by Chris Dolley
"No," Gary continued to shake his head. "This has to be a mistake. Kenny wouldn't do something like this . . ." He paused. "Unless . . ."
"Unless what?" asked Howard.
Gary exhaled deeply and nodded to himself. "It could make sense."
Graham wondered if he was ever going to come to the point.
"How?" said Annalise, sounding as exasperated as Graham.
"One of the major problems leading to the Chaos was the animosity between America and ParaDim. This could be a clever move. Building bridges with the Americans could help prevent the Chaos and maybe keep New Tech weapons out of the hands of terrorists."
Gary looked from face to face, looking for support. Annalise bit her lip. Howard rubbed his chin.
Graham sighed. Couldn't Gary see what was happening? New Tech weapons research was starting. Shields first, then what? Good intentions, curiosity, and resonance. How had the other Howard put it? The genie was loose and no amount of shoving would force him back in.
* * *
Graham wasn't the only one to become agitated by a news story. Annalise 141 made contact midmorning.
"It's all over the news," she fumed. "Internal ParaDim investigation uncovers massive fraud. They're framing the Resonance guys. Making out they've been stealing money and have skipped the country. No one's gonna look for their bodies now, they're gonna think they're all living it up with new identities."
"Did you find Graham?" asked Six.
"Yeah, didn't I say? He's with me now. Anyway, tell the guys to check their bank accounts. Looks like ParaDim's clearing the way to explain their disappearance. They planted millions on the guys over here."
"At least we don't have to worry about that here," said Gary after Annalise had told him.
Annalise was about to make some snide comment about having enough to worry about with New Tech weapons but thought better if it. Gary's complacency was becoming annoying. His world was perfect. Kenny Zamorra was perfect. He even defended Adam Sylvestrus. Was he naive or a crazy optimist?
She stopped. When had Annalise Mercado become a cynic?
A question she didn't have time to consider.
Gary's phone rang. It was Tamisha. She was speaking so loud Annalise could make out every word. She was downloading the latest translation. She'd cleaned up the problems with the contradictory equations and was feeding everything she had into the resonance models.
"It all makes sense," she shouted. "It really does."
A strange crackling sounded over the phone, like rain falling on a plastic sheet. Were people clapping?
Gary laughed and folded his fingers over the mouthpiece. "Get the others," he said to Annalise. "Tell them Tamisha's done it. Tell them to get the simulation tests ready."
* * *
Annalise Fifteen waited behind the door. She hadn't heard anything for thirty minutes. A fireman would have gone for help, wouldn't he? The crazy lady would have been reported to the police and someone would be hollering up at her from the other end of a megaphone.
Which meant?
Which meant her gamble had worked.
Again.
The hall light flickered on. A bead of light at the foot of the door. Voices. Had she spoken too soon?
She pressed her face up against the peephole in the door. People were walking by. One dressed in his pajamas. Residents returning to their apartments. She opened the door, grabbed Graham and slipped out.
She held her breath as they walked along the corridor. She felt conspicuous, nervous, distrustful. Everyone looked so normal, ordinary people displaced in the middle of the night—dishevelled, weary, chatty, quiet.
But any one of them could be an agent for ParaDim.
She kept going, avoiding eye contact, took the main staircase down to her floor, hovered by the fire doors, held out a hand, steeled herself, and pushed.
Two men were standing outside her apartment, their backs toward her. One was on the phone. He turned. It was Mark.
* * *
Two hours later her apartment was full of people. Police, security men, strangers. All wandering around, poking into this and that, asking questions. Annalise fended them off, told them most of what had happened and shielded Graham.
"He's traumatized," she told them. "Can't you see? He won't say a word."
"He doesn't look traumatized to me," said the policeman in charge.
"And you're an expert, I suppose?"
"No, but I know a man who is."
"And I know a lawyer," she snapped, balling her fists and glaring at the man until he smiled, closed his notebook and turned away.
