Dissonance (29 page)

“He knows the risks. So do you.”

“I know. I just thought . . .”

“That you were immune?” He wasn't mocking me. If anything, his voice was careful and kind, our fight forgotten.

It sounded ridiculous, when he put it like that. No Walker was immune to bad frequencies, but my tolerance had always been higher than anyone in our class, higher than even Addie.
More like my dad, or Monty, both of whom were known for their ability to withstand dissonance.

Except their abilities had failed them. Monty had lost my grandmother and his mind. My dad was upstairs in bed, barely coherent, lucky to be alive. What if mine failed too? What if my time with Echo Simon was actually destroying me—and my future?

I didn't want to ask Eliot. The topic of Simon was too raw between us. Instead I said, “He's my dad. I thought he could do anything. It's weird to see that he can't.”

“The Echo acted like Park World,” Eliot said after a brief hesitation. “Worse than predicted, accelerated destabilization. The only difference is that they were already planning on cleaving it.”

“You think Park World is part of the anomaly they're looking for?”

“Could be. I'll do some more digging. If we can prove the anomaly affected Park World, the Consort would have to overturn your suspension.”

Which was great, but it didn't help my dad. Addie rapped on the kitchen window and beckoned me inside.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked.

“It's pretty late. I'll see you tomorrow.” I hugged him tightly, felt his lips brush my crown. “I'm glad you were here.”

“Me too.”

I stayed outside after he left, listening to the creak of the swing and the wind rustling in the trees. The air had that late-fall,
damp-leaf smell, spicy and earthy and faintly musty, like something locked away for a long time.

My mom never would have sent my father into danger without preparing him. Even if an Echo destabilized unexpectedly, my dad and his team should have known to get out.

The easiest explanation was that my mom had made a mistake in her calculations. But that didn't fit. My mother, like Addie, didn't make mistakes. And it didn't explain how my dad had misjudged the frequency. Eliot was right: The anomaly was the only explanation.

The minute I'd stepped into Park World, I'd known the frequency was worse than she'd told us. The fabric had cleaved so easily, so quickly—like frayed rope. Eliot had insisted that there'd been something wrong, and I'd been equally certain my mom was right.

Maybe they'd both been right. Maybe the branches were shifting faster than anyone realized. Inversions, Baroque events, Echoes that cleaved too fast—something was pulling worlds off balance, creating Echoes too strong and flawed to sustain themselves.

And Simon was caught in it.

Addie pushed open the screen door. “Are you coming in? I made cocoa.”

I stretched, trying to ease the tension in my muscles. “How's Dad?”

“He's resting. Mom's with him. It's the longest she's been out of her office in weeks.”

I sat down at the island, poked at the glob of Marshmallow Fluff bobbing on the cocoa's surface. “It's worse than they told us.”

“I know.” Her mouth was a flat line, her eyes fever bright. “Monty's not doing great, by the way. He's convinced Dad saw Grandma out there. I had to lock his door from the outside.”

That didn't mean he'd stay; it was Monty who'd taught me how to use pivots to sneak out in the first place. But Addie had enough to worry about.

“I'm tired of them cutting us out,” she said in a low voice. “I don't care if it is classified. Dad could have died today.”

He hadn't known me. For an instant my father had looked at me without recognition, and I knew we'd come closer to losing him than the doctor admitted. “You're the one with the plans,” I said. “Tell me what to do.”

“We can't go back to that Echo,” she said. “But we could find a similar frequency. It might give us an idea of what he was dealing with. Where was he today?”

“No idea. Mom and I aren't exactly on the best of terms lately. But she'd have a record in her office.”

We both looked at the heavy oak door.

“It's locked,” Addie pointed out. “If you ask her for the key, she'll know we're up to something.”

“I don't need to ask.” I smiled, relief breaking over me. Finally, something concrete to do, instead of sitting around worrying, making tea and plans. “And I don't need a key.”

H
URRY UP,” ADDIE
hissed.

