“No, I honestly can’t.”

“And does it bother you that I will always love Adele and that her passing grieves me? It does not seem so long to me since I was happy with her. Does that injure you in some fashion, Sirantha?”

“No.”

I see his point. We’re not like other people. Long life span gives us a different perspective on love and the nature of time. I’ve had a chance to process what Carvati told me, and I accept I’m different. Over the turns to come, my ideas will shift even more, I suspect, and that’s the nature of existence. Life without change is stagnation.

His mandible flares, telling me he’s being honest with me right now. “To my mind, one thing does not lessen another. The heart is not a glass of water, but more like an endlessly pumping spring.”

That makes sense. He’s saying that what I feel for him doesn’t reduce what I can feel for March. Love isn’t finite; it’s not miserly and small. I don’t know if March would feel the same, but he’s not like us. I certainly don’t want to hurt him more than I already have, so I won’t mention this when I see him. It’s not infidelity when it’s so different. Is it? I don’t know, but I don’t feel as though I’m doing wrong right now, standing in the lounge with Vel.

“No, it’s not. Thanks for being . . . you.”

“I am constant, Jax. Right now, your presence is enough. I have been alone for a long time, and I am content to know I will have a companion down the turns.”

“I’m sorry you were lonely.” The idea hurts me.

“I will not be anymore.”

“That much, I do promise.” I’m not sure even if March was out of the picture—and he’s not—whether I can be as open-minded as Adele. I love Vel, but I’m not positive where my limits lie, and at this juncture, I’m not free to find out. At least, not in that way. If we crossed that line, then it would be infidelity.

He goes on, “If there is ever more between us, then I will take pleasure in that as well when the time comes, even knowing that day may never arrive.”

I couldn’t ask for more than such patience and unconditional acceptance.

“So you’re happy to wander with me, after La’heng.”

“I am.”

“Sometimes I try to imagine what I’ll do, after we finish on La’heng. The possibilities are endless.”

“What do you want, Sirantha?”

Nobody ever asks me that—and it’s part of the reason Vel is so special to me. “I’m not sure yet. But I always loved finding new beacons and charting the territory.”

“Blazing new paths in the Star Road.”

Oh yeah, he gets it. “Does that sound like something you’d enjoy?”

“As it is something I have never done, I believe I would.”

“Would you consider getting a pilot’s license?”

Hit and Dina have formed their own crew, and they have dreams that don’t include us. It hurts to think of all of us fragmenting, but March has already embarked on his own path, and Doc is dead. Loras is free. It stands to reason I need a pilot willing to commit to me, and one with Vel’s longevity would be an added bonus.

“I am.”

“You can take the training on La’heng. That way, we’ll be ready to go together when it’s time.”

Vel nods. “I will make the arrangements.”

Pleased, I rest my head against his arm, and he touches a claw lightly to my hair. Then he leans down and brushes the side of his face against mine. An ache springs up because I know what it means. He loves me, too. His devotion is not loud or demanding, but quiet and steadfast, a deep tidal pool that never runs dry. The contact is not repugnant, though his face feels hard and smooth. There are gaps in his chitin, where he can appreciate a touch. I can’t go down that road with him. Not now. But like Adele, I find too much to admire in his fine spirit to be horrified by the body Mary gave him.

One day, we’ll be self-sufficient. His knack with machines and my knowledge of gunnery make us a complementary team. I can see us turns from now, charting new beacons—with nobody ordering us around or sending us to do boring jumps. That sounds like the closest I’ll ever get to paradise.

“I always loved first contact, too. Like with the Mareq.”

No telling how long we’ll be on La’heng, but afterward—freedom. I live for the moment when we’re obligated no longer, and I’ve discharged all my debts.

“Always with the risks.” But there’s a fondness in his words, echoed by my colors on his carapace.

We are bonded through camaraderie and shared experience that few would understand. But it doesn’t matter whether others find our relationship comprehensible; it’s enough that we know the reasons why. I only know that it works, and I never want to be without him. We’ve been through too much together.

I make up my mind then, pressing my comm. “Hit, get Argus in the nav chair. We have one stop to make before La’heng.”

CHAPTER 41

Nicu Tertius isn’t what I expected. Given the torment March harbored due to his experiences with the place, I expected a world of burning brimstone, black volcanic rock steaming sulfur into the atmosphere. Instead, it’s actually quite lovely as we make our final approach. Not on the level of Venice Minor, of course, before the bombing, but there’s an old-world charm in the lines of the buildings and the way the city is laid out to follow the river.

We’re putting down in Tyre, where March lives. When I saw him last, he asked me to move here, and I told him I would think about it. There could be no other answer besides the one I’ve come to give, but I figured I owed it to him to say it in person; it’s not the sort of thing that should be left to the bounce. Still, I’m not looking forward to the conversation, and I toy with the idea.

