Ten Thousand Skies Above You (30 page)

Oxford? I applied to the Ruskin School of Fine Art and
got in? Pride and hope swells within me. If this Marguerite could get in, maybe I could too. I don't know if they take students starting in January—but I could go to their next SoCal portfolio review and find out.

“I think a London trip could be arranged,” Dad says. “But if we're going to make the six-forty-five train, you and I had better hoof it.”

“Right-o.” After a couple of pats on my shoulder, Aunt Susannah lets go. I'm surprised to feel a lump in my throat as she waves. “We're off, then. See you soon, my dears.”

“Goodbye, Susannah.” My mother always has this look on her face when she's around my dad's sister—slightly overwhelmed, slightly confused—but in this dimension, there's also a deep fondness.

Once Dad and Aunt Susannah go, it's just me, Mom, and Ringo the pug. While my mother is busy putting together dinner—a Bolognese sauce by the smell of it,
yum
—I do some quick reconnaissance of the house. This looks like a place we'd live: books, plants. And my room is filled with oil portraits in a style very like my own back home. Josie, Mom, and Dad form a triptych on the wall, each vibrant in their own way. Yet I recognize the brushstrokes, the blended colors, the light. I could have painted any one of these myself.

Paul wasn't just being encouraging that night we talked in his dorm room; he was telling me the truth. Have I really been selling myself short this whole time?

If I could get into Ruskin, Paul could do his postdoc
either there or here at Cambridge. It doesn't take very long to get to Oxford from Cambridge, or vice versa. We'd be able to see each other every weekend at least. It can all work out, if we only try.

So I don't let it bother me that Paul's portrait isn't hanging on the wall.

What's weirder is that my easel isn't out. I don't see a box of paints; when I look in the hamper, it contains exactly zero paint-stained smocks. (I'm supposed to wash them separately, but sometimes I forget, with disastrous results for the rest of the laundry.) I'm supposed to be starting at Ruskin soon. Shouldn't I be practicing?

I head back to the living room, which is smaller than the one we have at home, but equally comfy. Plopping down on the overstuffed red sofa, I'm immediately joined by Ringo, who wants a belly rub. As I oblige him, Mom walks in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel. “There,” she says as she sits near me. “We'll put the pasta on when your father gets back.”

“Sounds good.” If Paul's a physics student at Cambridge, even if I haven't met him yet, my parents must have. “Have you seen Paul Markov lately?”

My mother sits up straighter. “Have
you
seen him around?”

“I—uh, no. I haven't.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She scoots closer to put her hands on my shoulders. “Are you still upset? I don't blame you.”

Upset? “I'm fine. Really.”

“You wouldn't be asking after Paul, if you really were.”
Mom sighs. “Your father and I begged for more stringent measures, but the university code is as clear as it is lenient. Technically, he'd broken no university rules. So we couldn't expel him from the program. I almost wish we hadn't already canceled the Firebird project, so we could've had the satisfaction of tossing him out of that, at least. But other professors are supposed to be working with Paul from now on! They should have kept him out of your way—”

“I didn't see him! Okay? It's all right.” It's beyond weird to see my mother talking about Paul without a trace of affection, or even grudging respect.

What I see in her eyes is pure loathing.

She rubs my shoulder gently. “I promise you, Marguerite—I
absolutely
promise—Paul will never come near you again. Never.”

Just when I think I'm home safe, the whole world turns upside down again.

THIS TIME I GO THROUGH THE BEDROOM LIKE A FORENSICS
team scouring a crime scene. Her closet is emptied out across the bed, every pocket in every coat or pair of jeans searched through. Each and every drawer gets inspected. The spines of each book on this Marguerite's shelf, and the titles of all the ones in her e-reader, are reviewed. I learn a few things about her—she's confident wearing heels, she shares my mother's passion for yoga, she's a bigger fan of the surrealists than I am. But I don't find the stuff that would tell me what I want to know.

What happened with Paul?

No blog. No journal. I don't keep those at home either, but why couldn't this have been another way she's different from me? The various apps on her phone show me the photos she's shared, her latest updates; all of it looks much the way it does on my own phone at home, except that, of
course, she has lots of dog photos.

When I scroll all the way back to January, I finally see a picture of Paul. In it, he's sitting on our red sofa, Ringo happily in his lap. Paul looks completely at ease. At home. And now my parents don't even want to see his face.

Slightly heated by the exertion of ripping up this Marguerite's bedroom, I push up the sleeves of my sweater. When I do, beneath my thumb I feel the crooked ridge of the scar on my right arm. The scar seems darker now, which I know is my mind playing tricks on me because the ache has returned.

Well, if I can't find out anything else about this world's Paul, I can at least learn how to contact him.

A little time on her tablet turns up Paul's contact information without too much trouble. The university lists his housing and his email address, at least his school account. With a flick of my fingers, I open a window to write to him, then hesitate.

Mom wanted Paul
thrown out
of Cambridge—the same guy they practically adopted in at least a dozen dimensions. Anytime my parents and Paul have wound up at odds, Paul was the one who drew the line between them.