The police left soon after that. No fire and no intruder—he'd apparently run off after knocking Mark to the ground. And no mention of the crazy woman with the gun on the fifth floor.
Jenny arrived as soon as it was light. She'd brought a photographer, who flitted around the apartment, taking pictures of Annalise, the broken window, Mark's bloodied face and Annalise again. He appeared captivated by her, taking pictures of her from all angles.
"You ever done any modelling work?" he asked.
"You ever been pushed out a fourth floor window?"
Gradually, the apartment cleared. Graham's window was repaired and the steady stream of people was reduced to four. Annalise, Graham, Jenny and Jermaine—the latest bodyguard.
The two women talked, closeted on the sofa.
"Adam Sylvestrus has a lot of friends," said Jenny. "And deep pockets. His lawyers are lining up government ministers to lobby on his behalf."
Typical, thought Annalise, running her hands through her hair.
"Everything the police do is going to be scrutinized," continued Jenny. "Everything they do against Sylvestrus that is. Dave has the Met Police Commissioner on the phone to him every hour."
"But they'll back off once they see Sylvestrus is guilty, won't they?"
"Faster than fleas off a drowning rabbit but until then he's whiter than white."
"So who broke in here last night?"
"You did."
"What!"
"That's what they're saying. I've been on the phone all morning. Sylvestrus's people are lobbying like crazy. They say you have no defense so you invent a conspiracy and when that doesn't work you invent a break-in. And because you're getting paid by a newspaper, we're in on it as well. They're briefing all the media, trying to get our rivals to take the bait—evil newspaper in league with deranged psycho."
"They're calling me a psycho?"
"They're calling you everything they can think of. They're even saying you're a threat to peoples' jobs because ParaDim's thinking of pulling out of the UK."
Annalise shook her head. "But that's crazy."
"Not as crazy as you, apparently. Sylvestrus's lawyers want you locked up. They've already applied for an injunction against you. They're painting you as a deranged stalker obsessed with Sylvestrus. You're not allowed within four hundred yards of the man."
"I don't even know where he is!" she said, waving her arms in exasperation.
"The Cavendish Clinic, Knightsbridge," said Jenny. "He's supposedly undergoing treatment."
"You don't believe he's injured?"
"I'm a journalist, dear. I distrust everybody."
* * *
Annalise wondered if she should feel remorse for what she'd done to Sylvestrus. She knew she should—if she were a good person—but she found it hard to feel anything for the man. He'd been in the car. He was going to harm Graham, put him in a coma. And all for what? Some motive that no one could fathom.
And had she actually seen him? That instant before she'd thrown the bin, had she registered a presence in the back of the car?
She tried to tell herself that she hadn't. That the inside of the car had been a black void, that she hadn't seen anyone, couldn't have seen anyone through the flaming heat haze of the burning bin.
But she must have known—somewhere, deep inside, that people had to be inside that car. Someone had opened the back door; she'd seen it swing open.
She must have known that someone could get hurt.
She shook her head. People had not been in that car, kidnappers and murderers had been in that car. People who would kill and torture and lie and probably laugh about it afterwards. She'd done what she had to do. No more, no less. And that was an end to it.
* * *
Jenny left, came back and left again. Pressure was being applied at the paper as well. Questions about the wisdom of bankrolling a dangerous psycho were being raised and Jenny was having to reassure her editor—and the legal department and various members of the board.
Jerry Saddler stopped by just after twelve.
"Ignore the flummery," he told Annalise. "Sylvestrus's people are worried and becoming desperate. The police have warrants out for the arrest of four men, the two with Sylvestrus's car and the two men posing as police officers. They're picking them up now. The police will probably want you and Graham to attend an identity parade later today."
Annalise's spirits sank. "Does Graham have to go to this line-up thing?"
"Of course. Without him it's your word against theirs. If you want, I can go through the procedure with him. He won't have to meet these men and no pressure will be placed upon him at all."
