Edison’s Alley

by Neal Shusterman

  He looked around, making sure none of the other students hurrying to class were listening. “Hey, I still need your help, Vince.”

  Vince crossed his gangly arms, giving Nick a dead-fish kind of look. “Why would I help you? If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t need this battery at all.”

  Vince had a point, but there was a much larger point to be made. “Whether you like it or not, we’re all in this together now.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  Nick felt his hands ball into fists. “Will it matter whose fault it is when the Accelerati steal your battery and you’re six feet under for good?”

  “That’ll never happen,” Vince said. “I plan to be cremated.”

  Nick wanted to grab him and give him a good shake, but he thought that might dislodge the wires again, so he took a deep breath to calm down. Nick had to remind himself that this situation had left Vince worse off than any of them.

  “Why don’t you just let the Accelerati get the rest of the stuff?” Vince grumbled. “Maybe then they’ll leave us alone.”

  Nick was about to point out that he needed every remaining item to assemble the machine in his attic, but then he realized he had never told Vince that the objects fit together. Vince didn’t know, and neither did the Accelerati.

  And all at once Nick understood that he couldn’t tell Vince, because to finish the machine, the final object they’d need would be Vince’s battery. It was a cold truth that Nick didn’t want to face right now, so he pushed the thought away. All Nick said was “After what they did to you, don’t you want to take them down?”

  Vince hesitated. The hallway began to clear. Nick knew he’d be late to history, but this was more important.

  “I’ll sleep on it,” Vince finally said.

  “You don’t sleep,” Nick pointed out.

  “Which means I’ll have plenty of time to think it over.”

  A power generator is an unpredictable thing. It can blow up, blow out, or electrocute people with the same happy ease with which it charges your electric toothbrush.

  The larger the generator, the more power it delivers, and consequently, the more potential for devastation.

  The Three Gorges Dam, capable of providing 10 percent of China’s power with its thirty-two massive turbines, had been the world’s largest electric power generator. But even the largest turbine is just a quantity of copper wire spinning around a magnet, and can’t compare to a chunk of copper fifty miles across, spinning around the magnetic core of planet Earth. There was a new mega–power generator on the block, and its name was Bonk.

  Everyone was aware of the buildup in static electricity. Most people just considered it “one of those things.” Like the way Wint-O-Green Life Savers spark in your mouth when you chew them, or how sometimes dry bedsheets flash with microlightning when you shuffle your feet beneath the covers.

  Petula was no stranger to the phenomenon of electric shock.

  Her parents would often laughingly tell of her many near-death experiences when, as a toddler, she had repeatedly shoved forks into outlets. Eventually they became an all-plastic-utensil household. Petula remembered it enough to know that she didn’t have an infant death wish—she was just trying to kill the “stinking monster” in the wall that kept shocking her for no good reason.

  But now the monster was back, and it was no longer confined to the wall.

  Petula knew it wasn’t going to be a good day when she awoke to discover that the static she had kicked up in her sheets during the night had caused her braided pigtails to stand almost on end, like Pippi Longstocking. It took the painful touching of many doorknobs to discharge the static, and industrial amounts of hair gel to keep her braids in place.

  Petula suffered through her morning classes, but ever since the day Ms. Planck, the so-called lunch lady, had invited her to join the Accelerati, the busywork of institutionalized curriculum seemed like a nonsensical waste of her time.

  The problem, Petula only now realized, was that Ms. Planck had inducted her into a sleeper cell of two. They were supposed to do nothing but watch and wait.

  Petula was skilled at watching, but waiting was something she could not abide. She had gathered information on Nick Slate’s activities. She had reported to Ms. Planck which objects Nick had in his possession. She had taken remarkably dull pictures of the future on Ms. Planck’s orders, and she kept expecting Ms. Planck to ask her to actually do something important, but no such luck.

