The Worst of All Possible Worlds Page 18

  She yawed the Runner in place, spraying a line between the two ships, forcing them off their flight path. If they wanted to play with her friends, they’d have to go through her first. She trailed the nearest one with her slinger, eating into its disperser reserves before locking on with a seeker.

  Loosing the missile, Boots spun away and throttled up after the Capricious, savoring the pull of inertia on her skin. On her scope, the enemy countered her missile with a cloud of chaff, and she cursed. She only had three more of those seekers on her pods before it was slingers-only.

  The enemy fighters raced to flank, spraying spells across Cordell’s shields in the hopes of sinking a lucky hit. As long as they stuck to slingers, the Capricious would be all right—so it was only natural that one would fire off a missile. Boots’s scanners recognized the make, a discus round capable of cutting two cross sections through her marauder.

  “Boss! Discus missile on your phase!”

  Quick as a wink, Aisha rolled the marauder and knocked it down with a precise shot from the keel slinger.

  Boots locked on and tossed a second missile his way. “Take two, pal.”

  The enemy craft made to break right and launch chaff again, so Boots led it with her slingers, cutting it in half. Globes of eidolon fire spread from the explosion like a scattergun shell.

  “Good kill!” said Cordell. “Take out the other punk so we can… Damn it.”

  She glanced around. “What is it?”

  “Ten bandits, whiskey two-seven-eight, carom zero-zero-nine, distance five thousand. It’s a full attack wing headed our way.”

  Her scope lit up with enemy contacts, and she squinted for a visual. She pitched the Runner to look out of its panoramic roof and she saw them: a tight group of ten craft in hot pursuit.

  “I can’t pull off that much heat!” she said, orienting her dispersers to the front.

  The Capricious fragged their other dance partner with a clean shot from the keel slinger.

  “Get behind us, Boots,” said Cordell. “You can chase them when they break off.”

  She maneuvered the Runner past the remains of an enemy fighter and into the lee of the Capricious as the attack wing came streaking past, their slinger bolts raining down on Cordell’s doubled-up shields. Fire poured around the sides of the ship, the remains of missiles that had struck home.

  “Damn it,” grunted Cordell. “Broke my damned shield.”

  Boots sprayed a few bolts after them, to no effect—all dodged or dispersed. “Can you cast another?”

  “Going to try, Bootsie. The Hunters still don’t have the drive online. Give me everything you can.” His voice was shaking. He’d already cast a hell of a lot more than the average scribbler. His luminous shell swept under the belly of the Capricious, its strength obviously failing.

  “Don’t give yourself a coronary, Captain,” she said, dialing in her fire lanes. “I’ve got this. Head for the debris field and get some cover.”

  But she didn’t have anything under control, and she knew it. They were a thousand klicks from any reasonable cover and rocketing forward at full burn. The enemy fighters were already lining up their next strafing run, and she wouldn’t be able to take out two of them, much less all of them.

  She gritted her teeth and locked on to a single fighter, loosing the last of her seekers in rapid succession. If they were going down, she’d take at least one of them out. The missiles sailed for their target, but the enemy craft simply threw out chaff and dodged away.

  She let out a breath. “Damn. Not even one?”

  “Friendlies incoming!” radioed Cordell.

  An Allied wing of fighters came blasting into the pack of enemies, turning their tight formation into a tangle of slinger bolts and missile trails. Maybe they’d been out on patrol when Bastion showed up, or maybe they’d been lucky enough to scramble before their ships went down. Either way, they were a sight for sore eyes.

  “They’re distracted!” said Cordell. “Let’s make a run for the rendezvous and get the hell out of here.”

  They raced for the remains of the destroyer, desperate to get cover from Bastion before jumping. Maybe the debris would protect them from the trickster’s mark hijacking their jump; it was better than open space.

  “We pulled another pair of bandits,” said Cordell. “Just stay on our tail, Boots, and go full burn.”

  But the scope on her Midnight Runner told a different story; they’d be in range long before the rendezvous. She’d have to fight them off, which meant leaving the Capricious behind while it raced for the jump point.

