Shared Frequency

"The universe has rules. I just wish it would post them somewhere before I break them."

Taking a moment to steady my breathing and wipe the evidence of tears from my face, I abandoned the half-packed boxes. The grief hadn't gone anywhere—it had burrowed in somewhere behind my ribs, made itself at home in the spaces between heartbeats—but there was work to be done. There was always work to be done.

The packing could wait. What I needed was answers.

I climbed the stairs and made my way to the study, finding myself staring at the blank wall with my fingers twitching. The Portal Key sat heavy in my pocket, its earlier failure looming large in my mind. What if it didn't work again? What if whatever had gone wrong was permanent? The thought of being trapped on Earth—unable to reach Clivilius, unable to help the settlers, unable to do anything but watch from a distance as everything I'd built fell apart—was almost more than I could bear.

"Just bloody do it already!" I chided myself, the stern self-admonishment cutting through the paralysis of fear.

I listened to that more confident voice—the part of me that refused to be cowed by uncertainty, that had pushed through every obstacle so far and would push through this one too. My hand retrieved the Portal Key. My trembling finger found the small button. I slid it across, bracing for disappointment.

A bright flash banished the shadows of doubt.

The study wall came alive with swirling colour—those impossible, beautiful patterns that still made my breath catch even after all these weeks. Purple and blue and green spiralling together, the edges of reality bending to accommodate something that shouldn't exist.

Relief flooded through me so intensely my knees nearly buckled. It worked. Whatever had been wrong, it was fixed now. I wasn't trapped. I wasn't helpless. I could still reach Clivilius.

I stepped through without hesitation, needing to confirm the portal actually led where it was supposed to lead. The transition was instantaneous—that strange sensation of displacement, of being nowhere for a fraction of a second before being somewhere else entirely.

Warm swirls of dust danced about my feet as I emerged on the other side. The Drop Zone stood not far off, its familiar stone sentinels a welcome sight.

I was here. I'd made it.

What the hell had happened?

My eyes scanned the surroundings, searching for any indication of what might have caused the earlier malfunction. But nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The landscape was unchanged. Whatever had blocked my Portal Key, it wasn't visible here.

I was left with nothing but an accepting shrug and a fervent hope that such failure would never repeat itself. The thought of being stranded—on either side of the portal, unable to cross—was too terrifying to dwell on.

Back in the study, relief at the portal's restoration mingled with new uncertainty. Could objects traverse as freely as before, or had the malfunction altered something fundamental? There was only one way to find out.

My hands gripped the white desk that dominated the study, its surface cool and unyielding under my fingers. This desk had been my workspace for years. Now it was going to become furniture for the settlement, repurposed just like everything else in my life.

With a determined grunt, I pulled the desk toward me.

Shit, this thing is heavier than I realised.

The effort it took to move it even slightly was a stark reminder of the physical demands ahead. My arms strained, muscles burning, and the desk barely budged. After another hefty pull, I paused, breath coming heavy, sweat already beginning to bead at my temples.

The memory of dismantling this desk six months ago surfaced unbidden. I'd moved it from the back room to this study on a whim, drawn by the desire to gaze out the window overlooking the main road. There was something inherently relaxing about watching the native hens emerge from the thick scrub to feed by the roadside—their awkward waddle, their territorial squabbles, their complete indifference to the human world observing them. It had been a simple pleasure, a momentary escape from the complexities of a life that had grown increasingly complicated.

The desk, in its assembled state, hadn't fit through the doorway. What should have been a straightforward relocation had turned into a painful exercise in deconstruction—removing legs and drawers and the backing panel, carting everything through in pieces, then spending an entire afternoon reassembling it with instructions that seemed designed to confuse.

"Actually," I mumbled to myself, a faint smile playing on my lips despite the circumstances. Dismantling it had been the easy part. A process of undoing, of breaking down into manageable pieces. Anyone could take something apart with enough determination and the right tools.

It was the reassembly that had tested me. The challenge of putting all the pieces back together in a way that made sense, that restored function and purpose. I'd misaligned the drawers twice. Put the backing panel on upside down. Ended up with extra screws that seemed to come from nowhere and serve no purpose. Jamie had found me on the floor surrounded by components, swearing at the instructions, and had laughed so hard he'd cried.

That was always the challenge, wasn't it? I had the strength and determination to tear things apart, to dismantle and destroy and start anew. Building things—creating order from chaos, constructing something that would last—that was definitely not my forte.

The realisation, while not new, hit me with renewed force as I contemplated not just the desk but the broader metaphor it represented. Everything I'd done lately had been about tearing down—tearing people from their lives, tearing apart my relationship with Jamie, tearing holes in the fabric between worlds. The real challenge lay ahead: building something worthwhile from the wreckage.

But now is not the time for philosophical reflection, I mused, a light chuckle escaping. Now is the time for moving furniture.

Channelling what felt like an endless supply of determination—coupled with a generous amount of grunting—I pushed and pulled the heavy desk toward the portal. The effort was monumental, every inch a battle against weight and friction and the stubborn reluctance of inanimate objects to cooperate with human will.

