[Handwritten message, delivered by the guard]

Jax,

I didn’t know whether you’ll get this, but they said they would let you read low-tech correspondence. I’m a little out of practice with this kind of thing, so bear with me. I’m not sure if I’ve ever written a letter before. Everything’s via vid or voice to text, you know?

I think about you all the time. Watch the nightly bounce for news, along with everyone else. Dina and Hit have been mixing it up with the protestors, and I’m worried they’ll get themselves arrested. They’re hoping to get put in the same cell block as you. So far, nobody’s pressed charges, much to their dismay.

Vel came up with a plan to break you out, just to see if he could. I hear they have you in solitary, and they aren’t permitting visitors, especially not me. But then, we knew that going in. They have a record of the way I stole you from Farwan on Perlas, and the Conglomerate seems to think I might try a similar maneuver here on New Terra. I would, too, if I thought you wanted that. It’s just as well they won’t let me in because seeing you like that would be more than I could take. I’d have to get you out of there or die trying.

But you made your choice, and I respect that, even if I don’t understand it. I can love you without always getting how your mind works. At one point, I would’ve said I knew you better than anyone, but even you—when I’ve been inside so deep I couldn’t tell where you stopped and I began—retain secret depths and hidden spaces. I suspect I’d adore that mystery if I didn’t wind up coldcocked by it so often.

I can’t take sitting here, Jax. Doing nothing. I’m drinking too much, and I don’t sleep. While I worry about you, I also can’t stop thinking about my nephew, whether he’s safe, healthy, or happy. He might be in good hands in that state home, but he needs to know he has other options. Family. I’ve weighed this, wrestled with it. And I can’t think what else to do.

So I’m going to Nicu Tertius to look for him. Before the war ended, I promised myself I’d do whatever it took to save him. I won’t fail him like I failed my sister; I’ll be there for him.

I’ll write when I can with my comm code, so you can bounce me when you get out, as I know you will. They won’t be stupid enough to hurt you; they just need to put on a show for the grieving families. I’m sorry I’m not there with you, but they won’t let me be. I would be, if I could . . . You know that. But I can’t sit and do nothing for however long your trial takes, and this child needs me.

It kills me that I don’t even know his name.

Love you always

March.

[Handwritten reply, sent via Nola Hale]

March,

I’m not good at writing about how I feel, but I guess we have no choice. On the other hand, maybe it’s easier this way. I can talk to this paper because it won’t judge me. Not that you do.

Oh, Mary, I love you. And I’m so sorry for everything.

The guard’s staring, as if I might stab myself in the neck with this writing device. Prison isn’t like it is on the vids. At least, this one isn’t. I’m sure there are whitefish holes where you never see daylight, and it’s all tooth and nail, but this place is painfully civilized, white, and silent. Except for exercise periods, I never see anyone but my guards, and they take great care of me. By which I mean they hate my guts and would love to kill me but are legally responsible for my safety.

Some days I don’t even see the point in getting out of my bunk because I’m not going anywhere. That’s when I close my eyes and think of you. I’ve made so many mistakes, but you are not one of them. Even though my heart’s breaking right now for both of us, even though I want you so bad I hurt with it, I’m not sorry for that pain because it lingers like no ache I’ve ever had. There’s a sweetness to it because I know it’s ending, and when I see you, everything will be all right again. Because you love me, even if I’m a monster. Six hundred soldiers, March. How can I live with that? Sometimes I ask myself this question, knowing my barrister is preparing my defense.

I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt—the thought of you going. It makes me feel like I’m losing you, but you need something to do. And your nephew needs you. I get it.

My time’s almost up. Guard’s coming to take me back to my cell. I’m not allowed to take this device with me. So let me say that I miss you and I hope your search goes well.

Jax

CHAPTER 8

The female guard escorts me back to my cell, where a meal is waiting for me. “So how’s prison working out for you? Three squares a day,” she says. “Exercise with the other cellies. I hope you like your own company.”

Then she locks me in again. A hum and a buzz—that’s all it takes to drive home an immutable sense of isolation. At least I still have March’s letter; I read it a hundred times more, and I miss him so much it hurts. But he’s right—I don’t want to be rescued. I understand why he’s not sitting around Ocklind. He has a personal mission right now . . . but I treasure that letter like nothing I ever owned.

I didn’t put down my true feelings—that I do feel like he’s abandoning me. But what could he do if he stayed? It could be months before we go to trial, and I can’t see him even in the courtroom as the proceedings will be closed. There’s nothing he can do here for me, but I hate that he left.

Thereafter, the days pass in a monotonous nightmare. I once saw an old vid where convicts adopted rats and cockroaches to stave off loneliness, but my cell is clean, no cracks where anything can crawl in.

