by Daniel Price
“Then make this your swan song,” Peter suggested to Ally. “Go out with a bang.”
“I’d love to. I just . . .” She opened her mouth to say something, then censored herself. “I’m better with machines than I am with humans. I can read machines. You folks—”
“We’re not looking to hurt anyone,” Amanda assured her. “We just want to find our people.”
“What people?”
“Immigrants,” Peter delicately replied. “They’re lost in this country and they need us.”
“You’ll be helping us save lives,” Theo added. “A lot of them.”
Ally mulled their words a moment, her gaze lingering on the treetops. “It’s funny. I’ve spent half my life reminding Americans that there’s a whole world out there. They’re so goddamn insular. Anything foreign sends them right into their clamshell. I never understood that mind-set. Not until now.”
She waved her finger between Theo and Amanda. “I get the hunch that ‘immigrant’ is a gentle word to describe you two. I think it would break my brain to find out where you come from. There’s a part of me that desperately wants to know. The rest of me . . .” She shrugged. “I like my world the size it is.”
Ally pinched the spoolie between her fingers and held it up to the sun. “Luckily for you, I love confusing the shit out of people. This is right up my flagpole.”
She dropped the disc into her pocket, then fluffed the fur on Barney’s neck.
“Give us a week,” she said. “We’ll get your message out to everyone.”
—
On Sunday, June 5, as the East Coast clocks chimed the nine P.M. hour, a gentle hush swept across the nation. Families turned off their phones and gathered around their lumivisions. Bartenders switched their wall sets to National-1. It was the third and final hour of the King of America Pageant, the most exciting leg of the show. This was the part where contestants stopped flexing their oiled muscles and started beating the crap out of each other.
The pubs and casinos roared with excitement as the Prince of Oregon faced the Prince of Washington in final combat. They circled each other on a suspended platform, brandishing their sparstaffs while they struggled to avoid the air vents on the floor. Unlike last week’s Queen of America Pageant, where the grates’ only danger was an upblown skirt, these vents were set to hurricane blast. One ill-timed step could send a challenger flying into the water. The gamblers in Seattle bet extra money that the long-haired fop from Oregon would be the first to get galed.
Forty-one seconds into the match, an air geyser knocked the staff out of Washington’s hand. Oregon charged at him with a guttural cry. Washington stood his ground at the edge of the platform. His only hope now was to dodge at just the right moment.
Just as the princes converged in the same frame, the image shuddered, then went completely black.
All across the country, viewers screamed in frustration. Some frantically checked their signal connections. Others cursed Surpdog’s name. By now most Americans recognized the telltale signs of Ally’s meddling, and had been conditioned to expect her usual nonsense: fifty-four seconds of international images, all pretty and pointless and very annoying. If they wanted to see Timbuktu or Fuck-a-doo, they’d go to a library and—
A guitar riff suddenly seized everyone’s attention. The masses fell quiet. Twenty-five million brows knitted in unison as Heath’s breathy hiss filled the air.
“Shoot me.”
And then it began: a cryptic serenade, a song for all the orphans of America. For the next four minutes, the viewers of National-1 sat in total silence as they listened to the music of a dead sister Earth. While some were stuck on the impenetrable lyrics and others got tangled on the text of the clue cards, the majority kept their minds on the music. The notes moved through their consciousness like an alien paradox—both mellow and edgy, familiar and strange, unnerving yet utterly mesmerizing. A million people found themselves tapping their feet to the rhythm. The more sensitive listeners reeled at the grief in Heath’s voice. His haunting cracks of sorrow left them thoroughly convinced that the song was an elegy. They weren’t entirely wrong.
The Silvers and Golds watched from Hannah’s living room, their faces quivering with emotion. For all their work and careful planning, none of them had anticipated the overwhelming power of their accomplishment. They’d brought a piece of their world back from the dead and hung it up in the sky for everyone to see. Two Earths had come together, right now, over them.
And for a brief spell, they were home.
Mia turned her teary eyes onto Theo. “You did it. You actually did it.”
Theo shook his head. He wasn’t the one who’d ripped a Beatles song out of his chest, or solved the mystery of Surpdog in less than an hour. It was too soon to be celebrating anyway. None of this would mean a damn thing if the message didn’t get to the right people. That was entirely up to the wind now.
—
As expected, Ally’s monumental surp became the week’s biggest story. Radio stations played “Come Together” in its entirety. Newspapers printed the text of the clue cards on their front pages. Experts and pundits dissected every word of the lyrics (which John Lennon himself had called “gobbledygook”). From state to state, channel to channel, the same question lingered on everyone’s lips. What does it all mean?
Only Merlin McGee, America’s premier prophet, offered a semblance of a rational answer. “I don’t know,” he told a National-4 reporter, “but it’s a damn fine song.”
By the end of the week, there were no new angles to explore, no more trees to shake. The talking heads decided that Surpdog had gone barking mad and that was that. Meanwhile, in other news . . .
