Aftermath - Ann Aguirre [30]
“That’s what they tell me.” She continues her workout, eyes downcast. “But I’m not sure I believe it.”
Considering the mess I’m in, maybe I shouldn’t be giving advice. I finish my exercise in silence, then the guards come to escort us back to our cells. This isn’t a high-end prison. I’ve heard about places where you live just like on the outside with access to the comm network and vids. Here, they make sure you have plenty of time to think. That’s not a good thing.
Lately, I’ve been dreaming of Doc and Evelyn. Of everyone who died in the Battle of Venice Minor, they haunt me.
Tonight is no exception, but the nightmare takes on a different shape this time. It’s strange because I know I’m asleep, but that doesn’t alter the shock of seeing Saul in my cell. He paces the small room, then faces me.
“I should’ve known you’d be the death of me,” he says conversationally.
“I’m so sorry.” The apology is pointless because I’m begging my own subconscious for forgiveness, and that Jax is a hard, merciless bitch. I ought to know.
“You realize you’re fragged.”
“In what way?” There are so many.
“There’s nobody who can monitor your nanites anymore. Or your regulatory implant, for that matter.”
Frag me. With everything else, I never thought of this. That’s probably to my credit, as it’s a selfish concern, but a valid one nonetheless.
“Maybe another scientist can reverse engineer the technology,” I offer, “based on your notes.”
He laughs. In my dreams, he’s always happy, which makes them something other than nightmares. “A good idea, except Evie was paranoid about data theft. All her work was on the Triumph.”
Which is now in pieces. “No backups?”
“Sorry.”
So am I. The only two people who understood what they did to me are now dead. “What does this mean?”
“Hard to say. But you’ll have a hell of time finding out, won’t you?”
I wake then to an impersonal flicker of light above my bunk. To kill the time until the guard comes for me, I pace, counting each step. I’m on my thousandth when the door opens. It’s the middle-aged guard this time. She tosses me a packet.
“You have five minutes to make yourself presentable.”
This is it.
Quickly, I don the dark blue suit. My barrister has selected an elegant cut that makes me look fragile and refined. No black, as that would make me look sallow and sinister. Instead, we’re going for ladylike sorrow and regret. Mary only knows if I can pull it off. Last, I pull my hair back away from my face and use the tie they’ve given me to bind it in place. Ms. Hale will make up my face, nothing heavy, just enough to make me mediagenic; she intends to play to the jury.
True to her word, the guard returns for me shortly, and I follow her down the hall. She doesn’t shackle me for transport, unexpected but welcome.
We pass a series of security doors and into the main government center, where spectators and paparazzi swarm toward the courtroom. They catch sight of me, but the officials did a better job predicting the traffic volume this time, so the area’s already cordoned off, and they content themselves with shouting at me. The guard shoves me past—not that I wanted to speak with any press—and turns me over to Nola Hale, who’s waiting outside the doors.
“Showtime,” she says.
“What did you discover about—”
“Commander March has taken a leave of absence. Personal business. Nothing more was available.”
Personal business . . . so he’s already gone. After his note, I’m not surprised, but a sliver of hurt works its way beneath my skin. Deep down, I wanted him to stay and watch the trial on the bounce, so I could imagine him nearby for moral support. But I’m glad he isn’t facing criminal charges as a result of my actions and our relationship. The fact that they’ve let him go about his business is a good thing. It is.
“And the other matter?”
“Argus Dahlgren has, indeed, begun retraining all Conglomerate navigators how to read the new beacon signals.” Her tone sounds odd.
“That’s good, right?”
“For the Conglomerate. Two nontier worlds have already applied to