How the Multiverse Got Its Revenge

by K. Eason

  Grytt was at least as old as he was. She didn’t cough. Grytt was also a good portion mecha, and those components were much younger than her original organic set, and she spent much of her time maintaining the original parts in, with no irony, fighting trim.

  Not sitting behind a console. Not puttering around in gardens and kitchens. Not talking, endlessly talking. Sour regret and recriminations burned at the back of his throat. Grytt was, of course, correct. His weapons had never been ’slinger bolts, but words, and it was largely due to his version of warfare that they had come to this place at all.

  He knew all of it, without Grytt having to say any if it, but his heart ached anyway.

  She knew it. She always knew, even without the aid of arithmancy and auras. Her mouth tightened into a rueful, incomplete smile. Her brown eye softened. The blue tesla optic burned, unblinking, like a star. “We’ll get her back, Rupert. I promise.”

  You can’t promise that, he wanted to protest. No one can foretell the future. But instead he returned her smile, and walked with her to the door. He would get himself out of this hardsuit, and then he would go down to the bridge and wait for events to spin themselves out.

  * * *

  —

  Grytt was, truthfully, relieved that she hadn’t been forced to lock Rupert in his quarters. She was worried enough about taking Jaed, and was even more worried about Thorsdottir, whose insistence on accompanying the mission should have been an easy no: she’d sustained massive and recent injuries, even if they weren’t visible anymore. Because they weren’t visible anymore. It would look pretty suspicious if, of all the crew on Vagabond, capable-looking Thorsdottir stayed behind citing injuries no one could see because of an invisible infiltration of nanomecha that were supposed to be extinct.

  Yet that became the precise reason she could not be left on board Favored Daughter. Jaed’s plan for how much to reveal about the weapon’s transformation had held up so far, but Grytt didn’t think it would last. Adept Kesk was too smart, and asked too many probing questions, and was probably arithmancing everyone. If Rupert could suss out the nanomecha in Thorsdottir’s blood, then surely someone called adept could, too, if she thought to look.

  That had been Rupert’s argument for Thorsdottir’s inclusion on the retrieval team. It was probably why he’d thought he should come along, too.

  Grytt glanced back at his closed door once before she trotted toward the armory. Truth: she didn’t have time to stay and wait and be sure that his better sense had been restored. She could only trust that it had. Rupert had never been prone to heroics.

  Then again, neither had the Jaed Moss she had known, and now look. The armory was full of people of various species and sizes equipping themselves with experienced efficiency, and somehow Jaed fit right in among them, suiting up between Zhang and Crow.

  Now that one worried Grytt a little bit. Rupert had made a deal there, too, with the tenju. They, like the alwar, had gotten access to Rose’s documentation and the dead stick of rosebush. But Crow, unlike the alwar, knew about Thorsdottir’s very tiny passengers, or at least suspected, and Crow had made it clear that the tenju would like biological samples from Thorsdottir when this mission concluded. The intimation was that not only would the tenju like the samples, they would like even better if the alwar never got any, nor found out that the tenju had.

  Grytt suspected Thorsdottir would end up parceling out her blood to everyone by the end of this business, to Empire alwar and tenju whatever-they-called-their-political-units, to the Merchants League and the Consortium and the Confederation, in the name of keeping peace, which really meant making sure everyone had access to the same level of destruction. Grytt (and Thorsdottir) considered that just fine, if doing so got Rory back and won Dame Maggie a few more allies so that she wouldn’t toss Rupert in prison when they returned to Lanscot.

  Thorsdottir, at least, had gotten a new hardsuit. Grytt admitted to herself a little envy: it was a tenju frame, welded with armor plating etched with alwar hexwork that had made Rupert’s eyebrows climb when he’d seen it.

  “That’s alchemy,” he’d said, “as much as arithmancy,” and then launched into an analysis that had made as much sense to Grytt as the noises sheep made. Maybe less.

  “Does it stop ’slinger bolts? And plasma?” Grytt had asked, interrupting. And when Rupert nodded, “All right, then, good enough.”

