by Libba Bray
“Did you ever come across a Dr. X? A scientist?”
There’s more murmuring. The interpreter wants to be sure he’s gotten it right.
“At one point,” he says. “We came upon a man in a white lab coat the color of snow you cannot shake from your shoe.”
“Dr. X!” I blurt out. “Had to be. Were you guys ever in the same universe at the same time? Do you know where he ended up?”
“We did not speak. Only passed each other. You know. The way people do in space.”
My heart sinks at this. I’m out of my chair, pacing. “At Putopia, they told us Dr. X had a theory about music. That it was its own dimension. That the vibrations could punch holes through space and time. Dr. X was playing ‘Words for Snow’ when he stepped into the Infinity Collider. He used this”—I pull the Calabi Yau manifold from my backpack—“to amplify the sound.”
Thule murmurs to the interpreter, who says, “Looks like macaroni art.”
“What if he stepped into the Infinity Collider at the precise moment you were playing at the concert—the same song at the same time, a supersynchronized vibration opening up a passage?”
I look to my friends. Balder strokes his beard. Gonzo’s squinting like he’s trying to pay attention in algebra class. Drew laces his fingers with Gonzo’s. Dulcie’s eyes shine.
The keyboard player leans forward and whispers in the interpreter’s ear. “Interesting,” the interpreter says. “Do you want to try the peanut butter? It’s very good.”
Just then, a bunch of YA! TV suits show up. It’s time for the second set, and we have to leave. I have so many more questions—about parallel dimensions, Dr. X, time travel, and the wormhole we’re supposed to close—but our audience with the Copenhagen Interpretation is officially over for now.
We all shake hands, and Balder gives the lead singer Thule, a fist bump.
When we come out again, it’s gotten darker.
“What’s that?” A girl points to thick black smoke in the distance. Just behind it is a fierce orange glow. “Is it the wildfires?”
“Should we close down?” an assistant asks someone next to him.
“Nah, here comes a storm. That should take care of it,” the other guy answers.
The crowd boos at the coming rain. I get a tingly feeling up my arms. The clouds are moving fast, swirling, pulling.
“Dulcie …,” I say.
Her eyes are wide. “Yeah.”
“You think those are wildfires and a passing storm?”
She shakes her head. Down on the beach, the wind rips away a hotel awning. It tumbles down the beach before zipping up toward the sky and disappearing.
“Dulcie!” I shout over the wind and fire sirens. “I don’t think we can wait. I think we have to try to re-create what happened the night the wormhole was opened.”
Lightning crackles overhead. Dulcie gives me a push. “Go.”
By the time we reach the stage, the beach is black with smoke and the sky is as dark as a night without stars. A voice comes over the loudspeaker. “Ah, folks, I’m afraid those wildfires are getting a little too close for comfort, and the weather isn’t cooperating too much, either. We’re gonna have to shut down the concert.”
People boo loudly. A hulking security guard with a shaved head and biceps the size of giant poodles pushes people away from the stage. There’s no way to get closer.
“Shit! What do we do now?”
Dulcie looks around quickly. “I’ll get the crowd stirred up. You try to get the Copenhagen Interpretation to come out for one more song.”
Just like that, Dulcie starts zigzagging through the crowd, shouting, “Encore! Encore! ‘Words for Snow!’ C’mon!”
A few people take up a chant—“Words for Snow!”—and it swells. I try to slip under the security ropes. The big guy hauls me out without even breathing hard.
“I have to talk to the Copenhagen Interpretation!”
“Pal, everybody needs to talk to the Copenhagen Interpretation. Back off.” He pushes me back. Lightning zaps one of the hotels and then again near the stage. Car alarms go off. People get a little nervous.
I hold up my E-ticket bracelet, blocking the words with my fingers. “I’m press.”
The guy peers at it. “Aren’t you a little young to be press?”
“I won it. One of those Last Wish things.” I cough for effect.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the guy says. “I didn’t know.”
“Yeah. My last wish was to see the Copenhagen Interpretation play. And meet them.”
