Drift pattern, p.55
Drift Pattern, page 55
After a prolonged moment of expectation, she reopens her eyes. “Well, shit.”
As she reaches to re-enter the code and examine the contents of the chamber on the other side, there’s a tiny buzzing in her ear. At first, she thinks it’s a fly. She quickly dismisses the idea, realizing that no insects could exist in this environment. The buzz shifts into a low hum. Luci turns to face the barge behind her. The sound isn’t coming from there though. She glances at the chamber holding Ish and Macer. Not from there either.
The hum grows louder.
It’s not external. It’s not heard by her ears at all. It’s something from within. A growing vibration accompanies the sound.
Luci steps back from the chamber housing the ESTA. As illogical as it is, a part of her wants to stop what’s about to happen. A selfish part of her resists the idea that she has to die in here outside of time. She suppresses the urge, recognizing it as primal programming to survive.
Though there’s no pain, her cells buzz with energy. It’s not electrical though. It lies beyond sensory quantification. A great pressure descends as if she’s deep on an ocean floor, but Luci’s more intrigued than fearful. She touches her face, but neither cheek nor fingers register the feeling, only the growing strength of the vibrations.
The sound of male voices fills her head with the auditory anomaly again, but the words aren’t clear. Her heart leaps to “hear” Ish. She turns to face the chamber on the side, but it remains sealed. Though she’s able to grab snippets, coherent meaning can’t be formed, because the phrases spoken are backward. It’s disorienting to hear her own voice running back.
She realizes the previous conversation in here is being played back in reverse order, and her body feels fused to the floor. She doesn’t recall falling, but she can only see the barge and flashing red doorway behind it out of the corner of her eye.
Macer’s backward speech continues in her ears. Luci wonders what will occur when the area reaches the beginning of their conversation. The scientist part of her experiments by attempting to shout. Nothing comes out, only the growing “sound” of the hum and overlapping backward voices.
It’s difficult to determine if she’s stuck against the floor or ceiling now, and there’s an odd juxtaposition, a sense of motion while feeling completely still. Is she falling or are things rushing past her?
As if to answer this, her perspective changes. She sees herself like gazing down at the ground at a photographic negative on the white floor. Her view pulls away from the square with ever-increasing speed, rising higher and higher until the picture is a mere speck that blinks out of vision. The sensation of rocketing upward through the confines of the chamber continue faster and faster. The trillions upon trillions of subatomic particles that joined together in the construction of Luci Ann Gaudiano climb higher, accelerating through bands of ultraviolet radiation and magnetic fields. The ascension, unhindered by any friction, spans an unfathomable distance across the universe.
At its apex, the particles that link Luci’s corporeal form together simultaneously lose their grip, bursting in all directions. The eruption isn’t violent, but the beautiful plumage of light is so bright and without variation of any kind, it’s as if darkness or shadow are only a forgotten myth. For the briefest picosecond, the intellectual awareness of Luci Ann Gaudiano blends into her consciousness, and she comprehends mathematics—all of it.
As if every arithmetical concept fuses together to form a single entity, this essence leans in to kiss her forehead as if she were a newborn child.
And then it’s over.
~ Seven ~
[Unspecified Interval Marker
Danger: 10417
Non-Chronal – MXN Event]
unspesifId intcval mokc
dAnjc: 10417
non-kronal mXn evint
Blue—light blue, to be precise—is all that Luci sees before her. Noting the air is easier to breathe, she moves a hand in front of her face to confirm that her eyes are actually open. A small speck enters the left side of her frame of vision. The slow-moving dot carves a tiny white scar into the endless light blue as it continues along in a straight horizontal line. The dot moves along its steady path as the end of the white line from its farthest point slowly expands, tripling in size like a soft trail of plumage—a contrail?
Luci’s mind is still reeling, but the distant rumble of jet engines confirms Luci’s suspicion that the speck is some type of aircraft far above in the sky. Relicus City’s air transports are noiseless drobine carriers, so where is she? When is she?
