THIS TIME, WHEN I SLAM INTO THE NEXT VERSION OF ME, I wake myself up; I feel like I just got thrown into bed. Groggily I shift onto my elbows to look around. Although this bedroom is much smaller than the one I have at home, it’s recognizably mine—artwork hangs on the nearest wall, and there’s a brightly patterned scarf on the bedside table that looks like something I’d own.
It must be the dead of night, to judge by the darkness in my room. That makes me wonder where I am. The Firebirds allow me to travel through dimensions, but not through time. Since I left my home in California sometime after lunch, I must be halfway across the globe, someplace where it’s either very late or very early.
Three of the portraits on my wall are more than familiar: Mom, Dad, and Josie each look out from their canvases. As long as we’re together, this dimension is probably okay.
Yet the portraits are different here—Mom’s hair is shorter, and Josie’s is tied back. Dad seems more driven, less distracted. And my technique isn’t quite the same, either: I’m layering paint much more thickly, going for a more impressionistic take. It’s different from both my usual photorealistic style and the delicate, detailed sketches by Grand Duchess Margarita. I run my finger along Josie’s picture, feeling the thick ridges and swirls of dried paint against my skin.
From my bedside table, my alarm goes off, cuing up some pop music I don’t recognize. As I shut it off, I frown down at the time: 7 a.m. Even in winter, I’d expect some light outside at this hour. Then I remember Russia, and how St. Petersburg only received a few hours of daylight per day in December. Do we live in the far north here, too?
I swing my feet out of bed and walk toward one of the dark, oddly curved windows, hoping to get a sense of my new surroundings. When I look out, at first I see nothing—
—and then a school of tropical fish swims by.
It’s dark outside because we’re underwater.
Well, this is new.
My home turns out to be the oceanographic station Salacia, located in the heart of the Coral Sea. Salacia is one of the most sophisticated stations of its kind in the world, which is why the man in charge is the illustrious oceanographer Dr. Henry Caine.
A quick review of the internet reveals that, in this dimension, global water levels have risen much farther and faster than at home—more like the worst-case projections for climate change a century from now. Is this because of greater pollution? Some other phenomenon? Believe it or not, politicians are still arguing about this on a planet with continents now shaped completely differently than the ones I recognize. While people bicker about the cause, humanity has had to find new ways to live. The vast majority of the world’s population continues to dwell on land, though sometimes in new cities that don’t exist in my dimension, or in semi-aquatic versions of the old ones. (New York City looks more like Venice now.) But increasing numbers of people are casting themselves onto the water in vast ships that function as towns, or on science stations like this one.
Here, oceanography is the most important subject for scientific study. What’s happening with marine life; iron, oxygen, and contaminant levels in the water; the behavior of newly unpredictable tides and rogue waves—this is the information people need in order to create a new society that has to be at least partially aquatic. So Dad never left oceanography to devote himself to Mom’s research; here, Mom went into oceanography too, and the two of them met while crewing on a science vessel. (At least, according to their Wikipedia entries—my parents aren’t quite as well known here as they are at home, but they still rate bios online.) We’ve been on the Salacia for five years now. For me, this is home.
But on an oceanographic station, nobody gets to just hang out, not even kids. Everyone who lives here works hard to keep it going, as I discover when my computer lights up with DAILY ASSIGNMENT ROSTER.
This is why I find myself climbing through one of the maintenance tubes before breakfast, going out to manually check the wind sensors (whatever that means). I ascend through water that shifts from nearly black to translucent blue, and then into daylight. The sight of the ocean stretching out to the horizon in every direction takes my breath away. The quality of the light on the waves changes in brilliance and depth each second, and the effect is dazzling.
Does the other Marguerite still see how amazing this is, even though it surrounds her every day? I smile as I realize she must, if we have anything in common at all.
In my jeans and T-shirt, I walk out onto the surface platform—metal ridged to add traction when it’s wet, which must be always. Everything smells like salt and sunshine. The sea breeze catches at my curls, and immediately I see why Josie and Mom wear their hair differently here. As I hurriedly tuck mine back into a sloppy ponytail, I hear a call from the other edge of the platform: “Took you long enough!”
I glance over to see Josie, who’s scrubbing algae off something right at the surface of the water. She must have been out here a while already, but in any universe, I know how to handle Josie’s teasing. I grin as I flip her off, then start climbing the metal ladder up to the wind sensors.
Heights aren’t my favorite. I’m not phobic or anything, but when Paul talks about rock climbing, I can never believe anyone does that for fun. So as I make my way up the ladder, I remind myself that, for this Marguerite, clambering forty feet up is no big deal.
