The Gemini Effect

by Scott Jarol

  “What caused the initial failure?”

  Gary hesitated.

  Impatient with the pause, Willis snapped, “You may either furnish useful information or you may admit your ignorance, but silence is not an option.”

  Howard cleared his throat diplomatically. “It looks like a mixed frequency Tesla field.”

  That might explain things, even though he hadn’t mentioned where he thought it was coming from. Way back in the year 1891, an eccentric scientist from Serbia named Nikola Tesla invented a device that generated high-frequency electrical fields. Tesla had famously used his device, now known as the Tesla coil, to put on spectacular displays of artificial lightning. It wasn’t a very complicated machine, Howard thought, and it was possible Doc had built one . . . with some of his own modifications.

  This time it was Willis who became silent, leaving a gaping hole in the conversation he expected his assistants to fill.

  “We could run diagnostics and pinpoint it,” offered Howard, hoping Willis hadn’t already drawn his own conclusion.

  “You could, although we all know that your good friend Dr. Freeman is once again meddling in matters he utterly fails to comprehend. Find him. Fix it. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Howard.

  Howard took Gary by the arm to ensure he remained silent until Willis was completely gone.

  “Did you notice what happened to the void?” Gary asked as soon as Howard released his grip.

  “You mean when it stopped growing? I thought you didn’t see it. Why didn’t you tell him?”

  “Because if he thinks it’s stabilizing, even for a few seconds, we’ll never convince him to call off the full power run.”

  “So what stopped it?”

  “Not sure, but that mixed-up interference pattern coming from the surface may have had something to do with it. Maybe it generated some kind of insulating layer around the void.”

  Howard nodded. “Like a bubble.”

  “Like a bubble, exactly. The question is what could Doc use to generate a field that huge? It’d need a lot of power. Where would he get that much juice?”

  “Maybe that’s what we saw. Something was sucking the power from Triton and feeding it back into that Tesla field.”

  “What’s he doing with that needs so much power?”

  Howard sighed. “I don’t know. We need to find out, but Doc said to sit tight. He said he’d come find us when he was ready.”

  “Unless Willis finds him first.”

  “That was a pretty big signal,” said Howard. “Maybe finding him is exactly what Doc expects.”

  Chapter 4

  Zeke’s Trailer Home

  “Lucy laid us an egg,” Mom called cheerfully through the curtain that separated his sleeping cubby from the little trailer’s cramped galley kitchen, raising her voice as if she were rooms away from Zeke. “I think she needed a little sunlight for encouragement. It’s such a bright, sparkly morning. I’m cooking breakfast—scrambled or fried?”

  “Scrambled,” Zeke answered with his first word of the day.

  Still cloaked in his blanket, he sat on an inverted crate facing the narrow cot that folded down from the wall to serve as a combination bed, desk and workbench. Inside his backpack, he had stacked the nine power cells he’d managed to charge and salvage before the Department of Energy Agents discovered his traps among the electric power mains feeding Harmony Village. No need for schoolbooks today.

  He pulled on a second flannel shirt and thick sweater and slipped his father’s broken wristwatch into his pocket. The watch was the only artifact he had besides the notebook to remind him he’d once had two parents.

  He stood up and pulled the little curtain aside.

  “It’s nice and warm in here today, Zekie, and so light.”

  In the frigid July air, wisps of steam curled from Mom’s breath. The trailer was bathed in sunlight filtered by hazy clouds but re-concentrated by a ring of seven reflector panels Zeke had improvised from scraps of wood, sheet metal, foil, and shards from broken mirrors. The extra halo of light had melted most of the frost on the small windows and raised the interior temperature a few degrees.

  Zeke watched her set out three plates, as she did every morning. Their small table was decorated with a potted daisy and a pair of empty ceramic salt and pepper shakers, one painted with a picture of a rearing white horse and the other a bucking black horse. She scraped every last pale-yellow flake of egg from the dented tin pan onto his plate and placed an apron-polished fork beside it. She set the pan aside and balanced a teakettle over the feeble cooking flame on the three-legged stand he had cut from an empty tin can.

