Whistler’s vessel hung like a tumor from the underbelly of the ruined prison galleon. Already, Fleur’s former home was falling apart in great segments as bulkheads burst with the same squealing porcine terror that had impaled her on the bridge just after they had been boarded. With a shudder and a quick burst from the phase rudder, the agents’ vessel detached from the fiery wreck. Fleur watched silently from a porthole as her home of the last seven months drifted into the void.

“You don’t say much, do you?”

She turned to meet Nine’s gaze blankly. “What model is he?”

Whistler sat down in a swirl of black robe in the thrust chair facing Fluer. “How did you know?”

“I always know. What model?”

“Nine is a nine.”

She scoffed. “Figures… And you? How long until they deem your techbase obsolete, Whistler darling?”

The manufactured grin faltered for an instant, but then returned in force. “Dear girl, I will never be obsolete. I am one-of-a-kind.”

Fleur smiled her one-cornered smile and flexed her beautiful new hand, still held in place by a metal brace. It worked, but it would never be hers. There was no freckle to denote her identity. She wondered whose pattern had been sacrificed to give her a new prosthesis.

“Why?”

Whistler stopped twirling the shock of pure white hair that grew from his hairline for a moment and looked toward the porthole. “You should know by now, little flower.”

“What happened? Did Mother…”

“She did, and you will, and we won’t, and it does.”

“How many galleons are left?”

Nine’s eyes lit up. Whistler grinned.