“You can’t shoot her, Far.” Priya was the first to move, bringing the moment back into itself with a touch on his arm. “She’s family.”
“Not on this crew, she’s not.”
“It’s not a metaphor,” Priya insisted. “The Ancestral Archives results came through. Eliot shares half of your mother’s DNA, which means she’s either your sister or your aunt.”
“What?” The worst day of Far’s life was also now jockeying for the weirdest. “No. No! I don’t have a sister. And Uncle Bert is Mom’s only sibling. There must be a mistake. We were both eating blood orange gelato when you gathered the sample; you must’ve snatched my spoon instead.”
That was it. The only thing that made sense…
“The DNA is Eliot’s,” Priya pressed. “It has all of her markers. Female. Alopecia universalis. She’s a McCarthy.”
Far stared down the blaster sights. Eliot stared back, no more smirks left to give. Those eyes did look an awful lot like his: same color, same stark stubbornness. “Is this true?”
“In a sense.” Hers was one of the most earnest sighs ever exhaled. “My name is Eliot Gaia McCarthy. I’m not your sister, or your aunt. I’m the daughter of Empra McCarthy, born on April 18, 2354 AD, in a parallel universe.”
Parallel universe.
As in…
Another world.
Weirdest worst day ever. “So you’re my doppelgänger?”
“Doppelgängers look the same,” Gram corrected him. “What Eliot posits, what the evidence substantiates, is that there’s a different universe in which Empra McCarthy had a daughter instead of a son. That would mean Eliot is an alternate version of you.”
“Far’s the alternate version,” Eliot muttered.
“I think we all know who’s the original here,” Far shot back, blaster steady.
“Really?” Imogen lowered the chai pot. “We just found out there are whole other worlds and you’re arguing for an ego boost?”
Fair. Far looked back at the Engineer. “Is this even possible? Parallel worlds and shazm?”
“Hypothetically? Yes.” Gram’s eyes brightened: Geek-out mode greenlit. “String theory has maintained the existence of a multiverse for centuries, but we haven’t figured out how to communicate with these theoretical universes, much less attempt interdimensional travel.”
“A lot of the universes haven’t,” Eliot said. “Mine only joined the fun about twenty-seven years ago.”
“That’s remarkable!” Gram glanced down at her. “How’d your scientists manage it?”
Far broke in before things spiraled into quarky atomic talk. “If you’ve been able to jump worlds for so long, how come we haven’t heard of this multiverse before?”
“For the same reason your world’s history hasn’t caught on to the fact that the future walks among them. Much like the past, the multiverse is delicate. The Multiverse Bureau doesn’t like disturbing worlds that haven’t discovered parallel universes. It’s their policy to remain observers in such spheres.”
“You call trying to shoot someone observing?” Tiny tongues of smoke licked off ruined satin, dispersing when Far waved toward them. “I, for one, am very disturbed. If not for the deus ex machina à la bear-cat, that would’ve been my chest! Why would you want to kill yourself? I mean, your alternate self. Crux, we need a term for this.”
“I don’t want to kill you.” There was a crack in Eliot’s voice, threatening to spill out all sorts of emotion. “I have to.”
Far wasn’t sure he wanted her to go on.
“Why?” Priya asked for him.
“You just saw why.” Eliot’s eyes slid toward the hatch, meaning clear.
The door was the same as it’d always been, yet the crew’s hearts quickened when they stared at its metal and bolts. As if the why—the Fade—remained on the other side, apocalyptic storm front rolling, ever rolling, toward them, edges heavy with a skeleton army. Far could almost hear the clip-clop of ghost hooves, galloping in infinite silence….
“You mean that fady cloud-thing?” Imogen murmured. “What’s that got to do with Farway?”
“Everything,” Eliot said. “It’s—well, it’s hard to explain. It’d be easier to show you. There’s a memory chip of datastreams inside my pocket universe.”
“Your bag o’ secrets is a pocket universe?” Far snorted. “No way am I going to let you rummage through that. You probably have another weapon tucked away in there somewhere.”
