I WAKE UP IN THE CANOPIED BED, BLINKING AND UNSURE. The sky beyond the windows is dark, though the horizon is beginning to brighten.
Dawn is a time of day I usually feel no need to experience. But instead of burrowing back under the feather duvet and trying to go back to sleep, I push myself upright and take stock. The nausea I felt yesterday has died down, and while I’m still slightly short of breath, it no longer seems like a crisis. So I’ve adjusted to the altitude well enough.
My belly rumbles, reminding me that I have no idea how much Wicked ate in this body yesterday, if anything. Although I don’t read much Spanish, I can make out the hotel info book well enough to know it’s still an hour before room service will start serving desayuno. Time for a nutritious breakfast from the minibar.
Jet lag really doesn’t sum up how unreal everything feels after you’ve jumped all around the globe in different dimensions, I decide as I choose a bag of trail mix and a Coke. We need another word for it. Universe lag? Firebird lag?
I hate waiting. Suspense wears me down worse than stress ever could. Even jumping into worlds where I know Wicked’s latest deathtrap is waiting doesn’t grind me down as much as this: sitting on a leather sofa, watching the sunrise against my will, eating junk for breakfast while I wait for Wyatt Conley to show up and be creepy.
I know our next conversation serves a purpose. I know how important it is to find out just how much Conley has learned about the alliance between the other dimensions. And yet when I am traveling, I am brave. I do what has to be done. When I am waiting, I only feel small and hollow and scared.
If Paul were with me— I think, but I stop myself before even finishing. Reaching out to him here in Quito would endanger him, maybe even lead Conley to kill him. At this point, honestly, I would settle for absolutely anybody I love. My own world’s Theo, even. Or Josie. Or Mom and Dad . . .
The caffeine must be hitting my bloodstream, because my eyes finally focus on what’s been sitting right in front of me this whole time: a landline phone.
I sit up straight. I’d tried my tPhone almost as soon as Theo left, but it had been remotely shut down, no doubt by Triad. In my exhaustion it hadn’t even occurred to me to think about a landline. And for Wyatt Conley, genius of the cellular age—I bet he doesn’t even remember landlines exist, even though every hotel room has them.
Swallowing the last of the Coke, I pick up the phone and examine it. I don’t see anything that looks like a listening device, at least not according to the few spy movies I’ve seen where they check for this stuff. If Conley tapped the line, well, there’s nothing I can do about that. Still, I’d bet everything he didn’t think about the landline. The only other people who continue to rely on them are eccentric, slightly absentminded people . . . such as my parents.
Our landline number is one of the few I know by heart.
It takes a little negotiation with the hotel operator to place the call. Then I hear the odd, purring double ring of an international call until, finally, a sleepy voice says, “Hello?”
“Mom! It’s me, Marguerite. I’m sorry, I know it’s six in the morning—”
“It’s five here, but never mind.” Already Mom’s wide awake again. “I take it this is the Marguerite from the Berkeleyverse?”
“Uh, yeah, it is.” They’ve been brought in on this too? Wow, the Cambridgeverse works fast.
I hear my mother shouting, “Henry, get out of bed! It’s the other Marguerite!”
In the farther distance, Dad says, “The good one or the bad one?”
“The good one,” my mom replies, and I have to grin.
When I hear her pick up the receiver again, I hastily say, “Listen, Mom, I’m so sorry about not telling you guys the truth the last time I was here.”
“Perfectly all right, sweetheart. I won’t deny it was strange when our Marguerite informed us of the situation—but uncovering the full truth behind Conley’s plans made your subterfuge worthwhile for everyone involved.”
While she speaks, another receiver picks up, and Dad interjects, “Honestly, we should’ve suspected it.”
“And you know it was Wicked who came here last, right? I mean, the Home Office me. You didn’t . . . listen to her, do anything she asked you to do?”
“Wicked,” Dad says. “An appropriate name. But no, we knew how to work around her. We’d been on the lookout for her more than twelve hours before she arrived, and we knew our own Marguerite almost certainly wasn’t at risk.”
“How could you be so sure?” Wicked hasn’t hesitated before killing any of the others.
“Because the last universe Wyatt Conley’s ever going to destroy is his own.” Dad’s voice has that tone that means, sweetheart, you haven’t been thinking. It irritates me, usually, but this time my father has a point. “He murders tactically. Not out of pure cruelty. Otherwise we’d all have been goners long before now.”
Mom adds, “Also Conley clings to the hope of working with a perfect traveler, particularly you. Your dimension has the technology and represents a threat. You’re the only possible way he has to ameliorate that threat, save destroying the dimension altogether.”
“He’d do that,” I say quietly. “He’s already destroyed at least one.”
My parents are both silent for a moment, as if paying their respects to the dead. Mom finally continues, “He still wants your cooperation. Wicked, as you call her, is so fanatically devoted to the cause that she makes him believe he can persuade you. And we must keep him focused on that goal—because it won’t be long before he realizes we’re tracking Wicked’s movements. He has to suspect already.”
“He does.” I fiddle with the chain around my neck. “He didn’t ask me where I got this Firebird, even though that should’ve been his first question.”
