I looked down and realized that she’d reached across the table to take my hand.
“All the stories we have of mental intrusions go the other way—from here to an extrareality. But I’m one of those who think that we aren’t Reality Prime, so I don’t see any reason why it can’t happen like this.”
“You think I’m not— I’m not me?” Until now, with Faith believing me, I hadn’t realized how much I wanted it to be a memory problem.
“I think you’re not my Hope, though I’m really glad to meet you and I’m sorry it has to be this hard. It’s more than memory.” She stopped to look for words. “What you’ve said, everything in your world seems harder. Atlas, Ajax, and Nimbus dead. Me. Shelly. Lots of high-fatality superhuman attacks. And, back there at the Dome? The second you realized half the team was gone, you shifted into leader-mode. Made sure the situation was okay and someone was on watch, and then pretty much benched yourself because of—” She tapped her head. “Those are just the most obvious moments.”
That made no sense. “I wouldn’t have done that?”
“Nope. Don’t get me wrong, I love my sister. But she’s not exactly…proactive. She’s strong. She’s determined to do the right thing whenever she knows what it is. But back there? The first thing she’d have done would be to call Blackstone, spill everything, and get instructions.”
“But there’s nothing he can do about it from Indonesia! They’ve got a mission to focus on.”
“Bingo. Also, you hate SaFire, here. You’re nice about it, because you are, but you hate her. You don’t, and I can’t imagine why someone rewriting your memories would flip the script on that.”
I almost put my face in my hands again before remembering we were in public. It helped, a little, that Faith wasn’t loudly denouncing me as a bodysnatching intrusion who’d stolen her sister.
“Why would I hate— No, never mind. Okay, so, Reality Prime? Candide Selection?”
That won me a smile. “That’s it—you deal, you learn what you need to know to keep moving forward. She’s not as good at that either, not yet.” She was obviously trying to make me feel better, but it worked; it looked like I’d do anything for a smile from the big sister I’d never known.
“So. Reality Prime. That’s the theory that this is the Real World, and all the extrareality worlds are breakthrough-created. They’re only real subjectively, for a given value of ‘real.’ We’re Reality Prime, and we make them.”
“But you said you don’t believe that?”
“Nope. Nobody’s been able to prove it experimentally or observationally. Nobody can disprove it, either, but to me it feels waaaay too egocentric.” She flashed another smile. “And now that I’ve met you I’m glad I don’t believe it, ’cause if we’re not equally real then one of us would be the other person’s figment, and I don’t want you to be a figment, Ace.”
My big sister was so cool.
But she didn’t give me much chance to sit and luxuriate in that. “So forgetting about Reality Prime and who’s real and who’s not, you were given an enabling device that should get you home. It’s ‘magic’, which means no technobabble and red button, and magic is intentional—it either works or it doesn’t. No extrareality is really ‘closer’ than any other, so if it could jump you at all, why didn’t it jump you home?” She gestured grandly with the hand holding her water glass, plunged on.
“Since it’s magic, I’d guess that we’re talking about something spiritual or karmic. Santa Claus is only nominally a Christian figure anymore, but since it’s that holiday it gets even weirder. His magic’s going to be Christmas Magic. So, twelve jumps? The Twelve Days of Christmas end with Epiphany, the day the searching magi found what they were looking for. See? Twelve days for you to wander, the final day being the day you get home.”
“Um, he didn’t sound as certain as that.”
“Would he be? He’s a secularized saint, not God.”
I nodded. He had talked about his domain, and it hadn’t been infinite.
“Or he might have known exactly what was going to happen, but couldn’t tell you. These iconic types don’t so much live by rules as exist because of them.”
“Okaaay, I can sort of see that. But where are you going? I mean, other than saying I should expect to use up every turn of the globe?”
She put her glass down, leaned onto her elbows.
“Well, if the point is the journey as much as the destination, then it’s not going to be random, is it? It’s going to be guided by what you need—which might not be what you want. This first one…” Her brow furrowed as she thought. “This first one, I think, was a grace? To give you something you need before you go on. So I think it was your own Candide Selection.” She looked at me expectantly.
