The Mar-Shada outfit was a far cry from the tailored silks of House Freides. Lenard had provided it—sturdy, dun-colored trousers of coarse fabric, a thick leather belt, a high-collared tunic that laced up the front, and a worn, sleeveless duster made from the scaled hide of some local beast. It was practical, anonymous, and it hid the lines of the Myrden suit perfectly. Vernon pulled on the heavy boots, feeling the weight of them anchor the unfamiliar balance of his new body.

Marius watched, already dressed in similar, darker garb. “The Whisper needs supplies. Fuel cells, water stabilizers, nutrient packs. Standard ship-stock.” He handed Vernon a cred-chip and a short list on a data-slate. “You’re going to get them.”

Vernon blinked. “Me? Alone?”

“Consider it the first test. You walk into that settlement, you interact as Lauren Kerigan, you complete a transaction, and you walk back out. No one can vouch for you but you.” Marius’s voice was low, matter-of-fact. “I have my own preparations to make. I can’t be seen with you looking like this.”

A new thread of anxiety pulled tight in Vernon’s chest. “Your own preparations? You’re getting a new identity too?”

“The Dominion will be looking for Arturus Freides’s personal shadow as diligently as they’ll be looking for his heir,” Marius said, his gaze steady. “It’s better for Lauren Kerigan to have an uncle or a guardian accompanying her. Someone plausible. I’ll be that someone.”

The logic was sound, cold, and efficient. It meant Marius was also being erased, piece by piece. Vernon nodded, swallowing hard. “I’ll do it.”

“Good.” Marius reached into a satchel and pulled out two items. The first was a compact laser pistol, its grip worn smooth. “Mar-Shada. Keep it accessible but not obvious.” He placed it in Vernon’s hand; its weight was a grim comfort.

The second item was a small, silvery disc, no larger than a coin. “From Lenard. A sub-dermal vocal modulator.” Before Vernon could react, Marius stepped forward and pressed the disc against the side of his neck, just below the jawline. There was a sharp, cold pinch, a brief burning sensation, and then nothing. Vernon’s fingers flew to the spot, but he felt only smooth skin. The device had melted into him.

“Try speaking,” Marius instructed.

Vernon opened his mouth. “What do I—” The words that emerged were not his own.

They were higher, softer, with a lighter timbre. Undeniably, unquestionably female. The sound hit his own ears like a physical blow. He gasped, and the gasp itself was a woman’s startled intake of breath.

“Stars above,” he whispered, and the whisper was hers too. A wave of dizzying vertigo washed over him. It was one thing to see a stranger in the mirror, another to hear one speaking with his thoughts. The voice felt like a theft, a possession. It was amazing technology, and it terrified him to his core.

Marius’s expression was unreadable. “Your biometrics will now match the vocal print on Lauren’s ident. It’s seamless. Remember, you are her. Now go. The main market is half a klick east. Don’t draw attention, but don’t look like a victim. Be back before second sunset.”

***

The settlement of Mar-Shada was a symphony of harsh noise and stronger smells. Vernon—Lauren, you are Lauren—walked with the duster pulled close, the cred-chip and list clutched in a hand that felt too small. The prosthetic breasts shifted with each step, a constant, nagging reminder. The suit’s subtle reshaping of his hips altered his gait; he felt like he was swaying, and he fought to control it, which only made his walk stiffer.

The market was a sprawling, dusty chaos of makeshift stalls and landed freighters converted into shops. Beings of a dozen species bartered, argued, and skulked in the shadows. Eyes tracked him as he passed. Not the assessing, political glances of the Core, but raw, hungry looks that stripped layers away. A hulking Brivik trader grinned, showing filed teeth, and made a clicking noise. Lauren kept her eyes forward, her heart hammering against the false silicone.

They see a woman. A young, alone woman. The thought was a cold splash of reality. His old instincts—to meet a gaze with challenge, to square his shoulders—were now liabilities.

He found a stall stacked with ship-grade fuel cells. The vendor was a wiry human with cybernetic optics that whirred as they focused on him. “Help you, miss?”

The voice. He had to use the voice. “I need… two standard cells. And a canister of stabilizer.” The words came out, that alien melody. He braced for the vendor to laugh, to see through him.

The optic lenses dilated. “Sure thing. Paying with?”

Lauren held up the cred-chip. The transaction was swift, impersonal. As the vendor loaded the heavy cells onto a small anti-grav sled for him, he felt a surge of relief so potent it was almost nausea. It worked.

But the errand wasn’t over. The nutrient packs were sold in a cramped stall that reeked of fermented algae. The proprietor, a grizzled old woman, was more talkative.

“Long haul, dearie?” she asked, counting out packets.

“Something like that,” Lauren replied, keeping her answers short.

“Smart to have a sled. Those cells are heavy for a slight thing like you. Where’s your man? Shouldn’t let you lug this about.”

The question was casual, but it pierced him. “He’s… making arrangements.” The lie felt flimsy.

“Hmph. See he treats you right. World’s full of types who’d see a pretty girl alone as an opportunity.” She gave him a knowing, almost pitying look. It was a look Vernon had never received in his life. It was infuriating and terrifyingly protective all at once. He mumbled thanks, paid, and added the packs to the sled.

The walk back was the longest of his life. Every shouted curse, every burst of laughter from a nearby drinking pit, made him flinch. The pistol was a hard lump against his ribs. The weight of the supplies pulled at the sled, and the strain felt different in this body, engaging muscles in his lower back and thighs in a new way. He was sweating under the Myrden suit, the silicone breasts feeling clammy and suffocating.

He passed a group of off-world mercenaries lounging by a stripped-down speeder. One of them, a man with a scarred face, let out a low whistle. “Hey there, darling. That’s a heavy load. Need a hand?”

Lauren shook her head, not making eye contact, and kept walking.

“Aw, don’t be like that!” another called. “We’re friendly!”

He heard boots scuff the dirt behind him. Panic, sharp and clean, shot down his spine. His hand drifted inside the duster, fingers closing around the pistol’s grip. He didn’t turn around. He just walked faster, the sled wobbling, his breath coming in short, audible gasps from a woman’s throat.

After a dozen agonizing seconds, he heard the mercenaries laugh and return to their conversation. The threat, real or perceived, receded. The tension didn’t.