Benjamin Franklinstein Meets the Fright Brothers

by Matthew McElligott

  Victor sighed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Scott, but this is a little out of his league. We’d need a real meteorologist.”

  “My dad is a meteorologist.”

  “Scott—”

  “You don’t know him, Victor. He’s the best there is. He just does that funny stuff to make the weather more fun to watch.”

  Franklin chuckled in agreement. “Your father certainly is fun to watch.”

  “This isn’t about having fun,” said Victor. He turned back to the diagram on the board. “Now, do you think your father could put us in touch with the guy who does the morning forecast? What’s his name . . . Jason something?”

  “Look, Victor.” Scott stood up, his face reddening. “I always do what you say. You’re the smart one. But this time you’re wrong. Just because my dad puts on a show doesn’t make him a bad weatherman.”

  “He mispronounced Arkansas in his forecast last week.”

  “Everybody makes mistakes,” said Scott. “Even you. Remember your volcano?”

  Victor winced at the memory of his science project run amok. “This is hardly the same thing. We can’t trust this operation to a man who dresses like a giant bicycle seat.”

  “You think he likes doing that?” Scott shot back. “If the stupid station wasn’t making him pay for the camera—”

  “That he broke, riding that scooter instead of delivering the forecast like a normal weatherman—”

  “Gentlemen, please!” Franklin stepped between the two boys. “I think it best we pause for a moment and collect ourselves. This is no time for arguments.”

  “You take it back, Victor. Say my dad’s an awesome weatherman, or I’m leaving.”

  Victor turned to Franklin. “Ben, you see what I’m getting at, don’t you?”

  “No, Victor,” Franklin said sternly. “I do not.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “I am perfectly serious. While I understand your concerns about the technical side of our plan, you have forgotten something even more important. We need someone we can trust. If Mr. Weaver’s character is anything like that of his son, he is exactly the person we need.”

  “But—”

  “Scott, we will need to speak to your father right away. Is he home?”

  “He’s working right now,” said Scott. “But I know where to find him.”

  Halfway across the Buy-and-Buy parking lot, Victor began to get a bad feeling. He could see the crowd gathered at the entrance, hooting and cheering. What kind of spectacle was Skip Weaver making of himself this time?

  It was even worse than he had imagined. There was Skip, dressed in a skintight silvery spandex suit. He was more than just a little overweight, and the suit highlighted every fold and wrinkle of his doughy frame.

  Skip’s belly, thighs, and arms were tethered with cloth belts to a large, motorized wheel mounted on a tripod. When Skip pressed a button, the wheel spun violently back and forth, shaking his entire body as if he were being electrocuted.

  “Step right up, folks! Nothing to be afraid of,” called Skip, his voice vibrating with the machine. “We call this beauty the Slimshaker Five Thousand. Take it from me, your weatherman, Skip Weaver: with this machine, the forecast calls for sunny skies and a slimmer you.”

  “Ingenious!” said Franklin.

  “Anyone here struggle with thunder thighs?” continued Skip. “This machine cures ’em as fast as lightning!”

  “Do you think it hurts?” asked Scott.

  “I’m sure it does,” said Victor. “And it probably doesn’t even work.”

  Skip patted his belly. “If you folks are like me, you may have noticed a large front moving in.” The crowd laughed in agreement. “My professional advice? Stay off the roads—and fix that spare tire with the Slimshaker Five Triple Zero!”

  Victor groaned. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “Shall we purchase one?” asked Franklin, patting his own belly.

  Fifteen minutes later, the four of them had gathered around coffee and doughnuts inside the Buy-and-Buy.

  “So you see, Mr. Weaver,” explained Victor, “it’s a very delicate experiment Mr. Benjamin is attempting here. Due to, er . . . patent issues, it’s critical that we keep the whole thing secret.”

  “Got it,” said Skip with a wink. He turned to Franklin. “And what do you need me for?”

  “It is quite simple, really,” said Franklin. “We need to create lightning from scratch—just a single strike, you understand—and we are not sure how to do it. We were hoping you could help.”

