Edwin's Reflection: A Novel

by Ray Deeg

  It was the anticipation of his crimes that he really relished. Walking calmly through unfamiliar neighborhoods. Staking out the target, becoming acutely aware of his surroundings. His senses peaked as he ferreted out the best way inside and then moved stealthily from room to room rummaging through strangers’ closets and dressers. He enjoyed the potluck, never knowing what he might find. Inside a tattered, blue-and-white house with western-style furniture, he had come across an antique pocket watch on a chain. It was a heavy golden thing, just sitting on top of a brown wooden dresser, clearly of little use to its owner. He could remember the moment he saw it. A beam of sunlight was shining through the window, like God’s beacon leading him to the treasure. He followed the golden glow with intent, passing through a magnetic energy field where dozens of brightly lit dust particles hung in the air like stars in the sky, perfectly suspended in the sunbeam. As he approached the pocket watch, he noticed the details engraved in the metal; it tickled his fingers. When he lifted the thing, it was good and heavy, and there was something engraved on the back, too: Ecclesiastes 1:11. He had never bothered to look up the verse.

  That had been thirty years ago, but he still had the pocket watch, a constant reminder of his adolescence. As he walked through Lemily’s old house, the watch bounced in his jacket pocket, brushing against his snub-nosed revolver inside its pancake holster. He made his way to the library, which he could see had been very nicely renovated. The far wall had been repaired, the tabletop removed. The parquet floors were perfect now, not a gouge in sight. He moved to the built-in bookcase, placed one foot on a high shelf, and pulled himself up. The anticipation was palpable, a feeling not altogether different from being inside a stranger’s house as a teen. He shone his light to the left and then right, and that was when he saw it—a large, tattered blueprint.

  He climbed down and then spread it out to examine it. The schematic was littered with handwritten notes, and there were two strange holes punched on either side and circled with dates. The hole on the left read 11:23 a.m., January 13, 1932. The hole on the right read 12:00 a.m., November 4, 2015. That’s tomorrow night, he thought. He inspected the blueprint, clearly a schematic for Tesla’s machine. It illustrated how pieces and parts fit together, but the design meant nothing to the small-town cop.

  He drove to his office, turned on his computer, and clicked on a link he’d found the day before. It was an archive on Tesla from the FBI’s website, information that had been declassified through the Freedom of Information Act. Heckie had no immediate plans to comb through dozens of documents, but after receiving the letter in the yellow envelope and finding the blueprint, he felt a new purpose. Clearly someone is trying to help me solve this. But why J. P. Morgan Trust and Fiduciary Services? He skimmed the Tesla documents, looking for a magic bullet—a word, a name, or a phrase that would catch his eye, like finding Waldo in all that mess.

  Heckie realized he was enjoying the hunt. At no time is the mind more alive than when one seeks the truth. And while the mind’s strange methods of compartmentalizing information are somewhat useful in regurgitating data, its fundamental architecture, mined as it is with emotional and cognitive pitfalls, makes it an atrocious arbiter of reason. Heckie spent the morning sifting through documents and photos on the FBI’s website. As he read the list of documents, he was sure there had to be dozens of documents missing. The FBI did not comply with the Freedom of information Act and is clearly hiding something. As he read through the documents, he was sure of it.

  What he was learning, however, was interesting enough. Apparently, the morning after Nikola Tesla’s death in 1943, the inventor’s nephew, a man named Sava Kosanovic, had rushed to the Hotel New Yorker, where his uncle had been living in a modest room—suite 3327, paid for by the Westinghouse Electric Corporation. Kosanovic was an up-and-coming Yugoslav official with suspected connections to the Communist Party, but he was nonetheless family to Tesla. He arrived shortly after Tesla’s body had been discovered by the maid, who’d ignored the Do Not Disturb sign. But the body had already been taken to the city morgue by the time he arrived. After inspecting his uncle’s room, Kosanovic quickly began to suspect that someone had already been there and removed significant amounts of his uncle’s property, including files and boxes he’d seen on previous visits. Technical papers were missing, as well as a small black notebook he’d known Tesla to keep by his bedside. Even his prized Edison Medal was now gone. He’d kept it displayed in its black clamshell case on the bookshelf.

  My God, Heckie thought but continued reading. Percy Foxworth, assistant director of the New York FBI office, was called in to investigate what the government described as “technology with unknown risks and consequences.” According to Foxworth, the government was “vitally interested” in preserving Tesla’s papers and in locating several magnetic coil oscillators. Two days after Tesla’s death, representatives of the Office of Alien Property went to his room at the New Yorker Hotel and illegally seized all his remaining possessions. Copies of Tesla’s papers on particle-beam weaponry were sent to Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio, and an operation code-named Project Nick was heavily funded and placed under the command of Brigadier General Craigie.

  Details of the experiments were never published. But something peculiar happened. Those copies of Tesla’s papers disappeared, and none of the government offices or officials involved could account for them. It was known by the FBI, however, that German intelligence had already liberated sizable amounts of Tesla’s research years before his death. Unfortunately, it appeared as though anything even remotely associated with the great inventor had been confiscated and lost within the secret government network of pre–World War II America.

