A Million Worlds with You (Firebird #3)

“The sensors in there don’t warn us about human intrusion, because no one’s supposed to bloody go in!” Dad only gets this angry when he’s scared. “What possessed you?”

Possessed. That’s closer to the truth than he can ever know. And it tells me how to play this. “Dad, something’s wrong with me. I mean, mentally. I’ve been doing this stuff I can’t understand, and sometimes I don’t even remember doing it. This time I could’ve gotten killed. What happens next time?”

Mom’s and Dad’s eyes both widen, and Mom puts her arms around me. “She may need medication, Henry. Certainly she needs to see a doctor.”

“On Earth?” I say hopefully. Maybe I should think it’s supercool being in outer space, but I want to be back on the ground. I want all the air I can breathe. I want real gravity. I want a sky. I want to stop thinking about Theo strangling me to death.

“It won’t come to that. You can stay on the station.” Mom seems to think that will make me feel better. “We’ll take you off-duty for a few days and let you rest. Get some sleep.”

What kind of duties could I possibly have on a space station? Probably it’s a little like the deep-sea station from the Oceanverse, where everyone has to help out—but there I only had to check some weather readings and tie down some cables. The potential for screwing up seems way, way higher in outer space.

“You have been behaving strangely of late,” Dad admits. His hand brushes through my hair. “Yesterday you were in such a mood—and you didn’t seem to remember who the Beatles were, which makes no sense whatsoever.”

I laugh despite myself. The Beatles appear to be another universal constant: If they can exist, they will. And if the Beatles exist, my father will be their number-one fan. “I remember them now. But I don’t remember not remembering them, if that makes sense.”

My parents exchange worried glances. They’re probably afraid I’m on the verge of some kind of psychotic break. Good. Because they need to keep an eye on this Marguerite until I stop Wicked, who could come back at any time and try to finish what she started.

But other dangers chase us, too. I put one hand to my throat, haunted by the memory of pain.

Mom gets to her feet, towing me with her, and Dad follows suit. I can feel the difference from Earth gravity. I’m slightly lighter here, which adds a surreal edge to every moment, every move. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get you checked out.”

The Astraeus turns out to be neither as cramped as the real space stations I’ve seen on TV in my dimension nor as roomy and comfortable as they are in the movies. The walls and floors are made of brushed metal, slightly dinged from long wear. The ceilings are black and lined with small, faint lights. Handles jut out from odd places—up high, down near the floor, etc.—but the handles don’t seem to lead to anything. Huh. The few windows are small, revealing only the smallest circles of blackness; I make it a point not to look through any of them. Corridors are short and lead to broader spaces, which aren’t divided like they would be in an office but clearly have defined roles—various scientific stations. My parents both wear small Canadian flag emblems at their collars, and I bet I do too, but I also glimpse the flags of Mexico, Russia, the United States, Great Britain, Japan, and what I think is the flag of India. Some flags I can’t identify, but this definitely seems to be an international setup.

If anyone knows about what nearly happened with the plasma venting, nobody gives any sign.

The Astraeus has a large enough staff for there to be a resident shrink, Dr. Singh, who has me lying down for an exam within seconds. Her black hair is cropped short and a bit spiky, and she looks like she’s no older than Josie. Yet I find myself trusting her instantly. “Are you experiencing depression?” she asks.

“No.” I mean, I guess not. There’s no telling what might be going on in this Marguerite’s mind, since she’s now been inhabited by two trans-dimensional visitors in a row. “I’ve been really stressed out, though.”

Dr. Singh nods. “Have you had suicidal impulses?” Mom and Dad look at each other, stricken. The doctor notes their reaction and leans closer to me. “If you’d rather speak to me without your parents in the room . . .”

“No, no, it’s okay. They should hear this.” I take a deep breath. How can I keep this Marguerite safest? “I’m not suicidal. But some of the stuff I’ve been doing during these, uh, blackouts—it’s dangerous. I don’t know why, and it doesn’t make any sense, but it’s happening and I’m scared.”

“Okay,” Dr. Singh says, laying one hand on my shoulder. “I agree with your parents—you should be taken off duty immediately. You need sleep, rest, and relaxation. Exercise, too. The logs say you haven’t been keeping up with the requirements. You’re not at the reprimand stage yet, but you will be soon. And if your body is out of whack, sometimes the mind follows suit. Maybe this would be a good time for you to concentrate on your art.”

They really need to understand the key point here, so I say it out loud: “I should be watched.”

Again, the three adults in the room exchange glances. Dr. Singh says, “You reported no hallucinations, no violent impulses—”

“But what if that changes?” Which it will, if Wicked ever returns to the Spaceverse. “What then?”

“There’s no reason for us to assume that’s going to happen,” Dr. Singh insists. “The psychological strain of space duty affects many people adversely for a while, but the vast majority of them get over it. If I put everyone who’d ever acted strangely on the Astraeus into lockdown . . . well, we wouldn’t have much of a crew left.”

“Can you do a brain scan?” Mom straightens and folds her hands in her lap. Her posture looks almost laughably prim, but I’ve learned that’s how Mom gets when she’s scared. “If Marguerite has developed a brain tumor—”

“Sophie, no.” Dad puts his hand on her shoulder and gives her a little comforting squeeze. “Don’t let your worries run away with you. You’ll upset Marguerite.”

But my mother won’t budge. “I’m not upsetting Marguerite. I’m trusting her judgment. Our daughter has told us something is seriously wrong with her. She’s hurting, and she’s frightened. We need to obtain as much information as we can through every possible diagnostic test. Only then can we form any meaningful hypothesis about Marguerite’s condition.”