Through the portal, the transition was jarring—the cool dimness of the study giving way instantly to the warm brightness of Clivilius. I kept pushing, kept pulling, my feet struggling for purchase in the thick ochre dust that seemed to resist every step.

Finally, I stopped, wiping the salty sweat from my brow. The desk and I had barely made it more than a few metres beyond the portal before exhaustion forced a halt. The dust had clogged around the desk's bottom edges, creating furrows in its surface like tiny ploughed fields.

"This'll do," I grumbled, giving the desk a slap across the think and heavy glass that covered its white desktop. It shone bright under the warm Clivilian sun.

"Guess what?" Paul's voice broke through my focus, causing me to jump.

I spun toward the sound, heart racing, hands instinctively rising before I registered who it was. My brother stood a few metres away, grinning with that particular expression of barely contained excitement that usually preceded something chaotic.

"I'm not particularly in the mood," I responded tersely, my voice betraying the exhaustion and raw emotion that gnawed at my edges. Paul's exuberance, normally a welcome counterpoint to my tendency toward brooding, felt overwhelming right now. His energy was too much, too bright, too demanding of engagement I didn't have the capacity to provide.

"We can access the internet," Paul blurted out anyway, his excitement undimmed by my lacklustre response.

In one fluid motion, he jumped up and sat on the edge of the desk I had just transported through sheer will and determination. The desk creaked slightly under his weight, and I felt my eye twitch at the casual presumption.

"Get off," I scowled, swatting him across the back in a gesture that fell somewhere between brotherly and genuinely annoyed.

Paul pouted as he slid off, the movement slight given how close his long legs came to the ground even when perched. His reaction—the exaggerated disappointment, the theatrical wounded pride—was so typically Paul that it almost made me smile despite myself.

"What's your problem?" he asked, genuine concern emerging beneath the casual inquiry.

I sighed, the weight of everything making it difficult to articulate even the simplest truth. "I'm just tired," I admitted. It was an understatement of massive proportions, but it was all I had the energy to offer. Tired covered a multitude of sins—the grief, the fear, the guilt, the relentless pressure of holding everything together while feeling myself falling apart.

Paul's impromptu decision to help move the desk caught me off guard. Without warning, he pushed me aside with surprising force and grabbed hold of the desk's edge, giving it a firm pull.

The desk's stubborn refusal to budge more than an inch from his effort brought a genuine smile to my face. I couldn't help but chuckle at the look of surprise and mild indignation that crossed my brother's features—the realisation that this was harder than it looked, that brute enthusiasm wasn't a substitute for technique.

"Help me carry it to the Drop Zone," Paul said, his grin widening despite the failed solo attempt. His hands mimed the motion of lifting, an unsubtle hint about the cooperation he was requesting.

My eyes rolled in a mixture of exasperation and resignation. "Fine," I conceded, recognising the futility of arguing.

Together, we positioned ourselves at opposite ends of the desk, our hands finding purchase under its considerable weight. The initial lift was marked by grunts from both of us—mine weary, his surprised—as the true heft of the thing became apparent.

The journey toward the Drop Zone was slow, punctuated by several stops as we paused to catch our breath and muster the strength to continue. The ochre dust kicked up around our feet with each shuffling step, coating our shoes and the bottom of the desk in a fine layer of Clivilian soil.

"Did you hear what I said before?" Paul asked, breaking the silence that had settled between us as we focused on not dropping our burden.

"Do we really have to talk while we move?" I responded through gritted teeth, the effort of carrying making multi-tasking feel impossible.

"Yeah," Paul insisted, undeterred. "It's exciting."

"Fine," I huffed, a reluctant agreement to engage in conversation despite wanting nothing more than to finish this task in silence. "You talk. I'll listen."

As Paul launched into the narrative of his recent adventures, I found myself caught between competing impulses. On one hand, impatience gnawed at me, urging me to dismiss the details as trivial—just Paul being Paul, getting excited about technology while the real problems of the settlement went unaddressed. On the other hand, curiosity piqued despite my resistance, drawing me into the intricacies of his tale.

He spoke of Beatrix and Nial, of a router they'd somehow acquired, of experiments with wifi signals and the logistical challenges of getting supplies for the perimeter fence. The technical jargon washed over me in waves—some of it comprehensible, some of it the particular brand of gibberish that Paul spoke when he got excited about something I didn't have the real patience to understand.

My eyes narrowed as I tried to piece together the puzzle he was laying out, not from disinterest but from effort. There was something here, something potentially important, if I could just grasp what it meant.

"The downside," Paul noted, his voice cutting through my concentration, "is that because the router still had to be connected on the earth side, Beatrix had to keep her portal open the entire time."

The words hit me like a physical impact, stopping me mid-step. "And this was today?" I demanded, interrupting whatever he'd been about to say next. The timing of their experiment was aligning too closely with my own problems, the coincidence too significant to ignore.

"Yeah. This morning," Paul confirmed, his casual tone suggesting he hadn't grasped the importance of what he'd just revealed.

