surrender ; minsung

paper king, paper crown

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.