A total loss.

Tuk Keedair stared at the disastrous remains of the huge project and tried to grasp the scope of the investment— and the potential profits— he and Venport had just lost. That bastard Holtzman had seized all notes and blueprints, and without Norma Cenva the project did not exist.

The past two years of effort amounted to nothing.

For the first time in many decades, Keedair would be honor-bound to slice off his coveted braid. According to tradition among his people, the merchant could keep it only so long as he made a profit, and his braid had grown very long indeed. Now, thanks to petty politics and Holtzman’s greed, he might as well shave his head bald.

Perhaps he should just go back to being a slaver.

The Tlulaxa businessman shook his head as he wandered around the spacious interior of the cargo ship. So close! Norma’s innovative engines had been completed and installed, though never tested. He had pressed Norma for updates and explanations, but she considered such details burdensome and a waste of time. She had adapted her new systems to the existing controls in the old cargo vessel; any pilot could fly the “space-folder” craft just like the old merchant ship. In theory.

Now, the entire project was just… theory.

Since VenKee Enterprises did a great deal of business throughout the League of Nobles, Keedair had used whatever influence he could bring to bear, filing legal papers against Savant Holtzman and Lord Bludd, threatening expensive lawsuits and a League boycott of interstellar commerce. Unswayed, Bludd had refused to release any of Norma’s records, holding them under the guise of “Poritrin security.”

But Keedair had liberally spread his bribes and managed to get himself freed from confinement long enough to race back to the complex with a fleet of suspensor trucks and a bunch of loathsome slaves. Now that the Dragoons seemed to have abandoned the place, the Tlulaxa attempted to salvage anything he could.

Since Holtzman’s unpleasant aggression, Keedair had not rested, spending every hour trying to inventory and save what he could of this ambitious undertaking, if only for scrap metal. His only option was to dismantle and remove as many assets as possible and liquidate them to recover some of the enormous investment.

Holtzman’s own salvage crew— carrion birds— had been dismissed for the day of celebration, the anniversary of Bel Moulay’s crushed slave rebellion. This made the construction site no longer worth the supervision of a large contingent of Dragoons. Keedair intended to use the time to grab everything he could, before Lord Bludd discovered what he was doing. He had a flying suspensor truck with him and would fill its cargo box.

Like Norma, he had recently sent desperate messages to Aurelius Venport, but his partner was across space on Arrakis and it would be months before he could get here. Perhaps Keedair should just take the prototype ship and fly off to the desert world himself— he certainly knew the coordinates, after so many spice runs.

But he wasn’t that much of a fool.

TIME PASSED SLOWLY for Ishmael, as he knew the inevitability of what was about to happen during the anniversary celebration. He felt the impossibility of his position, trapped as he was between conflicting obligations.

After Tio Holtzman had sent his guards in with orders from Lord Bludd, the slaver Keedair had disbanded most of the Buddislamic workforce and sent them back downriver into the delta city. Aliid and his handful of followers were among the first to go, leaving Ishmael behind. In Starda, clandestine Zenshiite saboteurs had managed to obtain assignments on work crews where overblown preparations were under way for the anniversary festival.

Now only Ishmael and a hundred of his most faithful Zensunni followers remained in the remote spaceship construction site, working under the guidance of the flesh merchant to salvage what they could. Ishmael watched as his son-in-law Rafel drove heavy lifting machinery, guiding mobile pallets and flying cargo shuttles out to pickup points on the plateau above the river. Teams loaded supplies and saleable equipment aboard the big empty ship inside the hangar.

Ishmael’s daughter Chamal stayed close to him as his anchor of caring and love, while her young husband showed his own strength and support. Everyone looked to Ishmael to hold them together, to lead them. Since he could quote all the Sutras and had taught them the Zensunni belief system for so long, they expected him to have direct guidance from Buddallah.

Ishmael did not know what to do, but worse than indecision would be to admit his impotence to the slaves who looked up to him. Then he would have failed them all, rather than just himself.

For several days he felt mounting dread, until finally Poritrin’s day of celebration arrived. Aliid’s day of blood and fire. And he still did not know what to do.

Addressing a few of his people as they gathered close around him, Ishmael said, “Even this far from Starda, we cannot hide from the consequences of what our Zenshiite brothers intend to do. Aliid is forcing us to act. Soon all of Poritrin will be in chaos, and we need to survive.”

While they listened, other men and women who had been with him for many years kept pretending to work. Now that the project had been shut down, no work supervisors remained behind to watch their every move.

In the abandoned, stripped-down laboratory and hangar, only the humorless Tlulaxa merchant bothered to keep the slaves busy; Keedair cared nothing for Lord Bludd’s parties, where most of the free populace would be. Since the disgrace of Norma Cenva and the mandated shutdown of all operations, the former slaver kept the Zensunnis on the job by waving a stun gun at them occasionally, hoping to minimize VenKee’s losses.

