A Million Worlds with You
Page 10
And the only way to lock me out is to kill every Marguerite, everywhere.
My hands slip. I grab again as people scream—one hand snags the cable, but the other doesn’t. Now I’m swinging, and my shoulder hurts, and every muscle trembles. This is it.
I have to jump—but what if Wicked’s blocking my way? What if I can’t jump where she is? There’s no time to set a new course back home—if I could even touch my Firebird, which I can’t, because that would mean letting go, and if I let go—
Paul can’t see this. He can’t.
“Paul!” I cry out. “Get back inside!”
“Marguerite—no!”
I try to turn and look at him again. That’s one movement too many. My slick hand slides off the cable, and I fall.
For the first instant it’s like I’m not moving downward at all. It’s more like floating, while intense wind blows around me. But then the force of it presses in, and my stomach’s in my throat and the river’s rushing up to meet me and I’m going to die.
Firebird! As I tumble, I clutch at the Firebird beneath my shirt. It’s hard to grab it because now I’m rolling, my clothes are blowing all around me, the water’s so close, so close—I hit the controls—
My body jerks to a halt. For one terrifying instant I think this is it, I hit the river, this is the moment of death.
But no. I’m sitting in a dark, cool chamber—no, a passageway, only about four feet high. Light flickers in the distance; stone walls surround me; sand almost completely covers the floor: That’s all I know, besides the fact that I’m in another dimension, one that saved me.
The other Marguerite is dead.
She was murdered. By Wicked and—because I had a chance to save her and totally failed—by me, too.
5
HOW DO YOU GRIEVE FOR ANOTHER YOU? The strangest sorrow fills my heart. The injustice of her death is unbearable. Especially when it seemed like she might finally have discovered some things in her life that made her happy. The Londonverse Marguerite could’ve found her path. Even her Paul was there with her. . . .
You don’t know that. He could’ve just been on the same hovership. He lived nearby, so it wouldn’t be such a coincidence. You didn’t have any chance to figure out how things had really changed for her, if they had at all.
But that makes it worse, thinking that she led this lonely, unhappy life until the moment that life was taken away.
The only things I know for sure are that she died through no fault of her own, and that she died so horribly, horribly afraid.
A sob escapes my throat. Misery and guilt press down, squeezing the breath from my lungs and the knot from my throat. I bring my knees up against my chest and lower my head to let go and cry.
That other Marguerite—her body and her life helped me when I really needed help. How did I return the favor? I couldn’t hang on to the cable. I let her go. The Firebirds crashed into that Marguerite’s dimension and through her life; her death is the scar we left behind.
Finally, wiping tears from my face, I lift my head and start trying to figure out who I am this time.
Okay. Focus. I don’t feel physically different in any major way. My hair is pulled back in a complicated bun or braid, and held in place with several pins. Its formality reminds me of the Russiaverse, but that’s obviously not where I am. My surroundings are too grubby, my clothing too plain . . . and I’m not pregnant. Those physical sensations linger in my mind still, strongly enough for me to feel their absence.
The dark passageway around me provides few clues so far. Although the lighting is odd—I can’t see the source, so it must be from around a bend in the passage—I can tell from the flicker of the distant glow that it comes from candles or a torch. The Middle Ages again? This doesn’t look like any part of the Romeverse I remember, but there could be other dimensions at medieval levels of technology. But no, my clothes are all wrong for that. The khaki cotton skirt reaches past my knees, heavy but apparently sewn by machine; the lace-up boots fit my feet too well. (Take it from me: medieval shoes suck.) Slender bands of lace trim the long sleeves and high neck of my thin, white cotton blouse. No pockets, no purse—which means no smartphone, map, money, or any kind of identification.
I only know one thing for certain about this world and this Marguerite: she’s in danger. Wicked wouldn’t have it any other way.
The terror of the Londonverse floods through me again—that dark water rushing up at me, ready to crush my bones and steal my breath forever—
At least it was quick, I tell myself, taking a deep breath. After that long a drop, the impact with the water would’ve killed her instantly.
That doesn’t help.
My mind starts up the refrain of why, why did this have to happen—and then the question becomes real. Wait, why did Wicked go to the Londonverse? Why would that world be marked for destruction? No version of Josie could ever have traveled there, because in that dimension, she died about a decade ago.
Then I remember what my parents said about source vectors. One universe could lay the foundation for many others. Destroy it, and the rest crumble. Because the entire timeline gets destroyed, it doesn’t matter if the critical choice took place long ago—past, present, and future will all collapse at once.
How many worlds are now doomed because I let go?
Although my brain keeps replaying the moment my hand slipped from the cable, rationally I know it couldn’t have gone any other way. I tried to hang on, so hard, like it was both our lives and not just hers. For all I knew, it could’ve been.
No doubt Wicked hoped to kill me too.
But what did she mean by stranding me in a weird passageway? I can’t see how to get out, but obviously there must be a way, since Wicked was able to get here in the first place. This is hardly mortal peril; it’s more annoying than anything else.
Why would Wicked have chosen such a slow way for me to die? She could’ve done so many other things: hanging herself, leaping from another great height, weighing herself down with rocks before jumping in water—okay, the possibilities are starting to creep me out.
But then I realize she’s not going to do any of those things, not from now on. Anything that dramatic and absolute wouldn’t give her time to leap away from this dimension and save herself. She killed Londonverse Marguerite so quickly and violently because she meant to take me out with her. I hope she thinks she did. Better if she doesn’t know I’m still on her trail.
