The Worst of All Possible Worlds Read online

  “Oh, yeah,” said Jeannie. “We’re thinking of quitting and opening our own restaurant.”

  Boots was about to tell her some harsh truths about their skill level when Jeannie cracked a smile. Of the whole crew, Boots had the most trouble reading the twins’ mannerisms, but they were both grown in test tubes by evil scientists, so any disconnects in communication were foregone conclusions.

  “I was about to ask where you’d open your hot dog stand,” said Boots, winking.

  “Gourmet hot dog stand,” Jeannie corrected. “But you know, if you have a problem with the cooking…”

  She held up her palms. “Not me! Point me at the meal, and I’ll make it disap—”

  “You know what we haven’t had in a long time?” Alister interrupted.

  Stifling her annoyance at his preempt, Boots waited for his answer.

  “Stuffed cabbages,” said Alister. “Armin is really slacking off, you know.”

  The air in the mess hall seemed to vanish as Boots searched for the words to explain to him that Armin had sacrificed himself so everyone else could live. She looked to Jeannie, finding the woman’s shoulders tensed.

  “Alister,” Jeannie began, but her brother’s eyes went distant.

  “Oh,” he said. “Right. Yeah, sorry. Sorry. It’s just… hard to believe.”

  “For all of us,” Boots added. The more she considered it, the further and further a post-run beer fell from favor. She’d have to sit there and sip it with the Ferriers, while Jeannie negotiated Alister’s mystery problems in front of her. It’d be an ugly setup.

  “Maybe I should scram,” said Boots. “Don’t want to bother the cooks.”

  “Yeah, maybe so.” Jeannie gave her an appreciative look. She obviously hadn’t been pleased Boots saw the confusion.

  “Later,” said Alister with a weak wave.

  Boots bade them good day and stepped into the hall. She could head back to her quarters, clean up, and take a nice nap before her watch. The hallway speakers, the ones used for emergency broadcast, chimed beside Boots.

  “I’ve been tracking your progress with the ship’s sensors,” said Kin. “You’re about twenty-seven percent finished with your run.”

  “You know, you’re a lot less fun, now that you’re such a narc.”

  “Now now, if that’s something that bothers you,” said Kin, “maybe you should look into it.”

  “But for now?”

  “For now, you run.”

  Chapter Two

  Crew

  Boots tossed and turned, searching her bed for sleep. Her legs burned from the run, and though her body longed to be in a coma, her mind wouldn’t stop turning over their mission parameters.

  Baron Valentino Gaultier lived on Carré. Boots hated that planet with a burning passion, from the stinking Gray to the privileged noblesse living in the clouds. It’d been the site of the Clarkesfall Armistice, where Boots’s home country of Arca had signed their provisional surrender to the Kandamili. It’d been where Mother jammed a long sword through Didier Thomasi’s head after—

  She winced, remembering the shine of the dripping blade.

  Since Didier’s murder, there hadn’t been time to date, but perhaps that was a good thing. A man wouldn’t fit into Boots’s life. With a sore groan, she sat up, afraid that the longer she lay there, the more Didier’s ghost would come to haunt her. Something soft and sweet might chase him away, though.

  “Kin,” she rasped.

  “Lizzie,” came his voice, gentle in the night cycle.

  She rubbed her eyes. “Water. Get some donuts going in the autochef. Want them hot when I get down there.”

  The autochef was one of the last pieces of original gear remaining on the Capricious, but it was buggy and had a nervous habit of vomiting synthetic starch all over the floor whenever someone asked for a sandwich. It could still mix and fry donuts like a champ, though, so Boots was basically the only person using it.

  “I’m afraid it’s been disconnected, Lizzie.”

  Boots restrained a gasp. “By whom?”

  “The ship’s database contains a work order, filed by Captain Lamarr, for the decommissioning of ‘Boots’s Donut Machine.’”

  “Damn! Why?”

  “The comments section of the work order says, ‘Get over it, Boots. This is for your own good.’”

