The Best of All Possible Worlds Read online

  The Best of All Possible Worlds is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Karen A. R. Lord

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  “Golden,” the poem quoted in the chapter “The Faerie Queen,” is an unpublished work by Dvorah Simon and is used with the author’s permission.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-53406-4

  www.delreybooks.com

  Cover design: Faceout Studio/Charles Brock

  Cover photograph: © Bruce Talbot

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Before

  The Best of All Possible Worlds

  Matchmaker, Matchmaker

  A Means to Other Ends

  Happy Families

  Bacchanal

  Never Forget

  The Faerie Queen

  Ridi, Pagliaccio

  The Master’s House

  Unfinished Business

  Falling

  Remembrance Day

  The Last Assignment

  The Unlikely Angel

  An Ideal Husband

  References

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  BEFORE

  He always set aside twelve days of his annual retreat to finish reports and studies, and that left twelve more for everything else. In earlier times, he had foolishly tried retreats within comm reach of his workplace, and that was not at all helpful. There would always be some crisis, something for which his help would be required. As his salary and sense increased, he took his retreats farther and farther away, until at last he found himself going off-planet to distant temples where the rule of silence and solitude could not be broken by convenient technologies.

  This season, he had chosen Gharvi, a place with small wooden buildings scattered around a huge temple of stone, all set within the rain shadow of a mountain range. An endless ocean, both vista and inspiration, ran parallel to the mountains, and a beach between the two offered long walks to nowhere on either side. A place of two deserts, some said, for sea and land were bleak together—one boundless, one narrow, and both thirsty.

  There was a place at home very like it, and that had probably influenced his choice, but the sky was unique. The atmosphere was the cloudy bluish lavender of a recently bioformed planet, and the sun was scorching bright. It was so unlike the cool, strong blues and gentle sunlight of his home world that for the first few days he kept his head down and his door closed till nightfall.

  On the twelfth day, he took his handheld, replete with work well completed, and put it in the box outside his hermitage door. He cooked and ate his evening lentils, slept soundly through the night, and rose to prepare his morning porridge. There was a little water left over from the day before (he was ever frugal), but to have enough for washing he had to fetch the new day’s supply from the box. The young acolytes of the temple always put sufficient water and food into each hermit’s box before dawn. It was enough to stay clean, to fill the solar pot with porridge or pottage, and to sip and slake the constant thirst that was the natural consequence of dry air and silence. The acolytes would also take away his handheld and safely transmit its contents to his workplace.

  But his handheld was still there.

  He paused, confused by this disconnect in the seamless order of the temple’s routine. He stared at the untouched box. He looked up and frowned in puzzlement at the squat shape of the temple, vaguely visible through a haze of heat, blown sand, and sea spray.

  Then he shrugged and went on with his day, a little dustier, a little thirstier, but convinced that an explanation would eventually be made manifest.

  The following morning, well before dawn, the sound of the box lid closing woke him from a sleep made restless by dreams of dryness. He waited a bit, then went to bring in the supplies and drink deeply of the water. His handheld was gone, and a double ration of food sat in its place. He did not even peer into the darkness to catch sight of the tardy acolyte. Order had been restored.

  “Dllenahkh, with your level of sensitivity and strength, you must go on retreat regularly.” So he had been told long ago by the guestmaster of his monastery. “You are constantly looking to set things to rights, even within yourself. A retreat will teach you again and again that you are neither indispensable nor self-sufficient.”

  Put bluntly, learn to stop meddling. Commitment is important, detachment equally so. He congratulated himself on his developing ability to keep curiosity in check and spent the next few days in undisturbed meditation and reflection.

  One day, after a long morning meditation, he felt thirsty and decided to get more water from his supply box. He stepped out with his glass drinking bowl in hand and set it on the edge of the box while he tilted the half lid and reached inside. His hands were steady as he poured water smoothly from the heavy, narrow-necked jug. Moving slowly, he straightened and took a moment of blissful idleness, the jug left uncovered near his feet, to squint at the sun’s glare on the desert beach and the desert ocean and to feel the coolness of the water creeping into his palms as he held the bowl and waited to drink. It was a child’s game, to hold a bowl of water and mark the increase of thirst with masochistic pleasure, but he did it sometimes.

  He brought the bowl to his mouth and had a perfect instant of pale blue ocean, bright blue glass, and clear water in his vision before he blinked, sipped, and swallowed.

  Many times afterward, when he tried to recall, his mind would stop at that vivid memory—the neatly nested colors, the soothing coolness of the glass—and not wish to go any further. It was not long after that, not very long at all, that the day became horribly disordered.

  A man walked out of the ocean, his head darkly bright with seawater and sunlight. He wore a pilot’s suit—iridescent, sleek, and permeable—that would dry as swiftly as bare skin in the hot breeze, but his hair he gathered up in his hands as he approached, wringing water out from the great length of it and wrapping it high on the crown of his head with a band from his wrist.

