Edison's Alley

by Neal Shusterman

  It took several attempts before the vending machine accepted Caitlin’s money.

  When she finally returned with two cans of sparkling Dr Pepper, Nick was not in his room. In fact, the bed had been stripped and the room was clean, as if no one had been there for quite some time. Her stomach began a long, bottomless fall.

  “Excuse me,” she said to a passing nurse, her voice shaky. “The boy who was in this room—where did he go?”

  “You must be mistaken,” the nurse said. “No one has been in this room all day.”

  And when Caitlin demanded that they check the hospital records, there was no evidence that Nick had ever been there. Nor did she find Mr. Slate or Danny in the cafeteria or anywhere else.

  Caitlin knew, without question, that the Accelerati had pulled yet another magic trick. Smoke and mirrors, practically applied.

  First by private jet and then by limousine, Nick was taken to an old house secluded in deep woods. He had no idea where he was, but the flight took several hours, and by the speed of the sunset, he knew they had traveled east.

  Nick was accompanied by two Accelerati who, he assumed, were there to make sure he behaved, and to subdue him if necessary. Nick was not a cooperative passenger for obvious reasons, not the least of which were his burned arms. They were still swollen, and the blisters were still raw beneath the bandages. And now, on top of the pain, there was a constant itch in both arms that he couldn’t scratch. The doctors had said itching was good. It meant his arms were healing. Never mind that it was driving him crazy.

  The two Accelerati had been tight-lipped on the flight. He had tried to talk to them, to ask questions, to find out where they were going, but their response was always a terse “We’ve been instructed not to converse with you.”

  When they arrived at their destination, Nick was practically carried to the front door in the grip of his escorts, lest he try to run for it. Like his ruined home in Colorado Springs, this house was Victorian in style, but it was larger, and much better maintained. He was greeted by a kindly housekeeper who had an odd air about her.

  “There ’e is!” she said cheerily. “Why, we’ve been waiting for you, we ’ave!

  Nick’s two travel companions left them alone. He fleetingly thought about trying to escape, until he noticed that the door had triple-bolted itself behind him.

  “Would you like some tea?” the housekeeper asked. “Or some nice chilled water? Our quantum cooling gizmo is working just fine now.”

  “No, thank you.” She was so upbeat that Nick had no choice but to be polite, even though he felt like being anything but.

  She led Nick into a parlor that at first appeared to contain only furniture—antiques in mint condition. Then he noticed an old man in the shadows.

  The man was seated in a high-backed leather chair that had been converted into a wheelchair. He wore a wool suit that, like nearly everything else in the house, seemed old-fashioned, yet not old. The man, however, was old. Very old.

  “When is a house not a home?” the man asked, his voice raspy and rough, like a flag flapping in a strong wind. “When tourists are traipsing through it seven days a week!” He rolled a few inches forward, but not far enough to be directly in the light. “This house is not the original. It’s just a replica. An accurate one, however. The original is several miles away in West Orange, owned and operated by the National Park Service.”

  He reached out a withered hand, and beckoned Nick. “Come closer,” he said, then added “please” as an afterthought.

  Nick did not move. “Who are you?”

  “Me?” The old man chuckled. “I am the one who sets things in motion. I am the one who can turn your lowly lump of coal into a diamond, if you let me. I am the éminence grise behind the éminence grise.”

  This man loved to hear himself talk. Just like Jorgenson. “English, please,” Nick said. He was getting tired of saying it.

  “Behind every man who appears to wield power is someone else wielding him, because”—he pointed at Nick’s bandaged arms—“as you’ve no doubt learned, power is best not handled directly.”

  Nick said nothing. He found the only power he had in the situation came from his conspicuous silence.

  The old man took a long drag on his cigar, as if he had all the time in the world, and blew the smoke in Nick’s direction. Nick did his best not to cough.

  “My Grand Acceleratus certainly made a mess of things, didn’t he? Don’t get me wrong—Jorgenson is a fine scientist. But hubris can spoil the best of them. Bloated pride—the bane of success. Rest assured he will be severely disciplined for his actions.” He waved his hand and smoke rose in a lazy spiral. “Luckily, you managed to discharge the Bonk Object. The charge won’t build up to lethal levels again for a month, at least. That gives us some time to devise a more permanent solution.”

