[Can’t Opt Out]

Malcolm was pacing, trying to talk himself out of commandeering one of The Black Knot’s private vessels and making his way for Lüshan. Him going there would help nothing—if anything, it would just tip off whoever was behind whatever the fuck was happening in the Free Colony that The Black Knot knew something was up.

What a mess—a mess that was, to some extent, of their own making. It hadn’t been a secret that something was about to happen in Lüshan for several months, they just hadn’t cared. While there was an embassy there, few people occupied it, and while Baalphoria and Lüshan were technically allies, few residents of either nation visited the other. They could. Generally, they didn’t. Currently, there were no diplomatic missions happening in Lüshan either, only the head of the embassy and a few staff lingering within it.

If anything happened in Lüshan, few Baalphorian lives would be lost, so a decision had been made: leave whatever was happening alone. They’d only come by the information through an informant, and while it would come as no surprise that they had informants in multiple Lüshan cities, revealing what information they got from those informants to either of their governments was always risking the informant’s cover, and therefore their life, not to mention future information that could save Baalphorian lives. Nᴇw novel chapters are publɪshed on novel[f]ire.net

The informant that rumblings of something happening in Lüshan had come from wasn’t a government official; rather, they were a member of one of the few crime syndicates that continued to thrive even under the oppressive military regime. Those sorts of contacts weren’t the sort to risk on rumours of something—they were just too difficult to come by; too reliable when they managed to get them.

Now, of course, Malcolm would give anything to go back and tell the Lüshanian government what they had heard. Maybe the government wouldn’t have had anything to share in return. Maybe they would have locked what information they did have down, refusing to let their government know anything in return. Maybe they would have confirmed something was happening, and Malcolm could have at least warned Miles to not let Emilia go there.

If Emilia died, all because they had been willing to keep that informant secret…

“You will need to find peace with such decisions.”

Malcolm’s eyes slid up to his mother’s, her dark features fading into the darkness of her office, where he had disappeared to pout—more or less—while waiting for Loren to steal a moment away with Emilia’s father. Olivier de la Rue was right to question why Miles had sent Cameron of all people to babysit Emilia, just as Loren was right that figuring out who had actually sent the Drinarna officer was imperative to figuring out if any in the Free Colony knew something was going on. Once Loren knew if someone on the Lüshan side was responsible for the assignment, they could figure out where to go from there. Until then…

“Malcolm, breathe, little one,” his mother said, her fingers brushing through the hair she’d been telling him to trim for weeks—or had it been months?

He’d been working too hard, he knew, in his new position. There had been an offer for him to postpone joining The Black Knot—the family business—in favour of university, but he knew Rafe was working up the nerve to tell their mothers that he never wanted to join. Joining The Black Knot now was, in a way, him taking some of the pressure off his younger brother, who he… Malcolm wouldn’t exactly say he loved Rafe or Andre—mostly, they were just a lot of work, and although his mothers had never expected him to care for them the way some parents expected of their eldest children, he had still done it. Mostly, he had done it for Emilia.

Emilia, who was now—

Malcolm tried to follow the pattern of his mother’s breathing—the deep inhale, the solid hold, the slow exhale, followed by a final hold before they did it all over again. It helped, his heart rate slowly calming down. He still felt like he might be sick.

“What if I can’t?” he finally managed to ask after several long, painful minutes of just resting his head against his mother’s chest, her fingers continuing their stroking. “Come to peace with it, I mean?”

Penelope Laprise—who had inherited control of The Black Knot from her father over a century earlier—hummed softly, seeming to consider the question, before breaking into a soft laugh. “I have no idea.”

Pulling back, Malcolm glared up at the woman who was his mother, and yet not. Penelope Laprise had married his other mother, Clarissa, out of… something. Malcolm thought sometimes they loved each other, but they were both black knots, and it was hard to tell for certain when black knots loved one another—it was for that same reason that he was convinced few people realized the triples were definitely in some weird relationship with one another. Maybe Loren realized it. Definitely Emilia did. Everyone else, he thought, just figured they were fucking with everyone by not correcting their assumptions, all while being a little too touchy-feely. Malcolm was sure they loved each other far more than most people considered socially acceptable.

His mothers had met through their work with The Black Knot, and like the majority of his older family members, had married for convenience, choosing someone they liked well enough—someone who knew what they did, so they could openly discuss their work with them, knowing there would be no judgment.

Malcolm and his brothers were all biologically Clarissa’s, with one of his Laprise uncles supplying the sperm so they would still have Laprise blood. Both his mothers had always been good parents to them, if a little distant at times. Black knots could love their children—and many did—but it was always a little… off, in comparison to the love Malcolm had seen slathered over Emilia and some of her friends—only some, unfortunately, and he would forever take his slightly distant, workaholic mothers over parents like Simeon’s or even any of the Zentaris, who were constantly shifting between being overly controlling of their children and being so profoundly disinterested in them it was painful for even him to watch at times.