  Recognition came to Dllenahkh gradually. At first, when the figure appeared, it was a pilot; then, as it began to walk, it was a familiar pilot; and finally, with that added movement of hands in hair, it was Naraldi, a man well known to him but not so well known as to excuse the early breaking of a retreat. He opened his mouth to chide him. Six more days, Naraldi! Could anything be so important that you could not wait six more days? That was what he intended to say, but another thought came to him. Even for a small planet with no docking station in orbit, it was highly uncommon for a mindship to splash down so close to land that a pilot could swim to shore. Although he knew Naraldi, they were not so close as to warrant a visit at this time and in this place.

  The pilot slowed his step and looked uncertainly at him with eyes that streamed from the irritation of salt water.

  “Something terrible has happened,” Dllenahkh said simply.

  Naraldi wiped at his wet face and gave no reply.

  “My mother?” Dllenahkh prompted to break the silence, dread growing cold and heavy in his stomach.

  “Yes, your mother,” Naraldi confirmed abruptly. “Your mother, and my mother, and … everyone. Our home is no more. Our world is—”


  “No.” Dllenahkh shook his head, incredulous rather than upset at the bitterness and haste of Naraldi’s words. “What are you saying?”

  He remembered that he was still thirsty and tried to raise the bowl again, but in the meantime his hands had gone chilled and numb. The bowl slipped. He snatched at it but only deflected it so that it struck hard on the side of the water jug and broke just in time to entangle his chasing fingers.

  “Oh,” was all he said. The cut was so clean, he felt nothing. “I’m sorry. Let me …” He crouched and tried to collect the larger fragments but found himself toppling sideways to rest on one knee.

  Naraldi rushed forward. He grasped Dllenahkh’s bleeding right hand, yanked the band from his hair, and folded Dllenahkh’s fist around the wad of fabric. “Hold tight,” he ordered, guiding Dllenahkh’s left hand to clamp onto his wrist. “Don’t let go. I’ll get help.”

  He ran off down the beach toward the temple. Dllenahkh sat down carefully, away from the broken bits of glass, and obediently held tight. His head was spinning, but there was one small consolation. For at least the length of time it took Naraldi to return, he would remember the words of the guestmaster: he would not be curious, he would not seek to know, and he would not worry about how to right the tumbled world.

  THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS

  I remember when the Sadiri came. We gathered at the port to cheer their arrival and, frankly, to gawk a bit. The Sadiri consider themselves to be the pinnacle of human civilization. Imagine them settling on Cygnus Beta, a galactic hinterland for pioneers and refugees! Well, these ones apparently were willing to break the mold—but then again, a lot of things had been broken past repair, and sometimes it makes more sense to create something new.

  They looked almost Cygnian—eyes, hair, and skin all somewhere on the spectrum of brown—except for the bright iridescence of the hair and a subtler sheen to the skin that was only noticeable in full sunlight. As it was the dry season, there was plenty of that. They looked up into the sun and appeared relieved at the heat. Don’t tell me they weren’t; that “impassive Sadiri” stereotype is a load of crap. They have body language. They have expressions. Just because it’s not their way to yell their emotions out like most people doesn’t mean they don’t have them.

  Parliamentary representatives welcomed them formally but briefly, and they were taken to their homesteadings in fine diplomatic style. Everyone felt sorry for the Sadiri in those early days, and maybe we were all a little bit overproud of ourselves for hosting them. Cygnus Beta isn’t a rich colony by any means, but we understand fleeing disaster and war and disease and struggling to find a place where you’re wanted. A lot of people act like misfortune is contagious. They don’t want to be exposed to it for too long. They’ll take you in and make all the right gestures and noises, but when the months wear on and you’re still in their house or their town or their world, the welcome starts to wear a bit thin.

  So we understood, and maybe we were making a point, too. There isn’t a group on Cygnus Beta who can’t trace their family back to some world-shattering event. Landless, kinless, unwanted—theoretically, the Sadiri would fit right in.

  Those were the thoughts that were foremost in my mind the day the Sadiri came. I barely even noticed when my friend Gilda said to me, “But where are the women?”

  I should have paid attention.

  It’s not that all-male homesteader groups don’t come to Cygnus Beta. Many times people send the strongest and most intrepid to establish a level of comfort on the homesteads before sending for the rest of the family, and for some cultures that translates as men only. The reality of Cygnian society is that those men often end up settling down with someone who’s already here, because, let me tell you, there’s no long-distance relationship like an interstellar one, especially when you’re all but marooned on a rock where communication with the rest of the galaxy means week-delayed real-space transmissions from the nearest long-range sat. But … Sadiri men? The epitome of morality and tradition, savants too absorbed in their mental exercises to succumb to base urges? It was hard to imagine them going native like most frontier boys.

  Fortunately for my curiosity, I was in a position to find out about them. I’m second assistant to the Chief Biotechnician of Tlaxce Province, which means that I get to travel a lot because it’s the biggest province, and it’s also the province with the largest number of new homesteads. Sadiri homesteads galore, in other words. Plus, and keep this one quiet, please, I’m kind of a language nut. Old languages, new languages, made-up languages—whatever, that’s my hobby. I already had a smattering of Sadiri, so it was inevitable that I would get stuck with the duty of liaison for the public health and agriculture departments.

