A Million Worlds with You
Page 74
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I laugh. Ours, which is terrifying enough.
Dad shows this to Mom, and the two of them get this gooey-sweet expression as they look at Valentina—like they’re melting inside at the mere sight of their almost-grandchild. Meanwhile Valentina stares at all of us with suspicion. I think she’s figured out we’re a bunch of impostors.
Mom shifts Valentina onto her hip with practiced ease, and the four of us sit down at the table with the embroidered cloth, paper and pen at the ready to explain what’s going on.
My father begins, with his chicken-scratch scrawl, Once we had enough Firebirds collected from the various dimensions, your mother and I realized we could speed the process up considerably by finally traveling ourselves. Rather than leave P and T to build all stabilizer devices to protect the dimensions, we could handle a few of them in person.
Theo has taken over communication between the universes for now, Mom writes next, her other arm wrapped around Valentina in her lap. Her handwriting is as delicate and precise as she is. He’s still feeling ill, so Josie’s come home to help him out.
Dad taps the piece of paper, wanting his say: You can imagine how appalled she was when we told her the Home Office’s motivation. She said she’d rather be dead a thousand times over—any version of her would, and I believe her—
Mom gives Dad a look as she takes the pen back. Time is of the essence. Thanks to data from the other universes, particularly the tracking information from the Warverse, we’ve determined that the Home Office has changed its plan of attack. They’re going after more source vectors now.
I suck in a breath and grab the pen. You mean, they’re willing to kill even more dimensions?
My parents nod. Paul mutters something that I don’t have to lip-read to understand is profanity. The enormity of the Home Office’s crimes already stretched almost beyond my ability to comprehend it, and yet they can still become worse. Is there no end to this? How can we ever stop these dark versions of my parents and Wyatt Conley, all of whom are just as smart and several technological steps ahead?
We can’t, whispers a traitorous voice in my head, the memory of sound amid the constant rush of white noise.
It’s Paul who resumes writing. Although we should start building the stabilizer for this universe immediately, I have a theory we should explore about using the Firebirds themselves instead. We could link two Firebirds together. If one device were directed to increase the matter-antimatter asymmetry in a dimension, and the other were set to overload—he pauses writing to mime, on his own Firebird, exactly how that might be done—the overload might provide as much power as any stabilizer. Meaning two travelers could save a universe, though of course one Firebird would be sacrificed, stranding the traveler there for the time being. But in a worst-case scenario, this option could help us.
Dad takes the pen next. Fascinating stuff! But we should stick to what we know works, for now. We can all split up as soon as we’re sure things are underway here, and then we’ll find out which dimensions to target next. Where can we get the raw materials for the stabilizer?
Paul responds, Marguerite and I got here last night, so we haven’t had much time to figure out where we study or work.
I notice the pause between his writing so and we—the unconscious acknowledgment of what we did spend last night doing. Before Mom and Dad can pick up on that, I grab the pen. Actually, I work as a muralist for the Communist Party. When I got to this dimension, I was painting Paul as a peasant following Lenin to the socialist paradise of the future. This is amusing, but irrelevant, so I add, I’m calling this the Moscowverse.
They start going through their pockets and our mail to see what clues they can pick up. The USSR Academy of Sciences turns out to be not far away, and Dad, Mom, and Paul all have IDs (plain paper, filled out by typewriter, no photos). Before long, Paul and my father have also found a map of Moscow and start trying to figure out how far the university is from here.
As they do so, my mother puts down the wriggling Valentina, who crawls toward her blocks with only one backward glance that clearly means, I’m onto you people. Mom watches her, enraptured, only reluctantly turning back to write, I knew you and Paul might have an extraordinary child, but actually seeing her amazes me.
She’s not ours, Mom. Not even in the very limited way the grand duchess’s child is ours—though I actually haven’t even told my parents about that yet. Now is so incredibly not the time. She belongs to the Paul and Marguerite from this universe. Looks like we met about five years ago here. He learned sign language for me.
I expect Mom to find that almost as adorable as Valentina. My parents have been almost disturbingly enthusiastic cheerleaders for Paul and me since the beginning. Instead she leans back in her chair, wincing as if in pain. Concerned, I touch her arm, but she shakes her head and picks up the pen again. Was it the meningitis?
You mean, is that why I’m deaf? I guess so, but I don’t know. It must have been a long time ago, here. Besides, it’s not as if deaf people walk around with cards saying, This is the specific reason I can’t hear you. It’s not like I could ask anyone.
Mom shakes her head as she writes back, It’s just so hard to see you like this.
Why? It doesn’t hurt. Honestly, Mom I don’t even miss sound that much. I don’t need to hear in order to be a painter.
But you can’t hear your baby or Paul—the person you are in this universe might not even remember the sounds of our voices.
The weirdest thing about Mom’s unhappiness is that, before I came to the Moscowverse, I might have felt just like she does. Now I shake my head no, vehemently, before reclaiming the pen. That doesn’t mean I don’t remember you, or feel how much you love me. I mean, it matters—I’m sure this Marguerite has to deal with a lot of problems I haven’t even thought of yet—but it’s not some massive tragedy. It’s just another way to be. That’s all.
I don’t think I’ve convinced my mother, but she lets it go, nodding without writing another word.
So I ask, Your first trip into another dimension. What do you think?
It’s extraordinary. Mom smiles again, glowing but wistful. Actually living within another self. Though I would have chosen a locale besides the USSR. This was all we ever wanted from the Firebirds—a chance to see other quantum realities. To explore more of the multiverse. Only to learn. Instead, we’re trapped chasing the worst versions of ourselves, and for the saddest reason imaginable.
