The general public knew about the endless threads of other universes because scientists and researchers had been able to tap into the Farsight’s network and take a peek at the footage other devices were recording in other worlds. They didn’t think they’d ever be able to communicate with other universes, never mind travel there. Scientists had hoped to crack teleportation and faster-than-light travel, based on whatever technology Figueiredo had used to send the devices across the multiverse—probably the same that had allowed me and Yusuf to travel there—but couldn’t figure out how. Large swathes of how the machine worked were still a mystery, especially what power source it ran on. The only major disaster associated with the Farsight was when a research team came up with the bright idea to strike its surface with an ion laser to see how it refracted and get an idea of what was beyond the casing. Which blew up the entire facility, killing over three hundred people. They learned pretty quickly that trying to take a peek under the hood of the machine only ended in disaster.

Hassan told us all of this while he led us on a tour of his facility on the way to the refugee dormitory, where we could stay. We were sort of refugees, after all. He hadn’t pressed us on how we got there yet because he was still dick-waving the accomplishments of this world, like they were hardwood floors he’d installed in his home with his bare hands. A human life expectancy of two hundred, thanks to organ regrowth and cell-replacement therapy. Half-living mobile cities of organic glass, with buildings that could skitter out of the path of a natural disaster like a millipede running across the floor. Hunger and poverty and disease were all just about the way of the dinosaur, which they’d managed to resurrect along with some other megafauna with some gene-editing borrowed from Jurassic Park—which, fun fact, never existed here—just because they could.

Yusuf hmm’ed and asked a lot of questions. I knew that decades of studying particle physics and probabilities had made him feel a sort of detachment from one particular reality—freed him, he’d say—but I was still surprised by how chill he seemed while meeting one of his other selves. Mostly the brain-fog and exhaustion after everything that had happened over the past two hours was trying to knock me onto my ass. Given how empty the hallways were of staff, it must’ve been late in the evening here. The people we did see gave the three of us—twins, though one looked like he’d been in a warzone, and the other was a guy who looked like their boss’s dead husband—weird looks and a wide berth.