As her awareness comes more into focus, Luci looks away from the puffy zipper of white forming in the heavens. She turns her head sluggishly to the left to see that she’s lying on grass. At first, she reasons that she must be in a field as a soft warm breeze tickle tiny hairs on her arms and face, but when she squints, seemingly endless rows of evenly spaced horizontal beams come into focus. She sits up to see bleachers from the base of a stadium—a football stadium. The design of the aluminum bleachers hint at sometime between late in the twentieth century and obviously before the events of Hi no Kawa, but when and where exactly?
The only explanation that tracks is that she’s arrived at the non-interval destination that Gicul programed the ESTA to leap skip to. While it’s fascinating to consider how the device managed to win a quantum tug-of-war with the Carcerium chamber she sealed it in, she’ll have to postpone her thoughts and theories. Right now, the more pressing issue is the date and continent she’s been slingshotted to and why.
Her attempt to stand up is met with instant wooziness, but she manages to perform a full 360-degree scan of the arena. There’s no one else here, and it makes sense that Gicul would have programed the ESTA pod to arrive somewhere discreet. The sight of the nearby goalpost and her proximity to it places her at or near the ten-yard line. An equally puzzling sight is the skip barge, intact and unmarred other than Macer’s churka blast through the control lectern. Luci marvels at it, noting its exact distance to her as it was back at the chamber. There’s no sign of the ESTA, and she swallows a lump, not seeing any trace of Ish or Macer. She shouts Ish’s name, and her voice reverberates off the stands back at her as if it’s mocking that he’s not here.
Luci needs answers not found in a football end zone. The delayed roar of the jet reaches its full strength and decrescendos. It’s a relief to see that the ads around the scoreboard are in English. This means she’s in a western country somewhere. It’s also a bonus to not have to work out UNIFON writing characters for a change.
There’s an ad sponsorship by Aydelotte Automotive Repair, but the graphic next to it takes her breath away. She blinks multiple times in astonishment at the nostalgic logo of a fierce cartoon insect with a sharpened stinger. Luci drops to her knees into the soft grass. Through the fingers covering her mouth, she whispers, “Meadow Lake Yellow Jackets.”
Luci looks down at a patch of ground, attempting to process this discovery. She turns back to the image of the mascot, partially afraid that it won’t be there, that it was some mirage or hallucination, but the logo remains. “Sweet Jesus in Heaven, I’m back.” She rises to her feet and walks toward the scoreboard in awe.
“This is Whitfield Stadium. I’m back home and within a few decades of when I left!”
It’s almost more than she can bear. Tears of joy stream down her cheeks. The question of which year she’s arrived in still nags at her. L’inversione’s original plan of preventing DPM was to stop her from publishing her findings by any means necessary. Does this mean there’s another version of her running around out there somewhere? Is the older version of Luci Gaudiano working at this exact moment on the brink of publishing her findings?
Luci races off the field under the bleachers past the boarded-up concession stand counter. As she runs by, her eye catches something that forces her to stop and turn around for a closer look. Signage on the left and right of the closed snack bar proclaim the Yellow Jackets 2009 and 2011 as District Champions.
Luci has to steady herself, recognizing all of this from her youth. While she never was given the chance to attend high school here because of the family’s accident, her junior high played mid-week games here during football season. She attended as many games as she could with her friend, Christine Dade.
The temperature feels like summer. She scales the cyclone fence to leave the stadium, noting the empty parking lot on the other side. Even on weekends during the school year, there would be a sprinkling of cars in the lot for Saturday detention or whatever.
She wipes a tear at the sight of her old middle school across the street, but she doesn’t slow her running. The expansive one-story brown brick of her old junior high looks glorious, given this is additional proof of where the ESTA pod’s blast delivered her.
As she approaches, an aspect of the campus clues Luci in on the “when” question. The LCD lights of the marquee state, “Welcome Back Students: School starts Tuesday, Sept 4th.”
