CHAPTER 6

On the way to medical, Jael steps out of the lounge, intercepting us. “What’re you two doing back here?

I thought you were instructed to stay in your quarters. Are we making a run for it?”

I give him a sour smile. “None of your business.”

“Where you’re concerned, everything’s my business, darling.” He props himself up, obviously not intending to let us pass until his curiosity has been satisfied.

March tenses dangerously, still seething with unspent impulses. The fight with the Ithtorians was broken up too soon for him to feel satisfied. Mary, I hope Jael doesn’t provoke him.

“It doesn’t impact your assignment,” I tell Jael firmly.

“I’ll decide that.”

When March moves to push past him, Jael puts a hand on his shoulder, and that’s the last straw. March lashes out with a blow that would fell anyone else. Jael’s head snaps back, blood spurting from his nose, but an answering light kindles in his eyes. To these two, this is probably like foreplay.

If I had any sense, I’d run.

Instead, I skitter back a few paces as they slam into the wall. Jael’s slight build indicates he should be an easy opponent for March, but he’s stronger than he looks. Fists crash into jaws, fingers dig into each other. March lands an elbow in the sternum and follows with a kick that should’ve broken Jael’s kneecap, but the other man leaps aside.

Jael retaliates with a flurry of blows, almost too fast to track. I wince as they land on March’s chest. The merc is too smart to go for the head. He knows the body is where you do the most damage.

March doesn’t seem to feel it. He grabs Jael and slams his head into the wall with such force I expect to see his skull shatter. This can’t go on. I tap the comm.

“Doc, I need you down on deck two, section A-12. Bring a tranq.”

They grapple, better than a constant exchange of punches. Jael breaks free and slams his head into March’s chest, rocking him back. March replies with a strong right hook. If Jael had a glass jaw, he’d go down right there. The punch had all March’s power behind it. Instead, he takes the hit and slams an elbow into March’s gut. March in turn takes the blow and slams a roundhouse into Jael’s left cheek, and I swear I hear the crunch of bone.

By the time Doc gets here, they’ve beaten each other bloody. Jael looks like he got the worst of it, but that’s only because of the broken nose. Blood has spattered all over both of them, and they show no sign of calming down.

Doc assesses the situation in a single glance and tranqs them both. “You’re back sooner than I expected.”

Only he could make such a moment conversational. “What brought this on?”

He’s a short, stocky man with the heavy musculature of those from high-G worlds. I don’t think he was born on Lachion, though he has certainly been adopted into the clans. Doc’s real name is Saul Solaith, and he’s more a geneticist than a practicing physician, but he takes care of the crew nonetheless.

A few clansmen help transport Jael and March to medical. I follow along behind, feeling sick. March has winked out completely, but Jael is fighting the meds; he’ll shake them off soon.

“March is having trouble being surrounded by all those Ithtorians,” I explain. “It rouses his ‘fight’ instinct.

We came in to have him checked out, and Jael decided he needed to interfere.”

The merc glances up, groggy and squinting in the bright lights. “I thought he might be dangerous, Jax.

What if he’d gone after you instead of me?”

I ignore that, addressing Doc. “What can you do?”

“Medicate him.” Doc narrows his gaze on March. “I can synthesize a wide range of behavior-modification drugs, but I’ll need to run some tests to confirm the dosage.”

“We don’t have to be anywhere before tomorrow,” I add. “Can you do something for him that quickly?”

A little voice reminds me I could leave him on the ship. Maybe March wouldn’t even care, but I would.

I’d feel like I was abandoning him, unwilling to deal with the drawbacks associated with being with him.

And yeah, right now it’s hard as hell; I can’t even touch him.

But I remember what we were like together, and I won’t get that back without some effort. I’ve never been afraid to fight for what I want. Time to prove to him that I won’t walk when the going gets tough.

Maybe he’ll find that confusing and incomprehensible in his present state. Maybe he won’t even appreciate it until after we fix him, but it’s when, not if. I won’t give up.

He thought I gave up on us when I was at my weakest, but I’ve only ever wanted to keep from hurting him. March is such a maddening bundle of contradictions, brutal strength wrapped around a vulnerable core. The way he used to need me scared me to death—and now I’m afraid he’ll never need me again.

I’m just never satisfied, am I?

