A Million Worlds with You
Page 76
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
And I’m willing to sacrifice myself for them both.
26
THE SUDDEN PRESSURE OF THE CHAIR BENEATH ME FEELS like an impact, though of course Wicked’s body has been sitting here all along. More startling is the silence—real silence—broken by the subtle whirr of the ventilation system and the newly strange sound of my own breath. I grip the armrests and open my eyes to look out on the darkly garish megalopolis stretching out from below Triad headquarters. Small airborne craft dart around the gigantic skyscrapers like fireflies in the night, and in the distance, one of the high-speed monorails shimmers with electricity, a scar of light on a gloomy horizon. The Home Office. I’m back to the beginning of the conspiracy at last.
I feel subtly different—as if I’d just gone swimming or done yoga, my body pleasantly energized instead of exhausted. Then I realize it’s because I’m alone in here. Wicked is off tormenting some other Marguerite somewhere, so I have this body all to myself. The last time I was here, her sorrow and anger weighed me down like an anchor. Now I’m free.
What time is it? To judge by the darkness and the relative stillness of the megalopolis outside, it’s the time of night when “very late” turns into “very early.” Perfect. The fewer people around to observe me, the better.
I get to my feet and start searching for this universe’s version of a computer terminal—a slim black panel that can be found on a table, or a wall, or even on the arm of a chair. If Wicked is Triad’s most trusted operative here in the Home Office, then her clearance should allow me to access any information I need. Do I look for a main computer core? For Firebird storage? Any damage I can do to their data would help, but I need to figure out how to maximize my impact—and, preferably, take the Home Office out of the universe-destruction business completely.
My parents would’ve had a better idea exactly what to target; so would Paul. Biting my lower lip, I wonder whether I should’ve told them about my plans after all.
The resistance! Memories flash through my mind as bright as victory banners: This world’s Paul and Theo, former employees of Triad, living as a band of outlaws on the murky, underpopulated surface of this world. The weapons they held. The mission they all agreed upon—the downfall of Triad.
If I can find them again, they can tell me what to target—and then Wicked’s body will become our ultimate weapon.
“Miss Caine?”
I turn to see two men standing in the doorway, both tall and blank-faced as mannequins. Although their monochromatic gray outfits differ only slightly from mine, instinctively I understand these guys are Triad security. Are they here to guard me or to guard against me?
“You sent no advance word of your return to this universe,” says the same guy who spoke before—that, or they both have the same dull, monotonous voice. “This activates primary security protocols. What was the color of the Beatles’ submarine?”
Not purple. My world is the only one where it’s purple. What did Wyatt Conley say about this? In some universes, the Beatles sang about a “Big Green Submarine,” but mostly the submarine is yellow. Shouldn’t I go with the most common one?
And yet I still can’t wrap my mind around the idea of a yellow submarine. So I roll the dice. “Green. The Beatles’ submarine was green.”
The guard lifts his arm and begins speaking into what must be a communicator bracelet: “All security to level forty-seven. Extra-dimensional intruder detected. Imposter Marguerite Caine reveals knowledge of entity called ‘the Beatles.’”
Trick question. Damn! I look around wildly for somewhere to run. A door farther down the hallway opens, and I brace myself for a phalanx of guards rushing in to arrest me—
—and instead I see Romola Harrington, again, wearing an outfit all in rich royal blue. One lock of her blond hair has escaped from its braid, marring her usual smug, placid expression. As she hurries toward us, she wrings her hands together and says, “You’re not supposed to be back yet.”
“Intruder,” the security guard says. “We’re taking her into custody now.”
“Indeed not.” Romola acts as though the butler asked her whether she wouldn’t rather eat her roast pheasant off a paper plate. “The other Marguerite requires level-one interrogation. Leave that to me.”
The security guard pauses. “Level one . . .”
Romola draws herself even more rigidly upright. I imagine her spine straightening until it snaps, but no such luck. “You don’t have the clearance. I do. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?”
The other guard, the silent one, hands over what must be a pair of handcuffs—though they’re made of plastic. Romola clicks them around my wrists as if she’s done this a thousand times before.
But she hasn’t, because one of the binders doesn’t fully close. It’s not locked, which means I can still get out. Despite the surge of triumph I feel, I bow my head as if in defeat and bide my time.
“You’ll receive the appropriate credit and commendations,” Romola says smoothly to the guards as she guides me toward the nearest elevator, her hand firm around my upper arm. “Please remain here to await further instructions.”
The guards nod as we walk into the elevator. I wait until the doors slide shut. As the floor shudders with the tiny jerk-and-give of motion, Romola says, “My goodness, I never thought—”
I don’t know what she never thought, and I don’t plan to find out, because that’s when I punch her in the face.
I’ve gotten better at hitting people since I started traveling with the Firebird, but it still hurts like hell. The heel of my hand jars against Romola’s jaw, sending her staggering backward. She grabs at my sleeve, though, and takes me down with her.
When we hit the floor of the elevator, I grab a fistful of her hair. “Where are my parents?”
“I don’t know!”
Romola sounds panicked—but in the very next moment, she clamps both her hands around my free wrist and twists hard enough to make me cry out and let her go. She tries to pin me, but I get one of my knees between us and use it to throw her off.
The security guards can’t reach us in here. Nobody’s coming to help her. Romola’s stronger than she looks, but she won’t want to hurt me badly, because this is Wicked’s body she’d be breaking. But I’m willing to mess both of them up, which means I’m going to win.
