Ten Thousand Skies Above You (10 page)

“He's going to San Francisco tomorrow to set up the lab for a test of the Firebird components. If we go to San Francisco too, we could sabotage the new lab. Right?”

“Maybe.” Theo still looks doubtful, though. “But why would Paul give us access?”

I take a deep breath. “Because I'll ask him to.”

For a few moments, neither of us speaks. Then he says, “You'd betray one Paul to save another.”

“If I have to.” But when I hear Theo say it, my plan sounds so much harder. Crueler. “Besides, it gives me a chance to get . . . closer to him. So in the end I can rescue this splinter of Paul's soul.”

“Makes sense,” Theo says flatly.

“I hate this, okay? I hate every minute of it. Probably Wyatt Conley thinks I don't give a damn about my family in any other dimension, but this version of Dad is still Dad. This version of Mom is still Mom. Josie, Paul—if I do what Conley wants us to do, I might take away their last chance to win the war. But I have to. Getting close to Paul isn't the worst thing I'm going to do in this dimension. It's not even close.”

Together we stare into the distance, at the place where light streams through our window and paints squares on the scrubby grass. Even electricity is rationed here, so the night has become quiet and still. Instead of traffic noise, I hear only the wind through the trees.

Theo speaks first. “I eavesdropped on as much war talk as I could today at the base. Apparently the situation doesn't look good. We lost Mexico. Which I guess means this country
had Mexico at some point, but, whatever. Supply lines from the Midwest have broken down.”

“Is this like, if we lose the war, we have to rebuild? Like the Civil War?” Reconstruction and Jim Crow sucked hard, but even that sounds better than the alternative. “Or is this like, if we lose the war, Adolf Hitler rules the world?

“The way the guys at the barracks talk, it sounds more Hitler-y. Still, it's wartime. They could be exaggerating. Everybody hates the enemy, right?”

We have to hope.

“Listen, we don't have the power to permanently end your parents' research, no matter what Conley says.” Theo takes my hand—for emphasis, probably, or simply for comfort, but I am vividly aware of his touch. “Say we manage to infect their project with the virus, screw up the computer system they have here—which is so tightly knit together, by the way, that taking the whole thing down would be a cinch. How long do you think it would take your parents to rebuild? A year, maybe? A little less?”

“Do they have a year left?”

From inside we hear the sound of Josie cackling, like she does at Dad's awful jokes. If I do this, I'm betraying my sister, too. Guilt feels like a fist closing around me, squeezing tighter and tighter until I hardly remember how to breathe.

I whisper, “If my Paul were here, I . . . I think he'd tell me to leave him and save them.”

“If he were here, you'd tell him to shut up while you saved his ass.”

Despite everything, I laugh. “Probably.”

“Listen. This ‘cure' for Nightthief exposure Conley's talking about—even he admitted it might not work,” Theo says. “If you're forcing yourself through this for me, don't bother. But it's not just about me. We have to get Paul back. That means we do whatever we have to do. Right?”

“Right,” I say, trying not to hear my family talking inside.

Theo brightens, like everything's all right, when it so obviously isn't. He's doing this to help Paul, and I feel a wave of unexpected tenderness for him. “Okay,” he says. “Now all we have to do is figure out how to get you to San Francisco.”

We pitch it as a romantic getaway, claiming Theo has leave. (Hopefully he can get it.) Until I'm assigned new war work, the destruction of the munitions factory means I've got some free time. So—why not San Francisco?

Before we talked to my parents, Theo had said, “Are you sure they're going to say yes instead of taking a shotgun to my head?”

“Dad's not the shotgun type. Mom—maybe, but probably not.” Besides, I remember how they reacted when I told them Paul and I had fallen in love. Maybe Mom and Dad aren't cozy with Theo in this universe, but they like him. They're not prudes. They're . . . realistic. “Anyway, if she were going to shoot you, she would've done it this morning.”

“That isn't half as comforting as you think it is.”

