Afterworlds

by Scott Westerfeld

  Darcy dropped her gaze to the torn contract. Maybe it had ripped because she wanted this too much. Maybe her hand would always slip at the last moment, tearing what she desired most. But somehow the contract was beautiful, even in its damaged state. Right there on the first page, it defined her, Darcy Patel, as “The Author.” You couldn’t get much realer than that.

  “I’d rather be a writer than a freshman,” she said.

  “Then you have to tell the elder Patels—after those are in the mailbox.”

  Darcy looked at the return envelope and wondered if the Underbridge Literary Agency provided stamps for all its authors, or only the teenage ones. But at least it made sending off the contract as easy as walking to the corner, which took less effort than resisting Nisha. If her little sister had a plan, there would be no respite without compliance.

  “Okay. At lunch.”

  Darcy lifted her favorite pen, and signed her name four times.

  * * *

  “I’ve got something to tell you guys,” she said. “But don’t get upset.”

  The expressions around the table—including Nisha’s—made Darcy wonder if she should have started differently. Her father had paused in midbite, and Annika Patel was staring wide-eyed.

  Lunch was leftovers from takeout the night before—fried red peppers, chickpeas cooked with tamarind, all of it swimming in garam masala and served straight from the styrofoam containers. Not an auspicious setting for important announcements.

  “The thing is, I want to defer college for a year.”

  “What?” her mother asked. “Why on earth?”

  “Because I have responsibilities.” This line had sounded better in her head. “I need to do the rewrites for Afterworlds, and write a sequel.”

  “But . . .” Her mother paused, and the elder Patels shared a look.

  “Working on books isn’t going to take all your time,” her father said. “You wrote your first one in a month, didn’t you? And that didn’t interfere with your studies.”

  “It almost killed me!” Darcy said. She’d dreaded coming home some days last November, because she knew that two thousand words of novel awaited her, on top of homework, college application essays, and studying for the SATs. “Besides, I didn’t write a book in a month. I wrote a draft.”

  Her parents just stared at her.

  “There’s no good writing, only good rewriting,” she quoted, not quite certain who’d said it first. “Everyone says this is the hard part, turning my draft into a real novel. According to the contract, I have until September to turn in a final draft. That’s four whole months, so they must think revisions are pretty important.”

  “I’m sure they are. But September is when college starts,” Annika Patel said, all smiles. “So there’s no conflict, is there?”

  “Right,” Darcy sighed. “Except once I finish Afterworlds, I have to write the sequel, and then revise that. And my agent says that I should be promoting myself already!”

  Nisha held up both hands, her fingers silently indicating nine “my agents.”

  “Darcy,” her father said. “You know we’ve always supported your creativity. But wasn’t the main reason for writing the novel so you could put it on your college applications?”

  “No!” Darcy cried. “Where did you get that idea?”

  Annika Patel placed her palms together, as if praying for quiet. When she had everyone’s attention, her look of long suffering softened into a sly smile.

  “Is this because you’re afraid of leaving home? I know that Ohio seems a long way away, but you can call us anytime.”

  “Oh,” Darcy said, realizing that her announcement was incomplete. “I’m not staying here. I’m moving to New York.”

  In the silence that followed, all Darcy could hear was Nisha chewing on a samosa. She wished that her little sister would at least try not to look so amused.

  “New York City?” their mother finally asked.

  “I want to be a writer, and that’s where publishing is.”

  Annika Patel let out a slow, exasperated sigh. “You haven’t even let us read this book, Darcy. And now you want to give up college for this . . . dream.”

  “I’m not giving it up, Mom, just deferring it for a year.” The right words finally came to her. “A year of studying the publishing industry. Learning all about it from the inside! Can you imagine what that would look like on a college application?” Darcy waved her hands. “I mean, except I won’t need to apply again, because I’m only deferring.”

