"Bujold Martens?" I said.

  He was heavier than his father, slightly taller, too, but the same gray hair, the color blending with the concrete blocks barring the windows behind him. Stronger, not starving for years like the Knife.

  Almost as worn.

  Martens looked exhausted. He was covered in a fine layer of pale gray dust, as was everything in the room. Of the five people present, he was the only one without a gun.

  He looked up from the biopolymer flimsy he was reading. White, with static black marks on it. Why not a com? More questions, still no answers.

  "Commander?" one of the others said.

  Directed at Martens. Martens wasn't a lieutenant any longer, that much was clear. He didn't have any rank tabs on his shoulders, nor on his chest, only a silver profile of a rough-looking man in a helmet. A civilian helmet, the kind laborers in heavy industry wore on primitive worlds.

  Strange thing to wear.

  "So you're the envoy," Martens said, a statement, not a question. I answered it anyway.

  "Yes."

  "Where from?"

  "Santa Kylie," I said, and a twinge of confusion passed over his face. He clamped down on it fast, the impassive iron curtain slamming down, hiding any emotions. Probably got that from the Knife.

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  "Where is that?" Martens said.

  "Small colony on the other side of the sector," I said. "Fell to a civil war fifty years back. It's a Syndicate puppet world now."

  That caused a murmur among Martens' aides. He stilled it with a short tap of his index finger against the wooden table. Good discipline.

  "We're not inviting the Syndicates," Martens said. "If that's your mission, I apologize and will provide you with an escort back to your drop pod."

  Well, that hadn't gone well. At least they hated the Syndics, which was good for them. Time to stir things up with a bit of truth.

  "I'm not a Syndic," I said, "and my drop pod is gone. Neither am I a Kylian. I'm here for you."

  Martens' eyes narrowed.

  "Sir?" he said. Not quite hostile, but getting there. His glare made me want to retreat. I had the feeling he was the kind of commander that inspired from the front, with small gestures and lots of resolve. The kind that men loved to follow, all the way to their graves.

  "Your father sent me," I said. In for a second, in for a lightyear. One of the aides snorted derisively.

  "My father is dead," Martens said, the last traces of openness melting away. His look now was pure iron. Nothing got through.

  Well, the truth had stirred him up. Might as well conjure it all the way. I pulled out the silver triangle star the Knife had given me, showing it to him.

  "Your father was on a transport that got hijacked to a Syndicate death world, where he spent fourteen years before managing to make it away. He's now the commanding officer on a refugee ship about seventy lights from here."

  Martens' upper lip drew back, as if he didn't know whether to laugh or bark.

  "Nice story," he said. "What do you want?"

  "You," I said. "May we speak privately?"

  "No," Martens said. "Are you here to offer us Santa Kylie's aid in the war?"

  "There is no aid to offer," my mouth said, before my brain could reevaluate the effectiveness of the truth approach. "The envoy code is fake. Your father needs you, that's all."

  Another murmur from the aides. Martens merely nodded.

  "Dil," he said. "Show this man out."