Endgame

I study his handheld, displaying an image of Legate Flavius, then compare it to Vel’s new face. He’s got a lean look with an aquiline nose and a strong jaw. It’s a cruel mien, set in the lines of a man who thinks only of his own pleasure and his own advancement. Legate Flavius looks like the bastard he was.



Vel is also a dead ringer for him.



“You nailed it,” I say. “How long did you study him?”



“Loras permitted me to examine the corpse extensively while he searched the comm for clues about what we’d interrupted.”



Most people would probably find that disgusting. Instead, I ask, “Did you make a note of all the birthmarks?”



“Of course.”



“I’m guessing Flavius is single?”



“Correct.”



Vel has been stealing other people’s lives for turns. He’s experienced at it, and it’s for the best he’s going in alone. I just wish it didn’t tie me up in knots.



A knock sounds, then Loras asks, “Vel, are you ready?”



“Yes,” he calls in universal.



Not his voice. Legate Flavius. His vocalizer is a wondrous thing.



I open the door. Loras has some clothes, probably from a master bedroom down the hall. This one isn’t grand enough to be used for his various assignations. For Vel’s sake, I hope Flavius wasn’t too much of a degenerate. He’ll hate debauching countless women as part of his cover.



“Get dressed,” Loras orders. “The rest of us will move out shortly. We can’t be in the vicinity when you call for rescue. Between Tiana’s help and the comm logs I forwarded, you should be able to pass.”



“So the girl goes with me?” Vel asks.



“She can smooth any rough patches, give clues while you settle into his life.”



That’s why he wanted me to stay. This is good-bye, at least for a little while. I can’t read the legate’s face though I know Vel watches me from behind those eyes. I’ve often wondered how he makes the connection between his eyes and the human ones, or whether it’s like a mirrored window, so we see color on this side, but it’s all clear—the same view as he always has from behind them. This isn’t the time to ask.



Loras turns his eyes on me, blasted in their blueness like a sky in the mountains just before nightfall, arid and untouchable. “Are you fit to march?”



“Yeah, I’m fine.” In fact, my injuries are the least of my worries.



“You have five minutes to wrap up,” Loras says in parting.



Vel dresses efficiently; he is experienced in human attire. He’s slid in and out of so many lives. How many does this make?



“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.



This feels like when he went off to command the Ithtorian fleet, only a thousand times worse, because he won’t have warships at his fingertips. This time, he only has his own ingenuity and the help of a frightened servant. How I wish I could slip into a new skin as easily he does, but even if I could, that wouldn’t help him. He needs Tiana’s inside knowledge of how the legate’s household functions.



“How about ‘I will see you soon’?”



“But is that true?”



“I intend for it to be so. How much would you give to be with me, Sirantha?”



For a few startled seconds, I’m not sure what he means, what he’s asking. I leap to the human interpretation of be with me, but this is Vel. Not March. Therefore, he’s talking about the mission.



“I’d feel a lot better if I could watch your back.”



“From what I have gleaned from his private correspondence—and a few formal reprimands—the legate spread his attentions far and wide. That will be…awkward for me to maintain, at length.”



“So you want me to play significant other, once you have a chance to sell the story that he’s met someone? I don’t think that would work. My face is too well-known—”



“Yes,” he says. “Your face. Are you willing to give it up?”



The question sends a shock through me. I’m not beautiful, but I am comfortable in this skin. Changing my face would leave me with a stranger in the mirror. I hesitate, considering all the factors in play. Part of me is loath to sacrifice my identity even for Vel, but another half thinks this might be a fresh start. There would be no more paparazzi, no more people on news net following my every move. For the first time in ten turns, it would mean privacy.



“Would cosmetic surgery even work on me?” I wonder aloud.



“The nanites repair damage…they are not programmed to safeguard your appearance. So theoretically, they should speed your recovery, not impede superficial changes.”



“Theoretically,” I repeat wryly.



A new face would change everything…but if I’m offered the choice between helping Vel and wondering if he’s all right, then I’ll do whatever it takes to back him up. Even this. Mary knows how March will feel, but it’s not like I can ask him, and I wouldn’t even if I could. This is my decision, my body. I hope he can adapt to the change; but if he loves me, not my skin and bone, then it shouldn’t matter. He’ll adjust. No matter what I look like, I’ll be the same person.



“You discussed this with Loras?” I ask.



Vel inclines his head. “He knows someone in the city willing to do the work.”



“What’s involved? I mean, how long will it take, how much will it hurt…?” I grin, but the truth is, doctors give me the shivers these days. I’m always afraid they’ll lock me up and run experiments.



“Everything is done with sonic shapers, some minimal laser work. There will be some pain and swelling, but you could expect to resume a normal routine within forty-eight hours. Perhaps less, depending on how your nanites respond.”



