You act.
We manage to follow Paul out of the Tube station without him seeing us.
“That reaction you saw?” Theo mutters. “Probably a reminder. He’ll know us now. Stay behind him.”
Theo’s instinct was right; Paul is headed to the tech conference where Wyatt Conley is going to appear. For an event dedicated to the latest in cutting-edge technology, it’s held in an odd venue—a building that has to be a hundred years old, all Edwardian cornices and frills. The people filing in are an odd mix, too: some are sleek professionals in suits the color of gunmetal or ink, talking to multiple holographic screens in front of them the entire time they walk up the steps, while others look like college freshmen who just got out of bed but have even more tech gear on them than the CEO types.
“Told you I was overdressed for this,” Theo mutters as Paul vanishes through the door.
“How is he getting in?” I say. “Does he have a badge already, or is he sneaking through security?”
“No point in worrying about how he’s getting in until we get in ourselves. Leave this to me, will you, Meg?”
Apparently Theo spent his entire journey over to the UK figuring out exactly how these advanced computer systems work. As we huddle on the steps, pretending we’re blasé about going in, he manages to hack into the organizer’s database. So when we show up at registration, acting shocked—shocked!—that they don’t have our badges ready for us to pick up like we’d arranged, they actually find our names in the system. Two hastily printed temp badges later, and we’re in.
Theo offers me his arm; I loop my hand through it as we walk into the conference hall. It’s a large space, already slightly darkened, the better to show off the enormous, movie-size screen waiting on the stage. “I have to admit,” I whisper to Theo, “that was pretty smooth.”
“Smooth is my middle name. Actually, it’s Willem, but tell anybody that and, I warn you, I will take revenge.”
We sit near the back, where we’ll have a better chance to survey the whole room and see Paul make his move . . . assuming he’s going to make one. He doesn’t seem to be in the audience.
If Theo has noticed my dark mood, he gives no sign. “Glad I got to know this dimension the best I could, as soon as I could. It makes a difference.” It’s obviously as safe to talk here as it was on the Tube; most people are surrounded by tiny holographic screens, having a conversation or two. “We’ll have to put that in the guide to interdimensional travel you and I get to coauthor someday: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Multiverse.”
Letting scientists go off on Douglas Adams routines is a bad idea, so I ask a question that’s been on my mind since shortly after I got here. “How is this the next dimension over?”
“What do you mean?” Theo frowns.
“I guess I thought—you know, the dimension next door would be a lot closer to our own. With just a couple of differences. Instead it’s totally not the same at all.”
“First of all, this? This is not ‘totally not the same.’ National boundaries are the same. Most major brands seem to be the same, present company excepted.” He’s referring to the “ConTech” logo projected upon the onstage screen; in our universe, Wyatt Conley means Triad. “Trust me, the dimensions can be much more radically altered than this.”
“Okay, sure.” I can see his point. It’s not like the dinosaurs are still around or anything.
Theo—always enamored of any chance to show off what he knows—keeps going. “Second, none of the dimensions are technically any ‘closer’ or ‘farther’ from one another. Not in terms of actual distance, anyway. Some dimensions are mathematically more similar to each other than others, but that wouldn’t necessarily correlate to the dimensions being more similar to each other in any other way.”
When the word correlate puts in its appearance, I know the conversation is about to go into technobabble mode. So I cut to the chase. “You’re saying that if Paul just wanted to run away, ‘next door,’ this could be next door, even though this dimension is different in a lot of ways.”
“Exactly.” The lights go down, and Theo sits up straighter as the crowd’s murmuring dies down and their various hologram calls fade out. “Showtime.”
The screen shifts from the ConTech logo to a promotional video, the usual beaming people of various ages and races all using high-tech products to make their already awesome lives even better. Only the products are different—the self-driving cars along tracks like Romola had, the holographic viewscreens, and other stuff that I hadn’t seen yet, like medical scanners that diagnose at a touch, and some kind of game like laser tag, except with real lasers. A woman approached by the most clean-cut mugger of all time turns confidently and touches her bracelet; the mugger jolts as if electrocuted, then falls to the ground as she strides away.
