Edison, a Chicago physicist, manages to successfully transport an
object through time. Almost immediately following this success Dr.
Edison is shut out of the facility and told by benefactor Raphael
Barrington, to take a vacation. He is contacted by Don Rivendell, a
grizzled old man with a secret. Rivendell explains to Tom that he is not
the first person to discover time travel. Someone else went back and
changed history by saving a young girl from dying in an internal
combustion engine explosion.
Dr. Edison is tasked with going back and fixing history. He travels
back to 1904 to find the younger version of Rivendell and stop him from
saving the girl.
The sun reflected off Lake Michigan, projecting a silvery shadow on
the buildings along the shoreline as a serene Spring breeze drifted in
from the lake. Southbound Lakeshore Drive was as it always was at 8:15
AM: bumper to bumper and moving along at a torrid three miles per hour.
Dr. Tom Edison checked the dashboard clock, banged his palm against the
steering wheel, and hit the phone button under his left thumb.
“Call the lab.” He barked at the car computer. The number dialed, not
fast enough for him, and he heard the chimes through his car speaker.
Off to the side of the road, about five cars ahead, he saw a dark
gray sedan with the hood popped and smoke billowing out. Clearly, this
was one of the reasons for the traffic jam, but he could hardly blame
this everyday occurrence on that poor vehicle. The fire department was
approaching on the Northbound side, lights flashing.
“Barrington Scientific Research Center. How may I direct your call?” The male operator asked with professional precision.
“Dr. Bruce Reeves, please.”
“I’m sorry. Dr. Reeves is unavailable. Can I take a message?”
Tom took a deep breath and reminded himself that this fellow was just doing his job.
“This is Dr. Edison. I need to speak with Dr. Reeves.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice. One minute, Dr. Edison.”
The big fire engine stopped opposite the concrete barrier separating
North and South bound traffic. Eager firefighters jumped out and began
to set up their gear on that side of the highway. Tom could see that
this action would completely stop the flow of traffic. He could only
hope to move past the car fire before the fire department shut down the
drive in both directions.
The on-hold sound was the local radio station WBBM-Chicago. Lizzo was
finishing “It’s About Damn Time,” and the station shifted to a news
report.
“The EPA reported today that air pollution from auto emissions
has continued to rise. Despite legislation, it has been estimated that
each of the one billion automobiles on the road today emits 12gm of
pollution per mile. In the greater Chicago area alone, that amounts to
nearly 5 million tons of pollution daily. The EPA also reports that
petroleum by-products continue to clog up our landfills by resisting the
natural bio-degradable break-down process. Citizens are urged to use
less plastic whenever possible and are encouraged, as always, to
recycle. Meanwhile, on a more upbeat note, a twelve-year-old Evanston
boy won the National Spelling Bee yesterday. He correctly spelled
“annihilation” to capture first place and the ten-thousand-dollar
prize.”
The phone buzzed, and Dr. Bruce Reeves was on the line.
“Tom. Where are you?” The harried scientist said.
“I’m on Lakeshore and there’s a car fire. Spewing smoke everywhere. It’s sinful.”
“What the hell are you doing on Lakeshore?”
“Good question. Maybe I had an aneurysm. I should have just hit the
90. I’m coming up on Jackson. I’ll jump off here and take the 290. Look,
I should be about another thirty minutes. Get the advance work prepped
and I’ll be as quick as I can. It was stupid. I should have just stayed
there.”
“No. You needed the break. You can only go so many days without quiet
and a shower, particularly the shower. You aren’t in here alone, you
know.”
Tom chuckled. “Yeah, it did feel good. Okay, just finish the prep,
and I’ll see you soon. I have to check some data in my office, and then
I’ll be with you in the lab. It’s a big day, Bruce! All the marbles are
on the table.”
“Yeah, so is the watermelon. See you soon.”
