【预订】The Space Between Worlds
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￥ 118 ￥ 118 九五品
库存2件
广东广州
认证卖家担保交易快速发货售后保障
作者Micaiah Johnson
出版社Random House Worlds
ISBN9780593156919
出版时间2021-06
装帧平装
定价118元
货号YB-86102
上书时间2024-06-28
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商品简介
NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW EDITORS’ CHOICE • An outsider who can travel between worlds discovers a secret that threatens the very fabric of the multiverse in this stunning debut, a powerful examination of identity, privilege, and belonging.
WINNER OF THE COMPTON CROOK AWARD • FINALIST FOR THE LOCUS AWARD • “Gorgeous writing, mind-bending world-building, razor-sharp social commentary, and a main character who demands your attention—and your allegiance.”—Rob Hart, author of The Warehouse
ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR—NPR, Library Journal, Book Riot
Multiverse travel is finally possible, but there’s just one catch: No one can visit a world where their counterpart is still alive. Enter Cara, whose parallel selves happen to be exceptionally good at dying—from disease, turf wars, or vendettas they couldn’t outrun. Cara’s life has been cut short on 372 worlds in total.
On this dystopian Earth, however, Cara has survived. Identified as an outlier and therefore a perfect candidate for multiverse travel, Cara is plucked from the dirt of the wastelands. Now what once made her marginalized has finally become an unexpected source of power. She has a nice apartment on the lower levels of the wealthy and walled-off Wiley City. She works—and shamelessly flirts—with her enticing yet aloof handler, Dell, as the two women collect off-world data for the Eldridge Institute. She even occasionally leaves the city to visit her family in the wastes, though she struggles to feel at home in either place. So long as she can keep her head down and avoid trouble, Cara is on a sure path to citizenship and security.
But trouble finds Cara when one of her eight remaining doppelgängers dies under mysterious circumstances, plunging her into a new world with an old secret. What she discovers will connect her past and her future in ways she could have never imagined—and reveal her own role in a plot that endangers not just her world but the entire multiverse.
“Clever characters, surprise twists, plenty of action, and a plot that highlights social and racial inequities in astute prose.”—Library Journal (starred review)
纽约时报书评编辑选择•在这部令人惊叹的处女作中，一个可以在世界之间旅行的局外人发现了一个威胁“多元宇宙结构”的秘密，这是对身份、特权和归属感的有力检验。
康普顿·克鲁克奖得主&bull；轨迹奖入围者•“华丽的写作、令人费解的 世界建设、尖锐的社会评论，以及一个需要你关注和效忠的主角。”—罗布·哈特 (Rob Hart)，《仓库》的作者
最好的书籍之一YEAR—NPR、图书馆杂志、 Book Riot
多元宇宙旅行终于成为可能，但只有一个问题：没人能做到访问一个他们的对手还活着的世界。卡拉登场了，她的平行自我恰好非常擅长死于疾病、地盘争夺或他们无法逃脱的仇杀。卡拉的生命总共在 372 个世界中被缩短。
然而，在这个“反乌托邦”的地球上，卡拉活了下来。卡拉被认为是一个异类，因此是多元宇宙旅行的完美候选人，她从荒原的泥土中被拔出来。 现在，曾经让她被边缘化的东西终于成为了意想不到的力量来源。 她有一个很好的能力位于富裕且封闭的威利城低层的公寓。当这两个女人为埃尔德里奇研究所收集外星数据时，她一边工作，一边无耻地与她迷人但冷漠的经理戴尔调情。她甚至偶尔离开城市去荒野探望家人，尽管她在这两个地方都很难有宾至如归的感觉。只要卡拉能够保持低调并避免麻烦，她就一定会走上获得公民身份和安全的道路。
但是卡拉遇到了麻烦，她剩下的八个分身之一在神秘的情况下死亡，让她陷入了一个有着古老秘密的新世界。她的发现将以她从未想象过的方式将她的过去和未来联系起来，并揭示她自己在一个不仅危及她的世界而且危及整个多元宇宙的情节中的角色。
“聪明的人物、出人意料的曲折、大量的动作以及在精明的散文中强调社会和种族不平等的情节.”—图书馆期刊（加星标的评论）
作者简介
Micaiah Johnson was raised in California’s Mojave Desert surrounded by trees named Joshua and women who told stories. She received her bachelor of arts in creative writing from the University of California, Riverside, and her master of fine arts in fiction from Rutgers University–Camden. She now studies American literature at Vanderbilt University, where she focuses on critical race theory and automatons.
