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Deus ex thranxicum, he mused. Memories came flooding back.

Her chitin glistening a pure and brilliant aquamarine, feathery antennae inclined forward, twinned ovipositors forming a pair of perfect parallel arcs above the back of her abdomen, the young female thranx stood facing the center of the chamber. In addition to the customary carry-pouch slung over her thorax and a larger satchel strapped to her abdomen, she held four pistols: one in each truhand, the others in her raised foothands. The display of firepower was impressive. Even more so was the realization that she had needed only a single shot to bring down the Qwarm. The presence of all four vestigial wing cases indicated that she had yet to mate. Inlaid into her right shoulder was the gleaming enamel insignia of a full padre in the security service of the United Church.

Flinx doubted she would have been able to bring down the assassin, despite her bearing, maturity, and sharpshooting ability, had he not been fully engrossed in preparing to finish off his quarry. That total absorption had been just enough of a distraction to allow the new arrival to get off the fatal shot. Had she missed, Flinx feared the outcome might have been very different. But she had not missed. Still smiling, he started toward her. As he did so, she neatly holstered all four of her weapons.

“Your reflexes have gotten better,” he told her.

Standing on her four trulegs, she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. The maroon bands that formed horizontal stripes across her shimmering gold compound eyes were darker than most.

“And you've grown taller. You humans and your disorderly growth variations: it's enough to make those of other species who follow sane patterns of biological development believe your genetic code is packed with jokers.”

“You wouldn't get any argument on that from me.” Lowering his gaze, he eyed a truleg. “You still limp a little.”

She clicked her mandibles and kicked out slightly with the indicated limb. “The occasional limp is a psychological reflex I have not been able to shake. Structurally, the leg is fully restored. A little regenerated natural chitin, a little synthetic, and everything was made good as new. Memories, however, aren't as easily repaired. Those are what sometimes cause me to miss a step.” Almost as an afterthought, she leaned toward him. Bending low, he let the tips of her antennae caress his forehead. When he straightened, he extended a hand to contact them with his fingertips.

“You're still human, I see,” she commented when she stepped back. “Meaning that you're still short the necessary number of appendages required to live a proper civilized life.”

“My life has been anything but civilized.” His tone darkened. “Or proper. I'll fill you in and do my best to skip over some of the greater excesses.”

A foothand reached up to indicate the insignia embedded in her shoulder. “No need. As you can see, I'm no longer a padre-elect. Working for Church Security, one encounters plenty of excess on a regular basis.”

“Um—excuse me?”

At the sound of Clarity's voice Flinx turned back toward her. In the excitement of the unexpected reunion he had momentarily forgotten that his beloved was still encased in a hardened container of highly volatile explosive material.

“You two know each other?”

“Sorry, sorry.” Flinx indicated the self-assured insectoid standing poised in front of him. “Clarity, this is Sylzenzuzex. An old friend and a distant relative of Truzenzuzex. She and I originally met under—difficult circumstances. That was something like ten years ago.” He looked back at the waiting thranx. Her b-thorax pulsed slightly as she breathed, taking in air through spiracles far more advanced and oxygen-efficient than those of any Terran insect. Her personal bouquet was even more fragrant than that of the average thranx. Frangipani and rose, honeysuckle and huckleberry. It was all coming back to him.

He gestured in Clarity's direction. “Syl, meet Clarity Held. The one human being in the universe who knows who and what I am,