Eliot looked to Priya. “The pocket universe is on my left wrist. It’s easier to open if you stretch it horizontal.”
So the bag o’ secrets was a pocket universe was a… bracelet? The chain was, for the most part, invisible. All the naked eye could see was a distortion—a ripple of wrong air strung between Priya’s hands, paper-cut thin. She stretched it out, eyes widening as they registered what she held: porthole to a different world. Slender fingertips vanished, first knuckle, second, third, wrist, as she reached into a space the rest of them couldn’t see. For a terrible moment, Far feared the disappearing would swallow her, too.
But her hand resurfaced, clutching the edge of a daffodil dress. Lace frothed out of thin air, until an entire gown stretched before them. The whole thing looked as magical as ever. Whoa was a common theme the room over, except for Imogen, who was making grabby hands for the dress itself.
“If you set the pocket universe on the floor, it’s easier to see what you’re grabbing,” Eliot offered. “You can stretch it wider, too. Just take care that you don’t fall in.”
Priya did as instructed. The dimension’s edge was malleable, warping to her touch until Far could see where space itself had split open, allowing for a cavity that was both there and not. One of the Invictus’s floor panels now went a level deeper than ship schematics dictated.
“What I wouldn’t give for a purse like this.” Priya pulled out another gown. “It’s… well, I mean, it’s phenomenal.”
Gram craned his neck for a better view. “This tech’s from your world?”
“Standard issue from the Multiverse Bureau.” Eliot nodded. “Light packing makes interdimensional travel worlds easier.”
“Ha!” Imogen grinned as she hung the dress in the wardrobe. “Punny!”
“What’s the Multiverse Bureau?” the Engineer asked. “How do you travel between worlds? Is there an interdimensional equivalent to a TM?”
“Like I stated, it’s easier to show you,” Eliot said. “The answers are inside the chip, which is in a blue velvet box.”
Annoyance worked Far’s jaw back and forth. Had everyone already forgotten Eliot’s transgression, still sizzling a hole in the couch? Perhaps forgiven was the better word, because the Fade sure as Hades hadn’t snatched that moment yet: Eliot nearly knocking him out of this life, not even lifting a scribbly eyebrow about it.
“Blue box, blue box…”
Priya’s hand kept dipping through the floor, producing a new item each time. There were powdered wigs, fishnet stockings, muddy trousers—more clothes than the wardrobe above them. A case stamped with a blue serpent twining around an orange cross contained curiously labeled silver packets. Medicine, Priya declared, though she looked uncertain when she read the names. There were gadgets, too—near as silver, just as strange.
“Careful,” Eliot warned when a metallic cylinder was drawn out. “That’s—”
A scarlet bright light leaped from the instrument, stopping short of Priya’s jaw. The burning smell of the room went threefold; a generous swoop of raven hair fell to the floor.
“A laser knife.”
The beam retracted when Priya let go of the hilt. Hair that had flowed past her shoulders was chopped in a ruthless line far too close to her neck. She brushed the loss with fluttering fingers, unable to reconcile where hair ended and air began. “Well. Guess there’s no need to worry about split ends for a while.”
Imogen was considerably more distraught. She tugged her own locks back, making a noise that could only be attributed to
a robot-roadrunner: “Meeeeeeep.”
“Any more lethal surprises hidden in there?” Far remembered he was holding a gun, remembered it was aimed in Eliot’s general direction. He nudged it at her. “Speak now.”
“No. Just the laser knife.” Light bounced off Eliot’s head as she shook it. The welts from Saffron’s claws were a bloody tiara, finely scrawled. “Trust me. I don’t want to hurt any of you.”
“This from the mouth of the girl who claims she has to kill me.” His hand ached against the blaster. Did he even know how to shoot this alternate-universe tech, if it came down to it? “I’m sure you understand why I’m not terribly trusting at the moment.”
“Aha!” Priya had recovered the box. It was blue—the shade’s truest version, found on primary color wheels—and small enough to fit in her palm. The chip inside was translucent, with the dimensions of a pinkie nail. When held up to the light, it resembled a snowflake on the verge of melting, patterned with a delicate labyrinth of circuits. Dropped, it would take hours to find, minutes to step on.
