Ten Thousand Skies Above You (27 page)

“Yes,” I say dully. “I know.” All this, and the best I can give Theo is a chance. I think of his face at the Moulin Rouge, the naked vulnerability I saw there, and my throat tightens.

My mother comes to me and puts her arms around my shoulders. “You're tired. Come home with us for a while. Rest. Learn a little more about our world.”

The tightness around my chest loosens slightly. Something about this still feels wrong to me, but I know I'd rather deal
with my parents than any version of Wyatt Conley, anywhere. “Okay. That sounds good.” I toss off the next in an effort to sound casual. “Just us?”

Conley laughs. “Don't worry; I'm not coming with you. I don't blame you for mistrusting me, Marguerite. In fact, I'd say it's proof of your intelligence.”

I get to my feet, and my parents begin leading me out. Dad's hand touches my shoulder, maybe seeking comfort from the one daughter he has left. But I can't bring myself to walk away from this room just yet.

To Conley I say, “You're in love with Josie in New York too. The New York I just visited. If the other Conley had that kind of access, why didn't he go to that dimension and sabotage the Firebird project himself?”

“I told him not to.” His voice is sharp. “Any dimension where Josie and I have a chance at a happy life—they're not allowed to interfere with that. Not ever. And I've already warned them away from Josie in either of the other two dimensions of Triad.” His eyes search mine, and for once I see no hint of his usual arrogance. In this moment, he aches for Josie as much as I do. “Neither of them deserve her, do they?”

For once, Wyatt Conley and I agree.

My parents and I travel to their home via monorail. The monorails I'm used to, though, are slow-moving, sedate things meant to shuttle people between airport terminals or around a theme park. This one is sleek, and it moves at terrifying speed.

As I peer out the window, I see a tangle of buildings below us—skyscrapers on skyscrapers—but not one patch of ground. “Do I want to know how high up we are?”

“Probably not,” Dad says, smiling, with only a shadow of his usual good cheer.

Dawn came less than an hour ago, which means only a few other passengers board the monorail car. They, too, stick to monochrome outfits, though now I begin to notice small details of cut and shading—which seem to correspond to the brand names stitched into the collars or cuffs, in thread almost the same shade as the clothes themselves. And the interior of the monorail car is all in tan, without even a single poster trying to sell soda or shoes or anything else.

“Where are all the ads?” I ask.

One of the other riders shoots me a look like I just said something obscene. Mom whispers, “Public transit was declared neutral territory in the last treaty.”

Okay, then.

As the monorail snakes higher and the daylight brightens, the forbidding shadows of this world fade, revealing the sparkle of metal and glass. The tall buildings and skybridges now reflect silver or bronze, and I can see how this place might almost be pretty, if you lived and worked up this high.

Lower down, closer to the ground? I wonder if those people ever even glimpse the sun.

The relatively still skies around us suddenly burst into life; a thousand small silvery flying vehicles take to the sky, almost simultaneously. I think of blowing away a dandelion's
fuzz with one hard puff. Dad notices my reaction. “Individual transport is restricted to certain times of day.”

Does that mean Theo might now be on the move?

Once again, I take my Firebird in hand to search for Theo. This time, I get a more conclusive answer; he's not far from here, just a whole lot farther down. No doubt he's getting a very different perspective on this dimension. We ought to compare notes.

“Can we go get Theo?” I ask. When my parents stare at me blankly, I wonder whether they've met him in this universe, though they should be aware of him from everything else that's already happened. I'm pretty sure he asked about Theo. Even Romola knew him, after all. Just in case, I specify: “Theo Beck? The one traveling with me? And—I don't know if you guys work with Paul here or not—”

“We don't,” Dad says. That would be a relief, if not for the short, clipped way he says it.

My father only talks like that when he's angry.

Mom leans closer to me and says slowly and firmly, “Paul Markov and Theo Beck have no role in the current Firebird project. You can coordinate with them as you move forward through the dimensions. It's unnecessary here. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

I understand more than they meant for me to.

