Libba Bray

by Going Bovine (Grade 8 Up)

  “But what if it’s not? What if there are parallel universes where you’re you, only different. You know, maybe you’re a doctor or a gravedigger or a ninja. Maybe here, in this universe, your—your mom died when you were five”—I choke on the word “died”—“but in another world, she’s alive, helping you make sand castles on the beach.”

  “Or maybe there’s another world where you bop in from an Infinity Collider and get eaten by carnivorous houseplants.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “I’m just saying it’s not all sand castles and ninjas.”

  The turbines catch a new breeze and reverse their spin. “But all those other roads, those other choices you don’t make? They must get to live somewhere. I mean, maybe …” I stop because it’s too much to hope for and too stupid to say out loud.

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe there’s a universe where I don’t get this disease at all. Where none of this happens.” As soon as I say it, I think of Dulcie. Of Gonzo and Balder and this whole nutty trip, how I wouldn’t trade parts of it for anything.

  Gonzo unwraps a piece of Juicy Chew and pops it in his mouth. “So, what, like, all of time is elastic?”

  “Sure. I mean, why not?” I say, getting excited. “Maybe, right now, Junior Webster is still fighting in the war that changed him even as we’re sitting on this porch watching the grass grow. The Copenhagen Interpretation is giving its forty-second comeback show and you’re a kid burying toy cars in the backyard. Or you’re giving a forty-second comeback concert and the Copenhagen Interpretation is hanging with your cars. It’s all a big soup and it never stops cooking.”

  Gonzo rubs his head. “Dude, this is a stoner conversation, and we are not even high.”

  “I’m just saying that it’s totally possible that things don’t happen until you connect with an event, then the other choices you didn’t make unfold in other worlds.”

  “Whatever, dude,” Gonzo says, hands up. “I’m fine with this reality. In fact, it’s already more reality than I can handle. I’m not ready to take on another one.”

  “Gonz, if, um—you know,” I say softly. “Make sure Balder gets to the sea and Ringhorn lifts the curse, okay?”

  “There is no Ringhorn, man.”

  “Just promise me.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Gonzo bends and folds his gum wrapper into new shapes. “So, you think maybe in another world, I’m … you know. Not a dwarf?”

  It’s hard for me to think of Gonzo as anything but Gonzo. “Or you’re the Littlest PI—the Dwarf of Destiny.”

  Gonzo makes a gun out of his forefinger and thumb. “The dame wanted advice, but I was coming up short,” he says in a hard-boiled detective voice. He sets the gum wrapper on the table. It’s now a tiny silver swan. “I’d want a fedora in that other world. Can’t be the Dwarf of Destiny without a sick topper.”

  “Indeed.” The wind’s died down. It’s still, like the world’s holding its breath. “I’m sorry,” I say after a while.

  “For what?”

  “Dulcie told me there was something for you on this ride, but I guess it’s been kind of a bust so far.”

  “Yeah, well.” Gonzo hugs his knees. “Beats high school.”

  Gonzo’s phone has a green light.

  “You’re fully charged,” I say. “You wanna call your mom?”

  Gonzo lets the phone lie. “Maybe later.”

  I find Ed in the living room in his Star Fighter pajamas. He’s playing with the Calabi Yau model. The TV’s on. Parker Day struts across the studio soundstage. “Just want to remind everybody back home that we are counting down to the YA! Party House—only one more day—and we’re gonna … what?” Parker asks.

  He puts his hand to his ear as the audience chants his catchphrase back to him.

  “Smoke it!” he joins in, and the place goes nuts.

  I flip over to ConstaToons. It’s the same roadrunner and coyote with all the doors.

  “That one’s a train,” Ed says, just before coyote opens it and gets run over.

  “Yeah, I know. You’d think he’d learn.”

  “He can’t learn. He’s a cartoon.”

  “Good point.” I offer him a Corny Doodle.

  He shakes his head. “I already brushed my teeth for bed.”

  “Gotcha.” I pop it in my mouth. “So, you’ve lived here since you were little?”

  He nods.

  “That’s rough, man. Sorry, you know, that your parents died.”

  “My parents didn’t die. They left me here on the doorstep when I was three.”

  “Wow,” I say before I can stop myself. For all my dad’s assholian tendencies and my mom’s spaciness, they would never do that.

