Maybe things will look better in the morning.

* * *

CHAPTER 8

l’m having the strangest dream.

Dina sits on my chest while trying to convince someone I’m part of an expensive rug she wants to sell. Vaguely I know this isn’t right. I’m not made of loose threads and badly woven s-wool. Am I? When I wake up, I find myself snuggled against March’s big body while Dina peers into my face. As always, I’m surprised that she smells of flowers.

“I got us a ship,” she says.

“A what?” The neurons in my brain aren’t firing at capacity yet.

“A ship,” she repeats, slower this time. Like I’m a head case. Since I need a chemical boost to jump-start my wits, she probably has a point.

March is awake now, and thankfully, he heaves over so I can crawl out of bed. Damn, I ache. Guess I’m not as young as I used to be . . . so I can’t fall out of the sky with equanimity. I wish Doc was here. He’d give me a shot of something and say, You’re fine, Jax. Get out of my med bay.

“How’d you manage that?” he asks.

Maybe she doesn’t think I notice the way she averts her eyes, but I do. In utter exhaustion I fell into bed in my skivvies last night. This morning, she’s caught me in a tank top and shorts, revealing my scars in all their glory. They’re never going to fade entirely. I don’t even want them to, so it’s just as well March can handle them. I’ll never go to a cosmetic surgeon and ask him to burn away the marks.

“Won it,” she answers. This means she hustled someone, the poor bastard. “In a magnificent hand of Pick Five. I spent the night going over it. I’m dog tired now, but she’ll run. And she’s ours. You can rename her when I handle ownership transfer. We’ll just have to pay license and filing fees.”

“What’s it called now?” I ask over my shoulder.

Since we showered last night, I don’t feel dirty pulling on a fresh jumpsuit, straight from bed. When you don’t have any hair to manage, it’s amazing how fast you can be ready. I just need to wash my face, clean my teeth, and I’ll be set.

Dina grins. “Bernard’s Luck.”

As I laugh at the irony, March wears a thoughtful frown as he gets dressed. “I’ve heard that somewhere before. Ah well, it’ll come to me. Let’s not rename it; I’d rather not meddle with a man’s luck.”

She raises a brow at me, and I shrug. He can be unaccountably superstitious for an otherwise reasonable man. Then again, with eyes like his, it wouldn’t matter if he threw the bones before every flight.

Our station beeps, signaling we have a message. Through static and white solar lines, Keri says, “We’ve received ten gigs’ worth of genetic data, and it’s advanced Doc’s research by years. He arrived a week ago, and we’re—”

End message in a snowy gray blur. I suspect something must be the matter with the satellites near Lachion, or we wouldn’t consistently have this problem with messages. Or maybe she was about to say something we weren’t supposedto hear. Unfortunately, I have no ability to judge anymore.

If the Psychs can be trusted—which they can’t—I suffer from borderline paranoid dysfunction. I suspect everyone of treachery and subversive plots against me. But like the old adage goes: Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you. Why, then, do they want to send a half-cracked nut like me off to Ithiss-Tor? That question begs for an answer, but I don’t have all the pieces of the puzzle just yet.

In under half an hour we present ourselves in conference room 7-J again. My hip still hurts, and I have my doubts about this whole endeavor, but when Tarn enters the room, I manage a smile. His expression alters subtly when he takes in my outfit.

“If you intend to take this position, Ms. Jax, you’ll need to dress the part. We cannot have you representing New Terra looking like a garage mechanic.”

This is my favorite blue jumpsuit, dammit.

I glare at him. “And if you think I’m donning ceremonial robes, you’re out of your mind.”

“You are interested then, I take it?”

March and Dina regard me in silence. I think about all the factors, and in the end, it comes down to one thing. It’s a job that gets me off this rock, at least for a little while. I’ll be jumping again, all expenses paid. Plus, I’ve never been one to back away from a challenge.

“Yes, I’m interested. I’ll dress up more when we arrive.”

Tarn smiles. Oh, I really don’t trust that look. “Excellent.” He depresses a button under the table, and the door to the conference room slides open.

I don’t recognize the man who joins us then: medium height, brown hair, average features. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say his face is some amalgamation of a thousand others I’ve seen, so relentlessly average that I’ve forgotten what he looks like as soon as my gaze shifts away.

I test this three or four times, bemused by it, so I’m distracted when Tarn says, “I believe you already know Velith. He’ll be accompanying you as your cultural liaison. I’m sure I don’t need to stress the importance of internalizing Ithtorian customs to prevent giving insult and destroying our nascent accords. And above all, please take care with your jumps, Sirantha. There may be raiders lurking in highly traveled hot spots.”

“Vel!” Though I know what lurks beneath the human skin, I can’t resist. I leap from my chair and startle him with a hug. I never had the chance to thank him. There’s no question; I wouldn’t be here if not for him.

He fields me with awkward perplexity. “If I am to begin your lessons at present, Sirantha, this would be construed as an aggressive act on Ithiss-Tor.”

