"…you absolutely will not make a mess of things this time, is that understood, Warden Smith?" Setna Amjed spoke with the sort of perfect calm with which Ibrahim imagined professional assassins murdered.

“Yes, Mr. Amjed.” Ibrahim rocked gently backward and forward in his chair, his forehead thumping against the useless keyboard.

“And – and this is most important – you will, under no circumstances, go down to Murkworld. You’ll stand by with your Warden codes and accesses to help the programmers from orbit. You understand that?”

“Yes, Mr. Amjed.”

“You are nothing more than codes and accesses. Got that? What are you, Smith?”

“Codes and accesses, sir.”

“That’s right. Codes and accesses. Don’t forget it.”

"Good, then. Please connect me to … who did the ghazis post on the asteroid?"

"Al- Mutawwali, sir. Captain Ahmed Al- Mutawwali, on the Lahab-u-Din. I can transfer you, Mr. Amjed."

“Yes. Do that.” Then, as if he’d nearly forgotten: “Codes and accesses, Smith.”

Ibrahim thumbed the link-pad on his comm and spoke the Lieutenant's name into the flashing "ready" icon.

When the call had transferred, Ibrahim took a deep swallow of air, and tried to understand the void that had just opened up somewhere between his heart and his stomach. He should have felt, if not ecstatic, then at least relieved. Amjed had pretty much promised him he wouldn't be responsible for restoring order planet-side.

But Ibrahim felt no relief. Instead, he felt something very much like embarrassment. Shame. Not-quite-disappointment. He had absolutely no doubt that the last thing he wanted was to be dropped into Murkworld with orders to sort things out. He knew full well that he would, at best, probably fail and, at worst, make as great a mess of things as he had on Glory of the Ottomans.

But he supposed a part of him had hoped against hope that Misr might not know any better. Might be willing to give him another chance, might trust his training and spotless – if bland – pre-Glory record enough to think that maybe his failure wasn't somehow hard-coded into the cosmic scheme of things.

So. The conversation had been everything he'd hoped, and it had crushed his hopes completely.

Ibrahim pushed himself to away from the keyboard. Took a deep breath. Hoped everything would be sorted out. Soon.