Theo turned off the lumivision and paced his room. He’d spent the last five days in jittery anticipation, never once letting the powerphone out of his earshot. It seemed impossible to exist in this country without hearing the message, yet the hotline hadn’t rung once. No Coppers, no Platinums, not even a teasing congratulation from Evan.
“Shit.”
Theo had no idea what to do. His faith had crumbled. His foresight was nothing but fog. He rushed to his laptop, opened his bitmail program, and furiously typed a new message.
I’m asking you again: please help me. You’re the only augur I know who isn’t crazy or broken. And I know you know Ioni. Just tell me what she wants. Talk to me!
He sent the message, for all the good it did. He’d bitmailed Merlin a dozen times this week, using the secure and anonymous address that Peter had given him. The man had yet to respond. Like the breachers of America, Merlin seemed determined to drive Theo crazy with his silence.
Fuming, Theo began a second message. Screw this. I’m done. Next time you see your boss, tell her . . .
The powerphone rang in a shrill, urgent chirp. Theo fumbled for the handset and checked the caller identification screen. All it said was “Calm Down.”
He pressed the phone to his ear. “So that’s what it takes to get you.”
“I mean it. Relax. And stop writing Merlin. He’s not going to answer you.”
Theo was thrown by Ioni’s phone voice, a high and youthful timbre that nearly robbed her of all mystique. She sounded more like an actress in an acne cream ad than the queen of all augurs.
He cradled the phone on his shoulder and resumed his fitful pacing. “You told him not to talk to me.”
“I asked him not to talk to you. I’m not the bossy boss you think I am.”
“You’re not any kind of boss! You give me no information, no guidance. I have no idea what I’m doing!”
“Yes, you do,” Ioni said.
“The song didn’t work.”
“Yes it did.”
Theo heard a fizzy hiss on the other end of the line. Ioni had popped open a can of something carbonated and was pausing to take a sip.
“The Platinums will
call you in twenty-two minutes,” she said. “The Irons in fifty.”
Theo stopped in his tracks and scanned the clock on the wall. “Bullshit.”
“Well, half the Irons. The other half will call next week.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Care to put money on it?”
He didn’t. Ioni’s prescience was one of the few things he didn’t doubt about her. But why couldn’t he see these things for himself? How could he be so blind to the events of the next hour?
Theo climbed into bed and draped his arm over his eyes. “What about the Coppers?”
“I’m not sure about them,” Ioni admitted. “They’re a bit of a wild card.”
“But they have the number.”
“Oh yes.” A smile lifted Ioni’s voice. “Your plan was inspired, Theo. Your message reached them all.”
A wave of euphoria washed over him. He wanted to laugh and cry and whoop like a madman. Only the thought of unfinished business kept him grounded.
“There are still five other groups out there,” he reminded Ioni.
“Theo . . .”
“We won’t be able to get them with a song.”
“Theo. You just paved a brighter future for a whole lot of people. You saved your friends from some very dangerous missions, and you did it all without harming a soul. Victories like this don’t come very often. Take a night to enjoy it.”
Theo heard the rustling of sheets, the creaking of box springs. It seemed Ioni was also lying down in bed.
“I still don’t entirely trust you,” he admitted.
Ioni sighed. “That’s okay. I don’t entirely trust myself either.”
“Can’t you give me more information? I mean, with everything at stake—”
“That’s exactly why I don’t give you more. It’s why I don’t want you talking with Merlin.”
“You’re afraid I’ll break the string.”
“I’m afraid the string will break you.”
Theo thought back to his conversation with Ally. Would she have done a better job if she knew about parallel worlds and Pelletiers, the four-year deadline that hung over everyone? Apparently not, because she did her work flawlessly. If anything, the extra baggage would have slowed her down.
A long moment passed before Theo spoke again. “I have dreams.”
“I know.”
“The night I met Merlin, I saw a city in the distance. It was weird and empty and it scared the living shit out of me. It was like looking at my grave.”
Theo gave Ioni a moment to respond. She didn’t.
“Merlin told me the fate of the world would be decided there,” he said. “He said the city was falling either way and so were we. Except I don’t think he was just talking about me and him. I think he was talking about all our kind. The Gothams, the breachers, the Majee, the Pelletiers. All the timebending freaks. Even you.”
Theo covered his eyes with his hand. “I think we all have to die to stop what’s coming.”
The line went silent for another five seconds. “Ioni?”
“I’m here.”
Her voice was low now, somber. At long last Theo could hear her age.
“You’ve backed me into a hell of a corner,” she said. “I can’t tell you anything without risking everything.”
“Then don’t. I’m only saying it because . . . I don’t know. If that’s what it takes to save billions of lives, I’ll do it. So will my friends. I just wish I knew.”
“Why?”
Theo ruminated on it a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m a masochist. Maybe I’m tired of surprises. Or maybe I just want the comfort that my life and death will mean something.” He chuckled. “I’ve already made more of a mark on this world than I ever did on the last one.”
He heard the faint metal clack of Ioni’s watches. He could only guess that she was checking the time.
“Theo, I want you to do something for me, all right? This is the easiest thing I’ll ever ask of you.”
Theo narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What?”
