The Worst of All Possible Worlds

by Alex White

  Boots laughed. “Lazy jerks.”

  “So you won’t trust me?”

  “Not sure,” she said. “Hard to care anymore. Maybe you’re still a spy, and you’ll hand us all over the second I’m unconscious. It doesn’t matter.”

  “So the bar is open. What dreams can I give you?”

  Boots stood and followed her to the wall of vials, each secured by a brass latch. “Arcana dystocia. I can’t buy dreams, remember?”

  Checo’s shoulders twitched with silent laughter. “Who told you that?”

  “This bartender on Gantry used to love to give me guff about it.”

  “Oh, my dear Boots. This isn’t the cheap stuff. I’d encourage you to give it another try.”

  She thought about it as she looked over the labels: wealth, power, beauty, stardom. She had at least three of those things, and cared little for beauty. None of them could make her even temporarily happy.

  But maybe there was something. Her eyes went a little red, and she tried to keep the quiver out of her voice as she asked—

  “Do you have anything… anywhere I can cast spells?”

  “Boots…” Checo gave her a pained look as they helped her back onto the cushions. “Boots, of course. There’s just one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  They fluffed some of the pillows and placed a soothing hand on Boots’s shoulder. “You and your friends have very, very famous faces. They’ve all decided to take on new ones. I’d like to offer you the same service for your continued longevity.”

  She grimaced. “My face? Now I’ve got to lose my face, too?”

  “It’s not required, but you’ll find your life far more dangerous without a re-sculpting.”

  Boots leaned back and gave them a sour look. “Just make sure you don’t make me too pretty. I earned every line on here.”

  Checo handed her an open phial, its contents smelling of sweet crème de menthe. “I promise to preserve all of your charms. Down the hatch, now, and when you awaken, we can discuss your new life.”

  Boots gave Checo a little toast. “Bottoms up.”

  In her dreams, she was always whole.

  “Boots,” someone said.

  It took a lot of mental fortitude to tear herself away from the pack of shirtless Rook mechanics. Spellcasting had been fun, but she’d eventually moved on to some of the more exciting drugs. Boots managed to creak one eye open to find a strange man at her side, and she jolted, flopping off the pile of pillows as she flailed for her missing slinger.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay!” said the man. “It’s me, Alister. New face. New ID.”

  Boots blinked up at him. If that was supposed to be the male Ferrier, he was a damned sight different from the person he’d been. Soft cheeks and brow had been hardened, chiseled into a mean countenance. Freckles and red hair had given way to tanned skin and a sandy blond mop. The only thing that made him look halfway approachable was the short-shorn beard, little more than stubble, but enough to soften the look.

  Checo stood at the door, pulling the curtains aside enough to poke their head in and say, “That really is Alister. I’m afraid you’ll have a lot of acclimating to do.”

  Boots nodded in their direction. “Thanks. I, uh…”

  “Alister asked to see you while the others were asleep,” said Checo. “I hope that’s all right.”

  “It’s fine,” said Boots, though she would’ve preferred to stay asleep and find out which way the shirtless maintenance dreamboat was sailing.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” said Checo, disappearing into the folds.

  “You look… good,” said Alister.

  Boots had entirely forgotten about her own new face. “Haven’t seen myself.”

  “You’re going to like it.”

  “You got a mirror around here?” she asked, and Alister glanced about at the draped walls before shrugging. There were recesses behind all of them for drugs and gear, but Boots figured it unwise to rummage through the place. “Never mind. Help me up.”

  The now-strapping Alister pulled her to her feet, and Boots noticed a few extra muscles carved into his arm. He followed her gaze and grinned. “Not bad, right?”

  The shape of his expression was the same as any of Alister’s mischievous smiles, but it didn’t map to his face quite right—his was the face of a straight-shooting macho man, not the sensitive twin she’d known. Sure, it was attractive, but it was completely out of phase with the person he’d been.

  That was probably on purpose.

  “I’m leaving,” he said.

  “You’re going out? For what?”

  “No, I’m leaving, leaving. For good. Alone.”