Taking a deep breath, I make the decision. “Of course. If you need me, I’m there, whatever face I have to wear.”



“Thank you, Sirantha. Loras will explain further.”



I back out of the room, taking care with my injuries, and navigate the steps with utmost caution. Everyone else has assembled downstairs. Farah sits on a chair with her hands folded in her lap, eyes still red and swollen. The squad seems subdued, each dealing with loss in his or her own fashion.



Xirol glances up at my approach. “Glad we didn’t lose you, Jax.”



I’m about to make some smart-ass remark to break the tension, but I think better of it. Some things can’t be dissolved with a joke. So I just incline my head. I don’t sit down because it would hurt getting back up again. My pack will sting going over my shoulders, but it can’t be helped. I’ll march out of here along with everyone else even if it kills me.



FROM: E_L



TO: [RECIPIENT_ENCRYPTED]



COMM CODE 18.255.91.23.88



I have the information you requested; it should permit you to plan with greater efficiency. Things progress well in the capital. I have planted several rumors that I expect to bear fruit within the next two months. The resulting scandals will weaken the nobility’s faith in one another. It is most amusing to watch them chase their tails, seeking traitors and conspirators among their most loyal. Sometimes, conversely, the legates take the most steadfast refusal to break as indication of certain guilt.



How are things at base? For obvious reason, I will not be returning before the cessation of hostilities. You must be feeling trapped, given your history and current custodial obligations. Feel free to disregard the question if it is too personal. I’m possessed of inveterate curiosity, my partner would say, and sometimes I don’t know when to mind my own business.



Of course, that’s how I ended up in a relationship, too, so maybe he wouldn’t object.



I’ll be in touch.



E. L.



FROM: M



TO: [RECIPIENT_ENCRYPTED]



COMM CODE [MESSAGE BOUNCING; MULTIPLE RELAYS. ULTIMATE DESTINATION UNKNOWN]



Thanks for the intel. I’ve scheduled four new strikes. For obvious reasons, I’m not putting any information about our targets on the bounce. But if you’re as good as people say you are, then you already know what I intend to do and how I’ll deploy our troops. If I ever get out of the base, I’ll look for hints of your handiwork on the bounce. It’s frustrating because we’re completely off the grid, dependent on information you feed us, then I’m responsible for disseminating it to the men in the field. I have help, of course, so I’m not carrying the weight alone, but still, it’s more than I wanted. I came here for a vacation, for Mary’s sake.



As far as my custodial obligation, he’s a pain in the ass. The kid’s determined to make my life hell because I wouldn’t let him ship out with everyone else. And yeah, I’m feeling trapped. The work helps. I feel guilty because I’m looking forward to the kid’s birthday, as I promised to let him join up, then. It also means I can get out in the field again. I probably shouldn’t be so relieved to start killing again, as that never leads me anywhere good. But I’m also worried about our mutual acquaintance. She has a way of finding trouble, doesn’t she? If it’s not too much of a security risk, maybe you could update me on how she’s doing the next time you send a report my way?



Thanks in advance.



M.



P.S. I don’t mind your curiosity.



CHAPTER 35



Six days later, I’m sitting with Xirol in a black-market medical facility. The place is clean, though not fancy. Plain block walls have been painted institutional gray, and the equipment, a bit battered and scarred, has seen better days. The doctor is a nondescript man with shorn hair and a quiet manner.



My injuries have healed, so far as I can tell. Even the twinges are gone. In a few seconds, the equipment validates this expert self-diagnosis. I do have scars where I was shot, but the nanites will take care of those in time. They don’t tolerate imperfections in the body they’re maintaining, which makes it pretty ironic that they ended up inside someone as flawed as me.



“You’re in top shape,” the doctor says.



“That’s not what I heard,” Xirol jokes.



“Are they passing around naked pictures of me again?”



The doctor looks marginally interested in Xirol’s reply. “Nah, just topless ones.”



I laugh. Then the doc gets down to business. He doesn’t call me by name because he doesn’t know it. I have no idea who he is, either, except he’s willing to turn me into somebody else. I can tell he’s not native from his features. My best guess is, he’s disgruntled Nicuan, looking for payback on those who cast him in disfavor over some petty politicking. Whatever. He’s taking my money through a complex circuit of intermediaries. Officially, it’ll look like I donated these credits to charity.



“I’ve examined the stills,” the doc says. “And created a composite of the ideal feminine face, based on the accumulated data of the target’s preferences.”



“This should be good,” Xirol mutters.



“Let’s see it.”



The doctor activates a screen built into the wall, and the image appears. I stare at her, thinking, This will be me. Nothing about her says Jax. Her features are fine and delicate, with a small, pert nose and pointed chin. Her eyes are almond-shaped and slightly tilted at the corners, giving her a feline air. Only her lips have anything in common with mine, full and long, but shaped into a kissable bow.