Drift pattern, p.11
Drift Pattern, page 11
Along the left and right walls of the dimly lit room sit a dozen small half-cubicles. Each of these half squares is occupied by a man or woman who gazes in silence into a personal water basin as wide as a sink. They pay no attention to the entrance of the trio at first. The entire scene is surreal to her. Except for the odd bowls in the center of the desks, it reminds Luci of air traffic control stations she’s seen in the movies. Another major exception is that there are no radar screens or any visible computer devices.
A thin man in his thirties rises from one of the cubicles to approach Macer. He’s got a port-wine-stain birthmark that runs from his chin to his cheek like an upside-down question mark. Luci wonders how appearance-conscious the people of this future time are and if the mark makes his him uncomfortable in social settings. As he walks over, Luci notices that a clear trough smaller than a rain gutter runs along the back ledge of all the booths. There’s a clear tube that empties into each worker’s respective pod bowl. Workers occasionally lean forward and sip the bubbling liquid from the desk basin with a straw-like apparatus.
Before she can ask about the peculiar practice, Royse nudges her. “One’s about to come in.”
“One what?” Luci asks, more confused than ever.
He points to a platform at the back of the room and says one word. “Longchair.”
At first, the black waist-high stage platform looks like the top half of a giant set of pearly-white dentures. Nine longchairs arranged side-by-side with their bulbous fronts point into the room. Six of the fifteen slots are missing. This leaves gaps in the giant row of teeth as if the mouth it belonged to has had them knocked out in a brawl.
Royse nudges her and points to a digital display in front of one of the gaps. “Looks like it’s coming from 1923 Argentina.”
“What’s in Argentina?” Luci asks.
Royse shrugs. “Never been there myself.”
“So these don’t just go to the food processing area?”
Royse shakes his head. “Of course not. Longchairs can leap skip to any sanctioned interval point. In fact, the two on the end are the ones we used in order to leap skip to your interval yesterday evening.”
“I don’t remember this place,” Luci says.
“Yeah, well... you were unconscious.”
Macer beckons to Royse across the room, and Luci follows him a few steps behind.
The technician with the birthmark and olive-colored skin that Macer’s talking to looks uncomfortable; he avoids eye contact with Macer, choosing to stare at the floor.
Royse approaches. “Is everything okay, Chancellor?”
Macer nods, but he speaks softly and through gritted teeth. “Royse, this is technician archivist Benold Jesper.” The chancellor acts as if he’s brushing something off the shoulder of the technician’s dark-green uniform as he continues in a low but firm voice. “Mr. Jesper claims there’s no record of my return from the Grange a few days ago.”
Royse cracks his knuckles while glaring at Jesper. “That’s impossible. We didn’t take a leap skip to the Grange last week. I accompany the chancellor everywhere he goes, and yesterday was the first leap skip we’ve done in a while. You should check again.”
Jesper fidgets, wiggling nimble fingers at waist level, typing on the air. It appears as if he’s wearing brass knuckles made of black rubber.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Jesper says softly to match the conversation. “There’s no R.O.R., Record of Return.” He reaches for his Viatorio. “The longchair was returned by auto retrieval.”
Macer looks around the room, studying the faces of the crew taking notice of them. “I know what R.O.R. stands for. Obviously, there’s a mistake since I’m standing here in front of you.” He turns to Royse. “Mr. Timmons, do I look like I’m at the Grange to you?”
Royse comically squints and mockingly tilts his head as if to get a better look. “You know, Your Excellency, I’m probably not as smart as all these technicians in here, but I’m pretty sure you’re standing next to me—that is, unless we’re both still at the Grange.”
Jesper lowers his head again but manages to say. “You did a leap skip by yourself the other day. Mr. Timmons wasn’t with you.”
Luci cringes, wishing she could do something for the humiliated worker, but what?
“I see,” Macer replies even more pompous than before. “And when did this leap skip supposedly occur?”
“Four days ago at 14:36.”
Macer mock contemplates this. “Hmmm . . . Royse?”
