Aftermath - Ann Aguirre [121]
“Will it hurt you?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “There is no feeling in the carapace.”
It takes an hour before the others are served. Eventually, it’s just Vel and me, watching the Friendly Robotics model receptionist. She’s one of the efficient-looking Jane units with a no-nonsense hairstyle and a plain face. The Lila—like the form we found for Constance—had the disadvantage of looking too sexy; it didn’t serve well in business. That’s part of why they retired the model; the other reason was that people often bought it as a sexual surrogate, due to its extreme attractiveness, and the licensed sex workers protested, saying such technology cut into their ability to earn a living. If a client can purchase a partner for the equivalent of five visits to a professional, it pays for itself in no time. So they implemented the Jane, and we’ve seen her all across the galaxy over the course of our travels.
At last, the artist calls us back. She is a slight woman whose skin shows no sign of the interesting patterns she puts on other people, but perhaps she prefers to keep such designs private. I can understand that. Despite signs of Rejuvenex treatments, probably to keep her hands steady, she’s also older than I expected, and I wonder if she knew him when he was with Adele. Her warm greeting indicates that may be the case.
“I’m glad to see you as yourself, my friend. It was a shame you had to hide for all those turns.”
“Different times,” Vel says.
She nods at that. “Truer words were never spoken. How things have changed.”
She glances at me then. “You must be Jax.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised; people have been recognizing me for turns. “Nice to meet you.”
The artist shakes my hand. “I’m Colette. Do you know what you want?”
Though I haven’t discussed it with Vel, I do. “The Ithtorian symbol for grimspace in black, red, and silver.”
“Black for the outline, red for accent, silver for fill?”
I am impressed. “Exactly. How did you know?”
“That’s how I’d choose to do it.”
Turning to Vel, I ask, “Is that all right with you? I know it’s not the color of Ithtorian honor marks.”
Those are kind of a mustard yellow, and they don’t do designs. Those are just slashes of rank. If we go forward, this will separate him from his peers in yet another way, but this is a personal pledge between us, not a promotion. I’ve worn his mark for turns, apparently; it’s time to complete the circle.
“I like it,” he says. “It represents you well.”
Colette busies herself with the supplies. “I’ll get prepped, then.”
The bell rings, but she ignores it. I gather we’ll be her last clients of the day. A chemical smells wafts from the container she’s mixing in; this must be the acid wash that textures the chitin so it will hold the ink. I confess I find the process fascinating. I sit quiet as she finishes and turns to Vel. Unlike the Ithtorians, she doesn’t treat a wide area. They assume the subject will want a large patch prepared, thus stating the intent to work toward greater honor. Instead, the artist draws the pattern I want with a delicate brush, painting it on first with the base treatment, thus readying the carapace for a very specific pattern. Mine.
Until this moment, I didn’t know exactly how I’d feel about this step. I was sure, but you can’t know how a moment will feel until it arrives. Everything else is just guesswork and anticipation. But right now, I’m so proud, I can’t stand it. He’s willing to proclaim to the world that he’s my partner; I wonder if he feels that way about his pattern on my throat. And even if nobody else in the galaxy knows what this ink exchange means, it matters to him. I can tell by the cant of his head.
“Just hold still,” she tells him, as she finishes the first step. “We need to give this