CROWELL

38 We landed the Exeter a few miles away from New Venasaille’s dome, unable to enter during repairs of the domelock and the Shell. I fidgeted in my seat. We’d sat there almost two hours now. What good was perfect timing coming from a completely different universe and have to sit and do nothing. This was more boring than travel in the jump slot.

I glanced over at Plenko. Well, I glanced over and up at him. First Clan. I still couldn’t get used to that. He saw me staring and shrugged before turning his attention to the back of Morgan’s head, which he’d been looking at for the past hour.

So, Dorie was alive. Probably. Escaped, maybe. If that was the case, how easy would it be to have Plenko reach out with one hand, cuff Morgan across his temple, and take him out? Wait first for the all-clear signal, maybe, get authorization, then smack him. Fly the Exeter into New Venasaille ourselves.

Dorie was the unknown factor. If there was a chance Dorie could get clear of everything related to Ribon when Plenko turned himself in, then maybe I should just let him do it. How often did Helks sacrifice themselves for a human?

I debated with myself for another five minutes, then Morgan suddenly cycled up the Exeter. Sitting up straighter, I spent one last second playing out the perfect counterstrike scenario in my head until Morgan spoke.

“We’ve been given the go-ahead,” he said. “The domelock is still not a hundred per cent operational, but they’ve rolled back the doors enough to allow ships to enter—or leave—for vital reasons.”

“I guess Sakson considers us vital,” I said.

Morgan nodded. “He wants us there immediately.”

“And Dorie?” Plenko asked, sounding hopeful.

“They found her,” Morgan answered. “She and her friends. All of them found and neutralized. Max Rydell, the warden of the Bubble, is dead. They’ll all be in custody soon.”

The Exeter lifted off and made for the top of the dome.

Plenko swore under his breath, something I couldn’t understand, and I figured he’d just insulted Morgan because the mercenary turned his head slightly, as if acknowledging the Helk.

“I hope you’re ready to see Sakson,” Morgan said.

“I’m ready to see Dorie,” Plenko countered.

“Yeah, maybe. I’m not sure Sakson will allow it. If I were him, I’d put Dorie on a cruiser and shoot her through the slot so fast and so far away that she’d have to start her own colony somewhere.”

“I will demand to see her.”

“That’s not for you to say. Give her up. You don’t owe her anything, but you owe a lot to Ribon, it seems. Me, I don’t care one way or the other, but from where I sit, that woman is trouble.”

Plenko tensed, his massive fists on his lap clenched so tight I thought he might find some superpower within them. Something other than brute strength, that is.

Morgan concentrated on the approaching domelock of New Venasaille. “Big trouble,” he repeated. “I’ve never trusted anyone who rolled the RuBy has much as she did, no matter what you say.”

I wished Morgan would shut up. Even Plenko, who seemed to have the best claim to knowing her, had found himself separated from her, taken away by Lorway at the Rock Dome. That’s what I’d been told, anyway. Just part of a bizarre, intricate plan surrounding an unlikely Ultra invasion from an antimatter universe. I’d played my part, but at what cost? I’d traveled from place to place, from Montana to Chicago to Aryell to Helkuntannas, to Barnard’s World, to Rook, to the Ultra universe. Hell, what did I know?

Now, as Morgan put the Exeter in position over the domelock, guiding it through the gap, and down to the damaged berths, I thought about loved ones left behind. A worker on a walkway signaled, leading the Exeter away from a damaged section and over to an intact berth. Morgan complied.

I’d left people behind, I’d left heartache behind, and here I was, back on this side of the galaxy. This side of the Ultraverse.

Your lucky day is coming.

I hoped so. Because I never expected to be back here, with renewed energy, still trying to learn what made people tick. Who they were. Originals. Copies. Helks. Memors. Ultras.

It was hard to identify yourself when you couldn’t even keep track of the different versions of you.

Me in the past or future—was it the me now? If someone pointed at me and said they remembered me then, or remembered me later, would they refer to me twice as one thing, or once to each of two things? Did I remain the same person? Would I still exist?

Yes. If I was a different person, I would still exist, just as if I had remained the same person. I’d seen that effect in Vanderberg Parr, himself a copy of Alan Brindos. The same person becoming one. Becoming a hybrid.

Who am I? What am I?

Maybe all I wanted was to get past this. All the subterfuge, all the trickery, all the copies, all the quantum entanglement and quantum sleep, genetic blueprints, all the universes, matter and antimatter.

Maybe I just wanted to be a normal citizen with an interesting job, sip a fine glass of Temonus whiskey and fall in love with the blue poison. Let Dorie have her RuBy, and Forno his warm jacket.

But you don’t even know. It’s my lucky day. I am not the same person I was when this all started. You thought you knew, but that was before.

You never saw this coming.