Grimspace (14 page)

So I'm up on Doc's exam table once again.

I'm starving, but he won't let me eat until he's finished with his tests. Not sure what the deal is, I feel fine. What I really want is a big bowl of pasta and a san-shower, not necessarily in that order. But he insists he needs to check me out because it's not normal for someone to sleep for three days without any sign of dehydration.

I try to tell him it's happened before, anytime I have a bad run—my body shuts down like that—but he's not listening. Instead, he's frowning over images of my brain. “That's impossible,” he mutters.

Sighing, I ask, “Can I go? Please?”

“Hm? Yes, go ahead. Get something to eat, and drink plenty of fluids.”

I take his advice, after cleaning up a bit. The san-shower makes me feel almost human, and a change of clothing always helps. Today, I feel stronger than I have in months, so I dress accordingly: black bodysuit, black boots, and a touch of perfume. As always, my wild hair is hopeless, so I simply scrape it back.

Then I head to the galley, where I intend to eat a big plate of pasta, New Venice style, which means lots of s-cheese and red pepper. I find Loras there, picking at his fruit. Looks like something's bothering him.

“You okay?” I ask the question as I key my request and the kitchen-mate hums as it gets to work.

“I should not burden you with it,” he says, after a long moment.

But that's a roundabout way of saying yes, so I spin to look at him. “What's that supposed to mean?”

He shakes his head. “You've been ill.”

“Just exhausted, but I'm all right now, so talk to me.” The kitchen-mate beeps, letting me know my food's ready, and the doors slide back to reveal a steaming bowl, which I handle carefully as I join Loras at his table.

He watches me with unmistakable intensity, and just as the silence begins to feel uncomfortable, he sighs, and says, “You haven't thought about me at all, have you?” To be honest, I haven't. I'm not even sure what he's getting at. “March told us, Jax. Everyone knows you're getting close to burnout, and if you keep jumping…”

It takes me a minute but I make the connection. “Oh shit.”

His mouth twists. “Yes, precisely. Is there any chance March was wrong? That you can make the rest of these jumps?”

I wish I knew.
Somehow I thought it'd be clear, that I'd be able to pinpoint how many jumps remain to me. I always thought jumpers chose to go out in style instead of the sad impotence of retirement. Now I'm seeing that simply isn't so.

Because even now that I'm rested, I don't know how much I have left in reserve. My next jump could be my last, or I might make twenty more. I'm just not sure, but I am positive I'm not as strong as I used to be. The cruelly candid Jax forces me to acknowledge that March is the majority of the reason I made it last time.

With a soft sigh, I shake my head. “I don't know.”

“Do you have any near relatives?”

“Just my parents, but I haven't spoken to them in years.” It's one thing to feel resigned to my own death, quite another to know I'm condemning someone else. “I could look into adopting March, though.” As the words leave my mouth, I know I've only made things worse.

He stands, slamming his chair back, and I register the glitter in his eyes as anger. “This is just a big joke to you. I wish you'd let me take my chances on Lachion.”

There's nothing I can say to that, and so I watch him go. Now I'm the one picking at my food, though I was starving a few minutes before. Knowing I need the energy, I force myself to eat.

“You just never stop making friends, do you?” Dina saunters to the kitchen-mate and makes herself a hot drink.

Guess she ran into Loras.

“Yeah. If it wasn't for you, I'd be the biggest asshole on this ship.”

But she just grins as she joins me without waiting for an invitation. “So you're really dying or what?”

“Not if I can figure out a way around it.” Saying it aloud cements my resolve. “It'd be different if it was just me, but it isn't. I'd forgotten that.”

Dina takes a sip from the gleaming silver mug. “If you were married or life-bonded, your partner would serve as next of kin.”

I raise a brow. “Is that a proposal?”

“Mary forefend. I was just giving you the big picture.”

As I shove a bunch of noodles in my mouth, something's nagging at me. I chew slowly, thinking it over. “Technically, I think I
am
.”

“What?”

“Married.”

She pauses, mug in midair. “You heartless slut. Making illegitimate lizard-babies with March and leading him on. He's going to be devastated.”

“I think it's more of a frog-baby actually.” But I wave away her bullshit, convinced I'm on to something. “Seriously, listen. I got married about ten turns ago. He was Corp, permanently assigned to Soltai Station, which was my home base also, but the way I traveled with Kai, well, it was more than Simon could stand. We separated, Mary, I don't even remember when. But I don't think we ever dissolved the marriage legally. He said something about wanting to keep the higher bennies, and I didn't mind. Kai wasn't the marrying kind.”

“You got higher bennies for being married?” Of all things to focus on…but she looks pissed off.

“More R&R, family days, that kind of thing.”

“What about life-mates? Do they get equal treatment?”

“I don't know,” I say in exasperation. “What the hell do you care how the Corp handles same-sex benefits? Are you looking to sign on?”

She sighs, conceding the point. “Fine. So you think your estranged husband could save Loras? Is that it?”

“I'm not sure, but…is there something that states Loras must be in physical proximity of his protector at all times?”