  Her voice took on a guilty quaver at the end. According to the Oberlin student manual, deferment was allowed only under “exceptional circumstances,” and the definition of “exceptional” was up to the school. They could say no, and then she’d have to start all over.

  But being under contract to write a novel was pretty exceptional, wasn’t it?

  “I don’t know about this, Darcy.” Her father shook his head. “First you don’t apply to any universities in India, and then—”

  “I’d never get into a good school in India! Even Sagan couldn’t, and he’s a math genius.” Darcy turned to her mother, who actually read novels. “You guys thought it was awesome when my book sold.”

  “Of course it’s wonderful.” Annika Patel shook her head. “Even if you won’t let us read it.”

  “Just until I do the rewrites.”

  “That’s up to you,” her mother said. “But you can’t expect every novel you write to make this tremendous amount of money. You have to be practical. You’ve never lived alone, or paid your own bills, or made your own food. . . .”

  Darcy didn’t trust herself to speak. Her eyes stung, and her throat was tight. Nisha had been right—now that she’d uttered her dream aloud to her parents, it had become real. Too real to lose.

  But at the same time countless other things had become real, all the nuts and bolts of food and shelter. Darcy had never even done her own laundry.

  She looked pleadingly at her little sister. Nisha placed her fork down with a little tap, just loud enough.

  “I was thinking,” she said as everyone turned to her. “Moneywise, it might be better if Darcy takes a year off.”

  No one said anything, and Nisha played the silence for a moment.

  “I was looking at Oberlin’s financial aid forms. And of course the main thing they ask is what the parents earn. But there’s another place where they ask for the student’s income. Turns out, whatever Darcy makes comes straight off the top of any aid they offer.”

  Still no one spoke, and Nisha nodded slowly to herself, as if she were realizing all this just now.

  “Darcy’s going to make more than a hundred grand this year, just by signing that contract. So if she starts college now, she won’t get any financial aid at all.”

  “Oh,” Darcy said. Her two-book advance was about the size of a four-year education. By the time she’d finished college, every penny would be gone.

  “Well, that doesn’t seem fair,” her father said. “I mean, maybe there’s a way to change the contract and delay the—”

  “Too late,” Darcy said, marveling at her little sister’s deviousness. “Already signed and mailed it.”

  Her parents were staring at each other now, communing in some unspoken parental way, which meant that they would discuss the matter in private, later. Which meant that Nisha had opened the door a tiny crack.

  Now was the time to seal the deal.

  “New York’s a lot closer than Oberlin,” Darcy said. “I’ll only be a train ride away, and Aunt Lalana lives there, and there’s a much bigger Gujarati community than in—”

  Annika Patel raised her hand, and Darcy stammered to a halt on the word “Ohio.” Maybe it was best to save a few arguments for later, in case this battle went to round two.

  But already something momentous had happened here at this table. Darcy could feel her course in life, which had been set so determinedly since she was a little girl, bending toward a new trajectory. She had chang
ed the arc of her own story, merely by typing a couple of thousand words each day for thirty days.

  And the taste of that power, the power of her own words, made her hungrier.

  Darcy didn’t want this interruption to last only a year. She wanted to see how long she could stretch this feeling out. To be dizzy with words again, like in that glorious week at the end of last November when everything had fallen into place. Darcy wanted that feeling not just for a year.

  She wanted it forever.

  CHAPTER 4

  WHEN MY EYES OPENED, EVERYTHING was wrong.

  My head hurt from having fallen to the floor. I touched my hand to my brow and felt the stickiness of blood. I was too dizzy to stand, but managed to sit up.

  Beneath me was an expanse of gray tile, just like the airport floor, but everything else had disappeared. I seemed to be sitting in the midst of a formless gray cloud. All I could see were shadows, wisps of motion in the fog.

  Hitting my head had done something to my senses. The light filtering through the mist was cold and hard, and there were no colors, only grays. A roaring sound echoed in my ears, like rain on a metal roof. The air tasted flat and metallic. My body felt numb, as if the darkness I’d fallen through had left me chilled.

