two groups, Nihonjin and gaijin, beneath the guns of the Confederation troops who’d burst in here moments ago. The Japanese—there were five of them, all men—looked sullen and resentful. The gaijin, four men and three women of various skin shades and ancestries, seemed less monolithic in their emotions, which ranged from fear through confused uncertainty to outright hostility. All wore bodysuits of utilitarian gray; moments earlier, they must have been linked through the station’s AI to its defense and communications systems. They clung, like Dev and the others, to handholds in deck or bulkheads to keep from drifting. Giving the others scarcely a glance, Dev centered his attention on the oldest-looking Japanese, assuming that he would be the one in charge. He appeared to be in his fifties, with a long, creased face.
“Konichiwa, Shikikansan,” Dev said formally. By addressing him as commander—the word meaning position rather than the rank—Dev hoped to put the proceedings on a less-than-hostile footing. “I am Taisa Cameron, of the Confederation Navy.” How strange that sounded in his own ears!
The Nihonjin officer did not sneer, not quite. “You seem somewhat young for such high rank.” His English, if stiffly precise and formal, was perfect.
A bulldog-faced Japanese at his side snickered and said something low. Dev caught the word shiro —an epithet meaning, roughly, “white boy.” Kuso! He had no credibility with these people at all. No kao.…
Heat brushed his cheeks. “Sergeant Fillmore?” He turned to the armored noncom Langley had left in charge of the Confed troops. “Find a place for these people. I want to have a peek at their datanet.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. She holstered her handgun and rasped out an order to part of her squad.
“You will get nothing, kaizoku,” the bulldog snapped. The Nihongo word meant pirate. “You’re too late! The storage banks have been purged.”
“He’s right, I’m afraid,” another voice said from the second group of prisoners, which was positioned now at Dev’s back. “They were busy killing its memory when your people barged in. My God, Dev… Cameron is it? Is that really you?”
Dev tugged on the handhold he was clinging to and rotated his body. It couldn’t be—
“Lloyd?” He had to search for a first name, so much had happened in intervening years. His cephlink helped. “Randi Lloyd?”
Randi Lloyd had been First Helm on the freighter Mintaka, years ago when Dev had first signed aboard that ship. He’d taken Dev under his wing, a raw newbie with his sockets still slick with sterile shipping fluid, showing him the feeds on his first shipboard slot, junior cargo officer. He’d left not long after, reportedly to join the Hegemonic Guard. Dev had admired him; his own decision to join the Guard had come at least in part from Lloyd.
“You know this guy?” Sergeant Fillmore asked.
“I certainly do.” Dev gestured. “Simone? Check out the computer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Small galaxy, eh?” Lloyd said as Dev drew nearer. “When did you turn pirate, son?”
Older than Dev by fifteen years, his face was seamed and he was showing some gray at his temples. He’d aged a lot since the day Dev had last seen him. No wonder he’d not picked him out immediately.
“Who says I did?” Dev replied, smiling, more to hide his own uncertainty than anything else. “I’m fighting for the Confederation now. Maybe you’ve heard of us?”
He’d not seen Randi Lloyd for years now. He still felt as though he were the junior apprentice, and Lloyd the teacher, and had to suppress the urge to add the word “sir.”
“Aye, I’ve heard,” Lloyd said. He didn’t return Dev’s smile. “I never figured you to throw in with a bunch of losers like that, though. You know, don’t you, that they’ve got the proverbial snowball’s chance on Moloch?”
“You will all be utterly destroyed,” the base commander added from the other side of
“Konichiwa, Shikikansan,” Dev said formally. By addressing him as commander—the word meaning position rather than the rank—Dev hoped to put the proceedings on a less-than-hostile footing. “I am Taisa Cameron, of the Confederation Navy.” How strange that sounded in his own ears!
The Nihonjin officer did not sneer, not quite. “You seem somewhat young for such high rank.” His English, if stiffly precise and formal, was perfect.
A bulldog-faced Japanese at his side snickered and said something low. Dev caught the word shiro —an epithet meaning, roughly, “white boy.” Kuso! He had no credibility with these people at all. No kao.…
Heat brushed his cheeks. “Sergeant Fillmore?” He turned to the armored noncom Langley had left in charge of the Confed troops. “Find a place for these people. I want to have a peek at their datanet.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. She holstered her handgun and rasped out an order to part of her squad.
“You will get nothing, kaizoku,” the bulldog snapped. The Nihongo word meant pirate. “You’re too late! The storage banks have been purged.”
“He’s right, I’m afraid,” another voice said from the second group of prisoners, which was positioned now at Dev’s back. “They were busy killing its memory when your people barged in. My God, Dev… Cameron is it? Is that really you?”
Dev tugged on the handhold he was clinging to and rotated his body. It couldn’t be—
“Lloyd?” He had to search for a first name, so much had happened in intervening years. His cephlink helped. “Randi Lloyd?”
Randi Lloyd had been First Helm on the freighter Mintaka, years ago when Dev had first signed aboard that ship. He’d taken Dev under his wing, a raw newbie with his sockets still slick with sterile shipping fluid, showing him the feeds on his first shipboard slot, junior cargo officer. He’d left not long after, reportedly to join the Hegemonic Guard. Dev had admired him; his own decision to join the Guard had come at least in part from Lloyd.
“You know this guy?” Sergeant Fillmore asked.
“I certainly do.” Dev gestured. “Simone? Check out the computer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Small galaxy, eh?” Lloyd said as Dev drew nearer. “When did you turn pirate, son?”
Older than Dev by fifteen years, his face was seamed and he was showing some gray at his temples. He’d aged a lot since the day Dev had last seen him. No wonder he’d not picked him out immediately.
“Who says I did?” Dev replied, smiling, more to hide his own uncertainty than anything else. “I’m fighting for the Confederation now. Maybe you’ve heard of us?”
He’d not seen Randi Lloyd for years now. He still felt as though he were the junior apprentice, and Lloyd the teacher, and had to suppress the urge to add the word “sir.”
“Aye, I’ve heard,” Lloyd said. He didn’t return Dev’s smile. “I never figured you to throw in with a bunch of losers like that, though. You know, don’t you, that they’ve got the proverbial snowball’s chance on Moloch?”
“You will all be utterly destroyed,” the base commander added from the other side of
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