He shakes his head, slips me under the ropes, and points me toward the band huddled just offstage.
“Hello again,” the interpreter relays. “The sky is frowning.”
“Yes. It’s frowning big-time,” I say. Sweat beads on my forehead. “And it’s gonna get worse unless we stop it.”
As quickly as possible, I tell them my plan. They exchange glances.
“Will we end up in the shit again?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if this will work. But if we don’t try, the world’s gonna end very shortly.”
A tech guy makes his way over. “Sorry, guys. With the storm, it’s not safe to go back out. The concert’s been canceled.”
“What?” I shout. “No! You have to uncancel it!”
The tech guy shrugs in apology. “We just got these guys back. Can’t have ’em going up in smoke.”
“Please,” I beg, ignoring him. “Just one song.”
The Copenhagen Interpretation forms a tight huddle. Their heads bob in discussion. They call for their interpreter.
Murmur. Mur. Murmur. Stop.
“It’s like fishing in fake snow, checking your line.”
“Right.” I nod. I have no idea what they mean.
Against the advice of everyone at YA! TV, the Copenhagen Interpretation agrees to play one last song in the hopes it will send the fire giants and the wizard back through the Higgs Field to wherever they came from and close the wormhole so they can’t come back. A roadie ushers me out onstage. People cheer until they realize I’m not anybody. Down in the pit, Gonzo, Drew, and Balder shout my name anyway.
“Cameron! Save the universe, pendejo!”
Soon, the crowd’s chanting, “Save the universe, pendejo!” and they have no idea.
The blaze has gotten even closer. In the distance, I hear fire-truck sirens. I take the Calabi Yau toy from my backpack and rig it to one of the amplifiers as best I can. It sags like a half-emptied piñata. “Please,” I whisper. “Just … please.”
That sky’s looking really ominous. The clouds start to pull in. Lightning shoots out like loose electrical lines. Now people are getting nervous. They turn to leave. Any minute we’ll have a stampede on our hands. I can’t see Dulcie and I hope wherever she is, she’s okay. I run into the wings just as the Copenhagen Interpretation takes the stage again, and for one second, the crowd explodes with manic happiness. But it’s quickly replaced by fear. They don’t know if they should stay or go. On the one hand, it’s the Copenhagen Interpretation. On the other, there’s the fire and the sky.
The interpreter steps to the microphone.
Murmurmrumumurmurmurmurmuuuurmrrrrmmrurr. Long stop.
“In our travels, we have come across many equations—math for understanding the universe, for making music, for mapping stars, and also for tipping, which is important. Here is our favorite equation: Us plus Them equals All of Us. It is very simple math. Try it sometime. You probably won’t even need a pencil.”
“Hey. Hey! What is that?” a girl screams.
The fire giants have reached us. We’re completely sealed off by a circle of them, an angry army looking to be satisfied, except they can never be satisfied, and so they just keep burning. Those bottomless black eyes make my throat dry. The crowd screams and cowers together, holding each other up. But the Copenhagen Interpretation doesn’t flinch. They stand firm; they have more to say, and the interpreter relays every word.
Murmur. Murmurmurrmrurururmmmurururururmmm-mmrururururu. Stop.
“Please. We know. These are hard times. The world hurts. We live in fear and forget to walk with hope. But hope has not forgotten you. So ask it to dinner. It’s probably hungry and would appreciate the invitation.”
The fire giants throw their heads back and howl for all they’re worth—the horrible screech makes my skin crawl. In the crowd, people scream in fear. The interpreter has to shout into the microphone. “This is a song. It is called ‘Small World.’”
The drummer clicks the sticks together—two, three, four—and knocks the Calabi Yau off the speaker. Fuck. They’re playing, but without the amplification, it’s not enough.
