The Merchant's Guild Summit is a gathering of the most prominent scum of the universe. It's no potluck. There is no fraternity nor common goal. There is mudslinging and drinking and dick-waving. It's exactly Minho's scene.

It's unfortunate he hasn't been invited. Technically.

The Ender breaks the atmosphere of Earth 882 and dives into a cloud of acid rain. The planet is industrial. Fully industrial. Millions of people commute from the residential earths next door, work in factories and food processing plants and livestock mills. It emits 80 billion tons of pollution per year, toxic waste, nuclear radiation; it's barrelling toward climate breakdown, though most planets are.

Minho stands at the helm, shooting his cuffs. He's wearing a black fur coat and pale shirt unbuttoned down to his sternum, showing the tattoos on his chest. His neck is heavy with jewelry — Mars opal, polished tektite, rare black diamond — as are his wrists, ears, belt, anyplace available for decoration. He likes to show off. Which is surely part of the reason why he's never invited to guild events.

The smog finally clears and the wen of a city appears below. His pilot takes them as low as possible, between skyscrapers and fuming smokestacks and spacecraft anchorages. The ship lowers into a berth, juddering and rumbling.

Minho claps the pilot on the shoulder. Jha is their name, lamblike but unmatched at the helm.

"Stay in orbit," Minho tells them. "Coms on. Honour among thieves doesn't exist."

The bomb bay opens and he jumps to the platform beneath. It's airless, blistering hot under the ship's engines and the planet's three suns. He swipes his ID and a door slides open to a tele port. He enters the coordinates, feels that familiar absence in his chest, then opens his eyes to hundreds of hollering merchants, hats and drinks sailing through the air.

He steps off the platform and strides headlong into the fray. The damask wallpaper and carpets clash with the sediment-caked boots and acid-bitten clothing. He flags down a shaky bartender and orders a Dark Matter, neat. Burnt sugar and hard liquor, goes down like phlegm, but it looks good in his hand.

While he's waiting, he catches a pair of dark eyes across the room.

Of course Jisung was invited, the diplomat he is. He looks smart in his usual regalia, form-fitting pressure suit, gas mask folded back on his shoulders. It's all efficiency for him, no showmanship. The two of them might as well be different planets, galaxies apart, when it comes to business. Yet out of every merchant in the room, Jisung is the only real competition he has.

The bartender finally gets back to him, passes the tar-black drink across the counter. Minho orders another — an Angel Maker, too citric for him — and watches while the bartender delivers it across the room. Jisung rolls his eyes, but takes a sip. Minho is satisfied.

At the opposite side of the room, a group of merchants are gathered, talking and roaring. Minho recognizes a few of them, Commander Shah, Miwa, Red, Chin. Sons of bitches, all of them. They were the first to buy out his crewers and slander his name, though he hardly had one at the time — a newcomer in the game, fresh off his godforsaken home planet. Respect is earned, they said. Make a buck.

So Minho made a buck, made several bucks, built a merchant powerhouse from the ground up. But still they think him grime under their shoes, unworthy of their little party. It was never about what one earns, what one deserves. It was about stamping him out before he had the chance to ruin their useless companies, and resenting him once he'd done just that.

He is the king here. They're just imposters.

He throws his drink back and strides over to the group, slinging his arms around the nearest available shoulders. "What am I missing?" he wonders aloud. The expressions around him range from amusement to annoyance to hostility. He soaks it up.

"Commander Lee," Shah says, a look on her face like she's smelt something bad. "Didn't think we'd see you here."

"Oh please, I wouldn't miss it for the world. I assumed I would be welcome — why wouldn't I be?"

They're hesitant to answer. As much as they dislike him, they're aware the Ender could blow their ships out of the void on a whim.

"What are we talking about?" he presses.

Commander Red answers. "Earth 500, in Messier 83."

"The clan with a monarchy," Chin says, disdain thick on his teeth. "Inbred twits, if you ask me."

"Rumour has it they're having a ball, an equinox thing, since it only comes round every twenty-five years. All the dignitary-types will be there, the king and queen too."

Minho asks, "Is someone planning a raid?"

"Please," Chin blurts "It'd be a fool's errand."

"500's military is weak. I robbed a bank there once — the brass barely got a shot in."

"Their military is growing," Red says, "along with the economy. Expanding the mining industry. Robbing 500 would be foolhardy, yes, but I think it could be done."

"By whom? You?" Miwa barks a laugh. "Your ship is the size of a beetle."

"Oh is it? And how's your partnership with Diamondback faring?"

Minho swallows laughter. Diamondback, an interplanetary pawn shop, detonated like a dying star after a gas line exploded and burned all their stock to char. Their merchant contracts burnt with it. Minho knew he was right to take his business elsewhere, to a less flammable prospect.

Miwa snaps at him: "Find that funny?"

"Yes, actually."

"Oh come on," Shah chimes in. "That's rich coming from you."

"Why's that?"

"Things at the Alabaster Ringmaster went swimmingly, didn't they?"

That throws Minho a little. He straightens his back. "It's always the raid that fails that makes headlines, isn't it?"

"Headlines is a little strong. Gave me a chuckle over mooncakes. Commander Lee duped out of a casino spoil — and by Han Jisung!"

"Where is he, now?" Red is scanning the room. "Commander Han, get over here!"

Jisung squeezes through the crowd, still sipping the drink Minho bought him. He gives Minho a quick look; Minho sets his shoulders.

"Tell us about the Ringmaster," Miwa requests.

A smile touches Jisung's face, though he remains skillfully passive. "Made out like a bandit. Isn't much to tell."

"What'd you do to throw him off?"

"I don't share my tactics."

"Well," says Shah, "I laud you. No reason not to take Commander Lee down a peg or two."

Jisung seems to have a response ready. Maybe something in Minho's face stops him.

"It was... a stroke of luck, really," he says. "Commander Lee turned his back. I seized the opportunity."

"Oh," says Chin, clearly disappointed. "Well, very good. You must have gained a great lot."

"Yes. A great lot."

Jisung is looking at Minho, though Minho avoids his eyes.

—

Back at the bar, Minho orders another Dark Matter. And another. Then a few shots to wash them down.

It's foolish. These boors are beneath him. They shouldn't matter. Their words shouldn't cut. Minho shouldn't parade himself in front of them like a boy trying to prove he's a man.

On his home planet, each scar is a sign of strength. The more you have, the stronger you are. So why isn't he strong at all?

He realizes Jisung is next to him, leaning on the bar. He sighs. "You didn't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"Lie for me."

"I didn't lie."

Minho wants to argue, but Jisung reaches out and turns one of his pendants over between his fingers. "Your neck must be killing you."

"I'm fine."

"Why are you making that face?"

"What face?"

"You're sulking."

"It's nothing. Vertigo."

Jisung almost laughs. "Fine." He takes the glass out of Minho's hand, finishes it off. "Get up."

"What?"

"We're getting out of this shithole, you're going to stop sulking, and I'm going to have my way with you. Okay?"

Minho huffs a little. In spite of himself and all his might and all his lies — there's nowhere else in the universe he wants to be.