  Ed keeps playing with the Calabi Yau toy, arranging and rearranging the macaroni-like dimensions to make whole new shapes. Every time he does, the thing lights up like a pinball machine.

  “Hey, Ed? Do you know what happened to Dr. X?” I ask. “It’s really important.”

  “He went in the Infinity Collider,” he says, not taking his eyes off the cartoon.

  “Yeah, but is he lost or, like, caught in some other world? Do you know where he is right now?”

  “He’s gone to tomorrow. Anvil!” he warns the coyote.

  I sigh. This is getting me nowhere. On the TV, the roadrunner runs through the painted backdrop. Confused, coyote tries to follow and whams his whole body against a brick wall.

  “You ever think about going into the Infinity Collider yourself?” I ask.

  “We are infinity,” Ed says, as if that settles it.

  The door bangs open. Balder stands on the threshold, eyes blazing. He’s dragging a stag by one hoof. “Tomorrow, we may die. But tonight we dine as heroes!”

  Later, after we’ve polished off some deer meat and Rad soda, Balder has a blast letting the scientists test their various lasers and protoplasm pelters and even a potato gun on him. With each hit, he shouts out, “Who’s your daddy?” in Norse, until, frankly, it starts to get kind of annoying. The scientists seem like they’re having a little too much fun trying to obliterate my pal, but Balder’s digging the chance to show off what a rocking immortal he is, so who am I to stop his fun?

  The next morning, at half-past eleven, Dr. T comes in, his smile gone and his eyes anything but twinkly.

  “Is it true you’re terrorists?” He holds out the day’s paper, and my heart nearly stops. On page four is the flyer pic of Gonz and me along with a story about the CESSNAB revolution and the supposed bombing of the Konstant Kettle, the bounty offered by United Snow Globe Wholesalers, and the number to call. “This is the sort of thing Dr. X stood against.”

  “No! No, I … just let me explain. …”

  Gonzo ducks under my arm, starts reading. “Dude, we only made page four? That sucks! What kind of terrorists do you have to be to make page one?”

  “But we are not terrorists!” I insist.

  “Oh. Right. Totally not, dudes. And Dr. O.”

  “To quote the great Silas Fenton, ‘We give our word to you: We are for honor and good, sworn to protect the galaxy until our atoms are spread among the stars,’” Balder assures them.

  The professors stare at us blankly.

  “Star Fighter,” Gonzo prompts. “You know, Star Fighter? The movie?”

  “Never seen it,” Dr. A says with a sniff.

  Gonzo takes a step back. “How can you be science nerds and not have seen Star Fighter? That’s just wrong.”

  “Look, there’s something I need to tell you. …” I explain to them about the dark energy that Dr. X accidentally set free from another universe and how it’s endangering our own. All the while, they’re exchanging glances and I can hear them whispering to each other: “… could have traveled through the Higgs Field … given mass to something new … something dangerous … never tried it, only a kid … nachos … had nachos yesterday, how about pasta … could be our breakthrough …”

  Finally, they break from their huddle. “We w
ill help you,” Dr. A says. “In the interest of science.”

  Thirty minutes later, I’m standing at the entrance to the crazy-daisy door of the Infinity Collider wearing a roller derby helmet, white plastic safety goggles, and an orange padded jumpsuit with the words SCHRÖDINGER’S CAT IS ASPLIT PERSONALITY on it.

  Gonzo makes a whistling sound. “Wow. Physicist humor. Who knew?”

  The scientists have traded their lab coats for jumpsuits. Across the back of Dr. M’s is a slogan in big white letters: EVERYONE’S A TOURIST HERE! He offers an apologetic smile. “These days, most of our research is funded by the Council of Greater Tourism. If we succeed, they want to partner with us on tours to parallel universes.” He motions with his arm like he’s spelling out an imaginary billboard. “Take your brain to Braneworld!”

  “Lame …,” Dr. O singsongs under her breath, flipping switches and taking readings.

  “Yes. Well. We’re still working on the catchphrase,” Dr. M says with a sniff.

  I shift my safety goggles over my eyes. “How do I look?”

  “Like you just escaped from an eighties band,” Gonzo says.

  “Ed, please ready our victim!” Dr. T shouts from a scaffolding above the tunnel.

