The Worst of All Possible Worlds

by Alex White

  Boots gestured to the frozen AI, whose face betrayed terror at how happy it was. “It was getting wise to us. You can just reboot it.”

  “What the hell?” wailed Aisha, rolling over and getting her feet under her. “What is she doing here?”

  “I got the data on Recursive Primacy,” said the Devil, popping up a projection of nodes. “Looks like if one genetic line dies out, the curse backs up one branch and takes the next fork. It always passes to the youngest branch, in the hopes of catching a longer life, though siblings are preferred. I have the genetic data on each member of the Vogelstrand colony, who have common ancestry with members of the other Quintet Colonies. If I could be connected to a substantial database, I believe I might be able to predict the modern relatives.”

  “Great,” said Boots. “All we need is everyone’s genetic code in the whole galaxy.”

  “Actually, the genetic tag we’re seeking is fairly common,” said the Devil, “and a matter of course for identification on most worlds.” A glyph appeared, and several bits of arcane fringe were circled by the system. “There are also biometric markers in the person’s spell we can use. The same Ismael ligature bands analyses used in cash pad transactions further inform Recursive—”

  Aisha straightened her collar and wiped a bit of drool from her cheek. “What’s going on? Is anyone going to answer me?”

  “Welcome back to consciousness. Magic spies,” said Nilah. “Cursed to wander for eternity to contain alchemy. We’re going to kidnap one and get the location of Origin out of them.”

  Aisha blinked away sleep. “Neat. Is this a new plan? How long have I been out?”

  “Too long,” said Boots, then to Nilah, “but we still need to connect the Devil to a government database. Assuming someone at the Special Branch hacked Kinnard, using our credentials is inherently unsafe.”

  “About that.” Nilah popped her neck and stretched. “I’ve got some expensive toys when it comes to background checks. I can get us access to something better.”

  “Like what?” asked Boots.

  “Like a background check database with meta-links to cash pad IDs and genetic analysis,” said Nilah. “I’m a subscriber. I used it to find you a couple of years ago when Orna kidnapped us.”

  “I like it.”

  Aisha finished stretching and smoothed her hair back into place. “Are you two going to include me in your plans or what?”

  “Oh yeah. We should wake the captain,” said Nilah, and she and Boots looked meaningfully over at Aisha.

  “Wages of sleeping on the job,” said Boots.

  The pilot’s gaze drifted warily between them. “Fine.”

  Cordell narrowed his eyes at Boots. “You want to walk into Gantry Station like we’re a couple of nobodies? You cannot find a place where we’re more famous.”

  “Captain,” said Boots, “we’ve got the camo for the ship, two perfect magical disguises from the Masquerade, and a couple of rebreathers. It’s not like we don’t have the tools to infiltrate. Heck, we’ve even got untraceable credentials.”

  “From Compass,” said Malik, “so you can assume those are being tracked.”

  She reached out and grabbed a handful of candied nuts from the brass tray in the center of the table while she collected her thoughts. The toffee coating was sweet, but she had to suck it out of her teeth before she could talk again. “So what? You’ve smuggled before. Buy some fake docking codes.”

  Cordell followed suit, arranging the treats neatly before him on the table. “Civilized space ain’t like we left it, Bootsie. The attack on Task Force Sixty has the Taitutians riled something fierce, and they’ve put pressure on GATO to crack down on security. They don’t want anyone coming or going through the treaty worlds without their knowledge. We’ve received a communique from Weathers, too.”

  “He’s alive?” asked Boots.

  “Barely,” said Cordell. “They shot him up good, and now he has an idea who the mole is.”

  She gestured for him to go on.

  “The Secretary General of Intelligence, along with at least ten others. Intel cells are going dark all through Taitutian space. The Children are making some big, open moves from a covert ops perspective. It’s like they don’t care about getting caught anymore.”

  “Of course it’s another high-level defector,” said Boots. “A mole that knows everything short of our exact whereabouts.”

  “I’m less concerned about that, and more concerned about what the disappearances mean,” said Malik. “I think we can expect another attack in a few days.”