My parents wouldn't act that way if they simply didn't know Paul and Theo in this world. Mom wouldn't specify the
current
Firebird project. All of them worked together
here, until Paul and Theo turned against them. Exactly why or how, I don't know. If this world's versions of Theo and Paul are as screwed-up as my parents, they could have left Triad for the wrong reasons.
Very
wrong reasons.

Already I know I have to find Paul and Theo, no matter what my mother and father say. But when I do—will I be able to trust them?

In this dimension, I might be on my own.

THE MONORAIL RISES HIGHER AND HIGHER. I'VE NEVER
been overly phobic about heights, but when we begin zooming over the tops of skyscrapers, my gut starts to churn with dread.

Then again, that might not have anything to do with heights.

My parents sit on either side of me, both of them comfortable and seemingly content. I don't doubt their love—both for their daughter from this dimension and even for me. Yet with every passing second, their cold words about Paul and Theo echo louder in my memory.

Paul and I aren't the only ones destined to meet; the countless symmetries of the multiverse touch everyone, in different ways. I seem to find Theo nearly as often as I find Paul. Josie and Wyatt Conley often come together too—even though I wish they didn't.

And the mysterious currents of fate and mathematics bring Paul and Theo to my parents.

They invent together. Create together. The technologies they develop shape the multiverse itself. I've seen it in countless dimensions. Even in the Warverse, where my parents were awkward with Paul because of me, they still worked with him and understood the brilliance of his mind.

In this universe, Mom and Dad claim Paul and Theo don't matter.

Why are they lying to me?

I steal a glance at my father, who smiles at me with his usual gentleness. They don't intend to hurt me; I feel sure of that. But they also didn't mean to hurt me when they founded Triad, when they collaborated with the Wyatt Conleys, when they allowed Paul to be kidnapped and Theo to be poisoned. Their intentions may be good, but their judgment isn't.

Against my chest, the weight of the Firebird reminds me that I have the information I came for. I want to learn more about this universe, and what the founders of Triad intend to do next; for once, I'd like our dimension not to be the one kept in the dark. Hearing someone else's perspective would be good.

And if that perspective came from Paul, or Theo, I have a feeling I'd learn a whole lot more.

The monorail slips into misty shadow, reminding me of morning fog on San Francisco Bay. Only then do I realize we've glided into a cloud. We are
too far up
. When we begin
to slow down, for a moment I think the driver agrees with me—but then we arrive at another station. My parents stand; this must be our stop.

“We live this high off the ground?” I'm grateful for the cloud, because at least I can no longer see exactly how far we'd have to fall.

Mom shakes her head, which is a relief until she says, “We take the lift up from here.”

I hope our house doesn't have windows.

By now, only a handful of people remain on the monorail, and most of those disembark at our station. The majority of the crowd heads right, while we go left. I glance at my father, confused, and he explains, “Most people take the lift down. They like to get off at the highest station they can still reach their homes from. It's the only way people can broadcast their status, in public transit space.”

“I thought it was safer in the middle of the buildings,” I say, recalling Romola's shock at the idea of an executive office on the top floor.

“For corporate headquarters, of course,” Mom says. She sounds incredulous, as if she were having to explain why ovens aren't installed in bedrooms. “But the Intercorporate Conventions provide for severe sanctions if employees are targeted at home.”

This dimension puts the whole Coke-versus-Pepsi thing into perspective.

Here, the station gleams an almost pearly white; someone must polish this floor pretty much every hour. But the
relative swank factor of subway stations isn't important. What hits me now is that if I want to see the part of this dimension Triad will never show me—to find Paul and Theo—this is my last chance to vanish into the crowd.

To our far right, I glimpse two signs that read TOILETS—one in blue, one in pink. This is as good a chance as I'll get. “Hey, I should—”

My mother waves me off as my father smiles. They're so unsuspecting that I feel a little guilty. But as I walk toward the pink sign, I hear Mom call, “Marguerite? Where are you going?”

Oh, crap. I half turned and tried to smile. “The little girls' room?”

She points toward the blue sign. “Isn't blue for girls in your world?”

Here, pink is for boys. It's the little things that get you. “Oh, okay. Thanks.”

