The Secret Sea (25 page)

Or maybe the Dutchmen had guards and lookouts.

Or maybe …

Or maybe you should pull your socks up and not lie about
, her mom scolded.

Moira scrambled up the stairs, breathing hard not from the exertion but from the fear. She'd lived in this world for a day and was already terrified of being caught outside by a man. What must it be like for women who lived here all the time? Now that she was almost free, she could allow herself a pang of sympathy for her poor former cellmates, a brief flare of shame for judging them so harshly. They couldn't help it. They were products of the world in which they lived.

At street level, there were no guards that she could see. Certainly no crying for attention or alarms. She scanned the alley quickly—walls rearing up on either side of her, ruts running down the macadam, opening to streets on both ends.

She thought her disguise might work, if not for the smoothness of her face and the length of her hair. A nearby Dumpster overflowed with several bags of garbage. With a wrinkle of her nose, she began pawing through them. The idea of actually wearing anything that had been thrown out nauseated her, but fear of capture trumped the churning in the pit of her stomach.

She found an old ball cap that said
Breukelen Dodgers
in a fancy font. Tucking her hair up into it, she settled it on her head, pretending it hadn't been sitting in a garbage heap for who knew how long.

She smeared some grit from the alley floor on her cheeks and forehead, soiling the softness of her skin, making it less feminine. It was a makeover in reverse. She tucked the flask into one of the coverall's enormous pockets, slumped her shoulders, and ambled out of the alleyway, onto the street.

Her disguise seemed to work, for the first block at least. People stared at her, but they were staring with surprise and amusement, not with shock or outrage, so Moira figured her “disguise” was working about as well as could be expected. She absorbed the odd glances and stares and smirks. On the streets of this New York for the first time without having to run for her life, she was able to notice the women: dressed conservatively (where
conservatively
equaled
nigh Victorian
) as compared to their companions, with hats, skirts down to the ankles, long sleeves, no matter the heat. They were all too painted, their makeup serving almost as masks, not as enhancement.
Concealer
suddenly had a second meaning.

She tried not to stare at them as she walked, forcing herself instead to concentrate on figuring out where she'd left Zak.

Think it through, Moira. The Dutchmen aren't some secret government agency. They don't have resources. They're a street gang. The first one saw you and left and came back pretty quickly with the rest of them. So they hang out near that alley where you left Zak. Which means you're probably not that far away from him.

In the distance, she recognized the Washington Arch, which meant she was near Washington Square Park. A sign with an arrow pointed in that direction, announcing that it was
ART SQUARE PARK
here. Name aside, it seemed like she wasn't terribly far from where she'd left Zak.

The glowing lights on the buildings, she realized now, were the same as the substance in her pocket—electroleum. It seemed like some sort of strange hybrid of jelly and neon gas, but based on what she'd heard from Jan and what Tommy had told them at the Conflux, it had other uses as well.

In her mind, she plotted their course from the Broadway Canal to the alley where she and Zak had hidden. She remembered three turns and a few of the street names they'd passed. Fortunately, with the exception of the Houston Conflux (and the missing lower portion of Manhattan) and the Broadway Canal itself, the geography of this Manhattan was similar to her own. She was able to orient herself by the Empire State Building in the distance, though she wondered if it was called by the same name here.

I'm coming, Zak. Hold on. If they don't stop me, I'm coming.

 

FORTY-FIVE

Zak's vision blurred, doubled, then focused and blurred again. A woman who looked a lot like his father's mother—Nana—peered down at him, her face fuzzy and indistinct, but he could tell she was wearing too much makeup. Her skin was very smooth, unlined, and it made him think of a brand-new leather jacket.

He was in bed, obviously not in a hospital—the smells and sounds and the tin-inlaid ceiling told him that. He relaxed and found that his breath came easily to him. His chest no longer hurt.

He'd passed out at home and now he was in bed, finally waking up from the craziest dream ever. Alternate universes and dead twins and ghosts.

