Aftermath (8 page)

But I must be.

The chime rings on the door, and March kisses me again, again, as if he can wipe this all away with the heat of his mouth. I cling to him for a moment, before making myself step back. It’s time to let go.

“Vel’s outside,” he says.

He came. Of course he did.
I draw in a breath that hurts in the exhalation. “Then let him in.”

When the door to the cockpit swishes open, there is nothing personal between the commander and me. We stand a professional distance apart, as if I can’t feel his pain screaming in my head. Mine amplifies his; they share a joint sound—that of glass breaking—until they swell to a crescendo that deafens.

I want to scream,
March whispers.
I want to take you away from here.

It requires superhuman effort for me to step into the hall, going away from the man I love and toward uncertain future. Vel knows, I think. He always does. With his unpainted carapace and his near-human mannerisms, he looks nothing like the Ithtorian officers waiting behind him; the Conglomerate has chosen an Ithtorian guard to prevent any accusations of preferential treatment. Vel touches a talon to my cheek and we exchange a
wa
that says everything.

March signals with a resigned gesture. “Prisoner ready for transport.”

This time, I’m not spared the shackles. I get the full-on treatment, bound at wrists and ankles, with a loose chain connecting the two. There’s no point in protesting; the Conglomerate wants to make it clear they take my trial seriously. I get no special handling. I’m just another criminal.

Each step takes me farther from March; he fades to an echo my head. Our connection grows quieter and quieter with the distance, until the connection snaps, and I take his loss like a knife in the heart.

 

 

 

Those who never lift a weapon are oft quickest to stand in judgment over those who act in accordance with their consciences. It is not a great thing to achieve renown, for the public is notorious in its refusal to permit one to change, and it takes no small effort to alter such public opinions, once formed.

You seem to have some fondness for Ms. Jax. Would you like me to intervene? I could find some method of corrupting the jury or ensuring that a sympathetic judge receives the case on his docket. Though this is not my normal sphere of influence, I am not without my resources, even here.

As to what I dream . . . in all honesty, dear Tarn, I dream of nothing these days. My sleep is black and empty. But in my waking hours, I think it would be very pleasant to meet you when you have put aside your purple robes, and I am, once more, only a quiet weaver in the shadows.

Yours,
Edun

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No. In the interest of fairness to the people whose interests I represent, do not tamper with her trial. She may use all resources at her command, however, to actualize a positive outcome on her own. To that end, please recommend a good barrister, and I will see that this best-qualified person takes up her defense. The Conglomerate needs its heroes, even if they emerge from the fires of war a bit blackened about the edges.

Dear Leviter, this will be my last message for some time. Our work together is at an end, but I, too, would enjoy a personal meeting. In due course, we may arrange it, and I look forward to that day more than you might imagine.

 

Yours,
Edun

 

 

 

 

 

 

I shall miss you, perhaps more than I expected. See that Ms. Jax receives Nola Hale for her defense. She is the best.

 

Yours,
Edun

 

 

 

 

We make the exchange in the dock, where local
authorities take me from the Ithtorian guards. As they drag me off, Vel says, “I will see you soon, Sirantha.”

I know him. And that’s a promise.

The transfer goes smoothly up until we leave the immigration area, as there’s no choice but to cross into the public part of the spaceport. Phenomenal crowds nearly overwhelm my security detail. Bright lights blind me, vids with spotlights aimed in my direction. Various paparazzi—some old acquaintances—shout questions.

“Do you have any words for the bereaved families, Jax?”

“Is it true Chancellor Tarn directed your actions as part of a top secret government initiative? Can you comment?”

“Jax, we heard you were working for the gray men. What’s your current involvement with the Farwan loyalists?”

“There’s been a complete embargo on all interstellar travel. Do you, in fact, intend to hold the galaxy hostage?”

People with furious, avid faces push toward me, and in my shackles, I can’t fight back. I stumble against one of my captors and nearly go down. Roughly, the guard jerks me to my feet and tries to forge a path through the mob. They refuse to give way, and now they’re just screaming, not questions, but curses and condemnations. If anybody’s on my side here, I can’t make out their words of encouragement. They wouldn’t ordinarily be present in the VIP hangar, but they’ve slipped security somehow—or maybe this is an intentional snafu, so the general public can see that the Conglomerate takes my crimes seriously. If a PR rep planned this, I give him credit. It’s a hell of a photo op.

“We need two Peacemaker units, ASAP,” a local guard says to his comm.

Someone lobs a bottle at my head, but it’s empty, and the impact isn’t as bad as other hits I’ve taken. The glass shatters at my feet, and the noise incites the crowd to greater violence. But before it can escalate to stampeding levels, a distant door opens, and two enormous bots wheel out. Both bear cannons in their chests and heavy laser rifles on each limb. They’re not sophisticated in terms of programming; they don’t need to be. Instead, they carry the kind of ordnance people would be crazy to fight. Matched with their thick plate armor, they’re almost impossible to handle, short of heavy weapons.

“This scene will be pacified. To avoid bodily harm, desist from civil disobedience and vacate the area.”

The Peacemaker units only make the announcement twice before the crowd loses steam and disperses enough for my guards to shove me through. Over my shoulder, I glimpse a young man with a sign that reads FREE JAX. My escort jerks me out the doors and into a waiting vehicle; it carries me to the jurisprudence center, where they keep criminals who aren’t permitted bond. In some cases, that’s because they’re too dangerous to cut loose for any number of credits; in others, it’s because they’re deemed a flight risk. I wonder which it is for me.

