Killbox (Sirantha Jax 4)

No surprises there. Farwan did little to endear us to the others with whom we share the universe. Their policies were uniformly humanocentric, and they enforced their laws with a titanium fist. The days of human control have ended, and many alien races have taken the attitude: Let them burn.

The male presenter continues. “The answer is simple. We must defend ourselves. Our best hope lies with the Conglomerate Armada.”

“Do you think they can build a significant force in so short a time?” Lili asks.

“If they cannot,” Kevin intones, “then Mary help us all.”

That about sums it up. I close my eyes and try to sleep. In a way, I wish they would keep me drugged while they work. Dozing the days away, I catch mumbled snatches as Doc and Evelyn program the nanites to repair my fried brain.

Though March is busy, he comes when he can to augment the electric-impulse therapy they provide my muscles, so they don’t atrophy. He massages my arms and legs, and I can’t feel it. Not the pressure, not the warmth, nothing. I feel disconnected from everything; I’m beyond broken. Despair lives in my heart as it never has before.

Vel visits as well, more than anyone else, in fact. Sometimes Vel takes one of my dead hands in both of his claws and leans his forehead to mine, and he offers a prayer to the Iglogth. I find it touching. Other times, he brings projects to my bedside and sits with me in silence, working. I find his company comforting because he doesn’t burden me with talk I can’t answer. There’s nothing quite so awful as a one-sided conversation, where the person chatters to fill the void, unless it’s when somebody tries too hard, and it becomes an interrogation.

Are you hungry? Thirsty? Hot? Cold? Tired?

I blink my response like a freak when I want to scream: I’m not anything that you can fix—leave me alone already! But I can only blink my yes and no like a good human wreck. I know I should be grateful I still have my life. I could have ended up like my friend from Ibova. But the truth is: I am not grateful. And I envy Sharine.

March keeps me updated on the progress. More ships have arrived. Classes have begun. He acts like he doesn’t doubt I’ll be out of this bed sooner or later. I wish I had his faith. But he doesn’t come inside my mind much anymore, which makes me think he’s putting on a good front.

Time is an anchor, and I wish it would drown me. I wish they’d let me go.

At last, Doc and Evelyn deem the nanites ready, programming complete. They’ve synched them with my DNA. A quick injection, and they’re off to work. As the nanites reconnect neurons that I shorted out, Evelyn takes samples of my blood to see how the nanites have adapted to a human host. She’s used them on various primates but never seen these results before.

I imagine them as tiny robots, rebuilding all the broken bits. I’m told that’s not completely accurate, and there’s some fusion at the cellular level between biology and machine, but that parallel disturbs me. If they rewire me from the inside out, how long will I still be me? The very notion makes my flesh crawl, but the alternative is worse.

Gradually, movement is restored. I can wiggle my fingers, then my toes. Progress is excruciatingly slow, but before nanites, I would’ve been stuck like that forever. Never again. Swear to Mary, I will find someone who loves me enough to kill me if I ever find myself in this situation again.

But we hit a hitch.

I should be talking by now, but I can only make weird noises. Doc and Evelyn can’t figure out what’s wrong.

“Have you checked for anomalies?” Doc asks her.

“I’ve run all the tests and screens. Everything looks fine. The nanites are actually performing above expectations.”

Good to know. But I still can’t communicate. If it comes down to it, I suppose I could get a voice box, like Vel has. The intonations are pretty good. Not completely robotic like the old days. I ignore the arguing pair and continue with my physical therapy.

It takes another week before anyone works out the problem. As it turns out, Vel provides the missing piece of the puzzle. When he comes into my sickroom, I’m struggling to get out of bed on my own. My muscles are wobbly, and my coordination isn’t what it should be. But the fact I can move again on my own? Heavenly.

He rushes over to catch me before I hit the floor, and then chides me in Ithtorian. “Brown bird cannot yet fly. Her wings are weak.”

I try to answer, but only those damnable sounds come out. The bounty hunter pulls back to gaze into my face in astonishment, then speaks in universal. “You cannot manage all of the vocalizations, Sirantha, but I believe you are attempting to speak Ithtorian. A few of those clicks had meaning.”

While I’m processing that, he calls Doc and Evelyn. “I think your nanites may be trying to interface with Sirantha’s linguistic chip.”

“Of course,” Evelyn says, her strong face brightening. “They’re failing to repair her ability to speak that language because she lacks the vocal apparatus.”

Doc nods. “We’ll have to terminate this batch, alter the programming slightly, and try again.”

That alarms me. I grab Vel’s arm and mime writing. He gets me a datapad and a stylus at once. Taking them out won’t undo all the repairs? I won’t be stuck again? I don’t even try to hide my panic.

Evelyn shakes her head. “Don’t worry, Jax. It won’t change your current level of ability. But if we don’t try again, you’ll never regain your ability to speak properly. Consider it a fundamental hardware conflict.”