Gram squinted from across the room. “Is it compatible with our tech?”
“Not without modifications,” Eliot told him. “There’s a shortcut hologram function that responds to voice command, though.”
“This is a hologram platform?” Priya asked. “But—it’s so tiny.”
“They get smaller every year. If you put it on the table, we can get started.”
The box was set down first, the chip placed back inside, where it was least likely to vanish into the common area’s knickknack landscape. One word from Eliot lit the air above it; files appeared in the form of several more boxes, each a different color, most bearing a Roman numeral. 0 through VII. White through black.
“Zero.” The lid to the white box opened at Eliot’s command. “Start at the beginning.”
A scene unfurled from the container, blooming before the group. It looked as solid as the Sims, but everything had a miniature quality—doll-sized people sat at aluminum tables the length of Far’s arm. Some held forks. Others chopsticks. Both utensils looked elementary in the hands of the fresh cadets, who’d grown up on meal blocks. Far did a double take at the uniforms. These kids were being groomed for the Corps. They were eating lunch inside the Academy.
The mess hall looked the same as the one from Far’s schooling, but also different. Its checkered floor was a red-white pattern instead of navy-gray. The security camera this footage had been lifted from was in the wrong bird’s-eye corner—facing the grub line instead of the stage where Instructor Marin rattled off his list of don’ts at the beginning of every term. Some of the people were the same. Mrs. Benucci was running the kitchen— harried curls sticking out of her hairnet, dishing out the pasta she claimed was an ancient family recipe. Ekstone Elba sat where he always did, picking tomatoes out of his sauce. Instructor Lee—who taught the wildly popular Pop Culture Through the Centuries class—sported his acerbic lime hair.
Far’s eyes skipped to his usual seat: second table, far end. Logic told him what—who—he should expect there, but the sight jarred him anyway. Eliot didn’t look like Eliot. Cap off, hair gone, she sat in a ring of friends, laughing so much she couldn’t get a bite in edgewise. Her smile was… real.
Everything was familiar. All of it strange.
could’ve been could’ve been could’ve been
This was his life.
This was another’s.
An announcement poked through the mess hall speakers: “Cadet McCarthy, please report to Headmaster Marin’s office.”
“Marin’s headmaster in this universe?” Far spluttered. “What is this? The darkest timeline?”
“It gets darker. Marin’s the least of our worries from here on out.” Eliot’s hologram grin quivered; by the time she replaced her cap and stood, it had vanished. Something about the way now-Eliot regarded the scene made Far doubt the expression would return anytime soon. “You guys might want to get comfortable. Grab a seat, make a snack. This will take a while.”
33
WHAT THE HASH/HAZE IS GOING ON
THEY ENDED UP CUFFING ELIOT TO one of the wardrobe pipes—though there was no need. Her exhaustion had scraped through to her soul, her resolve as fleeting as the blaster’s laser. The Multiverse Bureau’s directive haunted her interface, reminding Eliot she could take back the gun, quite easily, but her limbs refused to move. She just didn’t have this killing in her.
Not anymore.
Not yet.
Eliot almost didn’t recognize her hologram self; the girl in the datastream had a bounce to her steps as she walked to Headmaster Marin’s office—unaware that life as she knew it would soon be over, in five steps, four, three, two, one….
SUBJECT ZERO
MAY 8, 2371 AD
Security footage switches from the Academy’s hallway to Headmaster Marin’s office. The door opens and Eliot McCarthy enters. At the sight of her mother seated by the desk, she halts. A shadow settles on her face.
Eliot: Mom? What are you doing here?
Headmaster Marin: At the Academy you’re to refer to her as Instructor McCarthy. [gestures toward an empty chair] Have a seat, Cadet McCarthy.
Eliot starts for the chair, pausing when she notices the second man, dressed not in a Corps uniform but in plain clothes, seated across the room. His is a face crowded with life’s little annoyances. The porkpie hat on his head is either his prized possession or his clumsiest afterthought.