As soon as Jerry left, Annalise pushed open the door to Graham's room. He was kneeling on the floor by the window, picking through the tiny pieces of jigsaw. He looked so peaceful, so controlled. Less than twelve hours ago, someone had abseiled down from the roof and smashed their way into his bedroom. And now he was back in front of the same window as though nothing had happened.
She walked over to the window and ran a finger along the base of the new pane. You could hardly tell it had been replaced.
"Strange things happen," said Graham, unexpectedly reaching out and squeezing her hand.
The words came out so matter-of-factly, so unexpectedly, it took her by surprise. They were the first words she'd heard this Graham say. He smiled up at her, fixing his eyes somewhere to the left of her shoulder. She felt like crying. Stupid, stupid emotions. She choked back the tears and squeezed his hand.
"They do," was all she could say.
* * *
Sunday afternoon flew. A video conference link had been quickly thrown together to link London with New York, Boston and Kyoto. The images of Tamisha and various people Graham had never seen before flickered from wall screens, their voices slightly out of sync with the stuttering video.
"Hopelessly outdated Old Tech equipment," apologized Howard. "It was all we had on hand."
Together, they tested their new resonance model. Discussing the failures, refining, revising and interpreting. Sometimes heatedly, sometimes with everyone talking at once but always with an underlying sense that success was close at hand.
Graham and Annalise kept to the periphery. Graham, terrified of making a choice and flipping just when an answer appeared imminent. And Annalise? Graham wasn't sure. She'd been quiet ever since they'd both confronted Gary over the New Tech article.
After two hours of standing and leaning up against a wall, Graham's back stiffened and he left to stretch his legs. When he came back, a silence fell on the room and all eyes turned towards him.
He swallowed hard. He'd seen that look before—on the face of a doctor seconds before being told his mother was dead.
"What's happened?" he asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer. He looked at Annalise. She looked away. Her eyes were red.
"It's you," said Gary. "You've made things worse."
Forty-Eight
Graham rocked slowly, almost imperceptibly, back and forth in the silence that followed. Each sway in time to the ebb and flow of his breath.
"How?" he said, his voice so quiet it came out more breath than sound.
No one answered. People looked away.
"You haven't"—Gary paused and inhaled deeply—"you haven't broken the link with your other selves."
Graham didn't understand. He waited for Gary to continue; he looked from face to face. "What link?" he asked.
Tamisha's voice cut in. "It's a by-product of the conjunction, Graham. When the worlds move apart, a residual link remains in the twelfth dimension. It's not a physical link—it's difficult to describe—but think of it as a thread of potential that links all the worlds together and specifically links you to all your counterparts on all the other worlds."
"It's the mechanism behind your flipping," added Howard. "Without the existence of the link you wouldn't be able to flip."
Graham shook his head. "So what's the problem?"
"The link accentuates the resonance effect," said Tamisha. "Without the link, the resonance wave would have a fraction of its power."
"You don't know that!" cried Annalise. "You said it would be reduced, you didn't say it would be a fraction. You're making it sound like the resonance wave was all Graham's fault."
Gary moved to comfort Annalise, placing a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off angrily. "And you're just as bad," she told him. "Tell Graham your idea for breaking the link."
"It wasn't a serious suggestion. We were brainstorming ideas."
Graham swallowed. He could think of one very sure way of severing the link.
"Is that why Adam Sylvestrus has been attacking all the Grahams?" he asked.
"We don't know," said Tamisha. "It could be, but," she paused, "this is difficult to say and I apologize for my bluntness but . . . it would be easier if he killed you. Killing you breaks the link; putting you in a coma does not."
"But it does stop you flipping," said Howard. "It's like he sees your flipping as a threat and so he places you in a state where you can't interact or make a choice that impacts on the world."
"How could my flipping be a threat?"
"Because accelerated flipping can burn out the link," said Tamisha.
