A Million Worlds With You

  As they do so, my mother puts down the wriggling Valentina, who crawls toward her blocks with only one backward glance that clearly means, I’m onto you people. Mom watches her, enraptured, only reluctantly turning back to write, I knew you and Paul might have an extraordinary child, but actually seeing her amazes me.

  She’s not ours, Mom. Not even in the very limited way the grand duchess’s child is ours—though I actually haven’t even told my parents about that yet. Now is so incredibly not the time. She belongs to the Paul and Marguerite from this universe. Looks like we met about five years ago here. He learned sign language for me.

  I expect Mom to find that almost as adorable as Valentina. My parents have been almost disturbingly enthusiastic cheerleaders for Paul and me since the beginning. Instead she leans back in her chair, wincing as if in pain. Concerned, I touch her arm, but she shakes her head and picks up the pen again. Was it the meningitis?

  You mean, is that why I’m deaf? I guess so, but I don’t know. It must have been a long time ago, here. Besides, it’s not as if deaf people walk around with cards saying, This is the specific reason I can’t hear you. It’s not like I could ask anyone.

  Mom shakes her head as she writes back, It’s just so hard to see you like this.

  Why? It doesn’t hurt. Honestly, Mom I don’t even miss sound that much. I don’t need to hear in order to be a painter.

  But you can’t hear your baby or Paul—the person you are in this universe might not even remember the sounds of our voices.

  The weirdest thing about Mom’s unhappiness is that, before I came to the Moscowverse, I might have felt just like she does. Now I shake my head no, vehemently, before reclaiming the pen. That doesn’t mean I don’t remember you, or feel how much you love me. I mean, it matters—I’m sure this Marguerite has to deal with a lot of problems I haven’t even thought of yet—but it’s not some massive tragedy. It’s just another way to be. That’s all.

  I don’t think I’ve convinced my mother, but she lets it go, nodding without writing another word.

  So I ask, Your first trip into another dimension. What do you think?

  It’s extraordinary. Mom smiles again, glowing but wistful. Actually living within another self. Though I would have chosen a locale besides the USSR. This was all we ever wanted from the Firebirds—a chance to see other quantum realities. To explore more of the multiverse. Only to learn. Instead, we’re trapped chasing the worst versions of ourselves, and for the saddest reason imaginable.

  We’re trapped, I think. I imagine the Home Office, what it was like to be there, and wish the sheer force of my loathing could shake the place apart. If only I could return, rip their Firebirds apart with my bare hands . . .

  . . . but I could, couldn’t I?

  The idea of returning to the Home Office has been sneaking around in the back of my mind for a while, but it never emerged as a fully conscious thought. I can’t go to a dimension I don’t exist in, and Wicked is off on her demonic field trip through the multiverse, so she’s not there for me to inhabit . . .

  . . . but her body is there. Just “not observable.”

  That’s never really occurred to me before. I’ve never tried going to a dimension with a body that, well, wasn’t being used at the time. As I turn the idea over in my mind, more facets become apparent to me, until this isn’t just a raw theory I’ve come up with.

  It’s an opportunity, one unlike any other we’ve had.

  Coud I leap into Wicked’s body while her mind is completely absent? If I did, then her body should become observable again, fully corporeal, the moment I arrive. It’s hard to wrap my mind around that. While I know that bodies remain behind, their invisibility and intangibility make it seem as if they go off into the ether somewhere. But they don’t.

  If I jumped into the Home Office right now, Wicked’s body would be right there waiting.

  And instead of always being the one on the run, chasing after the Home Office’s plans, I could finally take the fight to them.

  Normally I’d ask my parents and Paul whether I’m correct about this. But I don’t need the physics equations to tell me that this is how it works. After months of traveling through the dimensions, I’ve got this much down pat. More important, I can’t tip them off about my plan. They’d try to stop me. They’d say it was too dangerous.

  And it is dangerous. Even after days on end of fighting for my life, I know this could be my deadliest journey of all.