The big man reaches in his pocket, slides his own set of the rubber knuckle things over his fingers, and pinches the Viatorio on his ear. After briefly air typing, he says, “No, that’s not right. You were dedicating the new statue at that time.” He returns the virtual key bands to his pocket. “And I was with you there, Chancellor.”
The expression on Jesper’s thin face is a mix of confusion and fearful apprehension. “But . . . the R.O.R . . . it can’t—”
Macer extends his hand and pats him warmly on the shoulder for a second time. “It’s okay, Benold. Clear the error. Print me some new stitch for the Grange.”
His reply is a feeble, “Yes, Your Excellency.”
Luci is embarrassed for the flustered man, wondering if a mistake was made here. Something about it all feels off.
Royse asks Macer, “Are you sure you don’t want me to retrieve your stitch from your locker instead of printing new ones? I’m headed there for my outfit.”
“No, Royse. Benold here will take care of me. Right, Benold?”
Luci finds Macer’s gushing charm unsettling for some reason.
“Is Mr. Timmons accompanying you today?” Jesper asks.
Royse answers before Macer can. “I told you, I go everywhere he goes.”
The tech nods, but his expression betrays his doubt.
Royse places his massive palm on the man’s other shoulder. “I suggest you let it go.”
Still all smiles, Macer adds, “We’ll also have the lady joining us today.”
Relieved to move onto other business, Jesper asks, “Name?”
Before Luci can answer, Macer holds his hand up chest high.
Jesper sheepishly adds, “You know I have to record the entry for chrono census purposes.”
Luci tries to answer again, but Macer butts in. “I think that you can make an exception for today.”
The whipped tech crosses his arms in frustration. “But Chancellor, if I leave it blank, I could lose my job.” He adds, pleading, “I’d suffer a point deduction fine from my points account if nothing else.”
Luci can tell by Macer’s demeanor that this is the final straw. “Affect your point pay . . . lose your job, huh?” Macer asks coolly.
Jesper tries to reclaim his words, but it’s too late. Royse moves in between him and Macer, grinning. “I told you to let it go.”
To Luci’s amazement, Macer steps around Royse’s big frame and commends the technician. “Well done, son.” He puts his arm around Jesper, still speaking softly to avoid making a scene. “It’s dedication to order, attention to detail, and persistence that Relicus City was founded on.” He gives a warm squeeze of his arm around him. “Well done.”
Jesper’s confused expression matches Luci’s. “Uh . . . thank you, sir,” he says.
“Who’s your second here, Benold?” Macer asks, scanning the room with his extended index finger.
“My second?” Jesper stammers.
“Yes, who’s in charge when you’re away?”
“She is,” Jesper volunteers while pointing to a young female worker dressed in red sitting in the fourth tray spot.
“Splendid,” Macer says, patting his back. “I’d like you to go with Mr. Timmons, and he is going to put in a notice of accommodation to the section director on your behalf. We’ll see if we can get a job for you that pays more points.”
“Thank you, sir, but all I was—”
Macer turns to the big man. “Royse, be sure that you inform the director that I recommend that Benold be considered for immediate promotion.”
“Consider it done, sir,” Royse says, leading him away.
“What just happened here?” Luci asks in protest.
The response from Macer is curt, but the smile never wavers. “This is city business, nothing that you need to concern yourself with.”
Luci’s not convinced. “But where’s Royse taking him?”
Macer ignores her and gestures to the woman in red. “Miss, if you’d come here for a moment, please?”
The cautious woman steps forward, to Macer’s satisfaction. He gently takes her hand.
She’s nearly blushing. “Yes, Your Excellency?”
“Congratulations, Miss. You’ve just been promoted to whatever Mr. Jesper used to do up until five minutes ago. Contact your director and tell her the good news and that I said so.” He lets her hand slide out from his grasp. “But before you do, I need help with a special project. First, print me up a fresh set of stitch for me to wear, and then set up two of the longchairs for a leap skip to the Grange. The lady will go with me, but only note two sitters in the manifest log—myself and Mr. Timmons. You can do that, right? It’s very important, a special project for the city.”