  Nevertheless, more than a dozen boxes of Tesla’s possessions and papers had been left behind at hotels where he’d lived—the Waldorf Astoria, the Governor Clinton Hotel, and the St. Regis. But Tesla’s possessions had been sold off to salvagers in order to satisfy his outstanding debts. Most of the boxes and the secrets inside had never been discovered, and their whereabouts were unknown. As Heckie read, he wondered how Everett Lemily had come into possession of the machine, the Edison Medal, and the other items that had found their way to Monty’s shop. He realized that the rabbit hole was deep. He thought about the note he’d received and became circumspect.

  Heckie continue to read, devouring stories that sounded more like urban legends. In 1976, for example, four boxes of Tesla’s papers were auctioned in the estate sale of one Michael Bornes, a bookseller in Manhattan. This auction took place in Newark, New Jersey, and the boxes and their contents were purchased by a man named Dale Alfrey for twenty-five dollars. Alfrey had no idea what was in the boxes when he bought them but was later shocked to find what appeared to be laboratory documents and personal notes from a man named Nikola Tesla. In 1976, unfortunately, the name Nikola Tesla was not widely known; Alfrey had no clue as to the importance of the papers he’d inadvertently purchased. As he combed through the incredible amount of material inside the boxes, he thought he’d uncovered the notes of a marginally sane science fiction writer. And yet, as Alfrey read, he began to feel a strange sense of déjà vu. The words, the ideas, and even the images were strangely familiar—or so he’d later report to his psychiatrist after being treated for insanity. The man claimed that the world had for a long time been trapped in a time loop.

  The more Heckie read, the more he experienced what could only be the same strange sense of déjà vu. He learned that in 1899, while in Colorado Springs, Tesla had received communications from what he believed were conscious beings secretly controlling mankind with thoughts and voices broadcast directly into the human mind. This “consciousness” was slowly preparing humans for the realization of an arrival. Heckie read about Swami Vivekananda, the well-known Hindu monk. Each time he saw the monk’s name, it seemed to be in relation to Tesla’s writings about consciousness and the universe. A particular passage struck a chord.

  My brain is only a receiver, in the Univer
se there is a core from which we obtain knowledge, strength and inspiration. I have not penetrated into the secrets of this core, but I know that it exists.

  Tesla met with Swami Vivekananda many times before the swami’s death in 1902. On one of their last visits, Vivekananda gave Tesla a drawing detailing four almost-identical harmonic coils he’d seen in a dream. It was an earthly design, but when executed properly, it would drown out the illusion of this plane and open a portal to the space hidden in between. Tesla wrote about his years of research, his conclusions, and his attempts to notify the government and military concerning all the things he’d discovered. Tesla spoke in confidence to several of his benefactors, including Colonel John Jacob Astor, who owned the Waldorf Astoria hotel. These benefactors listened to Tesla and secretly funded what would become the start of humanity’s first battle to regain control of its destiny. John Piermont Morgan had invested in Tesla too. The yellow envelopes are from J. P. Morgan.

  Were these papers and articles evidence of something, or was Heckie’s imagination getting the better of him? If he’d only known the trouble it would cause his friend Monty, he would have had the thing melted down and buried. If your hate could be turned into electricity, it would light up the whole world. Heckie continued reading, and the coincidences stacked higher. Tesla’s life story became a reflection of his own joys and sufferings. Through these documents Heckie began to feel as if Tesla had left a breadcrumb trail just for him. He saw Tesla’s predicament in between the words he read, feeling a strange sense of connection and empathy with the man. He could understand becoming lost in the genius of one’s own mind, swimming in an ocean of ideas and constantly searching for a primer to connect them in order to finally understand that one idea waiting just on the other side of the fog.

  But as the morning became afternoon, Heckie was left with more questions than answers. Who was behind the golden envelopes? What had Lemily been doing with the machine, and how had he gotten it? What were the dates on the blueprint? Who killed Monty Palomar? What did the three Indians know, and what was the FBI’s real agenda? He didn’t trust Agent Evans. He didn’t trust the FBI. Lying was just what they did. Agent Evans is stationed in the FBI field office in New York, he thought. Tesla lived in New York, too. And all those yellow envelopes, the source of Everett Lemily’s wealth, and the strange clue he’d also received—all from J. P. Morgan Trust and Fiduciary Services in New York. And the man who purchased the Edison Medal from Monty at about the time he was murdered, Tom Hartger. His company, Empyrean Ventures—a company dealing in the business of patents—was in New York, too. All roads lead to New York. Heckie picked up the phone and dialed information. “Yes, New York, New York. The number for J. P. Morgan Trust and Fiduciary Services.”

  CHAPTER 29

  ESHA DURGA TOOK great care unwrapping his precious treasure from its red satin wrapper. He unfolded the cloth, and a book emerged, tattered and faded. Esha opened the book, paying only partial attention to Chandran and Ashok, who were fidgeting with the machine. He watched as they oiled a series of copper gears. They spun the gears as they inspected each of the metal surfaces to ensure proper distribution of lubricant. Their hotel suite was as large as it was opulent, but all the furniture had been pushed to one side. The machine was being reassembled in the middle of the living room. The fireplace roared, and pages from Esha’s book glowed with its ruddy hue.

