by Glenn Kleier
He told the court he’d quit his meds when his car needed parts he couldn’t afford. It took an affidavit from his psychiatrist in Boston to get him released into TPC’s custody, on probation, with the proviso he not skip his prescription again. All the same, Tia didn’t trust him. The drug was expensive and irritated his bowels. More, it was an affront to his ego. Max liked to think nothing was beyond him when he put his mind to it. Including his mind.
“If he is off his meds,” Tia said, “I’m ready.” She pulled a small canister of chemical mace from her shorts. “Got it after my run-in with the protesters.”
Watching Ariel’s eyes grow large, Tia tucked it away. “Don’t worry, it won’t come to that. I’m afraid we’re done here. We’re not gonna beat that force field.”
She saw the despair in Ariel’s face.
The men came for another mattress, and Tia waited until they were out of earshot to say, “But I’m not leaving till we report our findings to Keller. I’m not having this on my conscience, even if it means closing TPC, Max be damned.”
Ariel looked off to the sunset, last rays catching a glint in her eyes. “Promise me,” she said, “if our time here is over, can we at least leave as friends? All of us? It would mean a lot to me.”
Tia sighed and gave Ariel a hug, and her word.
The men returned, and Stan announced, “TPC held a press conference today. If we hurry, we can catch the highlights.”
And grabbing another mattress, he and Max hustled off.
Ariel settled with the others on the floor in front of the TV. No point unpacking chairs in light of their bottleneck. Despite all their brain-wringing, they’d come up with no ideas to beat the force field. Though Max may have found a clue to what they were dealing with.
It was accepted theory in astrophysics that all singularities gave off some form of radiation. And in the case of black and white holes, lethal, ionized radiation. But Max had come across work by Stephen Hawking showing that the least dangerous singularities, including wormholes, produced no more than a magnetic field. A powerful, if harmless radiation that wrapped the vicinity in a protective bubble called an Outer Trapping Horizon.
That seemed to describe the energy field they’d experienced. And importantly, harmless. Frustrating to think they could be in the middle of a protective force field—an Outer Trapping Horizon—with no way to analyze the vortex, blocked by the massive power of the collider. They seemed at a loss, but Ariel clung to the hope they’d find a way to salvage their plan and futures.
On TV, the TPC press conference headlined the nightly news. A banner read:
THE BIG SMASH
Talawanda 1, Black Hole, 0
Cameras showed TPC director Winston Keller seated at a table inside TPC’s cafeteria, facing an array of microphones and reporters. Alongside him were senior colleagues looking exhausted, but beaming. Ariel had always admired Keller, especially so after working for him. A brilliant physicist, if hardly an ideal spokesperson. Thin and gray in clunky glasses, rumpled light suit and bow tie, eyes squinching under the lights.
Asked a question, Keller crinkled his nose. The nose thing was a tic. Habit or affliction, Ariel didn’t know. He replied, “We’re very encouraged with the quantity and quality of data. Months of work lie ahead, but we hope to make some exciting breakthroughs.” Tic.
A reporter asked, “What exactly are you looking for?”
“Our objective is to get closer to the moment of Big Bang. Within trillionths of a second. We’re not quite sure what we’ll find. New quanta particles, we expect. Insights into the nature of gravity, dark matter, dark energy, we hope.” Tic.
Another reporter: “And no chance of stumbling across a black hole in there?”
“Absolutely none. We’ve proven that now. I don’t understand why the demonstrators aren’t satisfied, why they won’t leave us to our work. We need an armed escort just to come and go.”
Tic, tic, tic.
Ariel looked to see Max scowling. He was no doubt thinking he’d make a better press liaison.
Tia screwed her face in a tic, too. “The protesters haven’t left?”
As if in answer, the picture cut to a live shot of TPC’s front gate, the crowd bigger and rowdier than ever. The coverage then shifted to an interview with Reverend Penbrook Thornton.
Max snorted, “And now for an epic display of backpedaling.”