  The man rolled himself out of the shadows. He looked familiar, though Nick couldn’t place him. He was more than just old. He was decrepit in a way that was hard to fathom. His skin seemed like crinkled papier-mâché, gray and tissue-thin. His eyes were yellowed, and the skin around them sagged.

  Then, all at once, it occurred to Nick who this must be—but he banished the thought as preposterous. It was impossible. Unless…

  Nick stepped forward. Behind the chair was a large cylindrical object covered by a red satin sheet. Nick reached up and pulled it off. The old man didn’t stop him.

  Beneath the blanket was a wet cell—just like Vince’s, but larger. It stood six feet high. Its liquid was clouded, its terminals corroded, and attached to those metal studs were heavily insulated wires that snaked over the back of the leather chair and disappeared beneath the man’s collar.

  The old man offered him a Halloween grin. “Ah,” he said, “you’ve discovered my little secret.” And he laughed.

  “You…you’re…Thomas Edison!”

  “Thomas Alva Edison,” the old man said. “My friends call me Al. And I’d very much like to be your friend.”

  Nick backed away until he stumbled against a lamp, knocking it off the table. He barely registered the sound of breaking glass.

  He could feel himself hyperventilating. Edison would have to be about 170 years old—but what did age mean when you were connected to an eternal life battery?

  The crash of the lamp alerted the housekeeper. “Oh dear, oh dear. This won’t do.” She picked up the broken lamp and left, returning moments later with an identical replacement.

  Nick had to slow his breathing to keep from passing out.

  “Let me out of here!” he demanded.

  “The wet cell, as I’m sure you surmised, is a technology I borrowed from our mutual friend, Mr. Tesla, many, many years ago.”

  “Stole it, you mean! Tesla hated you. And I hate you, too!”

  Edison heaved a sigh for the ages. “You hate me because I succeeded where Tesla failed. I was not Nikola’s enemy—he was his own enemy, insisting on doing things his way, when his way led to one financial failure after another.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t interested in money.” Nick crossed his arms in defiance, even though it hurt to do so.

  “Genius without money is like a bulb without a filament,” Edison said. “Your hero never learned that. It was his fatal flaw.”

  “You destroyed him!”

  Edison raised his voice only slightly, betraying his anger. “Tesla destroyed himself! He was a genius, but a remarkably bad businessman. We could have worked together, but he didn’t want to share in mutual success. He wanted to ‘beat Edison.’ So I became richer and even more famous, and he died broke and forgotten—through no fault of mine! Let the historical record show that my only crime was leaving him alone!”

  Then Edison softened. It was hard to read expressions on his sallow, sagging face, but this one seemed like genuine sorrow. “Do you think I enjoyed seeing that pompous, loudmouth Marconi take credit for the radio, when it was clearly Tesla’s invention? Do you think I rejoiced when Wardenclyffe Tower was torn
down and the coil sold for scrap? Far from it! I was saddened beyond measure.”

  “You could have saved Wardenclyffe! You could have paid Tesla’s debts.”

  Edison sat stiffer, clearly insulted. “I never pay another man’s debts!” he said. Then he heaved his frail shoulders in a labored shrug. “But even if I had offered, he would have refused the slightest bit of charity. I suppose I would have done the same in his position. Proud men soar solo, or fall alone.”

  “And the Accelerati?”

  Now Edison looked away. “I knew Tesla had hidden his greatest inventions, and I suspected that after his failure at Wardenclyffe he went on to perfect his Far Range Energy Emitter in secret. Because he would rather leave the world in darkness than let me share an ounce of his genius.”

  “He gave the world light!”

  “Yes, well, so did Prometheus. So did Lucifer, for that matter, and you see where it got them.”

  They stared each other down for a few moments longer. Finally, Edison pulled out a lace handkerchief and wiped a trace of spittle from his lips. “I have a proposition for you, Nick,” he said. “An offer that I believe you will like a little bit more than you will hate.”

  “I’m listening,” Nick said firmly.

  “I’m not sure if you know this, but your father is in jail. He’s charged with treason.”

  “What?!” Nick took a few steps forward.

  “The government believes your father used classified technology that he stole from NORAD to create the device in your attic.”

  “That’s not true! He had nothing to do with it!”

  “You and I know that, but the government sees it differently.”

  Nick’s heart pounded—he could feel the pulse painfully in his injured arm. “Where’s my brother?”

  “In the custody of Child Protective Services, until he’s placed in a foster home.”

