Tandem (2 page)

It was three minutes to twelve. She had to leave now if she was to meet her co-conspirator at midnight. When he’d come to her a few days ago and offered her this choice, she’d been repulsed. She’d never liked him in all the years she’d known him. He’d always seemed too slick to her, slippery as an eel; he reeked of insecurity and desperation, which she especially hated because she feared she might sometimes come off that way, in her weaker moments. Her father had always told her that the things people hate most in others are likely the things that they hate in themselves. When it came to this particular person, the thought made her cringe; if she was anything like him, perhaps that was the reason she was doing what she was doing. Running away, hiding, avoiding her duty—it was what he would have done. After all, he was the one helping her to do it.

At first she hadn’t understood what he was offering her. How could he, of all people, give her what she wanted—the chance to live a normal life, away from the Castle, away from her responsibilities, the chance to be who she wanted to be, whoever that was. But then he told her about Libertas, that they were willing to help her disappear for the right price. But he was only the messenger, the thief inside the Castle. It was the Monad who really wanted her. It was the Monad who would set her free.

There was one last thing to take care of before she went. She wrote her note to Thomas quickly and, knowing that it needed to look inconspicuous or it would never reach him, folded it into the shape of a star, pressing her thumbnail against its edges so that it would puff out. Then she placed it in the drawer of her nightstand. Her message was short, for there wasn’t much room to write, and she didn’t have much to say:

T—I’m sorry, but I can’t. I wish I was better, but I’m not. –J

She closed the drawer, then crossed the room and stood beneath a painting that had been done long ago. It showed her mother’s country estate of St. Lawrence, which belonged to her now. She’d spent every summer there as a child, on the banks of Star Lake; it was there that some of her happiest memories were set. It broke her heart to imagine that she might never see it again, might never see her mother again. Her mother was an exile, forced to live out the rest of her days in a northern country for the mere crime of having loved the king and not having been loved enough in return. That old wound throbbed as she took her last look at regal, historic St. Lawrence and recalled the childhood she’d lost, but then she put it aside, knowing full well that nostalgia was a phantom limb, painful but useless.

She stepped out onto the terrace to take one last, long look at the Castle gardens, her favorite place in the whole Citadel. High above her the Tower stood, blacker than the night itself. She imagined Thomas asleep in his quarters, blissfully unaware of the fact that when he woke the next morning, she would be gone. She imagined the General in his office, painstakingly plotting out a future that she would not be around to take part in. The first she would feel guilty for turning her back on; the other could rot in hell for all she cared. Above the Tower, higher still, the aurora spun and turned the way it always had, the way it always would, with or without her. It had an indifferent beauty that reminded her how minuscule she was in the face of infinity. This thought was a comfort. In the grand scheme of things, she didn’t matter at all. Knowing that made it easier to do what she was about to do.

THOMAS THROUGH THE TANDEM

It was hard to get used to the sky without the aurora in it. He hadn’t given it much thought before he came through, how much he’d miss it. He wasn’t overly sentimental about those sorts of things, but it was strange to look up and see only an empty blanket of black pockmarked with stars. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of toggles, popping them into his mouth one by one and savoring the taste of the smooth chocolate before biting down softly upon the fruit center. It was his one vice; there was nothing on Earth to compare with toggles, so, even though it was against the rules to bring something from his universe that did not exist in this one, he couldn’t resist carrying a bag through the tandem. He ate them compulsively when he was anxious, and they reminded him of home. It seemed to be worth the risk.

He had entered this universe through a door that wasn’t there. No one saw him do it; night had fallen several hours before, and the small, quiet stretch of South Kenwood that ran along Bixler Park was empty. His entry was undisturbed; only a small tremor that rattled the swings on the playground signaled his arrival. He’d taken up his position behind the thick trunk of an oak tree and waited for his analog to appear, twisting the gold KES ring he wore, running his thumb over the inscription on the band, the KES motto:
Surpass to outlast.
At 9:40 p.m., Grant Davis left a restaurant on Fifty-Seventh Street with a small group of friends. Thomas watched as Grant said goodbye and separated from the group, jogging across the street with his hands in his pockets. He was on his way.

Thomas considered the bizarreness of what was about to happen, what he was about to do. He did have a choice. He could let Grant pass him by, let him walk up the street and disappear into the warm yellow light of the house he shared with his mother, a law professor and amateur ornithologist who rode a bicycle to work and bought all her groceries at the neighborhood co-op. But if he wasn’t going to do it, then why was he there? Yes, he had a choice, but barely. This was his mission. The General was counting on him, and, even though they didn’t know it, so were all the citizens of the country he’d pledged a solemn oath to protect and serve. Tonight the fate of an entire universe rested upon his shoulders. He couldn’t go back on his promises now, no matter the doubts that tugged at his mind and asked him, did he really think he was doing the right thing?

