InterWorld (InterWorld 1)

She pulled another cigarette out of the pack, but, instead of lighting it, she began to take it apart while she talked, peeling off the paper, pulling out the tobacco, inch by inch, stripping it down to paper and tobacco and filter, all in a neat pile in the ashtray.

“So, my little boy is going to war. Obviously I’m not the first mother in history this has happened to. And from what you’re saying, I’m not even the first—the first me this has happened to. But what makes it worse is that from the moment that you walk through that door, you’re dead to me. Because you’re never coming back. Because if you . . . if you get killed, rescuing your friends or fighting the enemy or in your In-Between World . . . I’ll never know.

“The Spartan mothers used to say, ‘Come back with your shield or on it.’ But you’re on your way, and I’ll never see you again, shield or no shield. No one’s ever going to send me a medal or a—what do they do, now that they don’t send telegrams?—or a message, saying ‘Dear Mrs. Harker, we regret to inform you that Joey died like a . . . died like a . . .’”

I thought she was going to cry, but she took a deep breath and just sat there for a bit.

“You’re letting me go?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I spent my life hoping I would have kids who would be able to tell the difference between right and wrong. Who, when the decisions, the big decisions, need to be made, would do the right thing. I believe you, Joey. And you’re doing the right thing. How could I ever stop you now?

“Wherever you go. Whatever happens to you. Know this, Joey. I love you, I’ll always love you, and I think . . . I know you’re doing the right thing. It just . . . hurts, that’s all.”

Then she hugged me. My face was wet, and I don’t know if they were her tears or my own.

“We’ll never see each other again, will we?” asked my mom.

I shook my head.

“Here,” she said. “I made it for you. It’s a good-bye thing. I’m not sure what else I can give you.” And she pulled a little stone on a chain from her pocket. It looked black and then, when it caught the light, it glinted blue and green like a starling’s wing. She fastened it about my neck.

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s lovely.” And then I said, “I’ll miss you.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “It gave me something to do.” And then she said, “I’ll miss you, too. Come back, if you can. When you’ve saved the universe.”

I nodded. “Will you tell Dad?” I asked. “Tell him I love him. And that he’s been the best dad anyone could hope for.”

She nodded. “I’ll tell him. I could wake him up, if you like . . . ?”

I shook my head. “I have to go,” I told her.

“I’ll wait here,” she said. “For a bit. In case you come back.”

“I won’t,” I told her.

“I know you won’t,” she said. “But I’ll wait.”

I went out into the night.

It was below freezing outside. I slipped into the mind-set that had supposedly been scoured from my head, and started casting about for a potential portal.

I hoped there would be one nearby—I didn’t like the notion of having to walk (without a capital W) very far in this weather. I can’t just open a portal to the In-Between anywhere I feel like. I wish I could. But it doesn’t work that way. Certain transdimensional points of space-time have to be congruent, and these come and go. It’s like catching a cab—if you’re lucky one might stop for you outside your house, but it’s more likely you’ll have to hike a bit, maybe even as far as the nearest hotel or restaurant where there’s a taxi stand. There are places where you’re more likely to find potential portals. Unfortunately, they’re not always near restaurants or hotels.

It may sound strange, but I didn’t let myself think about that conversation with Mom. There were just too many surprises to deal with—I could feel the fuses in my mind threatening to blow every time I came close to thinking of it. I concentrated instead on finding a portal.

I didn’t feel the faint tingle in my head that usually indicates there’s one nearby, so I started trotting down the street, my breathing puffing out in clouds as I went. I found myself wondering what the soap bubbles I’d been blowing earlier for the squid would do in subzero weather.

A moment later I found out—sort of.

Hue came swooping out of the night and hovered before me. He pulsed an urgent spectrum at me: green, orange, yellow, pearl. It occurred to me that maybe his patterning was even more complex than I had assumed it was—that instead of being a symptom of basic emotional states it was actually a language. Because he certainly seemed to be trying to tell me something now.

When he was sure he had my attention, he scooted off, pausing now and then to make sure I was following. Which I was. We stopped in a tiny park—practically nothing more than a lawn without a house behind it—about six blocks from my house. Hue seemed to be waiting for me.

I knew what he wanted. I cast about for the nascent portal I knew would be here. And found it.

I looked up at Hue, floating there patiently. “Thanks, buddy,” I said. And I fitted my mind into that transdimensional congruency like a key into a lock, and opened that lock and swung the door wide.

Beyond was a shifting, rickety landscape that looked like a Doctor Strange comic book. I squared my shoulders, took a last look around, drew a deep breath—