26
THE SUDDEN PRESSURE OF THE CHAIR BENEATH ME FEELS like an impact, though of course Wicked’s body has been sitting here all along. More startling is the silence—real silence—broken by the subtle whirr of the ventilation system and the newly strange sound of my own breath. I grip the armrests and open my eyes to look out on the darkly garish megalopolis stretching out from below Triad headquarters. Small airborne craft dart around the gigantic skyscrapers like fireflies in the night, and in the distance, one of the high-speed monorails shimmers with electricity, a scar of light on a gloomy horizon. The Home Office. I’m back to the beginning of the conspiracy at last.
I feel subtly different—as if I’d just gone swimming or done yoga, my body pleasantly energized instead of exhausted. Then I realize it’s because I’m alone in here. Wicked is off tormenting some other Marguerite somewhere, so I have this body all to myself. The last time I was here, her sorrow and anger weighed me down like an anchor. Now I’m free.
What time is it? To judge by the darkness and the relative stillness of the megalopolis outside, it’s the time of night when “very late” turns into “very early.” Perfect. The fewer people around to observe me, the better.
I get to my feet and start searching for this universe’s version of a computer terminal—a slim black panel that can be found on a table, or a wall, or even on the arm of a chair. If Wicked is Triad’s most trusted operative here in the Home Office, then her clearance should allow me to access any information I need. Do I look for a main computer core? For Firebird storage? Any damage I can do to their data would help, but I need to figure out how to maximize my impact—and, preferably, take the Home Office out of the universe-destruction business completely.
My parents would’ve had a better idea exactly what to target; so would Paul. Biting my lower lip, I wonder whether I should’ve told them about my plans after all.
The resistance! Memories flash through my mind as bright as victory banners: This world’s Paul and Theo, former employees of Triad, living as a band of outlaws on the murky, underpopulated surface of this world. The weapons they held. The mission they all agreed upon—the downfall of Triad.
If I can find them again, they can tell me what to target—and then Wicked’s body will become our ultimate weapon.
“Miss Caine?”
I turn to see two men standing in the doorway, both tall and blank-faced as mannequins. Although their monochromatic gray outfits differ only slightly from mine, instinctively I understand these guys are Triad security. Are they here to guard me or to guard against me?
“You sent no advance word of your return to this universe,” says the same guy who spoke before—that, or they both have the same dull, monotonous voice. “This activates primary security protocols. What was the color of the Beatles’ submarine?”
Not purple. My world is the only one where it’s purple. What did Wyatt Conley say about this? In some universes, the Beatles sang about a “Big Green Submarine,” but mostly the submarine is yellow. Shouldn’t I go with the most common one?
And yet I still can’t wrap my mind around the idea of a yellow submarine. So I roll the dice. “Green. The Beatles’ submarine was green.”
The guard lifts his arm and begins speaking into what must be a communicator bracelet: “All security to level forty-seven. Extra-dimensional intruder detected. Imposter Marguerite Caine reveals knowledge of entity called ‘the Beatles.’”
Trick question. Damn! I look around wildly for somewhere to run. A door farther down the hallway opens, and I brace myself for a phalanx of guards rushing in to arrest me—
—and instead I see Romola Harrington, again, wearing an outfit all in rich royal blue. One lock of her blond hair has escaped from its braid, marring her usual smug, placid expression. As she hurries toward us, she wrings her hands together and says, “You’re not supposed to be back yet.”
“Intruder,” the security guard says. “We’re taking her into custody now.”
“Indeed not.” Romola acts as though the butler asked her whether she wouldn’t rather eat her roast pheasant off a paper plate. “The other Marguerite requires level-one interrogation. Leave that to me.”
The security guard pauses. “Level one . . .”
Romola draws herself even more rigidly upright. I imagine her spine straightening until it snaps, but no such luck. “You don’t have the clearance. I do. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?”
The other guard, the silent one, hands over what must be a pair of handcuffs—though they’re made of plastic. Romola clicks them around my wrists as if she’s done this a thousand times before.
But she hasn’t, because one of the binders doesn’t fully close. It’s not locked, which means I can still get out. Despite the surge of triumph I feel, I bow my head as if in defeat and bide my time.
“You’ll receive the appropriate credit and commendations,” Romola says smoothly to the guards as she guides me toward the nearest elevator, her hand firm around my upper arm. “Please remain here to await further instructions.”
The guards nod as we walk into the elevator. I wait until the doors slide shut. As the floor shudders with the tiny jerk-and-give of motion, Romola says, “My goodness, I never thought—”
I don’t know what she never thought, and I don’t plan to find out, because that’s when I punch her in the face.
I’ve gotten better at hitting people since I started traveling with the Firebird, but it still hurts like hell. The heel of my hand jars against Romola’s jaw, sending her staggering backward. She grabs at my sleeve, though, and takes me down with her.
When we hit the floor of the elevator, I grab a fistful of her hair. “Where are my parents?”
“I don’t know!”
Romola sounds panicked—but in the very next moment, she clamps both her hands around my free wrist and twists hard enough to make me cry out and let her go. She tries to pin me, but I get one of my knees between us and use it to throw her off.
The security guards can’t reach us in here. Nobody’s coming to help her. Romola’s stronger than she looks, but she won’t want to hurt me badly, because this is Wicked’s body she’d be breaking. But I’m willing to mess both of them up, which means I’m going to win.
