The Best of All Possible Worlds

by Karen Lord

  “How does it feel now?” A small savanna dog sat by his knee, sending the query mind to mind with a clarity that only a dream could provide. It focused sad eyes on him with gentle concern, waiting for an answer.

  “It’s empty,” he said with reluctance. “There’s no one alive there, only ghosts knocking on my soul.”

  Already a sense of dread was growing, warning him that the dream was about to go badly wrong. A corner of sky obliged by turning black—not the black of storm cloud but a true malignancy boiling out like ink to tint and taint the atmosphere.

  “They are already dead,” he declared defiantly. “There is no need for this.”

  The dog scrambled up. “I’d get out of here if I were you,” it whined, looking on in terror as the sky was eaten. It skittered back, hesitated, and finally dashed away into the tall grass behind Dllenahkh.

  “Wait!” Dllenahkh shouted, standing up in haste.

  The ridge was crumbling under his feet, but that was ordinary fear. The real nightmare came from the cold starlight shining through the encroaching darkness, the type of starlight that shines only on lifeless moons.

  “It’s done, it’s over,” he insisted, telling the dream, telling himself. The untenanted houses and silent roads vanished in permanent dusk. He could not stop looking as the last of them went, even as his feet slipped and his hands grasped uselessly at loose soil and dry grass, trying to stop himself from falling, falling into nothing, falling forever.

  “Wake up, Councillor.”

  Tarik’s hand on his shoulder was a welcome anchoring. He sat up slowly, fighting the trailing remnants of the dream. “What is it, Tarik? What’s wrong?”

  Tarik gestured to Dllenahkh’s handheld on the table by his bed. “A message from New Sadira just came in. Nasiha thought you should know as soon as possible.”

  He woke up at last on a rush of adrenaline and grabbed his handheld. “Do you know what it’s about?”

  “The commander observes official protocol on secrecy to the letter,” Tarik said with far too much sincerity in his voice.

  Dllenahkh said no more, knowing all too well that those rules said nothing about what might be communicated wordlessly by a superior officer to her lower-ranking husband. He looked at his handheld instead. When he finished reading and rereading, he looked up, but Tarik had left already. He turned off the handheld and lay down again, but the roil of emotions within him was so strong that he had to speak.

  “So,” he said triumphantly to the darkness. “Naraldi has come back to Cygnus Beta.”

  THE MASTER’S HOUSE

  “Do you think Nasiha will continue with us?” I asked the Commissioner. We were standing on the quayside watching supplies being winched aboard our new shuttle, a vessel capable of air and sea travel. Publicity surrounding the mission had been very positive, with more settlements asking to be tested for genetic or cultural Sadiri traits. As a result, our budget had been increased.

  “I’d be very surprised if she left now,” Qeturah said with a smile. “She seems to have some idea that to take time off for pregnancy would set a bad example. Something about ‘not creating the impression that females are fragile and childbearing is unusual.’ She checks out as perfectly healthy, so she can do as she pleases.”

  “Maria was fine for Rafi. Gracie gave her a little more trouble,” I began, then shut my mouth. Even Maria’s ailments might have been due to influence and were therefore not the best of examples.

  “Satisfied with the verdict?” Qeturah asked after a short pause.

  I shrugged. “About what was expected.” Ioan’s highly specific abilities and his apparently genuine contrition had landed him a fairly mild sentence of a year’s rehabilitation to be followed by lifelong monitoring via subcortical implant. And he couldn’t see Maria and the children again. Ever. The prosecutor hadn’t been able to prove ill intent, but there had been reasonable doubt (hah!), and as a result the court’s ruling showed both mercy and caution.

  “Homestead’s rented out now, and they’re spending time at my mother’s place. Rafi’s attending a special school. He’s not that impressed with it, but he’ll adjust.” I knew I sounded like I was reeling off a report, but I figured I wasn’t saying anything she didn’t already know, and it catered to the illusion that I was once more willing to talk to her about my private life.

  It seemed to work, because Qeturah simply nodded, waited a few seconds, then changed the subject. “Nasiha asked me about medical techniques to prolong a woman’s years of fertility.”