  “If we know it’s coming, what do we do to prepare?” Boots asked, knowing she wouldn’t like the answer.

  “Nothing,” said Cordell. “We stay this course and keep going until we get the Wellspring and kill Witts. Back to it: what’s on Gantry?”

  “Nilah thinks there’s a person on the station who knows the location of Origin. She and the Devil had to do a lot of data tricks to coax out an answer, but we’re ninety-five percent certain.”

  “Not my favorite odds,” said Cordell, “but a hell of a lot better than zero. What are we dealing with?”

  Boots explained the concept of the Conservators as best she could, watching her colleagues share her own skeptical reactions. Like oracular abilities, transcendence from death was relegated to the stuff of fairy tales or religion. Given that they’d already encountered a true oracle once in the fight with Witts, they were all forced to grudgingly accept the possibility that there were immortal magic spies, too. Far too much evidence pointed in that direction.

  “Even if you catch this Conservator,” said Cordell, “they’re just going to pretend to be ignorant and—oh, you want to use the twins.”

  “In and out. We take him by surprise and pry the answers loose,” said Boots. “This isn’t a bank vault I’m talking about infiltrating. It’s a middle-class housing complex.”

  Cordell swept up his array of nuts and chomped them.

  He was about to reach for another when Malik said, “That’s more than a serving, Captain.” When Cordell glared, he added, “You asked me to tell you.”

  “Thank you, Mister Jan,” grumbled the captain.

  “We’re at war, sir,” said Boots, giving Malik a stern glare. “We’ve got more important problems than nuts.”

  “And when are we not at war?” asked Malik. “Half the crew is hypertensive. We’re about to start losing soldiers to heart attacks and aneurisms instead of slinger fire. Which brings me to my next question: what can we do to improve the safety of landing at Gantry Station?”

  Boots sighed. “Camouflage, camouflage, camouflage. Use unsigned accounts. Decline all biometric IDs and use paragon crystals. Grow a spine.”

  Malik’s features hardened. “Excuse me? Boots, you understand that we are, and have always been, holding on by the skin of our teeth. Mister Armin Vandevere and Mister Didier Thomasi might have some things to say about your assessment. I’ve been grievously wounded several times, and you and Miss Brio are both missing limbs. We are many things, but functional isn’t one of them.”

  Oh, so first I’m not a good archaeologist, now I’m not a good soldier, either.

  “That’s low. While we’re counting bodies, don’t forget the entire population of Clarkesfall,” said Boots. “Are we responsible for everything that Witts forces on us?”

  Malik’s nostrils flared. “And how many crew casualties would you consider an ‘acceptable’ number? Boots, I am asking you to take care of yourself when you’re one of the remaining effective measures in the galaxy. If you die or, god forbid, are too out of shape to outrun a threat, you’ve cost humanity something it cannot afford. Now I demand you look after yourself, since you’re too precious to lose.”

  Twin jets of air hissed from Boots’s nose, copying her superior officer. “You’re not supposed to compliment me when we fight, sir. I’m a soldier, and it’s confusing.”

  “Take this seriously,” said Malik. “No jokes. Too many people are coun
ting on us, whether they know it or not. Captain Lamarr has been more than magnanimous, and led the charge with his smoking cessation therapy.”

  She leaned forward. “That you know of, sir. He’s still a smuggler.”

  “You keep saying that, and I keep having to do damage control with my XO when you do,” groaned Cordell.

  “So, please,” said Malik, “understand that your captain is trying very hard to set an example, and your cooperation as a senior staff member is valued.”

  Boots took a moment to steady herself. “Okay. So what can I do to make you more comfortable with a sortie on Gantry Station?”

  Malik nodded. “Now we’re getting somewhere. I don’t just want to know your plan for landing at Gantry. Disguises. Great. What are you going to do when things go sour? I want contingencies in place for security forces, our target, and Henrick Witts’s group. I care very little for how you get onto the station. How do you get off?”

  “Well, I—” Boots started, but drew up short.

