Invictus

by Ryan Graudin

  “I’m this girl’s official handler.” Agent Ackerman crosses his arms. “I should be present for the briefing.”

  “Yes, but this conversation requires some bedside manner. You can watch over the security feeds if you want. I assure you none of your superiors in MB+251418881HTP8 will take issue with it.”

  The Bureau agent considers this—protocol tick-tocking through his thoughts, behind his flushing face. “Fine. I’ll be in the security office if you need me.”

  Breathing becomes easier, the air ten times lighter, when he leaves. Both Eliot and the scientist take advantage of this levity—filling their lungs, sighing. Hers sounds relieved. His pushes back at something.

  “Bedside manner?” Eliot asks. “Am I dying?”

  “Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.”

  “What do you do here?” Eliot sighs again. “Let’s see. The Multiverse Bureau is a cross-universal organization that dedicates itself to maintaining balance in the multiverse through interdimensional communication, observation, and travel. The branch in our own universe—MB+178587977FLT6—opened up after Dr. Marcelo Ramírez discovered the key to communicating with alternate realities over a quarter century ago.”

  “Quite the textbook answer.”

  “Still counts.” Eliot looks around the room, blank as fresh snow, made of few dimensions. There are eyesight charts on the wall—letters from the Roman alphabet alongside characters that did not originate on this earth. Her shoulders peak at the sight. “Level with me, Doc. I’ve been scanned left and right, up and down. What’s wrong with me?”

  “With you? Nothing.” The scientist scratches at days-old stubble. All he needs is a cup of black coffee and the emergency deadline look will be complete. “The name’s Dr. Ramírez, by the way.”

  “Ramírez?” Eliot straightens. “As in Marcelo Ramírez, the head of this Bureau branch and brainiac of the centuries?”

  “The one and only—” Dr. Ramírez catches himself. “In this universe, at least. I’ve met a few of my alternates and they’re all very smart, though I suppose that’s conceited to acknowledge.”

  “Alternates? You mean other yous? Other Dr. Marcelo Ramírezes out in the multiverse?”

  “Not all of them are named Marcelo. There’s Maricella—she’s in universe MB+318291745FLT6, as well as MB+318291747FLT6. In several universes, I go by Mache. The bloke in MB+143927121FLT6 struck the jackpot in our DNA pool and got all the looks.”

  “How many alternates are there?” Eliot’s head tilts, dizzy with numbers. “How many universes are there?”

  “Unknowable alternates and infinite universes,” the scientist says. “The Multiverse Bureau does its best to catalog the worlds, but the task is, by its very nature, endless. They cannot be counted, and yet we keep counting.”

  “Tell me, in some of these endless universes, are there other Eliot McCarthys currently attending their Academy graduation, not sprouting icicles from their arsecheeks?”

  “No one’s forcing you to sit on that table, Cadet McCarthy. If your posterior is so cold, feel free to remove it from the offending surface.”

  “Can I remove myself from this building? My cousin’s throwing a party, you see—big bash. She already put a deposit down on enough gelato to sculpt a snowman. Solara’s freezer isn’t big enough to store it all and it’d be a travesty to let it melt.”

  Dr. Ramírez vises his head in his fingers. His sigh is a puzzle box—irritable edge, sleepless fears, something bleak inside waiting to be unlocked. “You do have other alternates in other universes. Everyone does. Some of them are probably attending their Academy graduation, and one of them is the reason you’re here.”

  Painted eyebrows clash with each other. Eliot says nothing.

  “To the best of our knowledge, the multiverse is infinite. As I said before, the Bureau tries its best to categorize all the universes we’ve been able to map. The worlds in our universe’s grouping—FLT6—are the ones that most closely mirror our own. We share basic biology, geography, and languages. There’s an entire gradient of common histories and alternate selves through this series. Naturally, it’s the universes that most closely parallel the timeline of our own that hold our alternates. Family trees have to match down to the parents’ DNA.”

  The breadth of Dr. Ramírez’s explanation—universes upon universes through universes—adds a new layer to the lab, something palpable. This depth reaches through the hologram, so that even the listeners aboard the Invictus shudder.