Grant’s footsteps grew louder as he closed the gap between them. Thomas readied himself. This would have to be done with absolute precision. There was no room for error. At least the park was deserted. At least there was no chance of anyone bearing witness to what was about to happen.

When Grant was but a few feet from him, Thomas stepped out from behind the tree and raised his eyes to meet his analog’s.

It was an uncanny thing, meeting one’s analog face to face. There was a feeling of unnaturalness to it, as if it betrayed the most fundamental laws of physics—which it did. People were not meant to cross from one universe to another; that was why the tandem existed in the first place, a veil that fell between the worlds, a barrier that was supposedly impermeable. And yet, they—the scientists of Thomas’s universe—had found a way to cross it. There were consequences, of course. Moving in and out of universes created disruptions, imbalances of mass and energy with destructive results. The quake that had occurred when he came through the tandem this time was just part of the process, a ripple effect caused by his sudden entry and the energy it had taken to get him there. That itself wasn’t such a big deal. A small imbalance made for a small disruption, one that no one had even seemed to notice. But the second complication of moving between universes was another thing altogether.

In Thomas’s world, they called it the analog problem. Put simply, analogs—doubles, for lack of a better word—from different universes could not touch. If analogs did make physical contact, one of them would be ejected from the universe they both stood in, thrown through the tandem to restore the balance. Normally, it would be the analog who didn’t belong; universes knew their own, and called for them across the wilds of hyperspace. But Thomas needed to stay on Earth. He couldn’t be the one thrown back. Around his wrist, he wore a bracelet, a slim, close-fitting thing of shining silver that would allow him to stay.

Thomas had prepared his world for Grant. On the other side of the tandem, three agents of the King’s Elite Service lay in wait; they would take him into custody and keep him safe until the time came to return him to his home world. All Thomas had to do now was get close enough to Grant to administer the touch that would toss him through the tandem like a rag doll and deposit him on the other side to fill the slot Thomas had left vacant, if everything went to plan. But Thomas had learned long ago that such things rarely did.

Grant looked Thomas up and down, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. “Whoa,” he breathed. Thomas’s veins thrummed with adrenaline and power. A faint singed smell hung in the air, as if lightning had struck somewhere nearby. Electricity danced in Thomas’s fingertips. This was it. The time was now. All he needed to do was take one step, and he would be close enough to touch Grant. Then it would be over, and his real mission would begin.

But Thomas was paralyzed. He hadn’t given much thought to what it would be like when he finally met his analog. There were things he knew about Grant, facts and dates he’d been forced to memorize in order to ensure he could effectively impersonate him, but none of that information was relevant now. He had so many questions for Grant, and about him. He wanted to know, for the first time, what it was like to actually
be
Grant, to live in his skin and see the world—his world—the way he saw it.

Dr. Moss had tried to warn him about this. “Don’t believe for a second that just because you know what he is that it won’t affect you,” Mossie had said, but Thomas hadn’t listened. And now it was too late. There was no more time. Grant Davis had to go.

“Who are you?” Grant demanded, his voice tight with fear and anger. Thomas hesitated before replying, not sure what to tell him, knowing that he shouldn’t tell him anything at all. During that moment’s pause, so slight a mouse couldn’t slip through it, Grant took advantage of Thomas’s uncertainty and lunged at him.

Grant’s fingers closed around the collar of Thomas’s sweatshirt, which was identical to his own.
“Who are you?”
he shouted. There was terror in his eyes.

“I’m you,” Thomas told him with grave sincerity. The answer threw Grant off, and Thomas sprang into action, wrenching out of Grant’s grasp and pushing him away. The other boy stumbled backward, but only for a second, then sprang up again; this time, Grant’s closed fist connected with Thomas’s jaw.

When Thomas opened his eyes, he was lying flat on the concrete sidewalk, and he was alone. He was more than alone; there was no sign, none at all, that Grant had ever been there in the first place.

He picked himself up off the ground and touched his jaw gingerly. The blow had been glancing; it wouldn’t leave much of a mark. Grant had some of Thomas’s own strength and reflexes, but he was untrained and he certainly had nothing close to Thomas’s own experience with hand-to-hand combat. If only Thomas had not hesitated, Grant wouldn’t have gotten in a punch at all. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride for his analog. After all, he’d done what Thomas himself would’ve done. He’d fought for his life.

Bixler Park was quiet and empty. Thomas was tired, an unusual feeling for him, so he shoved his hands into his pockets and jogged up South Kenwood toward the warm yellow light of home.