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.
25
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.