A Thousand Pieces of You

Paul turns out to be doing his doctoral research on a vessel taking deepwater samples in the Pacific, though I can’t find out exactly where. He could be only a couple of hours away, or across half the planet. I ping his account on his ship, but he must not be in front of his computer. So I tap the screen to record a video message.

“Hi, Paul. It’s me. I mean, it’s really me.” I hook one thumb under the chain of my Firebird, so he can see it. “I’m safe here, and I’m with my family, so—you don’t have to worry on my account. Looks like you’re doing all right too. I might not have internet access for long, though. When you get this, call, okay?”

I hope Paul’s just had a reminder when he sees that. Otherwise, he’s going to be incredibly confused.

Theo turns out to be studying in Australia, in a harbor city called New Perth that’s about two hundred miles inland from where Perth used to be. I ping him, too, and even though it must be the wee hours of the morning where he is, he answers almost instantly. His face takes shape on the screen—hair rumpled, plenty of stubble—and he immediately says, “You stole my car.”

“Hi to you, too.” I can’t resist a grin.

“What the hell was that about? One minute I’m telling Conley how great you are, the next minute you’re peeling out of the parking lot.” Theo looks pissed off, and I know it’s not the car he’s angry about. “Tell me you didn’t go to meet Paul.”

“I went to meet Paul.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You were wrong about him, Theo. He finally explained what’s really been happening, with Conley and with—” I can’t bring myself to say, with me. Saying that I’m Conley’s true target makes it all too real. “It’s complicated. It would be better if I could tell you all this in person. Do you think you could get here? It’s not so far.”

“It’s thousands of miles, Meg. You need to brush up on your geography.” Theo leans backward, thumping his head against the wall. His wrinkled T-shirt is, once again, the Gears; the Beatles must have not quite made it to this dimension either. “But yeah. I can get there. Looks like science stations and oceanography institutes all work together pretty tightly in this dimension. If I radio in, say I’ve been on an observation flight or cruise, and I need a berth, they’ll take me in. Now all I have to do is find one of those.”

If anybody is resourceful enough to pull that off, it’s Theo. I grin at him. “Fantastic.”

“Is Paul there with you?” Theo says shortly.

“No. He’s on a research vessel.” This is the first time I’ve had more information than Theo, and I can tell he doesn’t like being in the dark. Still, I can’t blame him for being impatient for answers. Even though I agreed to take Paul on faith a while longer, I’m past ready to find out what else is going on.

More gently, Theo says, “If he calls you, or shows up—listen, I know you feel like Paul’s innocent, but will you please exercise some basic caution until I get there? A healthy skepticism?”

“What exactly is it you think Paul’s going to do now? If he were going to hurt me, he’s already had his chance.”

“He already hurt us all.” The way Theo says it awakens all my grief for my father, which is somehow stronger for being shared. I reach out to touch my tablet, and he touches his, too; our fingertips seem to meet through the screen. “I’m only looking out for you. Trying to take care of you. Why can’t you see that? I wish I could make you see that, just once.”

“Theo—”

He doesn’t let me finish. “All right, Meg. See you soon.”

His image goes to black, and for a while I remain there, fingertips on the screen, wondering if I’ve broken Theo’s heart.

I go through this Marguerite’s day, which fortunately is pleasant enough. Here, I attend school—but instead of one of the enormous, dull, cliquish schools I see on TV, it’s a group of about fifty kids from my age all the way down to preschool, and everything’s pretty low-key and free-form. The “big test” turns out to be French; lucky thing I just spent nearly three weeks in Russia studying Molière. As I breezily write out a paragraph on Tartuffe, I think, I’m borrowing this Marguerite’s body, but at least this time I’m paying her back for the favor.

I think about Paul. My need to know how he is, what he’s doing, why he’s here—it burns inside me, as constant as a torch. Whenever I get a moment, I check my account to see if he’s called back. But communications cloud out before lunchtime. My only responses are black screens and static.

Dinner is some chicken thing that comes wrapped in an airtight pouch, and vegetables that emerge from deep freeze with a bad case of soggy. Out here, probably, nothing is fresh except seafood; that would be fine with me, but I’m guessing the rest of my family, after a few years on the Salacia, is sick and tired of it.

But I don’t care about the crappy meal. We’re all together, me and Josie, Mom and Dad. I took that for granted in my own dimension until it was ripped away. So I’m not making that mistake again. From now on, I’m very aware that every moment I’m with my dad might be the last.

“We only got half the data packet out before the comms went down,” Mom says to Dad as she pours herself some tea. “And the forecasts are only getting worse.”

“Swaying like a hammock already,” Dad says cheerfully.