“Not that I know of, but I'm not an expert on
shinai
-disposition by any means. So you're thinking—”

“If something happens to me, Simon nominally becomes Loras's protector but would remain unaware of his existence. Until Loras receives his first order from Simon, which will never come, my last order should be binding.”

Dina smiles slowly. “That's remarkably clever. Since you told him he's forbidden to do anything but what he wants, if he doesn't want to go looking for Simon—”

“Then he stays on the
Folly
and does whatever he pleases. In theory that cycle could continue, as long as Loras lives.”

“With us, he doesn't need to worry about actual physical protection,” she concludes. “That's a tidy solution. Obviously, the
shinai
-bond isn't supposed to function like that, so you'll need to check with Loras to ensure it will suffice, but otherwise, I think you may have found a loophole.”

“Would you do me a favor and talk to Loras about it? He's pretty pissed at me.”

“Sure.”

I feel a little lighter. Even if something horrible happens to me soon, and it most likely will, maybe I won't drag Loras down with me. It's been years since I spoke with Simon, but I wouldn't send Loras to him, even if we were on friendly terms. To the best of my recollection, he's a serious, dutiful man, who lives for rules, regulations, and order. I don't know what I was thinking when I married him except that he had a nice ass and gorgeous eyes.

“Dina…” I pause, wondering at the wisdom of bringing this up. But she probably still thinks that Edaine knew she was going to die. “If it means anything, Edaine didn't make the choice to leave you. She didn't know it was her last flight until she jacked in.”

Her face pales, gray eyes livid. “How do you know that? How can you?”

“You can't
tell
with any precision, Dina. It's a myth, put out by the Corp so jumpers won't be afraid. They started telling us that to keep their shuttles running and their shipments on time. So we go on believing we'll know our last flight before we get to it, believing we'll have a choice between burnout and retirement. But that's just not the case. Maybe some jumpers figure it out, after a terrible run like I just had. Then they have the choice of never jacking in again, but I don't. Not unless we want to spend our lives on Hon-Durren's Kingdom.”

“All this time,” she says, studying her hands, “I thought she just didn't have the balls to say good-bye. I thought she was trying to be brave, keeping it to herself. After everything, all we were to each other—”

“I know that's not the case. She must have felt terrible regret when she realized she'd never see you again.”

Her eyes shine too bright, and I make an abortive move to comfort her, at which she jackknifes to her feet. “Touch me, and I kill you.” And she bolts from the galley, leaving me to deal with her dirty mug.

Sighing, I finish my pasta.

We're sick of the ship and sick of each other.

A three-week haul is just too long at close quarters. Nobody's mood improves when the kitchen-mate runs dry, and we're left sucking supper out of a packet. At first, Doc tries to keep everyone polite and social, but after the millionth game of mah-jongg, I'm done. I've spent the last four days in my quarters, reading Mair's files on the other nine planets. I don't know if I'll live to see them, but it can't hurt to be prepared. And PA-245 is better company than most of my shipmates.

But I don't know whether to be worried or relieved when March broadcasts on the comm, “We have visual on Hon-Durren's Kingdom, docking in less than an hour.”

“If they don't shoot us down first,” I mutter.

“Are you presently in physical danger?” the little machine inquires.

“I'm not sure. Hard to know what to expect of Hon-Durren, he embellishes his own legend so much.” Don't ask me why I'm answering; we've been having conversations like this for the last four days. “Listen, I've got to go, 245.”

I close the sphere with this weird feeling of regret. Know that sounds stupid and maybe a bit nuts, but I
like
my PA. And that's not typical for me. I despise most AIs, who seem to be coded to maximize the annoyance they can cause.

Since I'm not sure what the near future holds, I don a gauzy red shirt, yes, the color of blood and mourning—both seem apropos under the circumstances—and a pair of s-leather trousers. You never know what climate control will be like on these old stations, so I add a matching black jacket and stuff the PA into my pocket on impulse.

Then I tug on my boots. The wardrober on Lachion got them just right, so there's room for me to conceal a blade there, if only I had one. That might just get us in trouble, though. Do wish I had some jewelry, since throwbacks like Hon-Durren respect lavish ornamentation. As I don't, I improvise with perfume.

To my surprise, the ship's already empty when I emerge from quarters. At first, I'm more than a little pissed, but that's the nav-star coming out. I'm not a celebrity, not even in an artificial, Corp-crafted world, and since this isn't a jump, they're capable of handling the situation. Now I have some distance from the old Jax, I can admit March was right. Thought I was special because I possessed some pull in the Corp, because I tagged some new beacons, encountered a few new races, and didn't die of stupidity.

But when you come right down to it, that's a shitty reason for thinking you're somebody. The J-gene isn't something I accomplished on my own. It was a genetic lottery, which I won, then spent almost fifteen turns acting like it was entitlement.

No wonder most of them hated me when I first came on board. In retrospect, I don't see much I like, either. And it finally occurs to me…maybe they didn't disembark so much as were taken, in which case, they may be relying on me for help.

Shit.
Subtlety is not my strength, and I can almost hear March chuckling over the understatement. So what am I supposed to do?