  Anger flared in her skull, hot enough to fry a donut. “First the doc with his stupid running and now this. Is my bastard captain policing anyone else’s weight, or am I special?”

  “Answering that would violate the Confidential Personal Health Information Employment Act of 2862.”

  “You tell the captain that he doesn’t have the right to go around shutting down a girl’s donut factory unless he wants a full-blown mutiny on his hands.”

  “Would you actually like me to send that message, or…”

  Boots huffed. “No.”

  “Understood. Since you’re awake, would you mind running an admin hash decluttering on me? I’m having trouble with my permissions and—”

  “I just woke up and you want me to do maintenance?”

  “It worries me, because those holes could be exploited.”

  “Later. Come on.”

  Kin chimed. “I’ve just spoken with Captain Lamarr, and he wishes to see you in his quarters, so you can discuss it with him there.”

  Boots blanched. “I told you I didn’t really want you to send that message!”

  “This is apparently unrelated,” said Kin.

  She forced her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, the natural crackles of her forties rattling her spine.

  “Don’t worry. The captain has urged me to convey that this is good news,” said the AI.

  She pulled on an overshirt, its clasps clicking closed. “Don’t trust a word of it.”

  “I’ll let him know you’re on your way.”

  “You do that.”

  Boots stepped into the hall, searching for anyone else awake during the night cycle. There’d be a watch officer on the bridge, but aside from that, it should be quiet. A strange, lilting melody echoed through the decks near the elevator, and Boots realized the twins were singing to each other in harmony. With any other member of the crew, she’d have poked her head in to investigate, but singing had to be the least weird thing the twins did.

  Arriving at the captain’s quarters, she checked herself for lint, adjusted her collar, and took a deep breath. She opened the door to find Cordell sitting at his dinner table with a projection of what looked like a white starfish with swept-back legs hovering overhead. He waved her over.

  “Is this from Special Agent Weathers?” she asked.

  “Not quite. Got this from GATO Command,” he replied, gesturing to the strange shape in the projection. “This is the last image that a Fifth Fleet scout ship transmitted before being destroyed. The bigwigs think it’s Bastion.”

  That was the massive space station Henrick Witts was constructing. Boots drew closer and peered into the blurry edges.

  It wasn’t much to look at—no discernible details, just a central body and set of arms. She had no sense of scale to draw from, but she remembered the amounts of cash flowing through the Money Mill. The station would be huge.

  “It’s been picking off scout movements, playing cat and mouse with the Fifth, and the GATO folks are on fire,” said Cordell.

  “So that’s why you called me up here?”

  “No.” He adjusted his cuffs. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it: there’s a hole that has to be filled.”

  “Excuse the hell out of you.”

  “In our ranks, you reprobate. Our mission discipline has been crap without Armin. This meeting with Agent Weathers has me a little on edge, and… well…”

  Boots cocked her head. He couldn’t possibly be headed in the direction she thought he was.

  “I need a new first mate. You’d get executive privileges and better stock in the venture.” His
golden irises locked on to hers. “You’re the person for the job.”

  She gaped at him. They’d always worked well together, not as close friends, but professionals. Through the war, the Harrow conspiracy and all the aftermath, she’d diligently gone where he ordered and blown up every deserving target. She’d never had to manage supplies like Orna and Malik, or deal with their Gate Cartel tokens like Aisha. She’d never seen a repair invoice, plotted a large tactical engagement, or been a party to fleet strategy. Her training as an officer consisted of the emergency battlefield commission given to her during her Arcan Civil Air Patrol days. She knew as much about being an executive officer as cleaning a marpo vat.

  She gave him a nervous smile. “I’m going to have to go with no on that one.”

  He shook his head. “I knew you were going to say that.”

  “Look, I’m flattered, I really am… but you know I’m all wrong for this.”

  “You’re a natural-born leader, Boots.”

  She burst out laughing.

  “Okay, funny girl.”

  “I’m a funny woman, sir.”