Eliot: Who’s this?
The man’s only way of introduction is a lift of his jacket, a flash of something gold. The security camera can’t capture the details, but Eliot’s nostrils flare at the sight. Something’s wrong, and she knows it.
Headmaster Marin: [more forcefully] Have a seat, Cadet McCarthy.
Empra: It’s all right, Eliot.
Headmaster Marin coughs in a nonrespiratory manner. Empra’s smile frays.
Empra: It’s all right, Cadet McCarthy.
Eliot: [takes a seat] What’s going on? Did something happen with my final exam Sim?
Headmaster Marin: Your final exam Sim results are beyond reproach. The licensing board was overwhelmingly pleased. There was even talk of sending you on a mission to the real Versailles—
Eliot: That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
Headmaster Marin: Do not interrupt me while I’m speaking, Cadet. I’d take marks for it, but there’d be no point in my doing so. While the results of your final exam were extraordinary, different results have brought you into this office today. Your physical examination threw up some flags with the Multiverse Bureau. Their very own Agent August Ackerman is here to escort you to their facilities for further tests.
Eliot: Tests? What kind of tests?
Headmaster Marin: They wouldn’t deign to say. Typical cloak-and-dagger red-tape nonsense.
Agent Ackerman: The Multiverse Bureau, unlike the Corps of Central Time Travelers, actually adheres to the guidelines it sets. We keep our classified information classified.
Headmaster Marin: I’ll have you know that this universe’s Corps hasn’t created a single pivot point—
Agent Ackerman: Yet. It’s only a matter of time with you lot.
Eliot: But what about graduation? What about my Corps assignment?
Empra: The Corps has agreed to keep a position open for you.
Eliot: But, Mom—
Headmaster Marin: [coughs] Instructor McCarthy.
Both women ignore him.
Eliot: I can’t just drop everything and leave. Solara’s been planning my graduation party for months.
Empra: Wait, you know about that? It’s supposed to be a surprise.
Eliot: Your niece is dash at keeping secrets.
Headmaster Marin: Cadet McCarthy, I have to insist that you keep your language civil in this office.
Agent Ackerman: This isn’t a request. This is an order from the Bureau’s highest levels, a matter of multiversal security.
Eliot: How can I be a security thr
eat to multiple universes? I’ve never even stepped outside this one!
Headmaster Marin: No one’s saying you’re a threat, Cadet McCarthy. Once the Bureau is finished with this little power game, you’ll be back under our jurisdiction and out on assignment before you know it. For now, please hand over your practice Sim pass and campus credentials.
Eliot looks at her mother. Empra tries to tamp down her frown. There’s nothing either of them can do.
Empra: Everything’s going to be fine, Eliot. Solara will understand. We’ll celebrate once all of this is over. I promise.
SUBJECT ZERO
MAY 10, 2371 AD
More security footage. Different building.
The lab is white—most of its surfaces flat. As seen through the hologram, it resembles a paper pop-up greeting card, something to be tucked away in a junk box after reading. Eliot looks fragile, too, elbows one degree from crumpling as she props herself up on the examination table. Her pale medical gown blends into pale skin, pale walls. When the scientist makes his entrance, he has to use Eliot’s eyebrows as a reference point. August Ackerman steps in after him—the charcoal fabric of the Bureau agent’s hat becomes the darkest thing in the room.
“Do you know what we do here, Cadet McCarthy?” the scientist asks.
“Aside from giving people frostbite on their arses?” Eliot’s lips quirk, a premonition of many smirks to come.
“That kind of talk might fly in the Corps, sweetheart, but you’re dealing with the Bureau now.” The feathers in Agent Ackerman’s hat quiver when he speaks: red, partridge, pissed. “Show some respect!”
“Ik laat een scheet in jouw richting,” Eliot mutters loud enough for everyone’s translation tech to register—here and then. The phrase is Dutch for “I fart in your direction.”
“Listen here—”
“Agent Ackerman,” the scientist intervenes. “I think it best if I handle this exchange. Why don’t you wait outside?”