You have steel-toed boots with treads so deep you can dig into the rungs on the ladder! I remind myself, trying to be cheerful as I go higher and higher. You have a safety belt, which you’re nearly 85 percent sure you attached correctly! Nothing to worry about!
At least my view of the seascape around us only gets better with every few steps. The surface section of the Salacia looks like an overgrown hamster maze: huge metal pipes and tubes connected by various platforms. Yet for this Marguerite, this is home.
As I go through each sensor in turn, I have to concentrate hard on the instructions I read back in my room; basically I’m checking to make sure everything looks right, and . . . I guess it does?
Even all that isn’t enough to silence the fear deep inside, the words that keep repeating:
Me. Triad is after me.
Although families eat dinner in their own quarters, breakfast and lunch are apparently served cafeteria-style. This cafeteria is nothing like any other one I’ve seen, though. It’s underwater but close to surface level, with enormous arched windows that reveal lots of shimmering light through blue water. People say hello to friends as they gather at various round tables, and families are all together, including little kids and even some elderly people. While this is a working scientific station, it’s obviously meant to include regular people as well—half laboratory, half small town.
When Dad walks in, people don’t come to attention or anything so formal; they notice the boss, but they smile. He keeps stopping by each table to check on people and see how they’re doing. It’s weird to see him in charge, and yet not surprising to see that he’s great at it. I watch him from across the room, my tray in my hands. By now I’ve learned to endure the strange, poignant feeling of missing my father while he’s not quite gone.
“Good morning, Marguerite.” Mom kisses my cheek as she takes her seat. “Are you all right?”
I realize I’ve been standing in place with my tray for a few minutes now. “Oh. Yeah. Sure.”
As we take our seats, Josie joins us and asks Mom, “What’s the latest from the weather service?”
“We’ll start seeing some chop tonight, but the worst of the storm front shouldn’t blow in until lunchtime tomorrow.” Mom sips her tea, completely oblivious to the enormous stingray swimming by behind her head. “Probably we can expect some communication blackouts as well.”
Josie makes a face. “Good thing I already downloaded the surfing competition.”
Why wouldn’t we go back to shore, if a dangerous storm is coming in? But I remember what I read about Salacia in my room—in particular, where we are. The closest land masses (New Zealand and Papua New Guinea) are both hours away by air. So we have to ride out storms as they come. Salacia is built to take that kind of punishment, I assume—I hope. But based on what Mom said, we might have hours or even days of communications silence.
Wait. I only have a little while to contact the outside world?
“You know, I’m not hungry,” I say, even as I stuff down a couple of bites of toast. “I’m going to run back to our cabin for a while, okay?”
Mom gives me one of her looks—the one that means Clearly something is up and I know it and you know I know but I won’t call you on it yet. “Hurry up. Don’t forget, you’ve got that big test today.”
Big test? Crap. Apparently the holidays don’t cut you much time off from school on a science station. But that’s the least of my concerns.
With one final glance at Dad, I leave the cafeteria and head back down to the residence levels of the station. I’m pretty sure I remember where we live. Even though my father’s in charge here, our suite of rooms seems to be exactly like everybody else’s—tiny bedrooms, and one combination kitchen/den that is just big enough to be comfortable but not one square inch bigger. Honestly, besides the fact that it’s underwater, our home here looks totally ordinary; we have cans of Coke in the fridge, and Josie’s flip-flops are by the front door, like always.
I take up my tablet computer to start my searches, then stop and stare at it. The logo reads ConTech . . . which was Wyatt Conley’s company in the London dimension. And, apparently, in this dimension too. How far does his influence reach?
Surely not to the Coral Sea. The tension in my chest relaxes slightly as I realize Conley can’t get at me easily, not here.
Is that why Paul chose this dimension? Because it’s safe from Conley? Here, scientists have directed all their energies toward adapting humanity to life in and on water. That means Mom hasn’t invented the Firebird technology—so Conley wouldn’t have much reason to travel here himself.
Yet that answer doesn’t feel quite right.
Paul’s purpose remains maddeningly opaque. Whatever brought him here, to this dimension—that, apparently, is too big for him to speak about.
I’ve chosen to trust Paul, but that doesn’t make it any easier to do without the answers.
So far the station’s Wi-Fi is still working perfectly. I type in a search for “Paul Markov, physicist” . . . then backspace and replace it with, “Paul Markov, oceanographer.” That’s the subject all the best and brightest will study in this world.
