I CAN’T BE DEAD.
I mean it—I can’t. My heart beats in my chest, harder and faster as it responds to the mortal fear of another dimension, another Marguerite. So I must have leaped through dimensions. But I can’t feel where my arms and legs are. There’s no up, no down.
Before I jumped, I had no chance to ask myself whether or not I could. If Wicked hadn’t moved along, I would’ve been stuck there with Theo strangling me to death . . .
I shudder. I must be alive, if I can shudder. And yet now I remember how it feels to die.
Did I leap into the same body as Wicked after all? I know that’s impossible, but I can’t come up with any other explanation for why I’m here in a total void. Am I just stuck in the corner of this Marguerite’s mind until Wicked moves along? Maybe this is how it feels to exist only in someone’s imagination.
Something brushes against my cheek, and I startle. The hands I couldn’t sense a couple of seconds ago automatically come to my face to check. Turns out my curls are floating around me as if I were underwater. Okay, body parts intact equals good, but what the hell is going on?
Metal begins to clank and whirr, the unmistakable sounds of machinery at work. Light filters in from behind me, dim at first, then brightening. Turning around is difficult; I have to writhe with my whole body to do it, and by now nausea has begun to wring my stomach. Finally I manage to get a look at what’s going on. Enormous plates are shuttering upward as if being folded, and as they fold they reveal—
—Earth. As in, the whole planet. Which I am not currently on.
Outer space. You’re in outer space. Deep breaths. I can’t talk myself down. Oh, my freaking God I’m in outer space! There’s no oxygen in space!
Of course there’s oxygen here—wherever this is—because I’m breathing. But for how long?
Never, ever have I liked heights. I’m not phobic or anything, but I’m one of the ones you have to tell not to look down no matter what. Now there’s nowhere to look but down.
Red lights begin to flash, and I hear a female computer voice say, “Warning. Plasma venting in four minutes.” A male computer voice says something else afterward in another language, one I can’t identify, because I’m facing my second life-or-death crisis in five minutes and this is the closest I’ve ever come to passing out from terror.
Pull it together! Nobody’s going to save me but me. Now that there’s enough light in this chamber, I can see tons of openings—most of them square and small, as well as a single, large, round one that looks like it might be some kind of door. Please, let that be a door. It’s the only chance I’ve got.
I try to move toward that opening, basically attempting to swim through whatever air is in here, but that doesn’t work. It leaves me simply flailing in space, barely moving forward at all. Quickly I scan the area being revealed around me, this section of whatever enormous machine contains me now. If I could touch one of the walls, I could pull myself along the surface until I reached what I really, truly, sincerely hope is a way out.
The closest one is beneath me, if “beneath” has any meaning up here. So I wriggle in that general direction, moving so slowly I want to scream.
“Three minutes to plasma venting,” intones the computer voice, with her male echo just after. Three minutes isn’t long enough—at least fifty feet separate me and that opening, and I don’t even think I’ll be able to touch the nearest surface before then.
Another voice echoes through the chamber. “Marguerite? What are you doing?”
“Mom!” Where is she? I can’t see her, but it doesn’t matter. She can see me. “Get me out of here!”
The metal plates stop moving. My vista on planet Earth gets no wider. The computer voice intones, “Plasma venting aborted.”
I should be happy. I should be cheering and laughing, especially now that a mechanical tow arm is unfolding from the wall to bring me in.
Instead, I want to cry.
I lost the Egyptverse Marguerite too. I had chances to save them and failed. And this time Theo was the one who did it—Theo—
Will I be able to save anybody? How many Marguerites have to die?
“What were you thinking?” My dad is questioning my sanity for the second time in two days, and I don’t blame him. Wicked leaves a trail of crazy wherever she goes.
Dad and Mom sit on either side of me in the space station Astraeus—at least, that’s the symbol and name stamped on the sleeves of the pale blue coveralls we wear. Mercifully, this place has gravity, or at least a good approximation of it, in its rotating central sphere. This appears to be the safe area where scientists and their families work and live. The four huge fans that spread out around it collect solar energy; the pods beneath the fans collect unnecessary plasma (whatever that is), the better to vent it into space.
