It was dark when Priya woke. She lay in her bunk, memorizing every point where Far’s body met hers: kneecap to thigh, hand to waist, nose to neck. Sounds of the sea poured through her BeatBix, and for one sweet moment, Priya forgot that she was going to forget. But dehydration buzzed against her skull, a reminder that she’d cried herself out.
There was no point in checking the time to see how long she’d slept, but she felt rested, and it’d be wise to check the Invictus’s fuel rods to make sure they had enough juice to jump back. The air cooled a few degrees as she pulled away from Far, into a clean pair of scrubs. She stumbled over her purse on the way to the door. The thing was so pedestrian compared to Eliot’s pocket universe—overlarge and yet far too small. How much easier would life as a thief-patcher be with an entire hospital’s worth of medicine stored around her wrist?
Have been, Priya corrected herself. Not be. Existence had changed tenses.
The common area was empty, not to mention in shambles. The pan of tiramisu was scraped clean, thanks to the ladyfinger-laced paw prints that skipped up the couch. Floor panels were sharp with Rubik’s Cube corners and mug shards, sticky with tea. Normally, Priya would’ve cleared a path before anyone else needed stitches. Now she just stared at the clutter. Her eyes landed on the Code of Conduct, pages splayed so the stick figure was out of sight. Their paper crinkled and torn and not made to last.
Everything was still. Everything was urgent.
Far’s snores drifted from the bunk alongside ocean sounds. Priya grit her teeth and thought of the Fade, not as she’d seen it from the hatch of the Invictus, but through Eliot’s eyes. She could almost feel it rolling over the waves, obliterating an entire seascape, DESTROYER OF WORLDS so hungry, tugging every one of her hairs to itself as her hands locked around the railing, but what was the point of holding on? It was strange to think that she herself had never stood on the Titanic’s deck. The chip made everything feel so real, as if she herself had lived it….
Priya regarded the room again—five full cups of subpar tea, red panda tail poking through bare pipes, Empra’s profile shining from the infirmary. The gape in her chest grew a thousand-fold as her fingers furled into fists. This was the life she’d chosen. There had to be a way to save it.
She wanted, she wanted, and this time, when she rallied, it wasn’t to walk away, but forward, to the table where the velvet box sat. It felt lighter than when she’d first plucked it from the pocket universe, silver hinges soundless when she opened it. The chip within—with its see-through circuits, its nano-dimensions—was a marvel.
Seven worlds should weigh more.
Is there room for another one?
Priya snapped the box shut and knocked on Eliot’s door.
36
FINALLY
INVICTUS SHIP’S LOG—ENTRY 5
CURRENT DATE: AUGUST 23, 2371. WHICH STILL EXISTS! YAY!
CURRENT LOCATION: OVER THE MEDITERRANEAN. EN ROUTE BACK TO WHERE WE CAME FROM.
OBJECT TO ACQUIRE: A PIECE OF AUNT EMPRA’S PAST, WHICH IS OH-SO-INCONVENIENTLY STORED IN THE CORPS OF CENTRAL TIME TRAVELERS’ MOST SECURE SERVERS.
IMOGEN’S HAIR COLOR: HIGHLIGHTER YELLOW. EVEN IF THE FUTURE ISN’T BRIGHT DOESN’T MEAN ONE’S HAIR CAN’T BE.
GRAM’S TETRIS SCORE: 0
CURRENT SONG ON PRIYA’S SHIPWIDE PLAYLIST: OCEAN SOUNDS? METHINKS?
FARWAY’S EGO: SURPRISINGLY CENTERED, AND NOT IN A SELFISH WAY, DESPITE BEING THE LITERAL CENTER OF SEVERAL UNIVERSES. CHARACTER GROWTH? PERHAPS SO.
ELIOT’S SECRET EYEBROW MESSA—
“WHAT ARE YOU TYPING?”
The tap on Imogen’s shoulder made her jolt—skin-out, fresh yellow hair whipping back. It wasn’t like her to be so jumpy, but she figured her nerves had the right to be high-strung, with assured destruction threatening to pop up any second and all. There was no cloud with the munchies behind her, however, just her cousin. Clarification: cousin several universes removed.
This was all so incredibly weird.
“Hiya, Eliot. I’ve tried to make a habit of writing ship’s logs. To keep track of dates and quirks and stuff. I haven’t really decided what your quirk should be. Eyebrow messages?”
Said eyebrows went all wiggly. There was definitely a message hidden in them—Imogen spied an and a beneath the Saffron-induced welts. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about….”
“Eyebrows?”
“No.” Eliot shook her head. “The ship’s logs. Do you keep datastreams of the Invictus’s missions?”
“Sure do. Every one of them’s saved under the label ‘You Rat You Burn.’ It’s our insurance policy against Lux.” As if any of that mattered now. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
“You’re lying.” Imogen’s eyes narrowed. Like Farway, Eliot had a penchant for swallowing too much when she fibbed. Their similarities were easy to spot, now that the truth was out. Maybe this was why she and Eliot got along so well, before. Eliot’s Farway traits cross-wiring and connecting with Imogen’s Solara-isms—she must’ve had them, if her MB+178587977FLT6 alternate threw gelato-centric surprise parties.
“You’re right,” Eliot said. “I just—I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up.”
“I don’t think there’s anywhere else for our hope to go, considering.”
The other girl offered a smile, wry as the day’s flavor. “If it happens, you’ll know.”
“Hmm.” Imogen spied an etched , a scripted . There was an exclamation point, too. “So what do your eyebrows say today?”
“Eliot, would you take a look at this coding? Whenever you get a sec?” Gram sat at his console, where he’d been typing for the past half hour. Imogen had spent that entire time avoiding eye contact, trying to ignore the fact that he’d heard every one of her confessions to Eliot: a chinchilla named Dusty, sexy math. Crux, where did she think of this stuff? Was it too much to hope that those heartfelt rants had gotten lost in all the doom and destruction bits?
When it came to Gram? Yes. The Engineer caught everything.
She’d told him without telling him and nothing had changed, except her blood sugar.
“Sorry, Im. I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“Your thing’s more urgent,” she told him. “Code away, my friends.”
Gram grinned. Imogen swore not to analyze the expression as she clutched her twirly chair and failed immediately.
Back to the ship’s log. There wasn’t much more to say, so she just watched the cursor blink. Into existence, out again. Her heart flickered at the same pace: Tell him, tell him before your world ends, what do you have to lose?
“My composure,” she mumbled.
You’re talking to yourself in a room full of people who watched you single-handedly inhale a quarter pan of tiramisu to cope with doomsday, her heart pointed out.
“Touché.”