The one working our table looks pretty close to busted. As if she feels my stare, she meets my eyes, but she doesn’t have enough spark left in her to mind. Her gaze slides away from mine as she trudges on back to the kitchen to schlep the next tray.

March drums his fingers, looking thoughtful. “He’s ambitious then.”

“And I’m his cat’s-paw.” The guys glance at me in surprise, as if they’ve forgotten about me. We can’t have that, can we? “What else is new?”

“You certainly have a history of finding trouble,” Surge says.

Annoyance sparks through me. This prick doesn’t know the first thing about me, other than what he’s read or seen on the vids. And okay, maybe things tend to unravel at the seams wherever I go, but is that my fault?

“Lay off her,” March says. He’s smiling, and his tone remains deceptively gentle. “You don’t want to make her mad.”

I liked how he began, but now I’m not sure where he’s going with this. If he expects me to put on a show—You know, honey, do bitchy Jax for my buddies, come on!— well, that’s just not happening. I’m too tired.

Surge regards me with bloodshot eyes, a forest bristling from his jaw. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because if you upset her, you’ll have to deal with me. And I don’t think you want that.”

We’re in no position to pick a fight with the people who are helping us. Then again, I suspect I don’t get the whole guy thing, because Surge cracks up again. Fucking men, right?

“Shit, she’s got you trained right and tight, lad. When you donning the collar?”

With a sigh, I down the rest of my spiked tea and feel the warmth washing over me. It’s been a while since I drank anything this strong.

“Jax doesn’t believe in that,” March answers.

“I did once. It didn’t work out.” I scowl, thinking of Simon. “I don’t suppose you know people who could get to him? He’s being held in a secure facility.” It’s a throwaway remark, one I don’t expect to bear fruit. I should have known better. These are former mercs, after all.

“There’s always a way,” Surge tells me with a wicked smile. “But it’ll cost. Depends on where, of course, but we probably know someone doing time same as your ex. How bad do you want the man done?”

* * *

CHAPTER 7

l’d love to see Simon dead.

When his superiors asked for a scapegoat, he tried to sacrifice me. He knew they planned to murder everyone on the Sargasso, and he decided to rid himself of me as well. There were probably insurance payments to collect, my death benefits. Mary knows he cleaned out my personal accounts before my alleged body was cold.

He deserves to suffer in ways I can’t articulate for what he’s done. Seventy-five souls trusted us to get them safely to Matins IV. Eighty-two died in the crash.

Even now, I still have dreams. I wake up screaming, and I can’t stand the smell of cooking meat. March watches me thinking it over, and I’m sure he’s tapped into my blood-thirsty thoughts. Then it occurs to me. Doesn’t matter how bad I’d like to get this dirty job done. I can’t afford it.

I’ll have to content myself with imagining bad things happening to the bastard. If he’s been sent to Whitefish, I won’t have to wait long, though. Someone will shank him for being an officious little prick.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, because there’s no way I’m telling Surge about my temporary financial embarrassment.

The merc looks disappointed. “Right, then. Another round?”

“One for the road,” March answers. His expression becomes speculative. “What would you suggest for someone in deep to the Syndicate?”

“A Eutha-booth.” Luckily, the other man has his eye on March while he laughs, so he doesn’t catch my wince. There are home truths, and home truths, if you know what I mean. “Oh shit, you’re serious? Dunno, lad, that’s some steep ground. They were fighting a smugglers’ war on two fronts between Hon’s raiders and the gray men, but the world looks a whole lot rosier for them now, thanks to your girl here. Maybe she could ask them nicely to call off the debt.”

Well, that’s not helpful. Mr. Jewel Brooch didn’t seem inclined to believe he owed me any favors when we talked at the coffeehouse. Was that just a few hours ago? Long day.

“We’ll sort it out.” March pushes away from the table. “Can you call us an auto-cab? Where’s the closest stand?”

“At the corner,” Surge says. “And already done. Should be there by the time you make your way down. It was good seeing you, mate. I hope you and the ambassador here get things sorted.”

Every time someone says that, I fight the urge to look over my shoulder. It’s like being the butt of a joke everybody gets but me. I sure as shit don’t feel like any such thing. Maybe it takes a while to sink in.

From the next table I hear Surge’s guys speculating that I’m bald because I had a terrible case of nits. I run a hand over my stubbly head and struggle to my feet. Yeah, it’s definitely time to go.

“There’s some wreckage four blocks up and over from where we met you. You should get a good price for the big pieces if you get right over there.” With a wave, March heads for the front door with me trailing behind him like a gimp puppy.

I guess diva-Jax still dwells somewhere inside my scrawny breast because that doesn’t set well. Then he holds the door for me and offers his heart-melting smile. As we step outside, I forget my minor complaints because night-fall in the north is fucking brutal.