Inside the cavernous, echoing building, while the slaves pretended to go about their tasks with their usual lack of enthusiasm, Ishmael continued the whispered discussions.

“If we report Aliid to the Dragoons, perhaps they will arrest him and his ringleaders,” said a hard-eyed woman whose hair had turned gray, though she was far younger than Ishmael. “And leave the rest of us alone.”

“It is the only chance for the rest of us to survive. Otherwise, the Dragoons will kill us all,” an older man agreed. “What happened before with Bel Moulay will be a mere shadow.”

Ishmael glared at both of them. “I do not value my life so much that I would betray a friend. I disagree with Aliid’s tactics, but none of us should ever doubt his determination.”

“Then we must fight beside him and hope the Zenshiites win,” insisted Rafel, holding his wife’s arm. Chamal looked uncertain, but brave. “We deserve our freedom, all of us. Slave owners have oppressed us for generations and now Buddallah is giving us this chance. Shouldn’t we take it?”

Ishmael’s mind whirled. He knew from sad experience that even if he reported the impending uprising, Lord Bludd would never be reasonable. But, remembering his love for his grandfather’s peaceful and calm ways, Ishmael could not turn into a savage animal.

The determined Aliid intended to set fire to Starda and overrun city buildings, farms, and even mines to the north… a surprise revolt in which the Zenshiite slaves would rise up and kill their masters, slaying not only Dragoon guards but women and children, too. After generations of pent-up anger and suffering, the angry mob was not likely to show restraint. It would be a bloodbath.

“What other choice do we have, Father? We can either betray the uprising, or participate in it.” Chamal stripped away the complexities of the argument in an attempt to find a clear answer. When she spoke that way, she reminded him of her mother….

“If we cower here and do neither,” Rafel pointed out, “we will be despised by whichever side emerges victorious. Our choices are difficult.” The others muttered in agreement.

Looking at Ishmael with love, his daughter took one step closer to him. “You are the most familiar with the Sutras, my Father. Does the word of Buddallah provide us with any insight?”

“The Koran Sutras are always insightful,” said Ishmael. “Too much so, at times. One can find a verse that seems relevant to any situation, justification for any choice we wish to make.”

He looked at the looming old spaceship that Norma Cenva and her handpicked engineers had worked on for so many months. Only Keedair remained on board, scuttling back and forth between the ship and his business offices, gathering requisitions and salvaging financial files.

Ishmael narrowed his eyes. “Aliid forgets our ultimate goal. He values revenge more than anything else, but our priority should be to restore freedom for our people.”

The Zensunni leader had to make a choice that would protect Chamal, her husband, and all of these people… even if it meant he would never see his wife or his other daughter again.

“Ishmael, we must either join his fight or throw in our lot with the slave masters,” Rafel said. “Those are our only options.”

“Not true.” He looked meaningfully toward the huge, silent ship. “I see another way.”

His followers turned to follow his gaze, and their faces took on expressions of dawning realization and disbelief.

Ishmael continued, “I shall lead my people away from this place, away from this world… to freedom.”

WHILE THE REST of the city bustled with Lord Bludd’s latest festivity, Tio Holtzman had more important matters on his mind. The inventor had not thought of Bel Moulay since his execution, which should have ended all the complaints of the Buddislamics on Poritrin.

Like children, slaves should be seen, but not heard.

It was a chilly afternoon, but he had wanted to take a late luncheon out on the bluff terrace overlooking the Isana River. He bundled up and told the cooks to serve him out there; if he was comfortable enough, he could spend hours at this vista point, pondering possibilities as a Savant was supposed to do. Hurriedly, a female slave wiped the great man’s chair, then held it for him so that he could sit.

He ordered his customary fare. Holtzman liked something specific every day, according to a set routine. He preferred to do things in predictable ways, so that he could lay out each day without time-wasting distractions. The serving slave, a pretty brunette in a white lace dress, emerged with a tray of steaming hot coffee. She poured him a cup the size of a soup bowl, and he sipped carefully.

On the water far below, a barge piled high with agricultural products drifted lazily downstream toward Starda, where it would be unloaded. The watercraft didn’t have much company. Much of the river traffic had been rerouted for the twilight festivities. Holtzman sighed; Lord Bludd was always celebrating something or other.

For the past week Holtzman had pored over Norma’s notes and plans, trying to figure out what she was doing with that old cargo ship. Perhaps he should go confiscate the outdated vessel itself, despite the vociferous protests of Tuk Keedair with all of his legal documents. But VenKee Enterprises had as much money as Holtzman himself, and he didn’t want a drawn-out court battle. Most of all he had wanted to send Norma Cenva packing, with her reputation in ruins.

Now, if he could just figure out what she had been up to, that would be a nice bonus.

Sipping his coffee, Holtzman wondered if he should consult with other experts on the matter, but decided not to entrust the documents to anyone else. He’d already experienced too much trouble with Norma.

