I AWAKEN FROM A DREAM I CAN’T REMEMBER, EXCEPT THAT sounds were a part of it. The seashell roar in my ears jars me only for the first instant. After that, I have more important things to think about.
Paul lies on his side next to me, his gray eyes gentle. How long has he been watching me sleep? I hope I didn’t drool or something. Maybe not, because as he sees me blink and stir, a small smile dawns on his face. When I smile back, he traces along my hairline with one finger. His touch warms me like a sunbeam as we lie side by side amid the rumpled white sheets.
We spent one other night together, in the dacha in Russia, but he was Lieutenant Markov then—both my Paul and someone else entirely new. This time, even though we inhabit other bodies, we were no one but ourselves. Despite the tremendous emotion between us then, this is even more intimate. Maybe it’s our true beginning.
Or maybe not. Paul’s eyes remain sad, his smile wistful. Does he believe in what I wrote last night? Or does he still doubt himself, and believe his splintering will shadow him forever? Does he think destiny is something we can create—or something we’ve lost?
To ask these questions, or at least get the answers, I’d have to find a pen and a sheet of paper. But maybe it’s for the best that communicating isn’t as easy between us here. Instead of plunging back into doubt and angst, or having some awkward, irrelevant conversation about anything but what’s most on our minds, we simply lie together in this fragile, stolen moment.
Paul startles and turns toward the door in the back of our bedroom, the one that leads to the nursery.
Oh, right. We have a baby, and babies cry.
The rest of the morning is not as romantic.
What else can she want? Paul writes at one point, after the mashed sweet potato becomes the third potential meal Valentina has thrown at us.
I shrug, feeling helpless. My chest is as flat as usual in this universe, so I’m obviously not breastfeeding her. (Which I’m selfishly grateful for, because that would be deeply weird.) We changed her. We tried to feed her. We burped her. Now we’re trying to feed her again. That’s pretty much all there is, right?
Valentina, however, seems positive there is something else we should be doing, parent-wise, that we have shamefully neglected. Tears run down her flushed face as she pushes the rest of the mashed sweet potato away. She looks so miserable that it’s impossible to feel angry or annoyed. Instead guilt bears down on me. This little girl needs her mommy. Maybe she senses that’s not really me.
Paul must be thinking the exact same thing. As I brush orange mush off the loose white nightgown I tugged on this morning, he writes, I shouldn’t have taken the Nightthief. Then her father could care for her most of the time.
I shake my head no and take the pen. We need to get the stabilizer built as fast as possible. The sooner we do that, the sooner she gets her parents back. Which is all true, and I know it, but I still feel so ashamed as I look at Valentina—
—who says “Milk?”
With her hand, in sign.
“Milk?” I sign back. Valentina brightens, going from looking miserable to hopeful. I open the one small cabinet for dishes and see, on the highest shelf, a collection of bottles and nipples. By the time I turn back around with the fixed bottle of milk, Valentina is already holding out her chubby little hands. When I give it to her, I’m rewarded with the briefest of smiles before she pops it in her mouth.
Of course this Marguerite is teaching her daughter sign language, just like Paul must be teaching her how to speak. The baby is too young to talk, but apparently kids can start signing a little earlier. Paul sags against the small fridge in relief, and I can’t help laughing.
An instant later one of the small lights blinks in the corner. Frowning, Paul goes to open the door, but he smiles when he sees who’s come to visit.
“Good morning!” my mother signs to me, then stops as she takes in my nightgown, Paul’s T-shirt and boxers, and Valentina’s flushed face. Behind her is Dad, who only has eyes for his granddaughter. My parents look basically the same as if they’d come in from our living room back home, if Dad stopped to pick up a really unattractive pair of plastic-rimmed glasses along the way. Mom’s idea of dressing up is using bobby pins to hold her bun back instead of pencils. Dad’s scarf is a bold shade of blue that probably stood out like a beacon on the streets of Moscow.
I’d be touched by the way my father brushes his hand over Valentina’s head if it weren’t for what he signs next, which is approximately, “Baby pretty very. Josie said sick you?”
Mom asks, “Sick you also Paul?”
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Grammar, in sign language, turns out to be three-dimensional; the meaning and sentence functions of the individual gestures are determined not only by the shape of the fingers or the order they come in, but the positions and movements of the hands, too. Facial expressions matter, as do the sharpness and clarity of finger movement. My parents, the mega-geniuses, have no clue about these parts of signing. Obviously they didn’t learn until they were already adults, so they never got very good at it—and as a result, now they talk to me like cavemen.
Well, I got the gist of what they were asking. “I’m fine. Lots better.” They don’t seem to have come over to check on me, though. Apparently we invited them over for breakfast, or maybe this is just something we do as a family on our days off. “But it took Valentina a long time to decide what she wanted this morning.”
Obviously my mom and dad understand sign language better than they can use it themselves. Mom smiles and leans over to kiss the top of her granddaughter’s head as Dad tells us, “You clothing we baby storage. Happy to storage.”
Storage is as close as they can come to saying keep. I beam at Paul, who is staring blankly at the people using sign. “Thanks for keeping Valentina for a little while, Mom and Dad. We’ll be right back.” With that I take Paul’s arm and pull him into the back of our apartment.
We dress in a hurry, making a mess as we go through closets and drawers to figure out where all our stuff is. As I roll thick socks up my legs, Paul pauses buttoning his shirt long enough to write, We shouldn’t tell them about the Firebirds right away.