I walk away from them, not too fast. My path intersects with the crowd headed toward the down elevators, and I have to angle my shoulders, step carefully, to keep from bumping into anyone. That gives me a perfectly natural reason to glance backward, and I see my parents talking intently to each other.

I shift direction to merge into the crowd. I walk as quickly as I can without drawing attention to myself, because I won't be in the clear until I get on one of those elevators. Will I be safe even then? Can my parents track the Firebirds around my neck? Probably, but I have to chance it.

Once I think I'm out of sight, I push forward, earning myself a few glares. But nobody says anything as I edge into an overstuffed elevator just in time for the doors to slide shut only two inches in front of my face.

My heart pounds. My ears tighten and pop with the pressure of descent. At any moment I expect the lights to turn red—or maybe Triad green—and start broadcasting some kind of futuristic APB. But it doesn't happen. Stop after stop, we keep going down. I decide to get off at the very last stop, wherever that might be. The farther I get away from Triad's space, the better.

Finally, when I'm one of only three people left inside, the elevator settles with a thump that I know means the end. I walk through the doors, out of the smaller, danker station—and into chaos.

Electronic billboards and signs cover every single surface, all of them shining in colors so strident it almost hurts to look at them. They clash with each other, as do the tinny recordings playing from speakers as ubiquitous as they are invisible:

Apollo Greek Yogurt! Up to 50 percent real dairy!

Explore Your World: Viking Supersonic Air Cruises.

Sentinel upgrades 10 percent off this week only! Isn't your family's safety worth it?

Revlon EverLash—Wear Him Out!

Overwhelmed, I tilt my head down, but that doesn't help; the floor is thickly papered with adhesive posters for shoes, flying cars, movies. (Leonardo DiCaprio again.) Above is no better—it's the same posters, just less dingy from footprints.

At first I can't decide whether this is a mall or a street, but then I realize that, in this world, there seems to be no difference. Some stretches are open to the outside, but the stores and the pathways seem to meld into each other. Walking more than five steps without seeing a new product display is impossible.

I think of the trip our family took to Las Vegas for Josie's high school graduation; it was supposed to be kitschy and hilarious, but instead, we all hated it. I'd envisioned a casino as . . . well, a casino. A distinct building, a place you would enter. Instead, the minute we got off the airplane—still in the airport terminal!—we were bombarded with slot machines. You couldn't check into the hotel without being surrounded by gift shops and restaurants. Couldn't get to the elevator after check-in without walking past roulette tables. Vegas was just one big outstretched hand, waiting for your money. That's what this entire dimension has become.

When I've got my bearings, I tuck myself into a corner between two rotating cases of refrigerated, brand-name sandwiches. Then I take up the Firebird and check again for Theo.

The signal suggests he's right where I am—almost exactly—and I feel a burst of hope before I realize he's lower than me.

Lots lower.

With a sigh, I fight my way back through the crowd to the next series of down elevators—and the layer under that—and the layer under that. Each time I switch, the ads become more garish; the products they advertise seem cheaper. And the light through the mesh screens dims further at every stop.

When I finally go to what must be the final elevator, someone says, “Young lady.” I turn to see a guy in a vivid pink uniform, which I guess looks super-butch here. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

What, get on the elevator? “Uh, yeah.”

“Below is no place for anyone your age.” The way he says it, I know Below is their name for whatever awaits.

“I'll be okay,” I say, and I get on the elevator alone. Through the narrowing gap of the closing doors, I see him frown and shake his head.

When the elevator doors open again, only a handful of electronic billboards are here, and they glow dimly, as their images play without sound. The floor is just a floor, and the platforms are open to the air.

Outside, it's as dark as night.

I walk to the railing and look down; by now, I'm only twenty-five or thirty feet from the ground. Cracked asphalt—more like rubble—is all that remains of what were once sidewalks, or streets. Nobody walks down there. A few people hurry along these almost-deserted walkways beside me, but none of them appear happy to be there. They give me appraising glances; clearly my black clothing sets me
apart from the shabbier taupe-and-tan material I see down here. I wonder if I'm about to get mugged. My hand closes around my Firebirds, protectively.

