“Musoku Barnier,” Rollo said sombrely. They’d muscled everyone else out of an alcove in the nearest bar and now he stood while they sat. Even Solace, who’d never been at a spacer’s wake before. “Born 92 After,” he declared to them, “on Tsiolkovsky Orbital over Lumbali.” “Complaining son of a bitch,” Olli put in promptly. “Bad sore loser,” Kittering’s translator declared. “Drank too much,” Kris added. “Couldn’t keep money,” Idris rounded up. Rollo nodded, satisfied conventions were being followed. “My son, he was, my brother. Loyal to his ship and safe hands. Died in orbit—who should have died
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