Graham's heart leapt. "I can break the link by flipping?"
As soon as he saw Annalise turn and look away, he knew the answer.
"You could have," Tamisha said, "when you were a child."
He didn't understand. What had it to do with being a child? Why couldn't he try now? He could flip all day, all year if needs be. He'd go home, make choices, interact with the world. Whatever it took.
"From what the Etxamendi file has told us," said Tamisha, "the link is broken in childhood. As the linked children start to interact with their worlds, they flip constantly and this flipping increases until the charge becomes so great that the thread is burned away and the link destroyed."
"This has happened before?" said Annalise.
"Yes," said Tamisha. "We found four this morning."
"How?" asked Shikha, surprised. "We've checked the Census files. Graham's the only person who occurs on every world."
"The Census files are incomplete. Most only go back to the 1850s and only for those countries that collect the data. We checked the advanced worlds. Their data go back millennia. We looked for children with the same first name, date of birth and location. We found four. A girl and three boys, roughly three to four hundred years between each event."
"And they lived normal lives?" asked Annalise.
"They appeared to. All of them had problems during early childhood. We found entries pointing to medical and psychological problems. Their school grades were low. Many were diagnosed as problem children."
"But they recovered?" asked Shikha.
"So it seems. After the age of six, their grades picked up and their psych visits tailed off. As adults they had a variety of jobs, they married, divorced, had kids and led a normal varied life."
"Whereas you," said Howard looking directly at Graham, "developed differently. You found a way of managing your situation. You learned—subconsciously, instinctively, maybe by resonance—who knows?" He shrugged and spread his gnarled fingers out wide. "But, somehow, you learned and adapted. You withdrew into yourself, stopped interacting, stopped making choices and resonance did the rest."
"Which has left you trapped," said Tamisha. "The link
is stronger and more difficult to break and the Grahams . . ." She paused again, a slight grimace forming on her lips. "Pardon my bluntness again, Graham, but from what I've read and with the exception of yourself, the Grahams have neither the will nor the capacity to break the link."
He didn't understand. Why didn't they have the will or capacity? He waited for Tamisha to explain. He looked to Gary, to Howard, to Annalise.
"She thinks all the Grahams are too withdrawn to be reached," Annalise told him, her eyes flashing angrily. "They all do. They're just like your colleagues at work. They think you're all mute retards."
"We don't think that," said Shikha. "But you can't underestimate the effect that consciousness exchange has had on their lives. I couldn't begin to imagine how I'd cope under similar circumstances. Not knowing from day to day if the house I left in the morning would be there when I came home. Having a stranger call herself my mother. Having history change just before a history test."
She walked over to Graham and took hold of his hand. "You have my profound respect," she said. "I couldn't have lasted one month in your shoes."
Annalise's hand flew to her mouth. She looked away.
"Mine too," said Tamisha. "But that doesn't alter the fact that it'll take years of therapy to reach all the Grahams. Some may be too traumatized ever to be reached. And time is something we don't have."
* * *
"Are the other Grahams traumatized?" Graham asked Annalise a few minutes later when they left to fetch coffees.
Annalise didn't reply immediately. "They're quiet," she said, "but I wouldn't call them traumatized." She thought for a few more strides. "Calm, I'd say. Like they have an inner peace. Somewhere safe they can live and look out on the rest of the world. The other girls say the same." She smiled. "Annalise Ten says it's like being around this real cool monk. My Trappist guy, she calls you."
Graham reflected on Annalise's answer while they waited for the lift.
"Do you think we could coordinate a synchronized flip?" he asked. "Get all the Grahams together in one place and make them interact?"
The lift bell sounded and the doors opened. They stepped inside.
"I don't know," she said. "Some of them definitely. Some of the Grahams will do anything you tell them. Others are more stubborn. Some of them deliberately ignore everything you say. They pretend they didn't hear but the girls say they can hear fine when it suits them."