Locke Cirque

Silas Rivers kept office hours on Tuesdays because nobody was in the building after two o’clock on Tuesdays.

Silas preferred the quiet. It was easier to follow the rules that way.

He sat with the door open while he graded structural models with a dying red pen. His father’s pen. Silas kept refilling the barrel because new ones felt like betrayal in his hand.

Silas graded papers until a soft knock pulled him back to reality.

In the door stood a student holding a worksheet full of his red ink.

“Professor Rivers? I failed the load calculation. I don’t understand how.”

“Sit,” Silas said, motioning to the chair in the corner of his small office.

She sat, handing him the paper.

Silas turned the paper toward himself. He found the error in four seconds, but he continued to stare, taking the time to choose his words carefully.

“You didn’t fail,” he stated in a metered voice. “You solved the wrong problem correctly.”

She blinked at him, furrowing her brow. Silas sighed and looked at the page again.

“You assumed a fixed support here.” He tapped the page. “It’s a pin. The building moves. Everything moves, given enough weight and enough time. You have to design for that, not against it.”

The student scribbled his words as quickly as Silas said them, circling them at the end.

“Nothing is still because you assume it will be. Everything moves against something, eventually — the skill isn’t stopping it. It’s learning its sway well enough that when it moves, it moves exactly where you want it to.”

Silas held his breath as he realized the sentence had come out sideways. He had been doing that more, saying ordinary things and feeling another voice underneath it, waiting its turn.

The student didn’t notice and left nine minutes later, confused but satisfied with the explanation.

Silas sat holding the red pen and the stack of papers, but he didn’t start grading again. He hoped his student hadn’t caught the inappropriateness of what he had said.

Silas played the sentence in his head again. He knew that voice and that tone.

“Fuck me,” he sighed, squeezing his eyes tight and pinching the bridge of his nose.

His mind wandered to an unfinished manuscript on his laptop at home.

He had written a woman without a face again. He had written faceless characters before and it had never bothered him, but this one lived in his head.

“Okay, I can deal with this,” Silas thought out loud, nodding his head.

Silas capped the pen and looked out the window. He watched the campus lights come on one row at a time. When the final row of lights illuminated the campus horizon, Silas slung his bag over his shoulder and locked his office door without thinking.

Silas walked across the street to the faculty parking lot and stood in front of his 1971 Chevelle SS.

“Hello gorgeous,” Silas whispered. This was the one predatory, yet seductive luxury Silas allowed himself.

He climbed into the iconic car slamming the heavy steel door that echoed with a satisfying metallic thud. He eased the key into the ignition and twisted it. The engine growled to life with a deep rumble and Silas closed his eyes, feeling the vibration.

“Finally,” Silas groaned, reaching for the polished chrome shifter and pulling out of the lot.

Eleven minutes later, Silas pulled into his driveway. He was out of the car with his bag slung over his shoulder in one fluid motion. His house was dark when he opened the door, but he didn’t turn on the overhead light when he entered. He slung his jacket over the back of a chair and loosened his collar as he walked to his study.

By the time he reached his study, his professional dress shirt was untucked and only half buttoned. The sleeves were rolled up his forearms, showcasing the tribal tattoos inked into his skin.

Silas picked up a black decanter and poured himself two fingers of dark bourbon before he sat behind the ancient cypress desk. He took a long drink as he struck a key to wake the sleeping computer.

In less than a second, his manuscript stared back at him. Silas took another slow drink while he read the last paragraph. He read the last sentence twice.

It had been taken from her, but it was not stolen. It had been drawn.

“Mph, I do not remember that line,” Silas mumbled.

He set his glass down and continued writing about the faceless woman, standing at the edge of something in a place that didn’t have a name yet.

Silas wrote until he realized his glass had been empty for a while. He looked out of the window and the darkness was thick.

“Damn,” Silas mumbled, looking at the clock. It was a quarter to two, but Silas refilled his glass anyway. He closed the laptop and sat in the dark with his drink.

Silas drank his bourbon, tracing the clock’s second hand with his eyes. It was two by the time Silas collapsed into bed, sleeping without dreams.

The gentle glow of the computer monitor woke Lavender at two a.m. She had fallen asleep at her desk again. As she sat up, her neck ached, forcing her to move slower.

Her sister’s words echoed in her ears, this is a problem Lav, you’ll wake up one day and not be able to move.

Lavender grimaced, rubbing her neck with one hand and her lower back with the other.

“She can never know,” Lavender grumbled as she rubbed her sore muscles and stretched her stiff limbs.

After easing herself up little by little, she stood and stretched as she paced the map room. She found herself standing in front of the far wall.

