The hospital room, as all things Jirayu pays for, is elegantly appointed: the appearance of a five-star hotel suite more than a sickroom. Pale peach walls, decorated in Japanese scrolls that purport to be the genuine article from award-winning calligraphers; low tables with delicately crafted chairs to match. A pot of ikebana, white lilies and anthuriums and a sprig of oleander arranged in aristocratic minimalism. It is designed to calm patients and visitors both.
Jirayu herself floats in a haze of painkillers, her arm in a splint and, for the most part, not feeling particularly attached to the rest of her. She’s had broken bones before; none were quite this drastic. Still, survivable. She will heal. The body restores itself, struggles toward its previous shape, and most of all she has the best medical care money can obtain. Briefly she regrets having turned down Tatiana’s offer to make of her a cyborg the way Yvette is, a construct of enhanced muscles and bones, augmented organs; an artifact of the future. But then, there was no telling how that would have become another venue of control, of ownership. Mortal meat and marrow then, as is her birthright. It is not as if those in her profession has an extensive life expectancy.
Ingvild Tang appeared once, to say goodbye. She will be the final translation out of Helix Three Corolla. “I still have something—someone—I need to find,” she told Jirayu. “I don’t know if I’ll ever have what you have, but I’m willing to try and it looks like Gamayun’s willing to ferry me along. Not that I trust them further than I can throw them.”
“I wish you every luck,” Jirayu replied. She is victorious, and it’s an easy position to give well wishes from. Ingvild has done her a good turn, besides.
And Jirayu will return to her original profession, soon.
Outside, the sky is empty. Krungthep’s geometry is dominated by lines of industry and commerce, the skyscrapers and the sites of what will become more skyscrapers—rapid births, rapid deaths as they are abandoned to bankruptcy or unfortunate business decisions. But the Vector ship is gone. The city is no longer held prisoner within the briars of its shadow.
All around the world, other cities have been freed the same; overnight the Vector has vanished the same way they came—abruptly, without explanation. Jirayu has flipped from news channel to news channel, watching chaos in the streets of Berlin or Beijing or Taipei; watching new shrines and churches spring up to plead for the Vector’s return. She has been faintly aware that such cults existed, but only now is she confronted with their desperation. Someone, or several someones, will soon be assuming control of those, exploiting and taking advantage and making impossible promises. People will flock to them, too. Humanity is nothing if not gullible, gravitating toward that which offers comfort and escape. And she supposes some might have a reason for that: to them, life under the Vector was utopia. No war, minimal starvation, an appearance of peace as long as you haven’t been alerted to aliens wiping out you or your wife one by one across the timelines.
She wonders what the other cognates in this branch are doing; whether they had any inkling, whether they received final orders. But so far none have shown up at her door, or outside her window, to make assassination attempts. It’s almost as if she exists in a spacetime interstice herself, forgotten by the quantum war. Maybe Gamayun’s claims were not all lies.
Jirayu is looking at her tablet when Yvette comes in with takeout—steamed cake and dim sum—and Yvette chuckles, saying, “You can’t possibly be getting back to work already.”
“Time and investment vehicles wait for no woman.” It is slightly tricky propping the device up in a customized holder and using it one-handed, but voice commands have come in useful. “I’m moving my money around a little. Everything’s quite volatile right now. Never seen the exchange rates fluctuate like this.”
“You’re going back into the arms trade?”
“Someone has to do it,” Jirayu says, though her tone does not quite hide how pleased she is. “Not that it’ll be the only thing I do, of course. I contribute to plenty of good, charitable causes. Maybe I’ll sponsor a population overthrowing its authoritarian government.”
“Ah, I married a supervillain.” Yvette arranges the takeout on the overbed table. “Either way, I’m probably last combat cyborg left in this branch, so I’m pretty confident of my ability to be your bodyguard. I can’t wait to butcher dozens in your defense.”
Jirayu bites down on her lip to keep from laughing. It might upset a bone fracture. “And you sound like a supervillain’s right-hand woman; so bloodthirsty. When did you get so enthusiastic about violence?”
“Oh, well, I figured I’d play the part.” A little shrug. “You are who you are. I’m only interested in you being safe and happy, and it’s not as if people who send mercenaries against you are saints. It all shakes out, enough for my moral compass. More than that, I’ve sworn myself to your service, in this life or any other.”
“In sickness and in health,” Jirayu intones. “In quantum flux and otherwise.”