  But trillions of lives are on the line. That makes it worth the risk.

  Dad and Paul remain embroiled in their discussion of Moscow maps. I scoot my chair back and get to my feet. When Mom looks at me, puzzled, I quickly write, Valentina needs more milk. If I’m going to stay here until you guys have this universe covered, then I should run to the store now, while you can watch her. I think I saw one not far away, yesterday.

  Which is a lie. Last evening I was far too overwhelmed to remember anything like the location of the nearest grocery. But I’m obeying Theo’s first law of lying—keep it simple, stupid.

  Sure enough, Mom nods. She writes, Are you sure you’ll be able to buy something? There used to be incredibly long lines for goods at Soviet stores.

  I shrug. We still need milk, so I have to try. I’ll be back as fast as I can.

  My coat and gloves from yesterday hang from the hooks I put them on last night. As I bundle up again, then slip a few rubles from my knapsack into my coat pocket, I see my mother explaining to my dad and Paul what I’m doing. My father nods and smiles at me, starts to speak, thinks better of it, and then gives me a little thumbs up. I smile back, trying very hard not to dwell on the danger of what I’m about to do.

  Paul looks at me searchingly. Does he suspect where I’m really headed? No—if he did, he’d tackle me to keep me from walking out the door. But he gets to his feet, as if to walk me to the doorway. Valentina chooses this moment to pull at his trouser leg. Even if he’s not exactly her daddy, apparently he’s close enough, and she wants his attention now. Paul leans down to scoop her back up in his arms.

  I watch him studying Valentina, taking in the shape of her face, her eyes. Is he, too, thinking about our child in the Russiaverse, and wondering if this is our glimpse of her? My heart twinges as I realize this is probably the last time I will ever see this little girl that could have been mine.

  But she belongs to this Marguerite, this Paul, this world. That’s why I have to protect them all, at any cost. I wave goodbye and go through the door, shutting it behind me and never once looking back.

  I walk out of the apartment building and move quickly along the sidewalk, taking turn after turn, getting myself as thoroughly lost as possible. I go through my pockets to make sure I don’t have any identifying information with my address. Since I left my wallet at home, everything seems to be in the clear. If Wicked leaps into this body, she won’t know how to find her home or the people waiting there, and it might take her hours to sort everything out.

  This world’s Marguerite, though—she’ll remember everything. She’ll understand why I have to act.

  So I know she’ll also take a note back to my parents, and Paul.

  I reach a small park, which is nearly deserted on this cool, overcast morning. Taking a seat on a bench, I pull out the pen I nabbed from the dining room table and the one piece of paper in this coat pocket. The back is large enough for me to write:

  Everyone—

  I’m sorry I didn’t talk this over with all of you, but you would’ve stopped me, or at least argued with me for a long time. But I have to do this, and I have to do it now.

  We’ll never stop the Home Office by chasing after them. We can only go back to the source. And as long as Wicked is running through other universes, her body remains in the Home Office, existing but not observable until she returns.

  Or until I do.

  I’ll have Wicked’s body to myself. That could make me the ultimate weapon or even make her the ultimate hostage. Could I hold a
blade to her neck the way she held one to mine?

  Valentina’s face shimmers in my mind, replaced by the sight of the grand duchess asking Paul what to name their baby. Her dimension is one of the ones I must save.

  Yes. I can do this.

  Keep going. Keep saving world after world. Don’t wait to find out what happens, and don’t come after me.

  I love you all—Marguerite

  After a moment, I add at the bottom: We can make a better world.

  That’s for Paul, only for him. He’ll understand that. But will he believe?

  I slide the paper back into my coat pocket for this Marguerite to refer to in a minute. Getting to my feet, I see St. Basil’s and the Kremlin in the distance, vividly colorful against the wintry grays of the city and the sky. A wave of nostalgia sweeps through me for this country I’ve known in two different guises. One of them showed me the heights of wealth and tragedy; the other cradled me in love and security.

  And I’m willing to sacrifice myself for them both.