  During history class, while the teacher was droning on about Manifest Destiny, Petula decided it was time to manifest her own destiny. The instant the lunch bell rang, she made a beeline to the cafeteria.

  Ms. Planck was at her usual station behind the steam table. The woman, who had worked undercover all these years, was one of the few people in the world Petula respected and one of the fewer she actually liked. But at the moment, she was holding Petula back.

  There were other kids already waiting for lunch. Petula allowed them their place in line ahead of her so she could formulate her thoughts and build her resolve. When no one was looking, she reached up and felt the hidden gold pin she wore, running her thumb and forefinger over the smooth little A with an infinity sign as its crossbar. “Wear this close to your heart, but don’t let anyone see it,” Ms. Planck had told her. Well, membership had to mean more than a stupid pin. It had to be a doorway to greatness, and Petula was tired of knocking.

  When Petula finally approached, Ms. Planck must have read something in her face, because she offered a conspiratorial smirk and said, “You look like you could use some food from my special surprise stash.”

  Seventy-five percent of surprises, Petula had concluded, were unpleasant, but she had to admit she was curious.

  “Sure,” she said to Ms. Planck. “What ya got?”

  The lunch lady reached a pair of long silver tongs below the counter, then dropped a perfectly broiled lobster tail on Petula’s tray.

  “Impressive,” Petula said. “Who do you usually serve this to?”

  “Anyone who deserves it and isn’t allergic to shellfish,” Ms. Planck said.

  “There are kids I know who are allergic to shellfish, and deserve to be given some.”

  “Give me their names,” Ms. Planck said with a wink, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Hey,” said the kid behind her in line. “How come she got the big shrimp? I want a big shrimp too!”

  “Can’t do it,” said Ms. Planck flatly. “Serving you a bottom-feeder could be considered encouraging cannibalism. You get soy pizza. Next!”

  Kids were pushing forward to get their lunch, but Petula blocked the flow, refusing to move on. “We need to talk,” she told Ms. Planck.

  “Later” was all Ms. Planck said, and she then ignored her, serving up slop as if Petula wasn’t there. So Petula found a table, sat down, and ate the lobster tail unnoticed by the other kids. This didn’t surprise her—she was convinced she could have done a hula dance with the lobster tail on her head and, with the exception of the one kid who wanted “big shrimp,” no one would have paid any attention.

  That, Petula resolved, was one more thing that needed to change.

  After school, Petula took her daily photographs for the Accelerati with the focus ring of Tesla’s old box camera set twenty-four hours to the future. She snapped a photo of the newspaper kiosk, where tomorrow’s headlines would appear. She took a few pictures of the digital stock ticker that wrapped around the Wells Fargo Bank building. And finally she took a shot of the front of the neighborhood bowling alley.

  When she was done, she went to Ms. Planck’s darkroom and developed the negatives. Together they pored over the enlargements, studying tomorrow’s newspaper headlines, noting the next day’s closing stock prices, and confirming that the bowling alley looked unchanged. Ms. Planck had never explained the significance of snapping this last photograph every day, and not knowing why made Petula feel even more like an outsider.

  “Look,” Petula sa
id, pointing at a news headline. “The Phoenix Suns are going to beat the Lakers in tonight’s playoff—that’s a pretty big upset.”

  “Yes, it is. I’m sure the Accelerati will find the information most useful,” Ms. Planck responded.

  “You mean they’ll place a bet?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, honey. They’ll buy the team.”

  Thanks to me! Petula wanted to shout. Not only was she their eyes and ears on Nick Slate and his attic, she was also feeding the Accelerati reams of priceless information about the future. But did they even know about her, or was Ms. Planck taking all the credit? It was that thought that pushed Petula over the edge.

  “Enjoy those pictures,” she told Ms. Planck. “Because they’re the last you’re going to get. As of now, I’m on strike.”

  Ms. Planck didn’t seem bothered. She just smirked. “Really. Is it just you or the entire future-tographer’s union?”