  Boots gave him an uncomfortable smile as she patted his shoulder with her good arm. “Hey, buddy, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Please don’t talk to me like I’m crazy.”

  “Sorry, it’s just… you kind of were, you know? Don’t be mad, but I seriously doubt you need to go wandering around by yours—”

  “Boots, I remember everything,” he interrupted.

  “So… you know that Siobhán… You know you cut her up?”

  His eyes went flaming hot. “Is that what Jeannie told you?”

  Boots suppressed a shiver. “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t kill all those people, but—” He gritted his teeth. “She made me think… Look, Boots, you don’t really know her. I don’t know her.”

  “She’s your sister, though.”

  “It takes more than genetic material to make a family. She was grown in an accelerator and trained by monsters. She’s not human, and I know that now.”

  Boots chewed her lip. “Technically, you aren’t, either.”

  “It’s not like we had a childhood together. The whole sibling thing—she set that up so she could control me.” He pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead like he had a headache. “And I think she did other stuff to my mind. Like, recently.”

  Boots hadn’t been expecting to feel anything close to anxiety after seeing Witts’s blood on her hands, but here was a colleague saying disturbing things about a trusted member of the crew. “No offense, bud, but you’ve been pretty out there.”

  “I forgot things! I wouldn’t make them up.” He shook his head. “I’m not asking you to believe me. I know… I know that we’ve all been through a lot together. Jeannie was a big part of this. But I begged her not to kill those people and instead she… she tried to make me more like her.” He met her gaze. “That’s why I’m leaving now. I can’t ask you to trust me after all those things I said, but I can’t stay with her, either.”

  But she took care of you all this time, Boots wanted to say. Had she, though? If Alister was telling the truth, maybe she’d messed up his head because she didn’t want to be alone. Maybe Jeannie was a sleeper agent, and one day she’d betray them all like Kin had.

  That was preposterous. If Jeannie had wanted to hurt them, she’d had ample opportunity, so it was just as likely this was another of Alister’s delusions.

  “If you’re on your own, there are spies out there looking for you, Al. They’re going to scoop you up faster than you can say ‘genetically engineered black project.’”

  “I’m trained in countersurveillance, remember?”

  She soured. “I remember you walking through the Harvest bazaar like a doe-eyed tenderfoot.”

  “I’m smarter now. I’ll make do.”

  She looked him over. He certainly stood up straighter, held his shoulders a bit more confidently. He was unrecognizable up close, much less at a distance. Whatever had unlocked inside his mind, it provided him with a fuel she hadn’t seen before.

  “If I know the captain, he’s going to want to go underground after this. You might not be able to find us again.”

  He smiled. “When I need you, I’ll just follow the sound of explosions.”

  “I’m retiring. Listen for the slurp of a well-mixed drink. Or a poorly mixed one… How abo
ut you just go where the drunks are?”

  He looked toward the hidden door, preparing to leave. “We’ve been together for almost two years. I think I’m going to miss you the most.”

  “I don’t know why.”

  “I like the grumpy ones.”

  “Stay cool, Al.”

  He started to leave, then turned and hugged her as tightly as he could. Boots struggled for air, slapping his back when he got too emotional. They pulled apart to regard each other one last time.

  The boy who’d joined the crew had been cocksure, quick to gloat, and equally quick to kill. He’d taken stupid chances and nearly kicked the bucket a few times. But when Boots looked into the eyes of this new man, she wanted to believe he’d be okay. He looked capable and ready, with a few deadly skills.

  He’ll be fine. Don’t call for the others.

  “Tell Jeannie…” he began, but trailed off, struggling to find an appropriate sentiment. Anger kinked his brow. “Tell her if I see her again, I’ll kill her. I don’t owe her anymore.”

  He marched to the curtain and swept it aside. “If you’re smart, Boots, you’ll stay away from her, too.”

  Then he left, and Boots couldn’t escape the feeling that they’d traded the last words they ever would.