  I bend down so that Ed can test the security of my roller derby helmet. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt.”

  “I thought nobody’s come back. So how do you know it doesn’t hurt?”

  Ed considers this, nodding slowly. “I just know in the way you just know things.” He tucks a white rabbit’s foot into my pocket.

  “For luck?”

  “Nope.” He doesn’t offer any other explanation.

  Balder throws his arms around me. “May Frigg spin clouds of protection around you on your travels, noble Cameron.”

  “Thanks, Balder.”

  Ed affixes the Calabi Yau manifold to the stereo speaker.

  “Okay, we’re ready!” Dr. T calls out. The scientists lower their safety goggles and Balder and Gonzo follow suit. Dr. T offers a sort of space-hero salute, his hand across his chest.

  “To Higgs Field and beyond. Calabi Yau!”

  “Calabi Yau!” they shout.

  Gonzo bestows a final fist bump. “Here’s to sand castles and ninjas, dude.”

  I give the thumbs-up, and Ed closes the door, sealing me in.

  At first, it’s quiet and dark. Really dark. Then I hear the Copenhagen Interpretation’s music filling the space around me. “Time is what you make of it. …”

  The ground hums; it vibrates till my teeth rattle. The daisy door lights up like a wheel you spin at a carnival, and that’s when I nearly piss myself with fear. Be cool, Cameron. Don’t wanna trip the light fantastic with wet undies. Chafe is chafe in any dimension.

  It’s like I’ve been shot out of a superpowered cannon. There’s so much pressure bearing down on me, smashing me flat. It’s like I’m a plastic toy form stuck to a plastic board along with other forms that can be moved around only on that flat board. And then I’m expanding. I can feel myself peeling off that flat board and fluffing out, and it’s like I’ve got as many hidden dimensions as the Calabi Yau toy, all curled up and exponentially huge at the same time. Then—kapow!—I could swear every part of me is coming apart and being rearranged, like the ball bearings in one of those cheap plastic puzzle games you get in a birthday goody bag when you’re a kid. In my ears, the Copenhagen Interpretation’s getting louder. Tiny cells of time zip around me, snapshots constantly being rearranged on the blank pages of a photo album. Sometimes I look and they tell a linear story; other times they don’t seem to make sense or one cell overlaps another. I can make out a few things, though: The CI playing a concert. A big black hole opening above them. Dr. X stepping into his machine. The empty stage. Dr. X and the Copenhagen Interpretation flying through space, and in their wake, something forming. A ball of fire.

  I’m accelerating, and everything’s getting wonky. Time bends and blends till I can’t tell what’s what anymore: The Copenhagen Interpretation fishing in the snow. Me falling off the Small World ride. Gonzo in a fedora, a huge stuffed albatross on his desk and a gun in his hand. Glory playing hopscotch with a little girl who looks just like her. Dr. X dancing with his wife. Dr. X all alone in his stark white room. Dad with his arm around my shoulders, two moons hanging low in the orange sky. Stars streaking over my head. A crying Dulcie out in the snow, banging her palms against a pane of glass, over and over. Junior Webster’s horn in my hands. The WELCOME TO FLORIDA sign.

  The music reaches a crescendo. It’s so much I can’t take it.

  When I come to, everything’s still. The Calabi Yau is smoked as a piece of Buddha Burger jerky. I can move, and since I seem to have stopped traveling, I guess the only thing left to do is open up the Infinity Collider and see what’s on the other side of that door. For all I know, I could be stepping into a world where Rad soda and Parker Day don’t exist, and nobody’s even heard of the Copenhagen Interpretation.

  The door opens with a loud pssssht and a cloud of mist, and I hope carnivorous houseplants aren’t waiting with forks and knives and tartar sauce. Blurry forms emerge from the mist. Their edges fill in; Drs. A, T, O, and M stand blinking at me. Gonzo smiles in relief, and Balder removes his helmet and sinks to his knees to offer a prayer of thanks.

  “Nima Arkani-Hamed!” Dr. T whoops, jumping a full foot off the floor. The scientists hug each other in a victory huddle before running off to test for evidence of XL-gravitrons and maybetrons and perhapsatrons and whatever else they can think up.

