CHAPTER 26

My quarters are dim and silent when we return. Somehow it fits the somber mood that has fallen between us. If somebody had told me I would come to care so much about the Bug that hunted me nearly to my death, I would have said they were crazy. But friendship comes in many sizes and shapes, sometimes in weird wrapping.

Constance normally sits at the terminal in sleep mode, locked in an eerie facsimile of sleep. I’ve told her she can shut down when she’s satisfied with her day’s work; if I need her, I will activate her manually.

That eliminates the need to explain that she’s not always a welcome eavesdropper. I have strange guilty twinges over this.

Tonight, she’s nowhere to be found. I don’t worry overmuch over that, however, as I want to hear what Vel has to say. Her company, artificial as it is, could only inhibit his unexpected decision to share. By tacit agreement we pass from the living space, beyond the glastique glitter of the cityscape.

I curl up on the bed without changing from my ambassadorial gear and wait for him to begin. Vel stands half in shadow, staring out. I wonder if he sees anything at all, or if the view has become superimposed with something else, if he sees ghosts in the glass as I do.

“As you know,” he says at last, “I am the offspring of a politician named Nok. What I did not tell you—

though you may have already learned this via gossip by now—is that at the time of my birth, she served as Grand Administrator. She expected great things from her progeny, and she ruled her brood with an iron claw.”

He pauses, as if remembering and sorting his memories to best relate them. I feel as though I’m being granted a secret, sacred glimpse at the core of him. I haven’t been this near to the real Vel since we huddled together in an icy cave, half-convinced that day would be our last.

“Do you mean she didn’t care what you wanted?” I draw my knees up to my chest, studying him in the half-light.

Vel is a bizarre amalgam of the alien and the familiar, soaked with shadow. His eyes glitter strangely, taking the light as a human’s never would. I consider inviting him to sit down; there’s a chair by the window, but he’s surely comfortable enough in my presence that he doesn’t need to be set at ease. His posture radiates a tension that runs through him like a poison, which can only be purged through confession.

“She cared only what was expected,” he says, after consideration.

I notice he refers to her in the past tense. “Is she—”

“Deceased?” he supplies. “Yes. Many turns ago now.”

“I’m sorry. Go on.” I remember how my questions made him tighten up before, so I resolve not to interrupt him anymore.

“My youth was like any other,” he continues. “I was educated in an upper-class crèche with a focus on diplomacy and politics. From an early age, I knew they expected me to follow in my mater’s footsteps, though as a male I had one strike against my chances of taking up her mantle as Grand Administrator.

“But I was never interested in what they wanted me to learn. The process by which we added honor to our chitin intrigued me from the moment I saw one of Nok’s assistants return with xanthic stripes for some accomplishment. At first, they encouraged my interest because they took it as a sign I wanted to learn how to accrue my own face for personal achievement. They thought me . . . ambitious.” His pause suggests a subtle melancholy, a desert of the spirit full of remembered sand and bone.

“Instead, you were interested in the art of it,” I guess aloud quietly. “In the colors and patterns, lines and shapes.”

He inclines his head. “Nok was appalled when she realized what fascinated me so. Such endeavors bring no honor to a house. The work of hands remain the dominion of the lowborn, those who have no training in the use of higher intellect. If I pursued such a path, I would shame my family as surely as an admission of infirmity or impairment. After all, we do not adorn ourselves for pleasure.”

I scowl. “Humans do. On Gehenna, there are entire studios devoted to the beautification of the body via graphic art.”

“That is merely another argument against the practice,” Vel tells me gently. “You are primitive beasts, only a few short millennia removed from drawing on cave walls.”

That doesn’t seem like a fair criticism. Ithtorians live a lot longer than we do. But I know he doesn’t share his people’s bias, or he wouldn’t be here with me in the first place.

“So what happened?”

