“Come back to me, mate.” Tears rolled from the corner of his eyes. “Promise me you will.”
Deirdre let go of his hand. “Good-bye, Anders.”
She walked past the whispering machines and left the room. For a moment she stood outside the door, gripping her bear claw necklace. The warmth that had enfolded her had been replaced by a cruel chill. Then she took a deep breath and headed down the corridor, back to the waiting area. Beltan was sitting on one of the orange chairs. He stood as she drew near, a questioning look on his face.
“Let’s go to London,” she said.
44.
Six hours later, Deirdre and Beltan caught the first train of the morning out of Edinburgh.
Traveling by plane would have gotten them to London an hour or two faster; logic dictated that they should have headed to the airport. Instead, after they left their hotel, she and Beltan had walked up Princes Street in the gray predawn light to the train station beneath the National Gallery. Maybe it was her instincts again, or maybe it was simply a desire to stay grounded, connected with the Earth, but somehow going by rail seemed
right
.
She could only hope that was true, that they would reach London before the shipment from Crete arrived.
“I think we should have gotten more coffee,” Beltan said as they settled into their seats on the train. He crumpled the paper cup they had bought at a shop in the station.
Deirdre gripped her own cup. It was still full and too hot to drink. “There’ll be a cart. You can buy more.”
The blond man looked around expectantly, and Deirdre didn’t bother to tell him the cart wouldn’t come along until after the train was under way; watching for it would keep him occupied.
Beltan looked freshly awake that morning, his green eyes bright and eager. He had removed the bandage from his cheek; the wound was no more than a thin scab now, as if he had gotten it a week ago.
It’s the fairy blood in him. It’s what causes him to recover so
quickly.
Deirdre wished she had a little fairy blood herself. She had not slept last night. Not that she hadn’t craved to; she was more weary than she could ever remember being in her life. But such peace as sleep brought was for other people, other times. She had sat at the desk in her hotel room, reading through Marius’s journal—which she had taken from the manor—a second time, and a third.
Just as surely as the fairy blood had changed Beltan, the journal—and the knowledge contained in its pages—had changed Deirdre. After reading it, she would never—could never—be the same person again. But who would she be, she had wondered, sitting alone in the hotel room? Instead of countless possibilities fluttering through her mind, she saw nothing. Nothing at all. The answer to that question would have to wait until what lay ahead of her was done, for good or for ill.
She had spent the last hour in her room softly singing the song
Fire and Wonder
over and over. As before, she felt close to understanding what it meant, and she found herself wishing she had her lute, for her mind always seemed to work better when the instrument was in her hands. However, at that moment her lute was in her flat in London, and as close as she was to reaching understanding, it might as well have been a thousand miles away; she didn’t know what the song meant.
As the time to leave the hotel drew near, she had found herself staring at the phone. Finally she had picked it up and dialed the number of the hospital. Before it could start to ring on the other end, she hung up. Anders was going to live; that was all she needed to know.
There was a low rumbling as the train rolled into motion. Deirdre watched as the platform slipped past. A large group of people in white sheets stood on the platform, holding signs as they always did. Only the signs no longer contained words or dark spots. Instead they were completely black. Eaten.
The window next to Deirdre went dark for a moment. Then the train emerged into the drizzly morning. The world was still here—for now.
“So, do you have a plan for when we get to London?” Beltan said, his voice low.
“I’m working on it,” she said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. Despite staying awake all night, she still had no idea what they were going to do when they got to London.
“The Philosophers can be killed, we know that now.”
“I know.”
“I won’t try to keep from harming them if they get in our way, Deirdre.” A fey light shone in Beltan’s eyes. “They sent the Scirathi after Travis. They nearly killed him, and Nim as well. I don’t care if they’re immortal. To me, their lives are forfeit.”
Gone was the cheerful blond man who liked food, beer, woefully bad jokes, and looking at handsome young men passing by on the street. Over the last several years, Deirdre had let herself forget what Beltan really was, but at that moment she remembered. He was a man of war. And he knew who his enemy was.