  Ed takes my helmet and goggles, offers me juice. Then he reaches into my pocket and takes out the rabbit’s foot, which is now streaked with brown, though I could have sworn it was white when he put it in there.

  “Huh,” he says, smiling. “Thought so.”

  And it makes about as much sense as anything else.

  Later, after the scientists have recorded everything they can, after they’ve high-fived each other about a gazillion times and hung up a sign that says PARALLEL UNIVERSE TRAVEL OFFICE-PIA: OPENING FOR BUSINESS SOON! they come to see us off.

  “Sorry we couldn’t help you find Dr. X,” Dr. O says, pumping my hand. “You’ve been of enormous help to science.”

  “Hey, Gonzo—you hear that? I’ve been of enormous help to science!”

  “Tell ’em you want a medal, a big-ass one,” Gonz shouts back through a mouthful of veggie taco, because he swears he’s not getting on the road without a full stomach.

  “You could keep this.” Ed offers me his Calabi Yau model. He puts it in the palm of my hand and it wobbles there, eleven-plus dimensions, all mine.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. We’ve got a ton of ’em to sell in the Putopia gift shops. People like to bring souvenirs back. It says you care.”

  “Cool.” I stuff it in my bag. “Thanks for the veggie tacos. And if you can think of where Dr. X might be, give us a call.”

  “I told you where he is,” Ed says.

  “You said he went to tomorrow,” I remind him gently.

  “Yeah.” He puts his taco-smudged finger on my E-ticket meter, right on top of Tomorrowland, and grins. “Get some ears. They’ll even put your name on them if you want.”

  I trip over something by my feet. An orange tabby with a purple collar rubs against my legs with a loud purr. Dr. T scoops it up and gives it a scratch behind the ears.

  “Schrödinger, you old devil. Where have you been? You must be starving. Come on. Let’s get you some kibble.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Of What Happens When We Pick Up Three Hitchhikers and Free the Snow Globes

  The radio’s warning us about wildfires blazing out of control along the roads in Florida. The brown smoke swallows us like earth. I can barely see the road ahead.

  Since we left Putopia, I’ve been completely on edge. We’re practically a big fat target driving around in the Rocinante with its bull horns front and center, and we can’t stick to the back roads forever. Co
uld Dr. X really be at Disney World? Wouldn’t I have seen a sign by now?

  “Do you think those really are just wildfires?” Gonzo asks. The three of us are strung so tight you could play us.

  “Maybe,” I answer.

  Balder pulls a rune from his pouch.

  “What’d you get?” Gonzo asks.

  Frowning, Balder holds up a completely blank rune. “Wyrd. The beginning and the end. Fate.”

  I don’t know what that means, but it’s not doing anything to uncreep me. In another five miles, the smoke clears, and the sun glints off the asphalt in hard sparks. A siren wails behind us, and I swear I nearly choke on my heartbeat.

  “Shit,” I say. “Be cool, be cool.”

  The cop car soars past chasing somebody else, and we all let out our breath.

  “We need some cover,” I say, like I know what I’m talking about, like I do this all the time.

  “I fear we cannot trade this car for another,” Balder muses. “It hasn’t enough value.”

  Just then I spy three guys camped out by the side of the road hoisting up a sign, PARTEE HOUSE OR BUST. It gives me an idea. I pull onto the shoulder a few feet ahead of them.

  Gonzo’s eyes are wide. “Dude, what are you doing?”

  “Giving them a ride. We’re going to Disney. We can drop them in Daytona. It’s on the way.”

  Gonzo slaps his knee and rolls his head back to the roof like it might understand his plight. “No one ever picks up hitchers. That’s, like, the kind of safety rule they don’t even put on kids’ milk cartons anymore because they figure everybody fucking knows it already.”

  “They misspelled ‘party.’ How evil genius can they be?”

  He angles his body around to get a good look at the guys scrambling toward the car dragging their packs.

  “Look,” I explain. “These guys could be our cover, okay? The cops are looking for two crazy teens, not a carload of college kids on the way to spring break. With those guys on board, we just look like any other caravan on the way to Daytona for spring break. We slide under the radar.”

  Balder speaks up. “Cameron’s battle plan is sound. But I have seen these types before. They take pictures,” he says, exhibiting a little yard-gnome post-traumatic stress disorder.