by Wendy Devore
Codename:
Ubiquity
Wendy Devore
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Copyright © 2019 Wendy Devore
All rights reserved.
Cover photos © Shutterstock.com
Cover design by Cherie Chapman
www.ccbookdesign.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For more information visit wendydevore.com.
Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.
First printing edition 2019.
wendydevore.com
Acknowledgements
Words can’t express my gratitude to Douglas DeVore, my number one beta-reader, most excellent husband, and partner in crime. Doug wouldn’t let a single technical detail go unexplained and astutely pointed out all my hairbrained plot twists. Barbara Feist’s stream-of-consciousness analysis reminded me to let Kate’s inner voice shine. Stacey Anderson’s unvarnished critique pushed me to work harder to find the right words. Thank you to Tricia Castellan for her review, encouragement, and invaluable assistance drinking rosé champagne.
Abundant thanks to Anna Jean Hughes, who ripped this story apart and helped me pick up the pieces in the best possible way. Working with AJ was a fantastic opportunity and an extraordinary pleasure. Big thanks to Sandra Ogle for not one, but two excellent and insightful copyedits. Cover design comes courtesy of the very talented Cherie Chapman.
Finally, a big shout out to all the extraordinarily innovative, passionate, and intelligent people who are my friends and co-workers. You are the home where a geeky girl can thrive. You’re an amazing bunch, and I am lucky to know you.
Chapter 1
Kate
September 9
For a moment, I’m disoriented. Where am I? I blink again, hard. Under the dark belly of low-hanging clouds, salt-scented waves lap against the rocky shore just feet from the jogging path where I stand. To my right, in the distance, I see a small, rocky island dominated by an imposing fortress. Alcatraz. To my left, I glimpse that famous orange-vermillion suspension bridge—the Golden Gate. The tops of its lofty towers are lost in the forbidding cloud cover. The disorientation passes immediately—I’m in San Francisco. I wrap my bare arms around my chest and shiver. I’m spared the fog that normally blankets this part of the city, but without any sun, the breeze coming off the water is frigid.
A wiry cyclist in skin-tight shorts and a colorful race jersey whizzes by on a high-end road bike, and I leap out of his way onto the grassy median.
I decide I will be warmer if I’m out of the wind. I jog across the parking area and the neatly trimmed lawn of Marina Green. The dew soaks through my worn black Converse, and the icy chill invades the tips of my toes.
The morning commute has already clogged Marina Avenue. I cross at Fillmore and wander aimlessly down the wide, tree-lined sidewalk, watching cars inch along. The homes I pass are in the classic Marina District style—stacked shoulder to shoulder, two stories of living space squatting atop a first-story entryway and single-car garage. A product of the roaring twenties, the charming stucco structures are clad in sage or cream or gray and evoke the unexpected marriage of Mediterranean and art deco architecture. Every home has an expansive wall of jauntily perched bay windows or gracefully arched panes overlooking the street.
I hear it before I feel it—the rumble that vibrates through the earth sounds like a freight train, but there are no railroad tracks here. The sidewalk jolts violently and my heartbeat quickens. I clutch the nearest tree in a death grip. Above me, the leaves tremble as if shaken by a giant’s invisible hand. I’m suddenly conscious of a new note to the cacophony—the sound of a hundred windows rattling in their panes.
I stare down the street and watch as cars screech to a halt, shuddering violently, as if locked in some sinister dance. Those parked along the street shake too, and one by one their car alarms are triggered, adding their shrill wails to the dissonance.
I’m breathing fast, wondering how long this will last, when suddenly the deep rumble subsides. The car alarms screech in an otherwise eerily silent city.
I release the tree trunk and close my eyes, calming my breath. The earthquake was terrifying, but the damage seems minimal. A few dazed souls emerge from their doorways, and traffic begins to slowly creep ahead once more.
I’ve taken a few tentative steps when I hear a loud crack, and the rumble resumes, more tumultuous than before. The intense shaking of the earth is so deafening it drowns out even the car alarms. Three more sharp jolts in quick succession, much more violent now, actually knock me to the ground.
Somewhere behind me, someone screams. I clench my eyes and grip the pavement as if this can somehow save me from the convulsing earth, but it can’t block out the fearsome groan of the buildings as they heave and contort. Across the street, an ear-shattering crash reverberates through the air. The lower story of one of the houses has partially collapsed, the garage corner now resting on the still-shaking ground. A gray cloud of dust and debris billows from its wreckage. A huge crack opens up in the concrete near my left hand, and I stare in fascination as the chunks of sidewalk on either side shift independently as if the very earth were breathing. I raise my eyes and catch my breath as I see Fillmore Street begin to undulate. The pavement twists and deforms as the seismic waves slam through the surface. Trees pitch manically from side to side in its wake. The motion of the earth knocks the standing cars into one another. The sickening waves just keep coming, strong enough to make me nauseous. Behind me, the bottom story of every home on the block begins to shift. Windows shatter and great sheets of glass crash to the sidewalk as the structures across the street collapse like a row of dominoes.
