Arcana 99: Stage One

Of course, I had heard of the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon. After all, it was a prime opportunity to reveal my genius to the world (and gain a non-trivial amount of money). My plans were meticulous, they had to be. Like all major advancements, there could be no flaws, else that would become the excuse for not moving forward.

It had happened with the automobile,

“Why should we rely on oil and machines to make us travel when a horse does just as well?”

“It’s barely any faster than a horse, and can’t even go off paved roads.”

And the airplane,

“It can’t even carry more than one passenger, it will never replace rail and sea.”

“It crashes too often. It’s just unsafe.”

Nevermind the fact that horses required fuel in the form of food. Nevermind the fact that a horse could tire or become injured. Nevermind the fact that planes could traverse previously impassable terrain. Nevermind the fact that boats and trains can sink and crash as well. Nevermind the fact that these arguments had opposed every advancement in human history and not once have they changed.

Nevermind. Nevermind. Nevermind.

I stepped out of the back of my trailer; I shouldn’t be near the equipment when I am this irritable. I looked to my right and saw Jacqueline Santos-Dumont’s plane. It was a marvel of engineering, and the fact that she had designed and built it herself would have been a major inspiration for me if I were younger. Instead, my inspirations were Emmy Noether and Marie Curie. Inspirer or no, colleague or no, it pained me to take the win from her. Dumont was also flying to prove the fruits of her own mind, but this race was the only way I could demonstrate my own creation to the world; any other way would result in discounting it as a hoax. Besides, Dumont was already well known and would surely have other opportunities to show off her skills.

I made my way to the front of the truck. On the way, I noticed a man had parked a motorcycle between my own and Dumont’s vehicles. He was alone, so I surmised that his partner had not shown up yet. Having reached the cab, I conversed with our driver, Hank, about our plan.

“Just so we’re clear when the race starts, don’t drive,” I said.

“Look, I’m fine with waiting to start, but could you at least tell me why?”

I smiled and shook my head, “That would just spoil the fun.”

Content with how well I believed Hank understood my instructions, I made my way back to the trailer. Once inside, I marveled again at my potentially wonderful creation. Potentially was only an operator here because I had to alter the original design to fit in the trailer. Doing so resulted in little room to maneuver. Pipes, antennae, motors, and cables filled every square inch of the space, leaving only a very specific route from one end to the other.

Along that route sat (layed?) a man entwined within the mechanical mess. He had his foot sitting inside a (purposeful) crevice of a cooling tank, and his hands were exploring the electrical depths of the main core of the machine. That man was my assistant, Charles Antony Tepper, and the only reason I was able to fit the machine inside this small trailer. My original plan was to unpack and build it outside; the open area would make issue detection and repairs simpler. However, he had the idea of packing it inside the truck and utilizing his small frame and nimble hands to reach around corners. Of the months we had spent preparing the machine for transport, less than half was spent making the design smaller. Most of our time was spent on optimizing the design of Charles’ footholds to be as unobtrusive as possible while still being useful. In the end, I was able to work on the most vital parts in the front while he could handle the little bits I couldn’t reach.

I heard a deafening roar outside, the race had started, “Charles, are you almost done?” I cupped my hands around my mouth to make myself louder.

Charles poked his head above the piping, “I just need to double-check the connection here,” he looked around himself, “and escape.”

I closed the trailer doors and grabbed the handheld transceiver from its mount on the door, “Hank, can you hear me?”

A static-filled moment passed before an answer came through, “Yes. And, before you ask, no, I haven’t started the truck.”

“Good, we’re almost done back here, so get ready.”

Another pause, “Ok.”

By then Charles had made his way out of the machine and reached the starting lever. I approached mine, counted down, and flipped the switch. The machine’s hum filled the room and the entire trailer began to shake. I say began, but it truthfully only shook once then stopped. Despite the short length of the event, I was able to think of potential consequences. We were either going to land safely, appear inside something and explode into billions of tiny pieces, appear inside something and watch it explode into billions of tiny pieces, miss the field entirely, or die mid-transit.

God, this is so fun.

I was excited, and when I discovered I didn’t die, my excitement grew.

“What was that!”

Hank’s frightened response did nothing but increase my elation. I took a step towards the trailer door, opened it, and stepped outside. I was inside of a small field surrounded by trees on three sides and a lake on the other.

It worked!

Charles and I had a celebratory hug and dance, “What just happened!?” Hank interrupted.

