by Neil Gaiman
“Good,” I said, taking a bite. “More for . . .” I paused, chewing slowly. “It doesn’t taste like an apple.”
“Is it bad?” She eyed her own suspiciously.
“No, it just . . . doesn’t taste like an apple. It’s good, though.”
She took a bite. “It kind of tastes like an apple. Like . . . a weird apple.”
“The Evolution of Apples,” I said, putting a note of drama in my voice. It was supposed to be funny, but she paused and looked down at the giant red fruit in her hands.
“Y’know, we’re probably eating something no one has eaten for thousands of years,” she said.
“Millions,” I corrected. “But, yeah. It’s one of the perks of this job.” She tried not to look pleased, but I could tell she was. We ate our giant not apples in silence.
“Okay, boss,” she said, once we were finished eating and had found homes in the kitchen for the various other fruits, vegetables, nuts, and berries she’d brought back. “What now?”
“Now,” I said, glancing outside at the sky. “We take our much-deserved hot showers while we still have solar power, and go to sleep.”
As pleased as she looked at the notion of a hot shower, she looked equally disappointed that it was bedtime so soon. “Aren’t you tired?” I asked, abruptly feeling like I was talking to a small child.
“No,” she said, looking like she meant it. “I want to learn more.”
“Well, I’ve been up since three this morning, and it hasn’t exactly been a restful day. I’m falling over. You can entertain yourself if you want, but I would advise you to get some sleep. I’ll likely be up between four and five again, and I’m waking you up with me.”
“Fine,” she shrugged. “Can I really entertain myself? Like . . . can I explore?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t,” I said, warily. “But I won’t tell you not to. Just stay on the ship, okay?”
She hesitated, but nodded. “Okay.”
“Fine. I’m going to go enjoy my shower.”
“Where are they? I’ll want one later.”
“You’ve got a small bathroom in your room. Let me show you where it is.”
I led her back to the rooms (she seemed pleased that I’d already moved her stuff in there, or possibly that we wouldn’t be sharing), and showed her how to use all the facilities, as they were built to be compact and were more complicated than the turn of a knob. Despite her excitement at the idea of exploring the ship, I heard her puttering around in the adjacent room as I went about getting ready for sleep. I guess she was glad for the space, since she’d been living in an elevator. Not that our rooms were that much bigger, but still . . . bigger than an elevator, even a large corporate one.
All in all, the day hadn’t gone too badly. I was still sore, hungry, exhausted, and terrified that the universe might end at any moment—but I had a ship, a recruit, and a plan. It was more than I’d had yesterday.
For the next three days, Josephine and I stuck to a specific routine. We would wake up at five, go for a jog around the ship (which was torture for my injuries at first, but slowly got easier), come in and eat breakfast, then clear out and organize until lunch. Then we would go out again, to a stream about two miles away (we jogged), where I taught her to catch fish with her bare hands. I was glad once again for my InterWorld classes; though such happenings were rare, we had all gone through basic wilderness survival courses in case we ever ended up stranded on a primitive world.
As I stood knee-deep in the stream, showing her how the light bent in the water and made the fish seem slightly to the side of where they actually were, I remembered how much trouble J’r’ohoho had always had with this lesson. The centaur hadn’t been able to bend over as far as the rest of us had and couldn’t even reach the water without wading in deeper. His hooves kept slipping on the slick rocks, and he’d ended up soaking wet with only a single fish to show for it.
Josephine did well, catching her first fish on her fourth try. She lost it again as it wriggled out of her grasp, but was able to hold on to the second and third. She did better and better as the days went on, and I took to giving her a crash course in battlefield tactics while we brought the fish back to base. Learning how to anticipate the enemy was discussed while we got our catch cleaned and cooked; then, while we ate, I explained the basics of planar travel and the concept of why Walking worked.
After lunch, we’d go for another run around the base, then I’d give her combat training. She had a better chance against me than she thought she did, with all my injuries, but I still managed to teach her some basics without hurting myself further. Then it was more cleaning out and hauling (specifically the other dorm rooms) and more combat tactics, specifically in regard to what she could expect from HEX and Binary. A final jog around the base, more fish for dinner, then an hour of leisure time before bed.
The first and second day, she used that extra hour to sleep. The third day, looking no less exhausted but even more determined, she asked me for another lesson in combat.
The fourth day, I decided it was time.
“Hue will bond with us again,” I explained, “and we’ll go back to our proper timeline. Then, through Hue, I’ll search for another Walker. I’ll go with you on this first one, but eventually, you and I will be running separate extraction teams.”
“Meaning we’ll both go after different versions of us.”
“Yes.”
For the first time in three days, she looked pensive. “How am I supposed to just . . . pull another one of me out of their life? It’s not fair.”
“The same way I did it to you,” I told her.
She frowned. “You didn’t give me a choice—you showed up and things started coming after me. . . .”
“Exactly. I didn’t give you a choice.” It was harsh, but it was true. It had to be true. It was the only way we could win.
She glared down at her shoes for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.” After a pause, her expression relaxed, though she still didn’t smile. “I’m sick of fish, anyway.”