  He sat down at the table and studied the egg. Without saying anything, he reached for his mom’s plate and divided the yellow scramble into two portions. She studied the plates for a moment, but knowing he wouldn’t give in, she sat down across from him and began savoring the tiny bits.

  “She doesn’t lay eggs very often anymore, but when she does, it’s a gem, don’t you think?”

  Zeke ate his share in three bites, tasting and hearing nothing. He was running out of time.

  “Daddy missed breakfast again,” she continued. “I’m sure he’ll find something to eat at the lab.”

  She looked up thoughtfully as his silence struck her. “You’ve been busy lately.”

  “Lots of homework,” he responded absently.

  “It’s good to study. You need to prepare for the selection tests, but you need sleep.” She cleared the plates to the sink. “You work so hard, Zekie.”

  He stood and swung on his backpack. “I’ll be late.”

  “Wait, you’re not all fastened up. Let me just tie this down.” She reached out to cinch and retie the worn laces and adjust the straps. He pulled away to keep her from discovering the illegal power cells tucked into his backpack.

  Someone knocked on the door. Mom lifted the curtain on its tiny window. A tall man in a dark-gray pinstripe suit and a long, unbuttoned overcoat peered back with a blank expression.

  “Mrs. Kapopoulos?” the man asked in a deep, strangely soothing voice. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need to speak with Ezekiel.”

  Zeke grimaced—too late to avoid the Chairman’s reach this time.

  “Zekie,” said Mom, as if he hadn’t heard the man speaking, “there’s a man here to see you.”

  She unlatched the three locks and opened the door.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The man ducked his head to step in under the door jamb. He wore a maroon scarf neatly wrapped and tucked in at the neck and no hat. “My name is Thomas.”

  “Welcome, Mr. Thomas,” she said. “This is my son Zeke.”

  Zeke knew Thomas all too well. Mom pulled out her chair for Thomas. When he sat down, his legs were so long he had to turn to the side to avoid banging his knees on the table’s edge. He rested one arm on the table and gestured at Zeke with his fingers as he spoke.

  “How are you doing, Zeke?”

  Zeke’s meager breakfast churned in his stomach, and he belched. “Sorry.” He covered his mouth with his forearm and composed himself. “I’m fine. Good. Really good.”

  “Really? Because the Chairman has concerns.” His fingers waved again. “He thinks you’ve lost your passion for the work. Less drive means less productivity, and low productivity means lower profits.”

  “Tea, Mr. Thomas?” Mom held a cup in one hand and the teapot in the other. Zeke saw they were both shaking.

  “Just Thomas, ma’am. No ‘Mr.’ for me—and no tea either, but you go ahead. You’ll need to keep warm.”

  What was that supposed to mean? Zeke paled. This was not a good sign.

  Returning his attention fully to Zeke, Thomas flattened his expression and asked, “Any goods for the Chairman today?”

  Zeke untied the laces on his backpack, dug out eight power cells, and stacked them on the table.

  “Careful,” Zeke said. “They can give you a bad shock if you touch the terminals. Keep them
covered.”

  Thomas nodded. “Short delivery,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “It must be hard to support yourself and your mother on such limited inventory.”

  “Oh, we’re fine,” Mom said. “Zekie’s studying for his exams. He’s busy. We live on government benefits.”

  Thomas acknowledged her with an expressionless nod, then tapped his fingers on the table and continued speaking directly to Zeke. “But Zeke, this isn’t exactly the delivery the Chairman was expecting. When do you plan to deliver the QuARC?”

  “You saw what it did. It’s almost ready.”

  “The Chairman thinks it might be best for you to hand it over now and have it tested by a third party, someone who can verify that you’re on the right track.”

  Zeke felt his heart thudding in his chest. “I don’t have it. But I can get it back.”

  “In that case,” said Thomas, locking eyes with Zeke, “the Chairman thinks you need a little extra incentive—‘skin in the game,’ he calls it. That’s why he’s decided to call in your collateral.”

