The central office of the Bureau of Indigenous Affairs pinged Ysbel Moonsdaughter around midnight. It seemed that one of Survey and Surveillance’s agents had been involved in a fatal accident in the Strait of the Hundred Islands, and because the station chief was attending a summit meeting in the Gathering Place and its senior investigator was embroiled in negotiations about the construction of a solar power farm, Ysbel was up.

The flitter she summoned flew her north, passing over the lights of native settlements scattered along the coast. The full Moon hung low in the night sky, laying a long road of silky light across the black ocean. It was Ysbel’s first solo investigation, her first wrongful death, her first real test as a field officer. She was nervous and eager, telling herself that it would be no different from enquiries into fraud or breaches of protocol. Discovering the facts of the case while taking care to respect custom and law, doing her best to quench native anger and suspicion.

So far, she had little to go on. According to the report, a speedboat had collided with a fishing skiff. Two natives had been killed and the pilot of the speedboat, also a native, had fled the scene, but it wasn’t clear if S&S’s agent, Trina Mersdaughter, had been a passenger or a witness. With nothing better to do until she reached the scene, Ysbel racked her seat back and managed to catch a little sleep; when she woke, it was the grey hour before dawn and the flitter was flying low over the long reach of the strait, heading towards one of the small islands scattered across its shallow waters. Ysbel saw a flat-roofed house, motorboats and yachts anchored at a floating dock, rumpled forest stretching to the far side of the island. Everything tilting beneath her as the flitter turned in a tight curve and dropped to a lawn that sloped to the water.

Natives dressed in purple pyjamas who had been setting out tables and chairs on the terrace above the lawn watched as Ysbel cracked the canopy of the flitter and the local bailiff, Goodwill Saltmire, stumped up to her and introduced himself with formal politeness. Explaining that the island was leased from the community council by a businessperson, Solomon Firststar, and the accident had happened during one of his parties.

‘It doesn’t seem to have stopped the festivities,’ Ysbel said. The servants fussing with furniture reminded her of Landing Day, when households and communes held cookouts on the beaches of the Gathering Place.

‘When I arrived last night, Solomon Firststar’s guests were still feasting,’ Goodwill said. ‘And members of the local Fish Cult were performing a stick dance for their amusement. The deaths of two people did not trouble them in the slightest. They were only local people, you see. Fisherfolk. Of no importance whatsoever.’