Doc has been tapping away at his terminal, trying to answer my question. Finally, he says, “Yes, if I get started right away, I should be able to pin down what he needs.”

“What about me?” Jael asks, becoming more alert by the second. “Do I get anything recreational while I’m here? I’ve been a good boy.”

Doc ignores him, but I’m finding it hard. “Could you piss off already? Go clean up. You don’t need to be here.”

Jael sighs and pushes himself upright. “That’s the thanks I get for saving your ass? He could’ve really hurt you.”

“You set him off.” But the idea takes root, and I don’t like the accompanying fear. It doesn’t look like it would take much to make March think I’m a threat.

The merc sighs heavily and staggers toward the door. “I’m warning you, Jax. He’s not stable, and I’m not saying that to be a pain in the ass.”

After Jael leaves, I watch while Doc hooks March up to various lab gear. “Do you want me to stay?”

Saul shakes his head. “I’d rather you didn’t.” He pauses in his assessment of various readings. “But I think Jael’s right. March is in trouble.”

Mary, I hate hearing that from Doc. He wouldn’t exaggerate the problem.

“Buzz me on the comm if you find anything interesting or unexpected?”

“Absolutely, Jax. Don’t worry . . . I’ll take good care of him.”

I slip out, and afterward, I realize I didn’t ask Doc about the implant. Well, I guess that will keep. March was my first priority anyway. If I’m going to thaw him out, I need to keep him nearby so I can work on him in my spare time.

That sounds terrible, as if he’s some scrap Skimmer I hope to refurbish, when it’s not like that at all. I’d say he’s my reason for living, but that sounds melodramatic even in my own head. So I’ll just say I owe him that.

My steps turn toward the quarters Dina shares with Hit. They returned to the ship right after the party.

Neither of them wants to stay on Ithtorian soil.

Dina has recovered from the Teras attack better than anyone could have expected; she only moves with a slight limp now. When the door-bot announces me, they, too, seem surprised to see me back so soon.

Hit greets me with a smile. “Jax.”

“Did you already frag things up?” Dina cracks, as I step inside.

I think about that. “Not irrevocably, I hope.”

They offer me some hot choclaste, slightly bitter just the way I like it. My bones ache a little as I settle into a chair. As I sip, I sum up what’s happened and why we’re back on the ship.

That sobers Dina immediately. “Damn. I didn’t realize war took such a toll on him. Is Doc going to be able to help him while he . . .” She hesitates. “Works through the nightmares or whatever?”

I’m sure she knows soldiers can get flashbacks if the combat is intense enough, but she doesn’t know the half of it—how bad it strikes March—and I can’t tell her.

So I shrug. “I hope so. Otherwise . . .”

“He can’t take part in the diplomatic process,” Hit supplies. “Not when he’s having trouble restraining violent urges. Sometimes it’s pretty hard to come back to civilian life when all you know how to do is kill.”

She sounds like she speaks from personal experience. I wonder if she knows anything that could help March. “Can you think of anything I should do—or not do—to help him recover?” Damn, I wish I could be more specific, but I can’t.

Hit considers for a moment. “No sudden moves, no loud noises if you can avoid it. Sights, sounds, and smells can trigger an event. He may suddenly feel like he’s under attack . . . and it can seem so real.”

Put that way, I’m amazed March managed to control himself so well out in the square. It wasn’t until they offered the first hostile action that he slipped his leash. He’s stronger than I knew.

“Noted,” I say aloud.

“He probably feels like he’s losing his mind,” Hit goes on.

I realize she’s describing postwar trauma for a non-Psi veteran. In March’s case, everything is probably multiplied by a factor of ten. That makes my job harder, but it’s not impossible.

“Save him,” Dina says quietly. “I don’t know exactly what’s wrong, but I do know he’s not the same since he came back.”

The urge to unburden myself is nearly overwhelming. To fight the impulse, I set the cup aside and get to my feet. “Thanks for the drink. I need to track Vel down and talk about the meeting tomorrow.”

“Good luck,” Hit says with a solemn expression—and I know she doesn’t just mean in my diplomatic endeavors.

I acknowledge that with a nod before heading out. In the hall, I touch my comm. “Vel?”

His immediate response is reassuring. “Yes, Sirantha?”

“How’s the tour coming?”