But asking your parents to let you go away for the weekend
with the guy who's been sneaking in and out of your room—no matter what universe you're in, that does
not
go over well.

“I can't believe you'd ask us this,” Dad says as he paces the front room. “Not knowing what you know. Traveling down to San Francisco! It's outrageous.”

Theo and I dare a glance at each other. His expression says what I'm thinking:
We screwed up.

Mom speaks for the first time since I asked her about the trip. “Henry, we've had no problems with the train lines this far north.”

Dad is not appeased. “Not yet. But at any moment—Didn't today's raid teach us anything? We don't know when the next attack will be. We don't get to know.”

Wait. He's not freaked out by the thought of my staying in a hotel with Theo. Dad's upset because I want to travel away from home, period.

I venture, “Dad, the raid last night—we came
this close
to being blown away.”

Mom's voice is sharp. “Don't remind us.”

“Don't you see? We're in danger everywhere. All the time. It's not like I'm safer if I stay here.”

After a moment, my mother nods, but Dad keeps pacing. “You remember what happened to your aunt Susannah. Everyone said the passenger ships were safe as long as they sailed under a neutral flag, but still—” His words choke off, and Mom takes his hand.

Aunt Susannah is dead.

I can't wrap my head around it at first. She's my giddy,
spoiled London aunt, who never seemed to care about much besides fashion and high society—but she loved all of us, and welcomed us whenever we visited Great Britain. One time when I was little, she took me to tea at some fancy hotel, and I felt so grown up. So special.

The last time I saw Aunt Susannah was in another dimension, the futuristic London where my parents had died during my childhood, and she had raised me. It was clear that she hadn't done the best job at mothering; maternal instincts and Aunt Susannah don't mix. But still, she took me in. She did her best.

Now I have to imagine her on a ship on the ocean hit with torpedoes, sinking fast. She would have been so scared, and there would have been no hope of rescue. No escape.

Mom strokes Dad's hand. “Marguerite is right. Safety is a luxury none of us have had in a long time, and may never have again.”

He doesn't argue, exactly, just changes strategy. “She's eighteen, and we're sending her off with her boyfriend?”

“We should live life to the fullest,” Mom says. We all hear the unspoken
while we can.

Dad shrugs, and I know then that we're more than halfway to a yes. My mother always wins in the end.

Theo had been willing to lie about accompanying me to San Francisco, but it turns out he didn't have to. He
was
up for leave, and his superior officers gave him three whole days off. As glad as I am not to have to do this alone, Theo's presence
complicates things in ways neither of us has to speak aloud.

It's one thing to pretend to be a couple when we're sitting on my parents' sofa. Another to carry that pretense all the way to a hotel for the weekend.

“I can't believe they're letting you do this,” Josie fumes as she drives me to the train station Friday morning. “Mom and Dad practically handed you condoms for the trip.”

“It wasn't
that
easy,” I protest. My small suitcase sits in my lap; it feels like it's made of something not much sturdier than cardboard.

Josie shrugs. “Well, there's a war on.”

Which is pretty much what she said last night, when she let me borrow her one good dress—dark red, and made out of fabric soft enough to almost feel silky.
For your romantic getaway
, she'd said, and of course I couldn't contradict her.

The train station buzzes with activity, but I glimpse Theo right away. When I wave to him, he jogs to us and—fulfilling his role—gives me a hug. “Hey. Was starting to think you'd ditched me.”

“Never,” I say. I hope that sounds flirty enough.

“Have a good time, you two,” Josie says. Already she's turning to go. “Bang those hotel walls even louder than mine.”

Oh, my God. My cheeks feel like they're on fire.

Theo waves goodbye to her, then crooks his elbow. I slip my arm through it. Like a man and woman would if they wanted to touch each other every moment. Like we were in love.

