A Million Worlds With You

by Claudia Gray

  “Did they want you to be a part of it?”

  “It sickens me, and they always knew that. Always mocked me for it. Said I thought I was ‘too good’ to fight for my own place in the world. Mama and Papa don’t see this as a war against the Southern Alliance. To them, it’s every man for himself, always, forever.”

  Maybe that’s their constant—the one thing that’s true for the Markovs in every world. I feel sure it’s true in mine. “In my world, Paul’s parents don’t even speak to him anymore. They don’t give him any money. All because he became a scientist.” I’d always known something was seriously messed up about a mother and father who were angry their kid got into college at age twelve.

  “Mine are more understanding,” Paul says. “Because military service is mandatory, and because they hope that someday, I’ll achieve a high rank and be able to funnel stolen goods in their direction. They’re sure I’ll do it eventually. That I’ll ‘see sense.’ People like them understand the concepts of right and wrong. They just convince themselves that they’re in the right. It sounds like your Paul’s choices force his parents to know just how selfish and small they are.” His smile is as thin as the line of a scar. “People can forgive anything except being proved wrong.”

  I think about my Paul’s bare dorm room, where he can’t afford anything but a single set of scratchy sheets he bought from Goodwill. He owns two pairs of equally battered blue jeans and a series of not-new T-shirts; even his one big indulgence, a pair of good boots for his rock-climbing adventures, he got secondhand. My parents bought him a new winter coat, and when they baked him a birthday cake he was so surprised. So grateful. I don’t think he’d had a birthday cake in years.

  Maybe his father, Leonid, wasn’t merely being mean. Maybe he was trying to awaken something angry and cruel within Paul. If Paul had chafed at his poverty—if he’d thought at any point, This is ridiculous. I don’t have to live like this. It would be so easy to separate the idiots around me from their money—everything would have changed. If he’d turned his genius to identity theft or hacking into banks, he could have made himself a millionaire within weeks. Days, even. The Firebird project might’ve collapsed without him, while Paul would have turned into exactly the man his father wanted him to be.

  But he never flinched. Not even once.

  “It was hard for me to accept that Paul and I don’t wind up together in every world,” I say. “Still is. But I know I love him, and that something between us—in so many worlds—it goes beyond random chance. For Paul, it’s different. It’s like now that he’s been splintered, he assumes we’ll never wind up together.”

  Paul considers that, his gaze turned deeply inward. Learning about another version of yourself—about the array of people you could be that would all still truly be you—it’s intoxicating. Despite my desperation, I’m fascinated to watch someone else go through it too. “You always seemed so out of reach,” he finally says. “Not only because of Theo. Because it’s so hard to believe anyone would love me back without wanting something in return.”

  Although I already knew how badly my betrayal here must have hurt him, I realize now how much deeper the wound struck. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  But Paul isn’t listening. He doesn’t need an apology anymore. He wants to understand. “If it’s hard for me, it must be almost impossible for your Paul Markov. The idea of fate gave him hope. Then when that fate was torn away, he couldn’t believe any longer.”

  “He knows my parents love him,” I say. “And my Theo, too. But he probably thinks it’s all about the science. About what he can help them do.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not him. But . . . I could believe that was true.”

  Paul and I sit in silence for a few moments. I take another couple of bites of the sandwich, but on autopilot, hardly tasting the bland food. How am I ever supposed to undo damage like that? How can I make Paul believe in us when his whole life, and all these other universes, tell him we’re impossible?

  Once I thought of running from world to world, trying to find the one where Paul and I loved each other perfectly. Now I don’t know whether a world like that could ever exist.

  “Why Theo?” Paul says, breaking the silence between us. “Why do you think you chose him and not me?”

  “Probably he poured on the charm. At home he works with you guys, my parents are his thesis advisers, and so maybe he held back because he didn’t want to step on their toes. Then I fell for Paul, and Triadverse Theo came and screwed everything up for him, and that was that. In a world where he didn’t have any reason not to go for it . . . well, I guess that’s this one.”