Paul turns out to be doing his doctoral research on a vessel taking deepwater samples in the Pacific, though I can’t find out exactly where. He could be only a couple of hours away, or across half the planet. I ping his account on his ship, but he must not be in front of his computer. So I tap the screen to record a video message.
“Hi, Paul. It’s me. I mean, it’s really me.” I hook one thumb under the chain of my Firebird, so he can see it. “I’m safe here, and I’m with my family, so—you don’t have to worry on my account. Looks like you’re doing all right too. I might not have internet access for long, though. When you get this, call, okay?”
I hope Paul’s just had a reminder when he sees that. Otherwise, he’s going to be incredibly confused.
Theo turns out to be studying in Australia, in a harbor city called New Perth that’s about two hundred miles inland from where Perth used to be. I ping him, too, and even though it must be the wee hours of the morning where he is, he answers almost instantly. His face takes shape on the screen—hair rumpled, plenty of stubble—and he immediately says, “You stole my car.”
“Hi to you, too.” I can’t resist a grin.
“What the hell was that about? One minute I’m telling Conley how great you are, the next minute you’re peeling out of the parking lot.” Theo looks pissed off, and I know it’s not the car he’s angry about. “Tell me you didn’t go to meet Paul.”
“I went to meet Paul.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“You were wrong about him, Theo. He finally explained what’s really been happening, with Conley and with—” I can’t bring myself to say, with me. Saying that I’m Conley’s true target makes it all too real. “It’s complicated. It would be better if I could tell you all this in person. Do you think you could get here? It’s not so far.”
“It’s thousands of miles, Meg. You need to brush up on your geography.” Theo leans backward, thumping his head against the wall. His wrinkled T-shirt is, once again, the Gears; the Beatles must have not quite made it to this dimension either. “But yeah. I can get there. Looks like science stations and oceanography institutes all work together pretty tightly in this dimension. If I radio in, say I’ve been on an observation flight or cruise, and I need a berth, they’ll take me in. Now all I have to do is find one of those.”
If anybody is resourceful enough to pull that off, it’s Theo. I grin at him. “Fantastic.”
“Is Paul there with you?” Theo says shortly.
“No. He’s on a research vessel.” This is the first time I’ve had more information than Theo, and I can tell he doesn’t like being in the dark. Still, I can’t blame him for being impatient for answers. Even though I agreed to take Paul on faith a while longer, I’m past ready to find out what else is going on.
More gently, Theo says, “If he calls you, or shows up—listen, I know you feel like Paul’s innocent, but will you please exercise some basic caution until I get there? A healthy skepticism?”
“What exactly is it you think Paul’s going to do now? If he were going to hurt me, he’s already had his chance.”
“He already hurt us all.” The way Theo says it awakens all my grief for my father, which is somehow stronger for being shared. I reach out to touch my tablet, and he touches his, too; our fingertips seem to meet through the screen. “I’m only looking out for you. Trying to take care of you. Why can’t you see that? I wish I could make you see that, just once.”
“Theo—”
He doesn’t let me finish. “All right, Meg. See you soon.”
His image goes to black, and for a while I remain there, fingertips on the screen, wondering if I’ve broken Theo’s heart.
I go through this Marguerite’s day, which fortunately is pleasant enough. Here, I attend school—but instead of one of the enormous, dull, cliquish schools I see on TV, it’s a group of about fifty kids from my age all the way down to preschool, and everything’s pretty low-key and free-form. The “big test” turns out to be French; lucky thing I just spent nearly three weeks in Russia studying Molière. As I breezily write out a paragraph on Tartuffe, I think, I’m borrowing this Marguerite’s body, but at least this time I’m paying her back for the favor.
I think about Paul. My need to know how he is, what he’s doing, why he’s here—it burns inside me, as constant as a torch. Whenever I get a moment, I check my account to see if he’s called back. But communications cloud out before lunchtime. My only responses are black screens and static.
Dinner is some chicken thing that comes wrapped in an airtight pouch, and vegetables that emerge from deep freeze with a bad case of soggy. Out here, probably, nothing is fresh except seafood; that would be fine with me, but I’m guessing the rest of my family, after a few years on the Salacia, is sick and tired of it.
But I don’t care about the crappy meal. We’re all together, me and Josie, Mom and Dad. I took that for granted in my own dimension until it was ripped away. So I’m not making that mistake again. From now on, I’m very aware that every moment I’m with my dad might be the last.
