That was over a decade ago in Akeelian time and we’ve been friends ever since. He’ll be there this afternoon to pay his respects.
“We’re ready for you, Serpint,” Raylor says.
“Great,” I say, following him to the back room to be dressed.
It’s a weird thing to be dressed by his cyborgs because they were built on a sex-borg model. Two tall, clearly-female cyborgs begin undressing me. One unbuttons my shirt, another goes for my pants, while two more are fussing with the new suit off to one side.
Normally I enjoy this. Under different circumstances I might even let them pleasure me.
But not today. So I place a hand on each of theirs, telling them to stop. “I can do it,” I say.
Raylor claps his hands two times and the sex-borgs back off and begin doing other things.
I strip down to bare flesh and pull on the underclothes.
“Would you like a shave?” Raylor asks.
“No,” I say. I know that’s the wrong answer. I should shave for my brother’s service. But I don’t want the borgs touching me right now. So I say it once more for emphasis. “No.”
He nods, then motions for the dressers to proceed. They come at me again and help me into a crisp black shirt with a stiff, high, tight collar that I know will bother me until I take the shirt off later. But it’s not optional. Every man in the ceremony will be wearing the same irritating collar. And every one of us will endure it without comment out of respect.
It occurs to me that this is the first time I’ve had to dress in the ceremonial garb since we left Akeelian space. I’ve been to many memorial services on Harem over the past two decades for friends who died, been one of the witnesses on the platform a dozen times or more, but never part of the immediate family.
Every alien culture has a different way of paying their last tribute to their inner circle and ALCOR will accommodate them all. But we decided early on that Harem will have its own customs as well. That we would be more than just a collection of outlaws on a station.
We would be a nation of people. A collective of thought, and customs, and history.
So every service uses the same platform, and the same announcement signals, and follows the same ascension ritual.
The pants go on next. Dressy, high-quality black slacks made of the finest silks in the galaxy. They are so soft and comfortable, they almost make up for the collar.
Then the shoes and then the accessories.
Raylor stands in front of me holding a flat velvet box. I nod to him and he opens it to reveal the medals and ribbons ALCOR and Crux had printed for the service.
“Pink?” I say, unable to hide my smile.
“She’s very pink,” Raylor says, smiling.
“Ah,” I say. And I even laugh a little. Because he is matching me with Lyra. “Well, that’s a first for me. I’ve never had a woman at my side for a ceremony before.”
“It’s a good first,” Raylor says, snapping his fingers at one of the borgs.
She approaches us, lifts the pink ribbon from the box, and places it against the shirt collar. A second Borg is already behind me, reaching for the magnetic ends so she can snap the ribbon tightly around my neck.
A third is lifting out the familial medal. Mine is also pink to match Lyra and it has me wondering what she’ll look like when she comes out from behind that wall. Surely, she won’t be in pink. But there will be pink on her. Ribbons, and medals, and other things too. Lingerie, maybe. Things I won’t see now but will be a nice surprise later.
Which reminds me of later. My thoughts cloud with memories of last night as the borgs fasten the accessories onto my suit.
The familial medal, signaling that I’m Draden’s brother, goes over my heart. Five more are lined up underneath, military-style. All in shades of gray, and black, and pink. One for each of us—Crux, then Jimmy, then Tray, then Valor, then Luck. Underneath there is another, larger medal that belongs to Draden and Ceres.
My heart is heavy with the burden of these symbols. And not just because they have literal weight.
A dozen smaller ones climb up each of my shirt cuffs to represent how many life-and-death battles Draden, Ceres, and I have been in—and won. And then the ribbons are snapped into place on my shoulders to signify the weight I will have to carry now that they’re gone.
When they are done, I step back out into the lobby, look in the full-length mirror, and barely recognize myself. My hair is messy and my face is ragged with a few days of beard. I should’ve let them shave me, I realize. I’m about to ask if that can still be done when my link chimes.