I stare at the home to my left in abject horror as it jolts and rattles, but somehow continues to hold. Great patches of plaster fall to the ground and splinter all around me. As I scuttle away from the falling debris, I see a woman clutching the doorframe in the covered entryway. The structure gives a mighty tremor as she lurches toward me, but without any warning, the entire ground level gives way and the house deflates like a fallen soufflé.
The woman’s silenced scream is echoed by my own frantic wail as I reach ineffectively toward her through the mushrooming cloud of dust, my heart hammering hard enough to burst from my chest.
“Earthquake!” I shrieked, bolting upright in my bed and struggling wildly
in the tangled mass of sheets. Sweat poured from my forehead and plastered my auburn tresses to my scalp.
“Kate, stop!” my sister insisted, her strong arms encircling my trembling body.
“The building fell and—oh God! She’s dead!” I panted, pushing hard against her shoulder.
My pulse was racing; my body tensed, poised to jump into action at the slightest hint of another tremblor. “It’s the big one! We have to get outside, before the building collapses!” I urged. The terrible groan of the earth in motion still roared in my ears.
“There wasn’t an earthquake, Kate,” Michelle insisted. She gingerly released me.
And then suddenly, the roaring ceased. The sudden quiet was almost as unnerving as the powerful re-experienced echo of the night terror. I peeled open one eye, ignoring the growing blurry disk directly in my field of vision. My sister perched on the edge of my bed, her dark curls disheveled and her face weary. A quick glance around the room showed photos hanging perfectly horizontally on the wall and my ceramic lamp still perched precariously on the edge of my bedside table.
Michelle was right. There hadn’t been an earthquake. I slumped in my bed and felt the warm relief flood through my body. It was replaced by a massive wave of nausea, and I cradled my head in my arms. A deep throbbing radiated from the base of my skull.
Michelle laid a cool hand on my forehead and murmured in her low, soothing alto, as she’d done countless times before. “I couldn’t wake you. Are the nightmares back?”
“Yeah,” I sighed, gathering my drenched hair with a shaking hand. My stomach lurched. The blurry aura grew larger and more vivid—brilliant purple and red, shimmering at its edges.
“I heard. Actually, I’m pretty sure the whole building heard. You want to talk about it?”
“Definitely not!” I shuddered. I closed my eyes, and the vision of the woman crushed by her home came rushing back, so real that the dust from the debris triggered a hacking cough. I could still feel the jagged concrete beneath my palms and relived the abject terror in her scream. I forced a deep, slow breath, then another, and the vision faded, but already I could feel the familiar tightening sensation around the crown of my head. A sickening dread formed in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with the blossoming migraine.
“I can’t believe they’re back. It’s been over a year since I’ve had one; I was doing so well.”
Michelle sounded exhausted, and I knew it wasn’t just that I’d woken her from a sound sleep. “That fellowship interview is totally stressing you out. Should I call Dr. Daniels?” She rubbed her hand across my shoulders.
I pushed my clenched fists hard into my eye sockets. “No, I’ll be okay. I’ll see him later today.”
“Maybe you should meditate?” she suggested.
I blinked hard against the onslaught of multicolored orbs dancing through my field of vision. My head was throbbing so incessantly it was difficult to think.
“No time. I need to get ready. For the interview.”
Interview day—the mere thought brought on heart palpitations. Today I was interviewing for the prestigious Breckinridge Fellowship. As a graduate student on scholarship, I was required to do the grunt work for my adviser’s research and act as teaching assistant for his undergraduate classes. But this fellowship would provide three years of exorbitant funding to pursue my own research instead. And the project I would work on was an easy choice. If I could study these night terrors, perhaps I could finally be rid of them.
“At least let me get your meds,” Michelle insisted. “You can’t shine like the code-writing, science-geek superstar that you are if you can’t even see straight.”
I gave her a weak smile and the slightest of nods. The eletriptan sometimes made me drowsy, but I didn’t have hours to meditate this attack away. I’d have to take the chance.
I clasped my sister’s elbow as she rose. “Hey, Shell? I know you would rather have a normal roommate. And I was so hopeful that would happen soon.”
Michelle began to protest, but I held up my hand. “I know it’s no fun living with this. Babysitting your older sister…” I cringed. “But I just want you to know, I appreciate it.”
Michelle smiled, but I could see the frustration swirling in the blue-green eddies of her eyes.
An hour later, the meds, some strong coffee, and a hot shower had done a credible job of restoring me to a functional human being.
I bustled to my postage-stamp of a room and pawed frantically through the tiny closet, though I had no idea what I hoped I’d find there. My entire wardrobe hung neatly in color-coded clusters, but the pickings were slim. No magical clothing fairy had left me the perfect sophisticated business outfit while I slept. I shimmied into my most comfortable black jeans, shoved my feet into a pair of simple ballet flats, and grabbed a navy button-down shirt.