  “So there’s no real difference between us in terms of how you could feel.” Paul tries to make it sound reasonable, but I can hear the hurt he still hasn’t managed to bury.

  “I know this world’s Marguerite loves this Theo. But when Paul and I have been together—in Russia, in Rome—” My voice breaks. “I didn’t even know you could love someone like that, until I loved you. I mean . . . him.”

  “I know what you meant.” This time Paul’s voice is gentle. He believes me now.

  “Maybe, if I’ve finally been to enough worlds to put all the pieces together, then maybe I can make it right. Maybe I’ll finally really understand him.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if you visited a million worlds. You never know everything about another person—not even someone you love. You can’t, and you wouldn’t want to.” To my surprise, Paul smiles, his expression as warm and adoring as it was that night in Chinatown. “You have to love the mystery. You have to take a chance.”

  A speaker’s squeal startles us both. Only now do I see the small, perforated screen in one corner with a toggle that must be my communication with the rest of the ship. Dad’s tinny voice says, “Marguerite, we have confirmation on, um, Wicked’s movements. She’s shifted universes again.”

  I rise from the table and hit the toggle that lets me reply. “I have to go, right away. The Marguerite she just left is in danger.”

  “Understood,” Dad says. “Safe journeys, and know that we’re watching you. We’ll help if we can.”

  “Thank you. Love you, love to Mom.” Which is sort of stupid, when their own Marguerite is about to reclaim control of her own existence. But it feels right, especially when the reply comes back: “Love you too.”

  Paul stands, and we’re face to face. Only a short week or so ago, I hoped I’d never have to confront him again. And now it’s so hard to say goodbye.

  “I’d like to kiss you,” I said. “Bad idea?”

  “Probably. This Marguerite wasn’t thrilled with what happened,” he says, referring to our makeout session on a Chinatown sidewalk. “She didn’t blame me. After we learned the full truth, she didn’t even blame you. But I’m not going to take advantage of the situation.”

  “I knew she’d remember that. But I hope she also remembers how much you helped me. How good you can be.”

  His eyes drink me in. This may be the last time he sees me gazing back at him with love. “I hope so too. And good luck.”

  “Thanks.” I’ll need it. What will Wicked have planned for me this time? All I know is, it’s going to be bad. I look up at Paul again, take courage from his face, hit the Firebird’s controls—

  —and slam back into my airplane seat, hard enough that it rocks. Behind me I hear someone grumble. I think I knocked their drink off their tray table.

  The stewardess is standing in the aisle next to me, a quizzical expression denting her prefab smile. “Miss? Are you all right?”

  “Good. Yeah. Definitely.”

  “Can I get you anything else to drink? This is our final service of the flight.” Her voice has a faint accent—she’s Latina, I think. “Coffee, tea, water?”

  “I’m okay. Thank you.”

  As the stewardess moves on, I think, Wicked put me on a plane. My mind fills with nightmare images of jetliners being blown up, fiery crashes into the runway, or some terrible oce
anic disappearance that doesn’t get solved until a year later. I clutch the armrests, because if that’s what Wicked has done, then I have no chance to save myself, none at all.

  But could Wicked get this theoretical bomb past security? And where would she buy explosives? I don’t have any idea, and she’s from a world so different from my own that I doubt she’d have a clue here. This world is pretty obviously close to mine; everything about the plane and the passengers looks totally normal, plus I’m wearing leggings and a lacy top from Anthropologie that I’d been coveting but—back at home, at least—never managed to save up enough allowance money for. Also, if this is the final service of the flight, Wicked rode this plane for at least an hour or two, possibly much longer. She wouldn’t wait so long if a bomb were going to go off midflight anyway. I’d have been trapped here just the same.

  Maybe the danger isn’t on board this plane. Maybe the danger waits at my destination.

  My inner ears tighten. I swallow hard and feel them pop just as the pilot’s voice says, “We are now beginning our final descent into Quito, Ecuador—”

  Ecuador? I know now what universe I’m in, and who will be waiting for me on the other side. This was where Triadverse Paul escaped to, after he turned against Triad in an effort to protect me. This is where he must still be living in hiding from Wyatt Conley’s goons.