I’ve been to the center before, but never in this capacity. Instead of going in the front, the penitentiary transport flies around back and deposits me at the processing entrance. The gunmetal gray door opens to a white hallway going in two directions. The universal sign for the female marks the right; the left bears the male symbol . . . and a couple of men, shackled as I am, come in ahead of me.

My escort tows me down the hall to a service window protected with three different layers of security. The woman behind it scans the proffered datapad and buzzes me through. Guards shove me, as if I’m likely to resist, even though I haven’t so far. Maybe they think this makes it more real, but for me, it was real from the moment Vel told me this would happen. He’s never lied to me.

“Did she give you any trouble?” the clerk asks.

The first guard shakes his head. “Just a big fragging mess at the spaceport, that’s all.”

“We’ll have to do better with the crowd control,” his partner adds. “Are we done here, Carlotta?”

With a nod, she dismisses them, then turns to me. “Do you swear on your citizenship that you are, in fact, Sirantha Jax?”

I hold up my right hand, and say, “I do.”

In the next hour, in her office lab, she strips away most of my humanity and all of my dignity. The ordeal starts with a battery of tests, some more invasive than others. She ret-scans me, tests my blood and DNA. She’s quick and competent, at least, comparing the processed samples with what they already have on file. I don’t see the point.

At my look, Carlotta explains, “It’s to make sure you’re Sirantha Jax. Sometimes wealthy defendants hire a stand- in willing to do their time in exchange for a payout.”

Now, there’s an idea. If only I’d thought to have a double waiting in the wings.
But I’m grateful she explained the situation to me; the guards treated me like I’m less than self-willed, a package to deliver. After she finishes, she scans me thoroughly, then a frown builds between her brows, and she isn’t a pretty woman to start with. Her protuberant forehead hangs heavy over deep-set eyes, giving her a primitive look.

“You have a lot of implants.”

I shrug. That’s not illegal unless I use them to avoid incarceration.

She hands me a datapad. “Please describe the nature and purpose of each.”

As requested, I take it and tap in the information. She skims, then asks, “Two pieces of experimental tech? How can we validate the truth of your claims?”

“Commander March can verify.”

Right now, she only knows about the regulatory implant and my language chip. For obvious reasons, I didn’t mention the nanites. Those don’t show up on routine checks, and I can only imagine what she’d say if she found out.

“Pardon me,” she says.

A privacy partition goes up around her desk, and the rest of her office goes into lockdown, just in case I take the notion to try to go back out the way I came. Because leaving would be that simple. With my nerves becoming more ragged with each moment, I wait for the verdict. When she finishes, she doesn’t tell me what he said, but she does approve my implants and move forward.

“I’d like to hire counsel now,” I say.

“Not my department. We’re finished.”

Then Carlotta turns me over to a team in masks and white coveralls. I tell myself this is part of the process, meant to break me down and change my perception of myself as a free being. Knowing that doesn’t help fight their practiced strategies, though; fear prickles through me, past my resolve. I thought I’d faced every horrible thing the universe had to offer. Yet right now, I don’t feel prepared for this.

“Strip,” orders a disembodied voice. “And put your clothing in the chute.”

I obey. It’s cold in the white room, so my skin pimples, my scars purpling beneath the harsh overhead lights. The team in white watches me through the glastique from the other side of the wall; I presume it’s standard decon procedure in case someone finds a way to breach the chamber. Robotic brushes drop from the ceiling and scour me from head to toe. Sometimes the pressure hurts, but the shame is worse. Water sprays from everywhere, blinding me. Then they treat me with chemical sanitizer; I recognize the lemony scent. I’m sure it’s become SOP because they drag some fugitives out of truly foul and hellish hiding places. So everyone has to be clean before they come in. That, and it hammers home how completely you’ve lost control of everything. Hope leaves me then; it’s a pale, fluttering thing against the far wall. I watch it go through the stinging of my eyes.

“Proceed.”

The door opens at the far end, and I stumble, naked and bleary-eyed, into another area, where I find prison garb waiting—gray pants and shirt, dingy underwear. They’ve given me slippers, too, and there are no ties or fasteners that I could use to hurt myself . . . or anyone else.

“You have two minutes to dress.”

Frag.
This place makes Perlas Station look like a bowl of choclaste cream. I scramble into my new togs, realizing they’ve effectively isolated me from my old life in a surprisingly short time. A woman dressed as a guard enters then; she’s the oldest person I’ve seen in the facility, with a face hard as hewn rock.

“Bend forward and lift your hair.”

A sharp pinch steals my breath. “What did you do?”

“Imprinted your identification number. It comes with a tracking chip, so don’t even think about running. This way now.”

Without another word, she leads me down a grim hallway. Overhead, the indestructible glastique covers the lights, nothing a prisoner could break for use as a weapon. There are no cracks or seams in the walls either; they’ve been poured in one slab out of a cement polymer that can’t be broken with less than ten thousand pounds of pressure. Glowing arrows on the floor light our path.

The guard stops outside a plain white door. “When it opens, step inside. Failure to comply with any commands given by jurisprudence personnel will result in behavioral correction.”

That sounds worse than dream therapy. I acknowledge her words with a weary nod and do as I’m told. Inside my cell, it’s just as bleak: gray walls, a bunk, and that’s all. I assume I’ll be taken to meals and to use the facilities, but when I ask, the woman just grunts at me.