Wanderlust

“No thanks,” I say quietly. “I want to keep them.”

We’ve been together less than an hour, and already exasperation shows in her tone. “Well, for Mary’s sake, why, Sirantha?”

“You like to pretend bad things never happen. I prefer to remember, so I won’t make the same mistakes again.” I flick a glance at March. “Besides, guys dig them.”

He grins. “I do. They make you look dangerous.”

This place is automated. Most places have a human programmer who supervises the equipment, but otherwise, the café is nearly empty, just us and a couple of others across the room. I shift long enough to tap out an order for hot choclaste on the wall panel. The kitchen-mate at our table handles basic requests. Anything complex or exotic would be forwarded to the gourmet unit in the kitchen, and an autoserver would bring it to us. March doesn’t like them, but I think they’re cute, little beverage carts on wheels, equipped with a primitive AI chip.

My mother pauses to regroup, studying March with what would be a narrow-eyed stare, except that might cause wrinkles. Still, the impression remains via the intensity of her regard. He doesn’t flinch. At last she looks away, and I have the sense he’s won something without knowing what it is.

“I understand they plan to appoint you as ambassador for New Terra,” Ramona begins.

Talk about a subject change. We’re finally getting down to the meat of why she came looking for me, though. It wasn’t to hug me and bask in her gratitude that I’m all right. My mother doesn’t possess a scintilla of pure maternal sentiment.

I raise a brow. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Oh, I hear things.” She waves a hand in an airy, elegant gesture that would look ridiculous from anyone else.

“Do you?” My dry tone is lost on her.

“Indeed. Do you plan to accept the appointment?” She seems nervous, almost frightened, in fact. Her red-lacquered nails tap out a subliminal statement on the glastique table.

“I thought I’d become a junk dealer.” Yes, I’m baiting her deliberately. “Maybe do salvage runs, or possibly just settle down on New Terra and go to work in recycling. Have some brats. Would you like that?” I ask March.

You’re so evil, he tells me silently.

Then he chokes out, eyes watering, “Whatever you want.”

Shit, I wish I’d recorded that. I can think of any number of situations where playback would come in handy.

“No! Oh, Sirantha, you mustn’t even joke.” She reaches for my hand, where it’s curled around my cup. “You simply must take the post.”

Here we go.

My choclaste has cooled enough to drink, so I take a sip to cover my annoyance. This means pulling away from her, of course, which was the whole point. I intend to accept Tarn’s offer, but my inclination toward a course of action always plummets in direct correlation to someone’s demand. Call me contrary.

“Must I? Why?”

“We need someone like you on Ithiss-Tor,” she replies. “Just go and be yourself, and everything will be fine.” Her posture reflects anxiety and duress.

Since Ramona has been trying to annihilate my personality since I was eight years old, I tense. Something really isn’t right. March confirms my impression with a nod. Now he’s frowning as well.

“Who’s ‘we’?”

Her eyes dart around the nearly deserted coffeehouse, as if she suspects an eavesdropper. This isn’t like her, at least, not the woman I remember. She’s a society darling, a flighty little butterfly, and I was supposed to be one, too.

“People I owe money,” she whispers, and her dark eyes well up with tears.

I’m staggered by that. “What? Who? What happened?”

It takes her a moment to collect herself. “We owned stock in Farwan. When . . . everything happened, we were ruined. I didn’t know; your father didn’t tell me. I went on, as I always had, spending . . . it wasn’t until your father . . . died that . . .”

I can piece together the rest. My father killed himself over their reversal in fortune. Who could possibly expect him to get a job? People came to his gallery because he had money, not because he had impeccable taste. Once the cache was gone, the gallery would’ve gone straight down, too.

And my mother kept spending money she didn’t have. What I don’t understand is why her creditors want me on Ithiss-Tor.

“What does this have to do with me?” Maybe that sounds cruel.

Perhaps some women would be overcome by sentiment and obligation, despite the long estrangement, but they didn’t lift a finger to help me when I was in trouble. I can count on one hand the people who did, and Ramona doesn’t make the A-list.

“We cannot allow a successful diplomatic mission to Ithiss-Tor.”

I start at the deep, mechanical voice emitting from a jeweled brooch on my mother’s jacket. No wonder she’s been watching her words. They’re monitoring us.

Do I answer it? My mother’s face pales until her skin looks like clotted milk. Her hands tremble, so she squeezes them into fists and rubs them against her thighs.

March makes the decision for me. “Why not?”

There’s a hint of feedback as the pin replies, “Sliders, Bugs, whatever you choose to call them, represent a threat to our way of life. We cannot take the risk that they will respond favorably to Conglomerate overtures and make plans to infiltrate our society on a widespread basis.”

