by J. R. Mabry
Captain Daniel Hightower of the Terran Authority stood frozen in place, his mouth open, his eyes wide. His men spread out across the room, leveling weapons at Jeff’s crew, then looking back to him expectantly. Danny wasn’t barking orders, and Jeff instantly guessed that his paralysis was confusing his men.
For the first time, Jeff wondered about his own fate on this string. What is the me native to this place doing? He wondered. Unless… And then he knew. He knew mostly because of the shock registering on Danny’s face. That wasn’t the shock of a man thinking, “How did you get from New Delhi to here?” This was a man who was seeing a ghost.
“I’m dead, aren’t I?” Jeff asked. The disappointment in his own voice surprised him. “In this universe, I mean.”
Danny’s mouth moved, but no words came out. Jeff took a step toward his friend, but instantly half of the particle rifles carried by the Authority marines were trained on him, the multi-tonal whine as they powered up filling the air with unmusical urgency. Jeff put his hands up. “No need to die twice,” he smiled. He’d need to use words. “It’s good to see you. Do you think maybe we could catch up, captain-to-captain? We’re not your enemy. Hell, we don’t even know who your enemies are. Trust me, we’re…not from around here.” He chuckled, and his grin was sincere and disarming. “We’ve already stowed our weapons. Maybe one of your boys can pat me down, show you that we’re not dangerous. How about that?”
Danny nodded, still saying nothing.
Jeff put his hands over his head and with a twitch of his jaw invited the marine nearest him to do the honors. The marine looked to Danny. Danny blinked and nodded. The marine began a physical surveillance of Jeff’s clothes, starting with his armpits, then his arms, and moving down his torso. He spent extra time with the pockets of his uniform. Finally, though, he stepped back and nodded at his commander. “He’s clean, captain.”
“Care to pat down my crew, now?” Jeff asked.
Danny looked confused, as much by Jeff’s existence as by his cooperation. Danny nodded. His crew looked confused, too. He caught a question in Emma’s eye, and there seemed no reason to hold back. He waved over at his friend. “It’s Danny. The one I’ve told you so much about. The one who…the one who died. At Catskill.”
Emma’s eyes went wide, nodding. He watched as the marines approached his crew. The only person he had any doubts about was Nira. Had she stowed all her weapons? He watched carefully to make sure she wasn’t holding anything back. She wasn’t. He nodded with satisfaction and, still holding his hands away from his body, turned back to Danny. “I suggest putting them in your brig until you and I have had a chance to debrief,” Jeff said. “Just assure me that they’ll be treated well.”
Danny cocked his head, apparently continuing to be confused by his compliance and cooperation.
Jeff shrugged. “It’s what I would do,” he said.
Danny only nodded. When the pat-downs were complete, he called out. “Take them to the brig. Split them up. Treat them like they were your bunkmates.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Treat them better than your bunkmates. Treat them like your parents. That’s an order.”
No one protested, from Danny’s crew or Jeff’s own. One by one, Jeff watched as his crew was marched through the airlock toward the alien Kepler. Jeff looked at each of them with grave assurance as they passed. “Hold on. It’s going to be fine,” he said with a confidence that came only from seeing Danny standing there.
Soon Jeff was the only one left of his crew. Danny hadn’t moved since he’d laid eyes on Jeff, but there were still two marines with rifles trained on him. “Shall we?” Jeff asked.
He stepped past Danny into the new Kepler. He saw the last of the marines marching his crew aft toward the brig. He halted and called over his shoulder. “Where are we headed?”
“The bar,” Danny called.
“Damn straight,” Jeff replied. “But one of your men will have to lead the way.”
Danny directed one of the two marines to take the lead. The marine was tall and curvaceous and Jeff would have gladly followed her all day. He had difficulty taking his eyes off of her pear-shaped buttocks as they swayed out a cadence, moving deeper into the ship. She was shaped like Jo, and his heart ached with the loss of her. He reminded himself that even if she hadn’t died horribly in the Bohr accident, she’d be gone now…along with everyone else in their universe.
