Ten Thousand Skies Above You
Page 12
—and thudded into my Triadverse self, who was at a coffee shop, staring at her phone. I gripped the side of the table and looked around, half expecting Triad goons to barge through the door with tasers. Instead, I only saw the usual crowd of people tapping on laptops or talking over their cappuccinos.
Immediately I used the Firebird locator function—and it came up zero. My Paul was nowhere in this dimension.
At that moment, it seemed like good news. Conley hadn’t captured Paul! It was just a Firebird malfunction, like Mom said. With a smile on my face, I set the tracker into motion, so the Firebird would travel along Paul’s path and take me to him.
Which is how I wound up in medieval Rome, questioning everyone I could find about “Paolo Markov of Russia” while trying to dodge accusations of witchcraft.
How I ended up here, and now, bargaining with Wyatt Conley for Theo’s cure and Paul’s soul.
Cardinal Conley gets to his feet and straightens himself. It hits me for the first time how ridiculous Wyatt Conley looks in clerical robes. It seems as if no universe could ever allow him to be a man of the cloth; whatever else Conley is, he’s not a religious, moral person. Then again, in the Middle Ages, most cardinals weren’t. The position let men gain tremendous influence and political power. No wonder this universe’s Conley became a cardinal.
As solemnly as the church elder he pretends to be, Conley says, “If you’re worrying about being splintered yourself, Marguerite, let me put your mind at ease. Perfect travelers can’t splinter—it’s yet another of our advantages. But generally, a soul can be broken into as many pieces as you’d like. Dozens, even hundreds.”
The horror dizzies me. Is Paul torn apart even now, scattered across the entire multiverse?
“Don’t worry,” Conley says, in a tone that could be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know him well. His red robes look almost satanic in the firelight. “I went easy on you, didn’t smash him up too much. Four pieces, in four different dimensions. You just rescued the first one! See how easy it is? I gave you this splinter as a sign of good faith.”
Does he want me to thank him? “What do I have to do to get the coordinates for the other three dimensions?” Three more pieces of Paul’s soul. Three more worlds I have to find, and three more rescue missions.
Disgustingly satisfied with himself, Conley says, “I have a few errands for you.”
There it is—Triad Corporation’s iron fist closing around me.
But if this is the price of Paul’s soul, I have to pay.
“Let me explain precisely what I need.” Conley stands up straighter; his cardinal’s robes lend him an authority he doesn’t deserve. “Out there in the multiverse are two other dimensions where your parents are very close to developing Firebird technology. I would prefer that they didn’t.”
I fold my arms. “You mean you want to have all the power.”
“Who wouldn’t?” He shrugs. “Here’s how this is going to work. I have two dimensions working on Firebird research that need to be sabotaged as soon as possible. The next two splinters of Paul’s soul are hidden in those dimensions.” Conley’s thin fingers point at my own Firebird locket. “If you allow it, I can program your Firebird. You’ll receive the coordinates for the first of those dimensions—as well as a program you can use as a computer virus to destroy your parents’ research and your most valuable hardware.”
“How do I collect each splinter?” I clutch the spare Firebird more tightly. “The same way I’d give him a reminder? Just hold it against him, hit the combination on the locket?”
“Exactly. See? Easy as pie.”
Someday, when I have the luxury, I’m going to punch Wyatt Conley in the face. Hard.
Oblivious to my anger—or amused by it—Conley continues, “Collecting the second splinter of Paul’s soul will unlock the coordinates for the next dimension I need you to sabotage. Lather, rinse, repeat. Once you’ve done what I need you to do in each dimension, and gathered those two splinters, then you’ll come to the home office. Coordinates will be programmed into your Firebird with the rest.”
“The home office?” He must mean the Triadverse. “I don’t want to go there.”
“I have to check your work. When I go through your Firebird data, I’ll know whether you deployed the virus. If you’ve been a good girl—”
If there is any phrase I hate more than “good girl,” I don’t know what it is, and the words sound even more loathsome coming from Conley.
