I’m positive my landing skills aren’t up to this challenge. Getting into the port authority requires traversing a complex series of locks; it’s a measure that ensures the air inside the dome’s not compromised. So when the docking agent contacts us, asking for our itinerary, I answer, “Our pilot is incapacitated, and we’re coming in on auto. Can you transmit vectors?”

She sounds irritated that I’ve disrupted procedure. “Svetlana’s Folly, is this trip business or pleasure?”

I don’t know which this qualifies as, so I reply, “I repeat, our pilot is injured and in need of medical attention. This is an unscheduled stop.”

That seems to appease her. “I’m sorry to hear that. We can bring you in safely if you accept the override.”

Oh Mary, I get a cold chill, just thinking of turning control of the Folly over to strangers. For a moment I flash on Matins IV, but then I give myself a mental shake. This isn’t a Corp outpost. It’s a private playground, a smuggler’s paradise. That’s why it was built in the Outskirts, and as far as I know, nobody here is trying to kill us.

Give them time.

So I tap the panel to accept the override, and they bring us through the landing sequence, smooth as s-silk. There’s no way I could have managed all these turns, the precise stops and starts while we proceed through the locks to the hangar. Maybe our computer could’ve handled it; I don’t know. I’m glad we don’t have to find out.

As we come down the boarding ramp, an official waits for us. “You said you have injured on board?” She’s also outfitted in full hazard gear. “I’m afraid I need to check him to ensure you aren’t carrying a contagious sickness.”

“Go right ahead,” Doc says, stepping back from the sled.

The dockmistress, or whatever the hell she is, runs a scan on March, head to toe, then nods, seeming satisfied. She pulls off her helmet, and I’m surprised to find she’s quite young. “Note to log, merely an injury to an extremity, nothing infectious. Do you need transport?”

“That would be perfect if you can arrange it,” I say.

I’ve only been here once before. Kai and I rented a sporty little two-seater, but that’s not going to get the job done. And in fact, he handled the details, so I wouldn’t even know where to start.

“I’ll see to it,” the official says. “I’ll provide documentation for those traveling to the clinic with the patient. Here.” She hands us an orange card. “But I do need someone to stay and fill out forms regarding your stay and, of course, pay the docking fee.”

I’m about to volunteer when Dina says, “I’ll do it.” At my look, she shrugs. “I hate hospitals. No offense, Doc.” But I can read the look she gives our helpful docking agent. “Afterward, I’ll hit the market and see about parts for real repairs.”

“Let’s go then.” Saul tows the emergency sled behind him easily, which is impressive, considering the thrusters that lift it don’t do anything for propulsion.

As promised, we find a skywagon with an orange cross on the side waiting for us in front of the docking authority, and it’s large enough to slide the sled in back. Doc gets in the front with the driver, giving directions, and I climb up with March. With a smooth swoop, we’re off. Gehenna whirls around me, an impossibly bright collage of color.

I rest my hand on March’s chest, feeling the slow, steady thump of his heart. The last two days I’ve found it impossible to sleep, and I’m somewhere past exhausted. Maybe I doze off sitting beside him, because it feels to me like we just got moving, then we stop. Someone opens up the rear doors.

I recognize Doc hauling on the sled, so I hop down. Guess he’s already paid the driver, so we make our way into the clinic, a posh-looking place done in ultrachrome and diamante with a marquee that proclaims, “We build a better you” and a second sign that says “Where the stars come when they fall.” I’m not sure what that means, but I follow Doc, hoping he knows where he’s going.

“Saul Solaith!” calls an extremely affable voice. It turns out to be attached to a slim silver-haired man around Doc’s age. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I’d have booked the twins and a suite at the Capital.”

“Spontaneous stop,” Doc answers. “I’ve got a friend here in desperate need of your expertise, Ordo. Do you have an op-room free?”

“Yes, yes, of course. And if I didn’t, I’d put someone out for you.”

The two men walk away, leaving me standing in the foyer with the potted plants and an impressive view through the skylight. I drop down into a padded orange chair. Overhead I can see an ad satellite orbiting the salmon sky, but I can’t make out its slogan. Somehow it seems important, like it’s a special message just for me, so I continue to gaze straight up, waiting for the moment when it turns so I can read it.

Working girls prefer Sapphire.

I don’t know what that means, either, but over the next several hours, it works on me. The words must be a message written in code, and if I can just unravel their hidden significance, then March will be all right. But I can’t work it out, and as I feel myself drifting off, I realize I’ve let him down.

Don’t know how long I was out, but Doc wakes me with a gentle hand on my shoulder. “He’s awake, Jax. You want to see him?”

“Yeah, please.” I yawn as I push to my feet, scouring the sleep from my eyes with my knuckles. “Did you…that is—”

“We couldn’t save the arm,” he says gravely. “I had to choose between an organic and a prosthetic replacement.”

