Aftermath

Argus arrives shortly thereafter, and he jacks in using a patch cord. It’s not a suitable solution for training, but it will be enough for me to show him what I need to. The rumble of the phase drive tells me we’re almost ready, and rising heat spills through me. That’s the cations kindling for the jump. The corridor opens; the ship spirals through, then my mind’s full of grimspace. Even to me, the beacons feel strange, and full of unusual echoes.



My apprentice reacts, testing the new signals. In the space of seconds, I show him what I did and how to read it. Realization sparkles through him. Despite the circumstances, he loves the job, and he loves learning new tricks. He’s going to adore playing hero on New Terra.



It takes me longer to feel out the proper course, then move us there. But March isn’t surprised when we slide out of the jump with New Terra spread before us, glimmering with its aquamarine waters. I unplug and sit quiet, waiting for the landing while he negotiates with the docking authority. Before long, the Dauntless receives a priority landing clearance, and we make our approach.



“Dismissed,” March says to Argus.



The kid leaves without another word, doubtless knowing we need a moment. March handles the landing with his usual skill; though with each kilometer, it takes me closer to captivity. Once we put down in the hangar set aside for diplomats and other important personages, he turns to me.



“This is the last time I’m going to see you alone for a while. I’ve already been advised that you will be permitted no visitors apart from counsel, not even me.”



That’s an unexpected blow, but I should have been prepared. The charges levied against me are heinous, and from this point forward, it becomes a media event and a public circus. But I survived incarceration once before—and at least this time I won’t have anyone trying to drive me crazy with dream therapy.



I hope.



To my surprise, he bends and kisses me on the mouth. His lips taste of strong kaf and infinite sweetness. March nuzzles his stubbled jaw against my throat; the scrape feels divine, and that, too, I will carry with me. Lifting his head, he traces the curve of my cheek as if striving to memorize my features. I have no idea what he sees.



“I still love you.”



Thank Mary. I can survive, as long as I know he’s there for me. “And I, you. I’m sorry—”



“No.” He presses a finger to my mouth. “I have my own regrets, you know. Since I got your message, I’ve wondered if there was something I could do differently, some way to make you trust me.”



“I do,” I whisper.



But that’s not the whole truth.



Even if I’d believed he could make an impartial decision regarding my sacrifice in grimspace, it’s not in me to turn to someone else at such times. I refused to put the decision on March and leave him shouldering the weight. By the grim look in his golden eyes, he hears the unspoken reply. I feel him, tender warmth in my head, and I don’t want to be without him.



But I must be.



The chime rings on the door, and March kisses me again, again, as if he can wipe this all away with the heat of his mouth. I cling to him for a moment, before making myself step back. It’s time to let go.



“Vel’s outside,” he says.



He came. Of course he did. I draw in a breath that hurts in the exhalation. “Then let him in.”



When the door to the cockpit swishes open, there is nothing personal between the commander and me. We stand a professional distance apart, as if I can’t feel his pain screaming in my head. Mine amplifies his; they share a joint sound—that of glass breaking—until they swell to a crescendo that deafens.



I want to scream, March whispers. I want to take you away from here.



I know, love. I know.



It requires superhuman effort for me to step into the hall, going away from the man I love and toward uncertain future. Vel knows, I think. He always does. With his unpainted carapace and his near-human mannerisms, he looks nothing like the Ithtorian officers waiting behind him; the Conglomerate has chosen an Ithtorian guard to prevent any accusations of preferential treatment. Vel touches a talon to my cheek and we exchange a wa that says everything.



March signals with a resigned gesture. “Prisoner ready for transport.”



This time, I’m not spared the shackles. I get the full-on treatment, bound at wrists and ankles, with a loose chain connecting the two. There’s no point in protesting; the Conglomerate wants to make it clear they take my trial seriously. I get no special handling. I’m just another criminal.



Each step takes me farther from March; he fades to an echo my head. Our connection grows quieter and quieter with the distance, until the connection snaps, and I take his loss like a knife in the heart.



.CLASSIFIED-TRANSMISSION.



.RE: AFTERMATH



.FROM-EDUN_LEVITER.



.TO-SUNI_TARN.



.ENCRYPT-DESTRUCT-ENABLED.



Those who never lift a weapon are oft quickest to stand in judgment over those who act in accordance with their consciences. It is not a great thing to achieve renown, for the public is notorious in its refusal to permit one to change, and it takes no small effort to alter such public opinions, once formed.



You seem to have some fondness for Ms. Jax. Would you like me to intervene? I could find some method of corrupting the jury or ensuring that a sympathetic judge receives the case on his docket. Though this is not my normal sphere of influence, I am not without my resources, even here.



As to what I dream . . . in all honesty, dear Tarn, I dream of nothing these days. My sleep is black and empty. But in my waking hours, I think it would be very pleasant to meet you when you have put aside your purple robes, and I am, once more, only a quiet weaver in the shadows.



Yours,



Edun



.END-TRANSMISSION.



.ACTIVATE-WORM: Y/N?



.Y.