FROM THE TRAIN WINDOWS, I FINALLY GET MY FIRST REAL
look at the damage done to this battered world. The bombed-out neighborhoods I drove through the other day—the one I walked out of on shaking legs—that seemed like one terrible thing that happened in one devastated place. Even though I'd learned about the war, I still couldn't envision what that truly meant.

Now I don't have to. The evidence spreads out on either side of the train.

We must live farther than I'd thought from the Berkeley I know, because our train ride lasts awhile. Then again, we're moving very slowly, which gives me a chance to look around. Instead of the urban sprawl of my world's Bay Area, we pass through only a few small towns, each one of which looks sadder and more broken-down than the last. Paint peels from buildings; litter lines the potholed streets; and
nobody seems to be driving, or walking around, or doing much of anything. Mostly, though, the train travels through fields that look almost too abundant. Clover and weeds have grown as high as the train itself, sometimes higher. Vines have reclaimed what remains of old fences. Nobody has farmed or built or even mowed grass around here for a very long time.

Often, in a new universe, I try to decide which artist would have been most likely to create a world like the one before me. This time, I can't think of a single painter who would have created a world so gray and hopeless. Though maybe Andrew Wyeth could have captured this if he'd wanted to—nature and the countryside, but strangely haunted.

“How long do you think this war has been going on?” Theo says, quietly enough not to attract attention from the other passengers in the train car.

“Years. A decade? Maybe more.” Looking at the utter deadness around us—in what used to be some of the most expensive property in the entire country—I could believe the war has lasted an entire generation.

Theo and I sit together like the lovers we're supposed to be. The lovers we
are
, in this dimension. Most of the people around us wear dark, practical clothing like the cheap dress I've got on, though several men are in uniform like Theo. I take another look at him in his crisp, dark green uniform, complete with the folded cap on his head, and can't resist a smile.

He smiles back. “What's so funny?”

“Your uniform. It's not exactly a Lumineers T-shirt and a fedora, is it?”

“You mock my fashion sense.” Theo puts one hand over his chest, pretending to have been shot through the heart. “But I for one happen to know I am stylin'. Well, usually. Not today.”

As innocently as I can, I say, “Aren't most of the hipster guys growing beards now?”

Theo makes a face. “Not me. I mean, I could maybe have a goatee or something sometime. But the beards you see right now? Halfway to Amish.”

I laugh out loud. Several other passengers turn to look at us, but instead of looking annoyed, most of them smile. Maybe people have a soft spot for wartime romance.

If Theo notices, he shows no sign. “Listen, I meant to wait until we got to San Francisco, but it looks like that's going to take longer than I thought.”

No timetables were given at the train station. Apparently you're supposed to count yourself lucky if you even reach your destination. “Wait for what?”

“To go over the files I pulled.” From his rucksack Theo tugs a manila folder, which is thick with more dot-matrix printer paper.

“I thought you said you couldn't get through the security,” I say, leaning closer.

Theo replies, “I couldn't get through to the classified stuff, no. But more general information? Not a problem.”

As soon as he opens the folder, my eyes find the name on
the top sheet: LIEUTENANT PAUL MARKOV.

“So here we have Paul's assignment, his service record—which is golden, by the way—and even his address in San Francisco.” Theo frowned down at the paper. “Military Housing, it says. I get the impression that's somewhere between a barracks and an apartment.”

“Do we have his phone number there?”

“Yeah. At his office on base too. So you'll be able to reach him one way or another.” Then Theo sucks in a breath, and his hand tightens around the folder until the cover crumples. “Dammit.”

“What?”

He points at a name on another page, one he just pulled out. It's in small print, in one entry like all the others, but as soon as I see it the world turns cold.

Lieutenant Colonel Wyatt Conley.

“What is he doing here?” I say, but the answer comes to me immediately. He's doing the same thing he always does: inventing the latest technology and marketing it to whoever will pay the most to get it. In this world, that's the military.

Once, in the Londonverse, I heard Conley give a speech about how war evolved over the centuries. He said then that the next weapons and strategies would go beyond anything history had ever seen.

