by Wendy Devore
“Hold on!” Andrew sprang to action. “You’re going to need this.”
He dashed toward me with an orange five-gallon bucket. Just in time, I kneeled down, closed my eyes, and lost my cookies.
When I finally finished heaving and raised my head, I was surprised to find that the orange bucket had disappeared, and I was keeled over in the black office chair, staring at the floor. Jackhammers still pounded my skull and the room was still spinning. With a shaking hand, I detached the cap-shaped matrix of electrodes and peeled them from my head, leaving my hair a tangled bird’s nest, wet with saline. I slowly raised my head as Andrew, clad in his own web of EEG sensors, reached over and plucked the little silver device from the back of my hand.
“Deep breaths,” Andrew instructed.
I tried to protest, but speaking was not possible. The pounding in my head was too debilitating.
“Hey, Boss,” Amir called. “Kate’s trace showed some unexpected peaks at the end, there.”
Andrew removed his sensor cap and dropped it in the bucket of saline solution. “She’ll be fine.” He stood and loomed over me, pulling up each of my eyelids and examining my pupils as if he were checking for concussion. Each time the light penetrated my irises, a new stabbing jolt plunged through my brain. “You’ll be fine. Your headache should abate within fifteen minutes. Close your eyes and stay still.”
The migraine passed more quickly than I expected, right when he said it would. What remained was an annoying but completely bearable dull ache and a persistent, sharp twinge every time I flexed my right hand.
Andrew placed a glass of cold water before me on the conference table and took a seat.
I licked my dry, cracked lips and scowled. “What the hell was that? Did I just have some kind of seizure?” I carefully probed the painful welt on the back of my hand.
He spoke laboriously, as if he was instructing an especially dense child. “As I told you: modified-REM dimensional shift. You just survived a visit to an alternate slice.”
I examined his face once again for any sign that this was an elaborate hoax. He returned my stare without even a hint of humor. It finally sunk in—he was completely serious. And I had just vomited my way through an alternate reality.
“Uh—” I faltered. “ So which slice or whatever you call it am I in now?”
“Your native slice,” Andrew replied.
“And how did I get back here, exactly?”
He folded his hands and leaned forward. “Slices—realities—they don’t want to diverge. Slices that are similar tend toward convergence. The math says the universe doesn’t want an infinite multiverse; it wants to simplify. So two slices that are nearly identical tend to converge, which is what you felt when you—”
I groaned. “Made my offering to the porcelain goddess?”
He smirked. “Yes. Most people routinely experience the result of slice convergence. They don’t really understand what’s happening, but they feel it, and they call it déjà vu. You’ve probably felt it too—like when you find yourself thinking about an old friend minutes before they call. Slices converging. Possibilities reducing—simplification. But you and I—we were in a reality where we didn’t belong. So when the slices converged, we suffered a much more physical response than a minor déjà vu experience.”
“So why didn’t you blow chunks?”
“5-HT3 receptor antagonists. Anti-nausea drugs.”
“Huh. You might have shared.”
Andrew winced. “Yeah, about that. We weren’t completely certain you’d be able to slice, and sometimes the receptor antagonists can interfere with the process.”
This explanation almost made sense—except for the fact that it was completely and utterly impossible. The more I thought about it, the more my thoughts curled around in confounding and confusing loops. It was as if the synapses of my brain had been trapped in an M.C. Escher print.
I rubbed my forehead, wishing it would untangle my thoughts. “Explain again about the déjà vu?”
“Remember that closely synchronized slices collapse,” Andrew explained.
I gave him a blank stare.
Andrew sighed and tried again.
“When two slices with slightly different historical data points collapse, the conflicts have to be resolved. You write code,” he said. “It is just a merge.”
I stared at him blankly. “It’s a merge?”
I could see by his frown that I was trying his patience.
“In complicated software development, a team of developers all work on the same project at the same time. Many developers are writing or changing the codebase. To keep it all synced up, we submit it to a central repository. But sometimes two developers are working on the same section of code at the same time. When both commit their changes to the repository, there are conflicts. We have to resolve them, taking the best of each, and merge it into something coherent that still works.”
I rolled my eyes. “I know what a code merge is.” I paused, trying to fit the pieces together. “So, I remember both realities, but everyone else gets a new version of truth? Reality does code merges?” I echoed, wrinkling my nose. Reality was a big nerdy geek. I could get behind a universe like that.
“The end result is similar,” Andrew confirmed. “Though we can’t predict exactly how reality will resolve the divergent pieces. In other convergence events…”
“In other convergence events? You’ve done this before? Hanging out in alternate realities?” I stammered incredulously, still struggling to grasp the enormity of the situation.
“Repeatedly. And now, so will you.”
I gawked at him until I realized that my mouth was gaping open. I consciously closed it and tried again to understand.
“How many times?” I asked in a small and uncertain voice.
He sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, releasing a long, audible sigh.