I was less than three minutes from being shot into outer space along with the plasma when Mom picked up on some odd readings in the atmospheric chamber.
“The sensors in there don’t warn us about human intrusion, because no one’s supposed to bloody go in!” Dad only gets this angry when he’s scared. “What possessed you?”
Possessed. That’s closer to the truth than he can ever know. And it tells me how to play this. “Dad, something’s wrong with me. I mean, mentally. I’ve been doing this stuff I can’t understand, and sometimes I don’t even remember doing it. This time I could’ve gotten killed. What happens next time?”
Mom’s and Dad’s eyes both widen, and Mom puts her arms around me. “She may need medication, Henry. Certainly she needs to see a doctor.”
“On Earth?” I say hopefully. Maybe I should think it’s supercool being in outer space, but I want to be back on the ground. I want all the air I can breathe. I want real gravity. I want a sky. I want to stop thinking about Theo strangling me to death.
“It won’t come to that. You can stay on the station.” Mom seems to think that will make me feel better. “We’ll take you off-duty for a few days and let you rest. Get some sleep.”
What kind of duties could I possibly have on a space station? Probably it’s a little like the deep-sea station from the Oceanverse, where everyone has to help out—but there I only had to check some weather readings and tie down some cables. The potential for screwing up seems way, way higher in outer space.
“You have been behaving strangely of late,” Dad admits. His hand brushes through my hair. “Yesterday you were in such a mood—and you didn’t seem to remember who the Beatles were, which makes no sense whatsoever.”
I laugh despite myself. The Beatles appear to be another universal constant: If they can exist, they will. And if the Beatles exist, my father will be their number-one fan. “I remember them now. But I don’t remember not remembering them, if that makes sense.”
My parents exchange worried glances. They’re probably afraid I’m on the verge of some kind of psychotic break. Good. Because they need to keep an eye on this Marguerite until I stop Wicked, who could come back at any time and try to finish what she started.
But other dangers chase us, too. I put one hand to my throat, haunted by the memory of pain.
Mom gets to her feet, towing me with her, and Dad follows suit. I can feel the difference from Earth gravity. I’m slightly lighter here, which adds a surreal edge to every moment, every move. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get you checked out.”
The Astraeus turns out to be neither as cramped as the real space stations I’ve seen on TV in my dimension nor as roomy and comfortable as they are in the movies. The walls and floors are made of brushed metal, slightly dinged from long wear. The ceilings are black and lined with small, faint lights. Handles jut out from odd places—up high, down near the floor, etc.—but the handles don’t seem to lead to anything. Huh. The few windows are small, revealing only the smallest circles of blackness; I make it a point not to look through any of them. Corridors are short and lead to broader spaces, which aren’t divided like they would be in an office but clearly have defined roles—various scientific stations. My parents both wear small Canadian flag emblems at their collars, and I bet I do too, but I also glimpse the flags of Mexico, Russia, the United States, Great Britain, Japan, and what I think is the flag of India. Some flags I can’t identify, but this definitely seems to be an international setup.
If anyone knows about what nearly happened with the plasma venting, nobody gives any sign.
The Astraeus has a large enough staff for there to be a resident shrink, Dr. Singh, who has me lying down for an exam within seconds. Her black hair is cropped short and a bit spiky, and she looks like she’s no older than Josie. Yet I find myself trusting her instantly. “Are you experiencing depression?” she asks.
“No.” I mean, I guess not. There’s no telling what might be going on in this Marguerite’s mind, since she’s now been inhabited by two trans-dimensional visitors in a row. “I’ve been really stressed out, though.”
Dr. Singh nods. “Have you had suicidal impulses?” Mom and Dad look at each other, stricken. The doctor notes their reaction and leans closer to me. “If you’d rather speak to me without your parents in the room . . .”
“No, no, it’s okay. They should hear this.” I take a deep breath. How can I keep this Marguerite safest? “I’m not suicidal. But some of the stuff I’ve been doing during these, uh, blackouts—it’s dangerous. I don’t know why, and it doesn’t make any sense, but it’s happening and I’m scared.”
