CHAPTER 14
“Bernard’s Luck to Emry
Station. Requesting permission to dock.” March has been sending
that same message on a timed loop ever since our sensors first
picked up the station.
So far no
response—and that worries me. Comm silence seldom results from a
beneficial cause. Things may be worse than we’ve been led to
suppose. Emry Station never qualified as a hub of activity, and no
telling what’s going on there now. The last we heard, it was full
of Farwan loyalists, but a lot can change in a few weeks.
The whole universe
has changed, after all.
“What do you
think?”
“We have to stop, no
matter what. We can’t go on as we are.”
I certainly agree
with that. This crappy little cutter doesn’t have the storage for
long hauls. We need to fuel up, refill our water tanks, and get
some more supplies on board: nutri-paste at the very least. Mary
only knows who’s going to pay for it. The one good thing about the
Corp, I never had to worry about that.
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.
