Tesla's Attic

by Neal Shusterman

  Then he touched the electrodes to Svedberg’s chest.

  The most annoying thing about being reanimated, Alfred Svedberg was quick to discover, was not the foul mood one finds oneself in; nor was it the acrid smell of embalming fluid. Instead it was a sudden and overpowering craving for corned beef and cabbage, both of which are good sources of iron. Since the dead are anemic, what with their blood being drained and all, the oft-referred-to zombie penchant for human brains is nothing more than a legitimate craving that could easily be satisfied with spinach.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Svedberg asked. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  Svedberg spontaneously knew that he was dead. Realization of one’s own death must be a universal component of reanimation, although further research would be required to prove it.

  “Mr. Svedberg,” said a girl. He didn’t recognize her at first, because of the angle of his view: somewhat upside down. “We’re sorry to bother you. But you were going to give us some important information before you…that is to say, before you…”

  “Before I was murdered? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “So it was murder,” said a boy standing next to her, holding some square apparatus that Svedberg immediately knew was the source of his unexpected life energy.

  Now he identified two of the kids. They had come to see him shortly before his death. Young Caitlin Westfield and Nick something. And it made him furious.

  “Why should I talk to you? It’s because of you that I was killed! I had so many plans, so many years ahead of me—”

  “Not anymore,” said the boy holding the electrodes to his chest. “The best you can do now is make a difference. Maybe even point the finger at the people who did this to you.”

  Svedberg had less interest in vengeance than in getting back to being deceased, from which he had been so rudely interrupted. But it was obvious this trio was not going anywhere until he gave them something.

  “Fine,” he said. He tried to cross his arms, but he found them both very stiff, as if he had double tennis elbow that no amount of physical therapy could cure. And though his jaw felt a little bit looser, this conversation was a struggle no postmortem personage should be subjected to.

  “Please, Mr. Svedberg,” said Nick. “We need to know about the Accelerati.”

  “Do you have any idea what they’ll do to me?” Svedberg asked.

  “Uh, what more could they do to you?” asked Caitlin.

  Svedberg had to admit she had a point. “If I tell you, will you let me rest in peace already?”

  They nodded, and so he began.

  And whoever said, “Dead men tell no tales,” had never met Alfred Svedberg.

  “My grandfather wasn’t just a jeweler. He was a gemologist. He studied precious gems. He actually synthesized the first artificial diamond, which you call cubic zirconia. Of course, he never got credit. As a member of the Accelerati, he was bound to a code of anonymity. Although he was never supposed to speak of it, not even to his family, he confided in me just a few days before he died.

  “The Accelerati began more than a hundred years ago, according to my grandfather. It was an honor society, created by the man history claims to be the greatest inventor of all time: Thomas Alva Edison.

  “As the story goes, Edison grew tired of the pompous posturing and mundane concerns of other wealthy businessmen. He wanted a society of intellectuals, scientists, inventors, and great thinkers who could and would change the world. But from the very beginning, Edison had an agenda. The Accelerati were never about enlightenment. They were the dark side of genius, the secret shadow of invention. For the Accelerati it always was, and always will be, about power. Not some vague, idealistic grasp at control, no—but power in the literal sense. Electricity, fuel, the very energy that drives our world. Edison’s goal was to control everything from production, to delivery, to consumption—and he almost succeeded. There is a reason why nearly every American power company has Edison as part of its name.

  “Oh, there was no question that he was brilliant, both as an inventor and a businessman, but he fell one level short of the genius it would take to truly master the world’s energy supply. That’s why he created the Accelerati, co-opting the brainpower of some of the world’s greatest minds. Minds who were the equals of Einstein, Fermi, or Bohr, but names you’ll never hear because of the Acceleratis’ vow of anonymity.

  “It was they who detonated the first atomic bomb, a mile beneath Harvard, years before Oppenheimer began his experiments. It was they who broadcast the first television signal, when the public was just beginning to accept radio. And when a member went astray, it was they who, like the hand of God, would wipe that person out, and sometimes their entire neighborhood, in a freak ‘accident’ or natural disaster that had nothing natural about it at all. It was a warning to its members that crossing the Accelerati was met with the severest of consequences.

  “Even after Edison was gone, the Accelerati continued their quest for energy—with results as glorious as microwave transmission, and disasters like Chernobyl. My grandfather played the loyal member to protect his family, long after he realized what they were. Once they had the secret patent on the artificial diamond—one of many ways to finance their cause—the Accelerati had little use for him, so they let him be.

  “It was an attempt to harness geothermal energy that did them in. In their arrogance, they had gathered in 1980 to witness the dawn of a new era, toasting their own brilliance as their geothermal engine tapped the core of a dormant volcano. It malfunctioned, and the Accelerati were killed in the resulting explosion—an event known to the world as the ‘eruption’ of Mount St. Helens.

  “Some years later my grandfather died thinking the Accelerati were gone, disappearing into their own most-deserved anonymity. I thought so, too, until you brought me that pin. I should have picked up and left that very moment. I was foolish enough to think they might not be watching. But they’re always watching. I saw him through the glass door of my shop, shortly after you left. A tall man in a white suit, with a remote control in his hand. Did you know that a universal remote control could be recalibrated to the electrical signature of a human heart? No? Neither did I.”

  The dead man was silent after that, looking rather sour about the whole thing. Nick was both relieved by the light he had cast and terrified of its scope.

  “Tesla and Edison hated each other,” Nick pointed out.

