Reality Matrix Effect (9781310151330)
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The
Reality Matrix Effect
Laura Remson Mitchell
The Reality Matrix Effect
Laura Remson Mitchell
Copyright 2013 by Laura Remson Mitchell
Published by Boo What Books at Smashwords
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What if…?
What if Ronald Reagan had never been President of the United States?
What if…?
And what if the first African-American President were a former Republican Senator from Massachusetts who was elected in 1980?
What if…?
In fact, what if the whole world you thought knew turned out to be only one of many versions of reality?
What if…?
…And what if you learned that you were responsible for shifting the world into one of these alternate realities?
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my husband, Neil; to our son, Brian; to friends who encouraged me to complete and publish this novel; to my brother Gary Remson, who helped proofread the book; and to those who dream of a better world—and then help to make that world a reality.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
Chapter 1: What’s in the Box
Chapter 2: Of Robbies and Rock Farmers
Chapter 3: History Lesson
Chapter 4: Who am I?
Chapter 5: Research
Chapter 6: Merchanters’ Retreat
Chapter 7: Perceptions
Chapter 8: Library Run
Chapter 9: Sign of the Times
Chapter 10: Discontinuity
Chapter 11: Reunion
Chapter 12: Dinner at Eduardo’s
Chapter 13: Nitinol in the News
Chapter 14: Operation Strong Man
Chapter 15: Roots
Chapter 16: Undercover Operation
Chapter 17: Of Plots New and Old
Chapter 18: Ordeal
Chapter 19: Crisis of Faith
Chapter 20: The Great Debate
Chapter 21: Bed Rest
Chapter 22: Celebration
Chapter 23: Something in the Wind
Chapter 24: Castles in the Air
Chapter 25: Proving Their Mettle
Chapter 26: Flies in the Ointment
Chapter 27: A Day at the Park
Chapter 28: What Things May Come
AFTERWORD
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
END NOTES
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to Gary Zukav, author of The Dancing Wu Li Masters, which gave me a new understanding of quantum physics and the nature of what we call “reality.” Thanks also to Frederick E. Wang, co-inventor of Nitinol, who sent me a sample of Nitinol wire and answered several questions I had about this material. And on a personal note, many thanks to Madelyn, Norman and Paul Gilbreath, who read this book and gave me hope that others might be interested; to Linda Nudel and Jan Merlin for encouraging me to pursue the idea of publishing this book; and to my husband, Neil, and my son, Brian, who put up with my preoccupation with completing and publishing this novel.
PROLOGUE
Thursday, March 25, 1971
Al Frederick didn’t feel much like going back to work. Not after a whole month of what George Locke euphemistically called “scheduled overtime.” As far as Al was concerned, it was more like indentured servitude. It was stupid, too. George’s title might be “managing editor,” Al thought, but if he could manage things worth a damn, we wouldn’t have to put up with that kind of crap. Hell, the way things had been lately, he and Vickie hardly had the chance to see each other outside of working hours.
At least this time, there was a decent reason. When you work for a daily newspaper—even a small one like the Valley Star—and a really big story breaks, you have to figure you might be needed. That’s how it was with the San Fernando earthquake in February, and with all the assassination stories of the past few years, too. So he wasn’t angry when the call came after John Martin Roberts was shot. Still, he could have used more than four hours of sleep after that last 10-hour shift.
“Okay, Herb. Whaddaya got for me?” Al asked the copy-desk chief as he settled into a chair along the rim of the aging, horseshoe-shaped table. The two men already sitting on the rim greeted Al with casual waves of the hand and then quickly returned their attention to the stories they were editing.
Sitting in the copy-desk slot, as usual, Herb grinned and ran his fingers through his wispy gray hair. “‘Whaddaya got?’” he repeated, looking up from a pile of typed stories and wire-service copy. “What kind of talk is that for a copy editor? You know it should be, ‘Whaddaya have!’”
Al feigned a look of contrition.
“You’re absolutely right, Herb. I’ll watch that. Now, whaddaya got for me?”
The two of them laughed, and Herb began sifting through the papers before him as Al glanced across the roomful of typewriters and gray metal desks to where Vickie was already hard at work, her face aglow with deadline adrenaline. He heaved a sigh and ran a hand over his trim brown beard. He could think of a lot of things he’d rather be doing right now, and every one of them involved a 26-year-old reporter named Vickie Kingman.
“You’re just in time to handle the revised lead for the next edition,” Herb told him, giving him a loosely folded length of paper consisting of pages that had been pasted into a single continuous strip. “Taylor patched most of this together from wire copy. By time you’re through with it, Vickie’ll probably have the local reaction sidebar ready, and you can tackle that.”
Al nodded as he forced his attention to the story:
“Trouble is brewing in 10 of the nation’s largest cities as a stunned world grieves following the tragic death of Congressman John Martin Roberts.