  I raised my eyebrows, absently multitasking as I ticked items off the inventory on my handheld and yelled an order to the longshoremen. “Sorry, you were saying? Prolonging fertility? She’s quite young by Sadiri standards; why should she be worrying about that now?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t for her. It was for you.”

  I nearly dropped my handheld. “What? Why in the name of all … what business … me? What did I ever do to her?”

  Qeturah almost laughed out loud. “Relax, Delarua. It’s a compliment … I think. She was saying that you should be registered on the special list for potential Sadiri brides, and when I pointed out that there was an upper age limit for that, she suggested that extending your fertile years would take care of any objections.”

  I was already dazedly shaking my head at the wrongness of it all.

  “Don’t worry. I told her that with the amount of Ntshune heritage you have, you’ll probably be able to have children for quite a bit longer than the average Cygnian. I estimate you have another twenty-five years, maybe even thirty.”

  “Qeturah!” I hissed, glancing furtively at the nearest longshoreman. “Must we discuss my private business out in the open where anyone could hear? What kind of doctor are you?”

  I expected it to be a more-than-routine assignment. The Kir’tahsg Islands were famed for their remoteness and inaccessibility and as such were the genetic and cultural equivalent of a vacuum-sealed flask. We always looked forward with interest to Fergus’s safety briefings about the flora and fauna and the emergency exit strategy, but this time it was the Commissioner’s talk that got our attention.

  “Protocol must be strictly observed,” she said.

  “Is this one of the highly formal places? Even more formal than the Seelie Court?” I asked.

  She folded her arms in a way I recognized as an attempt at self-support before saying something difficult. “More than that. I want you all dressed in your most ceremonial garb. Titles must be used at all times. It’s a society that relies on external cues to determine a person’s rank and how they should be treated.”

  She looked at us individually to make her point. “Councillor. First Officer. Commander. Lieutenant. Sergeant. Corporal Lian, I’m giving you a rather sudden and substantial temporary promotion to full aide-de-camp, which inflates both your importance and mine. Councillor, I recommend that you refer to Joral as your first secretary.”

  She scanned us again, as if seeing us with an objective eye. “Interplanetary Science Council formal blues. Civil Service formal blacks with white robe. Military Service dress whites. Whatever is appropriate for Sadiri culture, and don’t be modest. Wear all medals and special decorations. The gulf between servant and master is wide and deep in this place. I don’t want any of you stranded on the wrong side.”

  Our first sight of the main, eponymous island was as forbidding as the Commissioner’s briefing. There was nothing resembling a beach or a landing strip. High rocks surged straight up out of violent surf, and the entire landscape seemed to consist of inclines of forty-five degrees or greater. There was evidence of civilization, however. Inland, terraced gardens girdled the hills like green ribbons bordered by hewn gray rock. The same gray rock rose up as walled cities, which then blended into bare gray mountain, making it difficult to see where man-made wall ended and natural cliff began. They say kir’tahsg means “invincible” in some long-dead Cygnian language, and it was easy to see how the island had earned its name. We had
to land in open ocean, submerge, and then resurface in a huge, hangarlike cave.

  The welcome, however, was far warmer than the first impression. Our group was taken by hovercar to the Hall of the Master of Kir’tahsg, an impressive palace in the central citadel surrounded by extensive gardens with tidily trimmed trees and manicured lawns. I was expecting the minimalist decor naturally preferred by the Sadiri mind, a mind that can be sucked into pondering fractal formulas at the mere sight of a Paisley-patterned rug. Not so, neither outdoors nor in. The servants and officials of the Master’s household were richly dressed. It was not ostentatiousness; it was a more subtle show of plain though rich fabrics, simple but skillfully made embroideries. Precious metals and gems in a classic, understated design were displayed in the furnishings and ornaments and on the wrists and necks and ears of the nobles and higher-ranked servants. The nobles also wore their hair long, tied back with jeweled velvet bands or enameled clasps.