  “I don’t mind being used,” Petula told her, “as long as I get something worthwhile in return.”

  Ms. Planck considered that, then said, “Maybe it’s time to introduce you to the brass.”

  Petula’s only context for that sentiment was a gangster movie she had seen once on TCM, in which being “introduced to the brass” meant a beating with brass knuckles.

  “Are you threatening me?” Petula asked, and she assumed a ready position she had learned in her online theoretical jujitsu class.

  “Take it easy, honey,” Ms. Planck said, arching an eyebrow. “I only mean to say I think you’re ready to meet some of the higher-ups in our little association.”

  Petula let out a small breath and smiled at the thought. This was what she had been waiting for: her moment to make an impression. With her personality and perfect elocution, she had no doubt that this was her opportunity to open the door wide.

  “In that case, we have a deal,” she said. “The strike has been averted.”

  She would enchant the visionaries of the Accelerati. And God help them if they weren’t enchanted.

  Dr. Alan Jorgenson sat in his office at the University of Colorado, simmering slowly like a roast in a Crock-Pot. He had the resources of the world’s most technologically advanced secret society at his fingertips. He could control the weather with the flick of a switch; he could stop time and move between the seconds; he could end the lives of his enemies as effortlessly as changing channels on a television.

  So why was he letting a group of mediocre-minded middle schoolers get to him?

  There was a timid knock, and in a moment the office door opened just wide enough for the person on the other side to poke his head in. “Excuse me, Dr. Jorgenson?” an impertinent doctoral student said. “I’ve been waiting for nearly an hour…”

  “And you’ll wait an hour more if that’s what I require,” Jorgenson told him.

  “Yes, sir.” He unpoked his head and closed the door quietly.

  Even as a distinguished full professor at a major university, Jorgenson could not escape the academic blight of doctoral students. He had to maintain his cover, at least for now, and the academic cred could one day prove useful, so he made his students research assistants and rarely had any use for them unless they had results to show him.

  The young bespectacled man outside claimed to have results, but Jorgenson’s university research, no matter how important, paled next to the potential of Tesla’s “lost” inventions. Retrieving at least some of those inventions would be simple: just kill Nick Slate, take the objects from his attic, and be done with it. But the Man in Charge would not allow it. Jorgenson’s orders were clear. Let the boy be. At least for now.

  “He will be dispensed with soon enough,” the old man had told Jorgenson. “The more he spins his wheels to gather the lost items, the less we’ll have to.”

  But “soon enough” wasn’t soon enough for Jorgenson, who knew something the old man didn’t: the boy was crafty. And clever. He had, more than once, outsmarted Jorgenson’s superior intellect, which meant he was not to be underestimated. If he were allowed to gather too many of Tesla’s inventions—and figured out how to use them—he and his friends would become formidable opponents. Such objects should not be left in the hands of children.

  And to make sure that they weren’t, it was best if those children were killed. Why couldn’t the old man see that?

  Once more came the timid knocking and the bespectacled student. “Dr. Jorgenson, I know you said to wait, but I need to teach an undergrad physics class in ten minutes…”

  Jorgenson sighed. “Very well.” He gestured for the young man to enter.

  The student held a shoe box. “I’ve been in charge of the TTT project. You know—the Titanium Testudine Trials.”

  “Ah! The tortoises.”

  The young man sat down across from Jorgenson, pulled from the shoe box three tortoise shells the size of coconut halves, and placed them on Jorgenson’s desk. All of the shells had a pale metallic sheen about them.

  Jorgenson was curious to hear the results of the study, but he feigned absolute disinterest. “Just get this over with,” he said. “My time is more valuable than yours. Don’t waste it!” He paused to gauge the effect of his tone on the student’s psyche and was pleased to detect a tremor in the region of the young man’s knees.