  26

  THE SUDDEN PRESSURE OF THE CHAIR BENEATH ME FEELS like an impact, though of course Wicked’s body has been sitting here all along. More startling is the silence—real silence—broken by the subtle whirr of the ventilation system and the newly strange sound of my own breath. I grip the armrests and open my eyes to look out on the darkly garish megalopolis stretching out from below Triad headquarters. Small airborne craft dart around the gigantic skyscrapers like fireflies in the night, and in the distance, one of the high-speed monorails shimmers with electricity, a scar of light on a gloomy horizon.

  The Home Office. I’m back to the beginning of the conspiracy at last.

  I feel subtly different—as if I’d just gone swimming or done yoga, my body pleasantly energized instead of exhausted. Then I realize it’s because I’m alone in here. Wicked is off tormenting some other Marguerite somewhere, so I have this body all to myself. The last time I was here, her sorrow and anger weighed me down like an anchor. Now I’m free.

  What time is it? To judge by the darkness and the relative stillness of the megalopolis outside, it’s the time of night when “very late” turns into “very early.” Perfect. The fewer people around to observe me, the better.

  I get to my feet and start searching for this universe’s version of a computer terminal—a slim black panel that can be found on a table, or a wall, or even on the arm of a chair. If Wicked is Triad’s most trusted operative here in the Home Office, then her clearance should allow me to access any information I need. Do I look for a main computer core? For Firebird storage? Any damage I can do to their data would help, but I need to figure out how to maximize my impact—and, preferably, take the Home Office out of the universe-destruction business completely.

  My parents would’ve had a better idea exactly what to target; so would Paul. Biting my lower lip, I wonder whether I should’ve told them about my plans after all.

  The resistance! Memories flash through my mind as bright as victory banners: This world’s Paul and Theo, former employees of Triad, living as a band of outlaws on the murky, underpopulated surface of this world. The weapons they held. The mission they all agreed upon—the downfall of Triad.

  If I can find them again, they can tell me what to target—and then Wicked’s body will become our ultimate weapon.

  “Miss Caine?”

  I turn to see two men standing in the doorway, both tall and blank-faced as mannequins. Although their monochromatic gray outfits differ only slightly from mine, instinctively I understand these guys are Triad security. Are they here to guard me or to guard against me?

  “You sent no advance word of your return to this universe,” says the same guy who spoke before—that, or they both have the same dull, monotonous voice. “This activates primary security protocols. What was the color of the Beatles’ submarine?”

  Not purple. My world is the only one where it’s purple. What did Wyatt Conley say about this? In some universes, the Beatles sang about a “Big Green Submarine,” but mostly the submarine is yellow. Shouldn’t I go with the most common one?

  And yet I still can’t wrap my mind around the idea of a yellow submarine. So I roll the dice. “Green. The Beatles’ submarine was green.”

  The guard lifts his arm and begins speaking into what must be a communicator bracelet: “All security to level forty-seven. Extra-dimensional intruder detected. Imposter Marguerite Caine reveals knowledge of entity called ‘the Beatles.’”

  Trick question. Damn! I look around wildly for somewhere to run. A door farther down the hallway opens, and I brace myself for a phalanx of guards rushing in to arrest me—

  —and instead I see Romola Harrington, again, wearing an outfit all in rich royal blue. One lock of her blond hair has escaped from its braid, marring her usual smug, placid expression. As she hurries toward us, she wrings her hands together and says, “You’re not supposed to be back yet.”

  “Intruder,” the security guard says. “We’re taking her into custody now.”

  “Indeed not.” Romola acts as though the butler asked her whether she wouldn’t rather eat her roast pheasant off a paper plate. “The other Marguerite requires level-one interrogation. Leave that to me.”

  The security guard pauses. “Level one . . .”

  Romola draws herself even more rigidly upright. I imagine her spine straightening until it snaps, but no such luck. “You don’t have the clearance. I do. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?”

  The other guard, the silent one, hands over what must be a pair of handcuffs—though they’re made of plastic. Romola clicks them around my wrists as if she’s done this a thousand times before.

