Aftermath

Carvati catches my arm. “If you have a moment, Ms. Jax, I’d like to speak with you.”

I tell the other two, “Head back to Mikhail’s. I’ll catch up with you.”

Vel agrees with a nod, then departs with Loras. I follow Carvati back to his lab, wondering what he wants. Maybe more credits? Mary knows he’s earned them. I won’t argue if he asks for the project-completion bonus. Even though I’m running low on Ramona’s bequest from the wave of wrongful-death payments, I still have the promise of half the credits from Vel’s auction of the Maker artifacts. The bids are flying fast and furious; a real war’s broken out.

“From your records, I understand you have a great deal of experimental tech implanted. How long has it been since you’ve had a checkup?”

Five turns, at least. In this world, anyway. In the Maker’verse, it only felt like weeks. Maybe months. Hard to say how gate travel will affect my implants down the line. At this point, however, almost everything about my future remains unknown. I’m not human; I’m . . . other. For the first time, I get how Jael must have felt—and I can almost see how he ended up a merc, willing to do anything for a credit, because there was nobody else like him in the universe, no one who understood.

“Not since before Doc died.” The words hurt my throat.

“I’d like to run some tests before you leave Gehenna, if you don’t mind. I’m concerned about your well-being.”

“How long will it take?” I don’t figure he’ll have good news for me. Doctors never do. So I’m understandably reluctant.

“Half an hour.”

That’s not long enough for me to make the excuse of being pressed for time. I sigh and hop onto the table. “Go for it.”

He scans me, pokes me with needles, and examines his findings with a curious expression; I don’t know how to interpret it. Finally, I can’t stand the suspense.

“Well?”

Carvati glances up, as if surprised that I can talk. “Some very interesting results, here. Apparently, thanks to your nanites, you’re no longer aging as normal people do.”

Shit. I’m like Vel now, doomed to watch the people I love die. That hits me like a ton of bricks. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means this is proprietary, unknown technology, and with its creator dead, there is no telling what your life span may be. Regular aging will kick in if the nanites ever go inert, but they appear to be self-maintaining and show no signs of breakdown five turns after their implantation.”

This isn’t news I wanted. Maybe other people would be thrilled to learn this, but not me. I’m shaking my head. “Can you take them out? I know there was some way to turn them off.”

“I can only surmise there was a signal device, but it was doubtless destroyed on Venice Minor.”

Along with Doc and Evelyn. Dammit.

“Is the rest of my tech playing nice?” I ask, quietly despondent.

“The nanites have repaired any deterioration, so yes. But I thought you would be happy to learn this . . . It’s better than Rejuvenex. In time, they may even repair the burn scars.”

Not my scars. Frag. I feel like punching something. I don’t want to be this less-than-human thing anymore. I miss the woman I was.

There’s no point in trying to articulate my point of view. “It’s complicated. Thanks for all your help, Dr. Carvati.”

“Feel free to look me up again if you ever have a lot of credits to spend and some impossible project to complete.”

At that, I smile ruefully. “Mary, but you remind me of Doc sometimes.”

He etches a salute. “I’ve started a foundation in his name, you know. Researching a cure for Jenner’s Retrovirus. If we ever beat it, I’m calling it Solaith’s Solution.”

Right now I want to hug him, as that was Doc’s favorite impossible disease; it’s so tough because it adapts to all treatments. It’s the smartest virus modern science has ever encountered. Mentally, I flash back to all the times I asked him to tackle some tough problem, and he would say with such asperity, Shall I cure Jenner’s Retrovirus while I’m at it, Jax?

What the hell. I do hug Carvati. “Thank you again. I’ll send a sizable donation if you give me the account particulars.”

In answer, he beams the details to my handheld, then I’m off.

CHAPTER 39

“What troubles you, Sirantha?” It’s Vel, of course. Even though he can’t wait to get off Gehenna, he still noticed my mood when I returned from the clinic.

We’ve made all the plans to depart in the morning: Hit, Loras, Argus, Vel, Zeeka, and me. For however long it takes for me to convince the bureaucrats on La’heng to embrace the cure, I will no longer be Jax the Jumper. Over the turns, I’ve been an ambassador, a navigator, a survivor, a prisoner, a traitor, a deserter, and a lover, but I’ve never before been a lobbyist. I have a feeling it may be my most difficult task yet.

With a faint sigh, I turn to him. He’s rung for entry to my quarters. Mikhail’s does not offer luxury accommodations, but that’s fine. Right now I just want privacy. Not from Vel, of course. We’ve shared too much for me to shut him out. So I summarize what Carvati told me.

“You feel apart,” he guesses. “Something other.”

I nod. “No longer human.”

“I know what that is like.”