Maps hung across the surface depicting coastlines with alternate shores annotated in the margins. The edges were pinned with postcards from around the world that were sent by her friends and family traveling abroad in places like Jordan, Italy, France, and Spain.

Except one.

The location didn’t exist. The postmark was unknown. And it was unsigned. Lavender narrowed her eyes as she read the line across the front.

You’ll know the shape when you see it.

“Sure, sure I will,” Lavender mumbled, pressing her fingers against the postcard.

Lavender stared at it again, for a heartbeat too long before turning back to her desk and picking up her phone.

There were always missed messages waiting when she remembered to look.

She read the usual thread from her editor — how’s the draft, we need something by Friday— and she typed back the standard response, good, almost there because it was easier than the truth. She didn’t feel like she was writing this draft this time. She felt like she was translating it.

She sat back down, touching the laptop’s track pad. Cirque’s newest manuscript filled the display. She skimmed the last chapter to refresh her memory. She lingered over one line.

The city did not fall. The city was returned.

“Not my typical voice, but it’s working,” she whispered with a sigh.

She looked back at the wall of places that were and weren’t.

“Where did you come from?” she said out loud to no one.

Lavender turned back to her laptop and wrote about the city that was somehow returned instead of somehow saved until the door opened at seven, dragging her from her worldbuilding. The first students were arriving.

Long day, okay, here we go, Lavender thought, plastering a smile across her face.

“Good morning, everyone.”

The obsidian black Chevelle eased into the marked parking spot across from the Engineering building. Silas climbed out of the car and pulled his messenger bag from the passenger seat.

Silas glanced at his phone, it was seven.

“I have time,” he mumbled and turned toward the bistro at the end of the block.

Silas opened the bistro door and was met with the smell of coffee and buttery pastries.

“A large house blend and an almond biscotti, please,” Silas said to the attendant. In less than ninety seconds, Silas was walking back to the engineering building with a steaming coffee and warm biscotti.

Silas had stepped under the covered awning. Students were already gathered, leaning against walls and sitting cross-legged on the benches lining the walkway. Silas continued walking and sipping his coffee when something made him stop.

A student sitting on the concrete was holding his book. The black jacket cover was printed with one embossed silver word: LOCKE. Silas smiled into his coffee and noticed another book sitting across the student’s lap. A pale blue jacket cover with a thick, darker blue line that spelled out something in a script font down the spine laid face down, clearly holding a place.

Cirque, Silas thought, forcing himself to walk away.

His phone buzzed with alerts and notifications. Silas went to his office and closed the door. He didn’t turn the light on. Silas stood, dropping his bag on his desk and taking a sip of his coffee. He closed the door before he pulled out his phone.

Silas scrolled the notifications. There were texts and voicemails, but he stopped when he got to the sales alerts.

“Dammit,” he breathed through clenched teeth, opening the alert.

Love Cirque — 4th week on top. Up two.

Sinfully Yours — 6th week. Down one.

Silas forced an exhale though his nose and put his phone in his pocket. He hit the light switch and the room glowed as he opened the door. Silas was still unloading his bag when a sharp knock sounded on his open door.

“Yes?” Silas answered without looking up.

“Professor Rivers, Dean Mathers wanted me to remind everyone about the grant proposal meeting. It’s been moved up to nine because everyone was free. Please sign here that you were told, because you are always late.”

Silas looked up, raising one eyebrow. A student was standing in the door with a laminated badge and a clipboard extended to him. Silas thought he recognized her as one of the dean’s interns, but he wasn’t sure.

He reached for the clipboard.

“I’m never late,” Silas muttered.

“She said you’d say that,” the student replied, checking the clipboard for his signature.

Silas huffed a laugh.

“Tell her I’ll be there,” Silas said shrugging his shoulders and watching the student walk toward the next professor on the list.

“Unbelievable,” Silas uttered to himself, organizing papers and folders for the nine-a.m. meeting that he had apparently forgotten about. He checked his phone; it was eight already. He picked up a blue folder and thought about the book cover that laid across the student’s lap. Pale blue, like his folder.

Lavender glanced at her watch, it was almost a quarter after eight, and all of her students had already left after the seven am class this morning. She pulled out her phone and saw a text from her agent that made her call back immediately.

Her agent answered after the first ring.

“Tell me something wonderful, Marcey,” Lavender said.

“Wonderful is subjective, babe,” Marcey replied, taking a breath, “But I can tell you something. You are at number four now.”

“I hit number four,” Lavender breathed, “Marcey, that’s huge!”

Marcey chuckled and said, “Well, you’re knocking Locke down, he’s at six now.”

“Locke is dropping,” Lavender whispered.

“He is, but you,” Marcey paused, Lavender could hear her swallow, “Lavender, how’s the book going?”