If Kai had asked, would I have been willing to give up flying for him? The answer comes immediately—no. And he wouldn’t ask, either. He understood it meant everything to me, and that all my loves come second to that great one. Maybe it’s wrong to love a thing like grimspace more than any single person in your life; I don’t know. But I can’t be other than who I am, and I hope March gets that. Mary knows, I don’t want to hurt him any more than I want to wind up heartbroken.

“Are you sure you wish to do this alone?” Vel asks.

“I have to.”

He nods, and the others head out to explore the city while I hail a hover cab and input March’s address on the pad. I’m beyond nervous as the lights zoom past; at the speed we travel, the colors become lines in the sky, streaks of red, white, and green keeping pace with the vehicle. The cab puts down outside a ten-story structure, constructed of a pale material that gleams in the moonlight. It’s a lovely place, echoes of palatial style. But then, all architects want to invoke the idea that the emperor—or one of the hundred hopefuls vying for the title—would be glad to live in his building.

At the front door, the bot scans me, then says, toneless, “What is the purpose of your visit?”

“I’m here to see March in 1002.”

“One moment, please.”

Excellent security. Naturally he would want to be sure Sasha is safe here. He’s all that’s left of his sister. A couple of minutes later, the vid-cam scans the street to make sure nobody is trying to enter behind me, no suspicious movement in the perimeter, and the door kicks open for exactly ten seconds—long enough for me to step through and nobody else.

The bot tells me, “I will unlock the lift to transport you to the tenth floor.”

I don’t need to respond to that, so I simply get on and let it take me up. March’s flat occupies the whole tenth story, which tells me the Conglomerate did well by him in the severance package. He sure didn’t use my money for this. Not that I would’ve minded.

When I approach the door, it swings open, and there’s March. He steals my breath. I always think I’ve forgotten something about his rough appeal; his strong-ugly face epitomizes the masculine ideal in my eyes—with his crooked nose, square jaw, sensual mouth, and amber-laced eyes. His face bristles with a couple days’ worth of beard. No military dress code anymore, but he’s still wearing soldier’s pants with all their pockets in a drab green. His white shirt is a little wrinkled, but he’s broad at the shoulders, strong across the chest. It hurts me all over again that he looks older. I can see the turns I missed in his face, creases at mouth, lines at the eyes.

Oh, March.

He wraps his arms around me before I can say a single word. The pressure of his arms feels so good, so right, that for a moment, I wonder if I’m crazy. Why not just stay? He kisses me with heat and longing, his hands in my hair, until I can’t think.

But a small person nudges forward and between us. Sasha looks so much like the still I once saw of Svetlana, with his fair hair and sea-green eyes. I remember the TK scare on Gehenna, and my ardor cools. March lets go of me.

“Sasha, you remember Jax.”

By his expression, he does, but he’s afraid I’ll take away the one person who’s solely his, and I’m not eloquent enough to convince him that if it came down to a choice, March would pick flesh and blood every time. That surety might hurt another woman, but I understand him, and I’d never put him in that position. That’s part of the reason why I’ve come.

“So glad to see you. You’re just in time for dinner.” In a polite, small voice, Sasha continues, “We’re having pasta. It’s my favorite.”

“What kind of sauce?”

“I like it with cheese,” he volunteers.

“Sounds good.” I feel so awkward talking with him. Some people have the instinctive knack, but I’m not one of them. So I try to treat him like a normal grown human. “What kind?”

“White,” he answers.

“Me, too.” Hey, we have a little common ground. “With cream?”

“Yeah, it’s good that way. We have to eat vegetables, too, though.”

“Green and crunchy?”

Sasha nods. “Always.”

Sounds like March is doing a good job. He knows how to raise a kid.

“It’s almost ready,” he says, ushering me in.

Lovely place. The first room is enormous, furnished with good synth-wood that shines almost like the real thing. Everything is comfortable but spacious, with plenty of room for a kid to run without tripping or breaking something. At the far end of the main room is the kitchen-mate, then a hall that leads down to what must be the san-facilities and bedrooms. It’s so strange to feel March’s imprint here; this is where he’s lived for turns . . . without me. A pang goes through me at how thoroughly he’s settled. There’s art on the walls, for Mary’s sake—some of it drawn by Sasha’s hand. This is his home, for all he once recorded in a vid message that I was his home. That’s not true anymore, if it ever was.

For long moments, I study the pictures. In prints, he favors black and white with bursts of red. In a rare intuitive flash, I realize that for him, I am those flashes of color . . . the irresistible brightness in each frame. It’s both humbling and lovely, that revelation, but the color is always running toward the edge of the picture, always going away, whereas the other images in the picture are solid and show no signs of motion. That’s March and me, beautifully illustrated, and my heart breaks a little.