She pursed her lips. “I understand. Except last night, you were talking in your sleep. And you were thrashing. I tried to comfort you, but you were in such a deep sleep. It was like you were somewhere else entirely.”
He stared at her, his gray eyes wide. “What did I say?”
She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. Her cuticles were chewed raw. It had been a rough year for both of them. “You kept calling out for your uncle.”
His stomach dropped. Isaiah’s dad had passed away when Isaiah was just a baby, so Uncle Ming was the closest thing to a father Isaiah had ever known. The loss of his uncle last year affected him deeply. The therapists and counselors all said time would help heal Isaiah’s wounds, but the dreams his mother mentioned had been getting worse, the memories morphing, shifting into darker, stranger realities. Instead of the past, they seemed to be taking place in the future. In a world where his beloved uncle wasn’t really gone … yet still slipping away. Just beyond his reach. Isaiah felt cold, his skin prickling at the thought.
“Some days I think Uncle Ming was trying to tell us something. Something important.”
“Of course he was,” his mother said softly. “He was a photojournalist. His goal was to communicate and connect. To bear witness, to tell stories through images. To help build empathy and awareness.”
“What about the letters?” In the months leading up to his uncle’s disappearance, his emails to Isaiah had become vague and disjointed, with cryptic riddles and half-finished phrases. Postcards arrived from far-flung locales, written in hasty script, smudged with metallic pigments and strings of random numbers. Others bore drawings of a bizarre thirteen-sided symbol. Nothing made sense. When Isaiah showed them to his mother, she brushed them off, but her face had creased with worry.
“We’ve talked about that, honey,” she said, her voice heavy, exhausted. “Documenting wars, extinctions, famine, and natural disasters takes a toll, even on the most seasoned journalists. It’s tremendously challenging to work in that field so long, witnessing hardship and suffering. It affected my brother—your uncle—physically and mentally.”
According to authorities, last September, Ming Yoon boarded a waverider during a typhoon in the Philippines and never returned. Investigators posited that he had suffered a breakdown. The correspondence with his nephew didn’t contain encoded clues; there was no great conspiracy to expose. The strange letters were merely the result of a deteriorating mind and spirit.
Isaiah didn’t buy it. His uncle had always been brave, bold, daring, but he’d never known him to be reckless. If his uncle got into that waverider in those conditions, there was a reason. There’s always more to the story, his uncle used to say about his photographs.
“I know it’s hard, honey. There are days when I feel lost, too. Days when I don’t want to believe he’s gone. But he is.” His mother clasped a hand over his own. “We had a funeral. We said our goodbyes. It’s time to move on with our lives. It’s what your uncle would have wanted.”
Isaiah nodded. But the dreams, the letters, the way light buckled and bent before his eyes during a quiver, it all hinted at something bigger. Something frightening. He couldn’t help but believe there was a connection.
His mother gave his hand a squeeze. “You know what? I’m going to call Dr. Frayley. Set up an appointment. How’s next Wednesday?”
“Mom. I don’t need to see the grief counselor.”
“Mourning is an ongoing process, sweetheart. It’s perfectly normal to need help along the way.”
The truth was, Isaiah wasn’t in mourning. Not exactly. Because his uncle wasn’t dead.
He was still out there, somewhere. Isaiah knew it. He just needed to figure out where there was.
Not again.
Maeve Greene’s locker was the victim of a “spack-attack” for the third time in two weeks. The metal door was scrawled with cruel words and spackled with a sticky mixture of purple slime, toilet paper, putty, and something offensively odoriferous that vaguely resembled week-old tuna salad.
Maeve’s face flushed, her eyes pricked. The hallway fell silent as the other kids watched, waiting for a reaction. In contrast to what was happening at home, a vandalized locker was the least of her concerns. Chin up, buttercup. Show them weakness and they’ll feed off it, Gramps always said. Maeve blinked. She rearranged her face and tucked her shoulder-length red hair behind her ears. She straightened her shoulders.
“You know, I’m flattered that someone took time out of their busy schedule to make this … this … masterpiece for me. How thoughtful!” She made her voice extra loud and chipper, to hide the hurt. “Though what a shame they don’t know how to spell.”