  Thomas leaned back and knocked twice on the trailer wall, as if signaling someone outside.

  “Skin in the game?” asked Mom, nervously drying her hands over and over again with her apron.

  “Call it a personal stake,” said Thomas. “It means you have something to lose if you fail—or to gain if you succeed.”

  The frying pan, which lay cooling in the wash basin, began to rattle, and the trailer lurched up and down as if tossed by an earthquake. Mom snatched the salt and pepper shakers off the vibrating table just before they marched over the edge.

  Zeke focused all his attention on Thomas, determined not to let whatever was happening take away from convincing the man to give him more time.

  “It’s almost working,” he said. “I just need a little more time.”

  “Two years,” said Thomas. “Four times your original promise. The Chairman feels he’s been extremely patient.”

  This couldn’t be happening! Mom folded her arms tightly around herself and darted outside. Zeke and Thomas followed her. Two men with scruffy faces and hats with thick ear pads were hitching the trailer to a snowcat.

  “What’s happening, Zekie?” Mom asked.

  Zeke stared, speechless, as the two men exchanged indifferent glances and continued their task.

  The Chairman’s black limousine crawled around the corner, escorted front and rear by four men on growling snowmobiles. Its dark tinted windows hid whoever might be inside, but Zeke didn’t need to see a face to know the Chairman was watching.

  “Zekie, are they taking our house? Where will we go?”

  “It’s okay, Mom, I can fix this.” He approached the limousine, but two of the bodyguards pulled in front of him, blocking his way.

  The two men who’d hitched the trailer climbed into the cab of their snowcat and started the engine. The trailer lurched forward out of its frozen ruts.

  “From now on, it’s all about deeds, not words,” said Thomas. “I think you’d better take what you need before they drive away. Anything left inside will stay with the trailer.”

  Thomas flagged the driver to stop and directed Zeke and his mother back into the trailer.

  Mom quickly gathered their pots and blankets, a few clothes and coats, and her knick-knacks while he frantically bundled his own most valuable possessions—wire, salvaged parts, and tools—into his sleeping blanket. With Thomas’s help, they carried everything outside.

  Thomas latched the door and waved to the driver. Mom stood shivering in the open air, holding the stack of unwashed breakfast dishes. Thomas removed his heavy coat and draped it over her shoulders, then picked a soggy brown leaf off Zeke’s parka and straightened his scarf for him.

  “Never underestimate the importance of image,” he said as he stepped back to check Zeke’s appearance.

  Zeke opened his mouth to protest, but Thomas cut him off.

  “Don’t play the Chairman,” Thomas warned Zeke in a fatherly tone. “You’re a good kid. I don’t want bad things to happen to you. When the Chairman’s happy, he’ll pay the price he agreed to. When he’s unhappy, someone else needs to pay instead. You have until nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Same place as last time?”

  Zeke nodded.

  As if the mother ship had just landed, a door of the limousine slowly swung open, not to the side but up, like a wing. The music pounding from the open portal rattled Zeke’s legs and spine. Thomas boarded the vehicle, and the door closed.

  With a jolt, the snowcat truck tugged the trailer free from the frozen mud, tearing through their meager garden of squash and potatoes. The limo pulled away and the truck followed, their trailer bouncing and rattling behind.

  “We’re having the oddest weather this year,” said Mom, handing Zeke his gloves. It was another ritual she had repeated almost every morning as long as he could remember, probably since his father had vanished. She was back in her dream world.

  She tilted her face toward the hazy sun, soaking in the meager warmth that refracted through the crisp, frigid air. “I hope we get some gardening weather soon.”

  What were they going to do now? Mom couldn’t fend for herself, not in this cold. Zeke’s mind raced through the possibilities. He untied a cloth sack, poured out a handful of grain, and tossed it on the ground for Lucy, who rushed over to scratch and peck at the frozen dirt.

  “Try to stay warm,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “I’ll come back for you in a couple of hours.”

  Mom patted his shoulder. “Go to school. Do good work, Zekie. I’m sure Daddy will be home any minute now.”