Thinking about it yields no ready solution, but I'd rather die than sit another minute on this ship. So that decides it. I press the panel, and the boarding ramp lowers with a whir that sounds louder in the empty bay. As I step off, I realize I don't have a remote keyed to the ship, so I'm stuck here until I find the others.

It's cold, as docks tend to be, just a few meters of metal separating space and me.
Definitely not a high-tech place.
I see no bots performing maintenance, though there are a couple other ships nearby, and all of them look worse than the
Folly
. There's only one door, so I head toward it. Perhaps I should be nervous; the place seems to be deserted—

An antiquated speaker crackles, and a deep male voice asks, “Who're you then, pretty?”

It's been a long damn time since I heard anything like that. Even before Matins IV, I was never apt to win any beauty pageants. And I guess my unseen interrogator's waiting for a response, but I don't see how I'm supposed to reply.

Then I hear March in the background, muffled but distinct: “She's with us.”

The leprous metal door clangs open, and I'm permitted to enter Hon-Durren's Kingdom. The view is decidedly industrial, derelict mining trolls and scavenged parts spread like mechanical intestines along the walls. I proceed with caution and come down a long, dim corridor into a larger space.

Wish I'd seen the place before we docked; now I'm wondering about the design of the station itself. Three more corridors adjoin from here, north, east, and west. I think this must've been the docking authority, where spacers paid for their bay and use of other facilities. Now it's just empty but for a couple of closed-up windows that seem to bear out my theory.

“Come west, Jax.” That's Doc, being helpful.

If it were anyone else, I'd probably turn east, but I trust Saul as much as I trust anyone. And then I start to hear voices, so I follow the hallway until I emerge in what has to be Hon's “throne room,” hung with war trophies and contraband weapons. My shipmates stand in a semicircle, as if awaiting judgment. In the far corner, there are tables and benches occupied by a scruffy lot of the usual suspects, but the larger space remains devoted to an elevated pilot's chair, festooned with coiled wire and chains.

Mother Mary of Anabolic Grace, is that him?

If people are talking to me, I don't hear it, just gazing at the man sprawled on the makeshift dais. Damn, he's…delicious: at least two meters tall, muscular, skin so dark it almost gleams blue, and long, wild braids trinketed with platinum and diamond glints. Just looking at him, I want to say he deserves every bit of his roguish reputation.

And please, can I be plunder?

Probably accustomed to this reaction, Hon gives me a slow grin, revealing white teeth, except for the front two, which appear to be solid gold. His voice is low and rich, lightly accented with a Darengo drawl unless I miss my guess. “Seem you keepin' better company, March. Maybe I don't kill you after all.”

At this point I notice the tension in this tableau. “Was that an option? If I get a vote, I'm going to say you don't.”

“Jax…” March casts me a dark look. Maybe he thinks I'm going to frag things up, but it doesn't look like I can make it worse. He cups a hand protectively over baby-Z, and I wonder if that topic's been bridged yet.

“You got some stones, bwoy, askin' me for a favor.”

Oh, that's interesting. March never did tell me what history he had with Hon. Looks like I'm about to find out, and as I'm waiting, it occurs to me that the other three are pretty quiet. Especially Dina—if she's locked down her mouth, then we're in serious shit, aren't we?

Beside me, March nods almost imperceptibly. “I know we didn't part on the best terms after the Nicuan conflict,” he says, “but this is actually a humanitarian mission.”

What a great laugh, deep, ringing, and infectious. I fight an answering chuckle even though I don't know what's going on. “Not on the best terms—you funny, March. First you stole my woman, then my ship, left me to die on that Mary-forsaken rock. But you make me curious, so I'll give you a minute before I kill you. Tell me your story.”

March seems stuck, though. His body language tells me he's at a loss, so I step into the breach. If there's one thing I know how to do, it's run my mouth.

“I'm sorry I missed the introductions.” I step forward and offer my best smile. “But I'm Sirantha Jax. And we've come looking for Canton Farr. Do you know him?”

He's already nodding. “My library man, yah. What you want him for?”

“During our travels, we found this little guy.”

Against March's muted protest, I give Hon a glimpse of the docile amphibian curled against his chest. Z raises his head and peers around with protuberant eyes. Yeah, he's definitely grown a bit, and he's taking an interest in his environment.

“Grrrr-upp,” Z says, from deep in his throat.

We've managed to surprise the big man. “What the hell is that?”

“He's a hatchling,” Doc volunteers. “And Canton Farr is an expert on the Mareq. So if we have any hope of raising this fellow, it's imperative we confer with him.”

Folding his arms, Hon studies the lot of us, as if wondering whether this is the whole story. Of course it isn't, but I know they don't want me blabbing anything else. “Well, I make no cred killin' babies,” he says finally. “But I give you access to Farr, you gift me someting back, yah?”

“What do you have in mind?” March asks, closing his shirt over baby-Z, who doesn't go quietly, and his burgeoning paternal instinct strikes me as pretty damn funny.

Hon glances between Dina and me. I suppose we do make a nice visual contrast—I'm dark where she's fair, and she's thick where I'm thin. “Oh…I think we can work something out.”

I'm afraid to look at Dina.