  Oh, yes, the hair. Let me tell you about the hair. It was too obvious and a little discomfiting. The Master, the officers of his guard, the Master’s Heir, and all other persons of rank or standing at the Hall were Sadiri as Sadiri could be. Their hair shone brightly, and their skin had a very slight Zhinuvian-like glow. The servants, on the other hand, all had dull, close-cut hair and low-luminance skin. I understood Qeturah’s desire to have us Terran types look as official as possible.

  The Master was as impressive as the Faerie Queen, but his was an aged and venerable appearance. He did not rise from his seat even though he appeared to be lean and physically fit. He had us seated according to our rank and post and listened courteously as Dllenahkh and Qeturah made their requests. At first I thought everything would go easily, because when his eyes rested on the Sadiri, it was with an air of great gladness and contentment, as if he were seeing something finally come to pass after a long wait. I was wrong.

  “Regretfully, we must decline to participate in this genetic testing,” the Master stated baldly.

  Qeturah was taken aback at this stark refusal, given without excuse. “We find genetic testing useful to determine compatibility. We also use it as a guide to assessing the average psionic potential of members of a community.”

  The Master smiled. “With respect to psionic abilities, I can immediately inform you that we have none. Practice of the mental disciplines has, alas, died out, and with them all the telepathic skills of our ancestors. As for compatibility with the Sadiri … well, look at us.” He waved languidly as if to indicate their entirely Sadiri appearance, but I couldn’t help glancing at the short-haired Terran servants.

  Still bemused, Qeturah reached for a glass from a tray offered by a small boy, but her fingers failed to grip it safely and it smashed on the floor. “I’m so sorry—” she began.

  The butler of the Hall interrupted her with a terse command to the boy that sounded to me like “see you do not fail again” or “we will ensure that you do not fail again.” It might have been the latter, because the boy went wide-eyed with fear and fell to his knees, trying to gather up the pieces of glass.

  While I was watching this closely, I heard the Master say, “Take the boy out and bring another glass of refreshment for the Commissioner.”

  The boy, naturally, looked even more terrified and cut his hand on an edged fragment.

  Nasiha erupted from her seat, stepping heedlessly over the broken bits and debris with an intimidating crunching noise. She picked up the boy and held his fist firmly to staunch the trickle of blood that was threatening to stain the marble tiles. “I will take him out,” she informed the Master bluntly. “Have this cleaned up,” she told the startled butler. “Delarua,” she continued, “our medkit. Hurry.”

  The Master only smiled faintly. I think he was accustomed to something that I was only just learning—pregnant Sadiri are not to be trifled with. I raced to Qeturah’s rooms for the medkit and returned to the corridor outside the reception room, where Nasiha was speaking soothingly to the boy. We got him cleaned and sealed up in a matter of minutes. He stood gazing in awe at his hand as I packed away the medkit.

  “Run along, now,” said Nasiha kindly.

  He did so, giving us an uncertain smile.

  “Nasiha, I don’t mean to be rude, but have you found yourself to be a bit … well …” I couldn’t use the word “emotional.” “A bit more vehement than usual, perhaps.”

  “Of course,” she snapped. “It is a natural consequence of the pregnancy. The maternal, protective urge must increase.”

  “Oh, well, as long as it’s natural,” I mumbled dubiously.

  She looked at me impassively and handed me a small sample vial filled with red fluid.

  “What’s this?” I said, thoroughly confused but taking it nonetheless.

  “The boy’s blood. Likely some skin as well. I think you should test it.”

  I frowned. “I’m not sure I should. There’s no real medical reason for it, and the Master did bar us from genetic testing.”

  Nasiha nodded. “I understand. But answer me this, Delarua. When I held the boy’s hand, I detected that the concentration of telepathic receptors in his palm was far above the average amount for Terrans. How does he come to be a servant in a household that seems to have taSadiri nobility and a Terran servant class?”

  I blinked at this new information. “That does make me curious,” I admitted. “But don’t tell the Commissioner, okay? This is off the record.”

  I went to her quarters early the next day. “Terran, yes, but also a bit of Sadiri and quite a lot of Zhinuvian. How did you guess?”