I rubbed my arms and cowered slightly. It was obvious that I was a colossal disappointment. I wondered how common it was for an intern to get fired on her first day. I combed my fingers through my tangled mess of hair, self-conscious about my bedraggled appearance. I needed this internship because I needed the grant. I grasped desperately for a way to repair this train wreck of a conversation.
“Don’t get me wrong—this is literally blowing my mind, but I was under the impression that the purpose of this internship was to vet my research for the grant.”
Andrew clenched his jaw and frowned. “Ah, yes, the Breckinridge Fellowship. The fellowship is going to you—provided you complete this internship. So if you want to have any chance to begin your research in earnest,” he said, staring at me pointedly, “you’re going to have to do it here.”
I gulped and nodded. “Yes, of course.” I stuttered. “I will do my best.”
Andrew’s single nod didn’t telegraph any great vote of confidence. “Congratulations. You are now part of the Albaion Corporation, and the newest member of Project Ubiquity. Welcome to the family.”
“You mean, like the Addams family?” My own voice sounded thin and tinny, and I grimaced at my own sad attempt at a joke.
Amir’s sardonic laugh projected from across the room. “Nope. More like the Corleone family.”
Chapter 9
Andrew
September 22
Janine Mori’s lab was housed two stories underground. Even though upper floors of the facility were also covert and windowless, Andrew was always struck by the ambient change when he made his way down to her lair. An almost eerie tomblike silence accosted his ears whenever he descended into the depths of the building.
He badged himself into her large, well-stocked workroom and found her off in a corner, poring over a research article.
“Find anything interesting?” he asked.
She looked up from her journal and motioned for him to take a seat. “Turns out the field of single-cell transcriptomics is on the verge of uncovering what individual brain cell types actually do. But I’m
sure that’s not why you’re here. How are things? Did Kate slice? How did it go?”
“The trial run succeeded. Kathryn successfully sliced. She regained consciousness quickly and showed few serious adverse reactions to the modified-REM state.” He looked away and chuckled. “Except, of course, for the emesis—there was a prodigious amount of vomit.”
Janine suppressed a smile and gave him a light smack on the arm. “That’s just mean. You should have given her anti-nausea.”
His eyes glinted under his raised eyebrow. “Just limiting the variables in the experiment, Doctor.”
“In all seriousness, though; does Kate understand the full weight of what we’re asking of her?”
“She could barely wrap her head around the idea of slicing at all. She’s resting now, but I think a visit to Lily is imperative.”
Janine slapped her journal onto the lab bench, her face drawn in alarm. “Certainly not! You’ll scare the crap out of her. There’s no sense terrifying the poor girl. Why amp up the pressure any more than it already is?”
The set in his jaw told Janine that she would lose this argument. “It was you who said to give her a chance. And I will. But she has to understand what’s at stake here.”
Janine pressed her fingers against her forehead. “All right, if you insist. But I’m going with you—to make sure you don’t chase her off. Without her, this whole project is dead in the water.”
Chapter 10
Kate
September 22
Janine Mori and I sat jammed shoulder to shoulder in the front seat of the dusty white pickup, her elbow jabbing me uncomfortably as we bumped along the unpaved road leading out of the hills. Andrew turned left when he reached smooth pavement. No one had informed me of the purpose of this field trip, but I was relieved that my bag wasn’t in the bed of the truck. I hoped this meant that they weren’t kicking me out of the program—at least, not yet.
It didn’t take long to arrive at Stanford Medical Center. We parked and made our way through the main entrance, past reception, and into the elevator.
The intensive care unit was subdued, with few visitors and occupied primarily by efficient nurses. Janine stayed at the front desk to speak with one of them while we continued down the hall until we reached a room guarded by a burly security guard poorly disguised as a medical resident. He gave Andrew a familiar nod and waved us in.
Inside the darkened room, one of two hospital beds was occupied by a motionless Filipina woman. Slight and pallid, she seemed dwarfed by the surrounding series of medical devices and monitors. A respirator helped her breathe. A catheter snaked from beneath the covers. The web of EEG sensors woven into her long black hair looked uncomfortably familiar. I blinked in confusion as the repetitive mechanical whirring of machines permeated the uncomfortable silence.
Finally, Andrew spoke. “This is Lily.” He moved toward the hospital bed and gently clasped her pale, limp hand. “She and I have worked together for a long time.”
“What’s wrong with her?” I whispered.
He patently ignored me, offering no further explanation. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. The sounds emanating from the machines gave me the willies.
Janine appeared at my elbow and gently steered me away from the gurney. “He’s too close to Lily. This tragedy has touched us all, but it’s harder for him.”
I couldn’t wrap my head around why we were even here in the first place. “What happened?” I insisted. Even from a distance, watching the motionless woman made my hands break out in a cold sweat.
“Lily suffers from permanent widespread brain injury. She no longer has any measurable brain function.”
I kept my voice as low as possible. “Janine, this sounds like a terrible tragedy, and I’m really sorry about what happened to her, but why did you bring me here?”
Janine looked directly at me, considering her response. “It was a very divergent slice,” she said simply. “She never made it back.”