“I’m going to start shaking you until an explanation falls out.”
Faith laughed. “That’s my sister. A Candide Selection is a search constraint. The current explanation for the apparently infinite number of alternate worlds out there that aren’t fictional worlds—you know, like Barsoom or Middle Earth—is that the moment of creation birthed the whole infinite array of primary realities at once. They all started as perfect copies, but over time small divergences make them more and more different. Got it?”
Crap, this was going to be like listening to the Teatime Anarchist explain the “obvious.”
“No.”
She deflated a little, and I could practically see her mentally rewinding.
“Imagine that there are two realities right now, okay? This one, and that one. Until ten minutes ago, they were absolutely identical. Then in this one you ordered the pot pie, and in that one you ordered the crusted chicken. Which is so much better, FYI. Also, five minutes ago in that one a mailman across town tripped over a cat he avoided in this one. He took a really nasty fall, but it was nothing to do with us. Got it?”
“Um.” I sat and worked through it. “I think so? You’re saying that divergences don’t create new realities—they’re just different paths taken in realities that looked identical before? And multiplying divergences within realities don’t have to be related to each other?”
“Right! And similarities don’t need to have the same cause, either. Say that a year from now the lucky mailman in our reality gets sideswiped by a bad driver. In both this reality and that one, he finds himself in the ER for relatively similar impact injuries, and in both he takes a recovery vacation to Bora Bora where he meets the love of his life. At least two roads get him to Bora Bora. An infinite number don’t. Still with me?”
“But if divergences are happening all the time, wouldn’t all of the realities look completely different from each other by now? After a few billion years?”
“What part of infinity are you missing? There’s an infinitude of realities, thus the name—plenty of room for smaller infinite sets to still look identical or nearly. At least that’s the theory. I think that the reason we’re not finding a lot more really extreme divergences is a higher power may be narrowing the phase space of possible outcomes. The mailman might be destined for Bora Bora and True Love unless he really messes up, but let’s leave the provenance vs. randomness can of worms closed. It’s a really big can.”
“You think the road to Bora Bora may be greased? No, ew, bad metaphor and, anyway, nevermind. Okay, I think I’ve got the Infinitude. So, a Candide Selection in the Infinitude is selecting the ‘best of all possible worlds’ from the infinite set? My best of all possible worlds?”
She nodded sharply. “Got it in one! At least it selects from the array of choices for what is the best of all possible worlds in your heart of hearts. What’s wrong?”
Our waitress arrived with lunch, giving me a moment to process that. It didn’t make me feel any better.
“That doesn’t say much about me,” I sighed when we were private again. “Shouldn’t I have selected for a reality where the Caliphate and China wars hadn’t happened?” I stared at my pot pie. “Where millions of people hadn’t— Hey!�
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Faith had leaned over her plate to rap my hand with her fork. Now she pointed it at me. “No wallowing. Don’t!” She kept it aimed between my half-crossed eyes until I snorted. “Better. In your head you know that would be a better world, but you didn’t make this reality—you just selected this one to visit ’cause it’s the Best of All Possible Worlds for you. Got it?” A grin split her face.
“And may I say how awesomely self-affirming that is for me? You didn’t just select any world from the set where both Shell and I survived. You selected the world where Shell and I are the best, most amazing Best Friend and Big Sister we can be—that’s what a Candide Selection means. Of all the set of Faiths, I win the Worlds’ Best Big Sister competition because that’s what you’d want. Score!”
I was laughing before she finished. “Do you want a trophy?”
“Yes!”
I settled back, took a few bites of pot pie before moving on.
“So, why a Candide Selection? Why didn’t I just jump home? And how do I jump now? I can’t— I can’t stay.”
“Of course you can’t. You couldn’t even if you’d arrived physically and weren’t displacing my own little sis. Mom and Dad are waiting back there.”