Our hike down to the auto-cab stand feels like kilometers. There’s a reason people drink so much, living here. I’d nearly forgotten that part. A group of homeless men huddle near a trash barrel where they’ve lit a fire. Such things are illegal, but who’s going to protest?

The Corp wrote this place off decades ago, and gangers run it now. Starving artists produce the most amazing music, though. Sweet strains wend through the smoky dark toward me, notes of throbbing warmth that seem to hang in the crystal-cold air like tropical fruit. People in Wickville live with singular abandon; it’s not hard to behave as if every day might be your last if it truly might be. Until now, I hadn’t realized how much I’d incorporated that idea into my personal philosophy, if I could be said to have such a thing.

“I didn’t realize how much time you spent here,” March says softly.

I make no response as we climb into the blessedly heated cab. He doesn’t know as much about me as he supposes. I wonder what he’d say if he knew I almost threw everything away—my future with the Corp, my promise as a jumper—for a saxophone player.

First he swipes his card and then taps out our destination on the panel. With a soft swoosh, we’re on our way.

Numbness sets in. Not from the cold, though I can’t seem to warm up all the way. Too much has happened. I can’t parse it all.

My mother, my father, my past . . .

Everything feels like it’s on a collision course. No matter what choice I make, somebody loses. In the old days I wouldn’t have cared. Fuck the lot of them; what did they ever do for me? I’d have gotten drunk, flashed my tits, and danced on a table. I’d have thought of nothing but my next jump. For Mary’s sake, these days, I even regret the trouble the exploding Skimmer will cause poor Squid.

When the hell did I develop a conscience?

“When you came for me.” March answers the unspoken question with an expression I can’t interpret.

There’s something to be said for a man who tunes into your moods like this. He wraps an arm around me and leans his head against mine. Sometimes I sense in him a deep-seated fear. It’s like he wants to hold me so tight I can’t get free, but conversely, he’s afraid of frightening me away with such visceral need.

He’s right to fear that. I love him, but he terrifies me in some ways.

“It’s a pain in the ass.”

“Get used to it,” he says dryly. “Once you start caring, it’s hard to stop.”

“Great.”

We ride the rest of the way in silence. I feel a little queasy from the homebrew, or maybe it was the microorganisms in my tea. By the time we climb out in front of headquarters, I’m grateful for the shock of frosty air. Wickville seems farther away than the kilometers we traveled.

“I’ll walk you to your door.” In his eyes, I glimpse an endearingly roguish twinkle that warns me he doesn’t intend to leave me there with a chaste kiss.

I’m not in the mood for love, but I’ll deal with that when the time comes. We’re questioned once by the automated security system. Luckily March remembers the pass codes. To my mind, modern life just offers too many numbers that we’re supposed to keep track of.

Up on the eighth floor, I key my room open and stare. “What the fuck . . .”

The place has been ransacked, well, as much as an impersonal, nearly empty room can be. I don’t have anything. Anyone who doesn’t realize that is dumb as a rock. Correction, March gave me back my PA, 245, which he found at the hostel where Velith took me.

She is literally all I own, and I keep her with me at all times now. Discovering that I’m dead broke makes her all the more valuable. Since she has perfect recall, she’ll make an ideal assistant for an ambassador who needs to get everything just right from customs to mealtime etiquette. Just last night, she asked me to get her a droid frame, so she can better serve in that capacity.

So she’s my most important asset. I’m like the tinker and his horseshoe nail from the stories. Numbly I step inside and start tidying up.

“Shouldn’t we call security? They might be able to find out who did this.”

I shrug. “If you like. I don’t feel up to dealing with it tonight, though.”

He takes a closer look at me. “You don’t look good, Jax.”

“Thanks. You’re fantastic for my ego.” I manage a wan smile. “It’s been a long day, and dropping out of the sky didn’t help. I’ll be fine after I get some rest.”

“Hope so.” Maybe it’s because I know him, but he’s not doing a good job of hiding his concern.

I understand why. This isn’t like me. I’m not the pale, listless type, and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been sick in my life.

“You want to stay?” Even as I ask, I press the button to enlarge my bunk from a single to a double.

We’ve been assigned to executive quarters, so I have a san-shower in the suite, a vid station, and a customizable sleep unit. The only thing we don’t have is a wardrober, but the Corp was run by a bunch of skinflints. March has his own room on ten, but I don’t imagine he’ll be returning to it. He smiles at me and hangs his things next to my winter gear. It doesn’t take long to set the room to rights, given how little I have in here. Nothing seems to be missing.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” he says. “Shower?”

“Yes, let’s.”