“Me, too.” I put a note of sympathy in my voice, sort of as an apology for my tone a moment ago.
“Are we going now?” she asked.
“Now’s as good a time as any,” I said, but the reality was that now was when Hue happened to be here (we hadn’t seen him at all for the past three days), and I didn’t want to chance his disappearing again for longer this time. She nodded.
“Hue?” I called, and the little mudluff perked up from where he’d been doing a passable impression of a floor mat. He rose slowly, like a balloon being filled with helium, and floated over. “Hey, buddy,” I said, reaching out to touch a hand to his side. He turned a pleased powder blue, exerting slight pressure against my palm. “You ready?” He shifted color again, this time to an affirmative bronze, and I reached out for Josephine’s hand.
As before, Hue flowed over us both like weird, nonsticky honey, and I Walked.
Josephine was a bit more used to Walking now, which made the transition smoother for me; but we were stumbling along the path rather than gliding, the gait of a weary traveler who has been on their feet for far too long.
I think Hue is getting tired, Josephine thought at me. Well, it wasn’t really thinking at me, exactly; it was more that I was aware of her thoughts. Like she was saying them out loud, even though I knew she wasn’t.
Probably, I answered. I don’t know how much this takes out of him, but he’s been sleeping a lot.
Let’s try not to make so many trips, she suggested. We can Walk side to side and gather up as many Walkers as we can find, then take them back all at once.
It wasn’t a bad plan, and if I had Josephine do most of the side-to-side Walking—meaning we’d go from dimension to dimension rather than back and forth through time—there was far less chance of us being detected. I had to make these next few trips count.
With that in mind, I cast about for the strongest source of Walker energy I could find.
; And I found it. Close.
Well, relatively speaking. We had been docked on one of the prehistoric Earths in InterWorld’s future. Hue took us back in InterWorld’s timeline, which took us forward in Earth’s timeline. The Walker essence I was sensing was on a parallel planet, an Earth that had never recovered from the meteor impact roughly sixty-six million years ago.
The energy I was sensing on this planet, this dead planet, was strong. Very strong.
Could it be a trap? Josephine asked silently.
A few days ago, I would have said no. I would have said there was no way to simulate Walker energy from someone who wasn’t a Walker. I would have said we would know.
I knew now that wasn’t true, so all I said was Maybe.
The landing sent a jolt through us both, like when you’re going downstairs and hit the floor sooner than you expected because you thought there was another step. The ground was hard and unforgiving, reddish, and cracked like a dry riverbed. The air was thick with dust and ash, the sunlight filtering weakly through the haze. It smelled like rot and marshland, the landscape restricted to a color palette of grays and reds and browns. Despite the warm colors, it was freezing.
“Ugh.” Josephine wheezed, lifting her sleeve to her mouth and nose. “It smells like bad water.”
“Yep,” I said, doing the same. “Hold on.” I closed my eyes, partly to concentrate and partly because they were stinging and watering. Taking a deep breath through my sleeve, I focused on the strong, clear pulse of familiarity, of power just like mine, the same way I’d found Josephine. It was here, still, laid out before me like a trail of bread crumbs.
“This way,” I said, starting off through the trees. Josephine followed, coughing.
“This dust is really thick,” she observed, voice muffled by her sleeve. “Did a volcano explode or something?”
I ignored the jolt of adrenaline that went through me as her question reminded me of the rockslide that had killed Jerzy. I wanted to stop and take a deep breath, but that wasn’t really an option. Instead, I shrugged and said, “Maybe. More likely it was a huge meteor.”
“You mean like what killed the dinosaurs?”
“Yeah. This is a version of Earth that suffered longer-lasting effects from that, whatever it was.”
“You just said it was a huge meteor.”
“That’s what it probably was,” I said. “But no one really knows for sure. Evidence suggests it was probably a meteor, but scientists have a few other theories.”
She tilted her head, looking curious. “Aren’t those things we could find out, though? Like if it was a meteor and whether or not there was an Atlantis, and what’s up with the Bermuda Star, and . . .”
“There’s actually nothing up with the Bermuda Star,” I said. “It’s called the Bermuda Triangle on my world, and it’s mostly a myth perpetuated by television and other media.”
“But all those planes and ships went missing,” she said, looking disappointed.
“Not really. There haven’t actually been any more disappearances or wrecks in that area than any other,” I said. She continued to look disappointed. “I mean, at least on my Earth. Maybe it’s different on yours.”
“Maybe,” she said, perking up “But what about the other stuff, like Atlantis or the missing crew of the Maria Christine?”
“I haven’t heard of that last one—might’ve had a different name on my world, if it happened—but the fact that you and I both come from a world with Atlantis myths might mean there’s something to them.”
“Huh.” She looked thoughtful. “I guess so. Would that be another way of finding out, do you think? Walking to different worlds and seeing if they have the same myths, or finding one where Atlantis never sank?”
“Yeah, probably. And that,” I said, removing my sleeve from my face long enough for her to see me grin, “Is what we call perks of the job. We do get to go off base sometimes.”
“That’s awesome,” she said. “I can’t wait to explore.”
“When we’re done saving all the worlds,” I reminded her.
