A couple of awkward moments passed in complete silence while Edward regained his composure. “Rebecca was the woman I intended to marry after I got home from the war,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with emotion. “We were betrothed a week before I shipped out.” His eyes suddenly became very wide. “My God,” he hissed, “does this mean I wouldn’t have died in that godforsaken shell hole? If I’d said no to the Voice, I would have been saved and made it back to my beloved Rebecca? Oh no, that cannot be. That is simply too much.” Tears appeared at the corners of his eyes and slipped down his cheek.
Absolutely horrified that I’d caused him this amount of distress, I began to second guess myself. Perhaps I was mistaken. Maybe I had confused him with someone else? After all, the photographs I’d seen had been old and grainy. But that wouldn’t account for how I knew so much about what had happened to him after the war, or that I knew his poetry so well.
“I do not believe that to be the case, Edward,” Chou said. “Given the description of your final moments, you most certainly would have died if you had not responded positively to the Voice. As would I. As would Meredith. As I am quite sure, would everyone who exists on this island and, possibly, across this planet. If you had died in Meredith’s timeline, she should have no recollection of your poems at all as you would never have written them. You should have simply been one of the forty-million killed or missing by the time that war was over. Remembered by no one other than—”
“Forty… million dead?” Edward whispered, his voice cracking. “What folly. What utter folly.” Edward seemed unsteady on his feet, and I thought he was going to faint, but instead, he allowed himself to sink to the log. He sat there in stunned silence as Chou continued to talk.
“As I have no reason to doubt Meredith’s recollection of your history after the war, there are only a few other possibilities: an opportune impersonator who happens to look so like you, he was capable of fooling even those closest to you for the rest of his life, including the woman who knew you best is a possibility, but unlikely enough that we can ignore it.”
Edward gave a mirthless laugh. “Well, that’s good to know, I suppose.”
“It is also theoretically possible, given the advanced technology employed to bring us here, that the Voice could have duplicated the original versions of us, cloned each of us, then copied our memories and implanted them in the cloned version to make it… make us think we were still the original. But that seems… inefficient to me and still does not account for how, in Meredith’s time, you survived the war.”
I said, “And if that’s what happened, then why would the Voice feel the need to ask our permission to save us? It could’ve just made a copy of us, and we’d never even know about it. And why would the Voice even need to wait until we were looking death in the face to ask if we wanted to live? It could have just posed the question at any point in our lives, after all.”
“Precisely,” said Chou. “No, I don’t believe either of those possibilities are the correct explanation for what has happened to us.”
“Well,” said Edward, “if neither of those ideas makes sense to you, what other possibilities does that leave us with?”
Chou stood silently, then, “There is a third possibility.”
“And that would be?” Edward said.
“Are you familiar with the concept of a multiverse?” Chou asked.
Edward looked puzzled, shook his head.
I’d seen enough sci-fi movies to know what Chou was hinting at. “It’s the theory that there’s more than just one version of the universe out there. That for every choice we make, a new copy of the universe is created where we make the opposite choice, right?”
“That is a very simple explanation, but yes, the theory suggests that there exist infinite versions of the universe outside of our own, all independent of each other. The laws governing those universes may be very similar to ours… or not. There are areas in the cosmos, light years across, known as cold spots which are believed to be the result of these alternate universes interacting with our own. I was part of a mission to investigate one when something went wrong, and I was brought here.”
“But that’s all just theory, right?” I said. “I mean, none of it has ever actually been proven. Not where I’m from, at least.”
“In your time, yes, it was still an unproven concept. However, in my time, that theory was greatly strengthened with a discovery by Professor Adrianna Drake of what became known as Vagrant Particles; extraordinarily rare sub-atomic particles which simply should not exist in the standard model of our universe. Professor Drake proved that vagrant particles could only originate from the numerous cold spots she had discovered scattered throughout the cosmos, which seemed to suggest that the cold spots were somehow connected to other alternate universes. At least, that’s what we thought, but those cold spots were so distant, it was only during my lifetime that technology capable of allowing us to reach them was developed. That was the mission assigned to me… and my husband. We were to investigate one of those cold spots and study the anomaly over an extended period of time.”
“So, these ‘cold spots’ are what, exactly?” I said.
“We believe they were created when our universe somehow brushed against an alternate universe. The resulting devastation ruptured both universes’ spacetime continuums. You can think of the cold spots as scars that have never quite healed, and every so often they open again, allowing particles from each universe to bleed through into the other.”
“My God,” said Edward, for the umpteenth time.
I took a few moments to digest what Chou had said. Although the concept was mind-numbingly confusing, the idea that there could be an infinite number of other Merediths scattered throughout these parallel universes was a surprisingly comforting thought. It meant there might be a version of me out there that hadn’t gone through the shit I’d had to suffer through. Maybe one of these other mes had done something meaningful with their life.
“It would explain why Edward was alive in my time and died in his,” I said. “And it would explain something that’s been nagging at me about Wild Bill, too. I’m sure I saw a TV show where he was shot in a bar while he played cards, rather than dying in the desert.”