The woman nervously adjusts her knuckle bands and looks over as Jesper is discretely manhandled out of the area by Royse.
“Pay Mr. Jesper no mind. He doesn’t work here any longer,” Macer says. “Don’t worry, he’s been promoted too. A very exciting day here for all of us.”
“I suppose I can do that . . .” she begins, “if it’s for the good of the city.”
“Great,” Macer says, snapping his fingers. “Then no more delays.”
As Luci takes the scene in, there’s an unexpected pop sound as loud as a champagne bottle opening.
Macer tries to calm her. “It’s just the noise from the longchair coming in from a leap skip to this interval.
“Why did it pop?” she asks. “Is it something about the craft adjusting to the existing air molecules in the room?”
Macer’s eyebrows rise. “Who told you that?”
“No one,” she answers with a shrug. “It’s just that I assume that a small amount of the atmosphere comes over from the longchair’s skip interval of origin; otherwise, the passengers wouldn’t be able to breathe, and the vessel would collapse in on itself from the pressure.”
When Macer’s mouth drops in astonishment, Luci knows that he’s impressed with her deduction. In contrast, the disinterested expression of female technician in red tells Luci that this fact must be common knowledge to the workers in the station. To keep Luci’s identity secret, Macer attempts to downplay and mask his amazement, but Luci catches a glimpse of it as she continues. “It makes sense,” she explains. “The existing air molecules and the ones enveloping the longchair collide in a tiny explosion of energy.”
“Yes,” Macer says, having composed himself. “As harmless as static electricity. Pardon us a moment, please.”
Macer and the newly promoted lead technician leave Luci as they trail off to the young woman’s cubicle.
Even though she expected it, Luci is still amazed by the sight of a longchair now occupying one of the slots that was vacant before. Other than the cork popping sound announcing its arrival, there’s nothing to indicate that it wasn’t there the entire time—no heat, glow, steam, or sound, nothing.
The roof of the longchair pod slides open, and a woman climbs out wearing a bright green strapless tassel-fringe dress. The felt cloche hat on her head matches the elbow-length gloves. Luci thinks she looks as if she’s just come from the dance floor doing the Charleston—who knows, maybe she has. Luci’s mouth drops. She knows this waif of a girl. It’s Shar. She has brown eyes instead of green. Luci assumes it’s colored contacts. Also, her hair is dark, not platinum white, which is understandable considering where she’s just come from, but she’s certain that it’s her.
Luci rushes across the room and up the platform stairs to greet the only other woman she knows in this interval. The flapper woman reenters the longchair for something she’s forgotten inside as Luci hurries down the aisle. She calls out, “Shar!” as the woman emerges through the pod roof and back onto the staging platform.
Now holding a clutch bag, she turns to face Luci, but it’s not Shar. This revelation causes Luci to take a step back.
The woman descends the steps and then heads over to one of the technician cubicles. She thinks on how the flapper woman will never bear children, never celebrate being a mom on Mother’s Day—if that’s even a thing here.
After a few minutes of Luci’s silent desperation, Royse and Macer emerge from the changing area and join her on the platform. In their new costumes, the men can pass for old-world monks if one ignores the Viatorio devices on their earlobes. She won’t ask about Benold Jesper’s promotion—that can wait. They’d probably lie to her anyway.
Royse offers a grandiose gesture to the longchair pod as the lid slides open. “After you.”
She cautiously steps down into the seat. It feels like leaning back on a lounge chair rigged into a strange sarcophagus.
Macer whispers something to Royse. The big man nods and then helps him down into the front seat. Though her view is obstructed, Luci knows Macer’s in place when the top glass of their longchair slides closed.
Macer speaks over his shoulder from the front seat. “The leap skip may be a little disorienting at first, but don’t panic. You’ll be okay.”
By force of habit, Luci scrambles to find a seatbelt until she realizes longchairs can’t exactly crash into anything. She’s grateful that the seats face opposite of one another so Macer can’t see her anxious gaffe. The roof of the longchair pressurizes with a soft hiss and resounding click. “Do I need to do anything?” Luci asks, trying to distract herself from the mild claustrophobia setting in.