“Right. Well, maybe. I’ve only been gone a couple of days now, they might not know. Or my whole trip might not take any time at all back there. At least if I make it home on my own.”
“True, that. Synchronicity between realities isn’t required as long as you return after you left. Let’s hope that’s it.”
“So how do I jump, without the globe?”
She shrugged over her chicken, cutting up more slices. “Well, in theory you still have the globe. You just didn’t bring it along directly. Unless your physical body is sitting back in Christmastown, which seems unlikely.”
“You mean, I’m carrying it along in spirit?”
“Sounds right. Try picturing it in your hands, and turning it.”
I suddenly had no desire to try it. Big surprise. Looking across the table at Faith, I fixed her face in my memory just in case and closed my eyes to imagine the globe, flipping and spinning it to make the snow swirl.
I opened my eyes to find Faith watching me solemnly.
“Still like the pot pie? ’Cause my Hope doesn’t.”
Dessert arrived before a solution did, but the cheesecake was to die for and brainstorming quickly gave way to “what happened to—” questions about people and events in our respective realities. I didn’t ask the big questions; I’d been too young to remember Faith at all, and had no idea why she’d lived here and died in my own reality. It seemed arbitrary and horribly unfair. But Faith didn’t ask either, and the last thing I wanted to do was trigger some sort of weird “survivor’s guilt” in my sister.
She laughed, watching me pick up the last crumps of cheesecake crust with my fingertips. “That’s—”
My earbud chimed. “Astra. Potential A Class Nightmare Breakthrough, corner of 33rd and South Prairie. Rush is clearing, do not allow breakthrough to move north.”
I paled. Nightmare Breakthrough didn’t mean a thing to me, but A Class meant that SaFire could not take point and I couldn’t sit it out. 33rd and South Prairie was in spitting range of two schools and Mercy Hospital.
“On it! Recall Nimbus! Advise, what is ‘Nightmare Breakthrough?’” I stood to make for the Walnut Room’s entrance and Faith cleared her throat, pointing at the window beside us. It had a red-painted catch.
Obviously the reason they’d given us this table.
Pulling the catch popped the window and I dropped out and away from Macy’s. A last look behind gave me a glimpse of Faith, securing the window. How many lunches had ended that way?
“Astra.” This time it was David. “Please confirm readiness.” My question might be worrying, but you couldn’t hear it in his voice.
“I am able, Dispatch. Galatea can confirm.”
He didn’t hesitate more than a heartbeat. “Understood, Astra. Nightmare Breakthrough is a drug-triggered category, most often from bad trips on strong psychedelics. NBs are likely to experience triggering and possibly permanent psychotic breaks, and their breakthrough manifestations are likely to be nightmare fuel. Unverified, but the target presents all characteristics of NB.”
Crap crap crap crap crap. Back home we just called them Psychotic Breakthroughs, and this was going to suck. “Understood, Dispatch. Will contain the NB by any means necessary.”
Arcing over the Loop, I spotted the flare of Galatea’s boot-jets and dove to grab her before pulling onto a hard push south. “Need a lift?”
“Always nice. Pass me the situation lead?”
Right—I had no idea what pieces of field protocol were different here. “It’s yours. Let me focus on sticking him to the ground?”
“That works. This’ll be easy.”
I missed Shell’s virtual HUD tactical display, but could spot 33rd and Prairie on my own. For one thing, it had a police helicopter over it. And a thing that filled the empty lot just north of the intersection.
“Now that’s just wrong.”
“You think? Drop me and go see if it’s open to talking. Probably not, but hey, first steps.”
I let go of Galatea and dropped down to land near the edge of the thing. If it was going to get aggressive, I wanted to be the closest and most obvious target.
It was definitely nightmare fuel. Covering most of the empty lot like a tangled mat, it only loomed up into more or less human shape in the center. There it looked like a gangly man covered in shrouds—except the shrouds were eruptions of bone-white fleshy roots. It wasn’t hair; each root branched into tangles of finer root systems, and they moved. Halfway to its edge, the mat of weaving roots bulged over three smaller shapes. There the white roots had flushed a sickly pink.