Then I hear the thumping of footsteps—many of them—and hear someone say: “If I'm reading this correctly, she's just around the corner.”

It's Theo. I begin to smile as I walk forward to meet them. “Thank God you're—”

My words trail off. Just from the way he looks at me, hard and flat—I can tell this isn't my Theo. The one who came here with me is asleep within this world's version, who doesn't seem to know me at all. Is this Theo simply tracking an intruder from another dimension?

His whole group goes still. So do I. Because Theo just pulled something black and angular that I'm pretty damn sure is a weapon.

And he's pointing it at me.

Theo grins. “Not as much fun this time, is it?”

Not one person intercedes on my behalf. The few others walking along this stretch of road determinedly look away, not wanting to get involved. There are no pink-suited cops anywhere near.

I should probably be even more scared than I am, but my brain keeps repeating one phrase over and over.

This time?

“We've got her!” Theo calls. He wears his hair longer here, but it sticks up and out rather than growing down; he looks a little like a punk Beethoven. His clothes are baggier
and more layered than the stuff worn above, but again it's all the same color—in this case, a dark burnt orange. “Come on, man, you have to see this!”

Even before the figure far behind him steps into the light, I know it's Paul.

He wears a gray so pale it almost seems white. Unlike most of the men in this dimension, Paul keeps his hair short—even shorter than at home. His long coat hangs past his knees; his boots are the first shoes I've seen in this dimension that look like they've touched the ground.

Paul gives Theo a look. “Is the gun really necessary?”

“How can you even ask that?” But when Paul gestures, Theo
hmmphs
and puts the weapon away.

“Thank you,” I say.

Paul acknowledges this with only a nod. “We need to talk. Obviously you understand that, or you would never have come Below.”

“Yeah, we do.” I glance upward, imagining I'd be able to glimpse some pale sliver of the sky—but nothing. Down here the world is black on black. “Can my parents trace me through the Firebird? Could Conley?”

“It would take awhile for them to manage it, this far down,” Paul says, with approval for my caution. “Come on. We'll talk.”

Theo looks at the two of us, almost comically angry, but he makes no move to stop us, or oppose Paul. The other members of their gang—four women, three men—don't seem much happier than Theo, but none of them protest.

They lead me down the final set of steps. When I first set foot on the ground, it feels momentous. Forbidden. Maybe it is. But Paul's gang is used to it, quickly taking me along the crumbling, uneven path to the base of one of the huge monolithic skyscrapers. Apparently whatever corporation is housed there doesn't use their lower floors—and hasn't for years. I see squatters' laundry hanging on lines, smoke coming from windows, perhaps the product of makeshift stoves.

We walk into the low-ceilinged, dark rooms, which are lit only by a handful of small lanterns. The air smells familiar and almost comforting: dirt, leather, old books. Theo leans against the wall, folding his arms across his chest in exaggerated satisfaction, “Now what?”

“Now,” says Paul, “we talk.”

He steps closer to me, lantern light slowly illuminating his features. This is the first time I've been able to really look at Paul's face, and I draw in a deep breath. A pale, jagged scar runs along one side of his jawline, but otherwise, he reminds me so much of every other Paul I've known.

And yet this moment I don't see the Paul of the Mafiaverse, who shot Theo's knees. I don't see Lieutenant Markov. I don't see the besotted soldier I betrayed in a San Francisco under siege; I don't even see my own Paul.

I see one man—one unique person, a stranger to me. This is the person I need to understand.

Because we have an opportunity, one none of us should waste.

“You know I'm not the Marguerite from this world,” I
say. They couldn't have found me without Theo's Firebird, otherwise; they wouldn't have known what to look for.

Paul nods. “You are, nonetheless, Marguerite Caine, the daughter of Doctors Henry Caine and Sophia Kovalenka, and a traveler through the dimensions.”

“Just like you're Paul Markov, my parents' protégé and Triad's enemy.” I nod toward Theo. “When do I get my version of him back?”

Slowly, Paul smiles—a genuine smile. “Not long now. You like your version better?”