  “You have no sense of wonder.”

  “Correct.”

  But, Grytt thought, that wasn’t entirely true. Her sense of wonder just focused on different miracles, such as how two young Royal Guards and a feckless second son of a would-be dictator ended up preparing for battle so calmly and competently. Zhang, checking a plasma weapon’s charge. Jaed helping Thorsdottir with a gauntlet.

  Good teachers, ha, that’s what some people would say. Grytt knew very well that was part of it, no false modesty as to her own role in that. But at some point, students and children have to take on some independence. She hadn’t been worried, exactly, when Thorsdottir, Zhang, Jaed, and Rory had gone kiting off to SAM-1 to try being salvagers and privateers or whatever romantic name they’d thought up. They’d be fine, she’d told Rupert.

  And they had been. They were.

  Grytt cast her gaze around the armory, at two species of xenos she hadn’t known before last week, on her way to render aid to a third, and decided that, once this was over, she’d go back to Lanscot and her sheep and stay there, and take Rupert with her. Thorsdottir and Zhang and Rory and Jaed could handle the multiverse now. It was theirs.

  * * *

  —

  Thorsdottir had worn armor as a Royal Guard, but that had been ballistic weave panels as part of a uniform, subtle by design. This new hardsuit, which Grytt had so admired, was anything but. Flashy hexwork, all alwar, all aftermarket.

  “We don’t want you injured,” Adept Kesk had said, when she’d presented it.

  And Thorsdottir thought, you don’t want Rose injured, though Adept Kesk couldn’t know (could she?) that Rose’s remnants floated through Thorsdottir’s blood. Nor was Thorsdottir certain if Rose was still even Rose in there. There hadn’t been any communication attempts. Messer Rupert, who had a better skillset for determining such things, had said definitively that Rose-the-entity-that-hacked-hardsuits was gone. Jaed had concurred, for what that was worth. It was clear that no one thought Rose’s self-sacrifice any kind of tragedy. Rose had saved Thorsdottir’s life, and that was fortuitous, lucky, a good thing. That a sentient weapon had perished in the process, well, that was fine, since no one had been sure what to do with them anyway.

  Fine for me, thought Thorsdottir. Not for Rose. That they had agreed on that sacrifice—Rose asking, Thorsdottir consenting—did nothing to ameliorate Thorsdottir’s guilt. She hadn’t known Rose’s offer meant Rose’s death. If she had, she might’ve said no.

  Maybe. Definitely.

  “It’s no different than you’d do for Rory,” Jaed had said, in an attempt to comfort her. “Or for Zhang.”

  “Or for you,” she’d snapped, which had made him turn red.

  So it was just as well that Jaed had Crow to help him with his hardsuit (which had alwar hexwork too, they all did, but the standard human design underneath), and even better that they’d all been quartered on Favored Daughter in separate cabins. Privacy for a change. Solitude. No need for discomforting conversations—

  “You all right?” Zhang handed Thorsdottir a plasma rifle with a Qing-Kovacs stamp and proportions designed for tenju hands and tenju hardsuits. There was a business relationship there, between Merchants League and the tenju spacer clans, clearly longstanding enough for design alterations to the weapons.

  “Fine,” Thorsdottir said absently, reflexively, and took the rifle. It was true. Her hand and arm did not hurt, and of course, that wasn’t what Zhang was asking.

  “Huh.” Zhang’s features stayed car
efully neutral.

  “Don’t you start.”

  “I’m not starting anything.”

  “Because if you’re going to say something about what I do with my life now is how I prove myself worthy of Rose’s sacrifice, I might scream.”

  Zhang shook her head slightly. “I don’t need to say that. You already believe it.”

  “I don’t even know what I am anymore.”

  “Stubborn. My best friend.” Zhang pursed her lips. “Also, contaminated with a weapon of unknown origin, so maybe a biohazard, too. Don’t bleed on anyone.”

  “Thank you. You’re such a comfort.” Thorsdottir checked the weapon, which of course Zhang already had, and found it fully charged, primed, ready.