I felt sick. To my super-duper vision, the three shapes glowed with fading heat as the covering roots absorbed them. I couldn’t hear heartbeats, but they were human sized.
The smell was hideous, like rotting meat, and I swallowed twice before I could control my gag reflex.
“Hello? If you understand me, nod.”
It didn’t. Instead the fringe of the root mat crawled towards me. The thing’s circumference didn’t seem to be growing, but the whole thing was slithering out into the intersection and it did not belong in the sane and waking world at all.
“Please nod.”
Not a twitch from the shrouded figure, and when I took a step back its near fringe thickened and lunged, wrapping me tight. “Nimbus! On me!”
She flashed out of the sky, glorious, and the beam she fired into the mat shriveled and blackened tendrils around me. The looming shroud screamed and lurched as its roots smoked.
The stinging on my skin where roots reached above my collar migrated to my nose and mouth. “Stop! The smoke is dangerous!” I tried to fly, felt rootlets clinging to the street pop and separate as I strained upward.
“Not that important!” Nimbus stopped, but Shelly-Galatea flushed a rack of explosive mini-missiles into the mat growing around me. The tough roots resisted her bursts, but enough gave that I ripped free of the thing. Darting upward, I watched it fill in the burned and shredded patch below me.
“Galatea, material analysis?” I prayed that this Galatea had the environmental analysis mods of the one back home.
“It’s organic, secretions are a deadly neurotoxin. Continued burn will put lethal concentrations into the air, neutralization rate unknown.”
“Aerokinetics? Force-field projectors?” I had no idea of the full Guardian roster here.
“None locally available. We’d have to call them from other municipalities and arrival time is too long.” David didn’t ask why I was asking—why I had to ask—and I made a mental note to ask about Veriforce later.
But all that would come later; below me, the thing turned to slither up the street. North. Of course. “Evacuation?”
“The schools will be empty at its current rate of progres
s. Mercy Hospital will not have fully evacuated all movable patients, even with Rush and SaFire’s help.”
I listened to the beat of the police helicopter above us, the only sound in the empty street besides the distant sirens the wash of Galatea’s jets. And the hiss of creeping nightmare-roots.
“Dispatch, its reaction shows it still has a central nervous system but I don’t think it’s even got bones left, the way it’s moving now.” It was getting less and less human-shaped by the minute. Sadly, that made my decision easier.
Nimbus’ pure energy-transfer laser attack could burn the root network to ash, but with the toxic smoke a simple Green Man solution was not happening. Which left only one option that I could see.
I stripped off my cape. “Dispatch, is Jack Frost available?”
“Affirmative, Astra.”
“Have Rush deliver him now! He is to freeze the perimeter of the growth once I have removed the central body. Galatea, stand by to core the apple. Dispatch, ensure that the flight bay is clear and sealable.”
“Deliver Jack Frost, clear and prep flight bay. Understood, Astra.”
“Galatea?”
“Got it, go!”
I dove, sweeping down to wrap the bulging top of our breakthrough’s shrouded form in my cape before grabbing hold and pulling hard. It didn't budge, but then Galatea’s micro-missile salvo arrived and I closed my eyes tight as fragments of burning root flew around me. Severed from its wider anchoring net, the screaming and writhing thing ripped free of the ground as I took us up.
It was not fun; my wrapped cape protected my face from direct contact with the thing, but its lower body still hung with root shrouds that brushed and stung my bare legs above my boots. I ignored it. “Nimbus! Please follow, be prepared to burn!”
“Roger dodger!” She chirped cheerfully in my ear and I almost dropped my armful; obviously they’d figured out a way around Nimbus’ incorporeal muteness here. Good for them.
The short, arcing flight to the Dome with Nimbus alongside gave me a few seconds to plan—and to worry about the roots winding themselves around my legs. In descent, I aimed for the flight bay doors without slowing; the bay floor had been built for crashes.
Wearing the Cape 6: Team-Ups and Crossovers Page 13