  “Do not say the power of improvisation,” said Malik. “I was in the Famine War, too. Different duty, same death and destruction. I’m weary of our seat-of-the-pants plans. I want to see something solid.”

  “This initiative was my idea, Boots,” said Cordell. “I don’t want to lose another soldier, ever again. Sorry if that makes it tough on you.”

  “I—” But Boots closed her mouth. She’d only been operating as she always had: rush in, see what the circumstances held, then get lucky.

  “It’s simply a safety concern,” said Malik. “Let’s start with that in mind when we plan missions, since this is clearly going to be a marathon.”

  “Okay.” Boots furrowed her brow. “Well, since you mention safety, there’s a conversation we need to have. I didn’t want to bring it to you before, sir—”

  “And why’s that?” Cordell interrupted. “You know I care about y’all’s well-being above all else.”

  “Because the last time I told you I was worried about Orna, you yelled at me, sir,” she replied, and he recoiled.

  “I did no such thing.”

  She folded her arms. “We were on the Prism, gearing up to raid Bill Scar.”

  “Well, that was different,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I—you were… I’m never trying to stop a safety conversation, but you were wrong about Sokol.”

  “I’m just saying it didn’t make me want to bring you anything like that,” said Boots. “Personnel issues and whatnot.”

  Malik folded his hands. “I can see how that might have a chilling effect on your reporting, Miss Elsworth, and I’d encourage you to bring me those issues in the future.”

  Cordell waved him off. “Naw. She’s right. I stand by my decision, but it could’ve been nicer.”

  “It’s Al, sir,” said Boots. She’d brought this to the captain once before and been dismissed. She wouldn’t take no for an answer this time. “His memory lapses seem to be getting more frequent, and he gets confused a lot.”

  “He and I have been discussing it,” said Malik. “I definitely have some concerns.”

  “How serious are we talking here?” asked Cordell.

  “Not very,” said Malik.

  “He forgot going down to the Vogelstrand,” said Boots. “I think you’re seeing a self-reporting bias, doc.”

  “He actually said that?” said Malik. “You’re one hundred percent sure?”

  “He forgot his own birthday. He forgot holding a guy down and shooting him in the face,” said Boots. “We all know he deals with a lot of PTSD, but I promise it’s getting worse. Doc, please don’t write this off.”

  “I won’t,” said Malik. “I promise to investigate, but any decisions we make about Alister and his care are between doctor and patient. Please report as necessary, but confidentiality dictates—”

  “I just want to see him get the help he needs,” said Boots. “We talk about being more than just soldiers… well, there’s a member of our family that’s probably feeling pretty alone and scared right now.”

  Malik nodded. “I think you did the right thing, talking to me.”

  “And, Boots,” Cordell added, “I’ll do better in the future.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Boots. “Can we stop with all the hugging and learning now? I think I’m getting a cavity.”

  Cordell pulled up a map of Gantry Station on the projectors. “Let’s go over this with a fine-toothed comb. Tell us about the poor sap you want us to kidnap.”

  Boots did.

  Cordell was pissed.

  Boots leaned into the liquor cabinet, cautiously lifting her favorite bottle from the back. If someone else showed up in the galley for a midnight snack, she didn’t want the rattle of glass ruining her plausible deniability.

  She wasn’t ashamed of the drink she was having—she’d been hard at work scouring the Link for anything halfway relevant about the Conservators. She’d gotten a pretty good picture from hijacking Ursula, but Cordell wanted his “history person” on it. So, having sifted through amateur conspiracy theories for a few hours with no way to know what was real and what wasn’t, she deserved something stiff.

  If Malik showed up, though, it’d be best if she could lie.

  A familiar, repetitive thump issued from down the hallway, and Boots nearly dropped her whiskey—the bass drum from one of Nilah’s dance songs. Ever the perfectionist, Boots’s crewmate liked to practice to up-tempo music, but not usually in the middle of the night cycle. As quickly as it began, it stopped, so Boots went to investigate—once she’d filled her glass with a double. When she poked her head into the dim hallway outside the mess, she noticed the cargo bay door ajar, and a swaying blue light emanating from inside.