“Bloody hell.” Dad exhales sharply. “Well, when you speak to him next, try to figure out how much he knows. Of course you’re going to do that already, aren’t you? But keep on him. Give away nothing. Let him hint and guess.”
“Okay. I can do that.” I flop down on the sofa, feeling as if I could fall asleep again just from the comforting sound of my parents’ voices. “Thanks, Dad. It’s good to have something to do besides just . . . chasing around after Wicked, even though I can never catch her.”
Mom says, “Don’t say that. You’re not wasting time, Marguerite.”
“But the Romeverse is gone—and two other Marguerites died anyway—”
“And you saved another from a fatal accident in outer space,” Mom insists. “You’re distracting Conley from what the rest of us are doing, and buying us time.”
“We need that time,” my father adds. “It takes a while for the asymmetries to spread throughout a dimension and protect it fully. So don’t doubt yourself for a moment, sweetheart. You’re doing good work.”
If they’re talking to the other dimensions, maybe I’m not the only one they’re keeping track of. “Can you tell me where my Paul Markov is?”
“Still in the Egyptverse,” Mom says. “Building the stabilizer must take a while there, and by now we assume he has to find a way to recharge his Firebird, which must be at low levels. But the technology of that world, if it’s like our own at a similar stage of development, should allow him to do so if he can get to a city, Cairo perhaps—”
Assume? Of course. Just because they can track us through the dimensions doesn’t mean they can communicate with us. Communication is only possible between worlds at a high enough state of technology. While Paul is in the Egyptverse, he has no idea what else is happening.
“Does he know I’m alive?” I ask.
The next pause lasts long enough that I know the answer before my dad says, “He hasn’t learned what happened to the Romeverse at all. So he has no reason to fear for you. Well, besides the homicidal maniac version of you on the loose, which I suppose is reason enough.”
“He doesn’t know how to follow me. He could only track my Firebird, and that’s going to lead”—my gut sinks—“to the Home Office.”
“We’ll try to send a warning.” My mother obviously doesn’t want to drag me down. “Hang on, Marguerite. Stay strong.”
I want to. I will. But it seems like my dangers are multiplying every moment. Like I tried to smash through a glass barrier and am now surrounded by a thousand tiny shards, each one sharp enough to draw blood.
My invitation to lunch comes as a note hand-delivered by the concierge. My ride is provided by a hulking limo driver who either speaks no English or is fully committed to pretending he doesn’t. I wear jeans and a dark red T-shirt from the depths of my duffel bag, both wrinkled in the extreme. Wyatt Conley isn’t worth the effort of dressing up, much less ironing.
I’m taken to a restaurant in a sort of closed-circle area with a central green space large enough for a few tropical trees to loom high overhead, and plenty of other greenery frames the other shops and salons. Many of the buildings here have an open-air structure, even the kind of businesses where I’d never expect it, like banks. The road loops around the circle before stretching straight again not far past this restaurant where I’ve been shown to a table just under shady palm fronds.
No sooner do I pick up the menu than I hear the roar of a V8 engine. The reason I can identify that sound is behind the wheel of the red sports car speeding into the circle, namely Theo. He parks on the far side of the green area, and I’m not surprised to see Wyatt Conley getting out of the passenger side.
“Limos are elegant, of course,” Conley says as he walks up to me, Theo lagging behind. “But I tend to prefer a sexier ride.”
“Seems about right.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Men have been using sports cars to compensate for small penises for a long time. Why shouldn’t you?”
Conley’s eyes narrow, but he collects himself after only a moment. “Enough childishness, Marguerite. It’s time to deal.”
As he takes his seat, I steal a look at Theo. He looks neither smug nor ashamed. He’s not avoiding my gaze like he did yesterday, but he’s not engaging with me, either. It’s like he’s deep in thought, although I have no idea what could be more important than this. Maybe he really doesn’t care what becomes of me at all.
A waitress brings us coffees and presents the heavy-bound menus. Conley doesn’t even look at his before laying it across his plate. “I want to be clear about a couple of things from the beginning. One, the offer of a true partnership that I came to you with months ago? That’s no longer on the table. Matters have progressed too far for that. But I think we can still come to terms you’ll find reasonable—and certainly more inviting than the alternative.”
Pollo means chicken, I think, as I refuse to look away from the menu. Just get something pollo and you’re safe. “I don’t think the offer of a true partnership was ever on the table. But go ahead. Hit me with these exciting terms.”
“I guarantee your safety, and your family’s, and that of your world’s Paul Markov. We will make no attempt to destroy your home universe, and nobody of your acquaintance will ever be splintered—at least, not because of anybody at Triad. That’s all you get.” Conley sighs with satisfaction. He thinks he’s finally worn me down. “In return, you travel when I want you to, where I want you to, and do what I want you to. If that includes the destruction of a universe, you do it. And if that prospect troubles you, well, just think of it as their world dying to save yours.”
I don’t say anything, just cover my face with one hand. Is that enough for him to think I’m wavering? If he thinks I’m at least unsure, at least considering what he wants, then maybe he’ll tell Wicked to leave whatever “neutral” universe she’s in so I can get on the move again.
