Killbox

“That’s the worst of it,” he mutters. “You did the right thing, and I hate it.”



“Because I might do it again?” How funny, he’s chiding me indirectly for developing a moral compass.



“Oh, you’ll definitely do it again.” March sounds utterly wretched.



“Thing is,” I say softly, “so will you. There are no guarantees.”



“I can’t even yell at you about it because you’re the smallest and lightest. It made sense for you to go last.”



“I know. That’s why I volunteered.” I pause, thinking about what happened. “If it had been anyone else, the tube might’ve given way sooner. No hope of rescue.”



A long breath puffs into my hair. “And that’s why I didn’t protest.”



“Done is done,” I murmur. “Just . . . love me, and let tomorrow look after itself.”



“I can do that,” he whispers.



He permits me to turn then, and I wrap my arms around his neck. March kisses me with a delicacy and heat that work their way into my nervous system. His hair spills against my cheeks, too soft for such a hard man. If he knew how rakish it makes him look, I’m sure he would shave it off.



“Thanks for saving me.”



His mouth brushes my jaw. “Didn’t I promise?”



“You did.” I can’t help but smile over the rarity of a man who keeps his word. And he’s mine. “Can we go now? It’s a little chilly in here.”



March murmurs an assent and swings me into his arms. Soon I’m not cold at all.



In the days that follow, I find people treat me differently. It’s a subtle distinction, but I’m not sure what to make of it. Eventually it dawns on me—most of them call me Sirantha now, as Vel does. I’m a person to them at last, not Jax the nav-star. Only March still calls me Jax, but spoken in his deep voice, it becomes an endearment.



It’s been so long since I jumped that thinking of it evokes a toe-curling ache. I want it more than sex and food combined, almost more than I want to breathe. To combat the feeling, I throw myself into training with Argus.



Even though I know it isn’t real, the simulator offers a panacea for what ails me. Argus shows up early every time. I head for the training room at 0900, and find him already there. He occupies his chair with eager impatience. While I was resting from the rescue mission, the shunt in his wrist has had time to heal properly.



“You ready to do this?”



“I’d rather jump for real, but I guess I have to start somewhere.”



With some effort, I control my smile. “Got that right. Jack in, and we’ll begin.”



“Right.”



The world fades into an imitative swirl of color. It’s as much like real grimspace as anything can be, but if you’ve been there for real, the sim leaves you a little hungry. Nonetheless, it’s a convincing enough replica for our purposes.



I give him a few seconds to acclimate to the inundation of the senses. Find the nearest beacon for me.



Argus responds well to having me in his head. No overt shock. He has a strong, impetuous mind, teeming with ideas that skitter like schools of fish. With some effort, he stills his thoughts—good, it takes some jumpers ages to learn that trick—and then focuses. Argus has a harder time with distance here; all normal measures are relative. What is “close” in grimspace?



How do I know? Wouldn’t that be dictated by our destination?



Yes, I answer. That’s your first lesson . . . There is no distance in grimspace. We have no equipment to measure it. Everything is predicated upon the goal in straight space.



Shouldn’t you have given me a route, then?



In time. For now, just take me to a beacon. Any of them. Your choice.



The simulator acts in lieu of a pilot, following Argus’s directives. Soon he’s delivered us smoothly to a beacon in the Outskirts. I’ve made this jump fairly often, as it’s the one nearest to Gehenna. Colors swim all around us, seemingly in response to the beacon’s pulse. In true grimspace, I don’t notice that as much, overwhelmed by the sweetness and the seduction of the far horizon.



Minutes trickle into hours as he practices. Every now and then I correct his course, show him where he went wrong. The sim-pilot logs it all, and we’ll deconstruct it later. Eventually, I call a halt to the day’s work. He’ll be shocked to find his body weak and shaky when he unplugs. Even in the virtual world, grimspace takes its toll.



Argus surprises me with his compliance. Once we’re both out of the sim, I shut it down. He actually salutes me. “I’m honored to be studying with you, ma’am.”



I don’t know if I’m flattered or alarmed. Just what did he see while we were both jacked in? As if he senses my confusion, a smile plays around his mouth.



I narrow my eyes. “Dismissed. Go get something to eat and report back here same time tomorrow.”



His silver-gray eyes twinkle at me. “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say, ma’am.”



Great, my first student is a smart-ass . . . just like me. On some level, I know this serves me right.



I resign myself to a long, rocky apprenticeship.



.CLASSIFIED-TRANSMISSION.



.ACCEPTANCE.



.FROM-EDUN_LEVITER.



.TO-SUNI_TARN.



. ENCRYPT-DESTR UCT-ENABLED.



Chancellor Tarn,



After careful consideration, I’ve decided to accept your offer of employment. I will arrive on New Terra shortly. At that time, we will need to negotiate terms, as I am sure you understand the sole right to my expertise does not come cheap.