  “Is that all?” Skip laughed. “Create lightning? You’re out of your mind. Seriously, what’s this all about?”

  “I assure you, we are perfectly serious,” said Franklin.

  Skip Weaver stood up and dusted the doughnut crumbs off his silvery suit. “Look, fellows, this has been fun, but I’ve got to get back to work. What you’re asking for is impossible. Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  “I knew we should have called a real meteorologist,” muttered Victor.

  HOW LIGHTNING WORKS

  Skip spun around. “Excuse me? I am a real meteorologist,” he said, pulling up his hood, “and I’m telling you it can’t be done, no way, no how.”

  “Mr. Weaver,” pleaded Franklin, “I know our request must sound absurd, but I beg of you to give us one moment more. Theoretically, if resources were no object, what might it take to induce lightning? In your professional opinion as a premier scientist, of course.”

  Skip paused, considering Franklin’s words. Then he sat back down. “Okay, you want to create lightning from scratch? First you’ll need to create a lot, and I mean a lot, of really warm air. How do you do that? I have no idea. Then you’ll have to get this warm air up to about thirty thousand feet, really fast. And then, if you want to draw the lightning to the ground, you’ll need something really high to attract the strike.”

  “Like a kite?” offered Franklin.

  “Sure, a kite,” said Skip quizzically. “Who do you think you are, Ben Franklin?”

  “You flatter me,” said Franklin. “Now, there’s much more we need to discuss. I cannot go into specifics, except to say that your ideas may be more feasible than you realize. Might we continue our conversation this evening?”

  “Mr. Benjamin,” whispered Victor, “are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Positive, my boy. Mr. Weaver, shall we say eight o’clock at my lodgings? I promise it will be worth your while.”

  “Please, Dad?” said Scott. “We need you.”

  “Very well,” said Skip, “but I still don’t see what good it will do.”

  “Excellent,” Franklin said. He swallowed the last of his doughnut. “On a separate topic, this Slimshaker of yours—may I give it a try?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Lightning Engine

  “Mr. Weaver,” said Franklin, inviting Skip into his apartment, “I am sorry to take up your time this late at night, but I assure you, it is most important.”

  Skip stepped inside. “Nice place. Lived here long?”

  “You could say that,” said Franklin with a chuckle. “The boys are waiting for us downstairs.”

  Franklin led his guest to the bookcase. He gave it a tug, and it swung open. “After you,” he offered.

  Skip paused, a doubtful expression on his face.

  “It’s okay, Dad,” shouted Scott from below. “Come on down.”

  Gingerly, Skip stepped onto the ladder and lowered himself into the shaft. A moment later, he found himself standing in the middle of an enormous laboratory filled with antique and modern equipment, all humming and pulsing with a faint blue glow.

  “I apologize for the mess,” said Franklin. “We’ve been busy working and haven’t had a chance to tidy up.”

  Skip’s expression transformed into one of utter confusion. “How . . . I mean where . . . What is this place?”

  “This is my, or rather, our laboratory,” said Franklin, ges
turing to Victor and Scott. “If you’d like to have a seat, I think I can explain everything.”

  Franklin led Skip to a stool and sat him down. “I know from your son that you are a man of good character. I feel we can trust you with our secret.”

  “Secret?” said Skip. “What’s this all about, Mr. Benjamin?”

  Franklin sat down on a stool and pulled it close. “Perhaps that is a good place to start. You see, my name is not Mr. Benjamin. Rather, it is Mr. Franklin . . .”

  With Victor and Scott’s help, Franklin brought Skip Weaver up to speed on the Modern Order of Prometheus, the Great Emergency, the Wright brothers, and the lightning net.

  “You guys have to understand,” Skip said apologetically, “this is a lot to take in. Why exactly am I here again?”

  “You’re here, Dad,” said Scott, “because we need to make lightning, and only you know how to do it.”

  Skip shook his head. “I told you, buddy—it can’t be done.”