The fourth and final splinter of my Paul is here, sheathed within the body of this other Paul Markov. No matter what he's done, or what he's capable of, I have to face him. We have to be alone.

Until then, I refuse to worry. During my time traveling through the dimensions, I've been kidnapped, held at gunpoint, bombed from the air, nearly crushed in a submarine,
exposed to the Russian winter until I nearly died of hypothermia, and chased by a torch-bearing mob intent on burning me for witchcraft. Every time, I've kept myself together. Every time, I survived.

Whatever happens next, I have to believe I can handle it. For Paul, I will.

The email I send to Paul is simple and direct.

You and I should talk, soon. Are you free tonight? If so, let me know what time, and I'll drop by your flat.

(At the last minute, I remembered to use “flat” instead of “apartment.”)

It would be easy to spend the next however-long staring at my in-box, hoping every second to see his reply. But that would only drive me crazy, and besides, Mom made spaghetti.

“Susannah keeps insisting we should visit her in London this summer,” Dad says as he covers his plate with more Parmesan than most people could eat in a month.

Mom looks nonplussed. “But we go every summer, at least for one or two of the plays. I think I read that they're putting on
Julius Caesar
at the Globe in June.”

My father shakes his head. “Oh, no, she's having none of our weekend jaunts. Susannah wants us for a fortnight at least.”

More than a weekend sounds like a very long time to stay with Aunt Susannah, let alone two weeks or however long
a fortnight is. To judge by the sound my mother makes, she agrees. It's kind of sweet that my aunt wants us there, though. At home, our relationship is so much more distant, because my dad and his sister are practically scientific proof of just how different two offspring of the same parents can be. I like that we all found a way to get along here.

As I eat, it's tough to keep my aching fingers tightened around anything as slender as a fork. My mother is watching me, her face falling as she sees me struggle with my utensils. Quickly I change the subject. “I had the strangest dream last night.”

“Oh, really?” Dad raises an eyebrow in mild curiosity. At his feet, Ringo sits, panting, alight with hope that one of us will drop food.

I try to sound casual. “Yeah. In my dream, we all lived in San Francisco, and we looked and acted like ourselves but had these different lives—and then I realized, this wasn't my dimension. I'd traveled to another dimension with the Firebird, to see how we lived there. It was
so weird
how I knew the Mom and Dad and Josie I saw there weren't you guys, but at the same time they kind of were. I felt like I remembered the whole house, the whole neighborhood, everything.”

Mom and Dad give each other a wistful look. “I suppose it might have been like that,” she says, idly twirling her fork in her pasta. “Sometimes I still daydream about it—truly standing within another dimension.”

“It could still happen,” I venture. “Couldn't it?”

Dad sighs. “No point in going back to it now. The Firebird
project might have been our greatest glory, but it could also have been our greatest folly. Better to turn our energies to more productive ends.”

Oh, come on. No way Mom and Dad would give up on their dream just because they thought it was impractical.

At least now I understand why Conley sent the final splinter of Paul here. Since the Firebird technology had been scrapped, there was no chance my parents would figure out what was going on—and no chance they could have used devices of their own to get him back home.

Then my mother says, “Sending information will be so much more useful than sending consciousness.”

I pause, spaghetti slithering off my fork as I hold it above my plate. “How, exactly?”

She looks dubious, and I wonder if I've exposed myself; this world's Marguerite would surely know more about her parents' current research. Instead, Mom says, “You're right to insist that I keep explaining myself. If we don't revisit our first principles, we run the risk of losing our way.”

Dad goes into professor mode. “Now, Marguerite, what do you know about information? What is the most peculiar thing about it?”

Maybe that sounds like a really broad question, but I understand what he's driving at. “Information is the only thing we know of capable of moving faster than the speed of light. The universe knows things it shouldn't know, before it should be able to know them. Like—like when a quark is destroyed, and another is created instantly to take its place.”
Paul told me this, too, as we stood in the redwood forest, looking up into infinity.

“Exactly,” my mom says. “Transferring consciousness—as exciting as it would be, and as revolutionary as it would be even to identify and isolate consciousness—it's not the best way of learning more about the other dimensions of the multiverse. We can structure ‘messages' in the form of asymmetrical subatomic sequences and see how other quantum realities respond.”

“If we figure out how best to handle this, we might even be able to speak directly to other versions of ourselves—or, at least, to the other scientists doing our kind of work,” my father adds. “Much better than popping into someone else's body unannounced.”

I think of the Grand Duchess Margarita, even now hiding out in a Danish country house until she gives birth to a baby—one I conceived for her. Of a Theo in New York City who's still in the hospital, wondering if he'll ever be able to walk again. Of Lieutenant Markov dead in my arms. I admit, “The ethics are a lot better.”

Mom nods, but I can tell to her this is only a theoretical consideration, one she's never had to truly face. “We'll have far better reach, as well. Instead of only visiting universes where we ourselves exist, we should be able to learn something about virtually any dimension in the multiverse—
Henry
. Stop giving noodles to the dog.”