Well, since I’m not normally a touchy-feely person, I think we’ll be okay. I nod, though, and make a mental note. No hugging of random Bugs.

“This is March, my pilot, and Dina, ship’s mechanic.”

They exchange polite words while Tarn observes us. What’s he looking for? Something isn’t right here, but I can’t put my finger on it.

I’m all but certain Vel isn’t in on it, whatever the Chancellor is plotting. What was the point of saving me if he only meant to take me to his homeworld and get me killed? Logically, it just doesn’t track, and Vel is all about things making sense.

“When do we leave?” Dina asks. “I have some preparations to make.”

Tarn raises a brow at her. Oh, she’s gonna go all “her highness” on his ass. “Your vessel is already adequately supplied.”

“I wouldn’t touch that ‘vessel’ with a ten-foot pole,” she says, eyes narrowed. If her chin juts out, he’d better run. “We have our own ship, and I trust you’ll approve all necessary expenditures to equip it as the ambassador’s team sees fit.”

Before the veins in Tarn’s forehead explode, March puts in, “We prefer not to trust our fate to those inexperienced with long jump-flights.” Chalk one up for diplomacy. “However well-intentioned they may be. I hope you understand.”

I can’t believe this ambassador stuff works, even on the Chancellor. He’s the one who appointed me. But I suppose once you claim someone has power, you can’t decry it without making yourself look like a jackass.

Clearing his throat, Tarn makes an attempt to regain some lost ground. “I’ll approve the same budget for your provisions as were spent on the Conglomerate ship. You may allot it as you choose.”

“Can we get under way tomorrow, Dina?” March gets to his feet, signaling the meeting has adjourned. Tarn isn’t going to like that either. As for me, I’m still standing with Vel, near the door.

“Depends. If their commissar can requisition everything we need, it’ll be a snap. I’m having Bernard’s Luck transferred to the Conglomerate docking bays today.”

He nods. “That’s your top priority then.”

“I haven’t briefed you fully,” Tarn protests, as we head for the door.

I shrug. “Send the files to the ship. I’ll read it en route.”

If he expected me to be easily controlled, he didn’t pay enough attention to recent history. I don’t owe Chancellor Tarn a damn thing. He wants me to go to Ithiss-Tor and try to persuade the Bugs that it’s in their best interests to join galactic politics. And that means I work for the Conglomerate, a glorified bureaucrat.

Whether it’s best for Ithiss-Tor to join the party, I’m not sure. If they refuse, I’m positive the Conglomerate intends to make an example of them somehow, perhaps to frighten other non-tier worlds into towing the line. Tarn lost sight of one thing, however.

I’m nobody’s pawn, not anymore. And if he tries to orchestrate my moves on some celestial chessboard, he’ll be sorry.

* * *

CHAPTER 9

Dina has to be kidding.

If the Folly—the ship we crashed a couple weeks ago— looked better on the inside than I expected, well, my luck has turned. This vessel looks like something out of old vids; it’s positively ancient. The outside promises a dirty, cramped interior, and I’m not disappointed when I clamber through the hatch.

It’s only a six-seater. I pass through a narrow corridor to the central hub. At least the safety equipment looks to be functional. From the hub, halls lead left and right. If this ship conforms to standard layouts, there will be three small bunk areas on either side. Straight ahead we have the cockpit. Since this junk bucket is so small, I rather doubt it possesses any extra amenities.

Bernard’s Luck doesn’t even boast a boarding ramp. Instead it has a pressure door on the side and a retractable ladder. I wouldn’t put it past the former owner of this ship to have lost it on purpose. Okay, probably not—he could’ve gotten something for it from the scrap yards.

Dina interprets my expression correctly. “I know she’s a little rough around the edges, but the Folly wasn’t a diamond when we got her. I’ll polish her up as we go.”

“A little?” I shake my head. “As a jumper, I always knew my odds of going out on board a ship were pretty high, but do you have to stack the deck like this?”

“It’s not that bad,” March says, then nearly loses his head to a dangling ceiling panel. Though I’m not a mechanic, I feel pretty sure that ought to be soldered to the wall. He exercises remarkable restraint as he adds to Dina, “You might want to fix that before we get under way.”

She hurries off to get her toolkit. As I head to check out the cockpit, Velith boards. I hear him say, “Is this wise? Perhaps we ought to reconsider and accept the loan of a Conglomerate ship.”

Though I hate the idea of being dependent on charity as much as the next person, I have to say, I’m with Vel on this one. Sadly, I’m not surprised when both Dina and March call, “No!”

“It is quite . . . compact, is it not?” Vel glances around.

He has a point since five steps takes me around the hub. Another five steps carries me to the pressure hatch. I take a quick look around, and damned if crew quarters aren’t so cramped that passing gas in there might result in methane poisoning. There’s no med bay on board, just a maintenance closet, so it’s just as well Doc won’t be traveling with us this time.