“I believe my theory is the most likely explanation, given the data we currently have available to us,” Chou said.
Edward had managed to compose himself. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head sharply. “I would suggest we keep this theory to ourselves for now. The others have enough to worry about without adding this complication. Are we in agreement?”
“Yes,” said Chou, “I think that is a good idea, for now at least.”
I nodded. It was hard enough for me to get my mind around, and I, at least, had been born in a time when technology was everywhere. I couldn’t begin to imagine how baffling it must be for someone whose experience of advanced technology amounted to nothing more than a vacuum-tube-based radio set.
“Very well, now, if you’ll excuse me,” Edward said, obviously rattled by the conversation. He gave a curt nod and walked off in the direction of the cabin he had been helping to build.
We joined Jorge at the stockade. Before he could object to us, Chou shouldered one of the logs from a large stack that sat nearby awaiting his attention. Jorge watched expressionlessly as she carried it to a hole he'd just finished digging and dropped it in. He nodded once and went back to digging the next hole.
And that was how, for the next eight or so hours, we dug holes, sweated, manhandled the stakes brought to us by Bull and Freuchen into the holes (both men obviously astonished when they saw Chou’s handling of the logs), and sweated some more. There was no cement to secure the stockade stakes in the ground, so we mixed mud I’d fetched from the banks of the river with gravel and pebbles. Jorge assured us it was an age-old method and would work just as well as cement, and it seemed to hold the spikes in place just fine.
By the time Edward yelled that it was ‘time to knock o
ff’ I was exhausted, but as I stood back and looked at the stockade’s fresh line of new poles that extended twenty-four stakes further than when we had started that morning, I felt an immense sense of pride like I’d never felt before. I came from an age where accomplishment seemed to be measured by the latest app or the newest smartphone or how many likes you got on your Facebook posts. All helpful, life-improving (for the most part, at least) additions, but all intangibles, and with associated prestige that would vanish the second the next big thing was released. But this, this was something solid that would stand for years, protecting those within its walls. It was something I had helped to build. And for the first time in, well, forever, I felt a burgeoning sense of self-worth. I had value. And it felt good. Really good.
Smiling with the glow of this new-found self-worth, Chou and I walked silently back to camp.
The smell of cooking meat greeted us, wafting on a cool evening breeze, mixing with the pungent wood-smoke of the fire.
While Chou seemed absolutely fine, my muscles ached and throbbed like I was ninety years old. If I had gone to bed that night knowing that I’d have to do that kind of work all over again when I got up the next day, I think I would have cried myself to sleep. But knowing that when the aurora showed up tonight, all of these aches and pains would vanish, eased my mind.
Chou and I were the last to arrive. The dirt-streaked faces that turned to greet us with smiles and nods each showed the exhaustion they felt. Everyone was in good spirits, laughing and chatting amongst themselves as they waited in line for the food Evelyn and Albert had prepared.
“Busy day, ladies?” Evelyn said as we stepped up to her makeshift workbench, a log that had been split down the middle to give a flat surface. Albert beamed when he handed me my food.
“It was, indeed, tiring,” said Chou.
I just smiled, took my food and followed Chou over to the fire.
“Good work on the stockade,” Edward announced as we passed him sitting with Freuchen and Oliver.
“It was mostly Chou and Jorge,” I said as I sat down on the log near them, too tired to continue the conversation.
Wild Bill sauntered over from where he'd been tending to Brute, carrying something in both arms. “I believe these belong to you,” he said, placing the set of armor I'd stripped from the dead swordsman into my outstretched hands.
Had that really just been a day earlier? It seemed like an eternity ago. “Thank you,” I said as I took the armor from him, trying not to notice the dried blood that still clung to the chainmail.
For the rest of the evening, we chatted quietly amongst ourselves, planning for our excursion the following morning. Albert would (grudgingly) remain behind in Evelyn’s care, while Chou, Freuchen, and I set off on what we agreed would be, at most, a three-day trek to map the outline of the island and report back on anything we found.
More tired than I think I’d ever felt in my life, I eventually made my excuses and retired to our shelter to wait for the aurora’s inevitable arrival.
Fourteen
Our two groups set out from the garrison not long after the sun rose over the horizon. Morning dew saturated the grass, and an ethereal mist rose from the river, drifting across our path as we walked downstream for a mile or so until we came to a spot Freuchen said we could cross.
Large boulders, the results of a rockfall or a flood that had swept them downstream, formed a natural path across the river.
We said our goodbyes to Benito, Caleb, and Tabitha, and watched them briefly as they continued downstream while we used the natural causeway to reach the river’s opposite bank. The boulders were slippery with lichen and water, but all three of us made it across without taking an early morning dip. We followed the river’s course toward the ocean for about five miles until the forest thinned out and we reached the estuary. The sea looked almost as gray as the pebble-strewn beach. The only sound came from the hiss of the waves lapping at the shore. As the three of us stood looking out at the ocean, Freuchen pulled a small pad of paper and a pencil from the pocket of his coat and began to draw with it.
