The Whisper’s cabin felt smaller than ever. Sara Kerigan—formerly Marius—leaned against the bulkhead, her arms crossed. She’d changed her hair, dyed it a dull brown and cut it short, and wore simple spacer’s gear. But her eyes were the same: sharp, assessing.

“Alright, Laura. Pay the fuck attention,” Sara said, her voice a low rasp. “Your walk’s still shit. You’re not stomping around a parade ground. You’re a girl. A young woman. From a backwater agri-colony.”

Laura—Vernon inside the suit—shifted on her feet. The prosthetic breasts were a constant weight, the suit a second skin she couldn’t shed. “I’m trying.”

“Try harder. It’s not just the body. It’s the mind. The little shit.” Sara pushed off the wall. “On my niece’s homeworld, Kerigan’s Fall, women don’t make direct eye contact with strangers until introduced. It’s considered forward. Aggressive. You look at the ground, or just past their shoulder.”

“That seems… submissive.”

“It’s polite, you little shit. It’s custom. You’re playing a part, remember? You’re not a duke’s heir here. You’re Lauren Kerigan, daughter of Sara Kerigan, and we’re heading to a dominion hub to find work. Now, show me.”

Laura took a breath. She looked down at the grimy deck plating, then took a few steps, consciously softening her stride, letting her hips move with the awkward, unfamiliar sway the suit forced on her.

“Better,” Sara grunted. “Now, the greeting. When someone older addresses you, you touch your fingers here.” She demonstrated, brushing her fingertips to her forehead, then her chest. “Mind, heart. It means ‘I hear you, and I respect you.’ Got it?”

Laura mimicked the gesture. It felt stupid. Ritualistic. “Why?”

“Because that’s what Lauren would know. That’s her culture. That’s the shit that’ll sell this, more than any fancy tech in that suit. Now, say it. The word for ‘mother’ in our tongue.”

Laura hesitated. The word was strange, guttural. “K’tharra.”

Sara’s expression softened, just for a second. “Good. And you will call me that in public. A sign of respect. It reinforces the story. I am Sara, your K’tharra. You are my daughter, Laura.”

The word, the role, it hit Vernon like a physical blow. He looked at Sara—the stern set of her jaw, the focused intent in her eyes as she taught him survival—and for a dizzying moment, he didn’t see his mentor. He saw his mother. Freiga, in her gardens …