I rush the stage. Security comes after me, but the guitar player blocks me with his body. “Here goes everything,” I shout, and hold the Calabi Yau to the speaker with both hands, shifting it into place. The sound that comes out nearly knocks me flat, and for a minute, I feel like I’m back in the Infinity Collider. It’s more than music; it’s a living thing, a portal into dimensions I’ve never even thought about. The music actually drifts high above our heads; I can see it swirling there—an aurora borealis of light and notes and vibrating strings. It drifts into the black hole, and the hole narrows bit by bit. The fire giants howl as the sonic waves push them back. Soon, people begin loosening their death grips on one another. They join hands and sing along. The fire giants grow smaller. With each note, they shrink down to pissant little flickers and then to smoke, which is pulled up into the swirling clouds. The hole is only a dot.
Onstage, the Copenhagen Interpretation has stopped playing. The singer looks up, says five words in English. “Shit. Here we go again.”
That hole in the sky sucks them and the Calabi Yau toy right up and closes over. The clouds disperse. It’s an unearthly quiet. The concertgoers are dazed. Slowly, as people realize they’re okay, that we’re all still here, they whoop and hug each other in relief. Then they notice the empty stage.
I drop down into the crowd and help Gonzo up, and he helps Balder.
“What was that?” Gonzo asks when he finds his voice again.
I peer up at the hint of rainbow. “I think we might have just saved the universe.”
I look around for Dulcie, but she’s gone. I start to panic. What if she’s been sucked up, too? But then I see her in the crowd, pink and white.
I run to her.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Of What Happens When Balder Has His Day at the Beach
After a fuel-up of convenience-store corn dogs and soda, we’re packed and ready to head out. Drew’s managed to fix the Caddy, but it looks tired. It’s coated in sand and road dust. Somebody has finger-written WASH ME across the back window. I wish it were coated in more dust. Every cop in Florida’s probably looking for that car now, and I just hope we can stay one step ahead of them.
Gonzo’s wearing Drew’s I GOT CRABS AT JOE’S SURF & TURF T-shirt.
“Mohawk’s cool,” I say.
Gonzo runs his hand over his head, watching Drew who’s letting Balder take his picture with the Party House in the background.
“Hey, you don’t have to come with me, you know,” I say. “If you wanna stay, ride out the rest of spring break, it’s cool.”
“He’s got my e-mail and cell and all that.”
“Seems like a cool guy,” I say.
“He is,” Gonzo says, and there’s a little sigh under it.
“You sure you don’t want to stay?”
Gonzo elbows me in the side. I elbow him back. He elbows me again till I cry “Ow.”
“I said I’m riding shotgun, I’m riding shotgun,” he says.
I nod, and we stand there watching Balder bark out orders to Drew to crouch lower and lower, till I know his head will be nothing more than a small human icon down in the left-hand corner of the photo.
Dulcie waves to me from behind a green station wagon. I slip away from the guys and go to her. “You coming along?”
“I’ll catch up,” she answers. When I look disappointed, she adds, “Don’t worry. I’ll be sticking close.”
“Because I’m a badass who saved the universe, princess?” I brace myself for the smackdown to come.
“Yeah.” She laughs and kisses me on the nose. “Something like that.”
I made a promise to Balder back on the cul-de-sac that we would get him to the ocean to search for Ringhorn so he could try to get back to his own world. I just didn’t know we’d be so short on time. My E-ticket meter is down to its last bar—Tomorrowland—and fading.
“Do not worry about me, Cameron. You must do what is right for your mission.” Balder’s expression is stoic.
Gonzo gives him a little pat on the back. “You could stay with us, dude. I could teach you to play Captain Carnage.”
“Yes. Thank you,” Balder says, trying to smile.
But I can see in Balder’s eyes that he’s homesick, and we’re by the beach right here, right now. “Who wants to play in the surf?” I ask.
Balder’s eyes light up. “But your mission, Cameron?”
“Can wait for a few hours,” I lie.
“When I am once again in the company of Odin and Freya, I shall tell them of the two bravest souls I ever met. Your names shall ring in the golden hall of the gods,” Balder says, sniffling a little.
“Just don’t tell ’em you keep your runes near your gnomy bits, amigo,” Gonzo jokes. “’Cause that is seriously off-putting.”
We drive down a few miles to a quiet part of the beach. No college revelers here. Just a few families with their kids, a handful of old people camped in their beach chairs facing the late-day sun. We move far away from them, not that they’re watching us anyway. They’re enjoying their own paradise bubbles.