She pulled a marker from her backpack. With a few lines, she turned the work FREAK into BREAK and added the word DANCER below. A true performer never missed an opportunity to shine. Then, to the shock and confusion of the kids in the hall, she dropped onto her back and spun around the linoleum floor like an electrocuted turtle. She popped up onto her shoulder, kicked her feet, then nailed a perfect headstand. Dumbstruck students stared in silence.
Instead of applause, someone muttered, “Just when I thought she couldn’t get any weirder …”
Maeve stood up. She dusted herself off and rubbed her sore arm, watching forlornly as the hallway cleared out. “They wouldn’t know entertainment if it punched them in the nose,” she mumbled to herself. As she turned, she spotted Lewiston Wynner rounding the corner, with that new kid Dev at his side. They were looking down at Lewis’s phone and laughing.
She stepped in front of them. “You!” Lewis skidded to a stop, nearly crashing into Dev. She jabbed a finger at Lewis’s chest, then pointed to her locker. “Explain. Now.”
“Huh?”
Maeve crossed her arms over her chest. “Do I have you to thank for this, Wynner?”
Lewis regained his balance and looked at the locker. He shook his head. “No way, Mae. I might be a prankster, but I am not a vandal.”
“Is that so?” She studied his face.
He shrugged and slipped the phone into his back pocket. “Look, prankery is an art form. Much like the music we play in marching band, a quality prank needs to be carefully choreographed and rehearsed.” He gestured at the disgusting locker door. “That is just a hot mess.”
“A hot, smelly mess,” Dev added, pinching his nose. “It’s worse than my baby sister’s diapers.”
Lewis nodded, taking a whiff. “I’m actually insulted by your accusation, Maeve. My work is far superior.”
She made a face, scrunching the constellation of freckles scattered across her cheeks. “How do I know you’re not lying?”
“You could just … trust me.” Lewis flashed his signature Wynner smile. His dimples usually came in handy during moments like this. A cluster of seventh-grade girls giggled nearby.
Maeve shot the girls a look. She tugged nervously on the sleeves of her plum-colored tunic, making sure the fabric covered the bruises running up her right forearm. Break-dancing probably hadn’t been the best idea, especially with an injured arm. She grimaced, recalling last night’s fight. The pills turned her mom into someone else, someone mad and mean and unpredictable. If Maeve couldn’t trust her own mother to keep her safe, how was she supposed to trust some dimple-wielding trickster?
She shook her head. “Your Prince Charming act is not going to work on me.”
Lewis huffed impatiently. “I swear. It wasn’t me, okay? Maybe if you weren’t such an in-your-face know-it-all, people wouldn’t want to blast your locker.”
At this, Zoey looked up from a locker nearby. She stole a glance at Maeve, whose face was flushing a deep shade of red. In the past, Zoey would have jumped in to defend her friend, but things had gotten so complicated between them. Plus she was dressed in her sister’s ridiculous designer clothes, pretending to be Tessa as part of their stupid dare. Tessa wouldn’t speak up for Maeve in a million years, and in order to win the bet, Zoey had to stay in character as her sister
, undetected, until band practice this afternoon.
Meanwhile, Maeve was still arguing with Lewis. “I’m sure Principal Brant will be disappointed when I inform her of your role in the defacement of school property.”
Lewis groaned. “I just walked into school with Dev like three minutes ago. We sprinted the last five blocks so we wouldn’t get soaked by the rain. Then I nearly twisted my ankle when the sidewalk shifted. For the last time: I didn’t touch your locker. Okay?”
“I can confirm. This is accurate information,” Dev replied.
Maeve squinted at Dev. He was nice and he seemed sincere. Why he hung around with Lewis was a mystery. “Fine. But I’ve got my eye on you, Wynner. Don’t think you’re going to get away with this kind of monkey business during band practice. As the newly elected drum major, I’ll be running a tight ship. Got it?”
“Loud and clear, Captain!” Lewis gave a goofy salute. Dev nodded politely and shuffled toward his own locker. As the newest member of the band, he did not want to get on Maeve Greene’s bad side.