“—and you’ve stalled those dimensions’ research for a while, I’ll give you both the formula for Theo’s treatment and the coordinates for the final splinter of Paul’s soul. That final splinter is my insurance, you see. Your job is quite simple.”
Like it would ever be “simple” for me to betray my parents, much less while I’m afraid for both Paul’s and Theo’s lives. “You could have sent anyone to be your saboteur, or gone yourself.”
“There are dimensions where my reach is . . . limited.” It seems to gall Conley that he has to admit that he’s not omnipotent. “And yes, I could send certain other emissaries, but in order to do the kind of tricky work I’m looking for, they’d have to take Nightthief for a very, very long time. You know what that does to people now, don’t you?”
I remember Theo thrashing on our deck, body in spasm, skin pale. “Yes, I do.”
“We didn’t expect this one side effect. See, after a while, exposure to Nightthief takes away your ability to dream—hence the name. Sleep researchers still aren’t sure exactly why the ability to dream is so vitally important, but it is. Once you’ve lost it . . . let’s say mental processes start to break down rapidly, and dramatically.”
There’s something uniquely cruel about Theo dying because Wyatt Conley will no longer let him dream.
“As for the physiological damage—well, I don’t have to fill you in on that, do I? You’ve found out for yourself what Nightthief does to the lungs, the muscles, et cetera. But don’t worry about that. The lack of REM sleep will kill Theo before any of the rest progresses much further.” Conley smiles, though I don’t know what he thinks is so funny. I imagine taking one of the swords from the castle guards outside and stabbing it straight into his gut. He continues, “So, to sum up, do these errands for me, and in return, you get not one but two grand prizes. Once you report in to the home office, I’ll give you the formula for a solution that should ease Theo’s symptoms, maybe even reverse them.”
“That doesn’t sound like a cure.” If Conley intends to keep Theo sick—use him as a kind of hostage—I swear I’ll go for one of the swords right now.
Instead, Conley becomes serious and—possibly—sincere. “Marguerite, this is the best we have. If I could cure Nightthief exposure quickly, I wouldn’t need you, would I? But this treatment gives him a chance to heal. Keep treating him, and eventually, his body’s immune system should take care of the rest.”
Should. Not will. Still, I believe he’s telling the truth, only because he really wouldn’t need me if he had a cure.
Immediately I used the Firebird locator function—and it came up zero. My Paul was nowhere in this dimension.
At that moment, it seemed like good news. Conley hadn’t captured Paul! It was just a Firebird malfunction, like Mom said. With a smile on my face, I set the tracker into motion, so the Firebird would travel along Paul’s path and take me to him.
Which is how I wound up in medieval Rome, questioning everyone I could find about “Paolo Markov of Russia” while trying to dodge accusations of witchcraft.
How I ended up here, and now, bargaining with Wyatt Conley for Theo’s cure and Paul’s soul.
Cardinal Conley gets to his feet and straightens himself. It hits me for the first time how ridiculous Wyatt Conley looks in clerical robes. It seems as if no universe could ever allow him to be a man of the cloth; whatever else Conley is, he’s not a religious, moral person. Then again, in the Middle Ages, most cardinals weren’t. The position let men gain tremendous influence and political power. No wonder this universe’s Conley became a cardinal.
As solemnly as the church elder he pretends to be, Conley says, “If you’re worrying about being splintered yourself, Marguerite, let me put your mind at ease. Perfect travelers can’t splinter—it’s yet another of our advantages. But generally, a soul can be broken into as many pieces as you’d like. Dozens, even hundreds.”
The horror dizzies me. Is Paul torn apart even now, scattered across the entire multiverse?
“Don’t worry,” Conley says, in a tone that could be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know him well. His red robes look almost satanic in the firelight. “I went easy on you, didn’t smash him up too much. Four pieces, in four different dimensions. You just rescued the first one! See how easy it is? I gave you this splinter as a sign of good faith.”
Does he want me to thank him? “What do I have to do to get the coordinates for the other three dimensions?” Three more pieces of Paul’s soul. Three more worlds I have to find, and three more rescue missions.
Disgustingly satisfied with himself, Conley says, “I have a few errands for you.”