Starting with the year she was abducted by Macer in 2032, Luci does the math while sprinting. In short breaths, she calculates aloud, “September the 4th will be on a Saturday, and it’s a leap year.” Her movements dissolve into a distracted trot, but she doesn’t slow. “Tuesday, September the 4th occurred in 2029.” Luci scoffs, “Surely the Yellow Jackets would have won something from 2011 in over a decade and a half!” She’s panting now, barely running at all as she’s nearly to the sign. “Another occurrence of Tuesday, September 4th is in 2018 and again in 2013.”
She reaches it and touches the brick of the chest-high marquee. The stone is surprisingly cool relative to the warmth of the day. “Wait, no, that’s not right,” she corrects. “There was a leap year in 2012 too, meaning . . .”
She jerks away from the sign as if a hot burner on a stove. “I’m back in 2012? Can that be right?”
Luci spins around at the noise of an automobile entering the adjoining service road.
Though her leg muscles are beyond fatigued, she makes a desperate dash for the oncoming vehicle. That it’s not a self-driving car supports her idea she’s been transported back to the days of her childhood.
She knows the year and the season, but she has to know the day. “Can it be that day?” she wonders, running directly at the oncoming motorist. She has to make him stop. She has to know if her family’s accident has happened yet.
The driver is caught off guard by Luci jumping into the lane before him. Her plan for stopping the driver doesn’t work. He pounds the horn while swerving to miss her. Through the open window, he yells profanities and offers accompanying gestures as he barrels past.
It’s not a total loss though. He came close enough for her to see the car’s inspection sticker’s renewal date: October 2012.
With the year confirmed, Luci reverts to a brisk walk along the concrete bike path, scanning for the approach of another vehicle. She concocts a safer strategy: she’ll stand on the side and yell for help next time.
As she hurries, Luci attempts to wrap her mind around why Gicul would have set the controls of the ESTA to leap skip to an empty football stadium in their past. As the winding sidewalk turns sharply, revealing the tops of five- and six-story buildings through the trees, she has her answer. It’s the hospital she was taken to after the accidental drowning of her mother and father. It’s the one place in time that Gicul knows with certainty that younger Luci will arrive.
Looking at the tops of the hospital peeking through the trees, she concludes, “You were going to kill us . . . end us both to prevent Hi no Kawa.” The acknowledgement is a gut punch to her, forcing a brief stop. An ant mound in the ditch catches her eye. The worker insects busily move about, scaling up and down in rows. Luci gives her weary legs a rest and crouches for better inspection. “Gicul knew we’d be held at the hospital for observation for hours, an easy target for L’inversione or herself to smother the twelve-year-old us with a pillow or do something worse.” She returns to her feet, but her eyes stay on the colony’s work in the mud. “But what altered that plan? What made you switch?”
“Ish Moyta happened is what. I . . . you . . . we fell in love and abandoned the idea of suicide because you had something to live for. Everything shifted from then—for him.” She sniffs, tears welling in her eyes. “Now he’s gone too.” Luci inhales a shaky breath. “All of it is gone.”
A faint buzzing sound grows louder. She turns to see someone motoring up the path. “Hey!” she yells at the approaching boy while waving her arms. “I need your help!” His ride is too small for a motorcycle. She guesses it to be a moped of some sort. The high-pitched whine sounds like a swarm of angry bees approaching.
The rider comes closer into view, clearly a pre-teen. He’s decked out in baseball gear. The end of a maroon bat extending from the kid’s backpack gleams like Excalibur.
“Hey, I need your help,” Luci repeats, flapping her arms even harder.
When the kid doesn’t slow, she positions herself with her legs and arms spread wide to block the narrow concrete path. Judging from the spotless condition of the scooter, she suspects that he won’t risk taking it down into the muddy ditch.
He makes an overly dramatic side skid to avoid a direct collision with her, nearly tipping it over.
Luci ignores the theatrics, demanding, “What day is today?”
He eyes her with disgust. “I don’t know. It’s a Thursday, alright?”
Luci steps forward, clamping onto the scooter’s handlebars. “How do you not know the day of the month?” she asks incredulously. “Okay, you said it’s Thursday. Is it August 2nd, the 9th, 16th, or 23rd?”