“What are you doing?” Chou asked.
“I intend to make a map of our journey, so ve have a better idea of the size of this island,” Freuchen said. “It vill be very basic, but vill be better than nothing. I vill mark any major landmarks or points of interest that ve see or find so that ve can explore them later.” He finished his doodling and replaced the pad and pen back into the same pocket.
The tide-rounded rocks and shale that made up the beach were exhausting to walk on and required constant attention to where you planted your feet or risk spraining an ankle. We spread out in a line with approximately twenty feet separating us and began to walk: Freuchen closest to the trees, Chou near the water’s edge, and me in the middle. The beach stretched ahead of us in a slightly undulating line for several miles with no sign of ending, as we picked our way over it, scanning for anything that might be of use.
We found the first body about thirty minutes later. It was a man in his late thirties. He lay face down against the rocks, one arm tucked under him, the other stretched above his head like he was hailing a cab. He was completely naked and beginning to bloat.
“Oh no,” I said turning away, my stomach reeling.
“Looks like someone got to him already,” said Freuchen, “unless he arrived here naked, of course.”
I stayed back. The smell from the dead man made me want to vomit.
We found a second body ten minutes later, washed up at the shoreline. It was another man, but this poor unfortunate was still fully-clothed. The waves lifted and deposited him again and again, pushing him further up the shore, shifting his body in a macabre slow-motion dance. He was dressed in a modern-looking sweater, khaki pants, and brown shoes, one of which was missing. He too was beginning to bloat.
“Jesus!” I hissed when I made the mistake of getting a little too close. Some of the island’s smaller aquatic life had begun to pick at the corpse’s pale water-wrinkled flesh. Small crabs scuttled about his hands and head. This time, I couldn’t contain my reaction. I vomited the remains of my breakfast onto the shale.
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly, spitting away the remnants of vomit and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Freuchen chortled. “Don’t vurry, I had the same reaction ven I saw my first body up close.” He moved closer to the dead man, prodded him with the tip of his boot.
“I don’t think it vould be a good idea to take his clothes,” said Freuchen, squatting to examine the body more closely. “Vithout any vay to sanitize the poor fellow’s things, ve could be opening ourselves to any number of diseases.”
“That might not be a problem,” said Chou, seemingly unperturbed by the sight or smell of the body.
We both looked at her for a second not comprehending, then Freuchen said, “Oh, you mean the aurora?”
“I believe that the nanobots inside us will also prevent us from contracting any disease. It would seem like a logical addition for the Voice to ensure we remain healthy,” Chou said.
“But all we know for certain is it cures physical injuries and poison,” I said. “We can’t be sure it works against viruses or bacteria.”
“Time will prove me correct or not,” Chou added.
“Still, I don’t think it vould be a good idea to test that theory, just yet,” Freuchen insisted.
“I agree,” I said, “but shouldn’t we at least bury him?”
Freuchen shook his head. “Better safe than sorry, yes? Besides, the sea vill take care of him, given enough time.” He took out his pad of paper and with a few short strokes of his pencil added details to his map. We left the body where it was and continued onward.
A quarter-mile later and Freuchen stopped. “Here! Look at this,” he said, excitedly. Bending down, he picked up something jammed in between several rounded stones. “Do you know vat this is?” Freuchen said, offering the object out to me and Chou.
“It’s a cellpho
ne,” I said, examining the old-style flip-phone Freuchen held in his hand. When I saw the blank look on his face, I added, “A kind of communication device; like a radio,” which seemed to do the trick. I took the phone from Freuchen and opened it up. The screen was blank. I pressed and held the power button for a few seconds to see if it would turn on. It didn’t. “It’s dead,” I said. “Not that it would matter; it isn’t like the reception’s going to be any good out here anyway.” I giggled at my own joke and handed the phone back to Freuchen. “It’s just junk.”
Freuchen examined the phone, flipping it open then closing it again a couple of times, which seemed to amuse him. Then he dropped it into his pants’ pocket and walked quickly to catch up with us.
I found a leather wallet with what I think were probably Australian dollars in it. The oldest date on the notes was 2004. There was no ID inside. A little further on, I found a wooden hairbrush which I pocketed. Chou found a single red-accented white sneaker, a woman’s, and then a discarded blouse which we rolled up and placed in Freuchen’s backpack.
“Perhaps we should look and see if the owner of the sneaker and blouse are nearby,” Chou said.
“Good idea,” I agreed, and we paused our beach-combing for another hour while we moved into the forest a quarter-mile or so in all directions, searching for any signs of life, but found nothing.
It was sometime in the early afternoon that we finally saw the beach begin to curve to our left. When we reached that point, we found that we had indeed found the furthest Southern point of the island. The shale had been growing less and less as we had progressed further south, and within a half-mile of reaching that point, had been replaced altogether by dark, almost black glass-like sand, which made walking much easier.
The Paths Between Worlds Page 17