  “W-we induced rapid growth using your biotemporal field emitter, and infused the developing cells with titanium, using three different protocols.” He pointed to two of the shells. “The first two specimens didn’t prove any stronger, but the third was the charm.” He tapped the last shell proudly.

  Jorgenson lifted one of the shells. The plastron—or underside—had been removed, leaving only the dome-shaped carapace. “And what happened to the creatures they held?”

  The student lowered his head as if in respect for the dead. “They gave their lives for science.”

  “Indeed,” Jorgenson said. “As must we all.”

  Then Jorgenson started sliding the three shells around on his desk, shuffling their positions again and again. “Are you watching closely? Keep your eye on the strongest one, the ‘charm,’ as you called it.” Jorgenson spoke rapidly, his voice taking on the cadence of a carnival barker. “That’s right, never take your eye off the shell, if you don’t want to get shucked.”

  He stopped and leaned forward, smiling broadly at the younger man, who stared at the row of three shells, somewhat bewildered.

  “Now, put your hand beneath the one you think is the strongest,” Jorgenson said.

  “My hand? Why?”

  “Come, come. He who hesitates is lost.”

  After a moment, the student chose the shell in the middle, sliding his hand through the neural arch that had originally made room for the reptile’s neck.

  Jorgenson looked into the man’s eyes. “Are you sure that’s the one?”

  “I—I think so,” the student said.

  “Good, good.”

  Without warning, Jorgenson pulled from his desk drawer a large hammer—a weapon he kept as a defense against the potential attacks of disgruntled students and irate colleagues. He held it up just long enough to register the terror in the young man’s eyes, then he slammed the hammer down on the empty shell on the left. Pieces of shell flew in every direction; Jorgenson felt some flakes bounce off his chin. The student flinched and grimaced, but, to his credit, did not remove his hand from the center shell.

  “Hmm. My test confirms that it wasn’t the shell on the left. Now, would you like to stay with your original choice? Or would you prefer to switch?”

  The student just stared at him, his eyes seeming as wide as the lenses of his glasses.

  “I’m giving you the chance to change your mind, you see. The mathematical odds are much more favorable if you do—there’s a fifty-fifty chance, as opposed to one in three.”

  “B-but—”

  “I know it seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.”

  The student was so petrified, he couldn’t move even if he’d wanted to.
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  “Sticking with your first choice, are you? Risky.” And Jorgenson reached over and removed the unchosen shell from the desk.

  “Wait—you’re not going to smash that one?”

  Jorgenson smiled once more. “Where would be the fun in that?” Then, without warning, he brought the hammer down with full force on the shell covering the student’s hand.

  The young man screamed, but the hammer bounced off the shell, leaving it intact and the hand beneath it unharmed.

  “Interesting result,” Jorgenson murmured, and, just to be sure, he slammed the hammer down on the shell a second time, even harder. Again the hammer did no damage. “Well done!”

  The doctoral student, suddenly jolted from his petrifaction, jerked his hand back and gave it a few shakes as if to make sure all of the bones and tendons were still in working order.

  “So what have we learned from our little experiment?” Jorgenson asked. “What lesson do we extract?”

  “You—you could have mangled me!”

  “Wrong!” Jorgenson shouted. “The lesson is: From now on, you NEVER bring me anything but your best specimen. Is that understood?” He dropped the hammer onto the desk and picked up the pristine shell. “Now go and teach your pathetic class.”

  As the young man fled the office, Jorgenson examined the metalized shell more closely. His mind flooded with potential uses—indestructible tanks and personnel carriers, undentable automobiles. And that was only scratching the surface. With the 725 million dollars that had come into the Accelerati’s possession, implementing those uses would be easy.

  And yet, any sense of triumph was overshadowed by his recent failure. He longed for the day he could give his research assistants the task of reverse-engineering the objects that Nick Slate had in his possession. The applications and monetary rewards of those inventions, whatever they were, would be staggering in the hands of someone who knew how to exploit them.