  “You all right?” Zhang asked again.

  “Yes,” said Thorsdottir, and this time she meant it.

  * * *

  —

  Somehow, probably because the multiverse didn’t like him, Jaed ended up beside Grytt on the transport. He had Crow on his other side, but on Crow’s other side and across the aisle sat tenju, all talking in—tenju. There had to be another name for their language, but he didn’t know it, but that didn’t matter. Conversation with them was right out.

  He might’ve been safe from interaction if it were Thorsdottir sitting beside Grytt, but it was Zhang, with Thorsdottir next to her, and they had their heads together in the way old friends and partners did.

  So Jaed thought to try just staying silent. Grytt wasn’t much of a talker. She might let him be. But then he noticed her expression, which, bifurcated as it was between mecha and organic parts, still seemed a little bit lost.

  That shook him. Jaed’s experience with Grytt was primarily filtered through her effects on his companions, with one exceptional, personal conversation which had involved her pinning him to a station bulkhead until he convinced her of his sincerity. So no, she was not a comfortable benchmate, but she had also seemed, well, unshakeable. Constant. Rory might be everyone’s sun, but Grytt was some other massive gravitational source holding the system together, like dark matter and—Jaed sighed, both inward and out, and discarded the metaphor.

  The sigh is what did it, he thought later. That was why she spoke to him.

  “You nervous?” she asked, in a tone which implied she expected he was.

  Jaed almost said yes, because then she could offer encouragement, which he could accept, and then everyone would feel better. Except he had learned not to lie, even politely, around Rory, and so he said, “No. Not really. I mean, yes, but not about boarding that ship.”

  “Huh. What then?”

  Jaed flicked a look at Thorsdottir, over Grytt’s shoulder. She was a worry, of course she was, but the root of it was: “What Rory’s going to think? We left her behind. She might’ve said we should do it, but we never exactly asked. We just did it. I mean, she could’ve been dead, yeah, but we didn’t know. We didn’t even check.” He grimaced at the bitter, sour truth of it.

  “You made the right choice. Saved her life, leaving like you did.” Grytt turned her head partway, tilted it, so that Jaed knew she meant Thorsdottir. “Rory would agree with that.”

  Jaed shrugged, and bumped his shoulder on the inside of his hardsuit, and made a fist instead.

  “I wanted to go back for her. Zhang talked me out of it.”

  “Huh. Well. Zhang’s got sense. No, don’t make that face. You’ve got heart. You’re loyal. Those aren’t bad things. And you’re here now, going back to an unfriendly deck, trusting the people who took you prisoner once won’t do it again. Bravery’s not a problem for you.” Grytt offered a smile, hideous and genuine and almost gentle. “Guilt is, though. Leave that behind. Could have, should have—that will get you hurt. Or someone else hurt.”

  That would be—well, not the worst, but definitely bad, if he came to rescue Rory and ended up needing a rescue himself. He laughed a little, and when Grytt cocked her head, said as much.

  “Ha,” said Grytt. “Rory doesn’t need rescue. We’re here to pick her up, that’s all.” She swept her eye over the tenju and alwar. “And we’re all here to render aid to the Protectorate.”

  “Yeah. Well. They can go help the Protectorate. I’m just here to get Rory back.”

  Grytt eyed him. “You say Protectorate the same way you sometimes say Tadeshi.”

  Yes. “Can’t make friends with some people. What they did on G. Stein. Grytt, if you’d seen—it’s not that they killed people, it’s how they did it. It was easy for them.”

  “They’re not invincible.” Grytt jerked her chin in the general direction of Sissten. “Clearly.”

  “That’s because the dreadnought surprised them. They’re different, and I don’t mean how they look. There’s something about them. I know, something, be more specific, but I can’t. But I think, just because we share a common enemy doesn’t mean we’re all friends.”

  It took Jaed a moment to realize the gargling noise boiling out of Grytt’s throat and nose was laughter.

