“End sequence.”
The world within a world folded in on itself, becoming a clear chip in a velvet box once more. The crew stared at the space the hologram had filled—its emptiness played back in their expressions. Imogen hid beneath waves of hair. Gram, too, had turned inward, making calculations of everything he’d heard. Priya sat more still than steady, parted mouth vacant of words. There was no need to observe anymore, but Eliot watched them anyway, all too aware that they could look back and see her. The veil of secrets had been ripped away and here Eliot stood. World-hopper, alternate cousin, other self, executioner, girl forgotten by her universe—
she was who she was, but only because he was who he was
—boy unmoored from time, snag in the fabric of the multiverse, eye of the storm, system error, catalyst. Farway Gaius McCarthy didn’t look like any of these things, seated on the scorched couch, blaster drooping at his side. Often he carried himself with the surety of someone convinced they were destined for greatness, but after realizing what he actually was destined for, the boy sat with his shoulders hunched.
When Eliot spoke again, he flinched. “Don’t you see, Far? You’re the epicenter. My countersignature emission scans confirm it. You’re the reason the Fade has torn apart these universes, and there’s only one theoretical way to stop it….”
No one said a word.
They understood now, all of them did.
“You have to die.”
PART III
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.
—W. B. YEATS
“THE SECOND COMING”
34
PAST THE END
IT WAS A BAD MED-PATCH NIGHTMARE, Far told himself. Reality couldn’t possibly morph like this, until it had more in common with a Salvador Dalí painting than the world he’d wandered for eighteen years. Everything was swimming, as if he’d fallen back-first into a river and was seeing the rest of the Invictus through its flow. Bright hair, bloodstained scrubs, rainbow cubes on the floor. The ship full of colors seemed to be moving and swirling, yet nothing was.
“I’m the catalyst? Why? How?” Far knew the answer. It was something he’d carried his entire life—a badge of honor. Being born outside of time had always felt like a mark of something greater, culling him out for an extraordinary existence.
But this existence was becoming a bit too extraordinary.
“It’s your unbirthday,” Gram said. “Think about it. Every one of your alternates is your genetic match, which means you all share the same father. Nothing aberrant there. It’s the birthday, or in your case, a lack of one, where you diverge. The rest of them were born on April eighteenth, 2354.”
And Far was born in the Ab Aeterno. Eternity. Surely there was a scientific reason for the collapse of the multiverse, but all Far could think about were the Linear protesters who sometimes gathered on the Academy steps—their digital ONE LIFE, ONE TIME banners blazing. Their leader’s magnified words rapped at the school windows: When humanity steps into the shoes of gods, things will go awry.
You don’t belong here. Eliot wasn’t just a premonition. She was course correction, God’s will, karma, fate—call it what you will. This was the universe’s way of righting itself, handing Far an eviction notice….
The dreaming feeling ebbed enough for Far to recognize Priya’s breath beside his—thick with emotion, too thin to hold back her sob. Their hands turned into a tangle of each other’s fingers. Hold on for life, dear.
He didn’t want to go.
“But if it really was my birth that set all this off, why’d it take the Bureau so long to find me?” Far asked. “Everyone in Central knows about my unbirthday. Surely that would’ve set off some red flags.”
“The Multiverse Bureau isn’t omniscient or omnipresent. Your universe is just a number to them—MB-178587984FLT6—though I suppose that number’s changed since I broke the immutability threshold twice….” Eliot trailed off. “Regardless, I think Gram’s correct. You’re the only alternate who was born outside of time. It’s not a stretch to believe that your birth broke something.”
“So why’s the Fade attacking the other universes first?” Far knew it wasn’t important in the end, but maybe, if he could wrap his head around his doom, it’d be easier to accept. “Shouldn’t it go the other way, if I’m the epicenter? Inward out?”
“The Fade isn’t springing from you,” Gram said. “If I understood Dr. Ramírez correctly, it’s hunting you down. Does anyone have a pen? Imogen?”
“What? Pen.” The Historian started at the sound of her name. “Yes, pen. I have. Somewhere. Definitely.”
“Could I borrow it?” Gram prodded.
Imogen brushed her hair from her face, set to scouring the table. She found the felt-tipped pen and handed it to the Engineer over her shoulder. “Yeppers.”
“Thanks, Im.”
She nodded, still not looking at him, and sank back into her hair.
Gram grabbed the sole paper they had on board—the Corps of Central Time Travelers’ Code of Conduct—and traced a circle on one of the cover’s un-doodled spaces. “Inside this circle are all of the FLT6 universes where your genetic alternates exist. Here you are”—stick figure jotted in the middle—“the epicenter. Now here’s your birth, causing the countersignature.” Tiny lightning lines, splintering out of the toothpick man. Were they signals, or cracks? To Far, they looked like both. “Crux knows where the Fade actually comes from, but for this illustration we’ll just say outside the circle. It’s honing in on you, following the trail through the other universes, and obliterating them in the process.”
His friend etched arrows, until Far’s entire likeness was ringed with points, every one of them aimed inward. A dozen sharpnesses. You don’t belong, you’re wrong, wrong, wrong!
Far looked to Eliot. The gleam of her handcuffs was mirrored in her eyes. “You said the Grid keeps us safe from the Fade. If I was born here, maybe I should stay. That way the decay wouldn’t have anything to follow.”
“No can do, Far.” Gram placed the pen back on the table. “All time or no time, our resources are finite. We’d run out of fuel and food if we didn’t land.”
“Food.” Imogen perked up again, rising off the floor, drifting toward the kitchenette. “Good idea.”
Far’s stomach was hollowed past the point of appetite. Saturated fat wouldn’t repair the universe—universes—his existence had broken. Sugar couldn’t resurrect his mother. “The Ab Aeterno didn’t wreck because of the Fade. You—you stranded it.” Eliot wasn’t the villain. Far knew this, but the knowledge didn’t translate into feeling. “You took my mom away.”
“She’s my mother, too,” the girl whispered.
The blaster in his hand had grown heavier. Far wanted to lift it but found that he couldn’t. Who was he going to aim it at anyway? Himself? His different self? No shot would make anything that had happened untrue….