I suppose he does. Not Ithtorian, but instead he’s the deadly, terrifying Slider of legend. Maybe he’s the only one who can even approach understanding how I feel. It’s time, before we leave, to close the circle. So I do the one thing I can think of to make sure Vel understands he’s not alone. He hasn’t been himself since our arrival on Gehenna, probably haunted with memories of Adele, and I hate seeing him this way. Though I know nothing can assuage her loss, I’m still going to make a tangible effort.

“During the war, you said that you’d wear my colors if I asked.”

“I remember.”

“And I did ask.” After I saved him from impalement, I asked as a promise and an affirmation that we’d survive. I’m not sorry, either. I haven’t had a chance to reiterate the request, but this seems like the time.

It’s not like a marriage; that much, I know for sure. But it’s a promise, and though Kai might not understand because he was opposed to promises—he was all about personal freedom, and usually, so am I—but I know this is the right thing. Vel needs to know he’s not alone, and he never will be. And honestly, right now, I need that, too. It feels as though all familiar things have fallen away while I glanced over my shoulder for the briefest instant, and I need someone to swear he’ll stand by me.

Maybe I’ve always known it’d be Vel since that day in the Teresengi Basin.

“I wondered if you would mention it, once we returned to civilization. This is permanent,” he adds softly. “I will never have these marks removed.”

“Neither will I.” I touch my throat, tracing with one fingertip the pattern he designed, and his aspect gentles.

To formalize my intentions, I bend with my arms tucked against my body in the most eloquent wa I can offer. Brown bird flies for white wave, always. Take my heart as your colors.

Vel freezes, studying me, as though wondering if I understand, if I mean it. And then slowly, he returns the bow. White wave knows no greater honor, no greater joy. Your colors are my heart.

“Are you certain?” He asks because he must. Vel is nothing if not cautious.

“I’m sure. Is it something we can have done here?” Gehenna is a place of wonders, contraband, vice, and unexpected beauty. But I don’t know if the tattooists on world are conversant with this type of marking. I wouldn’t have his chitin marred by someone inexperienced in the art.

“I know a place,” he says.

“Then let’s go.”

He leads me down from my room to the street, where we hail a hover cab; Vel keys the destination on the pad, and it takes us deep into the heart of the market. A few meters below, the passersby swarm along the walkways. Gehenna has limited air traffic inside the dome, only public vehicles and those who can afford the exorbitant license fees, which leaves most of the populace afoot.

The automated vehicle lets us off outside a one-story building; it’s built of some dark alloy. No windows and not even a sign to tell what kind of business goes on within. I certainly wouldn’t approach on my own, but Vel seems sure as he moves toward the door.

He presses the arrival button on the comm, and momentarily, a face appears on the vid screen. “Tat or piercing?”

“Exotic ink,” he replies.

“You have payment in full?” I can see why that would be a concern in a business like this one. You don’t want to produce a lovely work, then discover the client can’t afford it. Repo is tricky in this particular market.

“Of course.”

“I’ll buzz you in.”

It’s brighter and cleaner inside than I expected, given the general dreariness of the exterior. I follow Vel down a well-lit hallway covered in abstract art to a waiting room with white walls and sleek, lime green chairs. A couple of others are seated ahead of us in the queue; most already possess interesting body alterations. One man has pointed ears and a blue pattern running down one side of his face. He smiles at me, revealing sharply filed teeth.

“Will it hurt you?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “There is no feeling in the carapace.”

It takes an hour before the others are served. Eventually, it’s just Vel and me, watching the Friendly Robotics model receptionist. She’s one of the efficient-looking Jane units with a no-nonsense hairstyle and a plain face. The Lila—like the form we found for Constance—had the disadvantage of looking too sexy; it didn’t serve well in business. That’s part of why they retired the model; the other reason was that people often bought it as a sexual surrogate, due to its extreme attractiveness, and the licensed sex workers protested, saying such technology cut into their ability to earn a living. If a client can purchase a partner for the equivalent of five visits to a professional, it pays for itself in no time. So they implemented the Jane, and we’ve seen her all across the galaxy over the course of our travels.

At last, the artist calls us back. She is a slight woman whose skin shows no sign of the interesting patterns she puts on other people, but perhaps she prefers to keep such designs private. I can understand that. Despite signs of Rejuvenex treatments, probably to keep her hands steady, she’s also older than I expected, and I wonder if she knew him when he was with Adele. Her warm greeting indicates that may be the case.

“I’m glad to see you as yourself, my friend. It was a shame you had to hide for all those turns.”

“Different times,” Vel says.

She nods at that. “Truer words were never spoken. How things have changed.”

She glances at me then. “You must be Jax.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised; people have been recognizing me for turns. “Nice to meet you.”