“Do you have a barrister?”

“Can’t afford one.”

Which means she’ll have to take court-appointed counsel if they ever call her number in the system. Thinking about her problem gives me something to do, at least. I’m not positive how much I can help her from in here, but I’ll try.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Are you really staying?”

“Running would just make it worse,” I say quietly.

“That’s what they tell me.” She continues her workout, eyes downcast. “But I’m not sure I believe it.”

Considering the mess I’m in, maybe I shouldn’t be giving advice. I finish my exercise in silence, then the guards come to escort us back to our cells. This isn’t a high-end prison. I’ve heard about places where you live just like on the outside with access to the comm network and vids. Here, they make sure you have plenty of time to think. That’s not a good thing.

Lately, I’ve been dreaming of Doc and Evelyn. Of everyone who died in the Battle of Venice Minor, they haunt me.

Tonight is no exception, but the nightmare takes on a different shape this time. It’s strange because I know I’m asleep, but that doesn’t alter the shock of seeing Saul in my cell. He paces the small room, then faces me.

“I should’ve known you’d be the death of me,” he says conversationally.

“I’m so sorry.” The apology is pointless because I’m begging my own subconscious for forgiveness, and that Jax is a hard, merciless bitch. I ought to know.

“You realize you’re fragged.”

“In what way?” There are so many.

“There’s nobody who can monitor your nanites anymore. Or your regulatory implant, for that matter.”

Frag me. With everything else, I never thought of this. That’s probably to my credit, as it’s a selfish concern, but a valid one nonetheless.

“Maybe another scientist can reverse engineer the technology,” I offer, “based on your notes.”

He laughs. In my dreams, he’s always happy, which makes them something other than nightmares. “A good idea, except Evie was paranoid about data theft. All her work was on the Triumph.”

Which is now in pieces. “No backups?”

“Sorry.”

So am I. The only two people who understood what they did to me are now dead. “What does this mean?”

“Hard to say. But you’ll have a hell of time finding out, won’t you?”

I wake then to an impersonal flicker of light above my bunk. To kill the time until the guard comes for me, I pace, counting each step. I’m on my thousandth when the door opens. It’s the middle-aged guard this time. She tosses me a packet.

“You have five minutes to make yourself presentable.”

This is it.

Quickly, I don the dark blue suit. My barrister has selected an elegant cut that makes me look fragile and refined. No black, as that would make me look sallow and sinister. Instead, we’re going for ladylike sorrow and regret. Mary only knows if I can pull it off. Last, I pull my hair back away from my face and use the tie they’ve given me to bind it in place. Ms. Hale will make up my face, nothing heavy, just enough to make me mediagenic; she intends to play to the jury.

True to her word, the guard returns for me shortly, and I follow her down the hall. She doesn’t shackle me for transport, unexpected but welcome.

We pass a series of security doors and into the main government center, where spectators and paparazzi swarm toward the courtroom. They catch sight of me, but the officials did a better job predicting the traffic volume this time, so the area’s already cordoned off, and they content themselves with shouting at me. The guard shoves me past—not that I wanted to speak with any press—and turns me over to Nola Hale, who’s waiting outside the doors.

“Showtime,” she says.

“What did you discover about—”

“Commander March has taken a leave of absence. Personal business. Nothing more was available.”

Personal business . . . so he’s already gone. After his note, I’m not surprised, but a sliver of hurt works its way beneath my skin. Deep down, I wanted him to stay and watch the trial on the bounce, so I could imagine him nearby for moral support. But I’m glad he isn’t facing criminal charges as a result of my actions and our relationship. The fact that they’ve let him go about his business is a good thing. It is.

“And the other matter?”

“Argus Dahlgren has, indeed, begun retraining all Conglomerate navigators how to read the new beacon signals.” Her tone sounds odd.

“That’s good, right?”

“For the Conglomerate. Two nontier worlds have already applied to join the Conglomerate, so their navigators can receive training.”

So I increased their powerbase, as unintentionally, I’ve created a benefit to signing the agreement that didn’t exist before. “So what’s wrong?”

“It limits our leverage in pushing for an acquittal. If they had a strong reason to free you, it would accelerate the trial . . . but I may be able to spin that to our benefit. ‘Heroine jumper so dedicated that she took steps to serve the galaxy, even on her way to trial.’ That’ll make a great sound bite.”

It’s funny how she can take anything and make it sound self-serving. Except it’s not, because for Mary knows how long, I have to listen to strangers vilifying my behavior and my past—that’s going to be painful—but it might be worse to hear Nola Hale trying to sanctify every stupid, thoughtless thing I’ve ever done.

“If you say so.”

“I do. Come on. Let’s go fix your face.”

As I follow her, with the paparazzi howling behind us, I think, Welcome to the cinema of shame.