  Boots’s appetite had been essentially missing from the moment they’d hit Origin’s orbit. First, it’d been nonstop battle, and then she’d been stuck in a recovery room for nearly three days. All the food she’d been eating had been intravenous, via Checo’s numerous nutrient drips.

  When Checo had told her it was time to stop dreaming and come to dinner, Boots had wanted nothing more than to refuse. She had, after all, earned a lifetime of shore leave, and she wasn’t about to give up another second of it.

  But the scents of soy, garlic, ginger, and vinegar were far more insistent than her host, and Boots’s stomach rang with the sort of eager hunger that precedes a true feast.

  She emerged from her recovery room to find a table piled high with colorful, exotic foods from across the galaxy. Cubes of glazed, fried bean curd rested atop thick beds of woven noodles, their strands crispy and caramelized where they’d felt the touch of a hot pan. A bouquet of edible flowers emerged from a horn, their bulbs frosted with translucent sugar batter. Plump fruits lounged beside platters of chocolate, their ripest, succulent flesh on display. Little peppers stood vigil around them, their innards stuffed full of spicy cheeses and bread crumbs. There was even a gravity-defying dessert of polenta triangles perched between the struts of a hard-crack honey lattice.

  When she looked around the dining room, she realized they must’ve been moved from the clinic to a more spacious locale. This place was a masterpiece of alabaster stone and water so blue that it rendered sapphires dull. A set of pillars surrounded the table, supporting an ever-flowing canopy of velvet rose petals. A mirror lake stretched around the edges of the room with cubic prisms of water rising from its surface in random lumps. Light shimmered from underneath, thrown across high ceilings that could never have fit in Checo’s little surgical suite.

  “Holy cats,” she breathed, making all haste toward the peppers and popping one into her mouth.

  The delight proffered a menagerie of flavors in alternating chews—the sweetness of the pepper and the snap of its skin, the heat of its spicy seeds, smooth, salty fat, and the tooth of the bread crumbs against the stretchy cheese.

  “You’re presented with a spread like this, and you go straight for the stuffed peppers?” came Cordell’s voice. “Girl, you embarrass me sometimes.”

  Boots spun to find her captain standing at the exit of another room, and she struggled to swallow before coming to attention. She percussed her sternum with a fist before saying, “I went for the best protein and calorie density. You can take a girl out of the Famine War, but…”

  He looked like crap. His arms hung by his sides, covered over by thick biobandages, and dark circles rimmed his eyes. His features, hardened by battle, were now more refined and delicate. If it hadn’t been for his signature baritone, she might not’ve recognized him at all. “To be honest, I was thinking the same thing. Shove over.”

  He joined her at the spread, and they gorged themselves for a full five minutes before Boots noticed the nearby plates—gold-rimmed with elegant artwork, of course.

  She dangled one for him to see. “Uh, Captain?”

  “Screw that,” said Cordell, taking a sugar wedge and using it to shovel a gin and tonic aspic into his mouth. “I know what we’re paying to be here, and I don’t need a dang plate.”

  “Is that Boots?” came a woman’s voice, and Boots’s breath caught as Aisha emerged from behind another drapery. She’d been made plain of features, still beautiful, but more muted. She’d been given the sort of look that could blend into a crowd, or boast extravagant makeup, depending on the need.

  Malik emerged behind her, and where Aisha and Cordell had been made friendlier, more approachable, the ship’s doctor was all angles and square jaw. The man had always been so pretty, but now he looked positively predatory, with a long, puffy scar slicing his nose before traveling below one eye.

  Former Malik had been unnaturally good-looking for his age. New Malik looked a lot like a pirate in the best and worst ways.

  “Whoa,” said Boots, before realizing she was staring. What if he hated it? What if he was self-conscious?

  Malik gestured to his face with an excitement that didn’t fit his new visage. “I know! I’ve always wanted to be able to pull off mean! And you! You look amazing!”

  Boots drew up short. After what Alister had said, she forgot to check a mirror. Then she’d gotten stressed and knocked herself out again.

  Boots frowned. “What do I look like?”

  Cordell and Malik looked at each other in near panic, testing descriptors and finding them all lacking.

