The Worst of All Possible Worlds

by Alex White

  “You always were a brat,” she said, flexing her digits as if to test them. “I think I’ll drop you into the core of the planet.”

  Nilah raised robotic fists, bouncing on the balls of Teacup’s feet to mimic the rhythm in her mind. “Great story. I think I’ll cave your orbital socket into your brain.”

  The porter’s mark flashed, and Harriet vanished. Instead of searching for her, Nilah launched herself toward Harriet’s vacancy, claws grinding the tiles into dust. She turned to find Harriet impotently grasping at the place she’d been, surprise across her features.

  The flash of Harriet’s spell cut short the victory, and she appeared directly before Teacup, deadly palms closing for the kill. What followed was the most terrifying game of tag Nilah had ever played. She’d roll and scamper, using every defensive move in her arsenal before returning a flurry of blows. Together, they danced to Nilah’s rhythm, and she prepared to break stride to go in for the kill—

  But Harriet broke first, appearing at Nilah’s flank.

  Nilah tumbled away on reflex, catching some decent air—and cursed herself. She couldn’t control her momentum in mid-flight, and her path would be predictable.

  Harriet was quick to take advantage, and when Nilah touched down, she found the god, palm outstretched, pressed directly into her breastplate.

  Or, rather, a projection of her breastplate.

  Her opponent had only missed her attack by a hairsbreadth, but Nilah gave her no time to recover, bringing Teacup’s chop down with the force of a jackhammer. She landed a shattering blow on one of Harriet’s arms, which bent in places it shouldn’t have.

  With a screech, Harriet teleported back a few meters, clutching what remained of her arm. Roiling hatred battled indignity for control of her twisted expression.

  “That was a cute trick,” she groaned, letting her ruined arm dangle by her side—but the other arm remained ready. Between that strike and Boots opening one of her arteries, Harriet was an obnoxiously tenacious fighter. “Using your projectors like that.”

  “Test me again, mate. I’ll give you two broken arms.”

  Nilah switched programs on her projectors to bring out writhing copies of her limbs. If Harriet closed ranks again, it’d be tough for her to determine which ones were real. That might buy Nilah an extra tenth of a second or two, the margins of a top racer on an average lap.

  The two clashed again, and this time, Nilah went on offense. She slashed with Teacup’s claws, projecting sprays of fireworks and random flashes to blind Harriet. She sent out glitchy images of Teacup in every direction, yielding more than one successful feint. But every time she thought she had her opponent nailed down, Nilah’s blows would pass through empty air and the remains of a porter’s mark.

  A lesser opponent than Harriet would’ve died from the strain of so much casting, or caught a claw to the neck. Worse still, this god had been a soldier before joining Witts—and she hadn’t forgotten how to fight. She kept Nilah off her guard, attacking from every direction, high and low.

  Then Harriet blinked back a few meters, a dewy sweat upon her face. Nilah was glad for her armor—her opponent couldn’t see her huffing, too.

  “You think they’re done murdering your girlfriend yet?” asked Harriet.

  “We got married, actually.”

  “Oh. My felicitations.”

  Stay cool. Make her angry enough to make a mistake.

  “You know who’ll never get married, right? Your daughter.”

  Harriet smiled, a strange facsimile of her days as Claire Asby. “You’re trying too hard, Nilah. Rebecca was a disappointment.”

  If Nilah attacked, Harriet would certainly be ready, using Teacup’s momentum to land a touch.

  “Funny, she said the same thing about you,” said Nilah.

  “At least it was quick for her. Your father made some hilarious noises while he went.”

  Don’t, said a tiny voice in Nilah’s brain, beneath the screaming rage that drowned out everything else.

  Stop.

  She sunk down to spring for Harriet, but the hallway went stark white with her flare of magic.

  Bad.

  Then Harriet was beside her, hungry fingers stretching toward Teacup’s shoulder. Nilah would never dodge—she was in the middle of bolting for Harriet’s position. The extra arms, the fireworks, the flickers… they were worthless in the face of plain inertia.

  But she had something only a very few people possessed—a racer’s reflexes.