I really don’t get it. If that’s their stance, however xenophobic, doesn’t it make more sense to ask me not to go? Ramona says nothing, seeming paralyzed with fear. Oh, the irony—she probably spent money they didn’t have on that piece of jewelry, which her new masters then turned into an electronic leash.

“How does Jax play into that?” I’m content to let March ask the questions. He’ll cover anything I want to know; there’s a real benefit to this whole symbiotic bond, apart from mind-blowing sex.

Absently, he strokes my upper arm. It’s strange to be having a conversation with someone I can neither see nor picture in my mind’s eye. The voice coming from my mother’s left bosom sounds distorted and altogether lacks any human quality. Who could have bought up her marks?

“Ms. Jax has a history of strewing destruction and disorder wherever she goes. We are content that if she goes to Ithiss-Tor, the natives will want nothing more to do with the Conglomerate. We cannot take the risk that Chancellor Tarn will select a candidate greater skilled in oration, tact, and diplomacy.”

“If you don’t go,” my mother whispers, “they’ll kill me.”

* * *

CHAPTER 4

“l wouldn’t have put it so dramatically,” the pin says. “But that is, in effect, correct. On the other hand, if you take this assignment, we will see clear to forgive your mother’s debts. I should imagine even you have this much filial affection.”

I don’t even know what to say to that. They’re so convinced I’ll fuck this up, they aren’t even asking me to try to make a mess of it. It’s enough that I go? I don’t think I’ve ever been insulted so casually in my whole life.

“However,” the voice continues, “if by some unlikely chance, your diplomatic mission proceeds well, then I’m afraid we shall be forced to collect our pound of flesh.”

Ah, there we go—the stick by which they try to force me to do their bidding. My mother whimpers. Above my left eye, I swear I feel twitching; maybe March wasn’t kidding about the tic.

“I’d already decided to take the job,” I say coolly. “More than that, I will not promise.”

The thing responds, “That will suffice . . . for now. We will reevaluate your mother’s situation once we see how your task proceeds.”

Her brooch crackles as it stops transmitting. Ramona looks older somehow, as if her maquillage has cracked, revealing worn skin beneath. “You’ve bought me a little time,” she manages at last. “For that I thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” I feel savage. I’d like to slap her for being so silly. “Who the hell did you borrow money from?”

At first she tries to bluff. “I’m not sure, so many documents, and it’s all so complicated—”

But she doesn’t know about my ace in the hole. I didn’t ask him to do it, never would, but sometimes need-to-know outweighs right-to-privacy. I’m glad March has to weigh those concerns instead of me. If he left the judgments in my hands, I’m afraid I would use him like an inquisitor.

The Syndicate? Even in thought, I hear his incredulity. I know—I can’t believe she’s that stupid either. They’ve taken organized crime to a whole new level.

No wonder my father took a safe, painless death. At least I hope he did. I should ask if he used a state-sanctioned Eutha-booth. That requires a Psych profile and an affidavit attesting someone is in his right mind when he decides to end it all. This precaution removes all possibility that a bereaved family will sue the state because the situation could have been ameliorated with medication or dream therapy.

Sometimes death presents the ultimate solution, though. I’ve never been one to look at it like that, as I want to make sure I suck every last drop out of this life before seeing what comes next. I used to believe it was nothing, just a void, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve seen miracles happen. Lived to tell of them. At this point, I’m willing to concede I just can’t know.

Ramona stares across the table at us, growing visibly unsettled. If I’d known how well silence worked at keeping people off balance, I’d have curbed my tongue years ago. Okay, probably not. But maybe I’d have tried harder.

“The Syndicate?” I say aloud.

Her eyes widen, showing threads of red in the white. I see every fleck of mascara she’s used to thicken her lashes, and the dark liner beneath looks spidery somehow. Her prettiness is an illusion now, cunning layers of paint to hide the truth.

“How did you—” She stops, likely realizing her words comprise an admission.

“That’s not important.” I take another sip of choclaste.

I’ll never give March’s secret away. Too many people would want to destroy him if they knew. He’s never been through Corp training; he doesn’t have the safeguards in place that prevent him from raping another mind just because he can. Maybe that should terrify me because of our bond, but I know he’d never hurt me on purpose. He’s had ample opportunity since we’ve been together—and as for the rest of the universe, it can look out for itself.

“You’re different,” she observes. “And I’m done for. They think you’ll go out there and make a mess of it. But you won’t, will you?”

I won’t lie. It hurts a little to make the admission. “Not on purpose. I won’t set out to create an interstellar incident, not even for you.”

Ramona smiles, a soft tremulous twist of her mouth. “Then I suppose we’re finished. I should follow after your father if I have any sense.”