The woman smiled and said, “Oh, good,” her voice slightly accented. Almost … German? Did that make sense?

Wait.

He bolted upright in bed, and the woman who was not his grandmother hopped back a step.

“He's awake,” she called, and leaned in to mop his forehead with a cool cloth.

Zak tried to push her away; she held him down with a gentle but strong pressure on his shoulder. “Not yet,” she said. “Soon. Let him look at you first.”

Zak looked around as best he could. He was in a small bedroom, on a comfortable bed, covers pulled up to his chest. There was nothing remarkable about the room. Except for the large sheet of thin, clear glass mounted to one wall and the sort of artificial light he was becoming accustomed to, it could have been a room back home, not on a parallel earth. Sunlight poured in through open curtains.

“How long have I been here?” His voice croaked and crackled. He swallowed with difficulty. The woman held out a cup with a built-in straw, and Zak sipped gratefully.

“Not long,” said a new voice. “Just long enough for me to fix your heart.”

*   *   *

Sure enough, Zak realized that his chest—which had been pounding arrhythmically when he'd finally collapsed—felt fine. At least, he assumed this was what
fine
felt like. He wouldn't know, having had his heart condition his whole life.

The new voice belonged to a small man with wisps of gray hair; all of the lines and wrinkles the woman had avoided creased his chestnut complexion. He pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and sat down. The woman—Zak saw now that she wore an old-fashioned nurse's uniform, but with a skirt that came down to her ankles—stepped back and stood nearby, hands clasped together.

“I'm Dr. White-eagle,” the man said. “You can call me Edwin. Or you can call me Doc, which is what everyone ends up calling me. And I'm going to need to speak to your parents.”

Zak's head spun. He was still only half-conscious, and without thinking, he rattled off his dad's name, then started on Mom's. Dr. White-eagle held up a hand and said, “I don't need her name.” To the nurse, he said, “Hand me my Wonder Glass, my dear.”

The nurse fetched something from a nearby table. It had the surface area of a large cell phone, but only a fraction of the thickness, and was made out of a frosted, translucent substance. To Zak's surprise, an Apple logo was etched into the back of it.

“Find Michael Killian,” Dr. White-eagle said, and the gadget responded with a chirpy, “Sure thing, Doc!”

“Where am I?” Zak asked.

“You're in my home,” Dr. White-eagle said. “There was no time to get you to a hospital, so I had to help you with what I had at hand. Fortunately for you, you passed out on the doorstep of the one of the city's premier heart doctors, albeit retired.” He smiled crookedly and nodded almost apologetically toward his nurse. “Still dabble, of course. Can't keep an old sawbones away from the stethoscope.”

Fortunately
 … Zak didn't think luck had anything to do with it. Godfrey had led him here deliberately.

“Four Michael Killians in the metro area,” the gadget piped up. “Here are addresses and recent photos.”

“This one looks like you,” the doctor grumbled, and tapped it. Zak realized—too late to stop him—that Dr. White-eagle was calling his dad. Or some version of his dad who lived in this universe.

A moment later, a familiar voice came out of the Wonder Glass.

“Hello?” said Dad.

For a moment, Zak expected his heart to jump. Or a lump to form in his throat. Tears. Something. But he surprised himself. The only reaction he had to his father's voice was anger.

“Mr. Killian,” the doctor charged ahead with no pleasantries, “my name is Edwin White-eagle. I'm a doctor, and I've just treated your son for a life-threatening ailment that you should have—”

“Wait, you what?”

“As I was saying—”

“My
son
? Is this a joke?”

“I assure you…” Dr. White-eagle's small, wizened body bunched up in frustration.

“I don't have a son. I don't have any kids.” Dad snorted. “I'm not even married.”

Dr. White-eagle pursed his lips and stared at the Wonder Glass. He exchanged a glance with the nurse, then quickly made an apology and disconnected the call.

