“Fine,” I say. “When can we begin?”

“Tomorrow. I will take a shuttle over to your ship. I’ve also heard your wife doesn’t have a translator. You need to get her one. I will not do this procedure on a woman who cannot understand me, and no, I do not trust you to translate. This will be a contract between your wife and me.”

“She will have a translator,” I say.

“Good, then. I will see you tomorrow. May you and your wife walk in the gods’ light.”

I sign off and then look at my wife. She looks shattered. I get up and take her into my arms. I stroke her long brown hair and say, “We will make this right in the end.”

“I already feel guilty.”

“Sometimes we need to do the wrong thing to do the right thing in the end.”

“How does that even make sense?” she asks.

“It doesn’t. It’s supposed to make you feel better about choosing the morally wrong thing now.”

“Are we breaking any laws?” she asks.

“None that are set in stone. You will need to get a translator, though. The doctor refuses to perform on a patient who doesn’t consent. Also, this isn’t too important, but he insists the contract is between him and you.”

“I understand,” she replies. “I want to keep the translator afterward.”

“I would rather you didn’t,” I say.

“Why?”

“I like the way you speak my language.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Mostly.”

“What else are you keeping from me?” she asks.

“I also don’t want you running off to the Empire. You know I am a jealous man.”

I take her hand, and we walk toward sickbay. I think it’s obvious that we don’t need to tell anyone about this contract. The doctor doesn’t need details, and everyone else can make up their own minds about what we do privately. Once we are in sickbay, my doctor fits my wife with a translator.

That evening she keeps testing out her new language skills. “I always thought I had that word wrong,” she says enthusiastically as she asks me to say certain words or phrases she writes down as she has difficulty speaking my language because she hears herself in her Water language at the same time to see how these words and phrases translate. I’m glad she can keep her mind off what we will do tomorrow. It’s not an easy thing choosing to give up a child to gain one.

CHAPTER 33

VOLUNTEER 4711

I thumb the small necklace my husband gave to me. It has a diamond-shaped pendant with a geometric design. On the back, it says my name, ‘Volunteer 4711’. If he hadn’t told me this was a gift, I would have thought he was giving me a nametag in case I got lost. I wear the necklace when I need strength. Today I need strength.

I walk into sickbay with my Commander, the doctor, the Imperial doctor, and his assistant are already waiting for us in a quartered-off a section of sickbay.