That makes me sound like a damned Pretty Robotics bot in need of an upgrade. But I give them the go-ahead to try again. Mary knows, I want to be normal. I’ll never take certain things for granted again.

After they head back to the lab to start reprogramming, I touch Vel’s arm to stay him. He sits down on the bed beside me, head cocked in inquiry. Thank you, I write. Vel rises and performs a lovely wa. White wave will never forsake brown bird.

Second time’s the charm. They use a signal to tell the first batch of nanites to go inert and dissolve in my bloodstream. The next day, they inject me again, and I can tell a difference pretty soon thereafter. My words start coming back. I go on with physical therapy and see light at the end of the tunnel.

After she gets word I’m no longer a helpless lump, Dina comes to visit me periodically. I don’t blame her for staying away; I wouldn’t have visited me, either. I respect her initiative. She wants me to look at modifications to the phase drive on the premise I’ll be able to interpret mechanical bits since I was part of the device myself.

“How does this look? Is it like what you saw needed to be done?” She shows me a schematic on her handheld.

“I don’t know. It looks close.”

My memory is vague and blurry. At this point, I can only remember that there was some vital link missing. Live testing is the only way to tell if she’s made the necessary connection between the phase drive and nav computer. I’m none too eager to try that again, but I know the Morgut can do this. More and more, we’re receiving reports of their appearing beside their targets, not in known jump zones that could be more readily defended.

How do you defend against an enemy that can strike anywhere ?

The station is full to bursting, and our Armada boasts fifteen ships. It’s not much, but it’s a beginning. Things have gotten worse; I’ve been listening to reports all afternoon. The Conglomerate is taking heavy hits for its lack of efficacy, and there’s been no word from Ithiss-Tor as to when we can expect reinforcements.

CHAPTER 27

It’s been fourteen days since I walked out of med bay, grateful for my second chance. But I’m now arguing with March over how I’m allowed to use it.

Currently, he’s working on training pilots and jumpers in the old style, making them combat-ready. And I want in. I’ll be damned if I let him go off to war with anyone else in the cockpit beside him. I got enough of not knowing whether he lived or died when we left him on Lachion. It’s not happening again.

“Who would make a better combat jumper than me?” I demand. “I have actual experience, unlike the rest you have in there.”

“Absolutely not,” he says. “Who knows how the nanites will interact with Doc’s implant? He hasn’t even perfected it yet, so you shouldn’t be jumping. Plus, you already have the chip Vel put in you. If—”

Right now, I have more experimental technology in me than any other human: Evelyn’s nanites and Vel’s linguistic chip. And I’ll add more as soon as Doc gives me the word that he’s come up with an implant that can regulate my grimspace repair system.

“Anything goes wrong, or they affect each other in unforeseen ways, I’m totally fragged. Thanks for the reminder. How can you not see I can’t let that dictate the way I live? If I stop being who I am because of this, I may as well be dead.”

I fold my arms, knowing I’m delaying the start of the class. Doc has undertaken the gene-therapy course to ready Argus for active duty, using my DNA, mingled with that of Baby-Z. If this works, Argus will be the next generation of jumper: my healing mutation, coupled with Baby-Z’s resistance to burnout. He’s since run extensive tests that confirm the theory he posited, based on preliminary Fugitive data.

That means the Dahlgren whelp has been accepted into the program already while I stand in the hall, arguing with Commander March, who doesn’t feel like my lover right now. He’s wearing his “in charge” face, and it looks like nothing I can say will sway him.

Except, maybe, this.

“Are you truly speaking as commander?” I ask him quietly. “Who puts the mission first? Because I don’t think you can afford to turn away any able-bodied jumper at this point. If I jump with you, it frees someone else up. We need all the ships we can muster.”

His jaw tightens. “Doc really thinks he has your implant ready to go?”

“It’s untested . . . but when has that ever stopped me?” This will make my third piece of experimental tech. Soon I’ll be adding laser cannons to my chest and upgrading to a shiny metal chassis.

Warmth indicates he’s read me, and now March wears a look of abject horror. “Mary, I hope not. That’s not funny.”

“So I’m a go.”

I don’t wait for his answer, just push past him into the training room, where everyone else is gathered.

“You won’t go out on patrol until you have the implant!” he calls after me. “I stand firm on that point.”

Since I’m none too eager to repeat the experience of being held hostage in my own flesh, I’m fine with that condition. There are eleven other navigators in the training room, including Koratati. I can only imagine what Surge had to say about the mother of his child joining the Armada. Though he’s a licensed pilot, he opted to stay on station with Siri, which I think makes sense. But it can’t be easy to see his woman stride into danger without him. At least I’ll be beside March every step of the way this time.

Constance is teaching the academic portion of the class. She’s reviewed all the old manuals, all the subject matter that was once conveyed to combat jumpers as a matter of course, before the Axis Wars, before Farwan stepped into the void and assumed control. They, of course, disbanded the corps and stratified everything so the left hand never knew what the right was doing.