  “Not exactly,” said Franklin. “You told us it could be done, but you didn’t know how. We’re hoping that maybe, with all of us working together, we can solve that second part.”

  “The big problem is the heat,” said Skip. “You’d need a tremendous amount of power to generate it.”

  Franklin gestured to several large machines behind him. “As it happens, generating power is something we know how to do. And as for heat, perhaps you’ve heard of the Franklin stove?”

  “Sure, but what does that have to do with—” He suddenly remembered who he was talking to. “Oh, right. But even if you could generate the heat, you’d need to aim it upward, almost like a cannon.”

  THE FRANKLIN STOVE

  “You’re talking about focused heat projection,” said Victor. “Ben, isn’t that how the Hyperion coiling system works?” He pointed to a large spring leading into the ground at the rear of the laboratory.

  “It is,” said Franklin. “When lightning strikes the antenna on the roof, excess heat is dissipated down into the earth through those coils.”

  “Like a radiator,” said Scott.

  “Exactly,” said Victor. “Now, what if we could redirect that coil upward? If we had a big enough charge, it would generate an enormous amount of heat. I’ve been down here during a thunderstorm, and the temperature in the room rises a good twenty degrees every time the Hyperion coil kicks in.”

  “Okay,” said Skip, “but don’t you have this backward? Your coil there generates heat when lightning strikes. But you guys want to make lightning with the coil. How are you going to heat it up in the first place?”

  “We could plug it in,” offered Scott. “Or use lots and lots of batteries.”

  “Or,” said Franklin, pointing to the large metal orb hanging from the ceiling, “we could use just one big battery.”

  Hours later, the plan was finally starting to take shape. Skip stood at the chalkboard, going over the details.

  “The timing on this whole thing is going to be critical,” he said. “As soon as the Wright brothers are in view, we’ll need to fire the Hyperion coil. That should heat the air directly above us. When the air rises high enough, it will cool and form ice crystals in the cloud tops, generating electricity. We’ll have to ionize the kite net right away in order to draw the lightning down.”

  “What if there isn’t any wind?” Scott asked. “How will we get the net in the air?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Skip explained. “All that heat should create a massive, localized front. We’ll be generating our own wind.”

  Victor couldn’t believe it. He was actually impressed with Skip Weaver.

  “A million things could go wrong, and it will be enormously dangerous. But from what you’ve told me about this Megabat, we have no other choice.”

  “Are you are certain you can secure a WURP news van?” Franklin asked.

  “Leave it to me,” Skip said. “There’s an old one out back that they never use anymore.”

  “Excellent. In the meantime, we shall disassemble the necessary equipment and prepare it for our mission.”

  “Scott and I will run to Ernie’s to get the stuff for the electric kite net,” Victor added.

  “Good thinking, Victor,” Franklin said. “We haven’t a moment to spare. Let’s get to work.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Baiting the Hook

  Victor and Scott hunkered down behind a Dumpster, a block from the Wright brothers’ warehouse. Nothing had happened in the hour they had been waiting. A light drizzle began to fall.

  Scott’s mountain bike leaned against a wall. Victor’s own bike was still at the Right Cycle Company, surely by now a piece of the Megabat. He’d had to make do with his mom’s old bike—a ladies’ pink three-speed that had only one working gear.

  “You’ve triple-checked the radio, right?” Victor said. “If it doesn’t work, the whole plan falls apart.”

  Scott patted his grandfather’s old radio, which he had crudely duct-taped to his bike’s handlebars. “I checked it this morning. Then I dunked it in the harmonic fluid again. You know—for extra harmonica. See anything yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  BRMBRMBRMBRMBRMBRMBRMBRM . . .

  “What’s that noise?” Victor asked.

  “Look!”

  Atop the warehouse, two giant hatch doors split open like a drawbridge and clattered flat onto the roof. Slowly, a massive shadowy form rose from within.

  Victor peered through the bioptiscope. “The Megabat!”