  Why would Wicked travel to Ecuador? She hates Paul, or at any rate doesn’t mind causing him pain. But then I realize the one reason she could possibly have. If she made arrangements to meet Paul at the airport, then she could have told other people to meet him there too. Say, people who work for Wyatt Conley.

  My heart sinks as I realize that Wicked set a trap for Paul . . . and I’m the bait.

  16

  THE ONLY PLAN I CAN COME UP WITH DURING OUR LANDING is to try to get out of the airport without Paul seeing me. Wicked must have called or emailed him, told him to meet my flight, but if Triad’s people are looking for our reunion as their cue to move in, then that reunion can’t happen. Of course they might be watching for him outside the airport, in which case nothing I can do will help. But if avoiding Paul now has any chance of helping him, then that’s what I’m going to do.

  I’ll pass up baggage claim, see if I can get into another terminal or something before I exit, and hope the credit cards I’ve found in my wallet will work in Ecuador. If my tPhone works too, I’ll call Mom and Dad back home and see how much they can tell me.

  After that—well, I’ll figure it out as it comes. Maybe I’ll just walk back to the ticket counters and buy a seat on the next flight back to the United States. Hope I can afford it.

  Airports all pretty much look alike. As I stroll along with the other deplaning passengers, my bottle-green messenger bag slung over one arm, I keep my head down. I don’t want Paul to see me . . . but I want to see Paul, so I can’t help glancing up to scan the crowds waiting just outside the security zone.

  Within moments, I see a familiar face—then another—and I freeze.

  Paul hasn’t come to meet me.

  Instead, Theo and Wyatt Conley stand just behind the barricade. Theo’s wearing sunglasses that hide the expression in his eyes, but Conley’s smiling, grinning even, lifting one hand to wave to me.

  In the other hand, Conley holds a sign that reads WELCOME BACK.

  I stop short. Another passenger bumps into me from behind, then mutters something in Spanish that probably means idiot while other people swerve around me. My hands tighten around the strap of my messenger bag. One thought in my mind swells until it presses out all the others: Triad found Paul.

  “Hello there, Marguerite,” Conley says, like he’s an old friend I’ve come to visit. “Glad you finally got here. We have places to go and so much to talk about. But first of all, I’m afraid I need to ask you for some ID.”

  My breaths feel like they aren’t drawing in enough air. Dizziness makes me sway. But I stand my ground and stare at Conley as I ask, “Are you high?”

  “Just answer this,” Conley says. “What color was the Beatles’ submarine?”

  It feels like a trick, a trap. My first impulse is to begin screaming that Conley and Theo are terrorists, that they should be shot down immediately. But I know by now that it’s rarely that easy to get out of Wyatt Conley’s games. For now I have to play along. So I remember the moment I convinced a mob to throw him, shrieking, into hell. Then I smile with all the warmth of that memory and give the correct answer: “Purple.”

  “And that’s our perfect traveler, come back at last.” Conley gestures me to join them on the other side of the barricades. Theo has turned his head, because apparently his sunglasses aren’t enough of a shield.

  Merely being close to this Theo horrifies me on every level. I can bear it only because being close to Conley is somehow even worse. My hatred for Wyatt Conley can eclipse everything else, even my murderer.

  I keep playing it cool. “I’m pretty sure I’m not the only person who knows the answer to that question,” I say as I come around, though I keep several paces’ distance between us. “The Beatles aren’t exactly obscure.”

  “No, they aren’t,” Conley answers. “However, creativity can bend in different ways. Only in your dimension did the Beatles sing about a purple submarine. There are a couple of ‘Big Green Submarines’ out there in the multiverse, but usually it’s yellow.”

  “Yellow Submarine”? Weird. Not nearly as fun. I remember my dad holding my hands and dancing with me in front of the cartoon when I was very tiny, barely a toddler. We’d sing about the purple submarine together. Suddenly I wish I were back there—just a little kid, laughing with my parents, loved and safe and sure nothing in the world would ever be any scarier than the Green Meanies.