The phone went dead just as Tom rolled past the burning car. In the
rearview, he saw firefighters leap the center divider and begin closing
down the road. He let out a grateful sigh as he rolled past the obstacle
on his way to making history.
Twenty-two minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot at the BSRC. The BSRC was on 47th
St. between Central and Hyman in Cicero. The building was a refurbished
refrigeration factory, built in 1948 and acquired by the Barrington
Corporation a decade earlier. Tom made his way to the front of the
building and pulled into the third parking spot from the front door. The
concrete bumper had a large chunk chipped out of the left corner, and
the name, Dr. Tom Edison, that had been painted on it ten years earlier
was now faded and worn.
Dr. Tom Edison was thirty-nine years old, stood a hair under six
feet, and, while not having an athletic body, had been able to maintain a
slim waist. He had been the recipient of the Barrington Scientific
Research grant a decade ago and was on the precipice of taking his
theories to fruition. The funding provided by The Barrington Research
Facility allowed him to develop a technique that could easily change the
world as we knew it. Today was the day he would find out if his
theories worked.
Tom entered through the electronic door, slid his ID card into the
turnstile reader, and crossed to the elevators. Once inside, he placed
his palm against the glass pane mounted on the wall and leaned in for
his retinal scan. He saw his reflection in the glass scanner and noticed
that, mixed with his black mane, a few grey hairs had popped out. A
nano-second passed while the AI operating system, known as the Quint,
verified his identity. “Welcome, Dr. Tom Edison. You may push the
button for your desired floor.” Tom reached out and hit the LB button on
the bottom of the panel.
The elevator door opened and Tom moved confidently down the long,
white corridor. The fluorescent lights, apparently mandatory in any
industrial facility, adequately illuminated the hallway, even if the
irritating glow made him wish he had his sunglasses.
Tom’s office was down the hall to the left. It had a spacious
reception area where his secretary held court. His name was Jerzy
Bartley. He was astoundingly proficient with scientific jargon and held a
unique understanding of quantum physics, not to mention being the most
organized individual he had ever met. Jerzy held a master’s in physics
and was, without a doubt, overqualified for this job. His deep loyalty
to Dr. Edison, his dedication, and his fascination with the good
doctor’s work kept him attached to Tom. He had refused three different
promotions, and Tom had been so very grateful each time he did. In his
early thirties, Jerzy was an African American male who stood six feet
nine inches tall with a shaved head and a short, trimmed beard. He
dwarfed everyone in the facility. However, his affable smile never
failed to start Tom’s day on a good note. Tom entered the office.
Jerzy looked up from his computer.
“Hey, boss. Glad you were able to make it.”
“Very funny. It was stupid to go home last night. I should have stayed. Anything new happen in the last couple hours?
Jerzy shook his head as Tom moved past him.
“Nope, I got in about an hour ago and everyone was just sitting on pins and needles waiting. How’s it looking?”
Tom zoomed into his office, yelling over his shoulder, “I’ll know in a few minutes.”
Tom sprang into his chair and opened his computer. He saw his
reflection in the dark screen. His black hair needed a cut, but who had
time? His hazel eyes were a tad bloodshot from over-work, but the dark
circles that resided under them were less pronounced thanks to a shower
and five hours of sleep in his own bed.
There were several last-minute equations to confirm. Precision was
everything if this project was to succeed. Tom immediately became
engrossed in his work, and the rest of the world slipped into his
rearview mirror.
Absorbed as he was, Tom failed to see or hear the subtle noises
coming from the ventilation shaft that sat at floor level behind him.
Had he turned around, he would have seen a beam of light periodically
flashing across the back of the vent. As Tom worked, the light grew
closer and closer.
