‘The bus . . .’ Jayne said, and then darkness took her again. She threw her arms around Sean’s chest and sobbed again when she felt his hands close around hers.
‘Back with us?’ Sean asked. His voice sounded different: echoing, yet deadened. ‘Don’t struggle. I’m climbing down the duct with you, but the ladder’s narrow. It’s dark. Only two torches. So just trust me, and—’
‘Of course I trust you,’ Jayne said. Rope rubbed the skin of her back raw, but it was a different pain from that of the churu and she clung to it. It was the pain of damage, not the agony she had lived with for so long. And when she felt a dribble of blood running down her side, she traced its journey, fascinated.
From above came the muffled sound of gunshots.
‘How long . . .?’ she asked, her voice slurred.
‘We have to be quick,’ Sean said.
They descended further, and then there were more gunshots, this time from below. Sean stopped and leaned slightly out from the ladder, aiming a torch downward, and when Jayne looked she saw a deep, dark metallic throat maybe five feet across. The torch’s beam shook, and she could feel Sean’s sweat soaking through to her.
A head appeared below them, and she gasped. It’ll look up and see me, and know me, and then it’ll hoot and they’ll know where we are, and—
‘Is it clear?’ Sean asked.
‘Is now,’ the man said, looking up. It was Thomas, the guy they’d picked up at the roadblock.
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. One of them, hanging on to the ladder. And . . .’
‘And?’ Sean asked. ‘For fuck’s sake, and?’
‘And there are people down here with bows and arrows.’
Bows and arrows, Jayne thought. She closed her eyes and rested her head against Sean’s damp back.
‘We’re not out of the woods yet.’ He started climbing down again, and she could feel him shaking.
13
The pressure of memories was just as great, but none of them were Jonah’s own. He saw people he had never known, places he had never been, and the images gave the impression of being from some forgotten film discovered in an attic fifty years after it had been shot – scratchy, distant. Everyone he was looking at was dead, that was the only certainty. These were memories from other people and different worlds, and he wondered whether his visions would grow stranger and more remote the further he journeyed from home.
This string of universes, Jonah thought. It was a phrase that Bill Coldbrook had used to use. He’d imagined an endless thread tied in complex knots and wrapped in infinitely tight balls, each universe at a point along the string, every one overlapping every other. But perhaps there was a more regimented structure to reality, an order to the multiverse that could be called geography, one which followed that string. If I went on, and on, and on for ever, what worlds might I find?
He wondered if the Inquisitors would go on for ever. He shivered. And then he emerged from the breach, and what he saw was beautiful.
The landscape reminded him so much of the valleys and mountains around his own Coldbrook. The black breach behind him was nestled at the junction of two ridges on a shallow hillside. Beyond that, everywhere was wooded. The heart of the Appalachians was like this, a wild place, home to hard people and to animals that had never laid eyes on a human being. Jonah drew a deep breath and wondered what kind of life dwelled here.
There was no sign of anything man-made – no buildings, aircraft contrails, or straight lines – and it struck him that the breaches on each Earth were in remote places, beyond where humanity might have been aware of them even if those Earths had still been thriving. Breaches were evidence of a radical, daring science that the scientists had been keen to hide from view.
He started to walk, aiming downhill because that route was simpler, and soon he was swallowed by the forest.