Ten Thousand Skies Above You (14 page)

“Sorry, Theo. I just meant— Paul, I told you there was such a thing as destiny. It brings us together, over and over
again, dimension after dimension. Destiny won't let you down.”

“I wish I could believe that.” Paul stands up and walks to the door. Apparently emotional sharing time is over. “One of the men on security detail can show you two out.”

“Why out?” Theo takes his Firebird in hand. “Marguerite and I can pop out right here. Then you can explain to our other, slightly lesser versions exactly what the hell is going on, because, trust me, they're gonna want to know.”

Paul opens the door. “I don't want to watch,” he says quietly. “I'll come for you both immediately. But when you—go back to the way things were—I don't want to see that happen.”

He means he doesn't want to watch the moment when this world's Theo and I once again look at each other with love.

I walk out, knowing Theo will follow, and I don't allow myself to look at Paul's face again.

Once Theo and I are alone in the corridor, accompanied by the sound of typewriters clattering within office doors, he says, “Look on the bright side, chica. We've got the Firebird. We've got a good cover story in place. This is progress.”

I swallow the lump in my throat to reply. “Conley might find out we didn't really sabotage them.” Even before I suggested the plan, I knew that was a risk. That risk looms larger now, casting its shadow over my hopes.

“Yeah, he might. But we could make it seem like this Paul tricked us, something like that. And if this world's
Conley never learns the truth, we might get away with it completely.”

“He has to learn eventually, doesn't he?”

“Eventually could be a long time from now.” As Theo opens the door and we walk outside, he glances over his shoulder, in the direction we came from. “This Paul's kind of a hard-ass, isn't he?

“No. Just hurt.” I think of the way he looked at me last night—hopeful, dazzled, halfway to being in love—and I feel even more like scum than before.

But Theo's right about one thing. We have the Firebirds. So far as Conley knows, we completed half the job. One more dimension, one more mission, one more betrayal. Then and only then will we go to the home office and learn the final universe hiding the last splinter of Paul's soul.

“At least we have something to use against Conley now.” That was the idea I clung to when this trip began—that I'd find a way to undermine Conley, that instead of simply doing his bidding, I'd turn his own plan against him. “Conley wants to monopolize the ability to travel through dimensions. Now we've guaranteed that's not going to happen.”

Slowly, Theo smiles. “There's that fighting spirit. Now, do we know where we're headed?”

Quickly I double-check my Firebird around my neck; the second set of coordinates have been unlocked. “Yeah, sending you the data now. Mission one-half accomplished. Let's go.”

Theo pauses. “A whole other world.” When I give him a look, he shakes his head. “I know that's the idea. But it's like I only just started believing this place was real.”

“Soon it's going to seem like a bad dream,” I reassure him.

“I don't know,” Theo says as he takes his Firebird in hand. “This place had its benefits.”

Our eyes meet, and I know he's remembering the way he kissed me last night.

But it's over in an instant, as the Firebird rips us out of these bodies, this world, forever.

WHEN I SLAM INTO MYSELF, I'M WALKING ALONG A CROWDED
sidewalk, and I nearly trip over my own feet.

A beefy guy in a Yankees jersey bumps into me from behind. “Hey, it's a side
walk
. For walking. Got it?”

Another voice nearby mutters, “Tourists.”

I flatten myself against the nearest building, where I won't be in anyone's way. Where have I wound up this time? It's daylight, and there are—wow, hundreds of people and at least three food carts just on this stretch of sidewalk.

I look up and start to smile, because even though I've never been here before, I know exactly where I am.

Times Square.

Visitors to the city clutch shopping bags or record the scene on their smartphones, while locals in business clothes walk twice as fast as anyone else as they weave in and out. Although I can hear car horns nearby, the street right next to
me seems to have been closed off a long time ago; the space is instead filled with shaded picnic tables, where people eat and hang out. Above me are tall buildings bearing billboards about the size of my house, and so many glittering lights that they shine even in the middle of the day. Nearby a news ticker scrolls headlines like:

PRESIDENT AND FIRST LADY TO MAKE STATE VISIT TO BRAZIL

NISSAN AND TOYOTA ANNOUNCE MERGER

UK PARLIAMENT VOTES FOR GENERAL ELECTION

OSCAR WINNER HUGH JACKMAN RELEASED FROM HOSPITAL.

Those all look familiar enough—except that I don't think Hugh Jackman has won an Academy Award in my world. Beside the fact that I'm in New York City, this dimension doesn't appear to be very different from my own. At any rate, it's better than the desolate world at war we left behind.

For a moment I remember Paul saying goodbye to me there—the distrust, the betrayal in his eyes. Just thinking about it burns. No, I don't ever want to see that Warverse again.