A newswoman asked Thornton, “Seeing how TPC conducted two tests today at full power without a hitch, doesn’t that put to rest your concerns about a black hole?”
Thornton had the demeanor of a man shouldering great moral responsibility. “We were blessed today,” he said. “Tomorrow, God may not be so forgiving.”
Asked for clarification, he replied, “The odds of a black hole occurring have to do with the random nature of particle stream collisions.” He turned to the camera. “Unlike some would have you believe, I understand what’s going on here. I’ve studied cosmology.”
Max hooted, “Cosmology according to the Book of Genesis.” He snatched up the remote and aimed it at the TV.
But Ariel grabbed his hand, reminding, “Know thine enemy.”
Thornton continued, “Ignore for a moment the complex technology and its great cost. A collider, in essence, is a giant roulette wheel. A huge, high-stakes gamble. The higher the energy, the higher the stakes. TPC admits it can’t predict how the streams will interact during any given smashing. The results are subject to something called The Uncertainty Principle. It’s impossible to know if a collision will even produce useful data. That’s why they conduct so many runs.”
“And the black hole?” the newswoman asked.
“Same Uncertainty. With such extreme energies in play, a black hole could erupt during any run. Chances are slim each time, yes.” He turned earnest eyes on the camera again. “But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know, keep spinning the roulette wheel, sooner or later you land on double-zero.”
He spoke in a manner so seemingly learned, rational and heartfelt, Ariel knew many wouldn’t question. Just as she’d blindly trusted his pronouncements once. His mangling of the astrophysics enabled him and the protesters to double down.
“I have it on good authority,” Thornton finished, “the Republican National Committee will release an important statement on this matter soon.”
Max fumed, “The bastards are making it a campaign issue. No chance it’ll blow over now.”
And he switched the channel to football.
Tia snatched the remote from his hand and turned to the History channel—a documentary on John F. Kennedy. Swearing, Max sprang up and made for the hall. But halfway, he halted.
“Far as I’m concerned,” he said, turning, “you can send your email to Keller now. If that force field doesn’t stop us, the Dark Agers sure as hell will. TPC’s finished, and so are we.”
It crushed Ariel to see him give up on them. Meds or no, she let him have it.
“Go ahead, walk out on us, you’ve got somewhere to go.”
Inhaling, he calmed. “Look,” he said, “if I thought there was any hope, I’d stay. But even if we had more time, I’ve no clue how to fight 10,000 megawatts of power.”
Stan agreed. “We’d need another 10,000 megs to neutralize it. We’d need a second TPC. And we can’t even turn to TPC for help.”
No one spoke. Not a sound but the TV—a speech by John Kennedy at Rice University, 1962. Ariel had studied this period of history in high school, and she escaped into it. Into the charisma of the man. His passion, his optimism. It dawned on her what this speech was. A policy address delivered at a pivotal point in the young president’s term. And suddenly, she was struck with an epiphany. As quickly as her hopes had crumbled, they snapped back into place.
“We’re not giving up,” she declared louder than intended, jolting everyone. “If that vortex is a wormhole, it’s our answer. It gives us a way to stop the Dark Agers. We can save TPC and end the war on science, once and for all.”
“I’m dead serious.”
He crossed his arms on his chest. “You’re dead wrong. The war’s lost, Ariel. Doesn’t matter what that thing in the yard is, the country’s too nearsighted, brainwashed, and broke to care. You don’t change that overnight.”
Ariel crossed her arms back at him. “Moon landing.”
His face screwed up, and she pointed to the TV. “When John Kennedy took office,” she said, “the country was in a recession, like now. People out of work, future bleak. What did he do? He promised them the moon. And what happened? It turned everything around. Overnight. Suddenly space was a national obsession, every child wanted to be an astronaut. Science was king.”
She looked them each in the eye. “These are desperate times. Give people another star to reach for, they’ll grab it. This is the chance of a lifetime. If we’re right about a wormhole, we’ve got our moon landing. We can save TPC, we can beat the Dark Agers, we can turn it all around. We can’t quit now.”