“That’s right.” Yvette picks up a siu mai with chopsticks. “Let’s get you fed. You haven’t been eating enough for your nutritionist’s liking, and your body needs a lot of calories to recover, or so I hear.”
Jirayu laughs, but she opens her mouth and lets her wife feed her. She used to think such things infantile, having observed it in the wild, lovesick couples putting food in each other’s mouth like baby birds. But there’s something about the restoration of a wife she thought lost that inflects everything, and more than that, the triumph they’ve wrested from the Vector’s jaw. She’s determined to be embarrassing from now on, if that makes Yvette happy.
They fall into conversation, once the food is polished off, about where they’ll move into, since Jirayu’s place is well and truly beyond repair. “Do you want to try living in another city?” Jirayu offers.
“Your heart’s in Krungthep. If I ever want to see another place, we can just vacation.” Yvette zooms in on the map of the city. “How about here? Good view of the river, and one of your favorite restaurants isn’t too far . . . ”
“We’re going to rebuild the indoor garden, too, so we’ll have to account for that.” This instance may be indifferent to the idea, but Jirayu wants to keep a piece of the Three Corolla Yvette too. A corner of her house will commemorate that lost instance. “Do you want an ice cream maker?”
It’s so mundane, to sit here and with her spouse look over appliances and furniture, swiping across mock-ups of bedrooms and kitchens and living rooms. Choosing the color schemes together, picking out the type of wood for the flooring and the wardrobe. But it marks a new beginning: the first Yvette she married never got to have input on the fundamentals of their residence, having entered Jirayu’s life long after the place was built and decorated. This time, the home will bear the marks of both their tastes and preferences, the way it should.
Later she takes a walk in the hospital’s rooftop garden, accompanied by Noor: on the doctor’s advice, she’s to keep active, as long as it doesn’t jostle the broken arm. Her prognosis is good; all she has to do is follow medical recommendations.
She’s on her phone or tablet often, when she’s not in the company of her wife. Defense contracts have not yet resumed; they will soon, and an early riser—so to speak—will command the advantage. If there’s a constant on which she can rely, it is that people stay essentially the same, through multiple upendings of order. The thin surface tension of international peace will break in little time, and civil war in certain regions will return in force. The basal elements of human nature rarely change.
Still, her days in the hospital turn monotonous. They have to wait for the new apartment to be furnished; Jirayu refuses to live in a standalone home because it’s too much of a target, too easily breached. Her options come down to high-rises or underground bunkers, and she picks the former every time if only because she can’t bear the lack of sunlight. In the meantime, she reaches out to old contacts, to consortiums that have since dissolved or pivoted to other lines of commerce. She sends out feelers; she reestablishes her place in that hierarchy. In a way, her days of being drawn into the alien civil war already seem like a dream, with the only evidence for it left behind being in the pinpoints of light in her wife’s eyes, the gossamer implants under Yvette’s skin.
She’s nearing her discharge date when she takes to the rooftop garden one final time, for once unaccompanied. Yvette and Noor are out scoping the new residence, ensuring the security of its perimeter, that its surveillance devices are connected properly and leave as few blind spots as possible. The rooftop is crowded, wealthy patients and their families, the usual gaggle of relations hoping for a bigger portion of the inheritance now that they’ve demonstrated their care so well—visiting twice a week, bringing extravagant treats, aren’t they the perfect children or nieces or nephews? It is one reason Jirayu is glad she does not have extended family. Better to be alone in advanced age than to be surrounded by vultures eyeing her like she’s fresh roadkill. She has her wife and chief officer, and both are the far superior alternative. Certain as steel, definite as bullets. The security of love forged in crucibles, she thinks, over familial avarice.
At the far edge of the garden, she finds her wife seated at a bench. That’s a surprise, but maybe Yvette didn’t want her to be entirely unguarded. She is drawing close when she realizes that her wife is . . . less bulky than she’d expect, a minor difference but one that’s visible to her because she has now met so many variations. Minute things, now, register as incongruous; as immediately unfamiliar.
“Yvette?” she says, tentative, not asking Aren’t you supposed to be surveying our new home? Because she’s almost certain that to this woman, the question would make no sense.
The woman, dressed in one of the suits that once resided in their shared wardrobe, leaves the bench and drops to one knee. She takes Jirayu’s hand in hers, presses to the back of it a knight’s kiss. “I’m back, my lady.”
And it is this, the impossibility of it, that finally undoes her. She pulls Yvette to her feet, and then buries her face in Yvette’s neck. Jirayu is breathing fast; she is not quite weeping, but her voice is hitched when she whispers, “It’s really you.”