“He wouldn’t want a—”

“I know. It’s going to take some time for him to build strength in the new arm, and it looks a bit different. But with physical therapy and exercise, he should eventually return to normal. Come then, this way.”

He leads me through a warren of hallways and opens the door to a recovery room. With luxurious draperies, mosaic tile floor, and commodious bed with multiple settings, this space looks every bit as lush as the rest of the clinic; Doc wasn’t kidding when he said he had connections here.

March sits propped up, his shoulder wrapped decorously in liquid skin. The new arm looks strange and pale, not to mention slim, almost delicate in comparison with his right. Every now and then he flexes the fingers of his left hand, probably testing to be sure they really work. I can’t blame him.

“March,” I say softly, and he looks up as if he hadn’t heard us enter.

Lost in thought, I suppose. I would be, too. Doubtless he has a lot to think about. Neither one of us says a word in protest when Doc backs out of the room and closes the door behind him.

“I understand I have you to thank.” He beckons me with his right hand, and I approach the bed, feeling oddly tentative.

Shaking my head, I sit down, careful not to jostle him. “What did Doc tell you?”

“Not much. And that worries me.” His impossibly dark eyes search mine.

“It wasn’t me,” I say then. “It was Loras. And he didn’t…he didn’t make it.”

I expect him to light into me, tear me a new one over everything that’s gone wrong, but instead his long lashes sweep down. His mouth compresses into a white line, and I see his throat working. I don’t understand what’s happening any more than I understood the slogan Working girls prefer Sapphire. March reaches blindly for my hand, and I curl my fingers through his. Waiting.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You were right. There was nothing we could do up there, and Loras shouldn’t have died just so I could find that out.”

Tears burn behind my eyes, and he’s hurting me with his grip on my fingers. But I don’t pull back. “Maybe you can’t save the world, but you’ll never stop trying. It’s the best thing about you.”

He opens his eyes then, and they’re so dark I can’t see his pupils. I hope it’s the drugs talking as he bites out, “Save the world? I can’t even save the people I care about. It’s just fucking hopeless.”

I’ve never seen him like this, and I don’t know what to say. Reassurance isn’t my style in the first place, and to make it worse, I don’t disagree with him. He’s tapped into my worldview, but I don’t like seeing it on him.

But in the end, the only answer he needs right now is the warmth of my hand wrapped around his as he fades out.

CHAPTER 38

I give them three weeks.

See, it never seems like the right time to say it, from the moment I made up my mind. First Hon’s scout ships came tearing after us, then we had to get to Gehenna, March needed medical attention. Then I would’ve felt like a shit to walk into the recovery room, ask how he’s doing, then tell him I’m leaving. Not that it’s going to be any easier now, but at least I won’t feel like I’m kicking the man while he’s down.

So I bide my time, helping Dina with ship repairs when she’s not seeing the docking agent, whose name is Clary. Doc seems to be taking advantage of the unscheduled R&R as well, raising hell with his old friend Ordo Carvati. But I’m glad when the clinic gives March a clean bill of health because it means I can finally get it out in the open. Stop pretending I’m in this for the long haul.

You’d think that wouldn’t help me any, but I’ve learned March’s partition trick. I know he’s wondering why he can’t read me anymore, but I’ve been careful not to give any sign of what I’m thinking. I didn’t want to piss him off while he was recuperating.

Saying farewell aboard the Folly would prove impossible, so I’ve arranged to meet him for dinner at Molino’s, got a nice little table in the atrium. I’m early. The ship’s come to feel like home over the past months, but it’s time to go.

I just want to step out into the throng and disappear. Live the rest of my life quietly. I’m tired of being pushed and pulled without my volition. I want to make my own choices from here on out, not do what someone else tells me. I don’t give a shit about the greater good or changing the universe. A training academy isn’t worth dying for. Shit, it’s not even my dream. At this point, I don’t know what that would be.

Yeah, I know it means I’ll never see grimspace again, never feel the exhilaration that follows a good jump. But I guess I’m one of the rare ones after all. I can let it go.

Before he comes into sight, I know he’s arrived. Don’t ask me how; it’s some March-sense I wish I didn’t possess, perhaps a remnant of jumping with a Psi pilot. I wish I’d learned more about him, but it’s too late now. I’ve already removed my things from the Folly; they’re in the bag Dina gave me, stowed beneath the table. He strides between the tables, strong and vibrant, a little incongruous among the lattices and hanging vines. This part of the restaurant is meant to evoke a tropical garden, but thankfully they omitted the insects.

“Doc said you wanted me to meet you here,” he says, but there’s a question in his voice, echoed in his dark eyes. March rests his palm on the back of the chair but doesn’t sit, as if he suspects this is just a stop on the way to somewhere else.