surrender ; minsung

birthright

Earth 500 is a vastly, abundantly wealthy place, and to Minho, a vastly familiar one too.

It's rumoured that the violence on Earth 263, his home planet, was seeded by meddling foreign powers. Rich neighbouring earths sent moles to foster a barbaric pecking order that prioritized status over wealth. They had worried that civil unrest would trigger a mass migration, an integration of high and low class planets. They wanted to keep the dregs at the bottom of the barrel.

Meanwhile, Earth 500's gold-sown lands were kept secret for decades while a powerful monarchy rose. Not one civilian is below the poverty line. It should be idyllic, a perfect world, but beyond its atmosphere, every inhabitable planet within ten parsecs is destitute. Minho doesn't know for sure whether the wealthy have fled or if 500 is shipping their poor off-planet, but he knows it isn't a coincidence. Space is chaos, but humans are predictable. He's seen this before. He's lived it.

So, naturally, he is having the time of his life right now.

Teary-eyed and quivery-lipped, the royalty kneel with their hands clasped at their napes, tailcoats and skirts pooling on the floor. Minho's company is scattered across the ballroom, loading wooden trunks with necklaces and tiaras and watches, anything worth a buck. Minho grazes at a table of mind-boggling finger-foods, tipping over boats of sauce for fun.

Lieutenant Sing approaches. "Commander?"

"I told you to beat the mouthy ones. I'm not hearing any crying." He wipes his hands on a nearby curtain. Silk brocade.

"Sir, the diversion is losing the upper hand. We should withdraw."

"We're not leaving until every one of these leeches is clean. I didn't waste fifty lightyears' worth of fuel to half-ass this."

"The raid is almost complete, sir, we'll surely meet our buyers' quota."

"Haven't you been listening? We're not selling. We'll get the Troy weight and distribute it evenly between 499, 498, and 497."

"But... sir, the order has been placed."

"Tell them I botched it again. And tell the Ender to rendezvous outside in five minutes."

Lieutenant Sing nods curtly and walks away. Minho strides into the middle of the room, looking down on his hostages. They watch his shoes pass by.

"When I was a child," he says, loud enough for the room to hear, "my father was bludgeoned nearly to death for a bad cheque. Do you know what I did? I walked away. I went home and waited to see if he would return. I pretended I wasn't his son, otherwise they would have taken me as recompense. I see your fear. Your cowardice. I would hide in ivory towers too, if I hadn't been born on the wrong planet."

He looks around, hoping for someone to challenge him. No one speaks. The woman at his feet has piercings in her eyebrows, earlobes, nostrils and... the dimple above her lip. He crouches in front of her — she nearly shrieks — and takes one of her wrists. Her thumb webbing is pierced as well, a grey-blue gemstone on a gold base.

"These are aquanite," he says.

"Y-yes."

"Where did you get them?"

"I-I don't know."

"Yes, you do. Number, now."

Another hostage speaks up. "22. Earth 22. We have a mining permit there."

Minho clenches his jaw. These parasites mine Jisung's dying planet, steal and sell the sacred customs of his people? It isn't enough, driving impoverished planets to destruction — they violate the bones and scrape out the marrow.

"Take them out," Minho barks. "Now."

She removes each piercing and places them in his palm. One of his crewers has a small organza bag waiting for him. He pulls the strings closed, holding it tightly in his hand.

"None will move until you hear engines roar. You've been scourged by the Ender. By bastard children of abandoned planets. Be ashamed."

He looks around, waiting for backtalk. Everyone keeps their eyes down. Unfortunate.

He snaps his fingers and his company files out of the cavernous ballroom, into the courtyard, where the Ender is hovering over turf and manicured shrubs. They board with their winnings, and Minho retires to his chamber, the little bag of gemstones still clutched in his hand.

—

When Minho materializes on the Stingray, Jisung is half-dressed, fiddling over a buckle on his boot.

Minho steps off the port and leans against the desk. "Getting a head start? I've just arrived, you know."

"Shut up. You should leave, we're about to make landfall."

"Why'd you let me tele in then?"

"Just— what do you want?"

Minho looks down at his hands, twining them together. "The 500 raid went well. You should've seen them, at least two pissed their pantaloons."

"Uh-huh." Jisung is shimmying into his suit. "And?"

"All we got was jewelry. Quality, beautiful, hate to admit it. Some were faux, so I suppose there was an imposter among them. Still, everything tallied up well."

"Minho, I don't know why you're here."

"I... the 500 raid..." He clears his throat. "I just—"

"I don't have time for this." Jisung grabs a gun and a gas mask and heads for the door. "Tele out — and don't touch my stuff."

"Yeah, I get it, I just — came to tell you I saved you some things from the raid. Gems, studs — made of aquanite."

Jisung stops halfway out the door and turns back. "What?"

Minho takes the organza bag from his pocket and sets it on the desk. "Someone on 500 had the same piercings as you. I know it's a cultural thing and thought you'd want them, or at least wouldn't want one of those fucks wearing them, so... they're yours." He straightens up. "I'll go. Good luck."

Jisung watches him walk back to the port. He doesn't speak.

Hopefully they'll both pretend to forget this ever happened.