I smiled at him, “We just performed the world’s first portable teleportation.”

Hank continued to ask more questions, but I stopped him. We needed to travel the final mile to Flores if we wanted to win. To ease his curiosity, I offered to sit in the cab with him and explain along the way. Charles stayed in the trailer to monitor the machine.

On our way across the land bridge, I saw that decorations for the race finish were still being placed. One such piece was a banner emblazoned with “Congratulations Dumont!” I chuckled at that one then continued to explain the inner workings of my machine to Hank.

Hank drove around the island until we saw a building with a sign for “Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon Stage 1 Offices”. We couldn’t find a place large enough for the truck to park, so we left it in the street while we stepped inside to accept our prize.

We spoke with the receptionist at the front desk. We then argued with her about how we actually were participants in the race and were not just there to steal the money. A few minutes of this passed before a tall, chubby man walked down the back stairs. I couldn’t describe a mote beyond that, I was too busy wondering how such a heavy-looking man could walk so lightly to take in his features.

“Oh, Mr. Maxwell,” The receptionist began, “I’m sorry for being so loud, but these people simply refuse to leave, and,” She leaned towards him and whispered (though it was loud enough for us to hear), “They keep saying they’ve won the race. Not the brightest scam artists I’ve seen.”

The man looked at us, glanced at the door, then approached us, “I’m sorry for my employee's rudeness,” He spoke in a slow deliberate manner with frequent second-long pauses. Every word he spoke was meticulously selected and weighed before it left his mouth, “But, you must understand that with. . . our current knowledge someone being able to move from the start to the finish this quickly is improbable.”

“Yes, it is, but I did. Go check your records, we signed up this morning at the starting line.” I said.

“Yeah, and I even had to deal with a race official ranting about how no one read the rules,” Hank added.

Mr. Maxwell nodded; it was just as deliberate as his voice, “I understand your frustrations with not being believed,” He glanced at the doorway again, “If you would please lead me to your vehicle, we can get this situation sorted.”

I agreed and led him out the door and into the small lot of the office. Mr. Maxwell then looked directly at Hank’s truck, “That is your vehicle then? It seems so ordinary, yet it brought you here so soon. And, the choice of such a cumbersome vehicle for this event is. . . odd. May I see inside?”

I barely had time to register his last request as he had already reached the trailer doors.

“No! You can’t.” Charles said, blocking Maxwell’s way, “We’re keeping the specifics of our transport a secret. At least, until someone is willing to buy it.”

Mr. Maxwell respectfully stepped away from the door and looked at Charles, “Ah, you wish to keep your discovery confidential. That is reasonable, for now.” Maxwell looked at the truck doors again, then turned around. He stared for a moment. I followed his gaze and my eyes fell upon the field we had landed in just a few minutes ago. Maxwell looked back to me, “It appears that your group did travel here. I will notify Mr. Grenfell of your success and return with your money shortly. However, due to the suspicious nature of your arrival, you must remain here for the next fortnight while we investigate the matter.”

“What? Then we’d lose our lead!”

“Do not be alarmed. I will have all other competitors follow suit. In the end, you will still have the same lead as before.”

Not one of us had a response for the man, so we watched in silence as his large frame quietly vanished behind the doorframe of the building. The entire ordeal had unnerved me greatly and revealed a large hunger within me.

Perhaps a side effect of the teleportation? Hmm. . .

Though, that was a question for another hour. For now, the three of us made our way to find food. It was difficult to order given how the vendor only spoke Q’eqchi’, but we were eventually able to get our meanings to each other.

Speaking of language barriers, I was surprised that Mr. Maxwell could speak French so fluently

We returned to the truck and Hank drove us back to the mainland and found a place to park. We bought rooms at a nearby hotel and lounged the rest of the day away. When it was finally time to sleep, I was barely capable of the act. Come tomorrow, reporters from across the globe would arrive to interview the race’s victor to learn how she achieved such a feat. I was nervous, but the fame and notability I could gain from that would propel my career beyond what anyone else has ever achieved. My discovery was sure to net a Nobel Prize. I’d become the next Tesla, the next Einstein, the next Rockefeller. . .

I fell asleep shortly afterward to my dreams of glory. In the morning, I would awake to find most of my predictions were true (No Nobel and no Rockefeller, sadly). Even with the mystery of instantaneous movement solved, I was destined to uncover a mystery far greater than I could ever dream.

I am Sheri Hoy Parfit, and this race is how I changed the world.