The meeting, the entire government of Lagos. Lawrence, the governor: an entirely ceremonial position for an entirely ceremonial person. Beko, a substantial woman and a woman of substance, the true power, at the head of the table. She calls herself the Secretary, which is vague enough. Lawrence likes her and is especially attentive when she speaks, mindful of the paradox. She is dismissive of him. Everybody is dismissive of him, so he does not take it personal.

“Good, we can start,” Beko says.

“Sorry I’m late,” says Lawrence, but he’s not sorry.

“Lagos, no minutes,” says Beko.

“Yes, Secretary Beko,” responds the space station.

Beko clears her throat. “The last ship to traverse the bridge was the Ragtime, bound for Bloodroot. A minor concern around here is that the Captain has not sent confirmation of arrival. Today we intercepted a message from the acting captain, Michelle Campion, to Earth.”

“Campion?” says Lawrence. “Shell Campion? I knew her when she was a child.” As soon as he speaks, he regrets it. Beko looks at him as if wondering why he still exists. Lawrence remembers a bright child who played with rockets and Buzz Aldrin action figures.

“As I was saying before His Excellency interrupted me,” says Beko. “We have a situation here.”

“I don’t understand,” says Ibidun Awe. “We do not own the Ragtime.” She is always daft. Pretty, ambitious, but stupid.

Beko, long-suffering saint. “Look at our charter. The Bridge Operational Standards say our job is not complete until the ship AI gives the all-clear. The ship comes through the bridge, gets maintenance at the space station and goes on to its planetary destination, at which point it gives the signal, and we get paid. Did none of you know this?”

Lawrence does, but he feels it is more important to be in harmony with the room, so he arranges his face into surprise, like everyone else apart from Beko.

“How can we be responsible for all that? The ship could encounter any number of… incidents before arrival,” says Silas. Tall, thin, eager to please Beko, always polite to Lawrence in the old Yoruba way. He’ll go far.

“The problem is none of you reads,” says Beko. “Or at least you don’t read what matters. The wording of the contract has not mattered until now because the transport has always worked. The real reason it’s worded like that is because we, the owners of the bridge and space station, own all the space beyond it. Notionally. On paper. This is how we guarantee that the items we manufacture – the ark-ships, the Einstein-Rosen bridge components, the Dyson swarm modules, the ship drones, all of it – are safe; we underwrite any loss in our space.”

Some guy pipes up. Shittu? Shitta? “So the Colonial Authorities—”

“Are subordinate to us, yes, but are also our responsibility in some ways. You will not believe the shit I had to eat when Nightshade failed.”