“The minute you get off the phone with the Irons, I want you to share the good news with your friends. Bang the doors. Bring them out. Yell like Paul Revere. Tell them that this is just the start of something wonderful. The orphans of your world are coming together. There’ll be a lot of new houses on Freak Street.”
Theo tapped his jaw, his mind teeming with questions. “I’ll tell them. But—”
“No buts. Just take a night off and have a good time. Can you do that for me? Please?”
Theo heard a foreboding sorrow in her voice, as if the party she wanted was a last hurrah for something—or someone.
Ioni picked up on his hesitation. “Theo . . .”
“I’ll do it,” he said. “Just answer me this one—”
“No.”
“Why am I only seeing fog in the future? Are the Pelletiers jamming me again?”
“Goddamn it, Theo.”
“What’s coming? What do they not want me to see?”
“Just do what I say!”
Ioni hung up. Theo jumped out of bed and cursed a storm. His faith in her had never been shakier, yet he was already starting to sense the truth of her words. A warm wind tickled him from the near future—a pleasure, of triumph. Ioni wasn’t lying. Theo and his friends would have a very good night.
Everything after that was shadows and fog.
He sat at his desk, twiddling his thumbs until the powerphone rang again. Theo didn’t bother to check the caller ID. He cracked his neck, cleared his throat, and then, with a grin on his lips, he answered the call of the Platinums.
THIRTY-NINE
Zack bowed his head like a man in prayer, his eyes closed in a twitching wince. The Lee family elevator seemed almost deliberately designed to unnerve him. The rollers squeaked like dying mice while the car’s sputtering lurches sent his stomach into somersaults. Most rattling of all were the interior embellishments: mirrors, mirrors on the walls, a full-length mirror on each door. Zack couldn’t step inside without reliving his time in the Pelletier dungeon. He still felt a cold squeeze around his heart whenever he saw his reflection.
Mercy flanked his side and studied him closely. “What?”
“What, what?”
“Every time you ride this thing, you look like you’re getting fisted.”
Zack kept his head down. A different girlfriend might have simply asked him if he was okay, but then Mercurial Lee didn’t hide her true nature. Most of the time, he appreciated her saltiness. Just not tonight.
“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Just a little claustrophobic.”
He didn’t know why he lied to her. She knew him well enough by now to see through his bullshit. In a better state of mind, he might have told her not to take it personally. Even his closest friends didn’t know about the mirror room.
Mercy finished the last of her cider punch, then crumpled the cup in her hand. A spontaneous party had broken out on Freak Street earlier, in celebration of Theo’s news. The Platinums and half the Irons were making their way to Quarter Hill and would be here by Monday—twelve new orphans, an eighth of their world’s remaining population. Theo strongly believed, from his brief but telling phone conversations, that they were all good people. He was particularly high on the leader of the Platinums, an eloquent young rabbi named Caleb.
It was a miraculous coup, yet Zack had barely cracked a smile all night. He’d spent most of the party sitting off to the side, nursing a beer while he mingled with Heath. Every time Mercy looked his way, she caught him staring at Amanda, watching her with heavy eyes as her fingers clasped Peter’s. His grief had been so palpable that even David, no friend of Mercy’s, gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. Give him time.
The elevator made its final creaking moans. Mercy twisted the ring
on her middle finger. “I like Mia.”
“So do I,” Zack said.
“You know that she and Carrie are a thing now, right?”
“She tell you that?”
“No. They’re doing their damnedest to keep it hushed.”
“So how do you know they’re an item?”
“Because I have eyes, Zack. I see things.”
At long last, the elevator reached the surface. The doors opened to the Lees’ secret parlor, a miniature museum of figurines and priceless paintings. Zack once again marveled at the sight of The Blue Boy. He wondered what would happen if he reversed the canvas two and a half centuries, all the way to Gainsborough’s earliest strokes. Maybe there was a second image hidden beneath the oils, a half-formed concept that lay buried inside the child like a parasitic twin.
Mercy led Zack through her family’s long corridors. Her voice took on a bitter tone. “You know what impresses me most about Mia? She was in love with David for the longest time, but when it didn’t work out, she got over it. She just brushed off her shoulder and moved on.”
She tossed a pointed look over her shoulder. “Imagine that.”
Zack met her scowl with a sneer. “Gee, if I didn’t know any better—”
“You don’t know better.”
“—I’d say you were mad at me.”
Mercy brought him into her bedroom and closed the door behind them. “I’m not mad, Zack. I’m tired. If you want to be with Amanda, then be with her. Find a way. But this constant moping—”
Zack chuckled disdainfully. “Moping.”
“You think you’re not? Do you even see yourself?”
The motion sensors activated, shining soft cones of light on Mercy’s wall art. Zack approached her nearest painting, a two-tone image that was either a woman or a mockingbird, depending on which color you were looking at.
“Negative space,” he muttered.
“What?”
“It’s the name we had for this kind of illusion.” He traced a finger down the canvas. “Some people only ever see one part of the picture. To them it’s either a vase or two faces and that’s all there is to it.”