CHAPTER 8
l’m having the strangest
dream.
Dina sits on my chest
while trying to convince someone I’m part of an expensive rug she
wants to sell. Vaguely I know this isn’t right. I’m not made of
loose threads and badly woven s-wool. Am I? When I wake up, I find
myself snuggled against March’s big body while Dina peers into my
face. As always, I’m surprised that she smells of flowers.
“I got us a ship,”
she says.
“A what?” The neurons
in my brain aren’t firing at capacity yet.
“A ship,” she
repeats, slower this time. Like I’m a head case. Since I need a
chemical boost to jump-start my wits, she probably has a
point.
March is awake now,
and thankfully, he heaves over so I can crawl out of bed. Damn, I
ache. Guess I’m not as young as I used to be . . . so I can’t fall
out of the sky with equanimity. I wish Doc was here. He’d give me a
shot of something and say, You’re fine, Jax.
Get out of my med bay.
“How’d you manage
that?” he asks.
Maybe she doesn’t
think I notice the way she averts her eyes, but I do. In utter
exhaustion I fell into bed in my skivvies last night. This morning,
she’s caught me in a tank top and shorts, revealing my scars in all
their glory. They’re never going to fade entirely. I don’t even
want them to, so it’s just as well March can handle them. I’ll
never go to a cosmetic surgeon and ask him to burn away the
marks.
“Won it,” she
answers. This means she hustled someone, the poor bastard. “In a
magnificent hand of Pick Five. I spent the night going over it. I’m
dog tired now, but she’ll run. And she’s ours. You can rename her
when I handle ownership transfer. We’ll just have to pay license
and filing fees.”
“What’s it called
now?” I ask over my shoulder.
Since we showered
last night, I don’t feel dirty pulling on a fresh jumpsuit,
straight from bed. When you don’t have any hair to manage, it’s
amazing how fast you can be ready. I just need to wash my face,
clean my teeth, and I’ll be set.
Dina grins. “Bernard’s Luck.”
As I laugh at the
irony, March wears a thoughtful frown as he gets dressed. “I’ve
heard that somewhere before. Ah well,
it’ll come to me. Let’s not rename it; I’d rather not meddle with a
man’s luck.”
She raises a brow at
me, and I shrug. He can be unaccountably superstitious for an
otherwise reasonable man. Then again, with eyes like his, it
wouldn’t matter if he threw the bones before every flight.
Our station beeps,
signaling we have a message. Through static and white solar lines,
Keri says, “We’ve received ten gigs’ worth of genetic data, and
it’s advanced Doc’s research by years. He arrived a week ago, and
we’re—”
End message in a
snowy gray blur. I suspect something must be the matter with the
satellites near Lachion, or we wouldn’t consistently have this
problem with messages. Or maybe she was about to say something we
weren’t supposedto hear. Unfortunately, I have no ability to judge
anymore.
If the Psychs can be
trusted—which they can’t—I suffer from borderline paranoid
dysfunction. I suspect everyone of
treachery and subversive plots against me. But like the old adage
goes: Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t
mean they aren’t out to get you. Why, then, do they want to
send a half-cracked nut like me off to Ithiss-Tor? That question
begs for an answer, but I don’t have all the pieces of the puzzle
just yet.
In under half an hour
we present ourselves in conference room 7-J again. My hip still
hurts, and I have my doubts about this whole endeavor, but when
Tarn enters the room, I manage a smile. His expression alters
subtly when he takes in my outfit.
“If you intend to
take this position, Ms. Jax, you’ll need to dress the part. We
cannot have you representing New Terra looking like a garage
mechanic.”
This is my favorite
blue jumpsuit, dammit.
I glare at him. “And
if you think I’m donning ceremonial robes, you’re out of your
mind.”
“You are interested then, I take it?”
March and Dina regard
me in silence. I think about all the factors, and in the end, it
comes down to one thing. It’s a job that gets me off this rock, at
least for a little while. I’ll be jumping again, all expenses paid.
Plus, I’ve never been one to back away from a challenge.