CHAPTER 9

The hearing room is smaller than I expected, with two smooth alloy tables for defense and prosecution, a jury box, and the judge’s desk. Such an insignificant space wherein to decide my fate. The jury members have computer panels on the arms of their chairs, where they can take notes, confer with one another, and eventually vote on the verdict. I half expected there to be a spectator’s gallery, where people could stare at me and make book on my odds of survival.

Bright lights hurt my eyes after the dim isolation of my cell, but it’s better than the cacophony outside. Before the bot-bailiff activates the soundproofing, I still hear them screaming even after I take my seat. Repeated thumps against the door make the jury shift worriedly in their seats, then the bot raises the field, blocking external stimuli. It’s important that these people focus on what’s going on in here to the exclusion of everything else.

According to Ms. Hale, presentation matters. She gives me a last-minute check to make sure I’m not smudged, then briskly nods her approval.

“Remember,” she says, low. “I expect you to stay focused. No daydreaming, no napping.”

“People actually do that?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Shaking my head, I glance around. It’s a blessing there are no spectators permitted in the courtroom, though interested parties can watch on the bounce. Drone-cams hover near the ceiling, bearing the logos of four different news services. Yeah, I’m big news again, and how I wish I weren’t.

The ONN drone-cam whirs toward me, then zooms for a close-up. So badly, I want to make an obscene gesture, but I restrain myself in compliance with my instructions. I’ve no idea whether I succeed in creating a soulful, sympathetic expression, but I give it my best shot. During the trial, I can’t be scornful, scathing, or sarcastic; in other words, not myself at all. Sober, thoughtful Jax wears a navy suit and keeps her hair in a neat upsweep; she doesn’t look like a mass murderer.

Judge Wentworth is an older gent with iron gray hair and a heavy mustache that wraps around his mouth. He already looks tired, so I suspect he didn’t volunteer for this assignment. While I sat in solitary, they likely debated whether I would be tried in a civilian or military court. Fortunately for me, they decided on the former.

I scan the faces of those who will decide my fate—evenly split, male to female—some young, some old, and the rest in between. After the long days of my incarceration, I thought I was prepared for the worst, but somehow hearing the charges against me read aloud drives a fresh spike through my heart.

“Sirantha Jax, you stand accused of dereliction of duty, desertion, mass murder, and high treason. How do you plead?”

My barrister rises; Nola Hale makes a pretty picture, the epitome of a composed professional. “Not guilty, Your Honor, by virtue of Title 19.”

A rumble goes through the jury; I wonder how many of them know what Title 19 is at this juncture. Before Ms. Hale explained it to me, I didn’t, and I’m still not sure I had executive authority. Tarn’s the only one who could say for sure whether I did, and he’s divorced himself from the proceedings.

“How will you prove this?” I whisper to her, as she sits down beside me.

“Let me worry about that.”

The opposing counsel takes the floor. Latimer is tall, slim, and well-groomed; he doesn’t look like he’d stab somebody in the neck, but he sure goes for the jugular in the courtroom. “Sirantha Jax has a history of causing chaos. Her service with Farwan shows she has a long and storied record of conflicts with authority, borderline anarchist behavior, difficulty complying with chain of command, and no ability to act with any concept of future consequences.”

He points at me, and I work not to shrink in my chair. “You wouldn’t know by looking at her, of course, but don’t let my esteemed colleague blind you to the facts. Six hundred men died because of Sirantha Jax, and those deaths were avoidable. They were not casualties of war. These sons and daughters should be home with their families, celebrating our victory over the Morgut, but instead, through Ms. Jax’s dangerous, reckless disregard for other sentient beings, they are forever lost.”

The prosecutor shakes his head in grave sorrow. “But I will not appeal to your emotions.” Bullshit, you just did. “Instead, I will walk you step-by-step through the events leading up to one of the most horrific events in our history, the day six hundred brave soldiers paid the ultimate price for one woman’s hubris.”

His gaze is firm and uncompromising; he gives every impression that he believes what he’s saying, and it hurts to hear. With some effort, I maintain the posture that Ms. Hale recommended. I don’t want to come off as cold or indifferent. So I make no effort to hide my pain. I don’t ever put it all on display like this—but for today and all the rest of the days of the trial, I must. My every flinch, every flicker of pain, will be magnified a hundred times over, then dissected by the pundits and talking heads. But I’m told it’s necessary; the world needs to see me vulnerable and wounded. I cannot appear not to care or to lack remorse, but that removes a crucial component of my self- defense mechanism and leaves me bleeding for all the world to see. I suppose that’s rather the point.

“They will attempt to persuade you that she acted in the Conglomerate’s interests, but I promise that before I conclude my arguments, you will understand that she committed this heinous crime to serve no one’s needs but her own. Sirantha Jax is a vainglorious narcissist. There were other ways that would not have cost so many innocent lives. She simply chose for the sake of her own self-aggrandizement without regard for the welfare of others—and that is typical of her, as you will see in days to come. I will not rest until she pays for what she’s done, and I hope in the interest of justice, you will not betray the bereaved families who depend on your clear thought and rightful ruling. Thank you.”