Then he stopped. If Danny was here, in this universe…maybe Jo was, too. Maybe she hadn’t died here. Maybe she was… He almost didn’t dare think it. But he couldn’t stop the thought. Maybe she’s alive. His pulse quickened, and his mouth felt like cotton. Jo, alive. And he knew—if she was alive, he had to find her.
He realized he was lagging and focused once more on his surroundings. Before long, Danny stepped into a rec area that could have been on any ship Jeff had ever commanded. It was small, which was fitting. This Kepler was a small ship—not as small as his own, but modest compared to a lot of battle vessels. “Clear the room,” Danny barked. The few shipmen who were there either drinking or playing cards halted, their eyebrows raised in mild surprise. But a moment later they leaped into action, collecting their effects and heading toward the door. A moment later, only Jeff and Danny remained, along with a marine with a rifle undeniably pointed in Jeff’s direction.
Danny turned back to Jeff. There was a moment of awkward silence. “Uh, have a seat, I guess.”
Jeff smiled, nodded, and sat at one of the gleaming white bar stools. “Okay if I have a drink?” he asked.
“It’s a bar,” Danny answered, walking behind it to serve. “What’ll you have?”
Jeff grinned. “Scotch. Give me every parts-per-million of peat you’ve got.”
Danny’s eyebrows raised, then he crouched to look under the bar. No doubt a peaty single-malt was a specialty item, and probably expensive. Jeff smiled at the thought that it would be going on Danny’s tab. Just like old times.
A moment later, a rocks glass was in front of him, sans rocks, he was relieved to see.
Danny poured himself two fingers and then walked around the bar to sit next to Jeff.
“Should we toast?” Danny asked.
“What are we toasting?” Jeff asked.
“How about the resurrection of dead friends?” Danny suggested.
“That…is a most appropriate toast,” Jeff said. They chinked glasses. Jeff took a swig. It was as smoky as he’d hoped.
“You are dead,” Danny said. “I watched you die. So you can’t be you.”
“That is true…and not true,” Jeff said, realizing he had picked up an annoying habit of equivocation from the Ulim.
“And you aren’t that surprised to see me…and that makes me nervous,” Danny confessed. “I want to know what’s going on. Now.”
Jeff took another sip and nodded. “Sure thing. But…where to start?” He looked down. “When I was tapped to command Project Catskill—”
“You were tapped to command Catskill?” Danny interrupted. “Admiral Tal chose me to lead that mission.”
Jeff nodded. “That would explain a few things.” He met Danny’s eyes. “So…did I die at Catskill?”
Danny nodded slowly, gravely.
“In my universe, things happened…a little differently,” Jeff said.
“What do you mean, ‘In my universe’?”
“We’re still working out the details, but there’s been…an accident.” Jeff told him they were experimenting with a new kind of superluminal drive and told him about the failure with the Bohr. He omitted the detail about the Ulim, only saying that they’d engaged in an experiment that had shunted them into the next universe on the string.
“That would explain a few things.” Danny filled his glass again.
“Like what?” Jeff asked.
“Like the disappearance of the Bohr. So they’re all dead, huh?”
Jeff looked down. “Yeah. Including Jo. She was captain. But I’m sure you knew that.”
Dan
ny looked up sharply. “Jo Taylor?”
Jeff’s relationship with Jo had been the only rough patch he and Danny had ever had. They’d both fallen for her, but she’d chosen Jeff, at least at first—until the military became her only real lover. “Yeah. I’m sorry to tell you this, Danny, but she died in that accident.”
“Not here she didn’t.”
“She’s alive? Here?” Jeff’s heart almost leaped through his chest. The possibility of seeing Jo alive and well pierced him, even if she wasn’t technically his Jo. Still… “Is she aboard?” That would be hoping for too much. But he couldn’t stop the words from leaping to his lips.
“I wish. I’d have her in the brig, of course, until we could transport her to Earth to stand trial.”