Inside the vent, she moved as stealthily as she could. It was
cramped, but she was comparatively slight, so she moved with little
resistance. In her hand was a small uplink device called The Quince. It
was a remote device connected to The Quint. The Quint ran everything in
the facility, and she was using The Quince to bypass the security within
the ventilation system. The BSRC was a full-security building with
redundant security protocols. These shafts were part of the original
design when the building was constructed in 1948. Large metal tunnels
that webbed throughout the facility carried cool or heated air to every
part of the building. In each room, an ornate bronze vent cover sat at
floor level. When the BSRC retrofitted the building, the decision was
made to install electronic barriers along the shafts rather than replace
the entire ventilation system. Because they were electronic barriers,
she could use the Quince to override each one as needed. The fact that
she had managed to get this far was no small feat. The journey had
started one flight down and on the east side of the building. She had to
climb up one flight and maneuver to the west side to get here.
A holographic image floated above the handheld, detailing her route
and giving her data on her position and distance to her destination. She
approached the next gate, read the number from the top of the frame,
and entered it into her handheld Quince. The gate swung open. She
continued her crawl forward.
Three gates later, she peered through the vent that would open into
Dr. Tom Edison’s office. She could see the light from the computer
casting a silhouette around Tom’s head as he fixated on his screen. She
read the number at the top of the vent cover and entered it into the
Quince. The vent silently swung open. Now was her most significant
moment of danger. As she entered the room, she would have to be
completely silent; the tiniest scrape or bump could alert this man, and
her jig would be up. Inch by inch, she slithered forward, remaining
completely quiet. She managed to get out of the vent without alerting
the subject and lay on the floor directly behind the clueless scientist.
Placing the Quince on the carpet next to her, she slowly moved her legs
under her and stood up, careful not to sway into his peripheral vision.
She stood straight up and took two cautious steps forward. Raising her
arms over her head, she placed both hands over his eyes and yelled,
“Guess who!!!”
Startled, Tom jumped from his seat. He spun around, preparing to
defend himself from whoever had just broken in. As he leapt, his fist
raised, and just before he swung, he had that moment of recognition.
“Oh, for Chrissake, Lori! What the hell?”
Dr. Lori Pellitier was the scientific officer on this project and one
of the country’s sharpest computer/mechanical minds. She was in her
mid-thirties, had a slight build, thin but curvy, with dark black hair
pulled back into a ponytail. At five foot three inches tall, with blue
eyes and an olive-brown complexion, she perfectly complimented her
multi-racial background. She had a quirky sense of humor, and this stunt
was well within her wheelhouse. She wore baggy, gray overalls that she
acquired for her trip through the ducts. There were dirt stains on her
elbows and knees, and was overall, just plain dusty from the crawl
through the vents.
“Just checking out the security protocol in the ventilation systems
while we all wait for you. This one needs work, obviously.” She unzipped
her overalls and let them drop to the floor. Underneath, she wore a
blue silk shirt, black designer jeans, and red, bedazzled tennis shoes.
Knowing her destination, she had prepared accordingly, and her subtle
yet effective makeup had been undisturbed. She attempted to brush off
the dirt with her palms, creating a small cloud of dust that swirled
around her. She pulled the scrunchie out of the ponytail she needed for
the crawl and shook her head. Her black hair cascaded around her glowing
face.
Tom didn’t notice. “Yeah, sorry about that. For some reason, I thought I had enough time to go home. Stupid.”
Lori folded the overalls, picked up the Quince, and wandered around
to the front of his desk. She walked a bit slower than usual,
accentuating her hip movement.
“I told you Montrose Beach was too far. So, how’s it coming?”
Tom smirked at her reference to his home location, unwilling to
address this topic again, and said, “I just need to input one more piece
of data, and I’m there.” Tom continued typing while he talked. “So, you
can override all those vent protocols remotely? Seems odd; why would
they want that to happen if the intent was to keep people from crawling
through?” He looked up at her as she slightly tilted her head and
smiled.
“Well, it could be a way in, which no one wants, but it could also be
a way out in the case of emergency and they wanted to be able to
control who’s coming and going.”
Sitting in the chair, she put her feet up on the edge of his desk.
She opened the Quince and was searching through a variety of sites.
Holographic images began popping up. Some were schematics, and others
were pictures and graphics.