"Interesting," was all I managed to say, the word so soft it was almost lost in the breeze. My mind raced ahead of the conversation, weaving together fragments of information into a hypothesis that demanded exploration. If Beatrix's portal had been open while I was trying to activate my Portal Key... if there was some kind of interference between Guardians...

“What’s interesting?" Paul's curiosity was evident, his question an anchor pulling me back from the precipice of my racing thoughts.

"We would need to test it," I said, more to myself than to him, the idea taking solid form in my mind.

"Test what?"

"Fuck's sake, Paul, keep up, will you," I snapped, frustration and excitement mingling as I started toward the portal with renewed purpose. The desk forgotten, the exhaustion forgotten—there was a theory to test, a mystery to solve.

"But you haven't really said anything," Paul protested, bewilderment evident in his voice.

He was right, of course. I'd made connections in my head without bothering to articulate them. A bad habit, Jamie had always said—assuming people could follow my leaps of logic without being given any of the intermediate steps.

Halting in my tracks, I turned to face my brother. "When Beatrix next arrives, tell her to contact me. I have an experiment of my own to conduct with her," I declared, my voice carrying a certainty that brooked no argument.

Beneath the surface, excitement bubbled—a rare feeling of anticipation at the prospect of discovery. This wasn't just about solving the problem of my malfunctioning Portal Key. This was about understanding something fundamental about how our abilities worked, something that could have implications far beyond today's inconvenience.

Paul's mischievous grin, so familiar and so infuriating, added tension to the air. "Speak of the devil," he teased, his gaze flicking to somewhere behind me.

I turned, heels sinking slightly into the soft ochre dust. The portal had burst back to life—and something was coming through.

My eyes widened at the sight unfolding before me. A large vehicle with a caravan in tow emerged from the swirling colours, its appearance heralding something unexpected. The vehicle navigated the transition with ease, tyres finding purchase on the Clivilian soil as it pulled clear of the portal's threshold.

Beatrix stepped out of the driver's side, pulling her hair back and securing it with a hair tie she'd had wrapped around her wrist. Strands rebelled against confinement, dancing in the warm breeze that swept across the landscape.

"Beatrix!" My voice carried across the distance, laden with urgency and keen anticipation.

"Can you two unhitch the caravan?" Beatrix's request cut through my excitement as she continued her battle with the disobedient strands of hair.

"I need to test something with you," I insisted, brushing aside her practical concerns with a wave of my hand. The experiment I had in mind couldn't wait—the questions it might answer were too important.

"How am I supposed to move the caravan back to camp if it's not connected to a vehicle?" Paul's query carried the weight of genuine logistical concern, his frustration at being overlooked evident in his tone.

"You've got other vehicles here," Beatrix pointed out, exasperation and practicality mixing in her voice as she attempted once more to tame her hair. "Surely one of those has a tow bar you can use."

Paul grunted in response.

"You're doing a lot of grunting today," I observed, a light chuckle escaping as I gave Paul a playful slap across the shoulder.

Despite his reluctance, Paul shifted his attention to the immediate task, beginning the process of unhitching the caravan. As the coupling was released, the car bounced slightly, freed from its burden.

Turning back to Beatrix, I was eager to explore the implications of my theory. "I can't go through your portal, nor you through mine, right?" I asked, seeking confirmation of our established limitations.

"Right," she replied, her tone cautious, eyes narrowing as she tried to anticipate where this was heading.

"So, what if that also means that I can't open my portal if you have yours open, and vice versa?" I posed the question with the particular satisfaction of someone presenting a puzzle they've already solved.

Beatrix's gasp was immediate, a sharp intake of breath as the implications hit her. "The router," she whispered, the word heavy with dawning realisation.

"Exactly!" My response was animated, energised by the alignment of our thoughts. "I'm pretty sure my Portal Key wasn't working at the same time that you had your portal active with that blasted router."

"Shit," Beatrix uttered, her expression shifting to mirror my own concern. Her eyes widened with comprehension of what this could mean—for our operations, for our communication, for every plan we'd made assuming our abilities operated independently.

The discovery wasn't just about inconvenience. If two Guardians couldn't use their portals simultaneously, it created vulnerabilities we hadn't accounted for. What if one of us was trapped, unable to escape because the other had their portal open? What if we accidentally blocked each other at a critical moment?

We needed to know for certain.

"I have a small truck with fence supplies to bring through," I said, my mind already formulating the test. "Beatrix, go somewhere safe on earth and wait for two minutes. Give me enough time to get this truck here. I'll leave my portal active for another few minutes, and in that time, you keep trying your Portal Key." The plan was clear, each step designed to confirm or refute our theory with precision.

"Yeah, good idea," Beatrix agreed, anticipation and apprehension mixing in her voice. She understood, as I did, that this experiment might prove something we didn't want to be true.

"What about the internet?" Paul attempted to interject, desperation threading through his words.

"Not now, Paul," I snapped, perhaps more harshly than the situation warranted. But my focus was absolute, honed on the experiment and its potential to shift our understanding of everything. The internet could wait. The intricacies of digital connection could wait. We were on the cusp of a discovery that could impact us drastically.