  Nasiha shrugged. “When the Master speaks, there is much that he keeps back. The nobles of the Hall and the higher-ranking servants have taken similar lessons in evasion. It has been my experience that a rich and well-run household is like an iceberg. You see the tip, but you must ask about the invisible ninety percent that holds it up.”

  Tarik, who had been quietly listening for some time, said something disconcerting. “I have further information on that ninety percent. I rose before sunrise as usual for my meditation and looked out through our window down at the Citadel. I saw street sweepers and garbage collectors. I was unsure at the time, due to the distance from which I was observing, but given this new information, I believe I can say with certainty that they were Zhinuvian.”

  “I think it is time we spoke to the Commissioner,” Nasiha decided.

  “Please find a way to leave out my part in this,” I begged her. She gave me a look.

  “Fine.” I sighed. “Why don’t I go get Dllenahkh and Joral for you?”

  Joral was nearby in the quarters he shared with Dllenahkh, so I simply directed him to report to Nasiha. I had to go outside to find Dllenahkh. Nasiha had made some concessions to her delicate condition and as a result had declined an invitation from the Heir to go horse riding. Tarik had opted to stay with her and be the good and supportive husband, which left Dllenahkh to bond with the Heir. They were galloping around a small racetrack girdling a paddock. It looked like a lot of fun. The Heir was winning, but not by much, in deference to his guest.

  “You’re a natural, Councillor!” I heard him cry merrily.

  Dllenahkh carefully reined in his mount, which was still excitable after the brief run. “We have similar beasts on the Sadiri homesteadings. I have ridden a time or two before.” Then he looked around and saw me. “Delarua!”

  I made a bow. “By your leave, Your Grace. Councillor, your presence is requested up at the Hall.”

  It was partly my fault, I know. As I bowed, I peeked up to look at the Heir. His hair was tied back with a scarlet cord except for two long locks falling almost into his eyes. When I straightened, I even took a glance at Dllenahkh, assessing his hair in comparison. It was windswept from the gallop, pushed to one side of his forehead in an untidy dark brown wave, but even with hair cut more like a servant than a noble, he still managed to look more regal than the Heir. The Heir, however, saw only the glance directed to him and took my cautio
n for flirtation and my curiosity for interest.

  “You’re new,” he said, swinging himself down from the saddle with a grin.

  He walked up to me and set the tip of his small whip under my chin. I barely had time to go wide-eyed with shock and outrage before a shadow fell over us.

  He looked at Dllenahkh with a sly smile. “Sorry, Councillor. One of yours?”

  There was a moment of complete silence as Dllenahkh pointedly ignored the question.

  “May I present First Officer Grace Delarua, member of this mission and second in civil rank to the Commissioner,” Dllenahkh finally said, his bland tone a warning all unto itself.

  The Heir raised his eyebrows, blinked, and dismissed me, turning his attention back to Dllenahkh. “We should race again before you go. Tomorrow, perhaps? See you at dinner.”

  He strode off, striking his leg idly with his whip.

  “What was that?” I said, stunned at such discourtesy.

  “I suspect you are not noble enough to marry nor yet common enough to bed,” Dllenahkh mused clinically, following the Heir’s departure with narrowed eyes. “I gathered from his conversation that in his world women rarely serve any other purpose.”

  “Creep,” I said succinctly. “Look, I’m here because Nasiha and the Commissioner want to have a chat with you. Think you can tear yourself away from your new friend?”

  “With pleasure,” Dllenahkh said, matching my flat tone. “It strikes me, Delarua, that this society is far more about appearance than substance where being Sadiri is concerned.”

  “Oh, you wise, wise man,” I replied, sighing.

  I escorted Dllenahkh to Qeturah’s rooms, where Nasiha and Tarik were waiting. Fergus, who was stationed at the door, seemed to be glowering a touch more than usual, but he gave me a sideways glance and something in his eyes lightened briefly.

  “Like to get your hands on some genetic samples?” he said in much the same tone that a Tlaxce City hustler would use to describe rare and reasonably priced merchandise that might or might not have fallen off the back of a freight car.