“All right. I need your help. Stop whining like a fucking child.”

“That’s not better.”

“Where is your Kristian costume?”

“I threw it away.”

“Well, go dig it out. And then go to the medical bay. We have things to do.”

* * *

“Hold out your thumb,” the Red Rose medical technician said to Kiva.

“The fuck you say,” Kiva replied.

The technician sighed, turned away, and called out the open ramp of the shuttle. A Red Rose crew member with a bolt thrower strode on the shuttle ramp.

“Hold out your thumb, or Sax here will blow your head off,” the medical technician said.

Kiva held out her thumb; the technician jabbed it. Then she did a retinal scan. “You’re Lady Kiva Lagos,” she said.

“How the fuck did you get our personnel database?” Kiva asked the technician.

The technician ignored her and went over to Marce. “Thumb,” she said. Marce offered it.

“Gusteen Obrecht,” she said. She went over to the body on the medical gurney. For that one, she checked the thumb, and the retina, and drew blood from a vein in the right arm. Marce watched that final test, and waited for the result.

“Marce Claremont,” she confirmed, and then Sax called to another Red Rose crewperson, who came on board and whisked the gurney away. The medical technician nodded to Kiva and Marce, and turned.

“Hey,” Kiva said. The technician turned back, and Kiva reached over and grabbed a small rucksack—the rucksack Marce brought on to the Yes, Sir, in fact—and held it out to the technician.

“What is that?” the technician asked.

“What he brought onto the ship with him. Some toiletries and sundries.”

“He might want to shave once he regains consciousness,” Marce added.

The technician took the rucksack, nodded to the two of them, and then walked out of the shuttle.

“Let’s button this thing up and get the fuck out of here,” Kiva said.

“Agreed,” Marce said. Kiva pounded on the door of the pilot compartment to signal the transfer had been made.

“Were you nervous?” Marce asked Kiva, as the shuttle headed back to the Yes, Sir.

“About what?”

“About the transfer. About them checking Chat’s body for my genetics.”

“No,” Kiva said. “The thumb pad and the contacts we made from your scrapings are the same quality as we get for our fake identities. Our medical facilities are top notch like that.”

Marce nodded and then winced a little bit, remembering the corneal scraping he endured to get the seed material for the contacts overlaid onto Chat’s eyes. The contacts were fast-grown, as was the thumb pad, which ran the risk of genetic anomalies that would give them away. They got lucky. “I was thinking of the blood draw.”

Kiva shrugged. “It was your blood. Sucked it out of you, clipped off the major vessels in his arms, drained that blood, put yours in. It’s not complicated.”