As strange as this war is to me, I don't get the sense that it's so incredibly different from the ways wars have been fought before. Conley doesn't have the technology he needs here to do what he wants to do.

Then it hits me. “He's connected to the Firebird project, isn't he? But—he can't be. If so, he wouldn't need me. He could sabotage the Firebirds himself.”

“He's requested transfer to the project multiple times. Always been turned down.” Theo keeps scanning the files. “Conley and Paul have worked together on some other projects, though. Now he's trying to get Paul transferred over to his department, but no success so far.”

“Do you think that's this dimension's Conley trying to get control over Paul? Or our Conley trying to screw things up and failing?”

“My guess? Both. But our Conley gave up, which is why we got this all-expenses-paid vacation in paradise.” Theo makes a gesture like
Look at these amazing prizes
, and finally I can smile again.

At this point I notice an older man looking toward us with a puzzled frown. I whisper, “Remember, watch our volume control as long as we're talking about dimensions.”

Theo swears under his breath. “I keep forgetting how
quiet
it is here.”

Nobody's music is wafting over from earbuds. Relatively few people seem to chat with each other. There's no ambient noise of cars or city life from the world outside. Just the thrumming of the tracks beneath the train, the occasional crinkle of folded newspaper, and Theo and me.

More quietly, he continues, “So what's our plan here?”

“We get to Paul, and I find out what I can.” Already I'm counting the minutes until I can be alone with him again.
“I could suggest dropping by the lab for a tour, and—I guess that's a place to start.”

Theo frowns. “Not much of a plan there.”

“It could work,” I retort. Theo's already loaded the virus onto this dimension's version of a hard drive. All I'd have to do would be plug it into the right port—and once I was in their lab, I think I could figure out what that is.

“It could,” he concedes, “but we can't afford to count on that. The project is classified. You might not be allowed in regardless of who your parents are.”

As much as I hate to admit it, Theo's right. “What else should I do?”

“For starters, try to swipe his keys. His wallet too, if you can get it, or even just take a look inside. Since you're Sophia and Henry's kid, you can probably get him talking about the Firebirds without too much trouble. Find out how to get access to the computer system, and with this handy virus, we can take it from there. We'll have screwed this whole world over before you know it.”

Our conversation has become so tactical. So—cold. “You sound happy about it,” I snap. “Could you cut it out?”

“Hey,” he says, more softly. “I know it's hard doing this to your parents. I love them too, you know. Just like you and I both love Paul. That's why we're here. If we have to choose between a version in another dimension and our version—there's only one choice we can make. Right?”

“You think they're totally different,” I say, “but they're not. Mom is my mom, everywhere. Paul is Paul, everywhere.”

“And I'm the homicidal psycho from Triad everywhere?”

That stings. “No. I didn't mean—they're not identical. But they're not as separate as you're pretending they are.”

“If the pretense helps us get the job done, then I'm going to keep on pretending my heart out. Because that cure for Nightthief exposure—I need it, and soon. Are you with me?”

“I'm with you.” I mean it, but saying the words still hurts.

“Don't listen to me, okay? Sometimes I snark about stuff because—you know. It's easier.” Theo clearly sees that I'm still affected, but he doesn't press further. “Okay. You go meet Paul. You learn everything you can. You bring me keys or a pass to his lab. I can take it from there.”

“You?”

“Don't act so surprised. This might be my first long-distance trip, but I think I'm getting the swing of it. Of course, I had to cut way down on the reminders—you were right about the charge, and also,
damn
do reminders hurt.” His smile is crooked. “What did you think I was here for? Just to provide an excuse for you to get on that train?”

“Moral support, I guess.”

It's his turn to laugh. “Immoral support, more like.”

How can Theo make me smile even when the situation is so grim? Somehow he always does.

Then he adds, “Besides, like you said, while you're nabbing Paul's stuff—you'll be close to him. You'll have your chance to rescue that splinter of his soul.”