“I know,” she said a little testily. I suppose I didn’t have to keep reminding her how serious this was; there wasn’t anything wrong with looking forward to dessert while knowing you still had to eat your vegetables.
“I used to have a whole book about stuff like that,” I said after a moment, trying to make conversation as we slogged our way through the thick, dank air. I knew I should save my breath, but we hadn’t had much chance to talk about anything other than tactics and technical ship stuff. I knew next to nothing about her, except what I assumed we had in common.
“Stuff like what? Modern mysteries?”
“Yeah. My aunt gave it to me.”
“I had the same one,” she said. “Aunt Theresa?”
“Yeah.” I smiled. “Blue cover?”
“No, green. Yellow title.”
“Mine was black, I think. Don’t remember; I got it when I was really little. Mom and her sister didn’t talk much, really.”
“I guess that’s how it was for us at first, but they got closer after the accident,” she said.
“What accident?”
“The car accident.” Josephine glanced sidelong at me. “Where Mom lost her arm.”
I paused, once again struck by the realization at how different we all were, even though we were all essentially the same. When I’d first come to Josephine’s world, when I still didn’t know what was happening or why, I’d gone into her house and seen the woman who was my mom but wasn’t, who looked like her and sounded like her but had different hair and a prosthetic arm.
“That didn’t happen for you,” she said.
“No,” I admitted. “I remember one car accident we were in, but it wasn’t bad.”
She was silent for a moment, considering that. She didn’t seem upset, just thoughtful. Josephine was like that, I was learning; she tended to mostly roll with the punches. I guess she’d had to.
“Well, it was bad for us. I have a scar right here from when I hit my head.” She pulled her sleeve away from her mouth long enough to push her hair back. I couldn’t make out the scar with how my eyes were watering from the dust in the air, but I nodded anyway. “And I only sort of remember what happened. I woke up in the hospital with Dad sitting next to me, and he told me we’d be staying there for a few days while Mom had surgery.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, unable to think of anything else.
“Whatever,” she said. “Don’t pity me or anything. It wasn’t that bad. Mom’s used to using the prosthetic now, and she can do most things pretty easily. She even makes jewelry.”
I automatically reached up to touch the necklace beneath my shirt, the one I always wore. My mom had made it for me the night I left home, and I wondered if Josephine’s mother had been able to do the same.
“Is it just me, or is it getting harder to breathe?” she asked.
“It’s not just you,” I said, pausing. “And do you hear that?”
We both stopped, holding our breaths for more than one reason. Had I heard a faint rustling nearby? Now I wasn’t sure. There was the same unnatural stillness that had surrounded us since we arrived: no birds, no breeze, no insects. But now there was a heaviness to the air, a sense of waiting, of anticipation.
I tackled Josephine to the side as I felt the ground shudder behind me and slightly to the right, my only indication that something was about to happen. I felt a rush of air over my head, and heard a shrill, strangled sound that made my spine tingle. It sounded almost like a bird, but . . . not.
I rolled defensively to my feet, some small part of me noting with pride that Josephine was doing the same.
A shape loomed up out of the red dust at us, beady eyes glinting in the scant light. It looked like some sort of ostrich or emu, but . . . well, not nearly as silly. Large, flightless birds have always looked kinda weird to me, you know? Not this one. For one thing, it was probably close to twice my height, and I know I’m not exa
ctly big, but still.
I rolled to the side again as the thing’s head—almost the size of my torso—lunged toward me, fast as a striking snake. I got the impression of some kind of hooked beak before it spun past me, orienting on Josephine. Definitely carnivorous, definitely hungry.
I’d like to say what I did next was heroic, but it was probably closer to dumb. As Josephine darted backward to avoid the beak, I threw myself toward the thing in what I hoped was a coordinated jump. It probably looked more like I was flailing while falling, but I managed to get my arms around the thing’s long neck anyway, legs wrapped around its body and feet off the ground.
It’s times like that, half-astride the back of a prehistoric monstrous emu, that I wondered what I’d be doing right now if my life was normal. Probably not playing rodeo with a giant bird, that’s for sure.
“Run!” I shouted, scrabbling for purchase as the whatever it was hopped and bucked. I managed to get an arm around its neck, locking my grip with my other hand. I felt feathers and rough, leathery skin against my arm, and then I felt my teeth rattle as it tried to run me into a tree. Basic anatomy teaches that most mammal or avian creatures have to breathe, usually through a windpipe of some sort, and I was hoping this thing would be no different. Of course, with all the soot and dust down here, I might have been way off the mark. . . . Maybe this creature had evolved to not need oxygen? I probably should have considered that sooner.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Josephine tuck and roll, lashing out with a well-placed kick against the joint of one leg. The creature tipped beneath me and I lost purchase, swinging around in front of it. This was not ideal, as now it was able to dip its head enough that the beak had once again become a concern.
I did the smart thing and let go, managing to land more or less neatly on both feet. Josephine dove behind a tree as the creature struck—there was the sound of snapping twigs and creaking bark as the razor-sharp beak left a small crater in the trunk. I had no doubt that beak could snap my arm in half, if it caught me.