  “The Bureau has been studying the multiverse for an untold number of collective years. So much of it’s beyond our comprehension, but the discoveries we have made…” Dr. Ramírez trails off. “You learned about ecosystems in school, yes?”

  Eliot nods. “It’s all they teach after the bee fiasco. Symbiosis. The web of life. Everything on Earth is connected, and a single change can wreak massive consequences, et cetera.”

  “Exactly. The same holds true in the multiverse. We’re linked to other universes in ways we never could’ve predicted, connections that transcend dimension. As a Corps cadet, I’m sure you’re familiar with the immutability threshold. If a time traveler eats an apple in the past, the world goes on undisturbed. But time can only self-correct to a certain point. If the interference is large enough, a pivot point is created; a new universe with an alternate future is born.”

  “Our mistakes screw up your filing system?” Eliot concludes. “No wonder the Bureau hates the Corps.”

  “That’s one reason for our organizational animosity, yes. But my point is that the multiverse is interconnected. It’s the web of life on a massive scale, all of us tied to other lives through common strings. Do you understand?”

  “Um…” Eliot’s shoulders jut even higher. “Sure?”

  “You’re here because there’s an aberration in your string.”

  “A what in my what?”

  “One of your alternates has triggered a cataclysmic event.” Dr. Ramírez’s hands fall to his side. “We’ve been receiving reports from other FLT6 Bureau branches of a force that annihilates everything in its path, including time and space.”

  “Like antimatter?”

  “Antimatter annihilates, yes, but it releases energy when the matter disappears. This is different. It’s… nothing. Creation reversed. We call it the Fade. This decay has been attacking universes, eating their timelines until there’s no future to move forward to.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “It’s impossible to know. The first documentation of this decay was a decade ago, a few spots in universe MB+110249100FLT6. But the Fade is amnesiatic in nature—it not only destroys moments, but people’s memories of those moments—so it’s possibly existed for far longer without anyone remembering they encountered it. We’ve been studying it, carefully, for several years: tracking its growth, taking readings, recording the Fade’s varying effects on people in its path. Three days ago, something caused the decay to metastasize. Universe MB+110249100FLT6 has unraveled from existence and would’ve been forgotten if we hadn’t kept such diligent digital records of it. Universe MB+110249101FLT6 has an entire decade missing, and MB+110249102FLT6 is also showing signs of erasure. Worlds are meeting their end. The Multiverse Bureau has declared a state of emergency.”

  It’s hard to tell how much of the explanation Eliot has taken in—she’s alabaster still, made motionless by the weight of it all. “You said my alternate triggered it. How? How would you know something like that?”

  “There’s a pattern to the Fade’s decay. Only certain universes in the FLT6 category are being eroded, and the deterioration has a cutoff date. Everything that takes place after April eighteenth, 2354, falls apart.”

  “My birthday…”

  The scientist nods. “We’re dealing with a reactive force. Are you familiar with how antibodies function?”

  “Yes.” Eliot taps her hairless head. “And how they malfunction.”

  Dr. Ramírez goes on to explain anywa
y. “There are over a trillion antibodies in the human body, each one designed to deal with a specific threat. Whenever a foreign antigen enters our systems, the corresponding antibody responds by attacking what doesn’t belong. It’s a lock-and-key system, built as a safeguard to protect our bodies. We believe the decay is acting in a similar manner. Through our studies this past decade we’ve noticed that the Fade emits a very specific charge, or signature if you will, before it unravels matter. Something—or someone—is calling it.

  “We’ve reverse-engineered the lock to the decay’s key and developed a way to scan for it. Since the state of emergency was declared, the FLT6 Bureau branches have been combing their worlds for signs of the Fade’s countersignature. Children born on April eighteenth, 2354, were a logical point of interest. Your alternate in MB+136613209FLT6 was flagged first. McCarthys throughout the multiverse have been brought to their branches for testing.”

  “So you’ve been scanning me for this countersignature?” Eliot asks.

