We’ve made all the plans to depart in the morning: Hit, Loras, Argus, Vel, Zeeka, and me. For however long it takes for me to convince the bureaucrats on La’heng to embrace the cure, I will no longer be Jax the Jumper. Over the turns, I’ve been an ambassador, a navigator, a survivor, a prisoner, a traitor, a deserter, and a lover, but I’ve never before been a lobbyist. I have a feeling it may be my most difficult task yet.

With a faint sigh, I turn to him. He’s rung for entry to my quarters. Mikhail’s does not offer luxury accommodations, but that’s fine. Right now I just want privacy. Not from Vel, of course. We’ve shared too much for me to shut him out. So I summarize what Carvati told me.

“You feel apart,” he guesses. “Something other.”

I nod. “No longer human.”

“I know what that is like.”

I suppose he does. Not Ithtorian, but instead he’s the deadly, terrifying Slider of legend. Maybe he’s the only one who can even approach understanding how I feel. It’s time, before we leave, to close the circle. So I do the one thing I can think of to make sure Vel understands he’s not alone. He hasn’t been himself since our arrival on Gehenna, probably haunted with memories of Adele, and I hate seeing him this way. Though I know nothing can assuage her loss, I’m still going to make a tangible effort.

“During the war, you said that you’d wear my colors if I asked.”

“I remember.”

“And I did ask.” After I saved him from impalement, I asked as a promise and an affirmation that we’d survive. I’m not sorry, either. I haven’t had a chance to reiterate the request, but this seems like the time.

It’s not like a marriage; that much, I know for sure. But it’s a promise, and though Kai might not understand because he was opposed to promises—he was all about personal freedom, and usually, so am I—but I know this is the right thing. Vel needs to know he’s not alone, and he never will be. And honestly, right now, I need that, too. It feels as though all familiar things have fallen away while I glanced over my shoulder for the briefest instant, and I need someone to swear he’ll stand by me.

Maybe I’ve always known it’d be Vel since that day in the Teresengi Basin.

“I wondered if you would mention it, once we returned to civilization. This is permanent,” he adds softly. “I will never have these marks removed.”

“Neither will I.” I touch my throat, tracing with one fingertip the pattern he designed, and his aspect gentles.

To formalize my intentions, I bend with my arms tucked against my body in the most eloquent wa I can offer. Brown bird flies for white wave, always. Take my heart as your colors.

Vel freezes, studying me, as though wondering if I understand, if I mean it. And then slowly, he returns the bow. White wave knows no greater honor, no greater joy. Your colors are my heart.

“Are you certain?” He asks because he must. Vel is nothing if not cautious.

“I’m sure. Is it something we can have done here?” Gehenna is a place of wonders, contraband, vice, and unexpected beauty. But I don’t know if the tattooists on world are conversant with this type of marking. I wouldn’t have his chitin marred by someone inexperienced in the art.

“I know a place,” he says.

“Then let’s go.”

He leads me down from my room to the street, where we hail a hover cab; Vel keys the destination on the pad, and it takes us deep into the heart of the market. A few meters below, the passersby swarm along the walkways. Gehenna has limited air traffic inside the dome, only public vehicles and those who can afford the exorbitant license fees, which leaves most of the populace afoot.

The automated vehicle lets us off outside a one-story building; it’s built of some dark alloy. No windows and not even a sign to tell what kind of business goes on within. I certainly wouldn’t approach on my own, but Vel seems sure as he moves toward the door.

He presses the arrival button on the comm, and momentarily, a face appears on the vid screen. “Tat or piercing?”

“Exotic ink,” he replies.

“You have payment in full?” I can see why that would be a concern in a business like this one. You don’t want to produce a lovely work, then discover the client can’t afford it. Repo is tricky in this particular market.

“Of course.”

“I’ll buzz you in.”

It’s brighter and cleaner inside than I expected, given the general dreariness of the exterior. I follow Vel down a well-lit hallway covered in abstract art to a waiting room with white walls and sleek, lime green chairs. A couple of others are seated ahead of us in the queue; most already possess interesting body alterations. One man has pointed ears and a blue pattern running down one side of his face. He smiles at me, revealing sharply filed teeth.

“Will it hurt you?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “There is no feeling in the carapace.”

It takes an hour before the others are served. Eventually, it’s just Vel and me, watching the Friendly Robotics model receptionist. She’s one of the efficient-looking Jane units with a no-nonsense hairstyle and a plain face. The Lila—like the form we found for Constance—had the disadvantage of looking too sexy; it didn’t serve well in business. That’s part of why they retired the model; the other reason was that people often bought it as a sexual surrogate, due to its extreme attractiveness, and the licensed sex workers protested, saying such technology cut into their ability to earn a living. If a client can purchase a partner for the equivalent of five visits to a professional, it pays for itself in no time. So they implemented the Jane, and we’ve seen her all across the galaxy over the course of our travels.