And if he sees that I’m tired—that I’m afraid of never getting Paul back, that I can’t bear the thought of endangering even one more world—that’s nothing but the truth.
“You’re going to lose,” Conley continues, his voice quieter now. Deadly. I am finally hearing the snake beneath his skin. “You know your world doesn’t have a chance, not against this dimension and the Home Office united. Of course you won’t admit it. It hurts your pride just having to sit here and take this from me. You think I don’t understand how much you hate me? Do you really think you’re hiding it so well behind your little menu? Give up, Marguerite. You can’t win. All you can do is save yourself and yours. Is swallowing your pride really too much to do for the people you love?”
I think of the sacrifices I’ve made—the sacrifices Mom, Dad, Paul, and even my Theo have made—and I know that Wyatt Conley has no idea how much someone would do for the people they love. Like this silent, morose Theo at his side, he loves no one but himself.
“Let me think,” I say. “I have to think.”
“What is there to think about?” Conley’s voice rises enough for diners at other tables to glance at us, the rude Americans having a fight over lunch. He controls himself better as he adds, “You don’t get a better offer.”
I shrug. “The Home Office might give me one.”
Impatiently Wyatt Conley says, “I speak for both of the other two universes of Triad—”
“You think you do. But I’ve visited the Home Office for myself.” That gaudy, twisted megalopolis had choked off both earth and sky. “And if you think they’re huge fans of yours, wow, are you wrong.”
Theo lifts his head now. I’ve actually piqued his interest. Conley remains quiet for a few seconds before smirking. “Amateur-level theatrics? I thought you were smarter than that.”
“It’s not theatrics. It’s the absolute truth.” The one truly pleasant memory I have of the Home Office is of the moment when I learned this. “They think you go too far, and they intend to ‘rein you in’ pretty soon. And what was it your Home Office self called you? Hmmm . . . oh, yeah. He called you a ‘total asshole.’ That’s verbatim.”
The waitress approaches to take our orders, gets a good look at the facial expressions around the table, and then walks off. She’s smart.
“You’re making this up,” Conley says flatly.
“If you believed that, you’d be laughing at me now.” It’s safe to put down the menu and spear him with my gaze. “But you know I’m being completely honest. The three founders of Triad in the Home Office loathe you, and they’re counting down the days until they can put you in your place.”
Conley shoots back, “We have an alliance.”
“Three founders. One of them is another you who can’t stand you. The other two are my parents. Who love me—any version of me!—a whole lot more than they’ll ever care about you. Face it, Conley. If you want a deal, you’d better improve your offer. Because I know exactly where to go to find a better one.”
All of his studied casualness drops away. “They gave you that Firebird, didn’t they? I knew it! I knew they wouldn’t leave well enough alone!”
I hadn’t even thought about that as a cover story, and it’s better than anything I could’ve come up with. “Do you want to go back and reconsider your options?”
Conley pushes his chair back from the table. He’s always looked like an overgrown middle schooler, and now he’s acting like one. “I’m going to go back and have a few words with the Home Office. In the end, we need only one perfect traveler, and it doesn’t have to be you. If you have a preference for which dimension you’d like to die in, this is the time to speak up. All I can promise you at this point is that your home is going to go up in ash and smoke, and I’m going to enjoy watching it burn.”
No. Oh, no. I pushed him too far, and I’ve made him desperate. “Wait—I didn’t say you couldn’t make me a better offer—better than the Home Office—”
“Too late,” he says. “Beck, come with me.”
“I’m with you, boss.” Theo’s voice sounds oddly distant. “Got the keys in my hand already.”
“Please.” Tears are coming to my eyes. “Don’t, please!”
“So you finally learned to beg. I like the sound of that. But not enough to care.” With that, Conley stalks off.
I slump back in my chair as he and Theo go to the car, my vision blurring as I start to cry. Why did I do that? I was only supposed to be figuring out how much he knew, not pissing him off. It felt so good to tell him off for once—to use the truth against him—and now my big mouth may have condemned my entire dimension to death.
Would I die with it? If my spirit is in another dimension when my body is destroyed, do I perish or become some kind of . . . ghost?
At least my world knows how to defend itself. By now surely they’ve created the asymmetry that will protect them. Still, it takes time for that to work; Dad said so this morning. Have they had enough time? If Wyatt Conley moves against them now, can they possibly survive?
I wipe my face with the napkin, determined to find another landline phone and warn the other worlds of the multiverse what’s about to happen. The sports car’s engine roars to life—that would be Theo behind the wheel, revving it up. I guess even now, with the death of an entire dimension at hand, Theo loves his horsepower. With a squeal of brakes, the sports car pulls out of its parking space and starts coming around the circle.
But as the car takes the curve, it accelerates, moving so fast I gasp. It passes by me in a red blur, the loud engine not quite drowning out the worried murmurs of the other diners. When the road straightens at the end of the loop, Theo floors it, pushing the car to at least seventy miles per hour and probably more—
—and he doesn’t take the final curve.
He doesn’t even try.
I stare, open-mouthed, as Theo drives the car over the curb, sending it airborne for the split second before it crashes.