  “Yes,” Dr. Ramírez tells her. “You have it. Partially. All of your alternates are emitting the countersignature in varying concentrations. Every universe the Fade has eroded thus far holds one of your alternates, each with a consecutively stronger countersignature. The distribution pattern suggests an echo, a bread crumb trail for the decay to follow until it reaches the source. The way a spider follows the vibrations of its web to secure its prey.”

  “Spiders. Webs. Locks. Key. Antibodies. Ecosystems. For a scientist, you sure enjoy your metaphors….” Eliot sits up straight: shoulders flat, elbows locked. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Kill you?” The scientist scratches his jaw again. “Why would I do that?”

  “If the web is shuddering, why not just cut the string?” Eliot makes a snipping motion with her fingers. “Not that I’m endorsing my demise, but if I’m a walking beacon for some cosmic antibody…”

  “That’s where the metaphor falls apart,” Dr. Ramírez admits. “You aren’t the source of the countersignature. Your death won’t stop the Fade—only the neutralization of the catalyst might do that.”

  “Might?”

  “Nothing like this has ever happened before. Everything from here on out is theoretical…. But if we can find the catalyst and neutralize her—or him—first, then it’s possible we’ll be able to halt the Fade’s progress and protect the universes between. Including ours. None of the branches’ scans have come back with a complete countersignature, which leads us to believe the subject we’re searching for—the epicenter of all this—dwells in an MB-negative universe. One where the Bureau doesn’t yet exist. As you might imagine, this presents complications. There’s a portable scanning process, but the readings take longer than those with the lab instruments. Plus, the subject has to be within a hundred meters for the scan to work.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” The table shimmers as Eliot shifts her weight. “Don’t you have schools of interdimensional travelers who can skip universes on command?”

  “Universes, yes. Time is a different beast. Seeing as many of your alternates are time travelers, it’s best for us to cover our bases with an operative who can navigate both. The scan won’t work if we can’t keep up.”

  “You—you want me to conduct the scans.” The realization sinks in, carving deeper marks into every corner of Eliot’s face. “But I don’t know the first thing about world-hopping.”

  “It’s easier for time travelers to pick up interdimensional travel than vice versa. Similar mechanics, different contexts. Traveling through time requires historical finesse, and thus years of training, which you’ve already had. The world-hopping tech is similar to the Corps’ solo-jump equipment—only you’re traveling sideways instead of backward. We’ve no doubt that you’ll be able to adapt to the terrains of this mission. They are other versions of your life, after all,” Dr. Ramírez tells her.

  “How many versions? You just told me that the number of universes is infinite. That’s more than a Hail Maria or haystack-needle odds….”

  “We’ve narrowed the epicenter’s search window by projecting a path using various strengths of the countersignature in each alternate. There are 3,526 worlds most likely to host the catalyst.”

  Eliot considers this number. “Better than infinite, I guess.”

  “You won’t be the only you searching. We’ve divided the window into manageable sectors, a few dozen universes each. You’re to scour your assigned worlds, scan your alternates as discreetly as possible, and—in the event that you find the catalyst—neutralize them.”

  “Neutralize. As in…?” Eliot blanches, making scissors of her fingers again.

  Dr. Ramírez hesitates. “If there’s a string that needs to be cut, it is the catalyst.”

  Murder is as cold as the room. Eliot shivers—white—into it. Her hand drops.

  “And if I fail?”

  “Annihilation,” the scientist says simply. “Your cousin’s gelato will have to melt, Cadet McCarthy. You have worlds to save.”

  SUBJECT ZERO

  MAY 15, 2371 AD

  Eliot stares down the camera, no trace of smile left. She looks tougher than she did in the lab—less likely to tear, more ready to do the ripping. “My name is Eliot Gaia McCarthy. I’m recording this message for myself in the event that the Fade reaches my universe—MB+178587977FLT6—before the mission is completed.”

  Her flinch is understandable. She’s talking about the destruction of everything she’s ever known.

