Suddenly glum, I rest my chin against March’s back. If I succeed, they’ll kill my mother. If I fail, I’ll be jobless, penniless, and the laughingstock of the tier worlds, assuming the Bugs don’t execute me for some breach of etiquette.

And that doesn’t begin to factor in the danger we’ll be in, trying to get to Ithiss-Tor. I didn’t realize how much the clockwork Corp patrols factored into keeping the star lanes safe. I hope pirates and raiders will be too busy jacking cargo vessels to mess with a small cutter like ours.

A surge of heat beneath me catches my attention, but it’s the high-pitched whine coming from the Skimmer that alarms me. I hear March mutter, “Shit,” as he lets go of the controls and rolls hard left. Since I’m holding on to him, I fall as he does.

We hit the ground and tumble, careening into packed snow and stacked garbage cans. My hip feels like it has ground glass embedded in it. The Skimmer continues in its flight, but it slows without a hand on the throttle. Midair, it shudders and then blows into shards, raining fire and ash down on us.

I cover my head as the larger pieces plummet to earth. The icy air smells of burning metal. Ah, shit. Ira’s gonna be pissed. Hope he doesn’t get in trouble, poor bastard has enough problems. Then again, if being an ambassador means anything, I should have the power to promote him out of it.

“You all right?” If I had a credit for every time March has asked me that question, I wouldn’t be mourning my missing money.

“I’ll live.” I can’t restrain a whimper as he pulls me to my feet. “What are the chances this was a routine malfunction?”

Mouth compressed to a white line, he shakes his head. “Slim to none.”

I test my left hip, the one that took the impact, by taking a step, and fire streaks up my thigh. To cover this, I try to sum up our situation, ticking off the points on my gloved fingertips. “So one faction—the Conglomerate—wants me to succeed on Ithiss-Tor because they want to strengthen their position as the galactic governing body. Another faction—the Syndicate—wants me to fail because periods rife with chaos are good for the smuggler’s bottom line. And an unknown faction doesn’t want me to get there at all.”

March nods his agreement. “This was meant as a preventive measure. I’m not sure if they thought they’d end you like this or just put the fear of Mary in you.”

I snort. “That’d take more than a bunged-up Skimmer, at this point.”

“They don’t know you like I do.” With careful fingertips, he traces a feathery touch over my brows, and I feel that lovely little spark. Now’s not the time, though. “Can you walk?”

I rake a quick look around the alley. “Do I have a choice? This looks like Wickville, where auto-cab stands are few and far between.”

His face looks sharp and harsh within the shadowed frame of his black hood, but his eyes soften his whole mien. March swings me up into his arms. “You always have a choice, as long as I’m around. If you’d rather, we’ll hop a ship to Maha City, claim some land according to the New Homestead Act, and plant rutabagas or something. Is that what you want, Jax?”

For a moment, just a moment, I consider it. Imagine being planet-bound, no more grimspace, no more wildfire, no more notoriety. Just a quiet life easing into a quiet death. I could almost, almost manage it, with March by my side.

Then I shake my head, smiling. “I don’t think I’m what Chancellor Jackson had in mind when he set out to attract honest, hardworking citizens to New Terra. Besides . . . I didn’t become a jumper to die old and gray.”

Something flashes in his dark eyes, something stark and raw. His answering smile looks like it hurts in ways I can’t conceive. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

* * *

CHAPTER 6

As he carries me through the Wickville warren, l re flect on what it means for March to love me.

The man’s known nothing but loss his whole life. With me he can expect more of the same. I’m a jumper to the core, complete with all the reckless, thrill-seeking urges. Though I’ve changed since I first met him, and I’d like to believe for the better, I’m never going to be a safe bet.

I’m not a woman you bring home to Mother, pick out china patterns with, or Mary forefend, breed. I’ve seen a chunk of the universe, true, but there’s still so much more to see. I doubt I’ll ever cure this wanderlust, and I’m content with dedicating my life to failing to sate it.

Then again, maybe if I checked with him, he’d say he would rather have two weeks with me than twenty safe years with someone else. After all, that’s what I’d say if he asked me. Kai taught me nothing comes with a guarantee.

The sky darkens overhead, heavy with impending snow, and on the far horizon, the setting sun smears the white plain with a diffuse glow. Each breath stings the inside of my nostrils, puffs out like smoke. It’s becoming clear we are unequivocally lost, and we’re starting to draw attention. With March carrying me, we look vulnerable. That brings out the predatory instincts in people.

Buildings low-slung and close together separate Wickville from Ankaraj proper. There, everything shines with chrome and glastique, and even the gutters stay clean. Here, you can find whores, chem, contraband, and wicked music.

During my academy days, I spent as much time as I could out here, away from rules and regulations. I even had a boyfriend, an insanely gifted sax player named Sebastian, who called me a stroppy little bitch. We fought and fucked and fought some more. In retrospect, it’s a wonder I made it to graduation day.