My hands slip. I grab again as people scream—one hand snags the cable, but the other doesn’t. Now I’m swinging, and my shoulder hurts, and every muscle trembles. This is it.
I have to jump—but what if Wicked’s blocking my way? What if I can’t jump where she is? There’s no time to set a new course back home—if I could even touch my Firebird, which I can’t, because that would mean letting go, and if I let go—
Paul can’t see this. He can’t.
“Paul!” I cry out. “Get back inside!”
“Marguerite—no!”
I try to turn and look at him again. That’s one movement too many. My slick hand slides off the cable, and I fall.
For the first instant it’s like I’m not moving downward at all. It’s more like floating, while intense wind blows around me. But then the force of it presses in, and my stomach’s in my throat and the river’s rushing up to meet me and I’m going to die.
Firebird! As I tumble, I clutch at the Firebird beneath my shirt. It’s hard to grab it because now I’m rolling, my clothes are blowing all around me, the water’s so close, so close—I hit the controls—
My body jerks to a halt. For one terrifying instant I think this is it, I hit the river, this is the moment of death.
But no. I’m sitting in a dark, cool chamber—no, a passageway, only about four feet high. Light flickers in the distance; stone walls surround me; sand almost completely covers the floor: That’s all I know, besides the fact that I’m in another dimension, one that saved me.
The other Marguerite is dead.
She was murdered. By Wicked and—because I had a chance to save her and totally failed—by me, too.
5
HOW DO YOU GRIEVE FOR ANOTHER YOU? The strangest sorrow fills my heart. The injustice of her death is unbearable. Especially when it seemed like she might finally have discovered some things in her life that made her happy. The Londonverse Marguerite could’ve found her path. Even her Paul was there with her. . . .
You don’t know that. He could’ve just been on the same hovership. He lived nearby, so it wouldn’t be such a coincidence. You didn’t have any chance to figure out how things had really changed for her, if they had at all.
But that makes it worse, thinking that she led this lonely, unhappy life until the moment that life was taken away.
The only things I know for sure are that she died through no fault of her own, and that she died so horribly, horribly afraid.
A sob escapes my throat. Misery and guilt press down, squeezing the breath from my lungs and the knot from my throat. I bring my knees up against my chest and lower my head to let go and cry.
That other Marguerite—her body and her life helped me when I really needed help. How did I return the favor? I couldn’t hang on to the cable. I let her go. The Firebirds crashed into that Marguerite’s dimension and through her life; her death is the scar we left behind.
Finally, wiping tears from my face, I lift my head and start trying to figure out who I am this time.
Okay. Focus. I don’t feel physically different in any major way. My hair is pulled back in a complicated bun or braid, and held in place with several pins. Its formality reminds me of the Russiaverse, but that’s obviously not where I am. My surroundings are too grubby, my clothing too plain . . . and I’m not pregnant. Those physical sensations linger in my mind still, strongly enough for me to feel their absence.
The dark passageway around me provides few clues so far. Although the lighting is odd—I can’t see the source, so it must be from around a bend in the passage—I can tell from the flicker of the distant glow that it comes from candles or a torch. The Middle Ages again? This doesn’t look like any part of the Romeverse I remember, but there could be other dimensions at medieval levels of technology. But no, my clothes are all wrong for that. The khaki cotton skirt reaches past my knees, heavy but apparently sewn by machine; the lace-up boots fit my feet too well. (Take it from me: medieval shoes suck.) Slender bands of lace trim the long sleeves and high neck of my thin, white cotton blouse. No pockets, no purse—which means no smartphone, map, money, or any kind of identification.
I only know one thing for certain about this world and this Marguerite: she’s in danger. Wicked wouldn’t have it any other way.
The terror of the Londonverse floods through me again—that dark water rushing up at me, ready to crush my bones and steal my breath forever—
At least it was quick, I tell myself, taking a deep breath. After that long a drop, the impact with the water would’ve killed her instantly.
That doesn’t help.
My mind starts up the refrain of why, why did this have to happen—and then the question becomes real. Wait, why did Wicked go to the Londonverse? Why would that world be marked for destruction? No version of Josie could ever have traveled there, because in that dimension, she died about a decade ago.
Then I remember what my parents said about source vectors. One universe could lay the foundation for many others. Destroy it, and the rest crumble. Because the entire timeline gets destroyed, it doesn’t matter if the critical choice took place long ago—past, present, and future will all collapse at once.
How many worlds are now doomed because I let go?
Although my brain keeps replaying the moment my hand slipped from the cable, rationally I know it couldn’t have gone any other way. I tried to hang on, so hard, like it was both our lives and not just hers. For all I knew, it could’ve been.
No doubt Wicked hoped to kill me too.
But what did she mean by stranding me in a weird passageway? I can’t see how to get out, but obviously there must be a way, since Wicked was able to get here in the first place. This is hardly mortal peril; it’s more annoying than anything else.
Why would Wicked have chosen such a slow way for me to die? She could’ve done so many other things: hanging herself, leaping from another great height, weighing herself down with rocks before jumping in water—okay, the possibilities are starting to creep me out.
But then I realize she’s not going to do any of those things, not from now on. Anything that dramatic and absolute wouldn’t give her time to leap away from this dimension and save herself. She killed Londonverse Marguerite so quickly and violently because she meant to take me out with her. I hope she thinks she did. Better if she doesn’t know I’m still on her trail.