“Yes, I’m interested.
I’ll dress up more when we arrive.”
Tarn smiles. Oh, I
really don’t trust that look. “Excellent.” He depresses a button
under the table, and the door to the conference room slides
open.
I don’t recognize the
man who joins us then: medium height, brown hair, average features.
In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say his face is some
amalgamation of a thousand others I’ve seen, so relentlessly
average that I’ve forgotten what he looks like as soon as my gaze
shifts away.
I test this three or
four times, bemused by it, so I’m distracted when Tarn says, “I
believe you already know Velith. He’ll be accompanying you as your
cultural liaison. I’m sure I don’t need to stress the importance of
internalizing Ithtorian customs to prevent giving insult and
destroying our nascent accords. And above all, please take care
with your jumps, Sirantha. There may be raiders lurking in highly
traveled hot spots.”
“Vel!” Though I know
what lurks beneath the human skin, I can’t resist. I leap from my
chair and startle him with a hug. I never had the chance to thank
him. There’s no question; I wouldn’t be here if not for
him.
He fields me with
awkward perplexity. “If I am to begin your lessons at present,
Sirantha, this would be construed as an aggressive act on
Ithiss-Tor.”
Well, since I’m not
normally a touchy-feely person, I think we’ll be okay. I nod,
though, and make a mental note. No hugging of
random Bugs.
“This is March, my
pilot, and Dina, ship’s mechanic.”
They exchange polite
words while Tarn observes us. What’s he looking for? Something
isn’t right here, but I can’t put my finger on it.
I’m all but certain
Vel isn’t in on it, whatever the Chancellor is plotting. What was
the point of saving me if he only meant to take me to his homeworld
and get me killed? Logically, it just doesn’t track, and Vel is all
about things making sense.
“When do we leave?”
Dina asks. “I have some preparations to make.”
Tarn raises a brow at
her. Oh, she’s gonna go all “her highness” on his ass. “Your vessel
is already adequately supplied.”
“I wouldn’t touch
that ‘vessel’ with a ten-foot pole,” she says, eyes narrowed. If
her chin juts out, he’d better run. “We have our own ship, and I
trust you’ll approve all necessary expenditures to equip it as the
ambassador’s team sees fit.”
Before the veins in
Tarn’s forehead explode, March puts in, “We prefer not to trust our
fate to those inexperienced with long jump-flights.” Chalk one up
for diplomacy. “However well-intentioned they may be. I hope you
understand.”
I can’t believe this
ambassador stuff works, even on the Chancellor. He’s the one who
appointed me. But I suppose once you claim
someone has power, you can’t decry it without making yourself look
like a jackass.
Clearing his throat,
Tarn makes an attempt to regain some lost ground. “I’ll approve the
same budget for your provisions as were spent on the Conglomerate
ship. You may allot it as you choose.”
“Can we get under way
tomorrow, Dina?” March gets to his feet, signaling the meeting has
adjourned. Tarn isn’t going to like that either. As for me, I’m
still standing with Vel, near the door.
“Depends. If their
commissar can requisition everything we need, it’ll be a snap. I’m
having Bernard’s Luck transferred to the
Conglomerate docking bays today.”
He nods. “That’s your
top priority then.”
“I haven’t briefed
you fully,” Tarn protests, as we head for the door.
I shrug. “Send the
files to the ship. I’ll read it en route.”
If he expected me to
be easily controlled, he didn’t pay enough attention to recent
history. I don’t owe Chancellor Tarn a damn thing. He wants me to
go to Ithiss-Tor and try to persuade the Bugs that it’s in their
best interests to join galactic politics. And that means I work for
the Conglomerate, a glorified bureaucrat.
Whether it’s best for
Ithiss-Tor to join the party, I’m not sure. If they refuse, I’m
positive the Conglomerate intends to make an example of them
somehow, perhaps to frighten other non-tier worlds into towing the
line. Tarn lost sight of one thing, however.
I’m nobody’s pawn,
not anymore. And if he tries to orchestrate my moves on some
celestial chessboard, he’ll be sorry.