“Ah,” Beltan said with a pleased look. “Here’s that cart.”
It looked as if the attendant was heading toward the front of the train, but Beltan stuck out a big, booted foot, bringing the cart to a lurching halt. The attendant—a pasty young man— looked ready to protest, then quickly swallowed his words after one look at Beltan.
“Coffee, please,” the blond man said. “And one of those sticky buns. No, better make it two.”
The attendant complied, then pushed the cart up the aisle so quickly the wheels rattled.
Beltan was about to start in on the second sticky roll when he gave Deirdre a guilty look. “You didn’t want one, did you?”
She shook her head. Food, like sleep, was something she couldn’t conceive of just then. While he ate, she took a sip of her coffee—it had finally cooled to a subthermonuclear temperature—then pulled out a plastic bag of things she had purchased at the shop in the train station. There was gum, a candy bar she could give to Beltan later if he started getting fussy, a pack of tissues, and a paperback book she had plucked at the last minute off a rack of best sellers next to the clerk’s counter.
It was a popular science book entitled
Fall From Grace: How
the End of Perfection Created the Beginning of the Universe
. The book was by Sara Voorhees, the astrophysicist who, in the article in the
Times
, had suggested that the rifts in the cosmos might be a symptom of the beginning of the end of the universe. By the date inside the cover, the book had been published a few years ago. Voorhees’s recent comments must have renewed its popularity enough to land it back on the best seller list.
Deirdre had grabbed the book on impulse. It wasn’t chance that the gate had come to light on Crete at the same time the rifts had appeared; both were related to the approaching perihelion between Earth and Eldh. And Marius had believed that, whatever transformation it was the Seven sought, it had to do with perihelion as well. So maybe there was a connection between the rifts and what it was the Seven wanted. If so, anything she could learn about the rifts would help her.
The city slipped away outside the window, replaced by the gray-green blur of the borderlands. Deirdre sipped her coffee, opened the book, and began to read.
Nearly four hours later, Deirdre shut the book and leaned back, resting her aching head against the back of the seat. Outside the window, the rolling hills of lowland Scotland had been replaced by the row houses and industrial buildings of the outskirts of London.
She glanced to her left. Beltan was asleep. Two crumpled coffee cups were jammed into the seat pocket in front of him. Another, empty, was held in his hand. Crumbs dusted his cable-knit sweater. She decided not to wake him; it would be a few more minutes before they reached Paddington Station, and it was best to let him sleep. He was going to need his strength for what lay ahead.
She
was going to need it. Besides, she needed a few minutes to think about everything she had just read.
Although the book was well written, Voorhees’s technical background in astrophysics had been apparent on every page, and Deirdre had been hard-pressed to understand a fraction of
Fall
From Grace
. All the same, some of the things she had read had resonated—especially the discussion of virtual particle pairs.
As far as Deirdre was able to understand, the basic fabric of the universe was not made of some concrete substance. Instead, the universe was founded on nothing at all. Its most basic substrate was a vacuum devoid of any kind of matter. But in that very nothingness was stored the endless potential for everything else.
The vacuum contained infinite energy because it contained infinite possibility: At any one moment, anything might come of it. And, in fact, it did. As physicists had discovered, the vacuum was constantly spawning pairs of virtual particles: one of matter, one of antimatter. The particles would exist for a fraction of a moment, then they would collide, annihilate one another, and vanish.
It was like starting with a featureless plain and using a shovel to dig. The result was both a pile of dirt as well as a hole: matter and antimatter. Infinite holes could be dug in the plain, but all you had to do was put the dirt back in one of the holes and it was gone. The virtual particle pairs were the same. Every moment, at every point in space, countless pairs popped out of the nothing and were reabsorbed an instant later; the fact that they existed so briefly was what made them virtual.
Only here was the tricky part: Sometimes the virtual particles could become real particles. For example, when a virtual particle pair appeared on the edge of a black hole, one of the particles might be drawn into the black hole’s gravity well while the other escaped. Thus the two particles would never collide and cancel one another out. And there were other situations in which the particles could become real.