“Stop crowding me. And quit whispering. She'll think we're up to something.”

“We
are
up to something.” Addie wrung her hands like a little old lady while I worked the lock picks.

“No wonder you never do anything wrong,” I said. “You suck at it.”

“And you have way too much practice,” she said, as the last pin clicked into place.

I turned the knob and the door swung open silently. “Ready?”

“She's going to kill us if she catches us.”

“Then let's not get caught.” I stepped inside the darkened room, Addie tripping over my heels.

Unlike Addie, I didn't spend a lot of time in my mom's office. I'd never noticed the snapshots propped on shelves and taped to the wall. Pictures of us on vacations, on Walks. Shots of Addie and me in matching outfits—which we'd stopped wearing, thankfully, by the time I turned four. My dad carrying me on his shoulders while we hiked the Grand Canyon. Monty's birthday party, when I was a newborn in a pink terry-cloth sleeper. Our
family's history, and she kept it close at hand. The resentment that had been fueling me over the last few weeks ebbed slightly.

Addie put her finger to her lips and tiptoed across the room, sitting down at the desk with exaggerated care.

“It's soundproof,” I said. “She's not going to hear us.”

Addie ignored me, scrolling through windows on the computer. “It's got to be here.”

I stooped to examine the haphazard pile of books on the floor. “Some of these records go back twenty years. They're totally outdated.”

“Archivists keep baseline readings of an Echo forever. Helps with deep analysis.” She peered at the display, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “They're total pack rats.”

Her tone was surprisingly affectionate, considering how much Addie hated clutter. “Know a lot of archivists? Anyone special?”

She shot me a dirty look.

I plopped down and paged through the nearest record book. “Two decades of Echoes,” I said. “Can you imagine how many pivots have formed since then? That's a crazy amount of data to analyze, even for one branch. It would take years.”

“Not if you had a Consort computer,” Addie said. “Like the one Mom's been using downtown. They must think the problem is in one of the older branches.”

I scanned several reports. “Monty was First Chair on a lot of these Walks. Maybe that's why Lattimer is interested in him. He thinks Monty knows something about these branches that didn't get recorded.”

“Monty can't remember what day it is,” she said. “He's not going to remember details from a bunch of Walks he took twenty years ago.”

“It's new stuff he can't keep track of. His long-term memory is fine—look at how upset he gets when Lattimer comes around.”

“He blames the Consort for Grandma disappearing,” she said dismissively. “He thinks they didn't look hard enough, and seeing Lattimer again has brought it all back. He's using our Walks to look for Grandma, you know. He insists on picking which Echoes we visit.”

I'd figured as much. “Do you remember her?”

Addie shook her head, strawberry blond waves rippling. “I was only four when we moved back. She smelled like lilacs, I think.”

“Do you think she meant to leave, or was it an accident?”

“I think she's gone,” she said. “The why doesn't matter. Monty's damaged either way.”

It made me think of Simon, trying desperately to charm people into staying, because everyone who was supposed to love him had either left him or was going to.

She made a noise of surprise. “That's weird. When the new teams came in, they were averaging six or seven cleavings a day. Now they're down to one or two. Sometimes even less.”

“They're making progress.”

“Not according to these maps.” She sifted through the papers next to the computer, comparing them to the display. “Okay, this makes more sense. The teams started out cleaving the most
unstable Echoes, but they were fairly recent branches. Two or three years old at most. They're moving backward now, cleaving bigger, older branches. Cleaving Echoes that complex takes more time.”

“Which increases your chance of frequency poisoning?”

“Exactly. I'm looking at the record of Dad's Walk, and the Echo was twelve years old. According to Mom's analysis, the cleaving should have taken four or five hours.”

“Dad's team stayed a lot longer than they'd planned to.” I paused. “The instability is a sign of an infection, and it's spreading—newer Echoes to older ones, smaller to bigger. That's why they've brought in so many teams. They're trying to stop the infection.”

