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 on Artanis, not teaching him courtly manners, but showing him how to find the sweetest berries hidden under the leaves. “A true son of a Duke knows protocol,” she’d say, her voice warm with laughter. “But a true person knows how to live. Don’t let the title steal your joy, my heart.”

A wave of grief, sharp and sudden, tightened his throat. His eyes stung.

Sara noticed. Her drill-sergeant demeanor faltered. “Laura? What is it?”

The name pulled him back. He swallowed hard, the modulator in his throat making it sound like a feminine click. “I… I was thinking of my mother. My real one.”

Sara was silent for a long moment. The hum of the ship’s drives filled the space. “What about her?”

“She taught me things too. How to stand, how to speak. How to be a ‘true son.’ But she also… she taught me how to climb trees to get the best fruit. How to skip stones on the palace reflecting pools when no one was looking.” His voice, Lauren’s voice, wavered. “She taught me how to live, not just how to behave.”

Sara’s gaze was unreadable. Then she nodded, once. “A good mother. Remember that. But remember this, Laura. She is gone. I am here. And right now, I am Sara. Your K’tharra. Do you understand?”

Laura nodded, wiping hastily at her eye. “I understand, Marius.”

“Sara,” she corrected, her voice firm but not unkind. “And you will call me K’tharra when we are around others. It is respect. For the disguise. For the memory of the girl whose name you wear. Now, focus. We’re coming up on the dominion checkpoint for Caledon Prime.”

She moved to the cockpit, Laura following. A blue-green marble filled the viewport, dotted with the glitter of orbital platforms.

“First thing after security,” Sara said, not taking her eyes from the screen, “we find a ‘fresher and change. Myrden suit or not, we look like we’ve been dragged through a Mar-Shada gutter. On a dominion world, appearance is half the security check. Neat, clean, boring. You’re a quiet girl from the sticks. You keep your head down, you use the greetings I taught you, and you let me do the talking. And for fuck’s sake, remember the walk. Don’t clench your ass so tight, you look like you’ve got a rod up it.”

The approach was routine. The Whisper was directed to a standard commercial docking ring. The security checkpoint was a sterile, brightly lit tube leading to the customs hall. A bored-looking official in a dominion uniform waved a scanner over their forged idents.

Laura’s heart hammered against the false breasts. The scanner beeped, reading the biosigil Lenard had implanted. The official glanced at his screen, then at her.

“Lauren Kerigan. Biological female. Age nineteen. Clear.”

It worked. The relief was so intense she felt lightheaded. Lenard was right. The computers saw a woman.

But people weren’t computers. As they collected their stamped permits, another security personnel, a man with a thick neck and close-cropped hair, leaned against his station. His eyes weren’t on his console. They were on her. They tracked the line of her body in the baggy Mar-Shada clothes, lingering on the swell of her chest, the curve of her hips the suit created. It wasn’t a professional glance. It was a slow, thorough inspection that made her skin crawl under the polymer.

Sara stepped subtly between them, putting a hand on Laura’s shoulder. “Come, daughter,” she said, her voice loud enough to carry. “Let’s find the amenities. You need to freshen up.”

As they walked away, Laura could feel the guard’s eyes on her back. She remembered the mercenaries in the market, the predatory interest. It was the same, but here it was hidden under a uniform and procedure. She felt exposed. Fake tits and a voice box, and it was enough to draw that look.

“K’tharra,” Laura whispered, the foreign word feeling strange but necessary.

“I saw him,” Sara muttered, steering her towards the public ‘fresher signs. “Just keep walking. Remember your lessons. Eyes down. Breathe. You’re Laura Kerigan. And you’re with your mother. No one’s going to touch you.”

But the look had already touched her. It was a reminder. The disguise was a shield, but it was also a target. And they had just arrived.