I glance down at the bangle around my wrist, the one with the inside label that says Defender. Now I get it.
The background music rises to an inspirational high as the images fade out, and the announcer says, “Ladies and gentlemen, the innovator of the age, founder and CEO of ConTech . . . Wyatt Conley.”
Applause, a spotlight, and Wyatt Conley walks on stage.
Despite the fact that he’s been bankrolling my parents’ research for more than a year now, I’ve never actually met Conley before. But I know what he looks like, as does anyone else who’s been online or watched TV during the last decade.
Although he’s about thirty, Conley doesn’t seem to be much older than Theo or Paul; there’s something boyish about him, like he’s never been forced to grow up and doesn’t intend to start now. His face is long and thin, yet handsome in an eccentric sort of way; Josie’s even said she thinks he’s hot. He wears the kind of oh-so-casual jeans and long-sleeved T that you just know cost a thousand dollars apiece. His hair is as curly and uncontrollable as mine, but lighter, almost red, which matches the freckles across his nose and cheeks. Between that and the famous pranks he’s pulled on other celebrities, he’s been described as “a Weasley twin set loose in Silicon Valley.”
“We’re on a journey,” Conley says, a small smile on his face. “You, me, everyone on Planet Earth. And that journey is getting faster by the moment—accelerating every second. I’m talking about the journey into the future, specifically, the future we’re creating through technology.”
As he crosses the stage with a confident swagger, the screen behind him shows an infographic titled “Rates of Technological Change.” Throughout most of human history, it’s a line moving very slowly upward. Then, in the mid-nineteenth century, it spikes up—and in the most recent three decades, goes almost completely vertical.
Conley says, “For all the differences in their eras, Julius Caesar would have fundamentally understood the world of Napoleon Bonaparte, a warrior who lived nearly two thousand years later. Napoleon might have understood Dwight D. Eisenhower, who fought not even a hundred and fifty years after Waterloo. But I don’t think Eisenhower could even begin to wrap his mind around drone warfare, spy satellites, or any of the technology that now defines the security of our world.”
For a history lesson, this is almost interesting. Maybe it’s the way he talks with his hands, like an excited kid. But right when I might actually get drawn in, I see Paul walking swiftly up the side aisle to the exit.
Theo’s hand closes over my forearm, tightly, in warning. He whispers, “You see him too?”
I nod. He rises from his seat—crouching low so we don’t block anyone’s view and create a disturbance—and I do the same as we slip out to the side of the auditorium.
A few people give us annoyed looks, but the only sound in the room remains Conley’s voice. “For generations now, people have dreaded World War Three. But they’re making a huge mistake. They’re expecting war to look the way it looked before.”
Nobody much is milling around in the corridors outside, except for a few harried assistants trying to prep for some kind of follow-up reception. So Theo and I go unnoticed as we t
ry to figure out where, exactly, Paul might have gone. In a building this old, nothing is laid out quite like you’d expect.
“Through here, maybe?” Theo opens a door that leads into a darkened room, one empty of chairs or tables.
I follow him inside; as the door swings shut behind us, darkness seals us in, except for the faint glow of the tech we wear—our holoclips, or my security bracelet. We can hear Conley’s speech again, but muffled. “The next challenges humanity will face are going to be fundamentally different from any we’ve faced before. New threats, yes—but new opportunities, too.”
Then we hear something else. Footsteps.
Theo’s arm catches me across the belly as he pulls us both backward, until we’re standing against the wall, hiding in the most absolute darkness. Adrenaline rushes through me; my hair prickles on my scalp, and I can hardly catch my breath.
The steps come closer. Theo and I look over at each other, side by side in the dark, his hand firm against my stomach. It’s too dark for me to understand the expression in his eyes.