The crunch of footsteps demands my attention, somehow ominous and stealthy. “Put me down. It’s better if I walk.”

Maybe I was getting heavy anyway because he complies without protest. More likely, he figures he may soon need both hands to fight. March offers a nod as a group of hooded thugs step into our path.

The leader says, “Maybe you didn’t know, but this is a toll road. You need to pay us fifty credits each in order to use it.”

First, it’s not much of a road. I’d call it an alley, myself. I can’t help it; I’ll die a smart-ass, maybe right here in this alley. “Is that fifty credits from each of us or fifty credits to each of you? Or—”

“Shut up, woman.” March doesn’t even glance at me. This better be manly posturing to impress the gangers, or he’s sleeping alone for at least a week. Even that threatening thought doesn’t rouse a reaction from him, though. “How about I beat the shit out of you, and we call it even?”

Whoa, there are seven of them. He’s sure feeling his oats after plunging ten meters off a doomed Skimmer. I don’t think I’m going to be much help in a fight, and I don’t have a weapon.

To my astonishment, the head man breaks down into a belly laugh. “March, you rat bastard, how you been? We haven’t seen you dirtside in at least five spins. I almost shat when I saw you on the vid.”

While they exchange backslapping hugs all around, I relax muscles I hadn’t realized I’d tensed. Dammit, they all had me going. And now my hip really hurts because I slid into a fighting crouch out of reflex.

Men.

“I’m all right, Surge. Except we find ourselves a bit disadvantaged in your territory. Our ride went down a ways back, and I have no idea where we are.”

“Let’s get you out of the cold, catch up a bit, and then see what we can do about a lift home. Where is home these days?”

Maybe it’s the waning light, but March looks grim and weary. “Nowhere, now. I lost the Folly.”

His pal shakes his head. “Rough luck, mate. Let me stand you one.”

They lead us into a pub via the back door, ignoring the red-faced woman who shouts at them. When Surge peels off his winter wraps, I decide he got his name because his wild, springy hair looks like he conducts large amounts of electricity as a hobby. I limp through into the common room, which is grimy, dimly lit, and full of mismatched furniture.

Ah, home. I might’ve been here with Sebastian, fifteen years ago.

Once we settle at a sticky table, I find out they aren’t gangers at all but guys March knew in the old days. From what I can gather, they fought together on Nicu Tertius. Mercenaries go wherever they get paid best, and the Nicuan Empire is always in turmoil, so much that half the time they can’t even participate in galactic politics.

By the time the server puts a mug of hot tea in my hand, I don’t care whether the cup is clean. I sip and listen while they catch up. Apparently Surge and his boys are working salvage at the moment; they got tired of fighting other people’swars. Someone named Buzzkill died in the last insurrection, and that’s when they called it a day.

“Is there a bounce-relay anywhere in this dump?” March asks.

His friend points to the far wall. The thing is positively ancient, dates back before the Axis Wars. It doesn’t even have a card reader; you key in your digits by hand.

“Let me send a message to Keri. That was one of our goals today, wasn’t it?”

I nod. “Make sure she got the data, as Tarn claims.”

“And don’t flash your cred too wide around here,” Surge cautions.

March’s gesture says Surge and I are both nervous old women. Well, he’s got that half-right. A few minutes later, he returns, looking satisfied. “She should have it in ten to twelve hours, so we’ll hear back by early morning.”

That’ll have to do. Tarn will want my decision then, but I’m not making it unless I’m sure they don’t need me on Lachion.

“So what’s the story with Tarn?” March takes a seat and picks at a plate of fried . . . something. You’d think I would be used to the way he follows my thoughts by now, but it always seems a little bit eerie. Just like the first time.

Surge shrugs. I can’t remember the names of all his guys, which is fine, because they’re drinking at other tables now. One of them watches me out of narrowed icy blue eyes. He’s a pretty one, if a little grimy around the edges, and I’m not sure what has him so interested. Maybe he’s never seen a bald chick before.

“He was a nobody before last week,” Surge says. “Now he’s pushing to make New Terra the Conglomerate capital, and the fact that Farwan fell apart here is lending him some momentum, but as far as I can tell, he has no more power than any other representative.”

Our waitress sets a carafe down at my elbow. I sniff it. The fumes decree that it’s extremely alcoholic, so I tip some into my weak tea. There’s probably a still in the basement. In Wickville they make the homebrew out of whatever they have to hand. Hopefully, it will take the edge off the pain. Medicinal usage aside, if I drink enough of this brown lightning, I won’t care about my hip anymore.

Some things never change. In poor districts, people do the jobs that bots perform in more affluent sectors. Here, the owners can’t afford maintenance, replacement parts, or chip upgrades. Humans are infinitely more expendable. If a woman wears out, you can find twenty more just like her looking for work.