Ten Thousand Skies Above You

“And that’s how the universe works?” I thought of all the different selves I’ve met, all the different paths that have led me to Paul. “We mirror each other over and over again?”

He nodded. “Down to the subatomic level. Quarks come in pairs—always—and if you try to destroy one, another will instantly appear to take its place and maintain balance.”

Quarks are smaller than atoms. Smaller than electrons. I swear, that is all you ever have to know about quarks. But when Paul said it like that, the subject caught my interest. “Like, the universe knows the mirrored pairs have to exist?”

“Yes, exactly.”

One thing I’ve learned from my parents is that the physical universe seems to understand a lot, in ways you’d think would require consciousness. Information between particles appears to travel faster than light. I knew better than to ask Paul about it, though, because that’s a mystery not even he can solve. I like that it’s a mystery—that the universe always knows something we won’t.

“So symmetry is one of the fundamental forces of the universe.” I kept pacing around the tree. Paul, standing in place, vanished behind the trunk as I wound my way to the other side. “Unbreakable.”

“No. Not unbreakable.”

“But you just said—”

“Physics sometimes violates its own rules.” From the pitch of Paul’s voice, I could tell he was looking upward at the branches swaying in the wind. “Luckily for us. Or else the world wouldn’t be here.”

“Okay, you have to explain that one.”

“One of the symmetries in the universe should be between matter and antimatter,” he says. “But you know what happens when they meet.”

This much I understand. “They annihilate each other.”

“So if the universe contained exactly equal amounts of matter and antimatter, it would self-destruct. Actually, it would have self-destructed almost immediately after forming. At some point at the very beginning of creation, the symmetry broke. Nobody knows how or why. That break allowed our universe to come into being.”

I came around the curve of the tree and peeked over to see Paul. His hands were jammed in the pockets of his waterproof jacket; his thrift-store jeans showed wear that had nothing to do with being “distressed.” The vivid dark greens of the forest outlined his strong profile, and his gray eyes remained focused—not on the leaves, I realized, but the one patch of blue he could see through them.

I don’t know why that moment was so special, but it was. That image is one of the first I remember every time I think of how I feel about him. It was like I loved him so much in that instant, like he was part of my blood and my bones.

“So that’s why the whole world is here. Asymmetry saved us,” I said as I walked back toward him. “But symmetry keeps the universe moving forward.”

“More or less.” Paul turned toward me and smiled, holding out one hand.

Instead of taking it, I pulled his arm around me so I could snuggle against his side. “So it’s symmetry that keeps bringing the same people together in world after world? That makes sure you and I always find each other?

“Maybe,” he said. His expression clouded over. At the time I thought he was lost in thought about subatomic particles or the seconds following the Big Bang. Now I wonder whether he was thinking about the fact that the universe always seems to make sure we run into Conley, too.

Romola and I ride downward in an oddly cube-shaped elevator. Long narrow screens halve each wall, and each one flashes the exact same Triad Corporation motto I know from two other worlds: Everyplace. Everytime. Everyone.

At home, the motto is in an attractive serif font that’s supposed to look quirky and creative. Here, it’s in block letters you’d see on signs in a prison. In this dimension—the Home Office—nobody’s even pretending this is about reaching out and providing fun new products for people to love. The motto’s real meaning shows through. It’s about control.

“Why isn’t Conley’s office on the top floor?” Most CEOs get the prime real estate for themselves—at least, in my extensive experience of watching TV shows where corporate titans always seem to have a spectacular view.

Romola gives me a look. “Not very secure, is it? The principals of Triad Corporation work from the very center of the building, of course.”

“What do you mean, secure?”

“Market-share rivals could launch an assault at any time. Of course we use the upper rooms—the better to keep an eye on the competition—but that’s no place for vital officers of the company.”

Other companies might attack? “If—if some other company tried that—I mean, they’d go to jail, right?”

“I forget.” Romola makes a tsk-tsk sound. “Your dimension still maintains the illusion of nation-states as the prime political and economic entities. In this world, we’ve outgrown such notions. Corporate allegiance is a very serious matter for consumers, who should not switch sides lightly.”

I can’t even wrap my head around that. Hopefully I won’t be here long enough to have to worry about it.

When the doors slide open, Romola leads me down a long corridor and through a series of reception rooms—all deserted, at this early hour of the day. (I left Paris around lunchtime; if it’s sunrise here, then this must be the East Coast of the United States.) Each room looks sleeker and more forbidding than the last. These are the barriers visitors have to cross if they want to see the big man himself.

“You must have been looking forward to this,” Romola says. “Finally getting to the root of it all.”

I laugh once, a bitter sound. “Before five minutes ago, I had no idea this dimension was even involved. I should’ve known, though. Triad means three. Three dimensions are in on it.” We all thought Triad was just a name, any other cool-sounding noun chosen at random by a bunch of twenty-something tech entrepreneurs. Why didn’t we ever question whether it meant something more?

Romola gives me an odd look. “The name of the company has nothing to do with the dimensions. How could it? This branch of Triad has existed for years longer than any of the others.”

“Then the name actually doesn’t mean anything?”

“It does. Triad stands for the three founders of the company. The geniuses behind it all.”

With that, she presses a panel and the final doors slide open, revealing a spacious but windowless office. Behind the long, narrow desk is Wyatt Conley, his hair longer and tied back in a sort of tail; he nods by way of greeting. Sitting on either side of him are the two other founders of Triad—the two other masterminds of this conspiracy.

My parents.

24

“HELLO, MARGUERITE,” MY MOTHER SAYS. “YOU MUST HAVE many questions.”

Thousands. But I can’t ask them. I have no voice. My body reels, and I need to sit down before I fall. The room contains only three chairs, however, and all three are occupied.

“Sweetheart?” My father gets to his feet—concerned and gentle and so like Dad that it makes everything even worse. “You don’t look well. I told your other self to take it easy earlier; we didn’t know when you’d get here. Of course she stayed awake the entire time, didn’t she, Miss Harrington?”