My clothes seem like exactly the kind of thing I'd have at home—though the dark green dress and the low-heeled lace-up oxfords are a little fancier than I'd generally wear for everyday. A cross-body bag hangs at my hip, and I start fishing around inside for clues. Keys, lip gloss, chewing gum: All that tells me is that Clinique and Trident exist here too.
Inside a silver leather wallet I find a New York State ID card—no driver's license—but my address is printed on the ID, so now I know I live on Eighty-Third Street. Also a yellow and blue Metrocard, which I'm guessing is what you use on the subway. Some cash, a case for the sunglasses I realize I'm wearing atop my head, and—
yes
. My smartphone.

It wants a code to unlock. At home I use Josie's birthday, so I plug that in and, boom, I'm in.
Maybe I should be less predictable,
I think, but I can't stop smiling.

Before anything else, I go into contacts and scroll down to the
M
s. Then the
P
s. Paul isn't listed.

Do I not even know him in this universe? This is New York City; in our world, that's where Paul was born. So he should be here, shouldn't he? If I can't get to this dimension's Paul Markov, how am I supposed to rescue the next part of Paul's soul?

Maybe you just haven't met this world's Paul yet,
I remind myself.
Or you might already know him, but the two of you aren't close enough to exchange numbers at this point.
Paul had worked with my parents almost a year before I put his number in my phone; I didn't need to contact him on my own, and even if I had, he was at my house nearly every day. Texting him wasn't a big priority.

The tight coil of fear within me slowly relaxes. I shouldn't panic yet.

Resigned, I scan through the rest of my contacts. There's Mom, Dad, Josie—and yes, Theo, here in NYC so no need to use the locator on the Firebird—but that's when my phone
buzzes and a calendar alert comes up:
Movie w/R at AMC 42nd
. Looks like that's in fifteen minutes.

I'm only a couple of blocks from Forty-Second, as it turns out. So I hurry through the packs of people gawking at the signs, the other tourists, and the Hello Kitty store. Obviously I'd rather spend the next couple of hours studying this dimension than sitting in a movie theater, but if I'm going to pass as this world's Marguerite, I shouldn't blow off her plans without a good reason.

When I get to the front of the theater, I'm not sure whether to go in or to wait outside for someone to recognize me—which is when I hear a woman's voice call out, in an English accent, “Marguerite! There you are!”

I turn around to see Romola.

Somehow I manage to conceal my astonishment. It's definitely her: same dark gold hair, same square jaw and stubborn chin. We've run into each other in a couple of worlds now, but never before have we been friends. Here, though, Romola comes up to me with a smile on her face. Instead of the expensive, glamorous clothes she wore in the Londonverse, she's got on normal jeans and a sweater. As she walks up to me, she smiles and holds up her phone, revealing a bar code. “Since you were running late, I went ahead and bought our tickets.”

“Thanks,” I say, but then I can't think what to add.

Fortunately Romola's ahead of me. “You can make it up to me by getting the popcorn. And M&M's! They're so good mixed together.”

Her presence here weirds me out in a way I can't explain, even to myself. She's someone I've met before, but never known well. I thought of Romola as—an accident, a coincidence. Not a person who was supposed to mean a lot to me.

Just like Paul should be everyplace, everywhere with me, and he's not.

The movie turns out to be one I'd meant to see at home, and Romola's right about the popcorn-plus-M&M's mix. So by the time we're walking out of the theater in the late afternoon, my mood has improved. This world is no more dangerous than my own; Mom, Dad, and Josie are all alive and well; and there's a text message waiting for me from Theo, which says only, Turns out I live in Alphabet City. Headed your way.

“Tonight's the big dinner, isn't it?” Romola's smile turns almost wicked as she says it. “You have to tell me
everything
.”

As casually as possible, I ask, “What do you want for the highlight reel?”

“Let's see. The absolute most awkward question your parents ask him. And oh, if he looks intimidated or even unsure at any moment, get a photo if you can, would you? I can't wait to see my big, bad boss being interrogated by your parents.” She's joking, but not; her glee at the thought of this dinner is real.

So in this world, we met through her boss? Maybe she works for some other world-class scientist; that might explain how Romola and I keep coming together. Right now she's
looking at me for a reply, one I'm not sure how to make, so I bunt. “Oh, sure, I'll film the whole thing, zoom in on his face. He won't notice that.”

The sarcasm covers my ignorance well enough. Romola just laughs. “All right, all right, we'll talk next week, and you can tell me all about it.”

“Okay.”

Romola hugs me before she leaves. Somehow I manage to return the hug without stiffening up. Then I walk to the closest subway station and spend a while searching on my smartphone until I find an app that will tell me how to get to any address via public transit.

For the record: the New York subway is even more disgusting than Bay Area Rapid Transit. I didn't think that was possible. It's faster, though, because within ten minutes I'm staring up at the high-rise apartment building where I apparently live. A uniformed man at the door smiles at me. “Miss Caine. Welcome back. How was your day?”

That must be the doorman. “Great, thanks,” I manage to say before ducking inside; it doesn't look like any more conversation is required.

Apartment 28G ought to be on the twenty-eighth floor, so I head up in the elevator. As I walk toward the apartment door, I hear the faint strains of “Here Comes the Sun” in the hallway, and I grin. Dad's home.