“I studied secretly for a time. Learned how to mix the acid wash from the house artisan, how to structure the rank signs, and how to apply the ink. He knew my interest was inappropriate, but those of low caste do not argue with their superiors, even if the instructions are wrong.”

That makes me perk up. “And do you believe yourself superior, based on who laid the egg that hatched you?”

Vel answers seriously. “I am the product of one of the oldest, finest houses . . . and yet I am also proof that lines do not always breed true. Some offspring are fundamentally flawed, askew from the standard.”

I have the feeling he doesn’t mean “standard” exactly, that the chip has failed to translate for me precisely.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“They do not prize individuality,” he says then. “That is a human trait. They prize achievement that enriches the collective within our birth-given strata.”

I get that. “You defied your heritage to be an artist, just like I did in becoming a jumper. My parents expected other things from me, too.”

“It was, perhaps, a little more complex.” At last he moves from the window, seating himself in a movement that seems more hinged and alien than when he wears faux-human skin. I still marvel at that ability; his people can excrete a substance they shape into the ultimate camouflage, giving them any appearance they wish.

He goes on, “When I was betrayed—as is inevitable—my behavior so shamed Nok that her existing rank was stripped from her. By my transgressions, I stole two turns of work from her.”

I wince. “And they removed her colors?”

“Yes.” The stark response illuminates how much the impact of that still resonates with him across the turns.

“Oh, Vel.” I can only imagine the shame.

“Nok told me then—I could go into politics as befitted my station—or she would have me killed. She made sure I understood that she had plenty of other males to carry on her genetic legacy, which is officially propagated through her female offspring.” The chip can’t begin to encompass the intensity of what he’s relating, so the toneless translation that echoes in my head underscores the somber moment.

“Is that when they arranged a match for you with Sartha?”

“Partnership,” he corrects. “But yes. It was decided I needed a female to guide me, as my judgment was so clearly debased. I went into politics, as they wanted. I climbed the ranks, but I was forbidden to have my carapace imprinted with my achievements for twenty turns.” He considers this for a moment. “It was a light penalty, all things considered. They could have judged me a lunatic and sent me to the mines.

Without Nok, they doubtless would have. If I had disappointed her again, she would have disposed of me quietly.”

Ah, Mary. I want to hug him, but I’m not sure if he would take comfort in it. To hell with it, I tell myself.

Customs and proscriptions don’t apply between friends. He can push me away if he doesn’t like it.

I leave my seat silently and wrap an arm around him. There’s room for me to sit beside him, so I perch there. If he wants to put some distance between us, I won’t resist. The problem is, I’m just not sure what he needs.

“I’m so sorry, Vel.” Maybe words can make a difference, this once.

“So you see,” he goes on, as if I haven’t spoken, haven’t moved. “I am not a model of my species. I am the worst they have to offer, and I was so . . . other among my own kind that when the first human delegation landed—when I was on the cusp of being named Grand Administrator—I ran rather than face a lifetime of quiet desperation.”

I think about how to respond for a moment. “Maybe you’re not what Nok wanted or expected in her offspring. Maybe you’re different from other males, but that doesn’t mean you lack value. I’d be dead many times over if I wasn’t lucky enough to know you.”

Is that enough? This kind of stuff doesn’t come easily to me. I don’t like talking about my feelings, and it’s hard for me to tell people they’re important to me, sometimes until it’s too late. Then I can only whisper into the great beyond, hoping they can somehow hear me through aching dark, saying: I miss you.

I cared about you.

You mattered.

I hope March knows that, if nothing else.

“The stench of failure will cling to me always.” There is a bleak finality to those words, as if he can never forgive himself for what he is not, no matter what the grace or beauty or strength of what he has become.

The dark binds us and hides our sins. I do not ask him to go away when I curl up on my lonely bed.

Tonight Vel is a celestial body whose light yields no warmth. As I stare, sleepless, into silence, I see us trapped together across the turns in tents and caves and starships, two together . . . alone. He sits vigil beside me, distant as a glimmering star.