Then she locks me in again. A hum and a buzz—that’s all it takes to drive home an immutable sense of isolation. At least I still have March’s letter; I read it a hundred times more, and I miss him so much it hurts. But he’s right—I don’t want to be rescued. I understand why he’s not sitting around Ocklind. He has a personal mission right now . . . but I treasure that letter like nothing I ever owned.

I didn’t put down my true feelings—that I do feel like he’s abandoning me. But what could he do if he stayed? It could be months before we go to trial, and I can’t see him even in the courtroom as the proceedings will be closed. There’s nothing he can do here for me, but I hate that he left.

Thereafter, the days pass in a monotonous nightmare. I once saw an old vid where convicts adopted rats and cockroaches to stave off loneliness, but my cell is clean, no cracks where anything can crawl in.

Except despair. There’s plenty of room for that.

To drive off the madness, I cast back to my combat training and run through the drills, practicing forms and fighting an imaginary opponent. From there, I move to stretches against the wall, crunches, push-ups. After a while, I stop counting; I just work until sweat streams off me, my muscles feel like water, and I cannot do another rep. At that point I stagger to my bunk and lie there in a daze. Rinse, repeat. As time passes, I notice a difference in my body, what they call prison fit.

Ms. Hale comes by regularly to pick my brain as she shapes my defense. Otherwise, I sit in my cell alone, poking at my food and waiting for the bright spot that is exercise time. There are five other female prisoners in my block, but they don’t speak to me. For obvious reasons, the guards don’t encourage fraternization.

On my tenth day in custody, things change. The old guard lady comes to fetch me earlier than usual, before I’ve had my first meal.

“Your barrister’s here.”

Mary, I hope it’s good news. Without letting my hopes spike too sharply, I follow the old screw down the hall to the visiting chambers. Ms. Hale is as polished and coiffed as ever. Not for the first time, I wonder about her fees; but she refuses to discuss that with me, as I am her client but not her employer.

“You have news?” I say in greeting.

“Good morning to you as well, Ms. Jax. You’re looking thin.”

My cheeks heat. “Sorry. It’s hard to remember my manners in here.”

“I understand. I do have news. Your trial starts next week.”

A pleasurable shock—she’d mentioned they needed to expedite the process, but that’s fast by any standards. If only March had waited. I could have gone with him, maybe. The dart of anger sparks and fades, leaving me wrestling with guilt. I made the choices that landed me here . . . and I don’t expect him to suborn his life into mine any more than I would change my dreams for him. We’re not one soul, one being, however much we love each other.

I fix my mind on business, crushing my wounded feelings. “Can you check into some things for me?”

“Certainly.”

“Find out whether Commander March has left New Terra . . .” I’m sure he has. He wrote days ago that he was heading out to look for his nephew. Don’t hope. “. . . and if Argus has started training the other navigators yet.”

“I’ll put my assistant on it as soon as I return to the office.”

“Thank you. What do you need from me for the trial?”

Ms. Hale spends a considerable amount of time briefing me on how to comport myself in court, how to elicit sympathy, and how to avoid alienating the jury of my peers with my attitude. From there, we proceed to fashion tips and other crucial trivia that will allegedly make the difference between success and failure. I listen with full attention, as I don’t want to spend the rest of my life locked up.

“Any questions?” she asks, once she finishes.

“I think I got it.”

“The guard will bring your court clothes the day before.”

That gives me almost a whole week to think about the ordeal to come, so I’m preoccupied during the exercise period, usually my favorite time of day, because at least people surround me, even if they don’t talk to me. But on the fourth day after the barrister’s visit, one of the other prisoners takes the machine next to mine. She’s young and covered in ink. Blue whorls twist up her arms and beneath the plain gray of her prison garb. Red spirals crawl down the back of her neck. The girl, for she’s hardly more than that, has dark hair that looks as though she trimmed it in the dark with a razor blade.

“You’re Jax, right?”

I offer a cautious nod, not pausing in my reps. “Can I help you?”

“Maybe,” she says. “The girls figure there’s no way in hell you’re staying here. Not you. So when you run, we want in.”

The other women watch us from the corners of their eyes, as if they expect drama. I’m not giving it to them. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m going to serve my time and stand trial.”

Her face falls. “You didn’t before.”

“That was different.” But I can see from her expression, she doesn’t see the distinction. “What’d you do anyway?”

“I killed a guy,” she answers flatly.

“I guess you had a good reason.”

“He wouldn’t take no for an answer. Turns out he had credits and a powerful family. Bad luck for me. I shoulda just let him stick his thing in me. Not like it’d be the first time.” But beneath the bravado, she’s nursing a grave wound.

This girl did what she had to defend herself, and now she’s rotting in here because some bastard’s family has connections. For the first time, a spark of the old Jax comes to life. Maybe I’ve done terrible things, and maybe I deserve to be in here. If I’m past saving, it doesn’t mean I can’t help somebody else.

“You did the right thing,” I tell her. “What’s your name?”

“Pandora.”

Of course it is. As I recall, Pandora had a knack for trouble, but I can’t blame this girl for her situation.

“When’s your trial?”

“Dunno. I think they’re trying to make sure I die in here without ever getting a fair shake.”

“How long have you been in?”

“Eight months.”

Frag. That sounds like a hellishly long time for jurisprudence to take its course, even if the wheels of justice do turn slow. That’s glacial.

“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.”

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.