One was the beginning of the universe. According to Voorhees, in the beginning, the universe was perfect. It was completely symmetrical, devoid of all features. Then, somehow, that symmetry was broken, and everything fell out of the vacuum like candy out of a piñata. Matter and antimatter—in the form of tiny particles, quarks and antiquarks—would have gone whizzing around in all directions.
There should have been the same number of quarks and antiquarks; they should have all collided, exactly canceling each other out and restoring the nothingness to its state of perfection. Only that didn’t happen. Somehow, in our universe, the number of quarks slightly outnumbered the number of antiquarks. The result, after all the canceling and colliding was done, was a surplus amount of matter. And that was the stuff of which stars and galaxies and planets were made.
What had caused this imbalance, this asymmetry, in the number of quarks and antiquarks, no one knew for sure. But one thing was certain: If not for this fundamental flaw, the universe as we know it would not exist. It was only the breaking of perfection that caused the universe to come into being.
It was, in the beginning, a fall from grace.
After that, Voorhees described in detail the conditions in the early universe, and by then Deirdre’s head was throbbing too much to make sense of it. However, there were a couple of passages, late in the book, that Deirdre read and reread despite her headache. One was a passing reference Voorhees made when touching again on the subject of virtual particle pairs.
Almost always
, Voorhees wrote,
such virtual particles are
tiny quarks, the smallest building blocks of matter. However,
there’s no rule that says the particles have to be small. Far
larger particles could just as easily spring into being, say a particle pair made up of an elephant and an antielephant. It’s not
that these scenarios are impossible; they’re just enormously unlikely. So unlikely, in fact, that we’ll almost certainly never observe such an instance. That doesn’t mean such cases haven’t
happened and won’t again. However, if a pair of enormous virtual particles did spring into being, it’s a fair bet we’d never
know it, as in such a situation vacuum genesis would likely occur: A new universe would form in a bubble around the particles, concealing them from our view.
At that point, Deirdre had been forced to consult the index, and to go back to the section on vacuum genesis. It was one of the most difficult topics in the book, but also one of the most fascinating. According to Voorhees, various disturbances might cause a bubble to form in the primordial vacuum. Within the bubble, the symmetry of nothingness is broken, and all sorts of stuff falls out of the vacuum, creating a universe. That’s how our own universe might have formed. And countless other universes might have formed in similar fashion. They could exist as bubbles within the vacuum of our own universe, and we’d never even know they were there. And there would be no need for the laws of physics to operate the same way in different bubble universes; each one might have its own logic.
It was a wondrous notion: all these bubbles floating in the dark sea of nothing, like crystalline balls with galaxies inside. But there was a troubling side as well, Voorhees warned.
For if two of these bubbles were to collide
, she wrote,
the result would be the catastrophic destruction of both.
Deirdre had to admit, Voorhees seemed to enjoy predicting ominous outcomes. Then again, she could very well be right. Was that what perihelion meant? Were two bubbles drawing close even now? The copy of the
Times
Deirdre had picked up at the station described how the rifts continued to grow at a fantastic pace. They were enormous now, each covering over 20 percent of the night sky.
And yet the trains were still running. When Deirdre glanced out her window, she saw people trudging along the sidewalks and cars jamming the streets. The end of the world was coming. At least that was how it looked. So why weren’t people panicking? Why weren’t there looting and riots?
A throng of people in white holding black signs flashed by her window, and she understood.
They’ve already surrendered.
That’s why they aren’t rioting. Why panic when there’s no hope?
You either keep going on, keep going through the motions. Or
you give up.
But she hadn’t given up. Not yet.
Deirdre set down the paper and picked up the book. Again she had the feeling that she was close to understanding. But understanding what? What did astrophysics have to do with alchemy and catalysts? If she could just find the link between them . . .
The train rattled as it began to slow. Ash-colored buildings blurred by, then were replaced by darkness as the train entered a tunnel. They were nearing the station. She touched Beltan’s shoulder, waking him, and nearly lost her arm as he grabbed her wrist in an iron-hard hand. Only after a moment did he blink, realizing who she was, and let her go.