  She flipped her Midnight Runner, coasting backward as she searched for a visual on her coming attackers. “Got to handle this, Boss. They won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Negative. We’ll hold them off together,” said Cordell. “You’re my only wing.”

  “I’ll deal with them and catch up,” she lied. “Just get to the jump point.”

  Soon, her friends would be gone, and Boots would be left alone in the remains of Task Force Sixty. Rather than risk capture, she could vent her suit or just self-destruct. She could do something heroic, like go on one last strafing run against Bastion. What had Armin felt as he’d piloted the Scuzzbucket toward certain doom to save his friends?

  Throttling up until blood pooled in her legs and her vision grew dim, Boots headed on a straight intercept like an ancient jouster. In the distance, the enemy barrels flashed with spellfire. She held fast.

  Which way are you going to break, bastard?

  The enemy’s roof thrusters fired, and Boots pitched down, guns thundering. Dispersers caught most of her fire, but she landed a solid shot on the canopy, incinerating the interior. One of the enemy bolts slipped through her defenses, and warnings blared in her ears as her main drive took a direct hit.

  “Damn it!”

  More friendlies appeared on her scopes. More distractions for her attackers. Time to run. She could still make it if she was fast.

  Boots popped her maneuvering thrusters to reorient, but her main engine didn’t want to cooperate. Checking her readouts, she found a notched nozzle that would always steer her a little toward her ninety. It’d be a hell of a trick to make it through the debris field to get to the jump point.

  “Boots!” Cordell began, but she cut him off.

  “I’m fine. Just dragging my dang leg.”

  She sped for the Capricious’s tail, but her friends got farther and farther away with each second. Her maneuvering thrusters had to fight the main drive to stay on course, slowing her down.

  “Listen, if you get clear,” she told him, “you jump.”

  Aisha flipped the ship and blasted the nearest enemy fighter with a pinpoint shot—a good thing, since they were closing on the destroyer’s remains. They’d need every bit of maneuvering capability to make it through in one piece.

  Cordell scoffed over the comm. “You can make it, old girl.”

  “I’m going to sock you if you call me that one more time.”

  “Then live to do it, old girl.”

  They raced out of view, weaving between two colossal chunks of scorched hull.

  Her nostrils flared, and she ramped up her thrust to full. “Prepare to get your block knocked off, you glyph-scratching piece of crap!”

  She passed into the cloud of metal, fire, and corpses, weaving and bobbing through obstacles. The Runner screamed a variety of warnings: proximity, power load, and, worst of all, maneuvering failure. She taxed her poor thrusters far beyond their design spec as she dodged thousands of deadly shards. If she made it back to the Capricious, half of her ports would be melted shut.

  “We’re at the rendezvous point,” called Aisha.

  Boots sucked in a breath. “Jump, you stupid assholes!”

  “Negative, old girl,” said Cordell.

  Cold sweat beaded on her brow. A derelict fuel tank exploded next to the Runner, knocking it off course, and it took all her skill to mitigate the spin.

  “We see you
!” said Aisha.

  Boots craned her neck to get a visual and spotted the Capricious, cargo hold hanging open. She pulsed her main drive in that direction, and when the ship began to list, she popped her ninety thruster.

  THRUSTER INOPERATIVE spread over her screen. Without the constant blast, the port had melted.

  “Boots, we’ve got to boogie,” said Cordell. “Bandits coming in hot through the debris field.”

  She checked her scope. “I know that, damn it! My—I can’t orient anymore. Lost my ninety thruster!”

  The Capricious was so close. Just a hundred meters. She could almost reach out and grab it.

  Maybe she could spin her ship harder, pinwheeling her way toward the cargo bay.

  “Boots…” said Cordell. “You don’t get to die here. Get on my ship, now. Fifty seconds to contact, and our jump is operational and primed.”

  “Okay.” She clutched the stick as tight as she could. “Okay. Yeah.”