A picture of a couple on the beach making out popped onto her screen. She looked at Tom to see if he noticed. He hadn’t.
She decided to be a bit more obvious.
“This Quince can access the vents, the elevator shafts, and the
hallways. I can see the entire security video feed through this little
baby, and it comes with some interesting attachments.”
A video popped up, and the audio caught Tom’s attention. He raised
his head and saw a couple falling onto a bed as they began to make love.
He chuckled and turned back to the screen.
Frustrated again, Lori turned the video off and said, “So, this thing
gonna work? Or are we all just prepping for a picnic lunch?”
“Well, if it doesn’t, we can use your skills to become industrial
spies. I hear there’s money in that.” He leaned in quickly toward the
screen.
“There it is,” cried Tom. “I’ll send this down to Bruce and we are good to go. Are you all set?”
“Darlin’, I haven’t been awake for thirty-six hours for nothing. Let’s do it.”
Tom and Lori both stood and looked at each other. Tom took a deep
breath as a moment of clarity struck him. He started to sweat slightly
and leaned on the desk as though he was about to pass out.
“Whoa, you okay there, cowboy?” Lori came around to steady him.
He leaned against his desk, hands clenching the edges, overwhelmed. “We’re not messing with Mother Nature, right?”
Lori took his hand and held it tight. Her nails were surprisingly
short but well-manicured. Tom squeezed her hand, and its sheer warmth
calmed him. It felt good to have someone who understood. He noticed her
nails and was gratefully distracted. Looking at the hot pink, he said,
“It always seemed incongruous that your nails are so short. For whatever
reason, I’ve always expected long, dangerous, and bejeweled.”
She chuckled, “With as much time as I spend on a keyboard, I don’t
have a choice. But if I did, I can’t tell you the wonders you would see
on the ends of my fingers!”
They both laughed. A moment passed between them. He looked into her
blue eyes, felt better, and then anxiety smacked him across the face.
Tom said, “We can accomplish so much good if this works. I just want to be sure we’re not mixing the pasta and the antipasta.”
“Kinda late to be asking that question, and it’s antipasto, but okay,
no, we are not messing with Mother Nature. If we can accomplish this,
then we have to see it through.”
Tom squeezed her hand again, now doubting every decision he’s made.
“Is it really best to send a watermelon through first? I mean, is that
the best choice?”
Lori chuckled. “Hell yeah! What could be better? Whatever we send has
to be organic. We don’t want to use an animal, too messy with the
activist groups. Using an orange would be cliché’. Watermelons have size
and weight. I’d say it’s perfect, and if we succeed, we can throw a
picnic and eat it afterward.” Lori indicates her stomach and traces a
line down to her crotch, “Or we could play connect the dots with the
seeds?”
The computer beeped behind them. Tom turned and looked at the screen.
“Bruce has everything ready. Time to go.” Tom raced out into the outer
office. Lori took an exasperated deep breath and followed. Jerzy turned
to them as soon as the door opened.
Tom smiled at him and said, “Want to see history in the making?”
Jerzy laughed, “You know I do!” He began to gather up his notepad and phone.
“Then let’s get moving. History waits for no man!”
They all headed to the lab to attempt to send a watermelon through time.
Thomas White began his
career as an actor. Several years later he found himself as an Artistic
Director for a theatre in Los Angeles and the winner of several
Drama-Logue and Critics awards for directing. As Tom’s career grew, he
directed and co-produced the world tour of “The Teenage Mutant Ninja
Turtles: Coming Out Of Their Shells”. The show toured for over two
years, was translated into seven different languages and seen by close
to a million children. Tom served as President and Creative Director for
Maiden Lane Entertainment for 24 years and worked on many large-scale
corporate event productions that included Harley Davidson, Microsoft,
Medtronic Diabetes, and dozens of others.
which was nominated as a finalist in the Pacific Northwest Writers Association 2010 Literary contest, and