I walk into an apartment that's even smaller than the house we had in the poverty-stricken war dimension—but unlike that place, this is immediately recognizable as our
home. A houseplant hangs from a hook in one corner, with its long vines trailing along the tops of the windowsills. Piles of books and papers sit on the table and in the corners. The walls are painted a sunshiny yellow, and on the leather sofa sits my father, laptop on his knees, typing away.

“There you are,” Mom says, as Dad glances my way just long enough to smile. She walks out of what must be her bedroom wearing a dark blue sheath dress—simple enough, but pretty fancy for someone who normally sticks to jeans and threadbare sweaters. Head tilted, she puts on an earring as she says, “I didn't think you'd make it back before dinner.”

“Here I am. Hey, you look nice.”

Mom sighs. “I don't want Josie to think we're not taking this seriously.”

“I only wish I could believe
she
wasn't taking this seriously,” Dad says without looking up from his computer. “Honestly. After only two months?”

“Now, Henry. We made up our minds after less than a day.” My mother rests one hand on my father's shoulder, and he closes his laptop to smile at her. She continues, “The speed of their courtship isn't the issue. Or it wouldn't be, if I had a stronger sense of who he is. But—there's something elusive about him. Something hidden. I don't like it.”

“Tonight's our chance to question him,” Dad says. “Don't think I don't intend to make use of it, no matter how la-di-da this restaurant is.”

“You sound like a police investigator going after a suspect.” Mom leans down and kisses his forehead. “Good.”

The dots aren't difficult to connect. Josie's dating someone seriously—Romola's boss, from the sound of it. This isn't as remarkable to me as the fact that Josie's either engaged to him or about to be. Normally my sister seems to go for quantity over quality with her boyfriends; she's not a party animal or anything, but lots of guys love the same adrenaline sports she does, so she meets someone new all the time. Josie always swore she'd only get serious about a guy after she had some idea where she'd end up, professionally speaking.
I don't want to sacrifice my dreams for anybody
, she said once.
And I don't want him to have to sacrifice his dreams for me
. That's kind of hard core—but that's Josie.

Here, however, some guy won her over in just two months? This man I have to see.

“How long until we leave?” I ask.

Dad says, “Thirty minutes or so. I ought to grade a few more midterms, shouldn't I? Say no.”

“Yes,” Mom calls from her room. Dad sighs.

I find my room on the first try—and exhale in relief as I see my paintings on the walls. My style here is much the same as at home: very realistic, except for my use of color. Here, I stick to a muted, limited palette for each portrait, giving the finished work a definite mood. Josie's picture glows with reds and pinks; Mom's reflects cerebral silvers and blues; Dad's has soft sunny golds; and . . . then there's Theo.

For his portrait I used bronze, orange, burnt sienna—colors both grounded and yet somehow electric. His dark
eyes seem to shine as he looks out from his picture.

I don't see a portrait of Paul.

Frustrated, I run a search on my tablet. “Paul Markov, physicist” comes up with zero results. So does “Paul Markov, scientist.”

My fear comes rushing back. Wouldn't Paul be a scientist in any world he possibly could? In a dimension so much like our own, wouldn't he go into physics, just like before? It seems as if nothing could keep him from that destiny, unless he's seriously ill, or his parents never emigrated from Russia.

How am I supposed to find him if he's in Russia? Over there, his name is so common he might as well be called John Smith. Besides, how would I even get there?

I try again, with his name and his birthday. Then an image shows up—something from a school webpage, some years old now—but I smile as I see it. That kid in a plaid shirt, surely no more than ten years old: I'd know him anywhere. Paul doesn't keep any photos from his childhood, so I've never seen him as a little boy before. Of course he was completely
adorable
. My fingers trace over the screen, outlining his baby face.

Then I realize that the school is one here in New York City, and I laugh out loud in relief.

Encouraged, I search a little more online. He doesn't have a Twitter account or anything like that, but he doesn't in my world either. None of the universities list him as a student. He doesn't seem to participate in any of the rock-climbing or hiking clubs I can find in the area either.

Finally I locate a Facebook page, which is set to private. The one photo I can see shows him from the side, looking away from the camera; it's like Paul clipped the image from the background of a photo of someone or something else. Bad as the picture is, I'd recognize him anywhere—even here, when he's wearing a tailored leather jacket that seems entirely unlike anything he'd own. Same gray eyes; same broad shoulders. I look closer, seeking that lost, lonely expression that always touches me—but the shadows in the picture render his face unreadable.

It's easy for me to imagine this picture as an image of the Paul from the Warverse; something about the lines of the leather jacket reminds me of his military uniform. His stricken face as Theo and I walked away . . . I hurt him so much, giving him hope and then crushing it. Maybe I had no other choice; maybe the situation worked out for the best. Doesn't make it any easier to think about wounding Paul after Paul, in world after world.

Try not to screw it up this time,
I tell myself.

Easier said than done. Without any school or job listed for Paul, I have no way of arranging an accidental meeting. Somehow, I have to get him to reach out to me.