“Ironically, the popular statesman was struck down by an assassin’s bullets as he completed an appeal to his fellow legislators urging passage of a strong gun-control bill. Police and selected Army units have been placed on special alert in anticipation of possible rioting.”
Al massaged the bridge of his narrow, aquiline nose. Things never change, he thought. Twenty years since he got his first newspaper job—a kid fresh out of high school—and the stories were still the same. Cops and robbers, political shenanigans, riots, murder, hatred, greed, war or the constant threat of it—the whole world progressively falling to pieces.
He used to think of the future as an upward spiral, he remembered, always holding out the promise of something better. Now he seldom thought of the world’s future at all, and his thoughts of his own future were limited to providing for the necessities of life and to nurturing his relationship with Vickie. His career, which he had once considered a calling of almost religious significance, was now just a job.
Serenaded by the clatter of typewriters, he breathed in the familiar copy-desk odors of pencil shavings, rubber cement and cigarette smoke. The setting brought normally subconscious thoughts into sharp focus. Truth was, this job could get to you if you let it.
It wasn’t just the low pay and the crazy hours. It was the news itself. Most people in the business learned to accept the daily horrors that confronted them on the job. You had to maintain your emotional distance. So, someh
ow, you trained yourself to ignore the human misery in the stories you worked on. It was like the now-permanent layer of accumulated ink and pencil smudges that coated the copy desk: After a while, you didn’t even see it anymore. At 38, he had it all worked out. No more castles in the air. The world had disappointed him so often he was used to it. It just didn’t touch him now. Or so he’d been telling himself.
“Damn shame about Roberts,” one of Al’s colleagues on the rim commented as Herb handed him another story to edit. “Roberts is the first politician I’ve had any use for in a long time.”
“Yeah,” Herb answered, adjusting his glasses to sit more comfortably on his nose. “He was all right.”
Herb Deutsch had been in the newspaper business close to four decades. Few people in public life—especially politicians—had impressed him. From Herb, “all right” was high praise.
Al said nothing, but an emptiness filled his gut, and a tightness stiffened his jaw muscles.
“Hey Al, I know you worked the night shift and you’re tired, but if you’re gonna go to sleep, don’t you think you ought to close your eyes first?”
Al suddenly realized that he’d been staring straight ahead in a daze. “Sorry, Herb.”
“You sure you’re okay? Your dark circles are getting dark circles. Maybe you should’ve told George to shove it when he called.”
Al waited a beat before answering. “I’m fine, Herb.”
Deutsch cocked an eyebrow and studied his co-worker. “Yeah. Sure you are.”
Al smiled sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders. “It’s funny. You think you’ve given up on the world—that you just don’t give a damn anymore. Then all of a sudden something happens and—boom!—you find out you’re really just a marshmallow inside. A marshmallow that, in spite of everything, believes in Santa Claus and happy endings.”
“Still the dreamer, eh, Al? Still rooting for the good guys?”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it? Even though the bad guys keep on winning.”
“Yeah, well, dreams die hard. But do me a favor. While you’re dreaming your dreams, how about editing that story. We have a deadline coming up, you know.”
Al nodded and turned back to the copy in front of him. The editing didn’t take long. It was a reasonably well done story—no glaring errors, omissions or inconsistencies. A few spelling and grammatical corrections, a paragraphing change here and there, a little polish on a few awkwardly written sentences, and it was ready. Now to write the headline:
Riots Threaten 10 Cities in Wake
of National Leader’s Assassination
Al studied the half-sheet of copy paper on which he’d written the headline, then called out “Copy!” as he attached the sheet to the edited story.
If only the man hadn’t died, Al thought with a sad shake of the head. If only that bastard had just wounded him. John Martin Roberts could have been something special. He seemed to bring out the best in people instead of the worst.... Well, he brooded, I guess now we’ll never know.
Almost absent-mindedly, he handed the copyboy a pile of material ready to be set in type. Then he saw it.
“Wait a minute!” he yelled as the boy began to leave. Wide-eyed, he took the top story from the stack in the boy’s hands. It was the story he had just edited. He recognized his handwritten corrections and his initials in the top right-hand corner. But the headline wasn’t quite the same. His eyes riveted on the final word of the altered head:
Riots Threaten 10 Cities in Wake
of Roberts Assassination Attempt
“What’s the matter, Al?” Herb asked as the wire service machines in the alcove down the hall began clanging to announce a hot incoming story.
Al continued to stare at the headline sheet in shocked silence. Time seemed to slow, and the sharp sounds of the alarm bell dulled to a surreal refrain as the letters before him danced in a nightmarish jumble of confusion. Yet, even as he felt himself drifting helplessly past the hard edge of reality, another part of Al Frederick was coolly assessing the situation. Without conscious control, his senses picked up all that was happening about him. Without conscious effort, the small part of him that remained rational put the pieces together into a picture that he somehow saw without really seeing.