It had them thinking.
Stan conceded, “If it is a Niles-Begley, it offers more than the moon and stars. A universe.”
Tia added, “If not multiverses.”
But Max shook his head again. “Reality check, gang. We’ve got a 10,000-meg gorilla in the room. We’re boxed in and running out of time.” He angled his head at Ariel. “If you’ve got a suggestion, let’s hear it.”
She angled her head back. “Think outside the box. If I can prove we’re dealing with a safer form of singularity, is everyone still on board?”
Tia placed a hand on Ariel’s arm. “Mi corazón, this is a damned big gorilla.”
Ariel grinned. “Leave him to me.”
Chapter 38
Sunday, October 7, 9:56 am, Talawanda
Ariel stood outside the tent door, shifting her feet as the collider’s morning run drew near. She and her team were preparing to test the idea she’d proposed last night, trying to determine if the singularity they were dealing with was a less-dangerous form. Ideally, a wormhole.
Now in the bright light of day, however, Ariel wasn’t feeling quite so optimistic.
Her approach to their problem was in sharp contrast to how her friends had attacked it. Ariel was applying science at its most basic level. As Max put it, “grade-school tech.” She was inspired by something Stephen Hawking once said: All singularities emitted radiation, but less-dangerous types, such as wormholes, produced harmless, magnetic radiation. The team’s efforts to study their singularity was blocked by a Trapping Horizon force field that could be masking a dangerous type of singularity. With their sophisticated gauges rendered useless, however, the team had given up. Until last night, when Ariel had an inspiration.
“Maybe the way to deal with our gorilla,” she’d offered, “is from outside the room.”
Since the force field prevented them from analyzing the singularity, Ariel had proposed focusing on the force field, instead. She’d suggested a simple experiment, and though her friends held out little hope, they’d no objection. If Ariel failed, their moon shot was over, regardless.
From her vantage point at the tent door, Ariel had full view of the others. Tia to the east by the doghouse, Stan to the west by the drive, and Max to the north near the porch—well outside the influence of the force field, like Newton. Assuming, that is, the field was a uniform sphere. Ariel could also see into the tent to spot the vortex when it arrived, then signal its phases to the others to begin the experiment.
The seconds ticked away, and suddenly Newton began to yelp. Ariel raised an arm. Once the force field came between her and her friends, she’d be reduced to visual communication only. The others stood holding a small object in their hands. A cheap, directional compass picked up at the dollar store this morning.
At last Newton fell mute, the vortex appeared, the hole opened, and Ariel waved the others on. They inched toward her, eyes on their compasses. But as they drew to within ten feet, they all came to a stop, each inside the force field now. Ariel could hear them cheering.
Tia cried, “My needle clearly pointed straight to the vortex before going haywire.”
“Mine, too,” Stan said with a grin. “Exactly as you predicted.”
Max conceded, “Likewise. No question, the singularity emits magnetic radiation. Congrats.”
Ariel felt herself blush. Her idea was so simple, she couldn’t believe the others hadn’t thought of it. They smothered her in hugs until she begged, “Enough,” and beckoned everyone into the tent.
They gathered at the table, still celebrating as the vortex whirled and pulsed before them.
“So,” Ariel said, “our singularity is one of the safer types? We’re good to proceed?”
She got three, enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Tia asked, “So what’s our next step?”
Everyone looked to Ariel as if she had the answer. Taken aback, she regarded the swirling aperture. “I, I’m not sure. But it occurred to me, if we can’t use gauges to study it, maybe we could approach it the way Edison did the light bulb. You know, old-fashioned trial-and-error.”
Back in the 1880s, Edison had tested more than 1,600 random materials before discovering a filament to invent the electric light.
Stan said, “You mean, toss stuff inside it?”
“More or less.”
He blinked. “This light bulb has the wattage to light up a city. We may be in the safer range of the singularity spectrum, but an error could still prove lethal.”