“We only got half the data packet out before the comms went down,” Mom says to Dad as she pours herself some tea. “And the forecasts are only getting worse.”
“Swaying like a hammock already,” Dad says cheerfully.
“That’s why you’re the boss here.” Josie shakes her head. “Only you are weird enough to love storms at sea.”
He smiles with genuine pride. “As to the count of weirdness, I plead guilty.”
Now that he mentions it, the floor is swaying slightly; I realize the Salacia must have been built with a certain amount of give, so that it can work with the tides and currents instead of constantly being battered by them. Normally I’d be wretched with motion sickness, but this Marguerite must have gotten her sea legs years ago.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Mom says to me. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve been a little off all day.” The back of her hand finds my forehead, checking for fever as if I were still five years old.
“Just thinking. That’s all.” I miss my real Mom, back home. A lump rises in my throat, but I manage to keep it together. I don’t want to spoil the evening.
After we eat, Josie asks me if I want to watch the surfing competition with her. I find it hard to believe I care about surfing a whole lot more in this dimension than I do at home—which is to say, at all—but any distraction seems like a good idea. So I sit beside her on the sofa while Dad starts on the dishes, but when he starts to hum, I once again have to struggle against the urge to cry.
Josie squints at me. “Mom’s right. You’re weirder than usual today.”
“Ha ha.” I brush my hair back and try to act casual. And then I remember the T-shirt Theo wore: The Gears.
My mind is working fast, comparing the knowledge of different dimensions.
The Beatles never existed here. The Gears were a band featuring Paul McCartney and George Harrison—not John Lennon. But John Lennon is the one who wrote “In My Life” for the Beatles. I’m sure of it. That song doesn’t exist in this dimension.
So how is Dad humming it?
I think back to what Paul told me in San Francisco. He’d found the dimension that was spying on our own, and proved what Conley was up to. Yet he wouldn’t come back with me because now he had learned something else, something important. Something he couldn’t tell me, because it would be too horrible if he were wrong . . .
When we travel into a new dimension, our bodies are “no longer observable.” At the time I left home, the authorities hadn’t yet pulled Dad’s body from the river. They were dredging for him then—dipping nets into the water, sending divers down into the muck. I was hardly able to think about it, because the images were so horrible. Worse was the idea of Mom having to go identify the body after it had been in the river for a few days, after it no longer looked like Dad, or like anything human.
But what if he wasn’t lost in the current? What if his body was simply not observable, because he was kidnapped into another dimension?
What if Dad isn’t dead? What if he’s right here?
“Marguerite?” Josie copies Mom’s hand-to-the-forehead move. “You’re seriously zoned out.”
I can’t even bother with an excuse. “Be right back.”
Heart pounding, I walk into the kitchen area where Dad is finishing up. He gives me a pleasant, somewhat distracted smile. “Don’t tell me you’re still hungry.”
“Can we talk?”
“Of course.”
“Not here. In the corridor, maybe.”
Despite his evident confusion, he says, “All right.”
Nobody pays any attention to our stepping outside our quarters; Mom is in the bedroom she shares with Dad, and Josie is already concentrating on her computer again. The corridors of the Salacia aren’t necessarily private, but most people seem to be eating dinner now, which means my father and I are alone. Our only witnesses are the fish swimming by the porthole window.
Dad’s not wearing a Firebird. Then again, if he’s been kidnapped, someone brought him here and then stranded him. Without his own Firebird, Dad not only wouldn’t be able to get back home; he wouldn’t be able to receive any reminders. He would have no idea who he is. My father would be only a glimmer within this version of Dr. Henry Caine—a part of his subconscious.
The part that would still hum a song by the Beatles.
“Is everything okay, sweetheart?” Dad folds his arms in front of his chest. “What’s this about?”
“I need you to trust me for a minute.” My voice has begun to shake. “Okay?”
By now Dad looks deeply worried, but he nods.
I take the Firebird from around my neck and put it around Dad’s. He raises an eyebrow, but I ignore him, instead going through the motions that will set a reminder. I drop it against his chest, realizing I’m holding my breath—
“Gahhh—dammit!” Dad says, staggering backward as he grabs the Firebird. But then he freezes. First he slowly looks down at the Firebird in his hand, recognizing it, then lifts his face to mine. “Marguerite?” he gasps. “Oh, my God.”
It’s the same face, the same eyes, but I see the difference. I know my dad.
Then I’m laughing and crying at the same time, but it doesn’t matter, because Dad’s hugging me, and we’re together, and he’s alive.
And now I know why Paul brought us here.