  Where the hell was I?

  A dark shape flickered in the corner of my vision. But when I turned my head, it vanished back into the mist.

  “Hello?” I tried to call, but could barely squeeze the word out. Then I realized why—I hadn’t taken a single breath since waking up. My lungs were like the rest of my body, filled with cold black ink.

  I sucked in a startled gasp, my body starting up like an old car, in jerks and shudders. A few shallow breaths forced themselves into me. I shut my eyes, concentrating on breathing . . . on being alive.

  When I opened them again, a girl stood in front of me.

  She was about thirteen, with large, curious eyes that met my gaze. She wore a skirt that fell to the floor, a sleeveless top, and a scarf across one shoulder—all of it gray. Her face was gray too, as if she were a pencil drawing come to life.

  I drew a careful breath before speaking.

  “Where am I?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You can see me?”

  I didn’t answer. In that billowing cloud, she was the only thing I could see.

  “You’ve crossed over,” the girl said, stepping a little closer. Her eyes focused on my forehead. “But you’re still bleeding.”

  My fingers went to my brow. “I hit my head.”

  “So you’d look dead to them. Clever girl.” She spoke with an accent that I couldn’t recognize at first. And though I could understand her words, what the girl was saying made no sense. “You’re shiny. You thought your way here, didn’t you?”

  “Here? Where am I?”

  She frowned. “Maybe not so clever after all. You’re in the afterworld, my dear.”

  For a moment it was like falling again, the floor dropping out from under me. The distant rumbling sound grew louder in my ears.

  “Are you saying . . . I’m dead?”

  She glanced up at my forehead again. “The dead don’t bleed.”

  I blinked, not knowing what to say.

  “It’s very simple.” She spoke carefully, as if explaining something to a child. “You willed your way here. My brother is just like you.”

  I shook my head. Anger was rising up in me, along with the certainty that she was trying to be confusing.

  But before I could say something rude, an awful sound came through the mist.

  Squeak, squeak . . . tennis shoes on the tile floor.

  I spun around, staring into the formless gray. “It’s him!”

  “Stay calm.” The girl stepped forward to take my hand. Her fingers were cold, and their iciness flowed into me, stilling my panic. “It isn’t safe yet.”

  “But he’s . . .” Squeak, squeak.

  I faced the sound as he emerged from the cloud—the gunman who’d shot at me. He looked even more hideous now, with a gas mask hiding his face. He was coming straight toward us.

  “No,” I said.

  The girl took my shoulder. “Don’t move.”

  Frozen by her command, I expected the terrorist to raise his gun and fire. But he walked past us—through us, as if we were smoke and mist.

  I turned and watched him recede into the cloud. His passage swirled the gray behind him, clearing a column of air. I saw plastic chairs and television screens and bodies lying on the floor.

  “This is the airport,” I murmured.

  The girl frowned. “Of course it is.”

  “But why—”

  Inside the swirling clouds something flashed, a metal cylinder clattering along the floor toward us. The size of a soft drink can, it rolled to a stop a few yards away, spinning and hissing, spraying more smoke into the air. In seconds the clear passage that the gunman had created filled with mist again.

  “Tear gas,” I murmured. This wasn’t heaven. It was a battle zone.

  Security is responding, the woman on the phone had said. I finally realized that the roaring sound was gunfire, muted by distance or whatever had gone wrong with my senses.

  “Don’t worry,” the girl said. “Nothing can hurt you here.”

  I turned to her. “Where’s here? None of this makes sense!”

  “Try to pay attention,” she said, exasperated now. “You’ve thought your way into the afterworld, and if you go back to reality, you’ll be shot. So stay calm!”

  I stared at her, unable to speak or move or think. It was all too much.

  She sighed. “Just wait here. I’ll get my brother.”

  * * *

  I was afraid to move after she left.