I shake my head. No. I’m done lying to the other universes. In this one, they might even be able to help us!
This is the USSR, Paul writes. It’s a police state. Friends report on friends, and paranoia reigns. If I come across as an intruder instead of someone offering knowledge, your parents could report me.
I want to tell him they’d never do that—but Mom and Dad are profoundly shaped by their own worlds. While I think they would never betray me, I can’t be sure they’d do the same for Paul.
I could wind up in a gulag, Paul insists. I need to introduce the topic slowly. So, for a while, they need to think I’m this world’s Paul. I can talk to them in Russian—that’s the language they said hello to me in—but what if they notice I’m not signing with you?
Oh, good catch. Let’s say you hurt your hand yesterday. Nothing serious, but you need to give it a rest. That ought to work.
Neither of us acknowledges the bed filling our room, its cover and sheets still crumpled, the pillows still softly sloping in where our heads lay. What we did last night, what I said—it almost feels like a dream I had, one I wished into being. Does Paul believe me about our infinite chances, our one world? Or do the scars of his splintering, and his own terrible past, run too deep?
When we emerge, Mom and Dad are standing in the middle of the room, the weirdest expressions on their faces—somewhere between shock, fear, and amusement. Mom is holding Valentina, but at arm’s length, like she’s something they found unexpectedly. They both startle to see Paul and me, and Mom says something out loud. I don’t have any idea what. Lip reading is especially hard when you don’t know which language someone is speaking in.
Paul takes a step back, jaw dropping in surprise, which is when I see the glints of metal at my parents’ necks. Those are Firebirds. Which means the Mom and Dad from this universe just became my mom and dad, who have traveled through the dimensions at last.
Quickly I grab the pen and paper from last night, flipping over the private things I said to Paul, and write, This is Moscow. Paul and I live here and that’s Valentina. I’m deaf.
Mom and Dad look stricken, and Mom’s hand reaches toward me. Why are they so upset? They recover quickly, though. After a second my father takes the pen and writes, Is this your baby or ours? I’m not sure which possibility is more terrifying.
I laugh. Ours, which is terrifying enough.
Dad shows this to Mom, and the two of them get this gooey-sweet expression as they look at Valentina—like they’re melting inside at the mere sight of their almost-grandchild. Meanwhile Valentina stares at all of us with suspicion. I think she’s figured out we’re a bunch of impostors.
Mom shifts Valentina onto her hip with practiced ease, and the four of us sit down at the table with the embroidered cloth, paper and pen at the ready to explain what’s going on.
My father begins, with his chicken-scratch scrawl, Once we had enough Firebirds collected from the various dimensions, your mother and I realized we could speed the process up considerably by finally traveling ourselves. Rather than leave P and T to build all stabilizer devices to protect the dimensions, we could handle a few of them in person.
Theo has taken over communication between the universes for now, Mom writes next, her other arm wrapped around Valentina in her lap. Her handwriting is as delicate and precise as she is. He’s still feeling ill, so Josie’s come home to help him out.
Dad taps the piece of paper, wanting his say: You can imagine how appalled she was when we told her the Home Office’s motivation. She said she’d rather be dead a thousand times over—any version of her would, and I believe her—
Mom gives Dad a look as she takes the pen back. Time is of the essence. Thanks to data from the other universes, particularly the tracking information from the Warverse, we’ve determined that the Home Office has changed its plan of attack. They’re going after more source vectors now.
I suck in a breath and grab the pen. You mean, they’re willing to kill even more dimensions?
My parents nod. Paul mutters something that I don’t have to lip-read to understand is profanity. The enormity of the Home Office’s crimes already stretched almost beyond my ability to comprehend it, and yet they can still become worse. Is there no end to this? How can we ever stop these dark versions of my parents and Wyatt Conley, all of whom are just as smart and several technological steps ahead?
We can’t, whispers a traitorous voice in my head, the memory of sound amid the constant rush of white noise.
It’s Paul who resumes writing. Although we should start building the stabilizer for this universe immediately, I have a theory we should explore about using the Firebirds themselves instead. We could link two Firebirds together. If one device were directed to increase the matter-antimatter asymmetry in a dimension, and the other were set to overload—he pauses writing to mime, on his own Firebird, exactly how that might be done—the overload might provide as much power as any stabilizer. Meaning two travelers could save a universe, though of course one Firebird would be sacrificed, stranding the traveler there for the time being. But in a worst-case scenario, this option could help us.
Dad takes the pen next. Fascinating stuff! But we should stick to what we know works, for now. We can all split up as soon as we’re sure things are underway here, and then we’ll find out which dimensions to target next. Where can we get the raw materials for the stabilizer?
Paul responds, Marguerite and I got here last night, so we haven’t had much time to figure out where we study or work.
I notice the pause between his writing so and we—the unconscious acknowledgment of what we did spend last night doing. Before Mom and Dad can pick up on that, I grab the pen. Actually, I work as a muralist for the Communist Party. When I got to this dimension, I was painting Paul as a peasant following Lenin to the socialist paradise of the future. This is amusing, but irrelevant, so I add, I’m calling this the Moscowverse.
They start going through their pockets and our mail to see what clues they can pick up. The USSR Academy of Sciences turns out to be not far away, and Dad, Mom, and Paul all have IDs (plain paper, filled out by typewriter, no photos). Before long, Paul and my father have also found a map of Moscow and start trying to figure out how far the university is from here.
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.