Then he whispers, “The far corner. Go.”
We break apart. I rush into the corner, like he said, while Theo walks straight toward the steps . . . which turn out to belong to a tall man in a uniform who doesn’t have a sense of humor.
I knew somebody like Wyatt Conley would have security.
“I only wanted to get an autograph afterward,” Theo says as he keeps going, leading the guard farther from me. “Do you think he’d sign my arm? I could tattoo the autograph on there forever!”
Probably Theo meant for me to get out of here while he distracts the guard. Instead I creep around closer to the stage, and to Paul.
From onstage, Conley says, “The dangers we have to fear aren’t the ones we’re used to. They’re coming from directions we never imagined.”
Theo protests as the guard backs him out of the room, “Oh, come on, no need to overreact—” The door swings shut again, and I can’t hear his voice any longer. I glance over my shoulder, as though looking for Theo would bring him back again—
—which is when Paul Markov’s hand clamps down over my mouth.
My father’s killer whispers, “Don’t scream.”
9
PAUL PULLS ME BACKWARD. HE HAS ONE HAND AROUND MY waist, the other over my mouth. My legs go watery, and I actually have to tell myself not to pass out.
What do I do? I always envisioned attacking him, not being attacked. How could I let him get the jump on me? How could I have been so stupid?
“What are you doing here?” he whispers. We’re just behind the curtain. “How can you even be here?”
I grab at his arm, though I know I’m not strong enough to pull his hand away—and that’s when I glimpse the bracelet on my wrist.
Defender.
Quickly I click the bracelet like the woman on the video. Instantly, a blue-white shock jolts into Paul’s hand.
Paul yells in pain, and I push myself free of him—and stumble through the curtain onto the stage. For a moment I stand there in the spotlight, in a state of shock, only a few feet away from Wyatt Conley. We stare at each other while the startled audience murmurs and I try to figure out what I can possibly say.
Then Paul’s hand closes on my elbow, and I scream.
“Security!” Conley yells as Paul pulls me offstage and people in the audience start shouting. But security isn’t around, because they’re busy throwing out Theo. That means it’s up to me.
I wrench myself away from Paul as violently as I can; he must still be weakened from the electric shock, because I’m able to get free. Then I run like hell.
How could I have been such a fool? How could I have questioned for one second that Paul was dangerous? He killed my father and I still wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I’m never going to let a guy make me this stupid ever again.
I dash from the building into the rain toward the Tube.
From the footsteps on the pavement, and the shouts of people being pushed out of the way, I know Paul’s right behind me.
“Marguerite!” he shouts. “Stop!”
Like that would ever happen.
Raindrops spatter against my face; the sidewalks darken in front of me with every drop. The glowing 3D sign for the Underground spurs me on, giving me the strength to run faster.
I plunge inside, wet hair dripping, and don’t even hesitate before vaulting over the turnstile. If it gets the transit cops’ attention, great.
But even as I run I hear Paul jumping the turnstile behind me.
My ring begins to blink; only one person could be calling me. I manage to slap the ring on, and Theo’s face appears in front of me, shaking and blurry. “I heard—wait—what’s going on?”
“Paul! He’s right behind me! We’re at the Tube!”
Instantly the screen vanishes. Theo’s coming as fast as he can, I know, but I’m not sure he’ll be able to reach me in time.
The Tube corridor splits here into different tunnels, different destinations. I run into the nearest one, not caring or thinking which would be better, then curse under my breath as I hear a train pulling in ahead. While the crowds might protect me from Paul, they’ll also protect Paul from me.
But I keep running. I’m past the point of turning back.
The passengers swarm toward me, their holographic games and calls swirling around them like electronic fog. How can there be so many this long after rush hour? I angle my shoulders, turning that way and this to avoid crashing into someone—but then Paul’s hand grabs my shoulder.
Instantly I turn and slam my fist into Paul’s face.
