Michael Flynn: Up Jim River

Outside, the scarred man turns his footsteps to the Jehovah Spaceport and enters the Terminal building, where he finds the kiosk for the Hadley Lines. There, he notes that Jezebel Hadley will depart High Jehovah Orbit in two days, inbound to the Old Planets with stops at Die Bold, Old ‘Saken, and Abyalon, but with a flyby drop-off at Dangchao Waypoint and other byworlds. The ship’s name brings a smile to his face. An omen! He books a third-class ticket—he still has his pride—and arranges with the concierge to pick up his luggage from the Bar.

“Dangchao,” the concierge says. “Looking to simplify your life, eh?”

“Complicate it, I think. Maybe, I’ll herd Nolan’s Beasts.”

The concierge laughs at the mental image of the old, hook-chinned man astride a pony in the Out-in-back whirling a bola above his head while he chases after a maverick. But the scarred man does not laugh, and there is something in the not-laughing of the scarred man that smothers the laughter of others.

When he leaves the Terminal and turns onto Greaseline Street a shadow detaches itself from other shadows and falls into step beind him. How quickly wealth whispers its presence! But before he can act he feels against his spine the now familiar shape of a dazer muzzle.

“Watch out for the backflash on the umbra,” he says aloud.

“Soo, Doonoovan, my friend,” whispers a voice twenty years from his past. “It has been loong years between oos.”

He turns, and it is Ravn Olafsdottr: still slim, ebony-black, blond-haired. Her dazer’s aperture seems much wider than when seen from more benign angles.

“There is a struggle in the Lion’s Mouth,” she says in unaccented Confederal Manjrin. “The names that were never forgotten have been remembered. Your duty is to come with me.”

She plucks the Dangchao ticket from his hand and flicks it to the ground. “Coome along Doonoovan. Dooty is a bitch, is she noot?”