“I don’t mean be reckless. We can take precautions.”
Tia said, “If that thing is some sort of aneurism, chucking stuff inside could rupture it.” By “aneurism,” Tia meant a weak spot in the membrane separating their universe from another. “Just breaching the event horizon could burst it. We won’t get a mulligan.”
Max sat back in his chair. “I’m with Ariel. My gut says this singularity is stable. Think about it. It already comes in contact with matter. Atmospheric dust, pollen. Air itself is foreign matter to it. What if a leaf from the tree had drifted into it? All we’re talking about is upping the ante. Either we’re willing to take some calculated risks, or we fold our tent and go.”
The sun broke through the canopy of the tree, bathing the tent in golden light. Ariel inhaled deep, savoring the moment. Never had she felt more filled with hope and expectation.
She also felt Max’s eyes, turning to see him agog.
“My God,” he cried “Look at you.”
The others regarded Ariel with astonishment, too.
“Your skin,” Tia said. “It’s glowing.”
Ariel saw her bare arms irradiant. The sun, diffusing through the fabric of the tent, lent her complexion a surreal burnish. An effect she’d experienced before, her skin playing blank canvas to odd lighting. Another quirk of her freakish nature. Another source of unwanted attention and ridicule growing up. She felt her face grow hot, adding tint to the strange optics, no doubt.
Chapter 39
Sunday, October 7, 1:40 pm,
Talawanda
Ariel was preparing items in the tent for the new experiment she and the team had devised. In truth, more gamble than experiment. She tried not to think of Thornton’s roulette wheel.
The team had approved her idea to emulate the Edison method. Of course, the challenge they faced was vastly more complicated, stakes exponentially higher. But they would proceed with extreme caution, taking incremental steps. To Ariel’s relief, Max offered to conduct the tests. He had more guts than she, and there was one experiment she literally could not stomach.
She parked a bag on the table and began removing the contents. Tia was in the house, gathering more items and arranging to have their emptied trailers picked up. The men were returning their borrowed equipment to TPC. But they should have been back by now, and Ariel was getting concerned.
Just as she grabbed her phone to call them, she heard a vehicle i
n the drive, and peeked out the tent to see Max’s car. She relaxed—until she spied a gaping hole in its rear window.
Max screeched to a halt and got out, slamming the door, beads of glass tinkling down the trunk. Stan was at his heels clutching two items Ariel couldn’t identify.
“Goddamned bastards,” Max railed, face red as a crimson maple.
Tia exited the house to join them, and Stan told her, “The picketers smashed Max’s window.”
Presumably with the items in Stan’s hands, which Ariel could now make out as a dark, stone figurine, and what looked to be a bible.
“Either of you hurt?” Tia asked.
Stan said, “Thanks to the National Guard, no. But the state troopers never lifted a finger.”
Max lifted a finger—a middle finger—in the direction of TPC. He stormed into the tent, and the others followed, Ariel and Tia exchanging nervous glances. But when Max saw things set out for the experiments, his attention turned to his preparations, and his swearing subsided.
As the clock neared 2:00, the team stopped what they were doing to assemble in the center of the tent. They faced a tripod camera on the table, Max and Ariel on one side of where the vortex would appear, Stan and Tia, the other. An official portrait to memorialize their work here. As Max put it, “Documenting for the Ages.”
The noises arose and cycled through, the vortex materialized, and when the hole opened, Max produced a cigar and stuck it in his teeth. Everyone smiled for the camera. Then, while Max remained by the vortex, the others took their places behind the table.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” they replied.
Max struck a match on the seat of his pants, lit the cigar, turned to the hole, and with the barest breath, he released a donut of smoke. Everyone drew back, and Ariel tensed as the ring floated with agonizing lethargy toward the center of the void. To disappear.
They waited. Max circled the vortex, stating for the camera, “No detectable response to tobacco particulates. The smoke entered inertly, no sign the aperture either attracts or repels.”