  Nilah triggered the eject protocol, and Teacup vomited her onto the tiles shortly before vanishing into the great unknown.

  She’d liked that bot.

  She’d liked her leg. She’d liked her racing career. She’d liked her father.

  Harriet was on her in a literal flash, jabbing at Nilah with her deadly grasp. Tattoos strobed to life, flooding the corridor as Nilah retreated. Even with one hand, Harriet’s close-quarters experience shocked Nilah. The god wouldn’t fall for the old Flicker tricks, popping in and out of existence every time Nilah blinded her. Finesse wouldn’t work for this one, so Nilah took a page from Orna’s book.

  She kicked the hell out of Harriet’s broken forearm. In the middle of the resultant horrified gasp, Nilah socked her in the throat, locking up her windpipe. Nilah’s personal slinger seemed to leap eagerly into her hand from her holster—a bland weapon she’d never much cared for. As the barrel came level with her hated enemy’s heart, Nilah knew Harriet would teleport.

  That’s why she whipped her gun under one arm and fired behind herself.

  Nilah spun to find Harriet in shock, a red stain spreading from the smoking hole in her chest. She could’ve gotten to the best trauma center in the galaxy and they probably couldn’t save her. From the look in Harriet’s eyes, she knew it, too.

  The god reached for Nilah, spitting blood through locked teeth, and Nilah wove between failing limbs to punch her once more in her sucking chest wound—a stupid risk, but Nilah didn’t care.

  Harriet reached again.

  “Nope.” Nilah checked her into the wall, deftly avoiding her fingers, then seized a handful of the god’s hair.

  “Never—”

  She smashed Harriet’s head against the wall.

  “Forget—”

  Again. The god’s eyes rolled back in her head.

  “That I’m—”

  A brushstroke of blood smeared across the broken surface.

  “The fastest.”

  A melon-splitting crunch rang out, and then the only noise was the soft shush of Harriet’s body sliding to the floor. Nilah stood over her kill, taut shoulders rising and falling above clenched fists. What would her father have said about her vengeance? He’d always been so sweet; he probably wouldn’t have approved of violence.

  Nilah loosed a long, furious howl, emptying her clip into Harriet’s spasming face until there was nothing left.

  When her breath finally slowed, she swapped the mag in her pistol, tossing the spent empty onto the corpse’s wet chest.

  “I realized I never told you,” said Nilah, shoving her weapon into its holster.

  “I quit.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Flattened

  Henrick Witts shook his head in disgust, then locked eyes with Boots as his fingers dug into her cheeks. His voice wrapped around her like an avalanche, every word becoming a boulder to crush her form. It was as though he spoke into her being, her bones reverberating with his relentless utterance.

  “Listen to me, Boots. There is no god, and so I will become god.”

  Boots’s spine shook like a gong, and her teeth chattered in her head. Her vision stuttered and canted, and a sudden breeze whispered in Boots’s ears that she was falling. She put out an arm a little too late, catching the side of her head on the golden floor.

  “As they say, ‘Thanks for the memories.’ I think I get the gist, but I’ll be looking through the rest of you later.” Witts dusted off his palms and turned away from her to fac
e the Wellspring. “I want you to know I’m going to build a monument in your honor. You, who saved humanity.”

  Boots recoiled. She wasn’t sure what he meant, but she didn’t like it. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You brought me to Origin, child! That makes you”—he pointed to her to drive home the point—“the instrument of my eminence, and the ultimate good in the galaxy.”

  “Eminence? You starved a planet!” she raged, struggling to her feet. If her addled brain had conjured any backup plan, it was incinerated by a righteous conflagration. “You’ve caused more suffering than you will ever cure!”

  “Statistically, you’re incorrect.” He tapped a few stars, and the others swirled around them until they became the nexus of a new galaxy. “And now we get back to why this isn’t personal. How many more billions of humans would’ve existed before dying out? How many more animals and plants? I can reboot the whole system and spare them. I fight for the unborn. You fight for the damned.”