“Okay,” Dr. Singh says, laying one hand on my shoulder. “I agree with your parents—you should be taken off duty immediately. You need sleep, rest, and relaxation. Exercise, too. The logs say you haven’t been keeping up with the requirements. You’re not at the reprimand stage yet, but you will be soon. And if your body is out of whack, sometimes the mind follows suit. Maybe this would be a good time for you to concentrate on your art.”
They really need to understand the key point here, so I say it out loud: “I should be watched.”
Again, the three adults in the room exchange glances. Dr. Singh says, “You reported no hallucinations, no violent impulses—”
“But what if that changes?” Which it will, if Wicked ever returns to the Spaceverse. “What then?”
“There’s no reason for us to assume that’s going to happen,” Dr. Singh insists. “The psychological strain of space duty affects many people adversely for a while, but the vast majority of them get over it. If I put everyone who’d ever acted strangely on the Astraeus into lockdown . . . well, we wouldn’t have much of a crew left.”
“Can you do a brain scan?” Mom straightens and folds her hands in her lap. Her posture looks almost laughably prim, but I’ve learned that’s how Mom gets when she’s scared. “If Marguerite has developed a brain tumor—”
“Sophie, no.” Dad puts his hand on her shoulder and gives her a little comforting squeeze. “Don’t let your worries run away with you. You’ll upset Marguerite.”
But my mother won’t budge. “I’m not upsetting Marguerite. I’m trusting her judgment. Our daughter has told us something is seriously wrong with her. She’s hurting, and she’s frightened. We need to obtain as much information as we can through every possible diagnostic test. Only then can we form any meaningful hypothesis about Marguerite’s condition.”
I wanted a guard at my door, not a battery of medical tests. Still, I can’t help smiling weakly at Mom. It feels good to know she’d go to bat for me, even when I’m behaving weirdly, even when the doctors are telling her to let it go. Not all parents support you that much; Paul’s never have, never would. I got lucky with Henry Caine and Sophia Kovalenka.
Dr. Singh capitulates with a small smile. “I suppose it can’t do any harm, and I don’t have any physicals to run until tomorrow. Lie down, Marguerite. This won’t take a second.”
Obediently I take my place on the medical table. Instead of the paper covering I’m used to, here the table is sleeved in clear plastic, which must be sterilized after each use. What kind of tests are they about to run? I’ve never been a baby about shots or blood draws, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy getting poked with needles. Or maybe they’ll do something more dramatic. Would a space station have an MRI machine?
But Dr. Singh simply takes out what looks like a metal headband, thick and elaborate, and slides it over my head so that the two points press in on my temples. The band itself doesn’t quite touch my skin. I feel a warm, electric sort of prickle—not pleasant, but not painful either—and readouts begin to stream along nearby screens. Dr. Singh watches them, nodding and at ease, until she gasps.
“What do you see?” Dad says sharply. “Dear God. When Sophie talked about a tumor, I thought—”
“It’s not that.” Dr. Singh steps closer to the screen, looks back at me, then stares at the screen again. “There’s no tumor. Body chemistry is largely within normal parameters. But Marguerite’s brain activity, particularly in the precuneus—that’s a section of the parietal cortex, the core seat of our consciousness—well, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Mom rises to stand by Dr. Singh as my father’s hand closes reassuringly over mine. My mother says, “Can you draw any conclusions? Even speculate?”
Dr. Singh shakes her head, not in negation but in wonder. “The levels of activity in the precuneus are higher than I’ve ever seen. Higher than should even be possible.”
“Is that good or bad?” Dad squeezes my hand tighter.
“I don’t know,” Dr. Singh says. “It looks like—almost like—no. That can’t be.”
“Things are only impossible until they’re not.” Mom’s tone goes firm. “Say the first thing on your mind, doctor. The first conclusion you came to.”
After a moment, Dr. Singh sighs. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was more than one mind at work inside Marguerite’s brain.”
Holy crap. They found me.