Balder’s back in his surfer uniform. He pulls up the leggings, takes off his flip-flops, and wades out to the edge of the water. A wave nudges his toes.
“Oh my,” Balder says. I’ve never seen him so happy. “That is … wonderful.” He cups his hands over his eyes to cut the glare and keeps watch for his ship.
A piece of driftwood has washed up on shore. I take it and write my name in the sand. The water rushes over my name, makes it into some new word, then erases it completely. Using the driftwood as a walking stick, I hike along the shore, thinking about Dulcie, about the way her wings felt, smooth and soft except for the spines in each feather. Nestled into all that velvety down was something solid but supple, something hard to break, hundreds of them fanning out around me like the softest, most improbable shell. It makes me smile to know she’s in the world. That’s all.
A feather drops onto my head, followed by another, and another. Feathers fall like snow from the sky. A great big pillow fight of feathers coating my skin, the beach, the water, till all I can do is twirl and laugh in them, a character in my own broken snow globe.
We stay longer than we should, probably. The day is spent talking and building badass sand castles, taking Balder for rides on the waves. It’s all been so nice just being together that I haven’t wanted to leave. Now the sun’s low in the sky, and Gonzo and I sit in the sand while Balder finishes constructing a moat around his castle, waiting for Ringhorn, which he assures us will come with the evening tide.
“Thirty more minutes,” I tell him.
“It will come,” Balder insists, and goes back to looking.
“Hey, you wanna see if we can crash that shit by the taco stand?” Gonzo nods in the direction of a small party that’s sprung up off to our right.
“Nah,” I say.
A wave rushes over my toes and back out. The sand goes soft and sucks at my foot. Seagulls congregate on a dune, pecking at a piece of bread. An old couple parks their chairs near the boardwalk. The wind shifts, carrying the sounds of a volleyball game down the shore.
“Seems like we should be doing something,” Gonzo says.
“We are doing something.”
“Yeah. Guess so.”
/> We sit staring out at that vast ocean, Gonzo and I, just watching the sky colors drip into the sea like a giant percolator, making something sweet and strong, something to keep you going when all you’ve got left are fumes.
Maybe there’s a heaven, like they say, a place where everything we’ve ever done is noted and recorded, weighed on the big karma scales. Maybe not. Maybe this whole thing is just a giant experiment run by aliens who find our human hijinks amusing. Or maybe we’re an abandoned project started by a deity who checked out a long time ago, but we’re still hardwired to believe, to try to make meaning out of the seemingly random. Maybe we’re all part of the same unconscious stew, dreaming the same dreams, hoping the same hopes, needing the same connection, trying to find it, missing, trying again—each of us playing our parts in the others’ plot-lines, just one big ball of human yarn tangled up together. Maybe this is it.
Or maybe there’s something to what Junior said about those black holes singing. That B-flat? Maybe that’s the last sound we make when we join the universe, something to say, I was here. One last “Whoo-hoo!” before we’re pulled into the vast, dark unknown and shot out into some other galaxy, some other world, where we have the chance to do it differently. I don’t know. It’s something to think about, though.
“This is pretty fucked up, dude,” Gonz says, giving me that big, lovable lopsided grin.
I know what he means, and I want to say something back, but I can’t find the words for how incredible this is any more than I can pin the sky in place. I’m happy to be right here, right now. And I know, even as I’m surrounded by this feeling, that it will take its arms away soon enough. Tears sting my eyes. I turn my head so Gonzo can’t see.
“Hey, new bumper sticker,” Gonzo announces. “This car powered by the Dwarf of Destiny!”
I wipe my face against my shoulder. “Everyone says you’re paranoid.”
“The Norse like to keep things Wyrd,” Balder chimes in.
“Good one,” Gonzo says, giggling.
“Free the snow globes!” I shout to the sky.
“Free-ee the snow globes, free-ee the snow globes …” Balder turns it into an opera riff, and we join in till we’re laughing too hard to continue.