“Monty was right,” Addie said darkly. “They're going at it backward. They're treating the symptoms. We need to find the source.”

•  •  •

We left the office as we'd found it, locking the door and creeping upstairs. Addie was taut as a bowstring and as likely to snap. I should have felt relieved. The Consort had discovered the anomaly before I'd cleaved Park World, before I'd started seeing Simon's Echoes, before he'd triggered Baroque events. Whatever was wrong in the Echoes, it wasn't my fault or Simon's. Even so, I was worried. We were symptoms, and that's what the Consort was hunting.

Rarely, an individual will choose not to participate in the calling of the Walkers. In deciding to leave our community, they forfeit the right to Walk, and in doing so, their freedom.

—Chapter Ten, “Ethics and Governance,”

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

H
OW ARE YOU
feeling?” I asked my dad the next afternoon. He was resting on the couch on orders from my mom, who'd put me in charge while she finished up work. I handed him another cup of tea.

He pushed it aside. “Ready to get off this couch.”

“Good luck with that. Mom's on a rampage.”

Something between a grin and a grimace crossed his face.

“Are you better?” I asked.

He was quiet for a long time, and the fear opened up like a chasm at my feet. He had to be all right, because that's what dads are supposed to do: Be all right. Make everything all right. Anything less was unacceptable.

“I'm better,” he said eventually. “It was . . . not a picnic.”

When I was a kid, we'd gone on plenty of picnics. Short jaunts to get Addie and me used to the sensation of Walking. As
my parents had risen in the ranks, family outings had fallen by the wayside. Monty had been the one to step in and teach me the basics.

But I'd Walked with my dad enough to know he should never have contracted frequency poisoning. The anomaly wasn't only damaging the multiverse, it was hurting people I cared about.

“You're going back out, aren't you?”

Again, a silence. I'd heard my parents fighting earlier that morning. Mom wanted him to retire, but Dad refused. “The Consort needs me. They need as many people as they can get.”

Monty spoke from inside the pantry. “They're asking too much. As usual.”

Funny how Monty was too deaf to hear when I asked for help setting the table, but he could eavesdrop with no problem. He added, “We're cannon fodder to them, nothing more.”

“Nobody's forcing anyone to Walk,” said my dad. “It's a choice, like everything else.”

“Until it isn't,” Monty growled.

“I want to be a Walker.” I squeezed my dad's hand, a gesture of solidarity.

“Bah. You want to Walk,” Monty replied.

I shrugged. “Same thing.”

He wandered over, bag of chips in hand. “It's not the same. Walkers leave. Doesn't mean they stop Walking.”

“Montrose,” my dad said, rumbling like a kettledrum.

“Leave?” I asked.

My dad patted my hand. “It's incredibly rare for someone to renounce their place within the Walkers, Del. But . . . if someone chooses that path, they're not permitted to Walk again. They're monitored.”

“Is that what they call it these days, Foster?” Monty's gnarled fingers gripped my arm, stronger than they looked. “What did you think Free Walkers were? An army of bogeymen? They're the ones who escape.”

“Escape?” I was intrigued, despite myself. Free Walkers were like urban legends, or something out of a comic book, a group of anarchists and religious fanatics working to unseat the Consort. But they were a myth. Without the Consort, the Key World would fall, and the multiverse would unravel. Even anarchists weren't that crazy. Nobody over the age of six believed Free Walkers existed.

Six-year-olds and Monty.

“Enough!” my dad barked. Then, more quietly, “The Free Walkers are a story, Del, like a fairy tale. People tell it to remind us why our work is so important. The Consort exists to guide the Walkers. The Walkers exist to protect the Key World. This is our calling, and even if it's difficult—if there are costs—”

Monty snorted.

“If there are costs,” Dad repeated, “they're necessary. For our own survival, for the Originals . . . for the multiverse. You've paid more than most, I know, Monty. But Winnie and I have raised our daughters to be aware of their responsibility. We'd appreciate if you didn't try to undermine that. This is who we are.”