At last, the artist calls us back. She is a slight woman whose skin shows no sign of the interesting patterns she puts on other people, but perhaps she prefers to keep such designs private. I can understand that. Despite signs of Rejuvenex treatments, probably to keep her hands steady, she’s also older than I expected, and I wonder if she knew him when he was with Adele. Her warm greeting indicates that may be the case.

“I’m glad to see you as yourself, my friend. It was a shame you had to hide for all those turns.”

“Different times,” Vel says.

She nods at that. “Truer words were never spoken. How things have changed.”

She glances at me then. “You must be Jax.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised; people have been recognizing me for turns. “Nice to meet you.”

The artist shakes my hand. “I’m Colette. Do you know what you want?”

Though I haven’t discussed it with Vel, I do. “The Ithtorian symbol for grimspace in black, red, and silver.”

“Black for the outline, red for accent, silver for fill?”

I am impressed. “Exactly. How did you know?”

“That’s how I’d choose to do it.”

Turning to Vel, I ask, “Is that all right with you? I know it’s not the color of Ithtorian honor marks.”

Those are kind of a mustard yellow, and they don’t do designs. Those are just slashes of rank. If we go forward, this will separate him from his peers in yet another way, but this is a personal pledge between us, not a promotion. I’ve worn his mark for turns, apparently; it’s time to complete the circle.

“I like it,” he says. “It represents you well.”

Colette busies herself with the supplies. “I’ll get prepped, then.”

The bell rings, but she ignores it. I gather we’ll be her last clients of the day. A chemical smells wafts from the container she’s mixing in; this must be the acid wash that textures the chitin so it will hold the ink. I confess I find the process fascinating. I sit quiet as she finishes and turns to Vel. Unlike the Ithtorians, she doesn’t treat a wide area. They assume the subject will want a large patch prepared, thus stating the intent to work toward greater honor. Instead, the artist draws the pattern I want with a delicate brush, painting it on first with the base treatment, thus readying the carapace for a very specific pattern. Mine.

Until this moment, I didn’t know exactly how I’d feel about this step. I was sure, but you can’t know how a moment will feel until it arrives. Everything else is just guesswork and anticipation. But right now, I’m so proud, I can’t stand it. He’s willing to proclaim to the world that he’s my partner; I wonder if he feels that way about his pattern on my throat. And even if nobody else in the galaxy knows what this ink exchange means, it matters to him. I can tell by the cant of his head.

“Just hold still,” she tells him, as she finishes the first step. “We need to give this time to set.”

He complies, claws resting on his legs. There’s a somber air about him, as if this is a ceremony of great weight. But I already knew that. It’s not marriage, but for him, it’s every bit as profound. In all honesty, it is for me, too. I don’t undertake this commitment lightly. It’s more than I’ve promised another person since before my ill-fated marriage to Simon.

“This needs to dry before I can continue, and I have another client. Let me go check on her.” Colette leaves us alone in the studio, and I turn to admire the images of her work that line the otherwise pristine walls.

“How do you know her?” I ask, once the door swishes shut.

I already suspect, of course, but his life with Adele fascinates me. She loved him freely and openly, no boundaries, no judgment. From what I knew of her, that doesn’t surprise me at all, but it also makes me wonder at his secrets. What was Vel like with her, and did she know him better than I do? This feeling isn’t quite jealousy, but I wouldn’t know what to call it, either.

“Adele liked tattoos. She added a new pattern, a small one, each turn that I knew her.”

“And you came with her?” I’m guessing.

“Sometimes, if the shop was closed.”

I imagine them going about their lives beneath the titian sky, quiet lives, normal ones. He must have been content with that. He’s like a chameleon, then—able to stay or go, with no preference to hold him hostage. Unlike me. I’ll always be a junkie. Grimspace blazes in my veins, boils in my cells. I can’t give it up, nor do I want to. Asking me to stay dirtside? Well, it would be kinder to shoot me.

Colette returns shortly thereafter. She goes about the rest of her work in silence, inking the pattern in lines of color, and when she finishes, it’s both elegant and artful. The other Ithtorians will find it shocking—maybe even offensive. I hope I’m around for that. When they realize he’s chosen a human partner, they will be even more shocked. Or maybe not. They were speculating it was the case on Ithiss-Tor, and they’re calling him my longtime companion on the bounce. Soon, they’ll be making smut vids about how we make the physiological differences work. Since there are so many niche fetishes, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least to discover it’s true.

“Do you want me to seal it?” Colette asks.

Vel glances at me, the light refracting on his side-set eyes, and answers, “Yes.”

So as a final step, she paints a clear lacquer over the symbol. The Ithtorians don’t do that; they leave the carapace unbonded because it shows ambition: the intention to gain more honor marks as they ascend the political ladder. This seal indicates Vel has no higher aspirations than the mark I’ve given him—and I could hardly be prouder than I am at this moment.

“Do you like it?” I ask, as we leave Colette’s shop, stepping into the warm orange twilight.

“You chose it.” For him, that is an answer.

Now our business on this world is ended. I am fast approaching a fork in my journey, and that choice—whether I bear left or right—will decide everything in the turns to come.

Do not keep me waiting. I’ve waited long enough.