  Oblivious to my reaction, Conley continues, “It’s interesting, isn’t it, how many things we think of as universal are actually unique to one very specific point in space and time?”

  “Yeah, it’s fascinating.” I don’t have any patience left for Conley’s grandiose speculations. “Why did you bring me here?”

  To my surprise, Theo answers. “We needed to find out if you were still alive.”

  “No thanks to you guys.” I put my hand on my Firebird and raise one eyebrow. “I guess I’ll be going.”

  I won’t be. I wouldn’t ditch Triadverse’s Marguerite in this situation. I’ve let down too many of my other selves already. But I also intend to put up with exactly no more crap from Wyatt Conley.

  “Stick around,” Conley says warmly. He flips the sign over for Theo to take, then tucks his hands in the pockets of his designer jeans. Between his deliberately casual demeanor and his long, freckle-dusted face, he’d blend in at college with Theo and Paul—a grad student, seemingly as lazy-casual as the others, but subtly more sophisticated, with the faint sheen of confidence and wealth. No doubt Conley thinks he comes across as nonthreatening, and his act might work on people who don’t know him. “We need to talk, don’t you think, Marguerite? You know more now. You’ve seen more. And I think you might almost be ready to hear me out.”

  Not even. “You’re putting some other Marguerite in danger right now. This very second! You can’t tell me what great friends we ought to be while you’re killing another me one universe away.”

  He holds up his hands as if in surrender. “As a show of good faith, I sent your Home Office counterpart to a ‘neutral’ universe—one that isn’t slated for destruction, one without Firebird technology, totally off the grid. These are peace talks, all right? And that makes this a cease-fire. Maybe we can even turn it into an armistice.”

  “I have only your word for that,” I say. Would Wicked really follow his orders?

  “That’s right,” Conley agrees. “You can’t test what I’ve just told you. So you have two choices. You can trust me, or you can leave here as ignorant as you came and try to pick up your counterpart’s trail. I don’t think you’ll find it very easy. Do you?”

  I have her trail already, thanks to the tr
acking information I got from the Warverse. But Conley can’t know that. If he finds out the Warverse wasn’t sabotaged but is instead leading a counter-conspiracy of several alternate dimensions, we’ll lose whatever advantage we’d managed to gain. So, for now, I just have to deal.

  “Okay,” I tell him. “I’ll stay and hear you out on one condition. Tell me what you’ve done to Paul.”

  Conley’s smile broadens. “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Bull. You’ve hunted him to Ecuador—”

  “We’d done that within the first two days,” Theo cuts in. He’s staring at his red Chucks, one of which he keeps sliding back and forth across the tile floor. “But nobody’s hurt him, Meg. I promise you that.”

  “Meg,” I say. “The last time you called me that, you were strangling me to death. Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.” Theo flinches and says nothing more.

  But Conley adds, “Maybe I should’ve been more precise. We haven’t done anything to Paul . . . yet.”

  I thought I was the bait on Paul’s hook. Turns out he’s the bait on mine.

  One step brings me right into Conley’s face. He’s not much taller than I am. “Show me that he’s all right. Let me see Paul. After that—okay, we’ll talk.”

  “See? I knew you could be reasonable.” Conley claps his hands together. “So, did you bring any bags?”

  “How would I know?” I snap. But as I start heading toward baggage claim, my head whirls, and once again I have trouble catching my breath. It felt a little like this when Wicked leaped into me—but when I put my hand to my chest, only one Firebird hangs there.

  “Altitude sickness,” Theo mutters. “Quito’s more than nine thousand feet above sea level. It takes some people a while to adjust.”

  “And you don’t look like you slept a wink on the plane.” Conley puts one hand on my shoulder to guide me, which sends clammy chills through my body. “You know what? Let’s run by, see Paul, and give you a chance to rest. After you’ve had some sleep, we can really talk. Then we’ll have all the time in the world.”