Dream d1106-s: Two Degrees East

I had a dream where...

I had a dream where the calibration had been running since the light changed to that flat post-apocalyptic grey, the kind that has no source anymore, just presence.

The Beacon Network Specialist stood at the main console, her back to me, adjusting the phase interval with both hands, turning a dial so slowly it seemed not to move. The beacon at the settlement's center pulsed in its familiar rhythm - three short, one long - and each time it did, the console logged a number, and she wrote the number down in a worn notebook with a stub of pencil.

The Builder was up on the scaffolding that ringed the beacon housing, checking physical alignment with a plumb line. He called down a correction. Two degrees east. The Specialist adjusted without looking up.

I walked the perimeter of the calibration station. The floor was concrete poured in sections, gaps where frost had heaved it. Through the tall window frames - glass long gone, replaced with wire mesh - the flat light came in and caught the beacon's pulse, stretching it into something longer than the pulse itself.

Lano trotted ahead of me between the equipment racks. His ears perked when the beacon fired its long pulse, and he stopped, nose twitching, as if the electromagnetic hum had a smell that needed cataloguing. Then he padded on.

The Philosopher sat in the corner with his notebook, not writing, watching. He said the interesting thing about calibration was that it assumed a true state existed and could be found. The Wire Man, running a test lead from the console to an antenna port along the floor, said that was fine in theory. The Dreamer stood at the window mesh watching the ridge where the relay beacon sat, waiting to see if adjustments here would register there.

The Listener had headphones on, one ear covered, one not. She raised a hand when something came through - a faint return signal from the outer network - and the Specialist marked it in the log.

Through the mesh I could see the Weather Reader consulting the forecasting tower's instruments, then looking at the sky the way someone looks at a face they are trying to read.

Two degrees east became one. The numbers on the console settled toward something the notebook recognized as true.

Lano sat near the Specialist's feet, watching her write. He exhaled once, small and quiet, and the room held the sound. Then he said: "Cerca."

The Builder called down that the plumb looked true.

The log recorded the time. The beacon pulsed. Three short, one long.