“Yes.” A muted chuckle. “And it’s really you.”
Next she calls Noor, not quite in a panic but something like it, and asks if Yvette is there. Her chief officer, startled, replies that of course she is; Jirayu demands to speak with her wife, gets a confused and concerned Yvette on the line. Jirayu breathes relief and says that she will explain later.
“How did you come back?” she asks, once she’s calmed down; they sit on the bench, side by side, surrounded by the evergreens, the blooming vines. “And—where were you this entire time?”
“It’s hard to explain.” Three Corolla’s Yvette slips one arm around Jirayu’s waist, gathering her close. “I think I was asleep, and when I woke up I met something that called itself Gamayun.”
Gamayun told her of the aliens, the long war between the Bulwark and the Vector, and Yvette’s place in it. You can’t go back to your original timeline, I’m afraid, they said, no tact whatsoever. To be honest, I’m not sure you can even return to any sort of normal existence. You’re a quantum glitch right now, a ghost between timelines. Unless, of course, I succeed in my strike against my enemies. Then you might be able to return to Helix Three Corolla and reunite with your wife.
“Why didn’t they tell me that?” Jirayu says. In their place, she would have; it is an obvious lever on which to pull, an easy gap in the armor to exploit.
“I think they were holding out on you, to make sure that if you lost the other instance of me, they’d still have a bargaining chip; a hostage to hold over your head.” Yvette’s expression pulls into a brief grimace. “I did hate being that against you, but I was put in a—they called it a liminal space. A little house in a huge patch of black grassland. I was going crazy. There wasn’t much to do or any way to change my circumstances, and worst, no way to contact you. I . . . spent a lot of that time thinking about you, Jirayu. You kept me sane.”
The final explanation Gamayun gave was that Helix Three Corolla is now completely sealed off, shorn from the quantum tree or perhaps grafted to a different tree, one that the Bulwark controls in its entirety. And in this state, what has already been anchored here is welded in place, including the One Nucleus instance of Yvette. The original belongs here by right. And so two instances of the same person may now cohabit in the same timeline, for good or ill.
“Providing the other me doesn’t mind, anyway.” Yvette’s tone grows wry. “I hear she’s some sort of super soldier; not sure I want to get into a scuffle with that.”
Jirayu half-laughs. “Or maybe the two of you will get along. You’re going to have to share your things though, I don’t think I can afford double the amount of suits, toiletries, and skincare.”
“And we’re going to have to share you, won’t we?”
Despite herself, Jirayu flushes. “Well,” she says, “I think I’m about to have to purchase much bigger beds and bathtubs.”
It is odd, a little surreal even, to imagine that I am making a life with Jirayu from the ground up—quite literally, as this building is brand-new: a month old, recently purchased.
Fifty floors above ground, which makes it middling among all the towering spires around us, and a few layers of basement. Many of the floors will be disguised as perfectly normal offices, storage, a cafeteria slash fancy food court—the quality will be good, too, since Jirayu knows I’ll occasionally grab a bite. She’ll hand-pick the vendors herself, with an eye for menus that I will like. Through such little things, she demonstrates her care and regard.
For the moment though, the interior is lit in strip lights, the corridors and rooms that will become our home as of yet bare. Five floors to ourselves, with access to the emergency lift as well as several stairwells, plus the usual secret exits. Nothing will ever be genuinely impermeable, but I like to think with me around, my wife will enjoy an exceptional defense.
“You’ve been grinning for hours,” says Noor. “It’s starting to creep me out, woman.”
“I’m just looking forward to moving in here.”
Ey sniffs. “Newlyweds. What’s the plan, anyway? The boss can’t possibly get right back into work.”
I snort. “I think she’s doing exactly that. It’s her idea of a honeymoon. I’m hoping I can convince her to take a vacation before we jump into conflict zones, though.”
“Great. I got to relax for a full year and now it’s back to shrapnel and grenades and making sure neither touches her.” Noor gives a long, theatrical sigh. “And this is your idea of a good time too, isn’t it, you masochist.”
“As long as I’m by her side, I’m happy.” Probably I sound lovestruck, and I am.
“Awful. Don’t tell me it’s an alien-implanted pheromones thing.” Ey pauses to check an embedded camera, rotating it this way and that. “Can I ask, was the version of her you knew . . . exactly identical to the one I know?”
“Yes. They might have different favorites—food items, blouses, shoes—but those are pretty minor.” I don’t tell em that I have met far more than two instances of Jirayu. Too complicated.