  But she hasn’t, because one of the binders doesn’t fully close. It’s not locked, which means I can still get out. Despite the surge of triumph I feel, I bow my head as if in defeat and bide my time.

  “You’ll receive the appropriate credit and commendations,” Romola says smoothly to the guards as she guides me toward the nearest elevator, her hand firm around my upper arm. “Please remain here to await further instructions.”

  The guards nod as we walk into the elevator. I wait until the doors slide shut. As the floor shudders with the tiny jerk-and-give of motion, Romola says, “My goodness, I never thought—”

  I don’t know what she never thought, and I don’t plan to find out, because that’s when I punch her in the face.

  I’ve gotten better at hitting people since I started traveling with the Firebird, but it still hurts like hell. The heel of my hand jars against Romola’s jaw, sending her staggering backward. She grabs at my sleeve, though, and takes me down with her.

  When we hit the floor of the elevator, I grab a fistful of her hair. “Where are my parents?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Romola sounds panicked—but in the very next moment, she clamps both her hands around my free wrist and twists hard enough to make me cry out and let her go. She tries to pin me, but I get one of my knees between us and use it to throw her off.

  The security guards can’t reach us in here. Nobody’s coming to help her. Romola’s stronger than she looks, but she won’t want to hurt me badly, because this is Wicked’s body she’d be breaking. But I’m willing to mess both of them up, which means I’m going to win.

  Nobody told Romola that, though. She lunges at me with enough force to send me sprawling onto my back. “What are you doing?” she yells. “Have you gone completely mad?”

  “Tell me—where—my parents are!” I grab at her arms, trying to get her off me—which is when I see that she, too, is wearing a Firebird.

  Wait.

  She raises an eyebrow. “Catching on at last, are you? Thank goodness. Where are you from?”

  “The Berkeleyverse. Where are you from?”

  “The Mafiaverse, which by the way is an atrocious name.” Romola lets go of me, flops onto her butt, and sighs. “Good lord. Do you think next time you could wait to hit someone until you’ve checked to find out wh
ether that person is on your side?”

  “Probably not, actually. No time to waste.” I can’t quite wrap my head around this. Romola’s on my side this time? My brain rejects the idea, replaying memory after memory of Romola doing me wrong. Getting me wasted so I wouldn’t look for Paul on my own, freeing Wicked to continue her mission of destruction, or setting me up to destroy the Romeverse.

  But none of those were this Romola. This is the one who met me at the movies in Times Square, watched a goofy comedy, and showed me the glory of mixed M&M’s and popcorn. This Romola is my friend, and she traveled through the dimensions to help.

  I’ve been so shaken by finding my one worst self that I never considered how much it might change our fates by finding someone else’s best self. Travel through enough dimensions and maybe you’d find the hero and the villain in everyone.

  I ask, “How did you even know to come to the Home Office in the first place?”

  “We all agreed we needed a pair of eyes ‘on the inside,’ as it were. I seemed to be the best candidate—the one the Home Office wouldn’t suspect.” Romola shrugs. “When security signaled about capturing an alternate Marguerite, I knew it could only be you.”

  “How long have you been here?” I ask as we start to get to our feet.

  “Not quite twenty-four hours, I think?” Romola smiles unevenly and reaches out to snap the cuff binders off my wrist for good. “Turns out Triad has employee barracks in this universe. Optional, but rather well-populated. I’ve found it easier to simply remain in my office.”

  Do I want to know what employee barracks look like? No, I don’t. “I came here to sabotage Triad any way I could, but I don’t know what to do—or what to do it to. Any insight?”

  “Not in particular. You were looking for your parents?”

  I shake my head no. “Not really. They’ll realize I’m an imposter. But if I’d had to call on them to get out of a level-one interrogation—”

  “Got it.” Romola nods once. “I’ve been trying to study their core computer functions, to look for vulnerabilities, but Triad is so vast in this universe, it’s like trying to find the center of the internet.”