Resonance - Erica O'Rourke Page 0,40
hung back.
“Can you handle this?” he asked as I struggled into my coat.
“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” But my jaw was clenched so tightly, it hurt to speak.
My dad caught us at the door. “You don’t look happy to see me, kiddo. Are you too cool to have your old man visit?” His voice was teasing but his expression was worried.
“Just surprised,” I managed. “You didn’t say anything this morning. Aren’t you supposed to be swamped?”
“Not so busy I couldn’t make time for my little girl.”
I managed not to snort, but before he could respond, his Second Chair, Clark, called him over.
“Let’s get moving,” Shaw said.
The elevators ferried us downstairs in groups. When we reassembled in the lobby, Shaw played our target frequency one last time, and led us out into the city.
The Consort worked hard to keep CCM as pivot-free as possible, so we had to leave the building before crossing over. Today Shaw had selected a passage inside the Pedway, a series of pedestrian-only tunnels that ran beneath the city. Some parts were well-trafficked, but on a clear, sunny, windless day, the corridors were pretty much deserted—which meant nobody noticed when, in groups of two, we started down the covered stairways and vanished from sight. It was classic Walker logic, using expectation to camouflage the inexplicable.
On the other side of the pivot, we arranged ourselves in a half circle, Shaw at the center. He did a quick headcount and then led us aboveground, emerging along Michigan Avenue.
I bit my lip. This Echo sounded fine. It looked exactly like Chicago should on a winter weekend—noisy and crowded and cheerful as tourists made their way to the Art Institute or skated on the pop-up rink the city constructed each year. Earnest young lawyers and finance guys, with their canvas messenger bags and wool overcoats, dodged the crowds impatiently. There was nothing wrong with this familiar bustling world.
Except that we were about to destroy it.
“Where’s the target?” I asked Eliot as we followed Shaw, who was deep in conversation with my dad and his teammates. My feet refused to keep pace with the rest of the class. Eliot kept dropping back to check on me, but the best I could do was hover on the periphery.
Several yards ahead, Callie called back, “Were you asleep? Millennium Park.”
“That’s five square blocks. Be specific.”
“The pavilion.”
I winced. I loved the Pritzker Pavilion, the futuristic outdoor concert hall, with its undulating curves and shimmering metal finish. It looked like music felt, rippling and twisting and alive.
Eliot and I saw concerts here every summer, stretching out on the lawn, lying back under impossibly blue skies with the sound of the lake and the city throwing the music into sharp relief, our fingers sticky from eating caramel corn. He might not believe me that Echoes were real—not yet, anyway. But his fingers brushed mine in silent understanding, and I knew he didn’t want to watch it fade any more than I did.
“All right,” boomed Shaw, when we reached the amphitheater. Despite the tourists wandering the park, we went unnoticed as we took center stage. “I’ll hand this over to Mr. Sullivan.”
“Call me Foster,” my dad said. “Who can tell me the first step in a cleaving, once it’s been officially sanctioned?”
Someone called out, “Find and fix the inversions.”
“Yes. For today, assume that we’ve handled them. What’s next?”
“Locating the breaks,” Callie said. “You want to start the cleaving at the weakest spots, so you can maintain proper tension on the threads.”
“Excellent. You can be first up to check the break we’re using today.”
She followed him stage left and touched the handrail of the stairs leading offstage. The instant she made contact, she shuddered dramatically, then grinned. “It’s not that bad. Like swimming in cold water.”
“Del? Eliot? Give it a try.”
We made our way over, both of us taut with nerves. I could hear the twang of the break before I touched it, and once my fingers brushed against the icy metal, an erratic pulse traveled up my arm. A shock, like Callie had said. Instinct took over and I hummed, trying to find the right frequency for the string.
Eliot stepped on my toe, breaking my concentration. “Sorry!” he called as I yelped.
Callie was staring. My father was staring. I didn’t dare look to see what the rest of the class was doing. Instead, I elbowed him. “Klutz,” I said loudly. “Your turn.”
“You okay, kiddo?” my dad asked, motioning for Clark to take over. He guided me away from the