Except despair. There’s plenty of room for that.

To drive off the madness, I cast back to my combat training and run through the drills, practicing forms and fighting an imaginary opponent. From there, I move to stretches against the wall, crunches, push-ups. After a while, I stop counting; I just work until sweat streams off me, my muscles feel like water, and I cannot do another rep. At that point I stagger to my bunk and lie there in a daze. Rinse, repeat. As time passes, I notice a difference in my body, what they call prison fit.

Ms. Hale comes by regularly to pick my brain as she shapes my defense. Otherwise, I sit in my cell alone, poking at my food and waiting for the bright spot that is exercise time. There are five other female prisoners in my block, but they don’t speak to me. For obvious reasons, the guards don’t encourage fraternization.

On my tenth day in custody, things change. The old guard lady comes to fetch me earlier than usual, before I’ve had my first meal.

“Your barrister’s here.”

Mary, I hope it’s good news. Without letting my hopes spike too sharply, I follow the old screw down the hall to the visiting chambers. Ms. Hale is as polished and coiffed as ever. Not for the first time, I wonder about her fees; but she refuses to discuss that with me, as I am her client but not her employer.

“You have news?” I say in greeting.

“Good morning to you as well, Ms. Jax. You’re looking thin.”

My cheeks heat. “Sorry. It’s hard to remember my manners in here.”

“I understand. I do have news. Your trial starts next week.”

A pleasurable shock—she’d mentioned they needed to expedite the process, but that’s fast by any standards. If only March had waited. I could have gone with him, maybe. The dart of anger sparks and fades, leaving me wrestling with guilt. I made the choices that landed me here . . . and I don’t expect him to suborn his life into mine any more than I would change my dreams for him. We’re not one soul, one being, however much we love each other.

I fix my mind on business, crushing my wounded feelings. “Can you check into some things for me?”

“Certainly.”

“Find out whether Commander March has left New Terra . . .” I’m sure he has. He wrote days ago that he was heading out to look for his nephew. Don’t hope. “. . . and if Argus has started training the other navigators yet.”

“I’ll put my assistant on it as soon as I return to the office.”

“Thank you. What do you need from me for the trial?”

Ms. Hale spends a considerable amount of time briefing me on how to comport myself in court, how to elicit sympathy, and how to avoid alienating the jury of my peers with my attitude. From there, we proceed to fashion tips and other crucial trivia that will allegedly make the difference between success and failure. I listen with full attention, as I don’t want to spend the rest of my life locked up.

“Any questions?” she asks, once she finishes.

“I think I got it.”

“The guard will bring your court clothes the day before.”

That gives me almost a whole week to think about the ordeal to come, so I’m preoccupied during the exercise period, usually my favorite time of day, because at least people surround me, even if they don’t talk to me. But on the fourth day after the barrister’s visit, one of the other prisoners takes the machine next to mine. She’s young and covered in ink. Blue whorls twist up her arms and beneath the plain gray of her prison garb. Red spirals crawl down the back of her neck. The girl, for she’s hardly more than that, has dark hair that looks as though she trimmed it in the dark with a razor blade.

“You’re Jax, right?”

I offer a cautious nod, not pausing in my reps. “Can I help you?”

“Maybe,” she says. “The girls figure there’s no way in hell you’re staying here. Not you. So when you run, we want in.”

The other women watch us from the corners of their eyes, as if they expect drama. I’m not giving it to them. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m going to serve my time and stand trial.”

Her face falls. “You didn’t before.”

“That was different.” But I can see from her expression, she doesn’t see the distinction. “What’d you do anyway?”

“I killed a guy,” she answers flatly.

“I guess you had a good reason.”

“He wouldn’t take no for an answer. Turns out he had credits and a powerful family. Bad luck for me. I shoulda just let him stick his thing in me. Not like it’d be the first time.” But beneath the bravado, she’s nursing a grave wound.

This girl did what she had to defend herself, and now she’s rotting in here because some bastard’s family has connections. For the first time, a spark of the old Jax comes to life. Maybe I’ve done terrible things, and maybe I deserve to be in here. If I’m past saving, it doesn’t mean I can’t help somebody else.

“You did the right thing,” I tell her. “What’s your name?”

“Pandora.”

Of course it is. As I recall, Pandora had a knack for trouble, but I can’t blame this girl for her situation.

“When’s your trial?”

“Dunno. I think they’re trying to make sure I die in here without ever getting a fair shake.”

“How long have you been in?”

“Eight months.”

Frag. That sounds like a hellishly long time for jurisprudence to take its course, even if the wheels of justice do turn slow. That’s glacial.