  “If you see the decay, jump through time immediately. The Fade is running along a timeline parallel to your own, but as long as your present doesn’t collide with the decay’s present, you will continue to exist. Your memories won’t be so fortunate. The Multiverse Bureau has equipped you with recording tech that preserves moments even after they’ve been erased by the Fade. It’s imperative to your mission that you record everything you see so no essential knowledge is lost. Knowing what you’ve forgotten will also help you track the Fade’s growth and—hopefully—stay ahead of it. Your interface, Vera, will remind you to file these feeds every twenty-four hours. You have three types of jump equipment: interdimensional, time, and teleportation. All three of them are linked into Vera’s systems and can be controlled via voice. Your handler for this mission is Agent August Ackerman. He’ll be monitoring your progress from universe MB+251418881HTP8 and dropping in from time to time. Beware: He’s a complete arse. His sexism is pointedly ancient, despite his disdain for time travel. Protocol is his Achilles’ heel, so if he starts giving you grief about something, just mention his superiors in HTP8. Your mission directives are stored in Vera’s systems, so I’m not going to waste time going over all of them here….”

  There’s a pause.

  “This mission won’t be easy. It’s long and solitary, with terrifying consequences and possibly no reward. Mom, Strom, Solara, entire universes of people are depending on you, Eliot.” She stares at herself, at all of her selves—future and alternate, despairing and dumbfounded—through the lens. It’s a warpath gaze, blazing across time, beyond dimensions. “Make it count.”

  Files played on, compact lives lived again in the Invictus’s common area, all meticulously labeled with subject numbers and time stamps—a system made even more essential with hindsight. Eliot had organic memories left, but after seven alternates with seven lives alongside seven sets of friends in seven sets of universes, they began blending together. Was it Subject Three or Subject Five who named their time machine Icarus? Which one had tilted teeth? The cousin named Maribel? It was such a snarl of details—shared histories, subtle differences—made all the more indistinguishable by Fade-induced amnesia. The early lives were moth-eaten blankets—frayed at the edges, gone where it counted. Holes, gaps, holes. No matter how hard Eliot tried, she couldn’t place herself back in Dr. Ramírez’s lab. Had the examination table really been that cold? What had it felt like, before all those metaphors of his sank in, took root? Before she realized she had to sc
our dozens of universes to kill her other self?

  It was a learning curve—diagonal travel, across universes, along timelines, all over the map. Subject One was already on a CTM crew when Eliot landed in her world. Tailing her—through the streets of 2152 New York, medieval castle corridors, the redwood forests of pre-colonized North America—while staying inside the countersignature scanner’s operating radius had taken far too long. By the time Eliot realized Subject One wasn’t a match, she’d lost months—months the Fade had used to creep from world to world.

  Eliot wasn’t just racing against time, but the ruination of it. Every moment spent searching for the catalyst meant the destruction of another. She had to pick up the pace of her observation, which meant that she had to get close to her subject, far closer than the Corps’ MO would ever allow. As long as her alternates were traveling through history in an official capacity, she wouldn’t be able to obtain speedy reads on them without getting arrested by the institution she’d trained her entire life to serve.

  And so Eliot was forced to do what every instructor had warned her against: Change the course of history. She suspected the Bureau wouldn’t be too pleased with the idea, either— sowing pivot points, growing fresh universes as casually as garden tomatoes—but this was the apocalypse they were talking about. Best-case scenario: She’d find the catalyst quickly, neutralize the original and any spin-offs. At worst, she was creating more fodder for the Fade.

  Altering her alternates’ timelines was a process of trial and error. The natural starting point? Corrupting their final exam Sim. It was Versailles—it was always Versailles: pastel gowns, mercury mirrors, evening gardens in bloom—and with a bit of quick-coding and alt-tech, Eliot was able to project herself into the Sim’s programming. One blown kiss from a Tier Three mark queen and her alternates’ time-traveling futures would be ruined.

  But time pushed back, where Subject Two was concerned, self-correcting in the form of Empra, who intervened on her child’s behalf. Her rank in the Corps caused them to overlook the final exam Sim. Back to square one, version two. More months were spent chasing Subject Two through history, trying to avoid Corps detection. An unsustainable pace.