It’s probably all a waste of time, he thought, wiping his mouth with a fine napkin. Norma Cenva is a fool on a fool’s mission.

FOR HOURS, THE Zensunni slaves pretended it was just another workday, shutting down the big hangar facility so that Holtzman could assume control of the operations. Keedair took inventory and inspected the work, but his heart did not seem in it. Soon he would be departing.

With building excitement, word passed quickly among the Zensunni workers in the cavernous hangar. Hushed whispers and bright-eyed anticipation swelled through the ranks, ripples of conjecture and unexpected possibilities. They had waited for Ishmael to receive a sign from Buddallah, and now they were eager to follow him.

Ishmael worried that he had urged them to be passive for too long. He was afraid the Zensunnis had forgotten how to be strong. But now was no time for doubts.

Even before noon, the distant city of Starda began to bustle with preliminary celebrations before the formal commencement of the anniversary festival. The citizens and even the Dragoon guards were unsuspecting and complacent.

At sunset, Aliid would trigger his revolt. Ishmael knew that he must lead his own daughter, her husband, and all of the other slaves away from the conflagration before that time.

As if performing an assigned task, he opened the boarding ramp to the large ship. Pretending to go about their work, his people began loading the ship with water drums and supplies from their barracks and the hangar. Keedair— after discovering to his surprise that the ship still seemed operational— had already ordered them to haul much of his equipment and valuables onboard. With all of the project’s materials soon to be forfeited to Lord Bludd, the Tlulaxa merchant meant to take this vessel to orbit, where it would be towed to a spacedock and reconfigured. He had been intending to haul away what he could salvage on suspensor trucks, but now had a better option.

Ishmael, though, intended to guide the prototype ship somewhere else, to a new planet far from raiding slavers or cruel thinking machines. He didn’t care where; he only wanted it to be a place where no one would bother them. Ages ago, the Buddislamic faithful had departed from the League of Nobles, refusing to take part in the machine war. They had not fled far enough, however, and evil flesh merchants like Keedair had raided the marsh settlements on Harmonthep, while the Jihad had destroyed the sacred city of Darits on IV Anbus.

Now Ishmael would have a chance to guide his people to the freedom they deserved, and he could become the leader they expected him to be.

By late afternoon, the hardworking slaves had reached the end of their patience. Chamal remained close to her husband Rafel, and flashed anxious glances at her father. Ishmael could not tell them to wait any longer; they had to move soon. Moment by moment anxiety rose, like a hot flush of blood rushing through their veins.

A grumbling Keedair glowered at the Zensunnis, as if doubts about their behavior had begun to grow in his mind, then stepped back into his offices.

Finally, Ishmael sent a quiet signal, and the slaves left their stations and gathered in the center of the hangar floor. Ishmael stood before the open hatch of the giant, well-stocked ship and emitted a high-pitched, whistling cry, a weird ululation that he had not used since his boyhood hunting days on Harmonthep.

The Zensunni captives let out similar cries characteristic of their different planets and cultures. Though they had been enslaved for a long time, they had not forgotten their pasts.

Young Rafel and a pair of his cohorts ran to the cantilever controls and opened the giant ceiling of the hangar. With a great clatter and groan, the overlapping corrugated plates shifted aside to expose the prototype ship to the cloud-streaked sky outside. The brisk air smelled of freedom, and the people cheered with eager anticipation.

Hearing the commotion, the Tlulaxa merchant hurried out of his administrative offices and looked with disbelief at the hundred slaves crowded below the ship, as if they had arranged themselves for inspection.

“What are you doing? Get back to work. Now! We have only today to—”

Before Keedair could draw his stun gun, fifteen slaves surrounded him and cut off his escape. Rafel led them, and through sheer numbers they easily overwhelmed the small-statured man, ignoring his protestations as he cursed and sputtered at them. Then they grabbed Keedair by his arms. Young Chamal, looking strong and determined, yanked his long gray-streaked braid as if it were a shackle connected to his head.

He cried out in pain and rage. “You cannot do this to me! I will see every one of you executed!”

They dragged him before Ishmael, who looked with disgust and disdain at the man who was directly responsible for his own enslavement. “You will be punished for this foolishness!” Keedair vowed.

“Not so,” Ishmael said. “This is our only chance. Within the hour, a bloody revolt will begin in Starda. We want no part of the massacre, but we do insist upon our freedom.”

“You cannot escape,” Keedair said, not sounding defiant, just stating a fact. “Dragoon guards will follow you no matter where you go. They will hunt you down.”

“Not if we get offworld, slaver.” Rafel pushed close to the former flesh merchant, intimidating the man. “We mean to fly far from here, to a distant world.”

Ishmael jabbed a finger at the Tlulaxa’s chest. “And you will take us— in Cenva’s ship.”