  He helped his mother slide the rest of the way into Thomas’s coat. With her hands barely poking out of the long sleeves, she placed the potted daisy on the concrete block that had been the trailer’s doorstep to give it a whiff of sunshine, then sat down beside it as Zeke jogged down the rutted dirt road. When he glanced back, she had begun arranging their belongings as if she were setting up house. He had to get their trailer back before they froze to death.

  Chapter 5

  Agricultural Sciences Shed, Westview Middle School

  The creaky door announced Zeke’s arrival to the Aggies. Their classroom, a rusted, barrel-roofed Quonset hut, rested on the dirt floor like an upside-down half-pipe with no windows. A rickety, freestanding chalkboard stood at the far end. Shovels, pitchforks, hoes, and other farm tools cluttered the base of the low, arched walls. Fumes from the hanging alcohol lanterns intensified the pungent aroma of dung, mud, and rot.

  One by one, the students here had flunked out of their regular classrooms to become Aggies. They sat on rows of benches, where Mr. Bruder trained them in the fine art of pulling plows, digging up potatoes, and shoveling cow manure.

  In the dim lantern light, one boy recognized Zeke. Zeke tried to look past him, pretending he just hadn’t made eye contact, but before he could find a seat at the back of the room, the short boy, maybe a year or two younger than himself, scurried up and offered a handshake. His eyes seemed to bulge behind his thick glasses.

  “I’m Nate. You’re Ezekiel Kapopoulos.”

  “I know,” said Zeke.

  Nate’s bug eyes bugged even more. “You know who I am?”

  “No, I know who I am.”

  Maybe if he minded his own business, the Aggies would leave him alone. He didn’t plan to stick around for very long, so he saw no point in making friends.

  “I’ve kinda got stuff to do,” Zeke said dismissively. He had only one thing on his mind — to find out where Doc had disposed of the QuARC and get it back.

  He sat down on the end of the wooden bench. It jerked off balance, see-sawing and dumping him onto the dirt floor before crashing back down with a thump. The other students laughed.

  Nate needed both hands to help him back to his feet. Zeke wiped his hands on his jeans. Given the stench in that room, he could only imagine what disgusting stuff these kids had been working on.

&n
bsp; “Don’t pay attention to them,” said Nate. “They’ve all done it too, including me. You have to balance out the weight. Otherwise, it’ll tip over.”

  Nate demonstrated how to get centered on the plank seat. “Don’t scoot around too much. Splinters—ouch.”

  He waited patiently for Zeke to settle into a stable position before continuing. “Like what?”

  “Like what, what?” Zeke frowned. This kid made no sense.

  “What do you have to do? I mean, you just got here. Did Cynthia already give you your first assignment?”

  “Why would Cynthia give me an assignment?”

  “You’ll see,” said Nate. “She’s helping us study for our Second Chance tests.”

  A girl sitting a couple of benches away peered over a long scarf that shrouded her mouth and snaked endlessly around her neck and arms. She kept glancing down inside her coat at something she was working on while trying a little too obviously to go unnoticed.

  “Who’s she?” Zeke whispered.

  “That’s Margaux,” said Nate. “You can see her?”

  “What do you mean? She’s right there.”

  “Mr. Bruder says she’s a ghost, and I think she likes the idea of it.”

  “She looks solid to me.”

  She sat still and silent, except for an occasional glance at them signaling she was aware they were talking about her.

  “That’s because she’s a . . . what’s she call it, a—”

  “A corporeal apparition,” said another girl nearby.

  “That’s it, a corporeal apparition,” Nate said. “That means she kind of lives in a real body, but the only kids who can see her are the ones she chooses. I guess it’s kind of like her superpower. She must like you.”

  Margaux swiveled her head to the side like an owl without looking at them again.

  “I don’t mean like you, like you,” Nate added, catching her signal. “She must want to know more about you. We probably shouldn’t talk about her, though. I don’t think she likes it. And besides, it’s not very nice to talk about people.”