.TRANSMISSION-DESTROYED.



.CLASSIFIED-TRANSMISSION.



.RE: AFTERMATH.



.FROM-SUNI_TARN.



.TO-EDUN_LEVITER.



.ENCRYPT-DESTRUCT-ENABLED.



No. In the interest of fairness to the people whose interests I represent, do not tamper with her trial. She may use all resources at her command, however, to actualize a positive outcome on her own. To that end, please recommend a good barrister, and I will see that this best-qualified person takes up her defense. The Conglomerate needs its heroes, even if they emerge from the fires of war a bit blackened about the edges.



Dear Leviter, this will be my last message for some time. Our work together is at an end, but I, too, would enjoy a personal meeting. In due course, we may arrange it, and I look forward to that day more than you might imagine.



Yours,



Edun



.END-TRANSMISSION.



.ACTIVATE-WORM: Y/N?



.Y.



.TRANSMISSION-DESTROYED.



.CLASSIFIED-TRANSMISSION.



.RE: AFTERMATH.



.FROM-EDUN_LEVITER.



.TO-SUNI_TARN.



.ENCRYPT-DESTRUCT-ENABLED.



I shall miss you, perhaps more than I expected. See that Ms. Jax receives Nola Hale for her defense. She is the best.



Yours,



Edun



.END-TRANSMISSION.



.ACTIVATE-WORM: Y/N?



.Y.



.TRANSMISSION-DESTROYED.



CORE-DELETE-SCRUB-ALL.



CHAPTER 7



We make the exchange in the dock, where local authorities take me from the Ithtorian guards. As they drag me off, Vel says, “I will see you soon, Sirantha.”



I know him. And that’s a promise.



The transfer goes smoothly up until we leave the immigration area, as there’s no choice but to cross into the public part of the spaceport. Phenomenal crowds nearly overwhelm my security detail. Bright lights blind me, vids with spotlights aimed in my direction. Various paparazzi—some old acquaintances—shout questions.



“Do you have any words for the bereaved families, Jax?”



“Is it true Chancellor Tarn directed your actions as part of a top secret government initiative? Can you comment?”



“Jax, we heard you were working for the gray men. What’s your current involvement with the Farwan loyalists?”



“There’s been a complete embargo on all interstellar travel. Do you, in fact, intend to hold the galaxy hostage?”



People with furious, avid faces push toward me, and in my shackles, I can’t fight back. I stumble against one of my captors and nearly go down. Roughly, the guard jerks me to my feet and tries to forge a path through the mob. They refuse to give way, and now they’re just screaming, not questions, but curses and condemnations. If anybody’s on my side here, I can’t make out their words of encouragement. They wouldn’t ordinarily be present in the VIP hangar, but they’ve slipped security somehow—or maybe this is an intentional snafu, so the general public can see that the Conglomerate takes my crimes seriously. If a PR rep planned this, I give him credit. It’s a hell of a photo op.



“We need two Peacemaker units, ASAP,” a local guard says to his comm.



Someone lobs a bottle at my head, but it’s empty, and the impact isn’t as bad as other hits I’ve taken. The glass shatters at my feet, and the noise incites the crowd to greater violence. But before it can escalate to stampeding levels, a distant door opens, and two enormous bots wheel out. Both bear cannons in their chests and heavy laser rifles on each limb. They’re not sophisticated in terms of programming; they don’t need to be. Instead, they carry the kind of ordnance people would be crazy to fight. Matched with their thick plate armor, they’re almost impossible to handle, short of heavy weapons.



“This scene will be pacified. To avoid bodily harm, desist from civil disobedience and vacate the area.”



The Peacemaker units only make the announcement twice before the crowd loses steam and disperses enough for my guards to shove me through. Over my shoulder, I glimpse a young man with a sign that reads FREE JAX. My escort jerks me out the doors and into a waiting vehicle; it carries me to the jurisprudence center, where they keep criminals who aren’t permitted bond. In some cases, that’s because they’re too dangerous to cut loose for any number of credits; in others, it’s because they’re deemed a flight risk. I wonder which it is for me.



I’ve been to the center before, but never in this capacity. Instead of going in the front, the penitentiary transport flies around back and deposits me at the processing entrance. The gunmetal gray door opens to a white hallway going in two directions. The universal sign for the female marks the right; the left bears the male symbol . . . and a couple of men, shackled as I am, come in ahead of me.



My escort tows me down the hall to a service window protected with three different layers of security. The woman behind it scans the proffered datapad and buzzes me through. Guards shove me, as if I’m likely to resist, even though I haven’t so far. Maybe they think this makes it more real, but for me, it was real from the moment Vel told me this would happen. He’s never lied to me.



“Did she give you any trouble?” the clerk asks.



The first guard shakes his head. “Just a big fragging mess at the spaceport, that’s all.”



“We’ll have to do better with the crowd control,” his partner adds. “Are we done here, Carlotta?”



With a nod, she dismisses them, then turns to me. “Do you swear on your citizenship that you are, in fact, Sirantha Jax?”