“If the janitor sees that mess, you’re doomed,” a voice said behind her.
Maeve wheeled around. “Ah, yes. Isaiah Yoon. I should have known you would be the gloomy voice of pessimism on this already crummy morning.”
“Realism, Greene. Not pessimism,” Isaiah replied. Then, from behind his back, he produced a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle of some lemony cleaning solution. “Here. I nabbed these from the boys’ bathroom. Thought you might need some help cleaning up.”
“Oh.” She blinked. Some days Isaiah seemed lost in the clouds, other days he was hyper tuned in, noting little things other people missed. Maeve gave a confused but grateful smile. She wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of random acts of kindness. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Hey, have you seen Zoey anywhere?”
Maeve looked up, trying to keep her expression neutral. “No. Why?”
Isaiah bit his lip. “No reason. Umm, did you notice anything weird this morning?”
She shrugged. “I heard on the news that another cow went missing from Miss Mary’s Dairy Farm.”
Isaiah had already noted this in his Journal of Strange Occurrences. It was the sixth missing cow in just as many weeks. Peculiar indeed, but not his primary concern, especially since he was lactose intolerant. “Anything else?” he probed.
“Other than this putrid tuna-salad-and-slime spack-attack?” she said, wiping down her locker.
“No, more doomy than that.” He spritzed some lemon cleaner onto the sticky surface.
“Doomy is not a real word.”
“It’s the word of the day, actually.”
She surprised herself by laughing.
In contrast, his face was serious. “Can’t you feel it?”
“Feel what?” Maeve asked.
“Something’s not right.”
“It’s called middle school, Isaiah. Awkwardness is just part of the experience. It’ll be over soon enough.”
Isaiah gasped, his eyes widening. “I knew it!”
She threw a wad of paper towels into the garbage. “I didn’t mean ‘it’ll be over’ in an end-of-the-world sort of way. I just meant we’ll be in high school soon, then hopefully college, and eventually out in the wide world … adulting.”
“Adulting? Ugh. That sounds extra doomy. I hope the world ends before I have to start adulting.”
Maeve disagreed. She was counting the days until she could escape from Conroy. She didn’t expect to run away from all her problems, but she desperately wanted to start fresh somewhere new.
“Did you feel the quiver this morning?” Isaiah pressed. “How about the flickers?”
She paused, another gloppy paper towel dripping in her hand. Had there been a quiver this morning? Between the shouting, the dishes smashing, and the doors slamming, she hadn’t noticed. All she could recall was the crazed look in her mother’s eyes and her grandfather’s threats to call the cops. Again. The words rehab and probation and other things she couldn’t bear to think about. “It was a … busy morning.” She made her face smooth and unreadable, cool as stone. Inside, her emotions were messier than her locker.
Before Isaiah could reply, the bell rang.
“Good morning, Conroy Cadets!” the intercom boomed. Since the city of Conroy was home to a large NASA field station, the school had adopted the Space Cadet—a cartoon astronaut—as their official mascot.
“Seventh-grade students in homeroom classes A through D will be attending today’s field trip to the Gwen Research Center. Homeroom classes E through H will be visiting the center on Monday. All field trippers in today’s group: Please check in with your first-period teachers, turn in any homework assignments, collect your weekend work packets, then proceed immediately to the rear exit. Buses bound for NASA will depart promptly in thirty minutes.”
Zoey gathered a stack of textbooks and set off to class, teetering in her sister’s uncomfortable shoes. She tried her best to strut down the corridor as though it were a runway, the way Tessa did so effortlessly. Unfortunately, she was pretty sure she looked more like a tipsy sailor stumbling down a pier. She caught Maeve’s eye as she passed and gave her a small smile. Maeve stared back, bewildered by the gesture. Tessa Hawthorne-Scott had never given her the time of day …
“In addition,” the loudspeaker blared, “Coach Diaz requests that all members of the marching band bring their instruments with them, as buses will drop musicians off for mandatory practice at Baxter Field directly following the field trip.”
“That means you, band geeks!” Gage Rawley sneered at Maeve and Isaiah as he passed.