There it is—Triad Corporation’s iron fist closing around me.
But if this is the price of Paul’s soul, I have to pay.
“Let me explain precisely what I need.” Conley stands up straighter; his cardinal’s robes lend him an authority he doesn’t deserve. “Out there in the multiverse are two other dimensions where your parents are very close to developing Firebird technology. I would prefer that they didn’t.”
I fold my arms. “You mean you want to have all the power.”
“Who wouldn’t?” He shrugs. “Here’s how this is going to work. I have two dimensions working on Firebird research that need to be sabotaged as soon as possible. The next two splinters of Paul’s soul are hidden in those dimensions.” Conley’s thin fingers point at my own Firebird locket. “If you allow it, I can program your Firebird. You’ll receive the coordinates for the first of those dimensions—as well as a program you can use as a computer virus to destroy your parents’ research and your most valuable hardware.”
“How do I collect each splinter?” I clutch the spare Firebird more tightly. “The same way I’d give him a reminder? Just hold it against him, hit the combination on the locket?”
“Exactly. See? Easy as pie.”
Someday, when I have the luxury, I’m going to punch Wyatt Conley in the face. Hard.
Oblivious to my anger—or amused by it—Conley continues, “Collecting the second splinter of Paul’s soul will unlock the coordinates for the next dimension I need you to sabotage. Lather, rinse, repeat. Once you’ve done what I need you to do in each dimension, and gathered those two splinters, then you’ll come to the home office. Coordinates will be programmed into your Firebird with the rest.”
“The home office?” He must mean the Triadverse. “I don’t want to go there.”
“I have to check your work. When I go through your Firebird data, I’ll know whether you deployed the virus. If you’ve been a good girl—”
If there is any phrase I hate more than “good girl,” I don’t know what it is, and the words sound even more loathsome coming from Conley.
“—and you’ve stalled those dimensions’ research for a while, I’ll give you both the formula for Theo’s treatment and the coordinates for the final splinter of Paul’s soul. That final splinter is my insurance, you see. Your job is quite simple.”
Like it would ever be “simple” for me to betray my parents, much less while I’m afraid for both Paul’s and Theo’s lives. “You could have sent anyone to be your saboteur, or gone yourself.”
“There are dimensions where my reach is . . . limited.” It seems to gall Conley that he has to admit that he’s not omnipotent. “And yes, I could send certain other emissaries, but in order to do the kind of tricky work I’m looking for, they’d have to take Nightthief for a very, very long time. You know what that does to people now, don’t you?”
I remember Theo thrashing on our deck, body in spasm, skin pale. “Yes, I do.”
“We didn’t expect this one side effect. See, after a while, exposure to Nightthief takes away your ability to dream—hence the name. Sleep researchers still aren’t sure exactly why the ability to dream is so vitally important, but it is. Once you’ve lost it . . . let’s say mental processes start to break down rapidly, and dramatically.”
There’s something uniquely cruel about Theo dying because Wyatt Conley will no longer let him dream.
“As for the physiological damage—well, I don’t have to fill you in on that, do I? You’ve found out for yourself what Nightthief does to the lungs, the muscles, et cetera. But don’t worry about that. The lack of REM sleep will kill Theo before any of the rest progresses much further.” Conley smiles, though I don’t know what he thinks is so funny. I imagine taking one of the swords from the castle guards outside and stabbing it straight into his gut. He continues, “So, to sum up, do these errands for me, and in return, you get not one but two grand prizes. Once you report in to the home office, I’ll give you the formula for a solution that should ease Theo’s symptoms, maybe even reverse them.”
“That doesn’t sound like a cure.” If Conley intends to keep Theo sick—use him as a kind of hostage—I swear I’ll go for one of the swords right now.
Instead, Conley becomes serious and—possibly—sincere. “Marguerite, this is the best we have. If I could cure Nightthief exposure quickly, I wouldn’t need you, would I? But this treatment gives him a chance to heal. Keep treating him, and eventually, his body’s immune system should take care of the rest.”
Should. Not will. Still, I believe he’s telling the truth, only because he really wouldn’t need me if he had a cure.
