A Thousand Pieces of You

Heights aren’t my favorite. I’m not phobic or anything, but when Paul talks about rock climbing, I can never believe anyone does that for fun. So as I make my way up the ladder, I remind myself that, for this Marguerite, clambering forty feet up is no big deal.

You have steel-toed boots with treads so deep you can dig into the rungs on the ladder! I remind myself, trying to be cheerful as I go higher and higher. You have a safety belt, which you’re nearly 85 percent sure you attached correctly! Nothing to worry about!

At least my view of the seascape around us only gets better with every few steps. The surface section of the Salacia looks like an overgrown hamster maze: huge metal pipes and tubes connected by various platforms. Yet for this Marguerite, this is home.

As I go through each sensor in turn, I have to concentrate hard on the instructions I read back in my room; basically I’m checking to make sure everything looks right, and . . . I guess it does?

Even all that isn’t enough to silence the fear deep inside, the words that keep repeating:

Me. Triad is after me.

Although families eat dinner in their own quarters, breakfast and lunch are apparently served cafeteria-style. This cafeteria is nothing like any other one I’ve seen, though. It’s underwater but close to surface level, with enormous arched windows that reveal lots of shimmering light through blue water. People say hello to friends as they gather at various round tables, and families are all together, including little kids and even some elderly people. While this is a working scientific station, it’s obviously meant to include regular people as well—half laboratory, half small town.

When Dad walks in, people don’t come to attention or anything so formal; they notice the boss, but they smile. He keeps stopping by each table to check on people and see how they’re doing. It’s weird to see him in charge, and yet not surprising to see that he’s great at it. I watch him from across the room, my tray in my hands. By now I’ve learned to endure the strange, poignant feeling of missing my father while he’s not quite gone.

“Good morning, Marguerite.” Mom kisses my cheek as she takes her seat. “Are you all right?”

I realize I’ve been standing in place with my tray for a few minutes now. “Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

As we take our seats, Josie joins us and asks Mom, “What’s the latest from the weather service?”

“We’ll start seeing some chop tonight, but the worst of the storm front shouldn’t blow in until lunchtime tomorrow.” Mom sips her tea, completely oblivious to the enormous stingray swimming by behind her head. “Probably we can expect some communication blackouts as well.”

Josie makes a face. “Good thing I already downloaded the surfing competition.”

Why wouldn’t we go back to shore, if a dangerous storm is coming in? But I remember what I read about Salacia in my room—in particular, where we are. The closest land masses (New Zealand and Papua New Guinea) are both hours away by air. So we have to ride out storms as they come. Salacia is built to take that kind of punishment, I assume—I hope. But based on what Mom said, we might have hours or even days of communications silence.

Wait. I only have a little while to contact the outside world?

“You know, I’m not hungry,” I say, even as I stuff down a couple of bites of toast. “I’m going to run back to our cabin for a while, okay?”

Mom gives me one of her looks—the one that means Clearly something is up and I know it and you know I know but I won’t call you on it yet. “Hurry up. Don’t forget, you’ve got that big test today.”

Big test? Crap. Apparently the holidays don’t cut you much time off from school on a science station. But that’s the least of my concerns.

With one final glance at Dad, I leave the cafeteria and head back down to the residence levels of the station. I’m pretty sure I remember where we live. Even though my father’s in charge here, our suite of rooms seems to be exactly like everybody else’s—tiny bedrooms, and one combination kitchen/den that is just big enough to be comfortable but not one square inch bigger. Honestly, besides the fact that it’s underwater, our home here looks totally ordinary; we have cans of Coke in the fridge, and Josie’s flip-flops are by the front door, like always.

I take up my tablet computer to start my searches, then stop and stare at it. The logo reads ConTech . . . which was Wyatt Conley’s company in the London dimension. And, apparently, in this dimension too. How far does his influence reach?

Surely not to the Coral Sea. The tension in my chest relaxes slightly as I realize Conley can’t get at me easily, not here.

Is that why Paul chose this dimension? Because it’s safe from Conley? Here, scientists have directed all their energies toward adapting humanity to life in and on water. That means Mom hasn’t invented the Firebird technology—so Conley wouldn’t have much reason to travel here himself.

Yet that answer doesn’t feel quite right.

Paul’s purpose remains maddeningly opaque. Whatever brought him here, to this dimension—that, apparently, is too big for him to speak about.

I’ve chosen to trust Paul, but that doesn’t make it any easier to do without the answers.

So far the station’s Wi-Fi is still working perfectly. I type in a search for “Paul Markov, physicist” . . . then backspace and replace it with, “Paul Markov, oceanographer.” That’s the subject all the best and brightest will study in this world.