Despite the distance between himself and his mothers, Malcolm did enjoy moments like this—soft things with the women, where they just were what they were: black knots, connected by blood and a shared history and a too-strong connection to a collection of people, all of whom circled a single, silver-haired girl.

“What do you mean you have no idea?” he asked, watching as his mother wandered over to a fabricator, setting it to spill out some comfort foods for each of them.

“I mean, I don’t know. I’ve never had this problem,” she explained, back to him as she waited for the fabricator to dispense the treats. “I care for Emilia, do not get me wrong, but it is nothing compared to the connection you and your brothers have with her. I do not wish to see her hurt, but…”

“But if it had been you, you wouldn’t have told her anything was going on,” Malcolm finished, more than a little bite in his voice.

He had already known this, of course. As much as the love of a black knot could be obsessive, there were levels to that love. For him and his brothers—even Andre, without a black knot unless he had it added into his genetic code through knot therapy for spurts of time—they would burn the world down for Emilia, as would the clones who were most attached to her, as would the Baxter twins. Everyone else—his mothers, his aunts and uncles, some unknown number of clones because who even knew with those guys—they were a little more removed from their love. They loved, yes, and they knew they were compromised by their love for Emilia and all the children she had brought into their lives, with their open hearts and lack of fear for black knots. With age, however, came experience, and combined with their love being something lighter, they were better equipped to turn their eyes away from the harm their choices would bring upon those they loved—or, perhaps, it was simply that they were willing to accept their hearts cracking apart for the greater good?

It was complicated, and none of them were in a good position.

“Clearly,” he grumbled, slouching back into his chair and glaring back over his short message thread with Loren, asking him why he wasn’t just bursting into the meeting and demanding Miles come with him for a moment—apparently it was too important a meeting to do that—“whatever kids the rest of us have should be kept far away from outsiders.”

“So you want to raise a bunch of serial killers with no connection to anyone? No controlling factor laid over their black hearts?” his mother teased, coming to sit across from him, bowl of sweets for each of them in hand. “Normally, the love we have for our friends is less intense from what you children feel for that girl. Even when it is so intense, it often fades with time, or those we love as unable to accept our jobs. We move into our life here,” she said, gesturing to the dimly lit office that generations of Heads of the Black Knot had occupied before handing it off to a relative, “and while we never forget those we care for, they forget about us and go on to live good lives. Usually, our paths never cross again. When they do, we are far enough removed to feel a pang of regret or happiness for however of our choices will affect them, but we can also make those decisions without taking them into account, and if we cannot, we can relinquish the situation to someone who won’t care about the risk to that person.”

“And I can’t really do that because everyone loves Emilia.” That, and he’d break if his decision to hand anything regarding her safety over to someone else hurt her.

“Well, not everyone,” his mother snorted, rolling her eyes and muttering something about how if those clones were given control of any situation Emilia was involved in, they’d probably try to have her killed, and yes, they would.

The effect of Emilia on their organization wasn’t a secret from any agent—although lower-ranking agents rarely knew exactly who so many of their number were so devoted to—and there were certainly those who believed she had corrupted them—left them impotent, in a way. At times like this, they were correct: Malcolm was nearly petrified to make any move, lest it harm one of the few people he counted among his friends. It wouldn’t matter whether he moved or not—if anything happened to Emilia because of something he did or didn’t do, he would fall apart.

How was he supposed to do anything, knowing his decisions could cost him a piece of his heart? Not to mention that if Emilia died, it would shatter both of his brothers? The triplets? Loren? A hundred other clones? To say nothing of her other friends and family.

All that pressure lay on him, growing with each flickering thought within his mind, until his breathing was ragged once more, his mother’s hand once more carding through his hair as she reminded him to breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

“What if I can’t do this?” he asked, when his breathing had settled yet again, his lungs still a balloon waiting to pop within him. “Be an agent, I mean?”

Agent was so much less than what his mothers’ wanted him to be, but for the moment, that was what he was: an agent with far too much power because that was how The Black Knot worked. Agents weren’t trained. Agents didn’t slowly rise through the ranks. No, they were dropped in and left to flounder and figure it out before eventually either failing or being promoted to whatever position had already been chosen for them.

Most likely, he would end up the head of one of the numerous divisions of The Black Knot, Andre placed at the top of the organization, while whatever position his mothers had in mind for Rafe—if they hadn’t already figured out he didn’t want to be an agent, which Malcolm was almost positive they had—would go to some other agent or clone. Malcolm didn’t know the exact details of their plan, but only months into working for the organization, he already knew he was failing.

He couldn’t do this—couldn’t make decisions for anything knowing it would cause Emilia harm. It had already been difficult, choosing to send clones into jobs that could snap up their lives and break her heart. This? Having her safety relying on his decisions?

He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t.

He just couldn’t.