Dad shows this to Mom, and the two of them get this gooey-sweet expression as they look at Valentina—like they’re melting inside at the mere sight of their almost-grandchild. Meanwhile Valentina stares at all of us with suspicion. I think she’s figured out we’re a bunch of impostors.
Mom shifts Valentina onto her hip with practiced ease, and the four of us sit down at the table with the embroidered cloth, paper and pen at the ready to explain what’s going on.
My father begins, with his chicken-scratch scrawl, Once we had enough Firebirds collected from the various dimensions, your mother and I realized we could speed the process up considerably by finally traveling ourselves. Rather than leave P and T to build all stabilizer devices to protect the dimensions, we could handle a few of them in person.
Theo has taken over communication between the universes for now, Mom writes next, her other arm wrapped around Valentina in her lap. Her handwriting is as delicate and precise as she is. He’s still feeling ill, so Josie’s come home to help him out.
Dad taps the piece of paper, wanting his say: You can imagine how appalled she was when we told her the Home Office’s motivation. She said she’d rather be dead a thousand times over—any version of her would, and I believe her—
Mom gives Dad a look as she takes the pen back. Time is of the essence. Thanks to data from the other universes, particularly the tracking information from the Warverse, we’ve determined that the Home Office has changed its plan of attack. They’re going after more source vectors now.
I suck in a breath and grab the pen. You mean, they’re willing to kill even more dimensions?
My parents nod. Paul mutters something that I don’t have to lip-read to understand is profanity. The enormity of the Home Office’s crimes already stretched almost beyond my ability to comprehend it, and yet they can still become worse. Is there no end to this? How can we ever stop these dark versions of my parents and Wyatt Conley, all of whom are just as smart and several technological steps ahead?
We can’t, whispers a traitorous voice in my head, the memory of sound amid the constant rush of white noise.
It’s Paul who resumes writing. Although we should start building the stabilizer for this universe immediately, I have a theory we should explore about using the Firebirds themselves instead. We could link two Firebirds together. If one device were directed to increase the matter-antimatter asymmetry in a dimension, and the other were set to overload—he pauses writing to mime, on his own Firebird, exactly how that might be done—the overload might provide as much power as any stabilizer. Meaning two travelers could save a universe, though of course one Firebird would be sacrificed, stranding the traveler there for the time being. But in a worst-case scenario, this option could help us.
Dad takes the pen next. Fascinating stuff! But we should stick to what we know works, for now. We can all split up as soon as we’re sure things are underway here, and then we’ll find out which dimensions to target next. Where can we get the raw materials for the stabilizer?
Paul responds, Marguerite and I got here last night, so we haven’t had much time to figure out where we study or work.
I notice the pause between his writing so and we—the unconscious acknowledgment of what we did spend last night doing. Before Mom and Dad can pick up on that, I grab the pen. Actually, I work as a muralist for the Communist Party. When I got to this dimension, I was painting Paul as a peasant following Lenin to the socialist paradise of the future. This is amusing, but irrelevant, so I add, I’m calling this the Moscowverse.
They start going through their pockets and our mail to see what clues they can pick up. The USSR Academy of Sciences turns out to be not far away, and Dad, Mom, and Paul all have IDs (plain paper, filled out by typewriter, no photos). Before long, Paul and my father have also found a map of Moscow and start trying to figure out how far the university is from here.
As they do so, my mother puts down the wriggling Valentina, who crawls toward her blocks with only one backward glance that clearly means, I’m onto you people. Mom watches her, enraptured, only reluctantly turning back to write, I knew you and Paul might have an extraordinary child, but actually seeing her amazes me.
She’s not ours, Mom. Not even in the very limited way the grand duchess’s child is ours—though I actually haven’t even told my parents about that yet. Now is so incredibly not the time. She belongs to the Paul and Marguerite from this universe. Looks like we met about five years ago here. He learned sign language for me.
I expect Mom to find that almost as adorable as Valentina. My parents have been almost disturbingly enthusiastic cheerleaders for Paul and me since the beginning. Instead she leans back in her chair, wincing as if in pain. Concerned, I touch her arm, but she shakes her head and picks up the pen again. Was it the meningitis?
You mean, is that why I’m deaf? I guess so, but I don’t know. It must have been a long time ago, here. Besides, it’s not as if deaf people walk around with cards saying, This is the specific reason I can’t hear you. It’s not like I could ask anyone.
Mom shakes her head as she writes back, It’s just so hard to see you like this.
Why? It doesn’t hurt. Honestly, Mom I don’t even miss sound that much. I don’t need to hear in order to be a painter.
But you can’t hear your baby or Paul—the person you are in this universe might not even remember the sounds of our voices.
The weirdest thing about Mom’s unhappiness is that, before I came to the Moscowverse, I might have felt just like she does. Now I shake my head no, vehemently, before reclaiming the pen. That doesn’t mean I don’t remember you, or feel how much you love me. I mean, it matters—I’m sure this Marguerite has to deal with a lot of problems I haven’t even thought of yet—but it’s not some massive tragedy. It’s just another way to be. That’s all.
I don’t think I’ve convinced my mother, but she lets it go, nodding without writing another word.
So I ask, Your first trip into another dimension. What do you think?
It’s extraordinary. Mom smiles again, glowing but wistful. Actually living within another self. Though I would have chosen a locale besides the USSR. This was all we ever wanted from the Firebirds—a chance to see other quantum realities. To explore more of the multiverse. Only to learn. Instead, we’re trapped chasing the worst versions of ourselves, and for the saddest reason imaginable.