“No,” comes the answer from the front. “Trips to the Grange are routine. Everything is programmed in and ready. We’ll be there before you know it—don’t worry.”
But Luci does worry. She pictures the young face of technician dressed in red and wonders how many interval skip launches she’s administered. Luci calls out over her shoulder to Macer, “Couldn’t you have waited until we returned to promote Benold Jesper? He seemed to be a more experienced operator.”
“We’ll be fine,” he answers from the front.
An unfamiliar voice through the longchair’s inset speakers gives Luci a jolt. Once again, it’s good that the pod seats aren’t facing each other. The soft computer-generated speech welcomes her and announces the intended time period destination along with the geographical location of the leap skip they’re “sitting” for. Luci thinks of the pre-recorded safety messages provided by the Chicago Transit Authority on the L-Train as static electricity gently washes over her skin in waves.
The system continues, “As a cautionary reminder, please know that sitters are subject to all laws and customs of the chronus-interval they are attending. Any violation is prohibited by Relicus City mandated edicts and will result in punishment from an appointed tribunal.”
A muffled pop on the outside of the “craft” alerts Luci that the system is pressurizing a thin layer of air around the pod like she and Macer previously discussed. Her mind attempts to console her fast-beating heart by reminding it that she’s done this once before; granted, she was unconscious, but this isn’t the first time.
Luci is startled by a burst of incredibly bright light as if a picture has been taken with flash bulbs. Then everything goes dark, and it’s the most obscure black she’s ever seen. Macer is quiet in front of her, so she assumes this, too, is routine. She remembers back to when she was nine and the family visited an underground cave hundreds of feet beneath the earth. At the halfway point, the guide told everyone to remain motionless as he clicked off the interior lights of the cave to demonstrate how dark it was. It was terrifyingly exhilarating as everything went black. Young Luci waved her hand in front of her face, and as expected, she couldn’t see a thing. By comparison, the all-consuming nothingness she experiences in the longchair reduces the darkness in the cave to a dark shade of grey.
Then, through the window at the far end of the stretched-out longchair is a pinprick of emerald-green light. It unfolds and expands, resembling a train tunnel. The rational part of her mind knows and argues it’s not, but the “tunnel” is perfectly round and spinning counterclockwise. The emerald light at the end grows brighter.
Luci experiences a brief sense of weightlessness, and then the impossible happens. The windows above and to the right and left stretch and distort. They elongate like taffy and stretch and twist until finally silently snapping off the craft. They return to their rectangular shapes, but beyond the opening of the longchair. Luci’s respiratory rate increases as three shapes become six, then twelve, then twenty-four. They continue to subdivide until the entire tunnel is lined with thousands of spinning rectangles of blue-green and amber yellow. Luci imagines herself in a rolling kaleidoscope made of shimmering glitter mixed with pulsating shards of glass; all reflect the brilliance of the expanding emerald light. It feels as if the longchair is stationary while everything else rushes by where the windows once were.
She looks down at herself—that was a mistake. The glittering isn’t confined to the outside of the longchair cabin. Her form also pulsates from the opaque color of her skin and medieval clothing to a translucent wash of millions of dot-sized mirrors. She gasps and feels for her legs as the swimming lights revert to her normal form and then disappear again. As she continues to alternate between being there and not, she reflexively covers her loins. She’s able to feel her hands, even when they disappear from view and back again. “Can I feel the longchair ruthlessly zapping at my ovaries, sterilizing me at a microscopic level, or is it just psychosomatic?”
The sides of the compartment vanish from view, interrupting her thoughts. To test it, Luci extends a hand—as expected, the enclosure is physically there, just not visible. Trillions of spiraling rectangles shoot past her view in a blur. Luci feels as if she’s simultaneously falling and being catapulted upward through a bottomless well. Every few seconds, a quivering ring of light ripples from behind her, headed into the rhythmic flashing of the emerald pulse. The vibrating rings alternate from a bright violet-fuchsia to aqua blue-green. Instantly, the impossible darkness reappears . . . and then normal light.