There are a few codicils to my agreement. One: My true function can never be revealed in this administration. You may call my position whatever you desire, so long as it doesn’t reflect my real purpose. I will provide a certain amount of busywork to prevent any of your colleagues from putting the pieces together. Let them think my job results from governmental bloat. Two: You will immediately destroy all classified communications from me. Three: You will create a convincing alias. Certain factions would recognize my real name, and accomplishing anything on New Terra thereafter would become problematic. Four: You will comply with my suggestions, rare though they may be. I don’t appreciate anyone wasting my time, not even you. Five: You will not inquire into the business of my past employers. If anything has bearing on our situation, I will volunteer the information. Otherwise, confidentiality must be maintained. If you can accept these conditions, then you may consider we have a deal.



As a gesture of good faith, I am attaching my findings regarding raider activity in Delta Tau. You’ll find ship numbers and losses, along with a dossier of names and their likely whereabouts and known associates. This intelligence took me years to gather, which I have done for purposes I will not reveal to you. If you find it helpful, understand it is only the tip of that which I can offer you.



Do not mistake me: You will not win this war without my help. I trust you will take that into consideration when we negotiate my salary.



That said, I look forward to working with you.



Edun Leviter



.ATTACHMENT-RAIDER_INTEL-FOLLOWS.



.END-TRANSMISSION.



. COPY-ATTACHMENT.



.FILES-DOWNLOADED.



. ACTIVATE-WORM : Y/N ?



.Y.



.TRANSMISSION-DESTROYED.



CHAPTER 6



Our arrival at Emry the second time is much different from the first.



The station looks different now; more lights have been welded to the exterior. Though I know it’s false cheer at best, the place no longer looks so forbidding. Kora has probably transformed the inside as well. If they have to stay there with their daughter for the next several turns, there’s nothing wrong with making it homier. Sirina won’t be old enough to survive a jump with her brain intact for a while yet, and we don’t have toddler protective gear on board.



Surge answers our first call within seconds. “You made good time. I’ll open the docking-bay doors for you.”



In a larger vessel like this one, the long haul doesn’t bother me as much. There’s more to do on board, and of course, I keep busy with Argus. He’s going to be good someday; I can already tell that much. The kid has great instincts, and I’ll add in the additional factor of navigating the right beacons when we get a little further along.



At this point I’m just keeping March company. There’s no reason for me to be in the cockpit, which is three times bigger than I’m used to. This ship will be great for testing the apprenticeship. There’s room in here for an extra chair, which could be used for a trainee pilot or jumper. We’d just need an extra jack.



“Standing by,” March tells him.



I imagine the clunk of metal as the massive door rolls back, then he guides the ship smoothly through the gap. Even the bay area has been renovated to some degree. Last time we were here, this station looked on the verge of going derelict; but they’ve deployed bots to sand away the worst of the rust from years of spillage and coated the metal with fresh sealant. The ship sets down, taking up almost the entire compartment.



“Good work,” Surge says. “You didn’t even scratch the paint.”



March smiles, and it does something to my heart to see the light in his eyes. Oh, he’s not healed completely. The war he fought on Lachion—up close and personal—nearly cost him his soul. He came back to me broken almost beyond repair and ready to take up his old life as a merciless killer. Lucky for him, I don’t give up easy. His complete recovery will take time, of course, and he’ll have fresh emotional scars, but he’s on the path. He can laugh now, at least, and stand to be touched again. For my credits, that’s worth everything.



He taps a panel and switches from outbound comm to shipwide announcement. “We’ve arrived at Emry Station. Any crewman who wishes to disembark for R and R may do so. There’s not much to do here, but you’re welcome to it.”



I hear laughter in the corridor beyond, greeting his words. For the first time, I realize I’m serving on a ship where everyone present volunteered. Nobody was drafted, assigned, or picked from a pool, and there’s a camaraderie present like nothing I’ve ever known before.



“Ready to go?” I ask him.



March nods. “Let’s locate our crew.”



He doesn’t need to tell me he means Dina, Hit, Doc, and Vel. Argus might tag along, and so might Rose, but they don’t comprise the core of us. They haven’t come through fire with us and emerged whole on the other side.



Things have been cool between Doc and me after the way I threatened him on Ithiss-Tor. The fact that he didn’t have to do what I asked doesn’t change the fact that I asked it. I know what I did—and for March I’d do a whole lot worse. I’m not sure if I should apologize for that.



We step into the hallway, and March shakes hands and pats shoulders in passing. They’re mostly clansmen who wanted to see a little of the universe before settling down on Lachion. Right now they seem so young, full of conviction in their own immortality. And they scare the shit out of me.



They don’t realize what he suffered for their sake, or how he clawed his way out of hell twice over to keep a promise. To them, he’s simply their captain. That’s all they need to know, and they’d follow him into the pit if he asked it.