In the bathroom, I self-consciously pulled my shoulder-length auburn hair into a messy bun and snapped an elastic around it. A critical examination of my ashen face didn’t inspire any of the confidence I’d need to make it through the day. I slathered a layer of foundation under my eyes to hide the deep purple bags that always appeared the morning after one of my episodes. I’d just finished applying the slightest hint of eyeliner and a touch of mascara when Michelle sauntered in, steaming coffee mug in hand. She took one look at me and wrinkled her nose.
“Is that what you’re wearing? This fellowship is a big deal. You need to nail this. You want to borrow that cute little black dress I picked up on super-clearance last month?”
I stopped a moment to consider. Maybe I should dress up for the interview.
Michelle produced the dress. I frowned. Was a little black dress appropriately conservative? I picked at the plastic button on the sleeve of my shirt, and without warning, it popped off and rolled behind the toilet.
“See,” she said, grinning. “You can’t wear that old thing—take the dress. Put it on!”
The dress wasn’t me, but I couldn’t shake the thought that I’d need to be better, smarter, and more compelling if I wanted to ace the interview. I tried it on. It fit like a glove but fell conspicuously above the knee. I tugged at the hem.
“Are you sure this isn’t too short?”
“You look great. Just take your hair out of that silly bun. It makes your face look pinched. Put on some lipstick. And you need some heels, shorty.”
At five-foot-eight, my sister towered over me by half a foot. The scientific literature concluded that sleep deficiency wasn’t to blame for my stature, but studies did note that short women are perceived as less competent. I sighed and shook my head.
“I don’t have any heels,” I replied, desperately wishing I could ditch the dress, retrieve my jeans, and slide into my vintage, perfectly broken-in Converse Chuck Taylors.
Michelle returned with a pair of black kitten heels. “Wear these.”
I slid them on; there were benefits to having a sister who shared my size and actually bought dressy clothes—on purpose. I guess if you have somewhere to go other than to class… I thanked the bargain-bin shopping gods that the heels on Michelle’s shoes were short and that I could walk in them without teetering.
My hair, released from the elastic, fell in limp waves over my shoulders. I wished fervently for a style with sassy, swingy layers, but no haircut fairy appeared, either. Instead I slapped on a layer of what I hoped was a conservative neutral lipstick from a tube so old I couldn’t remember when I’d purchased it. It looked awfully shiny to me.
Michelle eyed me critically. “The lipstick is good, but you still look…drab. Why don’t you let me do your eyes?”
I frowned impatiently. “Okay, but don’t do theater makeup on me. It’s an interview, not an audition.”
She feigned insult as she pulled out her caddy of tools and brushes. “I’m just going to give you a little brown and gold, which will perfectly complement those hazel eyes. Don’t worry. I’ll be subtle.”
When she was finished, I hardly recognized m
yself. I looked so…girly.
“Perfect. Now, go ace that interview!” Michelle’s radiant smile lit up her eyes and wrinkled her nose, which made her freckles stand out.
On my way out the door, I threw a packet of ramen noodles and a snack pack of peanuts into my battered canvas bag and dashed out of our miniscule apartment. I headed to the corner of Emerson and Churchill as quickly as my little heels would allow.
It was another perfect morning in California. Though the calendar was inching toward fall, Mother Nature refused to relinquish her seemingly endless summer in the college town of Palo Alto. Our sunny days were reliably perfect, yet just an hour’s drive north would land us in San Francisco’s famous chilly fog. The cloudless sky was an eye-popping blue that stretched all the way to the foothills. I loved living near the coast; the air here felt silky, like satin on my skin, and always smelled fresh with a hint of the sea.
The farmlands of central Illinois where Michelle and I were raised were known for their charming agricultural odors of livestock and corn pollen and I couldn’t wait to introduce my parents to my adopted state. They were expecting a fantastic harvest this year, and we hoped they would visit us soon. It would be their first visit in the six years since we’d moved to California.
The bus arrived right on schedule, and we puttered past block after block lined with multimillion-dollar homes before turning onto University Avenue. We veered past Stanford Shopping Center, where my sister’s gig as a singing waitress at Max’s Opera Café kept us in groceries. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat—Michelle was a great vocalist and a talented actor. Her gifts were wasted serving Reubens and warbling show tunes. She should be trying to make her way in LA or New York, but instead, she’d patiently endured years of my episodes, with no end in sight.
I pulled out my phone for a quick email check. The only new message was from Mom—a link to an article suggesting that vitamin B-12 supplements might improve my focus. By this she meant keep my debilitating night terrors at bay. The miles between us didn’t decrease my mother’s concern about my condition one bit. She and I both knew a bottle of vitamins couldn’t cure my disorder, but she’d never stop trying to find something that would. I wanted to curl up in her lap and cry over the latest horrors I’d witnessed, like I had as a child. But I was an adult now, and she lived half a continent away. Instead of adding to her anxiety by confessing I’d relapsed, I replied to her email with a smiley face and the three-z’s sleep emoji.