“Trial? For what?”
“For treason, of course.”
“Danny, what are you talking about?”
Danny leaned back. “And just what side are you on?”
“What side of what?”
“Of the rebellion.”
“What rebellion?” Jeff had noticed that their uniforms were different. Jeff’s was midnight blue, while Danny’s was black with orange piping. But it didn’t occur to him that the political situations would be significantly different.
“It started with New Manila. They refused to pay their taxes, so we refused to send them military aid—or anything else, for that matter. And then it just spread like wildfire—most of the colonies joined forces and seceded from the…what used to be the Colonial Union.”
“That didn’t happen where I’m from.”
Danny’s eyes narrowed, as if he wasn’t sure whether he believed what Jeff was saying. “Good, because it’s been a hell of a war.”
“And I take it Jo’s on the wrong side of it?” Jeff asked.
“She sure as shit is. She’s a commander, number one on a battle cruiser.”
“She’s a…she was a captain in our world.”
“So you said.”
They sat together in silence for a few moments.
“Do you know how to get back to your…I’m sorry, but it just sounds too weird to say it, but…to your universe?”
Jeff knocked back the rest of his whisky and looked at the black poly of the bar. “We’re pretty sure…Emma…Dr. Stewart is pretty sure that…well, that it isn’t there. Anymore.”
“Your universe isn’t there?” Danny’s eyebrows bunched up skeptically.
“That’s what she…what she’s afraid of. Which means…Oh, God.” He blew air through his cheeks. “I think…I’m afraid I killed them all.”
“I know a thing or two about how that feels,” Danny said. “Let me tell you about Catskill…”
Jo looked up to check her neural. Almost there. They’d landed at the same shuttle port the captain had, and had walked into town without arousing any undue suspicion. She was breathing heavy from the exertion, but was trying not to let it show. She’d set a fast clip, and was a little surprised that her away team was keeping pace. Especially Dr. Mbusa, who had a few more pounds on him than the Revolutionary Freedom Coalition preferred. Her three security officers, however, were fit and young.
“What a shithole,” one of them said.
What was his name? Jo asked herself. Oh yeah, Leif. Arnesson. Weird name. He was solid. Green, but solid.
“How can people live here?” Arnesson continued.
“We live on a grimy starship,” another of her security officers said. She couldn’t remember his name, but she could hardly forget the weird way his hair hung over his eyes like a wave. She glanced back at him and narrowed her eyes.
“Not…that grimy,” he corrected himself.
Jo allowed herself a slight smile that her security detail could not see. Then she checked their position against the map. Straight on. The streets were dusty, and would turn to mud at the first sign of rain—not that there was much of that on Avalon II. Avalon II, what were they thinking? she mused. This place is a dust bowl. She tried to stay on the pedestrian walkway, mostly constructed of what passed for wood on this world, and was not surprised to find that it was often rotted and soft beneath her boot, and just as often disappeared altogether, only to start up again on the next block.
To her right, across the street, were storefronts with metal, pull-down doors, chains swinging in the slight, dusty breeze. She was grateful for the breeze just now, not that it helped much. It was stinking hot. Without showing too much interest, she noted a tavern, a whorehouse, a vault-for-hire—closest thing to a bank this place could manage—a machine shop, two general stores—each trying to outdo the other with “sale!” signs—a pool hall, six bars, one storefront Taoist temple, and a barber. The offerings to her left were similarly varied, similarly disparate, similarly dusty and decrepit.
She glanced up again and saw that the alley they were shooting for was approaching on the left. She started looking for it, keeping her eyes down, taking care not to be noticed or caught noticing by the rough locals passing them on the street. And they were rough, too. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw what must have been pirates—self-consciously styled, but no less dangerous for their scarves, eye-patches, three-cornered hats, and other ridiculous garb. She saw mechanics and street preachers and whores—off work and on. Who are we supposed to be? Smugglers, she decided. Our ship is in for repairs, and we’re killing time, seeing the sights.