Zak looked away. Now the tears started. Through the anger they came, unwanted guests sneaking in via an unwatched door. He blotted them away with the heel of his palm. Good. It was good that Zak didn't exist here. Good that Michael Killian had never had children.

That way he couldn't lie to them.

“What's going on here?” Dr. White-eagle asked. “Are you a runaway? Is that what it is?”

Zak gritted his teeth, clenching his jaw until the fluttery sensation in his chest abated. It wasn't a heart problem, he knew. It was the feeling you get right before you start sobbing uncontrollably. Like when a car skids on ice, you have one chance to get it under control, early on, and he wasn't about to miss it.

Dad lied to me. I'm not allowed to miss him. Not allowed to get all weepy at the sound of his voice. It's not even him. It's just a version of him. He wouldn't even know me.

After a moment, Zak was able to speak. “You said … you said you fixed my heart. You mean you stabilized me for now?”

Dr. White-eagle frowned. “You are aware you have hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, correct?”

That sounded right. Zak had always thought of it as HCM. Other than putting a pacemaker in, there really wasn't much that could be done for his condition. There were surgeries, but they were risky.

“I know I'm sick,” Zak told him.

Dr. White-eagle shook his head, and when he spoke again, it was with barely controlled anger. “I'm really going to have to speak to your parents. Or whoever is your legal guardian. Are they Jehovists or something like that?”

“What?”

“A simple procedure!” Dr. White-eagle crowed. “A simple introduction of a nanobionic parasite into your circulatory system and you're fine. You're, what, twelve years old? Thirteen, maybe? It's criminally irresponsible for your parents to know you have this condition and not have it corrected!”

Zak leaned up on one elbow and probed at his chest. It was true. He could tell. His heart, which had plagued him his whole life, was now healed. He had taken his last dose of verapamil, had spent his last day in the hospital.

New tears blistered at the corners of his eyes. He didn't know how to thank Dr. White-eagle. Couldn't find the words.

“Without the resources of a hospital,” the doctor went on, “I can't finalize the treatment, but you're stabilized for now. We'll need your parents' permission to finish the process and permanently fix your heart.”

Permanently.

Could it even be possible?

In one day, he'd rediscovered his twin
and
laid claim to his health. Zak grinned. What reason was there to leave this place? They had science so awesome that it was practically magic. And no parents to lie to him. Moira had been wrong: They needed to rescue Tommy and then
stay
here. Everything they needed was here. There was no reason to go home. None at all.

Coming to this universe had been the best accident of his life.

*   *   *

He rested some more and woke up antsy. He got out of bed and went to the window, looking out on the city that was both familiar and unfamiliar at once. His heart jumped at the sight, but for the first time in his life, the jump didn't startle him.

If anything, Zak was more aware of his heart than ever before, only now because it felt so indestructible. It was as though someone had opened up a rickety old taxi and stuffed a jet engine in there. Dr. White-eagle had said the treatment wasn't yet permanent, but Zak wasn't sure the doctor was right about that. His heart felt so perfectly normal and so perfectly …
perfect
that he couldn't imagine it any other way. Doctors didn't know everything.

He was cured.

My whole life, I was half a person and never even realized it
, he thought, gazing out the window of Dr. White-eagle's house.
I was half of a pair and half of myself. Now I'm on my way to being whole.

If Godfrey was right and there was a way to rescue both him and Tommy from beyond death … then that would be the final step. Zak would finally be the person he'd been meant to be. He wasn't sure exactly how he would manage a new life here, in a universe where he hadn't been born, but with his twin by his side, he was sure he'd figure it out.

His twin … and his best friends.
If you have to be lost in another universe
, Zak thought,
it might as well be with your best friends, right?

The skyline of this version of Manhattan was all wrong, of course, what with the taller skyscrapers and the excised chunk of the island below Houston Street. Still, it was familiar enough to comfort him, though he missed the overwhelming presence of the Freedom Tower dominating the view.

It wasn't always there. There were the twin towers first. But they weren't really twins. Not entirely. One had a spire. And of course they were different on the inside.