  Despite its evil purpose, it was a stunning achievement. Perhaps forty feet long, the Megabat was black, sleek, and frightening, but in a strange way, Victor found it beautiful. Wilbur Wright turned a large crank, and its four wings, which had been pressed vertically against the fuselage, slowly opened and leveled off.

  “Let me see,” Scott said. Victor handed him the bioptiscope. “Holy cow! That is so cool.”

  Wilbur turned another crank.

  TICKA-TICKA-TICKA-TICKA-TICKA . . .

  The platform beneath the Megabat tilted up at a fortyfive-degree angle, pointing the plane’s nose into the night sky. Now Victor could see the tank of harmonic fluid suspended beneath. He shivered at the thought of the mayhem it would cause should the Emperor’s terrible plan succeed.

  Orville and Wilbur slowly walked around the plane, inspecting it. Dressed in black, their bodies blended into the night. Victor turned a dial on the bioptiscope and zoomed in on the brothers’ heads. Their ashen faces stood out boldly against the darkness around them.

  THE FRANKLIN BIOPTISCOPE

  Victor gulped. They did look like vampires.

  The brothers climbed onto the lower wing and lay down beside each other on their stomachs.

  “It’s almost time,” Victor said. “Get ready.”

  The Megabat began to rumble, its propellers spinning wildly. The boys hopped onto their bikes.

  “Switch it on,” Victor directed.

  Scott hit the switch on his grandfather’s radio. Nothing happened.

  “Turn it on, Scott!”

  “I’m trying,” Scott said. “It’s not doing anything.”

  “Well, try again! They’re about to take off.”

  The propellers whirred louder. There was a clang, and the Megabat launched into the air and began to soar away. Within seconds, it would surely be out of range. Victor tried to keep himself from panicking. “Scott!”

  “I just thought of something,” Scott said. “See if this helps.”

  He turned the volume knob all the way up. A horrible static blared from the radio.

  “Fixed it!”

  But were they in time?

  Victor and Scott scanned the skies. The Megabat was already gone.

  “We’re too late.” Victor sighed. “We missed our chance.”

  Then came the buzz. First soft, then steadily louder.

  “There it is!” Scott yelled.

  A giant bat-shaped silhouette swooped low. For one horrible second, it se
emed to fill the sky. Then, with an acrobatic roll, it vanished from sight.

  “Let’s move!” commanded Victor. The boys tore down the street.

  Suddenly, the Wright brothers reappeared, circling high above in their terrifying machine, banking and swirling.

  “It’s working!” Scott screamed, pouring on more speed. “They’re coming at us!”

  The Megabat plunged into a steep dive. A bone-chilling scream pierced the air.

  As he struggled to keep pace with Scott, Victor huffed into his cell phone headset. “Ben . . . Mr. Weaver ... they’ve taken the bait. Fire up the Hyperion coil!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sky Chase

  “Faster!” Victor hollered. They sped down alleys and side streets too narrow for the Wright brothers to fly through. The boys had planned their route carefully. As long as they stayed away from major roads, they would be safe.

  High above, the Megabat zigged and zagged like a monstrous mosquito.

  Skip Weaver’s voice crackled in Victor’s headset. “The coil’s at optimum temperature . . . Raise the kite, Dr. Franklin!”

  Victor and Scott paused at the end of an alley to catch their breaths.

  “We’ll have to cross this street fast,” Victor said. “As soon as we’re out in the open, we’ll be exposed.”

  The streetlight turned green. They each took a deep breath and kicked off, speeding across the intersection. Victor looked up to find the Megabat close behind, flying so low that he could see the confused madness on the brothers’ faces.

  Static hissed in Victor’s earphone: “. . . wires are snapping . . . going back . . .”

  Going back? What was Ben talking about?

  Victor heard Skip’s voice shout back. “No! . . . too dangerous . . . be killed!”

  The boys steered their bikes into the next alley. “Mr. Weaver! . . . Ben! . . . We’re almost there! Is everything all right?”

  “No!” Skip shouted. “There’s a problem! The kite net—”

  “There is no problem!” Franklin insisted. “Proceed as planned!”