  Nilah stood alone on the deck plates. Her dermaluxes glowed with soft, swimming pool light, the only bright feature in an otherwise gloomy cargo bay. Behind her, the Devil slept in its parking space, filling much of the area with its bulk.

  She gestured, and the projection of a music player formed before her. She tapped the play button, and a mournful piano solo began to play over the ship’s speakers. Starting with her feet, the rhythm suffused her, and she leaned her head back to take it all in.

  When the bass beat dropped, she exploded across the deck in a pinwheel of sunny flashes and leapt, body twisting in ways Boots couldn’t fathom. But she came down hard, and stumbled across the next few beats. Her momentum slowed, lagging behind the music, then she sat down on the floor, hugging her knees in close.

  “Stop.” Her voice cracked as the music abruptly vanished.

  Boots watched from the shadows, feeling more than a little guilty, as Nilah began to sob. Was she supposed to help or get the hell out of there? Her shoulders shook, and she struck Boots as unbearably small. Then Boots heard one of the cries, whispered and hoarse: “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry.”

  Aw, kid.

  Boots was about to pretend that she’d only been passing by when Nilah climbed to her feet. It wasn’t the limber kip-up attack that Boots had seen dozens of times, but the exhausted rise of a weary veteran. Nilah straightened, threw her head back, and took a deep breath.

  Something in the way she set her feet stayed Boots in the shadows of the hall.

  Nilah once again gestured for the music player, and this time when she tapped it, she didn’t wait for the piano to take her. She danced, her syncopated moves snapping at the end with precise flicks of her hand. The music began to build toward the bass line, and with each beat, her forearms lit the bay in intensifying gold. There was something desperate in her expression, like she was fighting the inevitable gravity of grief, and Nilah closed her eyes for calm.

  The bass line hit, and she flowed through a series of moves that ended in a kick-flip onto the low-profile roof of the Devil. Boots restrained a gasp as Nilah landed the maneuver and launched into a new routine of languid arm movements. Her hands seemed so slow and controlled, but whenever Nilah’s forearms flashed, Boots had to do a double take; it was like the fi
ghter’s body was stuttering, always on the beat, but never where Boots thought it would be. Kicks and punches were conspicuously absent, and it took Boots a moment to realize that this time, she wasn’t fighting.

  She was just dancing.

  Nilah wound through the cargo bay as the song banged on in fortissimo glory: vaulting, spinning, juking past obstacles. She swung from the cargo winch before flying clear with the most marvelous double flip. Her expression went from grieving, to placid, to resolved, and there was a fire in each step she took, not of rage but of passion. Boots had never believed in stories of divine revenge, but Nilah was like some legendary warrior queen, anointed in this moment.

  She glanced down at her glass, realizing she’d forgotten to take even a single sip. It’d probably be better in bed. Nilah didn’t need her in there yammering about feelings and grief and screwing up the high. Enjoying her first nip of whiskey, Boots turned to go.

  Her heart almost exploded when she came face-to-face with Orna, looming like a vengeful spirit in the darkness.

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to spy on Nilah! I just heard music and—”

  “Gawk away,” said Orna, breaking character and cracking a mean smile. “She puts on a hell of a show in a fight.”

  “That she does. I apologize for spying on your fiancée.”

  “I’m wounded, Boots.”

  “Wounded?”

  “Wounded. You think I’m the jealous type?”

  “You threatened to kill me the first time we met,” she replied. “You have a temper.”

  Orna scoffed and smoothed down the sides of her black hair. “Jealousy is for losers that can’t keep a girl happy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s date night, and we’re going to make custom grenades together.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Homecoming

  The long spires of Gantry Station loomed large through the bridge windows, its spread of atriums woven across its five arms like spiderwebs. After spending time among the ultra-elites of the Masquerade and Prothero, the picturesque greenbelt of Taitu and the peaceful rolling hills of Hopper’s Hope, Boots finally realized just how crappy her old home on Gantry was.