  My opposite number was a joy to work with. No chitchat, no wasted time. I’d turn up at his office, he’d go over the schedule briefly with me, and off we’d go in a groundcar to do our inspections. His Standard was better than my Sadiri, needless to say, so many times I just did a lot of listening while he talked with the homesteaders, and then afterward he’d summarize for me so I wouldn’t miss anything. I didn’t expect them to speak Standard to me. When you’ve been almost exterminated, language is the first thing you cling to, one of the main roots of identity.

  One day, while we were driving back to his office, a very interesting conversation took place. “Dllenahkh,” I said to him (learning to pronounce his name had been a fine challenge, but once I substituted a Zulu “dl” and a Scots “ch,” I got it), “tell me how we can help you in the long term. What kind of settlement do you plan to establish? We understand if your aim is to keep as much of Sadira alive as possible. Do you require Sadiri plants? Hardy variants crossed with the indigenous flora or hothouse specials in biodomes? We can requisition anything we like from the galactic seed bank or even check with New Sadira to see what strains they’re developing.”

  “Thank you, Second Assistant Delarua, but at present it is enough for us to adjust to the environment and achieve basic self-sufficiency with what is readily available. Closer consideration of our long-term goals will follow after the completion of the initial phase.”

  I must confess, I liked listening to Dllenahkh. He had a very soothing voice—deep, somewhat slow, and very precise. It was a voice that matched his thoroughness and professionalism. I wish I had a voice that matched what I do. I’ve been told I sound like an overexcited rooster when I start rambling about my work.

  “There is one matter in which you can assist us, however,” Dllenahkh continued. “Our community is relatively isolated, and it has been suggested that it would be appropriate for us to take the opportunity to experience other cultures on Cygnus Beta. To participate. To … mingle.” He used Standard for that last, there being no precise equivalent in Sadiri that could convey the frivolous intent behind such a word.

  “Mingle?” I repeated incredulously.

  “Yes. Mingle. While much remains to be done, we are beginning to suffer from a lack of mental stimulus. Cygnus Beta is reputed to have some of the most complex and vibrant cultures in the galaxy. It would be appropriate to study them.”

  I gave him a slanted look. I’d been around the Sadiri long enough to learn that whenever they start claiming something is appropriate, there’s something they’re not telling you or something they’re not admitting to themselves. Dllenahkh had said “appropriate” twice now.

  He mirrored my look, which I’d learned was his style of humor. “So. Do you have any recommendations?”

  “Do I have any recommendations for a Sadiri boys’ night out?” I shrugged, smiled, and allowed myself a laugh. “I can come up with something.”

  I did, too. The Ministry of Culture has all kinds of programs, and I got someone to put together a package that even the Sadiri might enjoy. But people, this is Cygnus Beta. Yes, we have a few large cities and several towns—we’re not all country bumpkins, vagabonds, and adventurers—but there are few professional artists and actors, few galactic-standard museums and
theaters. We simply can’t afford them. It’s true that most of the action happens in the urban belt, but often bands of entertainers travel around and test their luck—some venues they might get paid in credits; other places it’ll be in kind. I did speak to one performer who waxed poetic about the joys of the road and how he’d made a map with locations marked for the excellence of their particular product: the best wines and spirits, of course; the best baked goods; the best cured meat and smoked fish; the most fragrant smoking herbs for incense or pipe—you name it, he could tell you where to get it.

  I should point out that amateur or semiprofessional doesn’t mean low quality. It means variable quality. You get serious thespians next to dilettante wannabes because theater companies have to take people as and when they become available. Your best King Lear might be the security guard at a small branch of a city bank. He’s only going to get two or three weeks off for performances, then you’re back to the understudy, the very earnest but not really that good retired schoolmate of the director.

  I offered two options: either a series of overnight trips to the urban belt or visits to the Sadiri homesteads by some of the touring companies.

  “Both,” said Dllenahkh.

  “Both?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow, my tone more flat than querying.

  He raised an eyebrow back.

  Both it was.

  I’ve mentioned my friend Gilda before. I love her dearly, but I swear she’s a bad influence on just about everyone. I suspect that three out of her six children aren’t her husband’s and that he knows it but doesn’t care. He’s so under her thumb, she must have had more than one Zhinuvian ancestor. She has three main groups she hangs out with, and she tries to annoy each one. She bores her housewives group with her science research, she makes her drinking buddies miserable with her tales of domesticity, and she scandalizes her coworkers (that’s me) with her lurid sex-capades.

  So Gilda was happy to hear that the Sadiri were venturing out, because she too wanted “the opportunity to experience other cultures,” if you know what I mean. She insisted on being the coordinator and guide. At first I was glad when she took it out of my hands so that I could go back to ordinary stuff, but this was Gilda, and something told me to inquire more deeply.