The thought of being close to Paul—both this world's Paul and my own—sends a shiver through me. But I don't
lose focus. If I act too early, Paul will catch on. We have to complete our terrible mission here before I have my chance at Paul. “Not until the very end.”

“Two rooms? What's a guy with a pretty girl want with two hotel rooms?” says the desk clerk.

With a straight face, Theo replies, “I'll have you know I'm a gentleman, sir.”

The guy gives him a look. “You know how many refugees from SoCal we've had coming through here the past couple of weeks? You're lucky I've even got one room available. Nobody else is going to have many vacancies either. Take this one, and you can be a gentleman on the floor.”

As we silently ride up in the elevator, Theo holds our suitcases. I hold the hotel key—old-fashioned, metal with an aquamarine plastic tag dangling by a chain. Finally Theo says, “The floor's fine. Really.”

“We can take shifts. Four hours bed, four hours floor.”

“That works too.”

The problem is, there's not even a lot of floor in this hotel room, which is the smallest I've ever seen. Although I guess this is technically a double bed, it's narrower than most, and yet it covers almost the entire length of the room. We barely have room to slip inside, stash our suitcases in a closet almost too shallow to hold them, and to open the door to a bathroom not much bigger than the closet. The carpet is beige industrial stuff, and the paint on the yellowing walls is chipped.

“Well, it ain't the Ritz.” Theo sits down heavily on the bed, then frowns. “Wait. Where's the phone?”

Turns out this hotel has only one phone per floor. If you want to make a call, you have to wait in line to step inside the “phone booth”—actually just a cubby with a little bench. The guy in front of me has a ten-minute argument with a woman (wife or girlfriend, I can't tell) who apparently feels like he doesn't make enough time for the two of them. I hear enough of the conversation to agree with her, but nobody's asking me.

Finally he slams down the receiver and stalks off. The phone is mine. For a moment I sit there, staring at the printout with Paul's number on it, wondering how I go through with this.

Then I read the title again:
Lieutenant Markov.
And I dial.

Three rings, and—“Markov.”

Paul's voice feels like rain after a drought. Just hearing him makes my throat tighten. I manage to say, “Lieutenant Markov? This is Marguerite Caine.”

“Miss Caine?” He sounds like he thinks this might be some kind of prank.

“Yeah. Hi. I—I hope it's okay that I called.”

“Of course. Has something happened to the Doctors Caine?”

“No, no, they're fine! I was calling because, well, I'm in San Francisco, and I'm on my own. So I thought maybe we could meet up.”

After a brief pause, Paul says, “You came to San Francisco by yourself?”

“No. I came here with Theo.” Do I sound angry? I'm trying. “But he got upset because I—well, he stormed off. So now I'm all alone in the city for a couple of days.”

“Private Beck left you on your own?” At least one of us is genuinely angry.

“I'm all right!” I feel the need to make excuses for Theo, even after an argument that's totally imaginary. “I've got a hotel room, and my suitcase, and a ticket back home in three days. But until then—well—I could use some company.”

The silence that follows stretches so long I start to wonder if we lost our connection. Finally Paul says, “Would you allow me to take you to dinner?”

He speaks so formally, sounds so unsure. I'm reminded of Lieutenant Markov, and the way he loved the Grand Duchess Margarita for so long without ever saying a word. I can feel my smile like sunlight on my face. “I'd love that.”

Next up in this dimension's never-ending parade of awkward: getting ready for my hot date with Paul while Theo is in the same room.

Technically I get dressed in the bathroom, but he's right outside the door, critiquing the other elements of my outfit. “Your shoes are awful,” he calls as I struggle with my zipper. “These are hug-me pumps at best.”

“I'm not going out to
seduce
him.” Paul and I never discussed whether getting together with other-dimensional versions of ourselves would count as cheating. Our relationship issues
are not like most people's. “I just need him to be, you know, flattered that I'm paying him attention.”