“Oh, you’re back to normal now, you motherfucker? You’ve killed us.”

The ship pauses. “I was… prevented. I’m so sorry.”

“Start at the beginning, asshole. You have until I drag this cadaver to the medical node, and I swear to god and all the saints, if I am not satisfied, I will remove every processor from your Pentagram before the rest of us die. Talk. Use short sentences with monosyllables.”

Transmitting through Shell’s IFC, Ragtime begins to talk.

Chapter Twenty-six

Lagos: Beko

Beko works to John Coltrane. Nothing else will do, so it’s either silence or Trane.

It’s quiet on the station. She’s dealt with the miners for now. Her on-off lover sent her a rare stone that pulses with starlight from the asteroid belt where he lives and works. And a love letter, on paper, which one doesn’t see a lot of any more. Fancies himself a poet.

Still nothing from the Ragtime or Lawrence Biz. It’s in her belly like a tumour, growing, eating away. Nothing else she can do about it, but that doesn’t make the feeling of dread go away.

She replies to Campion’s brothers. She can’t think of anyone else she can delegate the task to. Awe is brilliant in his way, but timid. He’ll make mistakes just because he’s afraid of her. She doesn’t mind. She needs a distraction.

Dear Messrs Campion,

Thank you for your letter.

I am touched that the familial bonds are so strong between you as someone without siblings myself.

I can tell you that Michelle’s ship, the Ragtime, came through here and was safe and sound. It has continued on its way to the planet Bloodroot. Unfortunately, I did not get to meet her. I would have loved to since she sounds like such a fascinating woman.

As soon as the ship comes out of longsleep and I can make contact, I will confirm her health and wellbeing.

Sincerely,

Secretary Yemi Beko.

A lot more sentimental than Beko is used to, but she needs to tug at their heartstrings now just in case she will need to console them and break bad news about their sister.

She formats and seals the message.

“Lagos,” says Beko.

“Ma’am?”

“Message for the relay pouch.”

“Very good.”

Beko exhales and rises, thinking of taking a bath.

“Ma’am, urgent message from the relay. It’s interactive.”

Semi-autonomous messages. Wave of the future. Programmed with sender personalities, a number of responses and explicit points-of-view, they can save a lot of negotiating time, though Beko is not a fan.

“Play it.”

“Are you in charge?” Gruff voice, male, unhappy, no distortion.

“Identify yourself,” says Beko.

“My name is Cole of the starship Sinistral. Are you in charge?”

“I run the—”

“I don’t even care. Where’s Yan Maxwell?”

“Who?”

“Did you service a ship called the Ragtime?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s Yan Maxwell?”

“The quintillionaire?”