Ow. Oh, damn. Nobody tells you that punching someone hurts as badly as getting punched. Paul stumbles back, and a few of the other passengers startle, realizing for the first time what they’re seeing.
Paul looks at me, his hand to his reddened jaw, and it’s as if . . . as if he doesn’t understand. How can he not understand?
Behind me the train slides out of the station with a rush of air and a roar that nearly drowns out his words. “Who brought you here?”
I don’t get a chance to answer as Theo shoves through the crowd, launching himself toward Paul and yelling, “Son of a bitch!”
Paul’s head whips from me to Theo in the split second before they collide. The remainder of the commuting crowd shatters in an instant; people scream and scatter, going in a hundred directions at once. A big guy slams into me hard enough that I bang into one of the metal-grid dividers.
Breathless, I stare through the grid to see Paul and Theo on the ground. Theo has the advantage at first, on his knees while Paul is flat on his back, and his fist makes contact with Paul’s jaw so hard that I can hear the crack.
Then Theo tries to hit him again, and in the moment that he blocks Theo’s hand with his own, Paul’s expression shifts from bewildered hurt to rage.
Red security alert lights begin to pulse. The grids cast strange shadows that seem to carve lines around and through us. Soon the metro police will be here. Shit.
Yet none of that matters when I see Paul bodily throw Theo back. Theo tumbles over so far that he actually falls through one of the holographic signs, something about tourism in Italy. As Theo half vanishes behind a translucent version of the Colosseum, Paul leaps after him, kneeling above Theo’s crumpled form.
“You,” he snarls, clutching Theo’s T-shirt. I never knew Paul’s face could look like that—soulless with fury. “How did you follow me?”
Theo kicks Paul solidly in the chest, but it only holds him back a moment. Paul recovers within a blink and punches Theo in the jaw. Then again. Then again. It’s not like I didn’t know Paul was bigger than Theo, but somehow I never realized until now just what a giant he is. How impossible it would be for Theo to take him down alone.
But I’ve got my breath back. Theo doesn’t have to go it alone anymore.
I run toward them, jump through the holographic sign and land on Paul’s broad back.
He grunts in surprise, and tries to reach for me, but I’ve got one hand around his neck and another in his hair. So what if hair pulling is a girl move? It hurts, and it works.
“What—” Paul tries to twist out of my grip, but as his hand closes around my forearm, he suddenly stills. “Marguerite, stop.”
I can hardly hear the words over the rumbling approach of another train.
“Go to hell,” I say.
My free hand is the one with the Defender bracelet. When I slam it against his side, it does its job, shocking him again, and he cries out in pain.
Theo’s back up, and he goes after Paul’s Firebird locket. That’s it, that’s it, all I have to do is hold Paul while Theo finishes him.
Then Paul angles his head back, and he looks at me. His gray eyes stare upward, searching my face, revealing a depth of betrayal and pain I recognize because it mirrors my own.
For one instant, doubt blots out everything else, and my grip weakens.
One instant is all Paul needs.
He twists free of me and slams his elbow into Theo’s face, knocking him back to the floor. I try to regain my hold on Paul, but it’s useless; he’s up now and using every inch he has on me, every pound, to hold me back.
“What are you doing?” he shouts. The security lights pulse above us, turning the line of blood along his mouth from red to black and back again.
“Stopping you!” I swing at Paul, but his massive hand blocks mine easily.
Theo scrambles to his feet; Paul sees it. Immediately he grabs me—literally picks me up—and shoves his way through the doors of the train car right before they close. I wriggle free of him just in time to see Theo press his hands against the glass door. But it’s too late. The train is moving.
For one moment I match my hand to Theo’s, separated only by the glass; he looks stricken, but says nothing. What can he say? Nothing can prevent the way the train speeds up, pulling away from him, leaving only his fingerprints.
The train slides into the tunnel, into the darkness. Nobody else is in this car. Paul and I stand there, breathing hard, illuminated only by the holographic ads overhead. He’s still wearing his Firebird. We are alone.