精彩内容
Chapter One
When the multiverse was confirmed, the spiritual and scientific communities both counted it as evidence of their validity.
The scientists said, Look, we told you there were parallel universes.
And the spiritual said, See, we’ve always known there was more than one life.
Even worthless things can become valuable once they become rare. This is the grand lesson of my life.
I’m at the base of a mountain, looking over a landscape I was never meant to see. On this Earth—number 197—I died at three months old. The file only lists respiratory complications as cause of death, but the address on the certificate is the same one-room shack where I spent most of my life, so I can picture the sheet-metal roof, the concrete floor, and the mattress my mother and I shared on so many different Earths. I know I died warm, sleeping, and inhaling honest dirt off my mother’s skin.
“Cara, respond. Cara?”
Dell’s been calling me, but she’s only irritated now and I won’t answer until she’s concerned. Not because I like being difficult—though, there is that—but because her worry over a wasted mission sounds just like worry over me.
Behind me, information is downloading from a stationary port into a mobile one. When it’s done, I’ll take the mobile back to Earth Zero, our primary Earth, the one the others think of as real. The information I gather is divided up into light data—population, temperature fluctuations, general news—and dark data—what is affecting their stocks that might affect ours, or, if it’s a future world, a full listing of where every stock will close on a given day. The existence of the dark data is a big secret, though I don’t know why anyone would care. Insider trading doesn’t even sound like a crime—not a real one, one with blood.
“Cara . . .”
Still just annoyed. I check the download’s progress. Sixty percent.
“Cara, I need you to answer me.”
There we go.
“I’m here.”
There’s a pause while she resets to apathy, but I heard the panic. For a second, she cared.
“You don’t always have to leave me waiting.”
“And you don’t always have to plant me two miles from my download port, but I guess we’re both a little petty, eh Dell?”
I can hear her smiling but not smiling from 196 worlds away. I’ve dodged the physical training for my job since just after my hiring six years ago. She’s so uptight, you’d think she’d just report me, but forcing me on these long walks is her answer.
“You’re wanted back. There’s a file on your desk.”
“I already have my pulls for the week.”
“Not a pull. A new file.”
“No, but . . .”
I put my hand against my chest, expecting to feel a divot, some missing chunk of flesh.
I want to tell her it can’t be true. I want to tell her I would have known. Instead, I tell her I need an hour and cut the link.
If I have a new world, it means that particular Earth’s me isn’t using it anymore. I’m dead again, somewhere else, and I didn’t feel a thing.
I’m not sure how long I sit, staring out at a horizon that’s like mine, but not. The download dings its finish. I could traverse out from here, since there’s no one to see me, but I steal a little time exploring the place fate tried to keep from me.
Another me is gone. As I walk into the valley, I’m a little more valuable walking down the mountain than I was walking up.
When I was young and multiverse was just a theory, I was worthless: the brown girl-child of an addict in one of those wards outside the walls of Wiley City that people don’t get out of or go to. But then Adam Bosch, our new Einstein and the founder of the institute that pays me, discovered a way to see into other universes. Of course, humanity couldn’t just look. We had to enter. We had to touch and taste and take.
But the universe said no.
The first people sent to explore a parallel Earth came back already dead or twitching and about to die, with more broken bones than whole ones. Some actually did make it through, and survived on the new world just long enough to die from their injuries and have their bodies recalled.
It took a lot of smart people’s corpses before they learned that if you’re still alive in the world you’re trying to enter, you get rejected. You’re an anomaly the universe won’t allow, and she’ll send you back broken in half if she has to. But Bosch’s device could resonate only with worlds very similar to our own, so most of the scientists—with their safe, sheltered upbringings in a city that had eliminated childhood mortality and vaccinated most viral illness into extinction—had living doppelgängers on the other worlds.
They needed trash people. Poor black and brown people. People somehow on the “wrong side” of the wall, even though they were the ones who built it. People brought for labor, or come for refuge, or who were here before the first neoliberal surveyed this land and thought to build a paradise. People who’d already thought this was paradise. They needed my people. They needed me.
Of the 380 Earths with which we can resonate, I’m dead in 372. No, 373 now. I’m not a scientist. I’m just what they’re stuck with. The higher-ups call us “traversers” on paper. Using ports put in place by the last generation of traversers, we download the region’s information and bring it back for greater minds to study. No better than pigeons, which is what they call us, not on paper.
One day, the Eldridge Institute will figure out how to remotely download information across worlds, a
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