“Bring our instruments? Really?” Dev groaned. He did not want to lug his saxophone to NASA and risk his father requesting some impromptu solo in front of his classmates.
Lewis nudged Dev. “Quick, let’s go. I don’t want to get stuck sitting next to her.” He tilted his head in Maeve’s direction.
The bell rang a final warning.
“Again, the buses will depart in thirty minutes! Any students not on board will join Principal Brant for the day in a quiet and excruciatingly boring extended study period,” the intercom announced.
Isaiah helped Maeve wipe the last of the purple slime from her locker. “If we don’t hurry, we’re doomed.”
“Yeah. You go. I’ll meet you there,” Maeve said.
Once she was alone, she closed her eyes. For a brief moment, she let herself drift away, imagining a world where her life was different. Where she wouldn’t need to put on a mask and pretend everything was perfect when it was far from it. Where no one vandalized her locker or called her names. Where her mother wasn’t so explosive. Where her father acknowledged her existence. Where Gramps could retire and relax, like he deserved. Where her half sister, Bethany, wasn’t such a pain in the butt. She knew it was a tall order, but sometimes it felt good to imagine a parallel version of her life.
“Thirty minutes, people!” the intercom boomed, breaking up her daydream. “Consider this your last warning! The field trip buses depart in thirty minutes!”
3
STATION LIMINUS
“Thirty days! Earth will self-destruct in T-minus thirty days,” the robotic AI voice announced loudly.
A hologram of the planet glowed above a thirteen-sided table, around which twelve of the Multiverse Allied Council’s delegates were seated. The group was gathered in the diplomatic wing of Station Liminus, a megastructure that served as the central meeting place within the liminal zone between dimensions.
The image of Earth rotated. Swathes of red and orange pulsed across the distressed planet’s surface, indicating areas of extreme warming, pollutant concentration, resource depletion, and more.
Secretary Ignatia Leapkeene pressed a button on her wristlet and the hologram disappeared. Her indigo robes swirled around her and the small, corkscrewed horns that rose from her temples darkened from ivory to deep violet, as they always did when she was faced with a difficult decisio
n.
“Esteemed members of the Multiverse Allied Council, thank you for gathering for this critical meeting. As you can see, planetary collapse within Dimension14 is imminent. For this reason, I seek your sage counsel.” Ignatia regarded each delegate, trying to gauge their reactions.
The faces of the council were great and varied—humanoid, alien, and even cyborgian. Exoskeletal, radially symmetrical, scaled, furred, ancient, young, and more, representing a diverse array of intelligent life-forms from across the multiverse.
Ignatia stopped last at the face of a human male of middle age, the most recent addition to their group. His hair was an unnatural shade of blond that bordered on fluorescent yellow, slicked back aggressively with a veneer of shellac. He wore what struck Ignatia as a rather gaudy pinstriped suit, but then again, Earthling fashion was a bit of an enigma to her. He appeared to be sweating profusely in spite of the Station’s superior ductworks, which pumped a steady stream of fresh, oxygenated air into the geodesic-domed meeting chamber.
“As the newest member of our great council, I had hoped that our inaugural meeting with Mr. Salvido Finto, representative from Earth of Dim14, would be under more auspicious terms. But alas, here we are.” Ignatia exhaled and gestured ceremoniously to Mr. Finto.
He rose to his feet and dabbed sweat from his brow. “Thank you, Secretary Leapkeene. I’m very pleased to meet you all.” He looked around. “Beautiful place you got here. Impressive architecture. First-class finishes. Not as nice as my private villa in the Maldives, but pretty close.” He waited for laughter but none came. He cleared his throat.
“Let me tell you, it’s an honor to be chosen by the great people of Earth to represent the great planet of Earth. I understand from my advisor that your little club has been around for a while, and it might seem like Earth is late to the party.” He grinned, his teeth abnormally white. “But let me tell you, you’ve saved the best for last. It’s true. You’re lucky to have us. Our planet has never been better. We are, quite simply, the best.” He smacked his lips with satisfaction, as though he’d practiced that last bit.
Mission Multiverse Page 3