  The mist—or tear gas, I suppose—would clear now and then, and I could see bodies around me. Their clothes and faces were gray, like the rest of the world. Everything was leached of color, except for my own hands and the red blood I’d wiped away from my eyes.

  Wherever this was, I didn’t belong here. I was too alive.

  It was long minutes of waiting before another shape loomed out of the mist—a boy my age. I could see the resemblance to his sister, except that his skin wasn’t gray like hers. It was as brown as mine at the end of a long summer at the beach, and jet-black hair fell just above his shoulders. He wore a silk shirt that rippled like a dark liquid across his skin.

  Even in that awful moment, I could see that he was beautiful. He shone somehow, as if sunlight were breaking through the mist, just for him. He was one of those boys with a perfect jaw, who looks stunning when he’s clean shaven, but just that little bit more handsome with the barest shadow of stubble.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said.

  I tried to answer, but my mouth was dry.

  “My name is Yamaraj,” he said. “I can help you.”

  He had the same accent as his sister—from India, I thought, with a touch of England. His words came out precisely, like someone who’d learned English in a classroom.

  “I’m Lizzie,” I managed.

  He looked puzzled a moment. “Short for Elizabeth?”

  I just stared at him. It was such a strange thing to say.

  Something flashed in the corner of my eye—another man, running fast, ducking and weaving as he went. He wore a gas mask, a black uniform, and a bulletproof vest. He must have been one of the good guys, but at that moment he looked like a monster.

  Yamaraj put his hand on my arm. “This is almost over. I’ll take you someplace safe.”

  “Please,” I said as he turned me away from the muted roar of gunfire.

  But then I saw what was ahead of us—the metal gate that had doomed us all. A dozen bodies lay at its foot, still and silent. One woman had her arm flung across a child. Another man’s fingers were bloody from clawing at the unyielding steel.

  I froze. “This is where they caught us!”

  “Close your eyes, Elizabeth.” His voice had a quiet intensity that forced me to obey, and
he led me gently forward. “Don’t worry,” he kept saying. “The overworld can’t hurt you if you stay calm.”

  I wasn’t calm at all. But my panic was like a poisonous snake at a zoo, staring at me from the other side of thick glass. Only Yamaraj’s touch on my arm kept the glass from shattering. His skin seemed to burn against mine.

  With every blind step forward I expected to feel a body underfoot, or to slip on blood, but there was only a slight tugging on my clothes, as if we were walking through brambles.

  “We’re safe now,” Yamaraj finally said, and I opened my eyes again.

  We were in another part of the airport, where rows of plastic chairs faced the sealed-up doors of boarding gates. Televisions were mounted on the walls, their screens blank. Sliding walkways moved between glass barriers, empty.

  The light was just as hard and cold here, and everything still gray, except for Yamaraj, shining and brown. But the tear gas was only wisps and haze around us.

  I turned to stare back the way we’d come. The gate was in the distance, the fallen bodies on the other side.

  “We walked through that?” I asked.

  “Don’t look back. It’s important that you stay—”

  “Calm. I get it!” Nothing makes me more annoyed than someone telling me to stay calm. But the fact that I could snap at him meant that I was coming out of shock.

  My anger sputtered when I turned to face Yamaraj. His gaze was so steady, and the glint in his brown eyes softened the hard light around us. He was the only thing in this world that wasn’t gray and cold.

  “You’re still bleeding.” He grasped the tail of his shirt with both hands, and with a sharp movement ripped a piece away. When he pressed it against my forehead, I could feel the warmth of his hand through the silk.

  My mind steadied a little. The dead don’t bleed. I wasn’t dead.

  “That girl who found me, she’s your sister?”

  “Yes. Her name is Yami.”

  “She said some weird stuff.”

  A smile touched his lips. “Yami is unhelpful sometimes. You must have questions.”

  I had a hundred, but they all boiled down to one.