My stomach dropped and I had to look away. This woman had been testing the Bug too, and now look at her. This was insane! I’d been attacked by a prototype medical device that could kill people. Slicing had, in fact, killed someone. Someone who was lying here, brain dead, right in front of me. I took a step away from Janine and eyed the door warily.
Janine closed the gap between us and clasped my elbow once again. I suspected she sensed that I might bolt at any minute.
“I understand they’ve demonstrated slicing to you,” Janine said, her gaze level and her voice composed.
“They have,” I said with an involuntary shudder. “Wait—did you know? Dr. Mori!” I pulled my elbow free, anger rising. “Did you know this could have happened to me?”
Janine looked down for a moment, then met my eyes. “I’m sorry, Kate. We had no choice.” Her apology did nothing to calm me.
“Dr. Mori,” I muttered between clenched teeth, “I have been through a hell of a lot in the last twenty-four hours. What else haven’t you told me? If you’re going to put my life at risk, I deserve to know.”
She sighed. “Where to start?”
I pursed my lips and gave her a hard stare. “Why don’t you just start at the beginning?”
Janine ran a hand through her hair. “You’ve been introduced to the device. Its function, in a nutshell, is to goose the nervous system into an instant REM state. However, if that’s all it did, the subject would simply fall asleep and dream. The REM pattern introduced by the gadget is highly abnormal. You’ve probably noticed”—Janine paused as she searched my face—“that this experience is far more than just a dream state. It allows the subject to shift from our version of reality. The theory is that this REM state allows the dreamer, for lack of a better word, to physically manifest in another parallel reality.”
I stared at Andrew, still by Lily’s side, then Janine. “I wouldn’t have believed a word of this, even from you, had I not just experienced it for myself.”
Janine’s expression grew more pained. “You have also undoubtedly noticed that one returns from another slice when it converges with ours. However uncomfortable that may be, for those who are able to tolerate the device and the dimensional-REM shift, it appears to leave the traveler with no lasting physical or mental damage beyond a vague feeling of disorientation along with a set of memories that don’t quite coincide with the present reality. Until recently. Until Lily.”
“So what changed?” I insisted. “And what’s my role in this?”
Janine focused her eyes on the ceiling. “Dr. Breckinridge devised a method to adjust the REM-state brain wave even further. Two volunteers agreed to test the new protocol. Andrew was one, and Lily was the other.”
“So what went wrong?” I repeated.
Janine frowned. “Andrew was revived, through administration of a risky medically induced coma, from which he emerged. Lily did not.”
“There’s no chance she’ll recover?”
Andrew released Lily’s hand and placed it carefully by her side. His expression was grim. “It’s irreversible.”
“Her brain function has completely shut down,” Janine confirmed. “Her EEG shows complete and permanent loss of all brain and brain stem functions.”
For a moment, everyone was silent.
“You asked why you?” Janine continued. “We’ve all read your file. Christopher Daniels’s reports of your condition are fascinating. You have undergone extensive testing over the years.”
I nodded, recalling every psychological evaluation and brain scan, all of which proved inconclusive.
“One thing that is unique about your condition is the quality of your dream states. After examining your EEG traces, we believe that your night terrors are something more than dreams. Your REM state, your brain patterns—they closely match what we see in Andrew, and in Lily, when they have sliced.”
I gasped, and my eyes widened as I realized what she meant. “You mean to tell me that I’m not dreaming, I’m in another reality?” The dreadful i
mage of the Chicago woman’s flesh melting away from bone invaded my field of vision, and I clamped my eyes and forced deep breaths until it receded.
Janine laid a concerned hand on my shoulder, and I slowly opened my eyes, terrified the vision would return. I was unexpectedly comforted by her gesture, but I noticed the she looked utterly exhausted. All of this was taking a heavy toll on her as well. “Not exactly. Your brain patterns are similar, but they’re not the same. I believe that you are not traveling to these other eventualities, but instead you experience a window into them.”
“A window?” I repeated slowly, chewing my lip.
“Precisely. And if this theory is correct, this means you have a unique connection to these other realities.”
I continued to force deep, even breaths, half expecting the sensation of quaking earth to overtake me. Nothing happened, and I sighed in relief.
“I’m sorry if I sound thick, but I still don’t understand. You think I see distant alternate realities. And he”—I pointed to Andrew—“wants to go there? Let me tell you”—I shook my head—“you do not want to go there.” I didn’t want to think about the terrible destruction of my latest nightmares, and I definitely didn’t want to believe that the horrors that I’d witnessed had really happened to someone. Someone real.
Andrew abruptly broke my concentration. “We can already go there. Going is not the issue.” His impatience seemed to multiply the longer this conversation progressed. “The problem is that we need to be able to come back.”
Janine threw Andrew a warning look and squeezed my shoulder. “The great Buddhist monk Bhante Gunaratana called meditation ‘an awareness so intense, concentrated, and finely tuned that you will be able to pierce the inner workings of reality itself.’ Not only are you able to spontaneously experience the altered REM state through your dreams, Kate, but because of your many years of training in meditation, you are also able to exit the state.”
