[Handwritten message, delivered by the guard]
Jax,
I didn’t know whether you’ll get this, but they said they would let you read low-tech correspondence. I’m a little out of practice with this kind of thing, so bear with me. I’m not sure if I’ve ever written a letter before. Everything’s via vid or voice to text, you know?
I think about you all the time. Watch the nightly bounce for news, along with everyone else. Dina and Hit have been mixing it up with the protestors, and I’m worried they’ll get themselves arrested. They’re hoping to get put in the same cell block as you. So far, nobody’s pressed charges, much to their dismay.
Vel came up with a plan to break you out, just to see if he could. I hear they have you in solitary, and they aren’t permitting visitors, especially not me. But then, we knew that going in. They have a record of the way I stole you from Farwan on Perlas, and the Conglomerate seems to think I might try a similar maneuver here on New Terra. I would, too, if I thought you wanted that. It’s just as well they won’t let me in because seeing you like that would be more than I could take. I’d have to get you out of there or die trying.
But you made your choice, and I respect that, even if I don’t understand it. I can love you without always getting how your mind works. At one point, I would’ve said I knew you better than anyone, but even you—when I’ve been inside so deep I couldn’t tell where you stopped and I began—retain secret depths and hidden spaces. I suspect I’d adore that mystery if I didn’t wind up coldcocked by it so often.
I can’t take sitting here, Jax. Doing nothing. I’m drinking too much, and I don’t sleep. While I worry about you, I also can’t stop thinking about my nephew, whether he’s safe, healthy, or happy. He might be in good hands in that state home, but he needs to know he has other options. Family. I’ve weighed this, wrestled with it. And I can’t think what else to do.
So I’m going to Nicu Tertius to look for him. Before the war ended, I promised myself I’d do whatever it took to save him. I won’t fail him like I failed my sister; I’ll be there for him.
I’ll write when I can with my comm code, so you can bounce me when you get out, as I know you will. They won’t be stupid enough to hurt you; they just need to put on a show for the grieving families. I’m sorry I’m not there with you, but they won’t let me be. I would be, if I could . . . You know that. But I can’t sit and do nothing for however long your trial takes, and this child needs me.
It kills me that I don’t even know his name.
Love you always
March.
[Handwritten reply, sent via Nola Hale]
March,
I’m not good at writing about how I feel, but I guess we have no choice. On the other hand, maybe it’s easier this way. I can talk to this paper because it won’t judge me. Not that you do.
Oh, Mary, I love you. And I’m so sorry for everything.
The guard’s staring, as if I might stab myself in the neck with this writing device. Prison isn’t like it is on the vids. At least, this one isn’t. I’m sure there are whitefish holes where you never see daylight, and it’s all tooth and nail, but this place is painfully civilized, white, and silent. Except for exercise periods, I never see anyone but my guards, and they take great care of me. By which I mean they hate my guts and would love to kill me but are legally responsible for my safety.
Some days I don’t even see the point in getting out of my bunk because I’m not going anywhere. That’s when I close my eyes and think of you. I’ve made so many mistakes, but you are not one of them. Even though my heart’s breaking right now for both of us, even though I want you so bad I hurt with it, I’m not sorry for that pain because it lingers like no ache I’ve ever had. There’s a sweetness to it because I know it’s ending, and when I see you, everything will be all right again. Because you love me, even if I’m a monster. Six hundred soldiers, March. How can I live with that? Sometimes I ask myself this question, knowing my barrister is preparing my defense.
I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt—the thought of you going. It makes me feel like I’m losing you, but you need something to do. And your nephew needs you. I get it.
My time’s almost up. Guard’s coming to take me back to my cell. I’m not allowed to take this device with me. So let me say that I miss you and I hope your search goes well.
Jax
CHAPTER 8
The female guard escorts me back to my cell, where a meal is waiting for me. “So how’s prison working out for you? Three squares a day,” she says. “Exercise with the other cellies. I hope you like your own company.”
Then she locks me in again. A hum and a buzz—that’s all it takes to drive home an immutable sense of isolation. At least I still have March’s letter; I read it a hundred times more, and I miss him so much it hurts. But he’s right—I don’t want to be rescued. I understand why he’s not sitting around Ocklind. He has a personal mission right now . . . but I treasure that letter like nothing I ever owned.
I didn’t put down my true feelings—that I do feel like he’s abandoning me. But what could he do if he stayed? It could be months before we go to trial, and I can’t see him even in the courtroom as the proceedings will be closed. There’s nothing he can do here for me, but I hate that he left.
Thereafter, the days pass in a monotonous nightmare. I once saw an old vid where convicts adopted rats and cockroaches to stave off loneliness, but my cell is clean, no cracks where anything can crawl in.
Except despair. There’s plenty of room for that.
To drive off the madness, I cast back to my combat training and run through the drills, practicing forms and fighting an imaginary opponent. From there, I move to stretches against the wall, crunches, push-ups. After a while, I stop counting; I just work until sweat streams off me, my muscles feel like water, and I cannot do another rep. At that point I stagger to my bunk and lie there in a daze. Rinse, repeat. As time passes, I notice a difference in my body, what they call prison fit.
Ms. Hale comes by regularly to pick my brain as she shapes my defense. Otherwise, I sit in my cell alone, poking at my food and waiting for the bright spot that is exercise time. There are five other female prisoners in my block, but they don’t speak to me. For obvious reasons, the guards don’t encourage fraternization.
On my tenth day in custody, things change. The old guard lady comes to fetch me earlier than usual, before I’ve had my first meal.
“Your barrister’s here.”