“It’s good Marcey, I’m writing—” Lavender looked up and saw a student standing in the doorway wearing a laminated badge hanging from a lanyard, holding a clipboard.

“Marcey, I’ll call you back,” Lavender hung up without waiting for acknowledgment.

“Can I help you?”

“Dr. Crider, Dean Mathers wanted me to tell you that the proposal meeting has been moved to nine,” the girl looked at her phone, “I’m also supposed to tell you that is now 8:23, could you sign this please?”

The student extended the clipboard. Lavender narrowed her eyes as she took the clipboard. She picked up her pen and paused.

“What’s your name?” Lavender asked, her pen hovering above the page.

“Amy Sidel,” the girl, Amy apparently, replied.

Lavender signed the clipboard and handed it back.

“I’ll be there at nine, Amy. Thank you,” Lavender said as Amy backed out of the room without another word.

Lavender glanced at her clock, and it read 8:25.

“Forty minutes before I have to leave,” Lavender muttered. She began sorting charts, graphs and notes that wouldn’t be ready before the meeting.

Exactly forty minutes later, Lavender was walking down the corridor to the dean’s meeting room, with unprepared notes. Lavender passed several doors before a high-pitched voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Dr. Crider, did you see the coastal survey revisions?” Lavender closed her eyes for a second as she turned.

Ms. Reynolds, the aging department secretary, met Lavender’s gaze with understated expectation.

“I saw the proposed revisions you emailed this morning,” Lavender lied with an edge of irritation.

Ms. Reynolds’ smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Perfect, we will discuss that first then.”

“Of course,” Lavender agreed. Ms. Reynolds veered into personal topics Lavender was not interested in. By the time she extracted herself, she was only a few steps from the conference room.

Silas rounded the corner to her left, buried in an email from his publisher. Another interview request, which he deleted without response.

Silas stopped too late, his shoulder brushing against a woman standing in the hallway. He froze, raising both hands.

“Sorry, sorry,” Silas said, lowering his voice by an octave.

“It’s okay, barely a bump,” Lavender said, adjusting her bag and stepping into the conference room.

Silas followed, keeping several paces back. He took the first available seat. He was halfway through arranging his notes when something flashed at the edge of his vision. Silas saw the glint for a microsecond. A small gold pin caught the light from the folder sitting in front of Dr. Crider.

He stopped. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. His face didn’t do anything a stranger would notice.

Silas pretended to review the agenda, but his attention stayed fixed on that pin.

The projector woke up with its usual reluctant hum and the lights dimmed.

“The challenge,” Dean Mathers said, letting a map fill the screen, “is not building a new city. It’s keeping the one that already exists alive.”

The Cities of the Future Initiative spread across a map of streets, waterlines, load points, and centuries of layered, human settlement.

“Any initial thoughts?” the dean asked, scanning the room.

Silas immediately saw it as a failing system. He considered it a challenge to be solved.

“The eastern district infrastructure is approaching failure,” Silas said, familiar with the increasing load stresses along the seawall and the limits of the existing structure.

Lavender tapped the table with her finger, considering the history of the district on screen.

“The eastern district,” Lavender added, “is the original settlement. It’s the part that makes the location a place.”

Murmurs rippled through the professors offering their own advice. Dean Mathers let the discussion continue for a moment before holding up one hand.

“Dr. Rivers. Dr. Crider. Since you were the first to identify primary concerns, the two of you will lead the initial evaluation. Let’s put those skills to use.”

Dean Mathers looked at Silas first, waiting for his acknowledgement before shifting her gaze to Lavender. Silas and Lavender nodded their approvals. The meeting lasted for another hour, discussing four other proposals before the meeting was adjourned.

Silas met Lavender near the door.

“I have the existing surveys. We should discuss those,” Lavender said, tucking a curling map into her folder.

“And the structural reports. Before either of us recommends anything.” Silas heard the edge in his tone as he spoke.

Lavender raised an eyebrow.

“This afternoon then? Café Quartz Around three?” Lavender offered.

“Café Quartz at three is fine,” Silas nodded, refusing himself permission to look at the pin on her folder.

“Perfect,” Lavender said, giving him her office number before leaving.

Silas turned and took three steps in the opposite direction. When he was certain she disappeared around the corner, he allowed himself to look back. His mind was reeling.

She shouldn’t have that pin.
I know the name of every person who owns one.

At least he thought he did.

Silas continued to his office and grabbed a stack of graded assignments before heading toward the lecture hall.

Three o’clock, he thought, I teach until 2:30, great.

Silas stepped into the lecture hall. Students were already waiting as Silas set up for class. Five minutes later, Silas dimmed the lights and began.