  “You sound like me.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “It’s a warning. Means no one’s ever going to listen to you, and you’ll get to say told you so a lot. Means everyone will think you’re wise as hell when you’re dead, and not before.”

  “Messer Rupert listened to my advice already.” God, why was he arguing with her?

  It had been good advice but they both knew Thorsdottir’s anonymity wasn’t going to last. Jaed knew she’d promised blood samples to Crow. Grytt probably knew it, too. And from there, the adept would get some, and the Confederation certainly wouldn’t just sit on it. At least, maybe, the Confederation having Rose, and the Tadeshi not, would put an end to that war.

  “Listen. None of what happened after was your fault. Let me give you more advice you won’t believe until it happens: the best plans don’t survive implementation. Never as we expect.”

  “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Me too,” said Grytt. “But I won’t be.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Perhaps the reader hopes here for a HUD-level view of the battle: how a Harek imperial breach-hopper (one of several) slid out of Favored Daughter’s launch bay and crossed the debris field that lay between Sissten and the dreadnought, a labyrinth through which the hopper’s alwar pilot and nanny (which is much the same as a human turing, with perhaps more sass) navigated with apparent ease and at greater speeds than Vagabond and Zhang had managed. It is fortunate that hoppers are not armed; the alwar ships pass Tadeshi ships returning to the dreadnought. But there are tense moments, nevertheless—

  Or, no, skip the journey. Perhaps the narrative should resume when the hopper seals itself to Sissten, in the very berth Vagabond had vacated. Listen to the hiss of aetherlocks, the rattle as a suddenly silent hold full of armored people stands up. The teams prime their weapons. They know where they’re going. They have orders. Their debarking is orderly, precise. Visors seal, HUDs flicker to life, comms murmur coordinates, objectives, orders.

  Or perhaps we should begin here, when it is discovered that Grytt is a little bit prescient, in the way that experience confers, and that there are lingering Tadeshi on the ship: who could not return to their hoppers, perhaps, or who are operating under other orders. Sabotage, general mayhem. Their orders are unknown, though they are, upon contact and successful defeat, found to be carrying explosive devices.

  But to acquire those explosive devices, one must first have a battle, which leads to warfare in the corridors. Bolts exchanged, plasma burning through polysteel and the flesh underneath: all sentient flesh, because the Tadeshi have picked up vakari whitefire weapons from the bodies of Protectorate fallen.

  But we have seen this, reader, already. One battle is much like another. People will live, and people will die. Here are the universals: fear, flashing HUDs, roaring breath in the helmet’s confines, sweat
slick under a skinsuit that develops itches in inconvenient places which are forgotten the moment bolts fly.

  Let us skip to the salient details: Jaed, Thorsdottir, Zhang, and Grytt survive unharmed; Crow sustains minor injury.

  We will not include details of what it is like, because although it is a chronicler’s job to sift through such details, it is also their job to decide which to include. The personal experience of battle is recounted in interviews and testimonies, or perhaps conversations with too much alcohol, late at night. Such details, such stories, are important. This chronicler wishes to make that very clear. But battle, war, is not the point of this story. This history is about how and why things come to pass, how and why people like Thorsdottir, Zhang, Jaed, and Grytt have to fight at all.

  And so.

  * * *

  —

  Rory followed various battles to retake the corridors of Sissten from the rear of the auxiliary bridge. The central holo-display divided itself into hemispheres, one dedicated to the tableau of voidships, the other to an interior map of Sissten, where the Tadeshi resistance was marked out in red, and the Protectorate personnel in blue, and the combined Empire and tenju forces in a green which, if it had been seen in an aura, would’ve meant dishonesty, distress, and potential malevolence.

  She could not understand most of the words spoken, but body language, even bodies as unfamiliar as the vakari, employed a language which needed no translation. The battle was going well. Nor did she need arithmancy to know that the color designations for the various parties were deliberate; the same instinct that permitted her to understand vakari body language and tone also told her that this alliance wasn’t going to last.

  “It’s time,” Koto-rek said. “Come with me, Rory Thorne, and let us see if your friends are still willing to make the exchange.”