  Fatigue tugged at her limbs, and she struggled to stay upright. “So… what, you’re going to design utopia on our corpses?”

  “I’m a doctor, Miss Elsworth. I’d say I have a fair lead on anyone else who cares to try.”

  She looked to the Wellspring with despair. His arrogance would kill them all, and he’d never stop. Boots was so tired—the crash, the journey, and Witts’s magic had drained the strength from her joints. Witts flicked his finger toward her, and the torturer’s mark unfurled once more. Hot pain toppled her over, locking her hands into shaking claws.

  He let her relax for two seconds before hitting her twice as hard. When Boots’s vision returned, she spotted her slinger on the ground near his feet. It was pointless, but an opportunity was an opportunity.

  “Oh, very good,” Witts cooed, stepping back so she could have an unobstructed path to the weapon. “Show me your drive, for posterity’s sake.”

  As she crawled toward it, the weapon turned red-hot, melting into slag. She looked up to find Witts pointing at the former slinger, an arsonist’s glyph fading from his fingertips.

  Boots hadn’t loved the old Carrington, but it was the last part of her old military gear besides Kinnard, who lay oblivious in her backpack.

  Maybe if Witts killed everyone, he’d take Kinnard into his stupid utopia—so at least someone who mattered would survive.

  You ain’t dead, girl. She pushed up onto her knees, one-handed. Resist to the last breath.

  Alister lay slumped against the far wall, head nodding as he stirred. He still had his slinger, and maybe if he took Witts by surprise…

  “Docent,” Witts said to Alister. “What I did was allowed, yes?”

  Alister sat up and nodded. “Of course. You were required to walk the correct path, and you did.”

  “Good,” said Witts. As casually as ordering dinner, he added, “I wish to claim the big crystal. Remove your protections.” Even with his back turned, he kept a finger pointed at Boots, as if to say, Don’t worry. I’m still watching you.

  “It would be my honor,” said Alister, eyes flipping open. He kipped up to his feet, though his left wrist was bent at an awkward angle and looked like it was full of marbles. Sweat ran down his face, and Boots’s heart broke for him—enslaved like some spike thrall at his moment of confrontation.

  He was in there; she could see the pain in his eyes.

  She could work with that.

  “Boots.” Cordell’s voice crackled in her ear. “Fulsom is down. Zipper took care of the other goon he left in the maze. We’re about to breach your location. Are you alive?”

  If Boots responded, she risked an instant demise in Witts’s ire. If she didn’t, they might attack early and screw up her last-ditch effort.

  Jeannie appeared out of a cloud of mist, and together, they gathered at Witts’s side. The twins raised their arms to the crystal like they were the prongs of a jewelry setting, and it began to sink toward them. Alister cried out in anguish as his wrist flopped limply, and tears streamed down both of their faces. Tendrils of power snaked between them and the crystal as they lowered it from its invisible perch.

  Those two were trying so hard to fight it. Boots figured they just needed a little push.

  “Siobhán!” Boots shouted at the top of her lungs. “That’s the name you can’t remember! You loved her, but Jeannie told me you killed her! Her name was Siobhán!”

  Alister blinked, still smiling, but a twitch plucked at the corner of his mouth. Then another. Then his smile snapped into a wild, horrified howl.

  He lunged at Jeannie, knocking both off balance and sending them tumbling into Witts. Lights popped around them as their connection to the Wellspring severed, and the queerest silence filled the room.

  To Boots’s amazement and delight, the old man came off balance, hands flailing. Surprise etched his features as he, Alister, and Jeannie began to fall—along with the Wellspring.

  “Hunter One, coming in hot!”

  Slinger fire erupted from the entryway as Charger burst inside, bloodred armor ablaze. She targeted the downed trio, and Witts held up a hand to cast a shield, blocking her shots.

  So he couldn’t stop the Wellspring’s plummet, either.

  As the closest person to the crystal, Boots had a choice:

  She could let the many tons of magic rock fall to the ground, where her friends might reach it before Witts regained his balance, and use it… somehow.

  Or, she could jump under its bulk and get impaled. The Wellspring was, after all, vaguely spike-shaped, and that was how Witts got his powers on the Vogelstrand.