The sights repulsed her. The squalor and the petty crime and the macho posing just made her want to punch something. It made her realize just how precious the precision, the regimentation, the obsessive cleanliness of military life was to her, even among the Freedom Coalition. She knew who she was there, where her boundaries were. She knew how to move in that world. Here, she felt like a vulnerable amoeba swimming through a hostile organism, not sure when the next leukocyte was going to swoop in and devour her.
Out of the corner of her left eye, she saw the alley just up ahead. Keeping her hand low, she signaled to her team behind her. Without garnering any more attention than necessary, they turned. The alley was narrow, and she could hear radio jabber in an unfamiliar language coming from the second story window to her right. Music wafted from the building to her left. The alley was paved with trash, apparently thrown from the windows. The smell of rotten food and excrement pricked at her nose.
She strode on, counting doors to the left… Two, three, four… She stopped, facing an expanse of wall, a concrete building with power wires drooping off its roof. A small sign was bolted onto a steel door, “Cajan’s Boxing School. Hit or be hit. Cash or barter.”
“This would be the place,” Jo said. For the first time since they started walking into town, she glanced at her team. Dr. Mbusa’s face was grave and determined. If he was still out of breath, he wasn’t showing it. Her security boys were alert and serious—even the cute one. She avoided looking at him.
She took a quick glance back the way they had come, but no one was watching them or following them, not that she could tell. She nodded and unholstered her blaster from beneath her jacket. “Let’s go.” She pushed in on the metal door and it gave without protest.
Inside was a large, mostly empty industrial space. The lights were blazing, hanging from suspended sockets that dotted the cavernous room like motionless, random fireflies, fed by extension cords looped over the metal rafters. They illuminated a cement floor hosting a variety of gym equipment—barbells, medicine balls, weight kits, and platform spotters. Low tech stuff, Jo noted. She smelled the simultaneously repulsive and comforting odor of mildew and stale sweat common to all such places. It was a smell she liked. It smelled like empowerment.
The middle of the room was dominated by a boxing ring, elevated about three feet from the floor, carpeted with impact absorption pads, the kind that you’d throw under a pallet in a cargo bay. Beyond the ring she saw a series of open doors. Wordlessly, she waved for her team to follow. She noted that they had all drawn their weapons, even the doctor. As they approached the open door beyond the ring, Ar
nesson rushed ahead, putting his hand up as if to say, “Let me take point.” He was right. She was acting captain now, and it was stupid to put herself at greater risk than was necessary. It rankled her, though, and she felt the twist of resentment in her gut. But she nodded anyway and let him lead.
Arnesson hugged the side of the wall just beside the doorframe with his back, checking his weapon. Jo could see the light on the grip change from green to red—armed, safety off, ready to fire at the twitch of a nerve. The young man took a deep breath, then turned into the door, swinging his blaster one way, then the other. She saw him lower his weapon. She expected to hear, “All clear,” but he didn’t say that. Instead, without turning to look at her, he called over his shoulder, “Captain, you need to see this.”
“All clear?” the one with the weird hair asked.
“No one is going to shoot us,” Arnesson responded.
In a moment, Jo had entered and saw what he meant. “Oh, Christ,” she breathed, holstering her weapon.
They were in the mess, or what passed for a mess in that place. An industrial refrigerator stood against one wall, sloping slightly because the wheels were missing on one side of it. A utility sink was on the wall straight ahead of her, with a metal table beside it. Clean dishes were stacked on a gym towel, taking up half of the table. The other half was littered with three-liter jugs of protein powder and supplements, legal and otherwise.
She took all of this in instinctively, but what she really focused on were the bodies. She noticed the Authority cops first—six of them, splayed out over the floor. It seemed they had simply dropped where they stood, black uniforms with orange piping charred and frayed from where the blaster charges had torn them open. The plastic sheet flooring was slick with blood—shining black and crimson, depending on how the buzzing lights of different hues hit it.