He yanks the Vespa back to free it from her grip, but it only budges a little. He’s clearly no match for her strength. “Let go, you homeless freak,” he squeals nervously, looking around for help.
The insult is confusing until Luci realizes that her hair is still mussed from the Florence rain hours ago. At least she’d changed out of the bloody blouse back at Gicul’s in Antarctica or the kid would be calling the cops. “Look, I just need to know the date. Do you have a cell phone?”
“Of course I do, but I’m not giving it to you, you crazy bitch,” he says with a grimace like he’s sipped a cup of sour milk.
She’s had about enough of this punk. Luci lifts the end of the scooter up enough to slam it back to the ground to emphasize her point. “I don’t have time for this, you little brat!”
In another overly dramatic demonstration, the kid allows himself to fall to the ground, and the Vespa follows, resting on its side. “My stepdad is going to sue you for that, and he always wins.”
She wants to remind this little shrimp that if she were really homeless like he said, there wouldn’t be anything to sue for. Instead, she acquiesces, “Look, I’m sorry. I just need to know some things.” She reaches for him, asking, “May I have a look at your phone? It’ll have the date and time. I won’t even make a call. I just want to see it.”
He crab walks backward away from her, his eyes wide with fear. “I don’t have any money, okay? Just stay back! Stay away from me!”
Luci’s fatigued body is a reminder of how long it’s been since she last slept. She finds herself wondering if in real-time it’s been twenty-four hours or more. Every muscle aches, and this kid’s yelling is an assault to her senses.
He’s made it to his feet and swings the aluminum bat with wide, defensive strokes like a broadsword.
“Come on, kid,” she says, careful to avoid his exaggerated swings. “I just wanted to—”
“Stay back!” he shouts, moving away through the ditch.
Luci’s surprised when the boy hurls the bat at her like a projectile. As tired as she is, Luci manages to leap out of its path. The aluminum bat strikes the sidewalk with a high-pitched gonglike tone.
The kid holds up the cell phone. “I’m calling 911, you homeless bitch.” He places it to his ear, still shouting at her. “They’re going to lock you up. I’m gonna tell ‘em you grabbed my crotch, and they’ll put you away.”
She judges the distance between them, wondering how quickly he can run if she tries to snatch the phone. She notes that she’ll have to leap over the downed yellow Vespa for any chance of catching the boy. Then an idea comes to her, but is this kid really so dramatic?
Luci coolly walks around the scooter in the direction of the boy. For every step she takes, he takes three or four. Whether real or not, he begins to report into the phone how he was attacked. She pursues a few more steps, forcing his exaggerated retreat from her. When he’s an adequate distance, she turns and runs back to the banana-colored scooter.
She hoists it up and straightens the handlebars. If she were told a week ago that she be stealing a moped from a kid, she’d never believe it, but this is better than traveling on foot, and she’s got to get some answers.
It’s been decades since she’s ridden a scooter like this, and the movement is jerky and awkward at first as she struggles with how much throttle and brake to give.
Eventually, this levels out as Luci gets her equilibrium. The Vespa’s dial indicates 30 MPH as she opens up the top speed on the concrete path. She only slows to turn off the winding sidewalk to a busier street. The hospital complex is in full view on the other side of the overpass in the distance. The number 413 flashes, unsolicited, across her mind—unlucky number 413. It’s the number of the hospital room where her worst fears were confirmed. She can still recall the room’s unnatural smell of antiseptic. She still remembers that hag, Schofield, the wrinkled social worker with the weird teeth and bad shoes who flippantly informed her that her parents had died. The woman had callously informed her that “everything happens for a reason,” to which young Luci responded with, “Shove your reason!”
There’s a bustling Starbuck’s coffee shop on the corner at the base of the overpass. The aroma of coffee on the air is heavenly, even from this distance. It’s only been a week since she’s had coffee, but her emotional response to the smell resonates to her core—she really is back home! Next to the shop is a small branch office of a bank. The bank has an LCD sign that alternates flashing the temperature, time, and date.