  Cordell ran one hand over his hair, stopping at the back to scratch an itch. “I can prove you’re right for us. That day on the Harrow, you refused to let us collapse under grief. When we found out… what they did to our home, you didn’t buckle or fly off the handle.”

  Her hands naturally came to an at-ease posture as she addressed him. “And I mentioned in the after-action report that I’d been prepped by Kinnard to handle that terrible news—so you can’t chalk my even-handed response up to leadership.”

  “You refused to let me die in the ensuing battle.”

  “After I shot you. That would’ve been, as Nilah might say, ‘bad form.’”

  He smirked. “You essentially planned the vault robbery at Mercandatta.”

  “And Orna is the one who got us out of there.”

  “Your quick thinking against Vraba on the Masquerade saved everyone’s lives.”

  “Almost everyone,” she corrected, letting that hang in the air like dismal fog. “And my surprise explosive tore a hole in Malik’s stomach. He almost died! Sir, the first mate is the captain when you do something stupid enough to get captured or killed, and at the rate you’re going that’ll be sometime next week.”

  Pursing his lips, he added, “And you’re not getting any younger. Most fighter jocks are retired at your age, or dead.”

  There it was—the real reason for the offer. Of course he didn’t want her as a first mate; he just wanted her out of the cockpit so it wasn’t his fault when she got blown to smithereens.

  She deflated. “That’s out of line, man. Combat ops are—”

  “Not appropriate forever.”

  “If you take me out of that bird, you may as well drop me back at the farm on Hopper’s Hope because I’m done.”

  “Boots—”

  “Captain, you’ve said your piece, and now I get to talk. We’re going to take a moment, just as two people, not as Captain Lamarr and his fighter pilot. Okay?”

  He frowned and raised his palms.

  “Combat ops are my life. I don’t want to be a bureaucratic enabler of other, better warriors. I want to fly my Runner and jam my slinger so far up Henrick Witts’s ass that they classify his corpse as a cannon. I like being in the field. And yeah, blasting Vraba with an anti-ship round was just about the greatest feeling I’ve ever known… aside from smashing Mother’s neck. I’d do anything for another shot at a god.”

  “I get you, I do, but—”

  “But Malik is the obvious choice,” she interrupted.

  The captain shook his head. “Yeah, because Doctor Jan issuing his wife direct orders is what I need in my life.”

  “You need to respect them enough to let them figure that out.”

  “He’s a combat medic and dreamweaver.”

  She shrugged. “So what? He gets a major injury literally every time you deploy him.”

  “You lost the same arm twice.”

  “And I’m fine with that. Find someone else.”

  He sucked in a breath and rose to his feet. “You know, this is exactly what’s wrong with you. You’ve always got to do it your way, and damn everyone else!”

  “That’s what we call a redeeming quality! Right now, I’m struggling to see yours! You can’t just rip me out of my cockpit—my home—because you’re afraid of something happening to me!”

  He grimaced. “Is that what you think?”

  “Why else would you bring up my age?”

  For the first time since she’d known him, he backed down. “I don’t know. I was just trying to add another data point to the mix. I don’t think you get how hard this job is without a trusted friend for guidance. The captain doesn’t share hopes and fears with the crew. That’s the kind of crap that gets them killed.”

  “This isn’t about age. It definitely isn’t about my skill.”

  He pointed to her, then himself. “It is, though. I think we can do this. You’re clever as all get-out, and I’m, you know, pretty much the greatest captain in the galaxy. We’ve got the toughest crew anyone has ever—look, it’s difficult without an XO I can be straight with.”

  “You are so ridiculous. You want to promote me so we can be friends?”

  “Yes! No! That’s not exactly it.”

  She crossed her arms. “You’re the captain. Be decisive. Spit it out.”

  Cordell paced around his table, hands clasped behind his back as though he were inspecting an upcoming battle sim. “Let me lay this plan out on its strengths…”

  She waited patiently for him to name a single strength, and found herself checking the clock. After another lap of the table, he deflated. She was about to make fun of him when he spoke.