  She throttled up, and the ship started a lazy spin. She just needed to fling her weight in the right direction. It was only a hundred meters, after all. The Capricious passed into her field of view, and she popped her maneuvering thruster once more, then the main drive, alternating until she got spinning so fast her back felt glued to the seat. But she was making progress, so she let up.

  “I’m coming in hot, Captain!”

  Except she wasn’t.

  She would pass directly beneath the ship on this trajectory, and if she used the keel thrusters, it would trigger an irreparable off-axis spin. There was only one thing to do.

  As the cargo bay passed overhead, she yanked the eject lever.

  Her seat went rocketing out underneath her, and the bright lights of the cargo bay swelled in her view. Charger stood at the entrance, a ramp strut in one claw and the other outstretched for her. She passed right by him.

  Into the bay.

  Toward the ceiling.

  “No, no, no, no—”

  Lights out.

  Chapter Ten

  After Action

  The most beaten Boots had ever seen the crew of the Capricious was at the end of the Famine War, after the capital of Arca had been turned to glass. The people on her ship had survived, but they’d been ghosts, wandering soundlessly through the corridors. There had been no job to do, no country to save. Robbed of his fire, Cordell was nothing, waiting in his quarters for drink or drugs to take his life.

  The mood on the Capricious after the destruction of Task Force Sixty was only slightly better than that.

  Sitting in the mess, surrounded by her crewmates in casts and bandages, Boots finally understood why Cordell had stolen the Capricious at the end of the war. She’d always assumed it was some bull-headed instinct to hold fast to the last vestiges of valor, or a pathological hatred of the Kandamili. But he’d hired Didier, a Kandi chem smuggler, so he couldn’t have cared about old vendettas.

  How could Boots have failed to see it before?

  Running from the law had given him purpose, someone to fight. It gave him a war when his was forever lost.

  “So that was Bastion,” he said, voice flat. “The worst threat ever to face the galaxy”—he shook his head—“constructed with money from the Money Mill”—then he bit his lip—“and cultists from influential families, galaxy-wide. If you’ll all recall, those were all the schemes we thought we’d ‘dismantled.’ Witts still got the damned battle station. As you can all see, Bastion isn’t even finished, and it’s…”

  Boots picked up the bottle of whiskey and poured herself a glass. She lifted the cup to her lips, which was difficult with the traction collar around her neck. It was nice to feel the fire in her gut when everything else was so numb. Malik wasn’t stopping her from drinking more than her health-initiative-rationed share, which didn’t bode well for his mental well-being.

  “Unbeatable.” Cordell hung his head, and Boots slid the bottle across to him. The captain had crossed his calorie limit a bottle ago.

  Alister leaned into the crook of Jeannie’s arm, half-asleep from all the chems in his system. Malik stood behind Aisha, who took the bottle for herself after Cordell sloshed out a glass. Nilah stood in the far corner, leaning back against Orna, who wrapped her arms around her like a scarf.

  “So…” Cordell took a swig and let out a quiet belch. “Let’s regroup and look at what we’ve got.”

  “We have their tactics,” said Nilah.

  “That’s true,” said Cordell. “Instantaneously appear in any system and hit their enemies with an asteroid they can conjure in seconds.”

  “You forgot ‘while fouling up all of our jump dives with a trickster’s mark,’” said Boots.

  “Have you talked to Special Agent Weathers?” asked Aisha. “He sounded hurt when he’d called. Do you think he’s alive?”

  “He’s a nice guy,” said Cordell, “but if he was any lower on my list of priorities, he’d be burning in hell. What do we have? Anything?”

  “We also have firsthand knowledge of their secret weapon,” said Orna.

  The captain patted his jacket, obviously looking for his cigarettes.

  “I feel like now is an appropriate time for smoking, sir,” said Boots, “if the doc wants to give back your stash.”

  “I made him blow them out the airlock,” said Malik. “Wasn’t taking any chances.”

