We’re putting down in Tyre, where March lives. When I saw him last, he asked me to move here, and I told him I would think about it. There could be no other answer besides the one I’ve come to give, but I figured I owed it to him to say it in person; it’s not the sort of thing that should be left to the bounce. Still, I’m not looking forward to the conversation, and I toy with the idea.

If Kai had asked, would I have been willing to give up flying for him? The answer comes immediately—no. And he wouldn’t ask, either. He understood it meant everything to me, and that all my loves come second to that great one. Maybe it’s wrong to love a thing like grimspace more than any single person in your life; I don’t know. But I can’t be other than who I am, and I hope March gets that. Mary knows, I don’t want to hurt him any more than I want to wind up heartbroken.

“Are you sure you wish to do this alone?” Vel asks.

“I have to.”

He nods, and the others head out to explore the city while I hail a hover cab and input March’s address on the pad. I’m beyond nervous as the lights zoom past; at the speed we travel, the colors become lines in the sky, streaks of red, white, and green keeping pace with the vehicle. The cab puts down outside a ten-story structure, constructed of a pale material that gleams in the moonlight. It’s a lovely place, echoes of palatial style. But then, all architects want to invoke the idea that the emperor—or one of the hundred hopefuls vying for the title—would be glad to live in his building.

At the front door, the bot scans me, then says, toneless, “What is the purpose of your visit?”

“I’m here to see March in 1002.”

“One moment, please.”

Excellent security. Naturally he would want to be sure Sasha is safe here. He’s all that’s left of his sister. A couple of minutes later, the vid-cam scans the street to make sure nobody is trying to enter behind me, no suspicious movement in the perimeter, and the door kicks open for exactly ten seconds—long enough for me to step through and nobody else.

The bot tells me, “I will unlock the lift to transport you to the tenth floor.”

I don’t need to respond to that, so I simply get on and let it take me up. March’s flat occupies the whole tenth story, which tells me the Conglomerate did well by him in the severance package. He sure didn’t use my money for this. Not that I would’ve minded.

When I approach the door, it swings open, and there’s March. He steals my breath. I always think I’ve forgotten something about his rough appeal; his strong-ugly face epitomizes the masculine ideal in my eyes—with his crooked nose, square jaw, sensual mouth, and amber-laced eyes. His face bristles with a couple days’ worth of beard. No military dress code anymore, but he’s still wearing soldier’s pants with all their pockets in a drab green. His white shirt is a little wrinkled, but he’s broad at the shoulders, strong across the chest. It hurts me all over again that he looks older. I can see the turns I missed in his face, creases at mouth, lines at the eyes.

He wraps his arms around me before I can say a single word. The pressure of his arms feels so good, so right, that for a moment, I wonder if I’m crazy. Why not just stay? He kisses me with heat and longing, his hands in my hair, until I can’t think.

But a small person nudges forward and between us. Sasha looks so much like the still I once saw of Svetlana, with his fair hair and sea-green eyes. I remember the TK scare on Gehenna, and my ardor cools. March lets go of me.

“Sasha, you remember Jax.”

By his expression, he does, but he’s afraid I’ll take away the one person who’s solely his, and I’m not eloquent enough to convince him that if it came down to a choice, March would pick flesh and blood every time. That surety might hurt another woman, but I understand him, and I’d never put him in that position. That’s part of the reason why I’ve come.

“So glad to see you. You’re just in time for dinner.” In a polite, small voice, Sasha continues, “We’re having pasta. It’s my favorite.”

“What kind of sauce?”

“I like it with cheese,” he volunteers.

“Sounds good.” I feel so awkward talking with him. Some people have the instinctive knack, but I’m not one of them. So I try to treat him like a normal grown human. “What kind?”

“White,” he answers.

“Me, too.” Hey, we have a little common ground. “With cream?”

“Yeah, it’s good that way. We have to eat vegetables, too, though.”