Ey glances at me sideway. “And the other version of me?”
“We were friends.” I hold up my hands. “Really. I’m not just saying that to get past your defense.”
“No, I mean, am I always the boss’ bodyguard?”
That is a different line of enquiry: whether Noor’s fate, too, is entwined to mine and Jirayu’s. “From what I’ve seen, yes.”
“Hah.” Ey shakes eir head. “Now that’s job security.”
I expect em to pursue that thought further, but ey isn’t one to dwell. It is brief curiosity rather than an existential crisis. Noor has an enviable personality; ey really takes everything in stride.
We switch the surveillance grid on and off; we take turns at the control room to ensure there are truly no blind spots on the floors in which Jirayu and I will reside, and then confirm that it’ll all link up to her personal devices. Several computers, state of the art, will soon be moved into what will function as her office. All these things far supersede the decor and appliances in importance, though I’ll be helping Jirayu pick out the colors and the kitchenware too. Next we look over the electrical system—not my specialty, but Noor has more than a layperson’s passing familiarity, and ey is satisfied with the capacity of the building’s auxiliary generator, the multiple layers of failsafe.
“Speaking of which,” ey says, “what happened to that Tang woman? I’d have thought she would continue working for Jirayu.”
“I was told she is in another timeline, now. Probably doing secret agent things, all very exciting, I’m sure.” And pursuing, always pursuing, the other half of her cognate pair. I can find it in myself to sympathize, even empathize, for all that Ingvild does not yet know who awaits at the other end of her quantum connection. It is madness; it is passion, and I might have devoted myself to it the same, in her place.
I don’t expect to see her again, but I like to think that, one day, she will meet the person she needs. That she, too, will feel what I do—that tension of belonging, that gravitational pull, the certainty of persistence across timelines.
“Sounds fun. And here we are, stuck doing security inspections. Well, onward—these cameras aren’t going to test themselves. You got anyplace in mind for lunch?”
The rest of the inspection goes well, too. I think of it as auspicious, that the little spirits and minor gods in the power sockets and wirings approve of our marriage.
Our lunch is interrupted by an uncharacteristically urgent call from Jirayu. Her tone worries me, but she insists she’ll explain later. As long as she is not in mortal peril, I can contain myself. But it makes me jittery throughout the meal, and we end up cutting it short; takeout will be just fine, and Noor is as concerned as I am.
Ey drives safely, so we don’t exactly race back to the hospital. It gets close, over the speed limit a couple times, playing fast and loose with red lights. Sometimes I think Jirayu is as important to Noor as she is to me.
The lifts are too busy and slow for my liking, so I tell Noor to take those while I speed up the stairs. I must look demonic and likely a little insane, taking the steps in huge strides. By the time I reach Jirayu’s floor I’m out of breath, not from the exertion but from something approaching panic.
I let her know I’m coming in as I move past the cadre of bodyguards overseeing her section, some in nondescript clothes, mingling with other visitors. The ward door authenticates when I arrive, letting me through. One of those little security features, catering to a specific clientele—Jirayu would never stay at a hospital without.
There is another person in the room with my wife. She is wearing a leather collar, the center of it glinting gold.
I didn’t know what to expect. Whatever my fear was predicting, it wasn’t this. I am still; I stare—I would have to. It seems impossible. Everything I know indicates there can’t be two of us in one place, at least not for long, but the stranger remains solid, in place. She does not flicker at the edges. She does not give any sign of disappearing, being whisked out of here and into some otherwhere. This is the original, the one native to this timeline that I replaced, and yet there’s no hint of acrimony to her either. Part of me expects that I will be the one pushed out, and yet I cannot sense any of the telltale signs. It is as if, finally, the quantum tree has decided to leave us alone.
Jirayu stands over her, one hand on her shoulder. The stranger’s smile is tentative—an expression familiar to me; I’ve seen it in the mirror before. Bashful, almost.
“This may seem impossible,” says my instance, almost at the same time I say, “This is impossible.”
And then, also nearly simultaneously, we laugh. Relief, I think, both of us startled and then calming. Like water jostled, then returning to its level. And already I know we will love Jirayu together, will protect her together. That with us, she’ll be the safest woman in the world.
My wife takes her hand, and then takes mine.
“Hello, Yvette,” says Jirayu. “I’d like to introduce you to someone.”
“It’s all right,” I tell her, and smile at my second self. “I think I’ve known her since forever.”