Headmaster Marin: At the Academy you’re to refer to her as Instructor McCarthy. [gestures toward an empty chair] Have a seat, Cadet McCarthy.
Eliot starts for the chair, pausing when she notices the second man, dressed not in a Corps uniform but in plain clothes, seated across the room. His is a face crowded with life’s little annoyances. The porkpie hat on his head is either his prized possession or his clumsiest afterthought.
Eliot: Who’s this?
The man’s only way of introduction is a lift of his jacket, a flash of something gold. The security camera can’t capture the details, but Eliot’s nostrils flare at the sight. Something’s wrong, and she knows it.
Headmaster Marin: [more forcefully] Have a seat, Cadet McCarthy.
Empra: It’s all right, Eliot.
Headmaster Marin coughs in a nonrespiratory manner. Empra’s smile frays.
Empra: It’s all right, Cadet McCarthy.
Eliot: [takes a seat] What’s going on? Did something happen with my final exam Sim?
Headmaster Marin: Your final exam Sim results are beyond reproach. The licensing board was overwhelmingly pleased. There was even talk of sending you on a mission to the real Versailles—
Eliot: That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
Headmaster Marin: Do not interrupt me while I’m speaking, Cadet. I’d take marks for it, but there’d be no point in my doing so. While the results of your final exam were extraordinary, different results have brought you into this office today. Your physical examination threw up some flags with the Multiverse Bureau. Their very own Agent August Ackerman is here to escort you to their facilities for further tests.
Eliot: Tests? What kind of tests?
Headmaster Marin: They wouldn’t deign to say. Typical cloak-and-dagger red-tape nonsense.
Agent Ackerman: The Multiverse Bureau, unlike the Corps of Central Time Travelers, actually adheres to the guidelines it sets. We keep our classified information classified.
Headmaster Marin: I’ll have you know that this universe’s Corps hasn’t created a single pivot point—
Agent Ackerman: Yet. It’s only a matter of time with you lot.
Eliot: But what about graduation? What about my Corps assignment?
Empra: The Corps has agreed to keep a position open for you.
Eliot: But, Mom—
Headmaster Marin: [coughs] Instructor McCarthy.
Both women ignore him.
Eliot: I can’t just drop everything and leave. Solara’s been planning my graduation party for months.
Empra: Wait, you know about that? It’s supposed to be a surprise.
Eliot: Your niece is dash at keeping secrets.
Headmaster Marin: Cadet McCarthy, I have to insist that you keep your language civil in this office.
Agent Ackerman: This isn’t a request. This is an order from the Bureau’s highest levels, a matter of multiversal security.
Eliot: How can I be a security threat to multiple universes? I’ve never even stepped outside this one!
Headmaster Marin: No one’s saying you’re a threat, Cadet McCarthy. Once the Bureau is finished with this little power game, you’ll be back under our jurisdiction and out on assignment before you know it. For now, please hand over your practice Sim pass and campus credentials.
Eliot looks at her mother. Empra tries to tamp down her frown. There’s nothing either of them can do.
Empra: Everything’s going to be fine, Eliot. Solara will understand. We’ll celebrate once all of this is over. I promise.
SUBJECT ZERO
MAY 10, 2371 AD
More security footage. Different building.
The lab is white—most of its surfaces flat. As seen through the hologram, it resembles a paper pop-up greeting card, something to be tucked away in a junk box after reading. Eliot looks fragile, too, elbows one degree from crumpling as she props herself up on the examination table. Her pale medical gown blends into pale skin, pale walls. When the scientist makes his entrance, he has to use Eliot’s eyebrows as a reference point. August Ackerman steps in after him—the charcoal fabric of the Bureau agent’s hat becomes the darkest thing in the room.
“Do you know what we do here, Cadet McCarthy?” the scientist asks.
“Aside from giving people frostbite on their arses?” Eliot’s lips quirk, a premonition of many smirks to come.
“That kind of talk might fly in the Corps, sweetheart, but you’re dealing with the Bureau now.” The feathers in Agent Ackerman’s hat quiver when he speaks: red, partridge, pissed. “Show some respect!”
“Ik laat een scheet in jouw richting,” Eliot mutters loud enough for everyone’s translation tech to register—here and then. The phrase is Dutch for “I fart in your direction.”
“Listen here—”
“Agent Ackerman,” the scientist intervenes. “I think it best if I handle this exchange. Why don’t you wait outside?”
“I’m this girl’s official handler.” Agent Ackerman crosses his arms. “I should be present for the briefing.”
“Yes, but this conversation requires some bedside manner. You can watch over the security feeds if you want. I assure you none of your superiors in MB+251418881HTP8 will take issue with it.”
The Bureau agent considers this—protocol tick-tocking through his thoughts, behind his flushing face. “Fine. I’ll be in the security office if you need me.”
Breathing becomes easier, the air ten times lighter, when he leaves. Both Eliot and the scientist take advantage of this levity—filling their lungs, sighing. Hers sounds relieved. His pushes back at something.
“Bedside manner?” Eliot asks. “Am I dying?”
“Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.”
“What do you do here?” Eliot sighs again. “Let’s see. The Multiverse Bureau is a cross-universal organization that dedicates itself to maintaining balance in the multiverse through interdimensional communication, observation, and travel. The branch in our own universe—MB+178587977FLT6—opened up after Dr. Marcelo Ramírez discovered the key to communicating with alternate realities over a quarter century ago.”
“Quite the textbook answer.”
“Still counts.” Eliot looks around the room, blank as fresh snow, made of few dimensions. There are eyesight charts on the wall—letters from the Roman alphabet alongside characters that did not originate on this earth. Her shoulders peak at the sight. “Level with me, Doc. I’ve been scanned left and right, up and down. What’s wrong with me?”
“With you? Nothing.” The scientist scratches at days-old stubble. All he needs is a cup of black coffee and the emergency deadline look will be complete. “The name’s Dr. Ramírez, by the way.”
“Ramírez?” Eliot straightens. “As in Marcelo Ramírez, the head of this Bureau branch and brainiac of the centuries?”
“The one and only—” Dr. Ramírez catches himself. “In this universe, at least. I’ve met a few of my alternates and they’re all very smart, though I suppose that’s conceited to acknowledge.”
“Alternates? You mean other yous? Other Dr. Marcelo Ramírezes out in the multiverse?”