Aftermath (Sirantha Jax 5)

“At the center, being prepped.”

“There will be a ritual?”

I suppose he’s attended a few such services, Trapper and Smitty, at least. Before now, I never considered what it meant for him, living among us. He must be so tired of losing people, and yet he goes on. He does not return to his own people because he cannot. He is a changed being, not wholly Ithtorian in spirit, and their ways chafe him now.

“Yes, tomorrow. I handled all the arrangements according to the vid she left. Would you like to watch it?”

“No, I think not. When I see her like this, it is harder for me to remember her as she was, before.”

Before she got old.

“That’s why she sent you away, you know. Not because she didn’t love you. Because she did.”

Vel stands so very still, but such pain lives in that stillness. “It should not be so sharp after all this time. I should have reached some acceptance.”

This is an area in which I have some experience. “I’d like to say you forget the pain, that it fades, and you only remember the sweet moments, but that would be a lie. Sometimes, with Kai, I go along without thinking of him for days or weeks at a time, then something sets it off—a smell, a man’s laugh—and then the knowledge drowns me. That he’s gone. I’ll never see or touch him again. And it is brand-new, all over again.”

“How do you bear it?”

“Because they’re worth it. So you ride out the rough days.”

“I . . . loved her, for all I said we do not bond as humans do. She taught me.”

“Love,” I correct gently. “And you always will.”

He turns away to gaze out her window, as he must’ve done with her at his side, so often before. And then he strides into her bedroom, which he might have shared, turns past. At first, I think there’s nothing here of him to speak of their time together, then he picks up a framed image. It’s not a simple still. This is Adele with a tall, thin, and average-looking man. Brown hair, brown eyes. Not special, except it’s Vel. It is. They’re at the market—she’s bright with joy—and some random art photographer has captured these ten seconds, where she gazes up at him, and then he leans down to rub his cheek against hers.

Adele knows, I realize. This was taken after he told her the truth, and so he’s offering affection in the Ithtorian way. And her reaction is . . . luminous. Vel watches that perfect moment loop endlessly. His claws tighten on the frame, and a small sound escapes him. Nothing I ever heard from him before, but I don’t need the chip to tell me it’s born of raw anguish.

“Would you leave me for a time?” he asks quietly.

“How long?”

“The night should be sufficient. I will see you in the morning, Sirantha.”

On some level, I understand what he intends—a final, solitary good-bye, where the dust of her skin lingers. Vel can detect it on a level humans cannot. It must feel, to him, as if her death surrounds him even now. He said to me once, My people can communicate with pheromones, so our olfactory sense is more refined.

“Will it bother you if I spend the night upstairs?” I want to stay nearby in case he needs me; I don’t trust his composure. An outward show of grief would reassure me, but that’s not his way.

“Of course not.”

I pass the night in the flat where I once spent six glorious weeks, the only path I’ve ever chosen for myself. Until now. So it’s only right that the circle carried me back to her, even if I grieve in the unchanging light, gazing out over the city that never seems to sleep. Here Gehenna offers vice- never-ending.

I stand and remember Adele.

She rented me a room in her building; the word “garret” seems to apply. My flat used to be storage space before someone took the bright idea to replace half the walls with beveled glastique. Consequently, my ceilings slant beneath the line of the roof. She told me it used to be an artist’s studio; nobody’s ever actually lived up here before. But I don’t mind; the open vista and the altitude make me feel like I’m flying, which might make a mudsider uneasy, but I’ve spent so much of my life on ships, this place feels perfect. It feels like home.

When she brings a bowl of soup up for my lunch, I just have to ask, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

She gives me a Madonna’s smile. “Mary teaches us that’s how you change the world, one soul at a time, one kindness at a time. That’s the only way it’ll ever take root.”

“Didn’t they kill her for that doctrine?” I ask, taking the dish from her.

Adele shakes her head. “No, that was her son. They knew better than to martyr her. It was meant as an object lesson from the authorities, but it didn’t shut her mouth. She went on to live a good life.”

I’ve never been religious, never thought much on the oaths I swear, but I pause in spooning up a bite of soup. “That’s why she’s revered? For living a good life?”

I don’t mean to minimize its importance, but I can tell my tone struck a chord because she drops down on the battered old sofa that came with my apartment. “Isn’t that more than it sounds like, Sirantha? It’s easy to do right when everything goes right. But let everything go wrong, and see how difficult it becomes.”

Now with some turns distance from that statement and the benefit of greater heartbreak than I thought I could ever bear, I acknowledge the rightness of those words until Vel comes to tell me it is time to go.

CHAPTER 19

The service is lovely. All the girls from Hidden Rue attend, and Domina closes the club in honor of the occasion. Afterward, we drink together, raising endless glasses to Adele, and I wonder if they know that my silent Ithtorian companion was her lover. None of them gives any sign, and since pain radiates from Vel’s quiet space, I don’t invite them in.