  Aisha shook her head through their slowly wilting dialogue before cupping her hand to her mouth. “Victoria! Mirror for Boots, please.”

  “Of course, Missus Jan,” said a disembodied voice. With a tinkling chime, a projector spun out a mirror image of Boots so she could see herself.

  “It always pays to learn the AI’s name first,” said Aisha, crossing her arms.

  At first, Boots thought it was another woman until the reflection mimicked her movements in real time.

  She looked about as far from herself as she could: honest and clear-eyed. There was a pang of disappointment at the fact that she hadn’t been turned into a supermodel, but that hadn’t been the point.

  Somehow, despite Boots’s singular appearance, Checo had found a way to channel her character into her new face. Her reimagined look captured her perfectly: not too sweet, not too salty, a little mole on one cheek. She looked like a Boots—not herself, but cut from the same cloth.

  The one difference was the hair. When she lifted it and let it fall, her auburn locks bounced like they were in a commercial.

  “Oh, my god…” she said, lifting her metal hand to repeat the action. “I finally have good hair…”

  Checo entered, carrying a magnum of sparkling wine. “You wouldn’t believe the hours it takes to sculpt hair to bob like that. I had to use a micropress and—”

  Boots jumped in place and pawed at her new coiffure. “I love it! I look all dignified and crap! I feel like I could be a teacher or something.”

  “You definitely look smarter than you are,” said Cordell, cutting a block out of the braided, pan-fried noodles and maneuvering it onto his plate.

  Boots picked up a cherry tomato and nailed him in the chest, where it bounced onto his noodles. “We can’t all look like a bunch of fools, sir.”

  “It’s a miracle!” said Cordell. “Your aim is getting better, too!”

  “You guys are so loud,” said Orna, slumping out of her room. Gone were her few curves, replaced by strong lines of muscle. In the fluffy crimson robe, Boots might’ve mistaken Orna for a prince or a diplomat’s son. Her face still held some of its old f
emininity but had a glamorous androgyny any model would envy.

  Nilah followed in her wake, and Boots brazenly stared at her. She hadn’t realized just how much Nilah had aged since joining the crew, but the person who emerged with Orna looked practically childlike. Gone were all the symbols of their trials, replaced by a teenage innocence that could never capture the ferocity underneath. This wasn’t the person who’d punched out a horde of springflies and tangled with a god. She was more like a pop star hopeful, waiting in the wings for her audition to roll around.

  “I hope you all like your faces,” said Checo.

  “I look,” said Orna, jamming her hands into her pockets to cut an imposing silhouette, “like I have always wanted to look. This is incredible.”

  “I chose to assign you these,” Checo began, raising their hands, “because they don’t completely fit with your character. Any fool sculptor can make someone unreasonably beautiful. I have made you fit in. You’re about to journey into a dangerous universe, and I wanted to give you the best chance at survival. I can’t force you to betray a lifetime of mannerisms, but I can at least make the effect drastically different. Your old habits will appear completely new to those who knew you, filtered through your new looks.”

  “Hey, I love the hair, and you fixed the rest of my stupid face,” said Boots, and Checo shot her a look.

  “All flesh is beautiful in my eyes,” they countered. “I told you that before, and I meant it then, too. Now we need to discuss your assets.”

  Boots craned her neck to inspect her own backside.

  “Your illiquid assets,” Checo corrected. “You’ve got a farm and a mansion on Hopper’s Hope, Boots. How do you plan to live there when you’ve got a new identity?”

  Boots drew up short. “I—”

  She hadn’t considered that. When she’d imagined killing Witts in the past (with numerous beautiful permutations), she returned to her farm for a few halcyon years of slowly pickling herself on her back porch. She deserved her view of flaxen waves.

  She shook her head. “No…”

  “GATO knew where the intel about Origin came from,” said Checo, “and though it looks like the Alliance is cracking, powerful nations will know you were behind that information. They will never stop searching for you. There’s a bounty for you on the Black Link: two hundred fifty thousand a head.”