won't loosen his arms around me enough to let me turn. "No. I think you've just changed for the better, but . . . it's going to kill me if you make a habit of it."
I get it now. Nobility and self-sacrifice sound wonderful in theory, but now he's seen how it feels. A dead hero is still dead at the end of the day, and you're still alone.
Gently, I run a hand along his thigh. "Sucks, doesn't it?"
"I've never been so scared in my life."
"You guys saved me. It worked out. And we got every one of those kids back here safe and sound." Which might not have happened if we'd done it any other way.
"That's the worst of it," he mutters. "You did the right thing, and I hate it."
"Because I might do it again?" How funny, he's chiding me indirectly for developing a moral compass.
"Oh, you'll definitely do it again." March sounds utterly wretched.
"Thing is," I say softly, "so will you. There are no guarantees."
"I can't even yell at you about it because you're the smallest and lightest. It made sense for you to go last."
"I know. That's why I volunteered." I pause, thinking about what happened. "If it had been anyone else, the tube might've given way sooner. No hope of rescue."
A long breath puffs into my hair. "And that's why I didn't protest."
"Done is done," I murmur. "Just . . . love me, and let tomorrow look after itself."
"I can do that," he whispers.
He permits me to turn then, and I wrap my arms around his neck. March kisses me with a delicacy and heat that work their way into my nervous system. His hair spills against my cheeks, too soft for such a hard man. If he knew how rakish it makes him look, I'm sure he would shave it off.
"Thanks for saving me."
His mouth brushes my jaw. "Didn't I promise?"
"You did." I can't help but smile over the rarity of a man who keeps his word. And he's mine. "Can we go now? It's a little chilly in here."
March murmurs an assent and swings me into his arms. Soon I'm not cold at all.
In the days that follow, I find people treat me differ ently. It's a subtle distinction, but I'm not sure what to make of it. Eventually it dawns on me--most of them call me Sirantha now, as Vel does. I'm a person to them at last, not Jax the nav-star. Only March still calls me Jax, but spoken in his deep voice, it becomes an endearment.
It's been so long since I jumped that thinking of it evokes a toe-curling ache. I want it more than sex and food combined, almost more than I want to breathe. To combat the feeling, I throw myself into training with Argus.
Even though I know it isn't real, the simulator offers a panacea for what ails me. Argus shows up early every time. I head for the training room at 0900, and find him already there. He occupies his chair with eager impatience. While I was resting from the rescue mission, the shunt in his wrist has had time to heal properly.
"You ready to do this?"
"I'd rather jump for real, but I guess I have to start somewhere."
With some effort, I control my smile. "Got that right. Jack in, and we'll begin."
"Right."
The world fades into an imitative swirl of color. It's as much like real grimspace as anything can be, but if you've been there for real, the sim leaves you a little hungry. Nonetheless, it's a convincing enough replica for our purposes.
I give him a few seconds to acclimate to the inundation of the senses. Find the nearest beacon for me.
Argus responds well to having me in his head. No overt shock. He has a strong, impetuous mind, teeming with ideas that skitter like schools of fish. With some effort, he stills his thoughts--good, it takes some jumpers ages to learn that trick--and then focuses. Argus has a harder time with distance here; all normal measures are relative. What is "close" in grimspace?
How do I know? Wouldn't that be dictated by our destination?
Yes, I answer. That's your first lesson . . . There is no distance in grimspace. We have no equipment to measure it. Everything is predicated upon the goal in straight
I get it now. Nobility and self-sacrifice sound wonderful in theory, but now he's seen how it feels. A dead hero is still dead at the end of the day, and you're still alone.
Gently, I run a hand along his thigh. "Sucks, doesn't it?"
"I've never been so scared in my life."
"You guys saved me. It worked out. And we got every one of those kids back here safe and sound." Which might not have happened if we'd done it any other way.
"That's the worst of it," he mutters. "You did the right thing, and I hate it."
"Because I might do it again?" How funny, he's chiding me indirectly for developing a moral compass.
"Oh, you'll definitely do it again." March sounds utterly wretched.
"Thing is," I say softly, "so will you. There are no guarantees."
"I can't even yell at you about it because you're the smallest and lightest. It made sense for you to go last."
"I know. That's why I volunteered." I pause, thinking about what happened. "If it had been anyone else, the tube might've given way sooner. No hope of rescue."
A long breath puffs into my hair. "And that's why I didn't protest."
"Done is done," I murmur. "Just . . . love me, and let tomorrow look after itself."
"I can do that," he whispers.
He permits me to turn then, and I wrap my arms around his neck. March kisses me with a delicacy and heat that work their way into my nervous system. His hair spills against my cheeks, too soft for such a hard man. If he knew how rakish it makes him look, I'm sure he would shave it off.
"Thanks for saving me."
His mouth brushes my jaw. "Didn't I promise?"
"You did." I can't help but smile over the rarity of a man who keeps his word. And he's mine. "Can we go now? It's a little chilly in here."
March murmurs an assent and swings me into his arms. Soon I'm not cold at all.
In the days that follow, I find people treat me differ ently. It's a subtle distinction, but I'm not sure what to make of it. Eventually it dawns on me--most of them call me Sirantha now, as Vel does. I'm a person to them at last, not Jax the nav-star. Only March still calls me Jax, but spoken in his deep voice, it becomes an endearment.
It's been so long since I jumped that thinking of it evokes a toe-curling ache. I want it more than sex and food combined, almost more than I want to breathe. To combat the feeling, I throw myself into training with Argus.
Even though I know it isn't real, the simulator offers a panacea for what ails me. Argus shows up early every time. I head for the training room at 0900, and find him already there. He occupies his chair with eager impatience. While I was resting from the rescue mission, the shunt in his wrist has had time to heal properly.
"You ready to do this?"
"I'd rather jump for real, but I guess I have to start somewhere."
With some effort, I control my smile. "Got that right. Jack in, and we'll begin."
"Right."
The world fades into an imitative swirl of color. It's as much like real grimspace as anything can be, but if you've been there for real, the sim leaves you a little hungry. Nonetheless, it's a convincing enough replica for our purposes.
I give him a few seconds to acclimate to the inundation of the senses. Find the nearest beacon for me.
Argus responds well to having me in his head. No overt shock. He has a strong, impetuous mind, teeming with ideas that skitter like schools of fish. With some effort, he stills his thoughts--good, it takes some jumpers ages to learn that trick--and then focuses. Argus has a harder time with distance here; all normal measures are relative. What is "close" in grimspace?
How do I know? Wouldn't that be dictated by our destination?
Yes, I answer. That's your first lesson . . . There is no distance in grimspace. We have no equipment to measure it. Everything is predicated upon the goal in straight
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