  Orna rested her chin on top of Nilah’s head and tightened her hold on the smaller woman. “As I said, we’ve seen their weapon. We’ve made countermeasures against Witts before. There’s a way to do it again.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Cordell, “but let’s be real. There isn’t a countermeasure for Bastion, and intel isn’t helping. I can call anyone in the galaxy. I could call, like, the head of GATO and tell them everything I saw, and there’s nothing they could do about it.” His fingers shook, clearly itching for nicotine. “At the end of the day, the real question is pretty simple: what are we supposed to do about Witts’s new station? The answer is equally simple: nothing. No force in the universe is equipped to repel firepower like that.”

  He leaned forward. “And we’re already too late in the game to really be thinking about that. See, if Witts is willing to brazenly attack the Fifth Fleet, that means his next stop is Taitu.”

  “So you’re saying we just saw a successful test.” Nilah brushed Orna’s hands off her and walked to the table. “And now it’s game over.”

  “That’s about the size of it, yeah. Did you see Bastion’s drone array? I’ll tell you why he attacked the Fifth Fleet, and it ain’t because they were disrupting his operations. It’s because he needed to see whether or not Bastion could hold its own. Once he finishes that station, he’s going to park it wherever he wants in civilized space and start casting.”

  “Start casting what?” asked Alister, sitting up.

  “The Grand Glyph,” Cordell replied. “He’ll end all life in the universe. What was it you said last year, Boots? ‘The cash from the Money Mill is going to make the Harrow look like a kid’s toy’?”

  Everyone took a moment to chew on that. Boots wondered what passed through their minds. Grief? Fear of losing the few loved ones they had left?

  Cordell laughed, and it grated on Boots’s nerves. “You know, I didn’t even realize it, but Witts’s attack was even smarter than I thought. See, if he goes around crippling individual fleets, they won’t be able to muster the forces they need when it’s time for a final showdown. Oh! And he has the jump guns now, so that’s just great. They won’t be able to jump in without getting pounded, so they’ll have to go full burn and he can simply teleport away.” He raised his glass. “So thanks, Taitu, for killing everything and everyone with your stupid goddamned inventions. Here’s to you, Witts!”

  A loud bang sounded out. “That’s enough!”

  It took Boots a second to realize she’d just shouted at her commanding officer—in front of her other commanding officer. She looked down at the table and saw that she’d left a fist-shaped imprint on t
he thin steel with her metal hand.

  “Look, I’m sorry, but… Scratch that. I’m not sorry. No one toasts Witts in my presence, not unless they want a knife in the neck.”

  Cordell rose to his feet. “And what are you going to do, Boots? I’d imagine there’s a whole ship full of people toasting Witts every day, and—”

  “Yeah! And I just stabbed one in the neck, if you recall! Killing them all sounds like a big task, but I’ll go person by person if I have to. Now you might wonder how we’re going to fight, but, Captain”—she took special care to accent each word in her next sentence—“ we are going to fight. Yeah. Bastion sucks and it’s unkillable. We know that, so shut up about it! You know what else is unkillable? Us!”

  “Boots,” Malik began, and she held up a hand. She couldn’t have the first mate dulling her edge with his calm.

  She stopped to look each person in the eyes, fire churning in her gut. “They threw the baddest thing in the whole galaxy at us, and we escaped. Captain, for two years, I’ve had to listen to you whine about ‘what are we going to do if all the gods attack at the same time?’ Well, it happened, and the answer is, every goddamned one of us lived! You tell me if that makes us anything other than the grittiest, hardest starship crew of all time. Go on!”

  He stared at her, stunned, then cracked a broad grin and opened his mouth.

  “No jokes, Captain,” she said. “Don’t laugh this off.”

  “What do you want me to do, Bootsie?” he asked, closing his eyes with a sigh. “In the past, we just had to expose the conspiracy to wreck his plans. You know this is different. We don’t even have a lead.”

  “Yes, we do,” said Boots. “Remember?”

  The captain regarded her with half-lidded eyes as he searched his thoughts.

  “I stole the Athana data-thingy,” she said. “We’re carrying around one of the most classified assets in the galaxy.”

  It wasn’t a big change, but she spied a little spark of hope in his eyes. He snuffed it out almost as quickly.