We’ve already received two angry messages from Chancellor Tarn, wanting to know where the hell we are. I haven’t decided what to tell him. I intend to blame nonreceipt of his messages on sunspots, rogue comets, and anything else I can think of along the way. Hopefully, he’s a politician to the bone, and he’ll make up a convincing story that doesn’t leave the Ithtorians wanting to kill us on sight for insulting them.

“But we can’t just dump Surge, Kora, and—what did they name the kid again? If it’s dangerous.”

“You know perfectly well they named her Sirina.”

“I do?” I don’t remember registering that, actually.

He nods, checking our distance from Emry. At our current cruising speed, we’ll be there in under an hour. “It’s a combination of Sirantha and Dina . . . since you two helped Kora through her labor, Rodeisian tradition. Makes you like a . . . godmother or something.”

“It does not.” I can’t hide how appalled I am. “You’re making that up.”

“Don’t believe me?” He grins. “Just ask Kora.”

“What obligations does that involve? Am I supposed to remember her birthday? Send gifts?”

“In the oldest Terran sense you’re responsible for her moral fiber. Set a good example, keep her on the straight and narrow, all that.”

“Now that you must be making up.”

His grin delights me. “It’s true. You can verify it with 245 if you like.”

“You’re enjoying this far too much.” I make a mental note to do just that, not that I don’t trust him, but . . . well, you know.

“For Rodeisians, I suspect it involves something else entirely. You and Dina might be responsible for supervising Sirina’s vision quest or something like that. Ask 245 about that as well.”

For a moment, I try to imagine Dina and me coordinating anything as a team, let alone an outing that involves out-of-body experiences and mild hallucinogens. Thankfully that’s years away yet. I sprawl back in the nav chair and turn my face upward, appealing to a grungy gunmetal ceiling. “Why me?”

“Because you fight so hard against attachments?” Though delivered casually, I register the intent quality of the question.

I force myself to answer lightly. “Yeah, that must be it. What’s the plan?”

March raises a brow. “When do we ever have a plan?”

“We always have a plan. We just don’t stick to it.”

“So what’s the point of making it? Why not just wing it?”

I glare. “Are you in the mood to argue with me?”

“Actually I’m in the mood to fuck, but our timing’s off.”

“Isn’t it always? Dance lessons might help.”

The smile kindles in his dark eyes before it reaches his mouth. With a wonder that actually steals my breath, I watch its genesis like a mini-sunrise lighting his whole face. I don’t know how I got by without him, or why I fought so hard against this. The first impression scares the shit out of me, but it’s breathtaking, too, like when you push off a cliff and feel the wind against your face. At that point, you’re not thinking of anything but free fall.

Landing comes later. That’s what hurts. Then again, what doesn’t?

I can close my eyes and construct this man’s face, feature by feature. Could I ever do that with Kai? I can’t remember anymore. I know he had blond hair and green eyes, but he’s faded, like someone I knew a long time ago. And I’m not sure if that’s okay, or if it just makes me fickle.

He answers my thought without looking at me. “It makes you human.”

That sounds like an equivocation to me, but then, I know he doesn’t like finding me thinking about the love I lost. That’s tough shit, I’m afraid. I can’t forget about Kai. I never will. He was different than March in every conceivable way, so it puzzles me how I could love two such dissimilar men.

I have this dream sometimes where I’m in a white room, no furniture, but there are two exits. Kai stands before one door and March stands before the other. I’m caught in the middle, and I have to choose. I know this is a bullshit crazy-ass thing because I’ll never have to pick.

Kai is gone. I’ll never see him or touch him again. I’m happy with March. I love him, I do. But the dream still wakes me up in a cold sweat.

How do you measure love? Quantify it? It’s not something you can put on a scale or pour into a beaker to examine its volume and viscosity.

Crazy Jax, worried about choosing between the living and the dead. Some days, though, I feel like I’m closer to the latter than the former, and it’s not improving. If anything, I’m getting worse. The bruise Kora inflicted on me two weeks ago should be healed. Instead it’s just starting to turn blue-green.

My hair should be growing back. I should have a short, nappy crop of curls on my head by now, but it still looks much as it did after we shaved it. When I look in the mirror, it’s like I can see ghosts swimming in the glass. They can’t touch me yet, but my head echoes with their whispers.

“Please don’t think that way.” March finally cuts me a look, away from the instrument panels and readings he doesn’t need to monitor.

I remember that from the old days, before I knew how he felt about me. He used the controls as a way to distance himself from me. And the fact that he’s doing it now tells me he thinks we do, indeed, have something to fear.

“Have you ever heard of a jumper wasting away like this?” There, I finally said it out loud. Now it’s no longer the pink orangutan that everyone pretends not to see.

“No, but that doesn’t matter. After we wrap things up here on Emry, we’re heading straight for Lachion, so Doc can take a look at you. Don’t worry, Jax. We’ll fix it.”