  She launched from her crouch, sprinting toward the falling wedge of sharp magic glass. Four big steps.

  The Chalice of Hana didn’t work on you, dull-finger. You’re going to get squished.

  Two big steps.

  Better to die with friends.

  One big step.

  Crunch.

  The thing that annoyed Boots about dying was that it never seemed to stop. A gigantic crystal spike had crushed her spine and most of her internal organs, and she’d been hoping that would put her into shock. It wasn’t supposed to keep hurting; that wasn’t fair.

  Her vision blurred, and she strained toward Henrick Witts with her remaining arm, willing the magic to come through her. Fury twisted Witts’s features, and he struggled upright to pop out a few dozen small glyphs. He was trying to rip it out of her with a sense of urgency she’d never expected. He always seemed so calm.

  Why are you so mad? I’m the one who’s dying.

  Then Boots’s fingers grew too heavy, and her cheek came to rest against the cool glass tile. Her mind began to float.

  Relax, Boots. Nothing to do about it now. You tried.

  The darkness closed in, and that’s when she heard a helpful, gender-neutral voice say, “Welcome to Wellspring OS! It looks like you’ve sustained a mortal blow. Perhaps you’d like me to render assistance?”

  Boots wanted to say yes, but breath was beyond her.

  “Great. Let’s get started on that,” said the OS. “We’ll use a portion of your reserves to rebuild your life energy. Stabilizing now.”

  Who are you?

  “I’m the executive AI of this data crystal, as well as the admin account for the Graveyard of the Poets. I’ve modified my linguistic patterns to match your memories of helpful AIs. This may be disorienting.”

  Power surged through Boots as magic roiled over her. Invisible hands picked her up, to her morbid fascination, in multiple pieces—but at least the pain had vanished.

  In fact, she felt better than ever, though she couldn’t stop screaming for some reason. A mending mark sprang to life before her shoulder stump, and she regarded her robotic arm as the pieces raced across the floor to leap onto her shoulder pin. They reassembled themselves, and Boots flexed her fingers to find them all in working order.

  She had the odd impression of being laced up as the Wellspring rebuilt her splattered midsection. Focus returned to her dazed eyes, bringing cl
arity she’d never possessed.

  Witts’s attention was still on her, though her friends harried him from every angle, pouring on a barrage of spells. His assembled web of interlinked magic grew faster and faster, but her crewmates were doing a fine job of breaking his concentration.

  “Elizabeth Elsworth, I need your consent to bear the legacy of humanity and the future of civilization. If you accept the power of the Wellspring—”

  “I consent,” she said, knowing exactly what to do with all that magic.

  Her spine lit up in agony as the Wellspring jammed its way deeper inside her. Forking rivers of arcane energies connected to her veins, flooding her with possibilities never considered. She finally sensed the presence of magic like she had a cardioid and understood what everyone had been talking about the entire time. The whole world felt more alive. She could touch it in new ways, draw from it and direct it.

  “Merge complete,” said the Wellspring. “Do you have any questions, Elizabeth?”

  She pressed her knuckles to her palm, as if testing the fit against her adversary’s face. “Can you reconfigure the Graveyard? Give us some room to dance?”

  The labyrinth walls fell away, and once more, the dome of stained glass stretched overhead. Her crew hunkered down, suddenly out in the open, but at least she had some maneuvering area.

  “Thief!” Jeannie bellowed. “Weak blooded—”

  Boots held up her palm, and swirling energies of sleep magic coalesced at her command. She regarded it in wonder before the homunculus came running like a banshee. “Sleep, Jeannie!”

  The ball of magic struck home, and Boots gently sent her unconscious body hovering toward Malik through the telekinetic magic of the conductor’s mark.

  “Keep her safe, Doc!” said Boots, holding out her hand and testing a small fire glyph to make a match flame. “Wellspring, seal all the entrances. I don’t want this guy getting away.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Incandescence

  Nilah arrived just in time to see the Wellspring slam down onto her friend’s back, smashing her flat.