  The thought of Danny ripped from their father and placed in some stranger’s house made Nick want to rip the wires out of Edison’s back—but he knew that would only make things worse.

  Then the old man clapped. The sound was like the slamming of an ancient book. “Here’s my proposition. The Accelerati are well rooted in the criminal justice system, and they also maintain a presence in various other government agencies. It will take substantial effort, but I can make all the charges against your father go away. I can reunite him with your brother. I can let them get on with their lives in peace.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “You,” Edison said simply. “Jorgenson despises you so intensely because deep down he knows you are a worthy rival. You’re smart. You have powerful scientific instincts.”

  “I’m not that smart.”

  “No? The records from your school in Tampa say otherwise.”

  “Those records disappeared when I moved to Colorado.”

  “Not at all. We had them here all the time. You tested at the genius level in math and science in third grade.”

  “That was then. Now I just get B’s.”

  “There’s a reason for that, isn’t there?”

  Nick shrugged.

  “Your mother knew how smart you are.”

  Nick glared at him. “Don’t talk about my mother.”

  But Edison ignored him. “She wanted you to go to a special school for exceptional children. Which, I suspect, is why you kept your grades low. You didn’t want to go. After a while, it became a habit. You’ve hidden it from everyone. Even from your closest friends.” Edison leaned forward. “Even from yourself.”

  “An IQ test isn’t the real world.”

  “No. But it is a measure of potential.” Edison leaned back in his chair, smug in his assessment of Nick. The fact that he might be right irritated Nick even more. “We have recovered all the items from your attic, except for the battery,” Edison said, “and there are several more we managed to get our hands on, thanks to the list you provided to Evangeline Planck.”

  “No!” said Nick, not wanting to believe it.

  “Yes, she’s one of us. Has been from the beginning.” Then the old man sighed. “But we’re still missing three other objects, as best we can determine. And we don’t know exactly how everything fits together. That’s where you come in,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Join the Accelerati, Nick. Join us, and I will see to it that your father goes free.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Edison’s face drooped. “In that case, justice must take its course.” Then he held out something to Nick. Something shiny. “Finish Tesla’s machine for me.”

  Nick looked closer. It was a gold pin in the shape of an A, with an infinity crossbar.

  “You were born to be one of us, Nick. We are meant to be on the same side. In time you’ll realize this.”

  Nick knew the Accelerati were about power. They were about control. And greed. They were about everything Tesla was against.

  As if reading his mind, Edison said, “Don’t make the same mistake poor Nikola did, son. Your story does not need to end tragically. It can be glorious and bright.”

  Nick reached out and took the pin, turning it over in his sore fingers while Edison, ancient Edison, waited to see what Nick would do.

  His soul in exchange for the lives of his brother and father. Edison had said it was his choice, but what choice did he have, really? Perhaps that’s what made Edison such a successful businessman. He left his rivals only two options: bad or worse. Nick thought of Caitlin. He thought of Mitch and Vince. His one consolation was that they were not a part of this equation. This was between him and Edison.

  “Choose your path, Nick. I promise I will honor whatever choice you make.”

  Indecision would indicate weakness, and that was the last thing he wanted to show the man. Without any further hesitation, enduring the pain of his blistered fingers, and aching heart, he affixed the gold pin to his shirt.

  Edison smiled and put his crinkled papier-mâché hand on Nick’s shoulder.

  “Welcome,” he said, “to the Loyal Order of the Accelerati.”

  NEAL SHUSTERMAN is the author of thirty books for young readers, including the best-selling Unwind and Skinjacker trilogies, and the critically acclaimed The Schwa Was Here and Downsiders. As a screen and TV writer, Neal created scripts for the Goosebumps and Animorphs TV series, and he wrote the Disney Channel Original Movie Pixel Perfect. He co-wrote Tesla’s Attic, the first book in the Accelerati Trilogy, with Eric Elfman. Neal has two grown sons and lives with his two daughters in Southern California. For more information, go to www.storyman.com.

  ERIC ELFMAN is a screenwriter, a professional writing coach, and the author of several books for children and young adults, including The Very Scary Almanac and The Almanac of the Gross, Disgusting & Totally Repulsive; three X-Files novels; and two books of scary short stories, Three-Minute Thrillers and More Three-Minute Thrillers. He has sold screenplays to Interscope, Walden Media, Revolution, and Universal Studios. He lives in Brandywine Canyon, California, with his wife and son. Visit his Web site at www.elfmanworld.com.