“Failure points are not always what they seem.”

Two buildings away, Lavender started her own class, unbothered by the pending meeting.

“Cultures paint themselves across landscapes in hidden ways.”

Silas’s last class ended as scheduled and retreated to his office to check the notes he had for the proposal. He was leafing through the structural and geologic engineering diagrams when a knock at his door forced him to look up.

“Jeremiah,” Silas said, nodding toward his colleague.

“Silas, we need to talk about the Smart Cities proposal,” Jeremiah said crossing his arms across his chest.

Silas shrugged and closed his folder, tapping the edges on the table.

“I don’t know anything yet, Jeremiah. Nothing more than you,” Silas said, pausing to write Out of the Office on a piece of paper. “Besides, what does an archeologist have to do with Smart Cities?”

Jeremiah narrowed his eyes.

“Perplexing, I know. But somehow preserving the archeological significance of a historical location is well, archeology,” Jeremiah said.

Silas hung the note on his door and tucked his folder under his arm.

“There’s still nothing to tell yet,” Silas said, turning off the light and stepping into the hallway with Jeremiah, “I can email today’s meeting notes tonight.”

“I can accept that,” Jeremiah said, nodding his head and adding, “Have a good meeting.”

Silas walked toward Café Quartz for the second time today. He wasn’t concerned about it being crowded with students like most places surrounding campus. It was expensive enough to keep most students away.

Lavender’s last class ended just before three. She managed to bring her notes for the Smart Cities proposal to class with her instead of having to rush back to her office. She waited until her classroom was empty before she turned out the light and walked toward Café Quartz with her bag slung over her shoulder and a nest of unorganized Smart Cities notes inside it.

Lavender passed the engineering building in time to see Silas opening the café door.

“Dammit,” she whispered under her breath, walking faster.

By the time Lavender reached the door, her cheeks were flushed and she was breathing heavy. She stood outside until she regained control of her breathing. She opened the door and stepped inside. Silas was already seated, his folder on the table and he had motioned for a waiter.

“Hello Dr. Rivers,” Lavender said walking to the table.

“Dr. Crider,” Silas said, motioning for her to sit down.

Lavender took a seat across from Silas and the waiter stopped at the edge of the table.

“Black house blend for me, Dr. Crider? For you?” Silas said.

Lavender didn’t look up from her chaotic notes, “House blend, double cream, thank you.”

“Since we are working together, call me Lavender, please.”

“You can call me Silas.”

The waiter returned, depositing their coffee next to them and walking away.

“Smart Cities,” Silas said, lifting his drink.

“Smart Cities that retain their historical value and geographic identity,” Lavender countered, pulling a folder from her bag. The glint of gold caught the light.

Silas took a long drink and Lavender opened the folder.

“Efficiency in technical application of evolving technology necessarily changes the identity of a location, but nothing else,” Silas said, leaning forward and opening his folder.

“Technical applications alter the landscape,” Lavender retorted, sliding a few charts in front of him that illustrated her point.

Silas leafed through them.

Damn, she has a point, he thought, three distinct locations, each one ‘revolutionized’ to be a smart city.

“These all lost individuality,” Silas said, looking at the last page, “So, sterile industrialization is the fear.”

“A large portion of it, yes,” Lavender said, picking up her cup and closing her folder. The pin on its edge caught the light.

Silas’s eyes settled on the pin.

“That’s a nice piece,” he said, motioning to the pin. The same pin that caught his attention in the meeting, the hallway and now right here.

“Thanks, a gift from a desperate man,” Lavender said, sipping from her cup.

“Desperate man, okay, anyway,” Silas said, wondering what she meant by desperate man, “Smart cities that maintain individual characteristics would have to engrain the required structures,” Silas finished.

Not a bad option, Lavender thought taking a breath to continue.

“More like required structures would need to be formatted to hide within the existing aesthetics.”

“Lavender, I can work with that, to a degree,” Silas said, determined to bring the meeting to an end.

“Perfect, meet next Tuesday then?”

“Tuesday at three, right here,” Silas agreed.

Lavender turned, taking her half drank coffee and nest of papers with her. Silas sat at the café, finishing his coffee.

“Silas is going to be a problem,” she whispered to herself, “but he isn’t wrong either.”

Lavender stood in front of her building for a single heartbeat and then turned. Instead of going into her office, she opened her thunderbird’s door. Lavender saw Silas walking from the café to the faculty parking lot as she was driving down the road.

Silas saw a gold thunderbird roll down the street.

Decent car, he thought to himself, but the windows were too dark to see inside.

Silas climbed into his Chevelle and drove the growling beast home. He was already trying to figure out how to work with Lavender.