But I wish they did realize he has the right to mourn her as a partner.

Before long, they’re all sloppy-drunk, but the nanites won’t let me overindulge. As I’ve known for sometime, I’m not human. Not anymore. I’m something else, something different, and I hate it, but life has pushed me to this point. Oh, I don’t disavow my complicity in the process. I made the choices every step of the way because the consequences would have been worse if I hadn’t. But I miss the woman I was, even as I learn to accept the new creature I’ve become.

“Are we done here?” Vel asks, watching the others tell anecdotes about Adele. “Have we been respectful?”

“I think we can go.”

As if in answer to my thoughts, my comm sounds. “I have to take this,” I say to the group, and I push away from the table and head outside to the bustling pedestrian walk. I smell distant airs from the market, sweet and savory, copper kiln smells and the spicy scent of kosh. A woman sits on a bench across the way, wearing a smoker’s dreamy-eyed smile.

“Jax?” It’s Dr. Carvati. “I have your Mareq hatchling ready for transport, along with the synthesized protein you requested.”

“Thanks. I’m on my way.”

Popping my head back in, I signal Vel that we’re heading out. He does not take his leave of anyone gathered, and they’re all too numb to notice. Probably best this way. Domina will wrap up Adele’s business affairs; she only asked that I stand by Vel—and I would’ve done that anyway.

A hover cab takes us to the clinic. This time, the reception-bot sends us straight back, but not to Carvati’s office. Instead, we hang a right and head to the in-house labs. Though I know what’s coming, I’m not emotionally prepared for my first glimpse of Baby-Z mark two. He looks exactly the same with his webbed toes and translucent skin, so tiny and fragile. I see the first clinging to March’s chest, clinging to life with such tenacity, even though we had no fragging idea how to care for him. In the end, I killed him, and with this hatching, I must try to make amends.

I greet Carvati with a handshake and a nod of thanks. “Your team did great work, but I suspect I shouldn’t let him imprint on me until I’ve had the procedure.”

The doctor agrees. “It should only take an hour or so. I can bump you up if you promise not to tell my waiting list.”

I smile. “Deal. I’d also like you to upgrade the processing option on my linguistic chip if you can.”

“Not a problem.”

Carvati doesn’t put me under completely. Drugs send me to a halfway place, where it’s warm and hazy, streams of light that likely come from his equipment. A local anesthetic numbs the area, so I don’t feel any of the pain, only pressure as he works. Eventually, the lights flow into darkness, and when I awaken, I hear:

“Are you with me, Ms. Jax?”

“Yeah.”

Carvati goes on, “You may notice some residual soreness and you’ll need to apply Nu-Skin to the incision twice daily until it heals.”

“I understand.”

“The vocalizer works on neural command. You tell it to switch languages, then speak. Now try to say something in Ithtorian for me.”

I glance around for Vel and find him within arm’s reach. His posture still radiates deep mourning, but he remains steadfast as ever. Honest to Mary, I don’t know how Adele found the strength to let him go. When my fingers flex, he covers my hand with one claw.

Ithtorian, I think. This gizmo doesn’t have an on-off switch, so . . . Speak Ithtorian, I tell the vocalizer. And then I say, “Thank you for being here.”

But it comes out in clicks, chitters, and whistles. Vel’s mandible flares in instinctive response; I can only imagine how strange it is for him, hearing me speak his native tongue. Well, with technical assistance, but still.

Also in Ithtorian, he replies, “It is my pleasure.”

“By my reckoning,” Carvati says, “the operation was a success. Another hour in recovery, and you should be ready to go.”

The residual soreness he mentioned before tingles in my throat, creeping about the numb edges. “Will I be able to jump today?”

“Give it eight hours,” the doctor advises me.

So a night’s sleep, then, basically. Medi-bots move me into the recovery room, and I doze through my waiting period. Vel wakes me when I can leave with a touch on the shoulder. Nodding, I slide off the bed and get dressed. After what we shared on Ithiss-Tor, there is no reason for modesty between us, and the human body offers him nothing in the way of visual interest or titillation.

From there, we head for the labs again, where they’re readying Baby-Z for transport. This version is feisty, too, legs kicking as they lift him out of his incubator. Remembering how it’s done, I open my shirt, slick my chest with the synthesized protein gel, and take the hatchling, who unerringly hones in on my heartbeat. He attaches just below the protein slick on my sternum, and his tiny tongue licks out to explore the taste. I sense the precise moment when he decides I’ll do and snuggles in, reassured by my warmth, my heartbeat, and the fact that I can feed him.

I’ll do better this time, I vow silently. I will protect you.

Tears sting in my eyes, but I don’t let them spill over. Vel watches me with grave concern, but his silence offers no clue as to his thoughts. With equal reticence, I wish Dr. Carvati well, and add, “Don’t forget to ping me when your team finds something for the La’heng.”