“Green and crunchy?”

Sasha nods. “Always.”

Sounds like March is doing a good job. He knows how to raise a kid.

“It’s almost ready,” he says, ushering me in.

Lovely place. The first room is enormous, furnished with good synth-wood that shines almost like the real thing. Everything is comfortable but spacious, with plenty of room for a kid to run without tripping or breaking something. At the far end of the main room is the kitchen-mate, then a hall that leads down to what must be the san-facilities and bedrooms. It’s so strange to feel March’s imprint here; this is where he’s lived for turns . . . without me. A pang goes through me at how thoroughly he’s settled. There’s art on the walls, for Mary’s sake—some of it drawn by Sasha’s hand. This is his home, for all he once recorded in a vid message that I was his home. That’s not true anymore, if it ever was.

For long moments, I study the pictures. In prints, he favors black and white with bursts of red. In a rare intuitive flash, I realize that for him, I am those flashes of color . . . the irresistible brightness in each frame. It’s both humbling and lovely, that revelation, but the color is always running toward the edge of the picture, always going away, whereas the other images in the picture are solid and show no signs of motion. That’s March and me, beautifully illustrated, and my heart breaks a little.

But if he were the portraits on my walls, he would be the one going away. He left me twice, and I never tried to stop him from doing what he thought was right. A tiny hope I didn’t realize I’d been nurturing shrivels up and puffs away in my next breath. I’m not going to convince him to come with me. I recall what he said before, and nothing’s changed; Sasha needs to attend school. He’s not an average kid who can be raised in the haphazard way I was. When I was thirteen, my parents took to traveling, mostly because the gallery wasn’t doing well, and I suspect my mother was getting involved in shady matters, even then, maybe even for the reason she claimed—that my father had no head for business, and they were drowning in debt.

From that point on, my attendance at school was sporadic at best. I didn’t mind; I loved ships, and I loved the freedom. Even dealing with an AI for lessons didn’t deter my determination to join the academy, as soon as I realized I met the criteria to be a jumper. But what worked for me wouldn’t suffice for Sasha.

“Out here.” March leads the way to a table out on the balcony.

The servo-bot is already setting the food out; this rectangular model with food-prep capacity inside reminds me of the ones on Ithiss-Tor. I wonder if they’re already in wide commercial production off world. Well. Maybe “already” isn’t the right word. I keep forgetting how long it seems like it’s been, and how long it’s actually been. Different time streams, different ’verses.

We sit down to eat, and Sasha has to be coaxed to speak. He’s shy with me, still, worried that I’ll prove more important to his uncle, whom he calls Dad. I don’t blame the kid for feeling insecure. He’s never had anybody who belonged to him before; he went straight into crèche-rearing because of his unusual gift, and he was five turns old before March found him. So he’s pretty scared right now. What if March stops loving him because of me?

“Tell her your good news,” March prompts him.

“I took top marks in the control competition.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

Without meeting my eyes, he explains, “It’s a program at school that tests how well we can manage our abilities.”

“Good job.” With TK like his, it’s imperative he can handle the pressure of the gift, and for his sake, I’m glad he doesn’t have to deal with the constant influx of people’s thoughts, like March.

“My teacher says kids in the state homes don’t have as much support as me, so that’s why I won.”

“She’s probably right.”

“How long will you be here?” Sasha asks, after the food is gone. Then, with a nervous glance at March, he adds, desperate for approval, “You can stay as long as you want.”

“That’s kind of you,” I reply.

My heart breaks a little more.

As we leave the table, the bot clears the dishes, and March takes Sasha off for their bedtime ritual. On the balcony, I stand and stare at the stars, trying to imagine what it would be like, living here, seeing the same constellations in the night sky. But I can only think of what waits beyond the atmosphere, all the wonders I’ve yet to see.

As I’d known when he asked me to join him, I can’t imagine this life, the one he’s chosen, as mine. And it’s time to tell him so.