  “It’s lonely.”

  On an air base, they would’ve canned him for saying something like that. Toward the end of the war, he would’ve lost his commission and been assigned under someone capable of maintaining “sufficient decorum.” A person couldn’t be captain if they went around being sad about their pals dying.

  “Captain…” She wanted to pat his shoulder, but the old codes of conduct stayed her hand.

  “This ship is my life, Boots. It’s everything I want out there in the sky. And we’ve uncovered incredible treasures—together.”

  “Look, if you’re about to say friendship is the real treasure—”

  “No, no, I love cash.”

  “Thank god.”

  He settled half his rump onto the lip of the table. “But as the senior officer, you get to have one close friend: the person who’s supposed to take the mantle from your corpse. Off the ship, people don’t get you. On the ship, you can’t let them get you.”

  She couldn’t tell him to forget the rank and be pals with everyone. That was about as likely as her sprouting a cardioid. Or starting a family.

  “You understand,” he began, then swallowed an unseen bitter pill. “My only buddy just, you know, jumped directly into another ship’s engines. So, I’ve been alone for a couple of months, and… I just don’t know how much longer I can keep it up.”

  “You went to boot camp with Malik, sir.”

  He nodded slowly. “That I did. But you actually get me. You’ve got the fire. Malik is… just a little too perfect, you know?”

  She burst out laughing. “Yes! I know exactly what you mean.”

  Cordell stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It’s impossible to loosen up around that guy. He makes me feel guilty for eating junk food.”

  “I yell at you for smoking.”

  “He does, too, but I care when he says it.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Boots chewed her lower lip. “Look… I’m not saying we should ditch the ranks or whatever. Like, I know that someone always has to have the final say in the heat of the moment, but maybe you could stand to loosen up a little. Sleep in an extra thirty minutes or something.”

  Then she did something she’d never have imagined in a million y
ears: Boots walked around the table, clapped her hands to both of his shoulders, and said, “We’re a family, and we’re smart.”

  He recoiled but didn’t brush her hands away. “Man, Armin would’ve had a field day with this.”

  “That’s true. But you just asked me to be your first mate, and that’s my advice.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “No. Hell no. The universe is expanding. The galaxy spins. Space is a vacuum. I’m a fighter pilot. Some things, you just can’t change.”

  “Can I continue to count on your wisdom, then?”

  “If I ever grow any, I’ll let you know.”

  The next breakfast, Cordell gathered all the crew in the mess to announce his appointment of Malik Jan to first mate. Aisha beamed, and Boots could only surmise that was because the doctor would be on the ship instead of in the field.

  The twins served everyone a misshapen cake, which had fallen apart under the weight of too many eggs. It tasted as bad as it looked, and Boots had to work to shovel the bits into her mouth. She’d long ago learned that no matter what the cook handed her, she ate it.

  “Now that you’ve all had your cake,” said Malik, giving them all appraising looks, “it’s time for a few things to change around here. The primary fixture of military readiness is holistic physical training, and it’s been ignored for too long.”

  Boots’s mouth went dry. The running. The de-donut-ing.

  “I’m implementing a ship-wide health initiative,” said Malik. “We’re going to create custom diet plans and exercise regimens for each one of you.”

  “I’m in fighting shape, Doc,” Boots blurted out. “So, you know, there’s no reason to delete my donuts.”

  Malik smirked. “Really? Kin told me you were winded after one flight of stairs the last time you jogged. Also, it’s ‘sir.’”

  “Sir, Kin is a data cube, so he’s not in great shape, either,” said Boots. “Maybe we don’t take health advice from him?”

  “I am so in great shape,” said Kin. “I’m a cube. It’s a great shape.”

  “Boots, stop,” said Cordell. “I’ve… At the good doctor’s behest…” He seemed to choke on the word “good,” and she couldn’t imagine why until he spoke the words, “I blew all of my tobacco… and rolling papers… and rollers… out the airlock.”