Ten Thousand Skies Above You by Claudia Gray Page B

isn’t the American stars and stripes, or any other nation’s flag I’ve ever seen before. Apparently the geopolitical situation in this universe is dramatically different. I make a mental note to find a history book.
    I light up as I see that a man near me has tucked a newspaper into the pocket of his bathrobe. “May I look at that?” I ask him, pointing at the rolled newspaper. A few people stare; no doubt they think a bombing raid is a weird time to catch up on current events. But the guy hands me the paper, hardly even glancing away from the ceiling.
    â€œGood thinking,” Theo murmurs as I open it. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with here.”
    The front page reads SAN DIEGO STANDS STRONG: SOUTHERN ALLIANCE REPELLED AT SAN YSIDRO MOUNTAINS . A grainy monochrome photograph shows the SoCal shoreline—but instead of the usual parasailers and beach umbrellas, dead soldiers lie on the sand. It’s so graphic that I can’t believe they would run it in a newspaper, period.
    But I’m in a world where virtually every person is caughtup in this war. Images like this have lost their power to shock.
    What the hell is the “Southern Alliance”? Theo gives me a look; I know he’s wondering just as much as I am, but that’s not the kind of question we can ask out loud without immediately tipping off everyone around us that something’s up. Flipping through pages turns up no answers. Of course not. Everyone here knows about the Southern Alliance. It’s too obvious a fact to print in newspapers; it would be like going onto the CNN home page to find a big article explaining what France is.
    This newspaper is a lot more . . . news-focused than most of the ones I’ve seen. No sports section; no horoscopes. They do print movie listings, though, and I smile as I see an ad for some big melodramatic romance starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Keira Knightley. People tend to find their destiny, no matter what world they’re in.
    That means Paul has to be a physicist, at least a scientist of some kind. Mom and Dad must have heard of him—or they’re going to. Maybe I could ask them to find out about him . What excuse can I come up with for that? I’ll think of something.
    Weirdly, there are articles about technology, about how the military is expanding its use of wireless internet, building drones for combat, and improving satellite navigation to better direct the troops. All of that sounds totally modern.
    Theo, reading the article over my shoulder, whispers, “So how come their phones are still connected to the wall?”
    The same reason they have to grow their own vegetables,I suspect. The same reason eggs are rationed and paper is too thin. This war must require every person, every resource. They’ve made many of the same advances we have, but that technology is reserved for military use.
    My parents have access to that; they’re doing Firebird research. Which means that in this world, my parents are doing the exact same thing Wyatt Conley is doing in ours: trying to find technology that will allow them to dominate. To control. To win.
    Conley’s only doing it for profit , I think. My parents are probably just trying to keep their country from being destroyed. Big difference in motives.
    A deep boom shudders through the room, and several people moan in dismay. It wasn’t much of a shake, though—more like one of those earthquakes you hardly notice until it’s over. The planes aren’t too close to us. Yet.
    I try to imagine what’s happening out there. All the pictures in my mind come from bad movies or old World War II newsreels; none of them help me wrap my head around it. I only realize I’m shivering when Theo hugs me more tightly. Closing my eyes, I lean my forehead against his shoulder and take slow, deep breaths.
    Another boom, louder and deeper. Cement dust falls from the ceiling and cinderblocks, and