I don’t argue with him, but I have a feeling it won’t be that simple. At this point we don’t even know what “it” is. There are any number of medical facilities we could jump to from here, no need to target Lachion, except I trust Doc, and I won’t have somebody I don’t know poking around in my head. Or my intestines for that matter. Those days are done.

Further complicating matters, we really shouldn’t jump to Ithiss-Tor until we’re certain I’m not infectious. Most likely any illness I’ve contracted wouldn’t translate to their systems, but I prefer to be sure. I’m not killing off a whole race as an unwitting plague carrier.

Unless that’s what someone intends. What if I’ve been infected on purpose? What if—

“Jax.” With a word, he reins in my paranoia.

One thing’s certain, though. I’ll choose a trip to a Psych and a Eutha-booth over some long, lingering illness that has no cure. Either March is distracted, or he prefers to ignore that. Just as well, I don’t want to fight. Too tired.

Still no answer from Emry. We’ve reached real visual range now, no more distant images picked up by the sensors. I lean in, studying the energy readings, though I don’t know enough about it to draw conclusions.

“How’s it look?”

“Like something’s wrong.”

“Wrong like they all caught some exotic disease and died, and the station is now infected with deadly parasites that kill you with bloody hemorrhaging out the eyeballs? Or wrong like they don’t want to encourage visitors?”

March regards me for a moment and then shakes his head. “Ever an optimist, aren’t you? Your imagination scares me sometimes, Jax.”

“You know, the Psychs always said that about me, too.”

Truthfully, I’m getting a bad vibe from Emry Station. Not like what waited for us on DuPont, nothing as harmless as Hon and his raiders. It’s too quiet here, too still.

Something’s down there. And it’s not in the mood to talk.

* * *

CHAPTER 15

Whatever has gone wrong inside, the automated system still works.

As we glide toward the bay doors, the sensors detect us, and Emry opens up. I try to squelch the mental image of the docking mechanism as a gigantic maw waiting to devour us. Comm silence has become eerie.

By now someone should have come on, asking about the nature of our emergency. Instead the station AI coordinates our arrival in mechanized silence. Through the view screen, I watch as the inner doors seal. They won’t reopen until the outer doors close, and this area regains sufficient pressure and oxygen levels to support human life. Typically that takes about two minutes.

Emry is an ugly station, designed with function in mind: two circular decks that rotate slowly in counterpoint to create artificial gravity. I wait until the docking procedure completes and then swing out of the nav chair. March follows me down through the hub, all the way to the hatch.

“Who’s going with us?”

“Kora and Dina need to stay with the ship,” he says at once.

That must be because he wants one of our people making sure Surge and Jael don’t fuel up and repo this thing, leaving us stranded. March grins and offers an infinitesimal nod. I guess he doesn’t trust Vel completely yet, for all the guy saved my ass a few weeks ago. I can’t blame March; he takes a while to warm up to people.

“I’ll go,” Vel says quietly.

I’m not entirely sure that’s a good idea. We might need him on the ship to help Dina, if our passengers get any bold ideas. That is, until Jael adds, “Me, too.”

I relax a little. Dina can handle herself against Surge. Kora should be too busy looking after Sirina to start anything. Plus if Dina is really her baby’s godmother, there should be some Rodeisian rule against attacking her.

“Let’s gear up then.”

What gear? I’ve been a galactic vagabond since the Sargasso , owning little more than a change of clothes. I’m not sure what he means, unless the Luck has a hidden cache. Over the last two weeks I’ve been over this junk-bucket starboard to stern and didn’t find anything. Then again, maybe I just didn’t know where to look.

March heads for the maintenance closet. I watch as he keys open a smuggler’s cupboard, where they’ve hidden a supply of shocksticks and a disruptor. He takes the latter and shoves it through his belt. With a shudder I remember how the thing mangled his arm, how I used it on other human beings. I’ll never be able to use one again: Sometimes in my sleep I still hear their screams. Before DuPont Station, I’d never killed anyone.

I don’t know how much use I’ll be in a fight, but I take a baton nonetheless. Jael follows suit, but Vel just shakes his head and turns toward the exit.

Since I’ve seen him fight bare-handed, I know he doesn’t need a weapon. He’ll have to slip his human skin, though. Jael will probably piss himself if that happens.

“Leave the light on for us,” I call to Dina.

She grins. “Try not to get yourself killed, dumb-ass.”

“It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it.”

March pauses and then says to Surge, “See if you can get the fueling system to engage, but do not leave the docking bay.”

I’m not sure if the guy’s dumb enough to venture out alone. I tend to say no—he was smart enough to get off planet when he didn’t have enough creds to provision his ship. I think they’ll be okay. Plus he’s got a wife and kid to think about, so Surge won’t do anything stupid. He’s not the one we need to worry about cowboying all over the place. I glance at Jael and sigh.