  He held his hands in front of him and spoke. “This life is short, and the vanities of the world are transient, but they alone live who live for others—the rest are more dead than alive. And still, my brothers, you must marvel at one notion: why is there anything at all and not just nothing? How can everything come from nothing? How could God have created himself from nothing? And is God a man, a woman, a bird, the ether? There must be some force, some all-powerful force—this must be God, and God is either the chicken or the egg, the cause or the effect. God must be immune to nothingness, or perhaps nothingness cannot exist in a state of pure emptiness. We understand this because God created everything from that nothingness, or at least from something much less than this. Look around, observe the universe, and contemplate yourself. Does some infinite, all-eternal mind supply the reason for all other things to exist? Are these conscious experiences and observations we make fundamental to existence itself? And if God does exist and is conscious, does God feel fortunate that he is immune to nothingness, even though he owes his existence to nothing? What could God owe his existence to if not nothing? But if everything has a beginning and an end, then surely God must, too.”

  Ashok and Chandran mostly ignored Esha. They lifted their eyes once in a while and checked in with each other, but continued wiring circuit boards and soldering wires, careful not to make eye contact with Esha.

  “A simple thought can create a universe: with just one thought, God willed himself into something. His consciousness is the egg, and that is the cause. The effect is the universe—or the multiverse. That is the chicken. The Vedanta teaches us that nirvana can be attained here and now and that we do not have to wait for death to reach it. Both the forces of good and evil will keep the universe alive for us until we awake from our dreams and give up these mud pies we spend our time in building. Spending this precious time in cars and trains and buses; commuting, working, paying bills, worrying over silliness, arguing over ideology, blowing ourselves up…Just one idea alone, just one clean thought is all one needs. Delusion will vanish as the light becomes more effulgent, and then load after load of ignorance shall vanish, and then will come a time when all the noise and fog have disappeared and the sun alone shines. Do you two remember a man called Pope Pius?”

  The two henchmen just shrugged, sensing that Esha’s monologue was picking up momentum now.

  “This man welcomed modern physics and their explanation for the universe. He welcomed the Big Bang as proof of a creator, yet some still wonder how we can assume the Big Bang was unnatural and thus in need of some external cause. Even if you can imagine that no universe had existed before the Big Bang, the bang would not have been some incredible violation of the law of conservation of matter and energy because there would not have been any already-flowing time inside which anything could be defined as sudden. Nor would there have been a previous environment whose matter and energy needed to be conserved. Before the bang, there were no rules—and therefore none were broken.

  “Yes, the existence of the universe is a mystery, as is the formation of the laws of physics that hold it together. The gravity, the temperature—all too perfect. It’s as if they were deliberate, fine-tuned by a master mechanic whose intent is perfectly clear. The distance of the earth from the sun, the water and air—all so perfect. All of this enabled the stable environment that gave rise to the mind with which we are gifted. Was it by design, the mind’s innate ability to solve problems, to create, to understand itself, to contemplate itself? Is it the universe contemplating the mystery of itself, like staring into a mirror, locked in a gaze, an endless realization of self? It gets deeper every new moment but realizes there is always something more. Always another layer. And even time itself—in its most basic form, time is what allows change to happen. But is time a fundamental quality of reality, or is it just something that our brains impose on our experience as a coherent framework that allows us to survive?”

  Ashok ignored Esha. His brain hurt, and he was growing weary of the constant babble. Esha watched as the henchmen fine-tuned the gearing system, which housed a series of recurring rectangular shapes. Esha recognized the shapes and understood their function. He turned to a page with a series of mathematical formulas and spoke.

  “The sheer beauty of the Fibonacci series and the brilliance of the golden ratio prove this point: that all things symmetrical are not beautiful by accident, but by design, by the very nature of God’s fingerprint. Inside this grand design is its quintessence, a formula for understanding a pattern and a clear thought for opening the door to paradise. This is what was conveyed by Vivekananda to Tesl
a once he understood that his body, this earthly vessel, would not endure. Vivekananda left here in 1902, but not before he could set our fate into motion.”

  Ashok installed a series of new-generation sensors that had been delivered earlier that day. He positioned them onto various sections of the machine and then ran lead wires from each sensor. Chandran collected the leads as they coalesced in the back of the machine. He connected the wires to a modern-day circuit board with a processor labeled IBM z13. He installed the board inside the machine’s base.

  Ashok inspected his work and appeared satisfied. He looked up and then spoke proudly. “Between the IBM sensor network and the modulator core with Silvermont architecture, our algorithms should have sufficient time to identify and adapt to fluctuations within the interference pattern.”

  Esha thought on Ashok’s words, and both of his assistants could see that he was struggling to understand.

  “Esha,” Ashok said. “I’m confident we can modulate a safe and stable corona that will allow the three types of transference: the projecting of thoughts into the concentration; the retrieving of thoughts from the concentration; and the transference of the self into the collective once the traveler’s consciousness becomes untangled from the microtubules in the brain. You will not be injured or feel pain.”