“He
likes
noodles,” Dad says, as Ringo slobbers down his one strand of spaghetti.

My parents the illustrious scientists begin debating whether or not pasta gives the dog gas. It offers me a moment to consider what I've just learned, the possibilities expanding in my mind every moment.

The Home Office and the Triadverse must have dismissed this dimension as a threat because Mom and Dad abandoned the Firebird project. What Conley never realized was that they would instead turn their attention to another way of contacting other universes. If we got that power—my world, and the Warverse, and even the Paul and Theo from the Home Office—and we could communicate with each other constantly, without the risks of jumping dimensions . . . we could form an alliance much larger than Triad's conspiracy. Much more powerful. We could prepare ourselves against any attack the Home Office could make.

This could be how we take them down.

As precious as the treatment for Theo is, as eager as I am to rescue my own Paul, I now know I'm bringing home a third treasure—or, at least, a chance. The coordinates to this dimension could save us all.

“How long?” I ask.

Mom huffs, “Until the dog begins stinking up every room he's in? Two hours at most.”

“No. I mean—how long until you can communicate with other dimensions?”

“Sweetheart, you know we can't pinpoint these things,” my father says, but with a smile. “Of course, if next month's test goes as well as we hope . . . wait and see.”

It's all I can do not to laugh out loud.

As I walk back to my room, I'm already strategizing. I'm not going to “de-cloak” yet; first I should talk with my parents back home about everything we've learned. But as soon as I do that, we can start planning my return to this dimension. Then we can tell the truth, the whole honest truth, and get these versions of ourselves to join forces with us. Exhilaration bubbles inside me until I want to spin around and do some stupid victory dance. Once I'm alone in my room, I might.

However, when I look at my email, every other thought fades, replaced only by the sight of Paul's name in my in-box.

When I open his reply, it says only
8:30 p.m.

He's not exactly Mr. Talkative in my dimension either. This is all the information I asked for, the only thing I need.

Still, when I remember Mom's distrust of Paul, her fear for me, Paul's terseness becomes . . . unnerving.

But it won't stop me from going to him, and bringing my own Paul home.

Cambridge must be a relatively safe place, because when I tell them I want to go to the theoretical late show of whatever movie it was this world's Marguerite wanted to see on campus, Mom doesn't even look up from her reading as she nods. Dad says only, “Wouldn't you rather take the car?”

Of
course
he lets me drive only in a universe where I'd have to stay on the left side of the road. “I'm good.”

“I'm glad you're exploring your interest in film,” he says. “Definitely something to pursue.”

Mom chimes in, suddenly much more interested. “So many people talented in one art form prove to be talented in another.”

Maybe this world's Marguerite is thinking of becoming a movie director. I can't quite imagine it, but that's kind of cool.

As I cycle through the streets of Cambridge, my phone chirpily tells me where to turn and how far to go. Not all of the city is as picturesque as the university; I cross a few busy roads lined with buildings more blandly modern. The chain store signs lit for nighttime bear unfamiliar names: BOOTS, COSTA, PIZZA EXPRESS. But my directions keep me near the university and finally steer me toward a group of small, basic apartments immediately recognizable as the kind of place where students live.

I lock my bike, walk straight to Paul's door, and ring without hesitating.

Before my hand is back at my side, Paul opens the door.

He looks thinner in this dimension, and not in a good way; his clothes are the same shabby stuff he wears at home, but they hang on his frame, like he doesn't even care enough to get stuff that fits. Still, he's neat, and from the faint smell of shaving foam, I can tell Paul cleaned up for me. He's trying.

“Hi,” he says. “Thanks for reaching out. It—it means a lot.”

“Can I come in?”

Paul seems astonished. Did he really think I'd stand here and question him from the doorstep?

But he stands back for me to walk into his apartment. It's as small and plain as I would have thought, with worn, mismatched furniture bought at the Salvation Army or whatever the British equivalent is. Tidy, though—especially for a male college student. My Paul keeps things neater than virtually any other guy I've ever known; I wonder if the white-glove cleanliness of this room is something this world's Paul shares with mine, or whether it's the subconscious influence of my own Paul peeking through.

I ought to just press the Firebird against him now, get my Paul back, and get out of here. But something about this Paul's quiet misery touches me. He's hurting—terribly—and he seems to think talking with me would help.

I can give him that. His body has kept the last part of Paul's soul safe; we owe him.

Instead of
hi
or
how have you been
, Paul says, “Will you let me explain?” When I blink, surprised, he continues, “I guess that's why you're here. If it's not—”

“It's complicated.”
About a thousand times more complicated than you could possibly guess.
Still, I ought to hear this. “Yeah, go ahead. Explain.”

Paul stands there, looking lost in the way that always makes me want to shelter him. “It was
an accident
. Even your parents must know it was only an accident. I hate myself for it more than they ever could. Even more than you.”