By now, the copyboy had dutifully responded to the racket and delivered the wire copy to George Locke. Though Al’s eyes remained fixed blankly on the headline sheet, they could see the boy rip the paper from the wire-service machines and hurry to the managing editor’s desk. And, while his ears were deaf to Herb’s urgent whispers of concern, Al was fully aware of Locke’s instructions to the copy chief:
“Hold on over there, Herb,” Locke called out, pausing to bite off the end of a fresh cigar. “Has the Roberts story gone through yet?”
“No,” Herb answered. “Al was just finishing up. It’s ready to go, though.”
“Well, you’d better give him this and have him rewrite the head. Seems some folks on the scene were a little too quick to write Roberts off. He may still make it.”
Clearly annoyed about the inaccuracies in the earlier reports, Locke brought the new wire copy to the desk and handed it to Deutsch.
“When I was a general assignment reporter, I made damn sure about things before saying someone was dead. These new kids go to some fancy college where they learn all about ‘journalism’ and nothing about how to be a reporter. The TV influence, I think. They’re in such a big hurry that they don’t bother to check....
“How ya doin’, Al?” Locke said abruptly, doing a double-take as he observed Al’s glazed look. Without thinking, he glanced in the direction of Al’s stare and saw the headline.
“Hey, Al, that’s pretty good. We can still use the head. There’s still a chance of rioting, even though Roberts may pull through after all.” Locke scratched his cheek thoughtfully. “Did you hear something on the way in? Did the radio boys get it on the air already? Hell, you heard the alarm—the story just came in on the wire!”
Slowly, Al felt the world coalesce around him once again.
“You mean Roberts isn’t dead?”
“Come on, Al, you must have known he was alive! I don’t have time for games now. It’s not just this story we have to fix up. There’s Vickie’s sidebar and a few others, too. If you knew Roberts was alive when you walked in here, you damn well should have said something!”
“Lay off, George,” Herb said quietly, handing Locke the story and headline. “Al didn’t know. Look at the copy. It says Roberts was killed. Al wouldn’t have let that go if he knew better.”
“Then why doesn’t the headline say Roberts is dead?”
Herb glanced anxiously at Al before answering. “I don’t know, George, but I don’t think we have time to figure it out right now.” He tapped his wristwatch. “We still have a paper to get out.”
“Yeah,” Locke grumbled, as he walked back to his desk and began barking orders.
“Vickie, let me see what you’ve got.”
The mention of Vickie’s name seemed to rescue Al from his mental fog. He watched her working feverishly across the city room, her long, black hair occasionally falling across her face and interrupting her work as she brushed the offending strands out of the way. She added a final touch to her copy before removing it from her typewriter.
“Be right with you, George,” she answered in a self-assured voice that contrasted sharply with the look of childlike vulnerability that characterized her face. “I assume you’ll want a new lead on this,” she added as she approached Locke’s desk. “Looks like most of the stuff I got from my interviews is still okay. Especially about the chance for rioting. Lots of angry people out there.”
Locke grunted and puffed on his cigar as he took the story from her and began inspecting it. After a few seconds, his bald head bobbed approvingly. “Okay,” he said, making a few changes with a copy pencil. “Better add a graf explaining the mix-up in those first reports.”
Vickie nodded and began walking back to her desk
. Al looked up from the story before him, hoping to catch her eye as she passed, but before he could say anything, he saw Herb gesture to her. “Trouble,” the gesture seemed to say. “Your boyfriend here’s losing his mind.” Al hoped his beard would camouflage the blush he could feel spreading over his usually pale face. Meanwhile, Vickie kept walking, but her pace slowed, and she glanced back over her shoulder.
She quickly made the necessary changes in the sidebar, then deposited the story on Locke’s desk.
“Hey, Al,” she called out as she turned to face the copy desk. “I’m about through for now. Are you working on something, or can you buy me a cup of coffee?”
Al looked up from the story that had been battling vainly for his attention.
“Go on,” said Herb. “I think you can use a break.”
Al nodded and pushed the copy toward the desk chief. “Yeah,” he said, rising from his chair. “That sounds good.”
Vickie took Al’s arm and led him out of the city room. Flanked by walls badly in need of a paint job, they proceeded down a short hallway to the staff lounge.
“Hmmmm. Nobody here,” Vickie observed.
“Good,” Al answered, heading for the coffee urn. “I need to talk to you in private.”
She grinned. “I know what it is. You’ve decided we should elope now instead of waiting until fall!”
He smiled half-heartedly, warmed by the thought of their marriage plans, then drew two cups of black coffee and dropped some change into a can on the counter.
“Two teaspoons of sugar?” he asked. “It’s probably pretty strong again.”
“Well.... I’ve been trying to cut down. Putting on a little weight lately.” Vickie patted her stomach. “I wouldn’t want my ‘plump’ to get any more than ‘pleasing,’ and, after all, every little bit helps. Here. Let me taste it—”