbidding the murder of innocents and warning against wresting the powers of judgment from the hand of God. But Aliid had no further interest in scripture. He did not trust his childhood companion to participate in the plan, and even suspected that Ishmael might work against the intended uprising.

When Ishmael learned of this doubt, of being excluded, he felt as if his friend had stabbed him through the heart. Though they disagreed over tactics, didn’t they both want freedom for their people? Ishmael had never thought his companion would keep such an important secret from him.

Shaken and brooding, he spent several nights awake, trying to decide what to do. Did Aliid truly believe that his plan would remain entirely secret, or did he hope Ishmael would learn of it and read between the lines? Was this supposed to be a test to determine whether the Zensunnis were willing to fight for freedom, or if they were content to remain docile captives?

What if Aliid is right?

Ishmael felt a cold knot in the center of his chest. He was certain Aliid’s actions would cause a bloodbath and the slaves would pay a terrible price, even those who did not fight. If they rose up again, it would prove to their Poritrin masters that Buddislamics could never be trusted. They might be exterminated entirely or forced to live in shackles like penned animals, surrendering even the meager freedoms they still retained.

Ishmael knew he had no choice but to face his friend, before it was too late.

That evening as the wind came up and the sun went down, Ishmael climbed the metal-runged ladder to the hangar’s cantilevered roof that extended beyond the grotto overhang. Aliid and seven Zenshiite coworkers had been sent here in a repair crew to fix overlapping corrugated sheetmetal that had been blown off in a canyon windstorm. The shelter was needed to protect the experimental ship from the cold rains of Poritrin’s approaching winter.

Ishmael climbed to the roof and looked around. After shaving himself clean in order to meet with Lord Bludd, he had let his beard grow again, and now it was bristly and spiky, with a faint frosting of gray.

Aliid turned to face him, his striped Zenshiite shirt tucked into a work uniform. His black beard was a thick forest on the lower half of his face. It seemed he had been expecting his visitor.

Ishmael stopped, halfway to him. “Aliid, do you recall the Koran Sutra that says when friends keep secrets from each other, their enemies have already won?”

Aliid lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes. “The Zenshia variation says, ‘A friend who cannot be relied upon is worse than an enemy.’”

The Zenshiite coworkers watched the two men as they spoke. Impatiently, Aliid gestured to them. “Leave us. My friend Ishmael and I have matters to discuss.”

After reassuring themselves by the confidence on Aliid’s hard face, they crossed to the open stairway and descended into the large grotto. Alone on the upper deck, the two men faced each other. The pause seemed to last an eternity as the wind whistled around Ishmael’s ears.

“We have been through much together, Aliid,” he said, at last. “Since we were captured as boys and brought to Poritrin, we have struggled and grieved at each other’s side. We shared stories of our home worlds, and now both of our wives have been taken from us by the slave masters. I mourned with you for the destruction of the sacred city on IV Anbus. And now I have learned what you intend to do.”

Aliid chewed at his upper lip. “I am tired of waiting for you to act, my friend. I always hoped you would learn your error and see that God wants us to be men, not trees. We cannot stand by and let the universe do with us whatever it wishes. But ever since you went to speak with Lord Bludd and then meekly accepted your punishment, I have been convinced that the Zensunni way is comprised of talk, while my Zenshiites prefer action. Is it not time to act, at last?”

His eyes were fiery, as if he still held a hope that Ishmael would join him. “I have sent spies and messengers to slave groups all across Poritrin. They revere the memory of the great Bel Moulay, and are restless for another crack at the oppressors.”

Ishmael shook his head, thinking of his daughter Chamal, then of his lost wife Ozza, and of Falina. They were still alive somewhere, and he dared not risk them. “Bel Moulay was executed, Aliid. Many hundreds of Buddislamic slaves were slaughtered when the Dragoons recaptured Starda Spaceport.”

“He had the right idea— you know he did, Ishmael— but he acted precipitously, before he was ready. This time, the uprising will be on an unprecedented scale. I will orchestrate it on my own terms.”

Ishmael pictured Chamal’s new husband Rafel cut to bloody ribbons by guards with Chandler pistols… and Ozza and Falina, clinging to each other while Lord Bludd’s troops mowed them down in burning cane fields. He shook his head. “And the Dragoon guards will retaliate on a scale commensurate with your uprising. Think of the suffering—”

“Only if we fail, Ishmael,” Aliid said, stepping closer. The wind stirred his dark hair like a thunderhead. “It will be vengeance against our captors in the name of the martyr Bel Moulay. We kill the oppressors and take their world for ourselves. Make them serve us for a change. We’ll take whatever payment we deem acceptable for all the lost years of our lives.”

Ishmael swallowed hard. “I am terrified of your plan, Aliid.”

“Terrified?” He let out a bitter laugh. “The League Worlds have always said that Buddislamics are cowards, that we flee from any fight, that we turned our backs on their war against the machine demons.” Aliid leaned closer, his eyes blazing like those of Bel Moulay so long ago. “But on this anniversary, we will show them just what sort of cowards we are. It will be a bloodbath they’ll never forget.”

“Aliid, I beg you not to go forward with this. Violence in the name of Buddallah is still murder.”

“Blind passivity in the face of all torments is still surrender,” Aliid countered. He reached into his striped shirt and pulled out a long curved knife he had fashioned from a sharpened piece of scrap metal. “Do you intend to give us away, Ishmael? Will you report our plans to your friend Lord Bludd?” He extended the knife, hilt first. “Take it. You may as well kill me yourself then.”

Ishmael raised his hands. “No, Aliid.”

But the other man grabbed Ishmael’s wrist and forced him to grasp the knife. Aliid pressed the point against his own chest. “Do it. Kill me now, for I no longer wish to live as a slave.”

“Nonsense! I would never hurt you.”

“This is your chance,” Aliid growled. “Do it— or never again object to what I mean to do.”

Ishmael yanked his hand free, releasing his grip on the weapon. He cast his gaze downward. “Is this the only way you know, Aliid? I feel sorry for you.”

Sneering as if he wanted to spit in Ishmael’s face, Aliid slipped the knife back into its hiding place. “You are no longer my friend, Ishmael, nor are you my enemy.” He turned his back and uttered a final insult into the wind. “You are nothing to me.”