“The peace officers have departed,” he tells me. “They were much impressed with our facilities, especially the wardrober. The idea of wearing anything other than color for personal adornment intrigues them. I believe they intend to discuss the possibility of sashes and belts as an additional sign of rank with their commanding officer.”

“Where are you?”

“My quarters,” he answers.

“I’m on the way. We need to talk.”

And not on the comm, where anyone could be listening in, I add silently. Ithtorian technology is certainly capable of it; but if we did it to them, it would be construed as an aggressive act, spying as a prelude to war. So I don’t know if they would take that risk this early in the game. I increase my pace so that I’m nearly running.

I’m almost there when he asks, “March is settled then?”

“Yes.” With a click, I switch off my comm.

Slightly out of breath, I press the panel beside his door and wait for the door-bot to announce me. Vel answers the door himself, wearing—unless I misinterpret his expression—a look of mild concern. He steps back, ushering me into his quarters, then, as a precaution I appreciate, he seals the door behind us with a command to the bot:

“No interruptions, no exceptions.”

Vel picks a seat before the terminal, where he was evidently working before I arrived. That seems like all he does; I realize I don’t know of anything he does for fun.

I sit down across from him. “I’m bringing this to you because I don’t want to leave you in the cold like I did before. And who knows, maybe you can even help me.”

“ ‘In the cold . . .’ ” Vel repeats. Sometimes I’m not sure how much universal he understands on his own and how much he relies on the translation provided by the chip attached to his vocalizer. “You mean because you did not share your plans?”

“Yeah, exactly. I want a chip that lets me understand Ithtorian. I’ve thought about it, and I don’t need the complementary vocalizer installed right now. The surgery would take too long anyway . . . I wouldn’t be able to use it tomorrow at the summit. I’d be incapacitated for a couple of days. But chips only take a matter of hours, right?”

“That is essentially correct,” Vel says. “Might I ask why you want this, Sirantha?”

Here we go, testing that trust between us.

“Because your people will talk freely around me if you’re not there to translate,” I tell him. “That riot earlier opened my eyes to the fact that things may not be as straightforward as Sharis Il-Wan would have us believe. He wants this alliance, but the Grand Administrator doesn’t. Nor does that group we ran into in the square.”

“The Opposition Party.” Vel identifies them for me, giving no hint as to his thoughts.

“What do they oppose?”

“It is hard to pin down,” he says, “but in general terms . . . progress. They despise change. They see it as destructive to our cultural heritage, disrespectful of the past.” Vel clicks his claws thoughtfully, clearly thinking of what I’ve said and not the politics of his homeworld. “My people would expect you to reveal the addition of such nanotech. Failure to do so would be considered bad form, borderline espionage.”

“So they would never consider acting in a way that offered unfair advantage?” That doesn’t seem to track with what I’ve learned of Ithtorian business practices.

Vel’s mandible splays in a movement I recognize as amusement. “I did not say that, Sirantha. The key is to avoid getting caught. Many things take place that would not be acknowledged. The only shame is having one’s schemes uncovered.”

“Then you support the idea?” I ask in relief. “I’ll talk to Doc before we leave.”

“You do not need Doc for this,” Vel tells me. “I keep a spare blank chip in my pack in case I must hunt on a world whose language is not included in my current configuration. That way I can download the data and implant it before I travel. As you point out, the chip bonds with the language center of the brain in a matter of hours.”

“So you’re saying you can handle the installation for me?”

In reply, he lofts a wicked set of pincers. While I watch, mildly alarmed, he works on his terminal, then clicks the chip into a memory spike. I presume he’s downloading Ithtorian for me.

“Are there any other languages you would like while we are doing this?” he asks. “We will not be able to modify the chip once it is in your body.”

I think about that for a moment. “Is there anything that would help me understand the Marakeq natives?”

Before the vocalizer kicks in, Vel shakes his head. “They are class P, so no translation programs have been written, and the only available research comes from Fugitive scientists.”

“I suspected as much.” I shake my head. “Never mind then. What about the Morgut?” It seems like it would be an advantage to understand my enemies.

He considers. “I can offer you a partial vocabulary, I think, but I do not know how it would interface with your brain stem. I can’t offer any guarantee of complete comprehension. The Morgut language is alien, even to me.”

“Give it a whirl.”