  “Envy,” Svedberg said, “is a powerful motivator. Tesla had what Edison lacked: that highest level of transcendental genius. He was the one scientist who could have made all of Edison’s dreams come true. The Accelerati were always trying to get their hands on his secret inventions, but they never could.”

  Nick looked at the others, but they kept their eyes fixed on Svedberg, who laughed as something seemed to occur to him.

  “My grandfather told me a legend that the greatest of Tesla’s inventions are hidden right here in Colorado Springs, disguised as ordinary household items.” He shook his head. “People will believe anything.”

  Then he paused for a moment, his smile fading as he turned his eyes to the wet cell that was, for the moment, keeping him alive.

  “Oh,” was all he said.

  Caitlin then pulled the diamond ring out of her pocket—the last remnant of the man’s shop—and she placed it in his hand, forcing his stiff fingers to close around it. Nick could see her eyes were filled with tears.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Svedberg,” she said. “You’re here because of me. I did this to you, and I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Well, young Miss Westfield, because you and your mother have always been so kind to me, I’ll give you something few people, if any, ever receive. Absolute forgiveness from beyond the grave.”

  “Technically,” offered Vince, “you’re not in the grave yet.”

  “You shouldn’t be so rude to a man in my condition,” said Svedberg. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Then he reached ou
t, pulled away both of the electrodes touching his chest, and got back to the business of being permanently out of business.

  Regardless of its other properties, Petula’s box camera had a simple one-to-one magnification ratio. With its temporal focus ring set to zero, a picture of the sky would yield nothing but the moon, some birds, and the occasional passing aircraft. To see what was in store for the planet Earth, she would need to spin the focus ring a week forward, and it might give her a completely different story. Unfortunately, the focus ring had a maximum zoom of twenty-four hours into the future.

  Thus, only a telescope of extreme proportions could detect the sly approach of what was known as Celestial Object Felicity Bonk. It bore that name for the simple reason that it was sold to a fifteen-year-old girl on a field trip to New Mexico’s National Radio Astronomy Observatory, home of the very large array of radio telescopes known, quite uncreatively, as the Very Large Array.

  Felicity had purchased the asteroid one year earlier, because naming an asteroid only cost ten bucks, whereas a star was a whopping seventy-five.

  As any Realtor can tell you, when purchasing real estate, there are only three things that matter: location, location, and location. Celestial Object Felicity Bonk could be found in the low-rent district of the solar system. That is, until just a few days ago, when it began a dramatic relocation.

  As most of the world’s telescopes were trying to catch such cosmic celebrities as glitzy Magellanic Clouds, camera-shy black holes, and the haunting habits of cannibalistic galaxies, it was a while before the astronomical paparazzi turned its lenses toward quiet, unassuming Celestial Object Felicity Bonk.

  It was the Hubble Telescope, free from the nuisance of atmosphere, that first caught the asteroid’s movement in its peripheral vision. And a quick calculation by NASA, twice corrected because of metric conversion errors, confirmed its collision course with the Boardwalk of solar real estate, namely planet Earth.

  At a speed of sixty-eight thousand miles per hour, its impact in seven days’ time, while thankfully putting an end to reality TV forever, would also put an end to reality.

  Taking into account its speed and the earth’s rotation, the impact point was projected to be a neighborhood sports complex in Colorado Springs. The astonished astronomer who made the discovery was left with one all-important question: is it more appropriate to e-mail, call, or text your boss that the world is about to end?

  The mathematician Gödel said no equation is complete, because a perfectly complete equation must contain the seeds of its own destruction. In other words, every equation must have its own troublesome variable. Every ointment must have its fly.

  Petula Grabowski-Jones was that fly. Although she was more like a mosquito hawk, due to her ability to suck the blood of lesser flies. She had spent most of her free time on Monday and Tuesday taking pictures that were far less pointless than they appeared. Petula found that the most annoying thing about knowing the future between one and twenty-four hours in advance was that the future was mostly uninteresting.

  She could take a picture of the school cafeteria, and after developing it, she could tell you what any given kid would be eating for lunch and who they might be sitting next to tomorrow. But who really cared? Everyone knew what was for lunch tomorrow, and everyone knew who they would be sitting next to anyway.

  Taking interesting pictures of the future meant trying to guess not only when something would happen, but where it would happen, too. In addition, as Petula developed her many photos in Ms. Planck’s darkroom, she discovered that it wasn’t the grand vision of the future she should be focusing on, but the unobserved minutiae. The little details are what make all the difference between now and then.

  Before school started on Wednesday, Petula pulled aside Heather North, who was substantially more popular than she was.

  “Don’t ask me how I know,” she whispered, “but Tommy Woodruff is going to ask you out today. In fact, by the end of the day, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re wearing his jersey. If it’s true, you owe me one.”

  Between second and third period, Petula cornered Principal Watt. “I know you’ve been trying to find a way to fire Mr. Brown. Don’t try to deny it. Some things are public knowledge.”

  The principal said nothing, just stared at her with a slightly bemused and slightly terrified expression.

  “Well,” Petula whispered, “during his prep period, if you happen to find him alone in his room, he’ll be guzzling a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. I hope you’ll remember who gave you the info.”

  Then she winked at him and went on her merry way.

  And when woefully thin-skinned Cindy Hawthorne came down with one of her epic nosebleeds during lunch, who was there to perform triage with a huge stack of napkins that she just “coincidentally” happened to be holding?

  “Thank you, Petula,” said Cindy. “I really owe you.”

  Petula found that she enjoyed doing good deeds when she knew there would be a return on her investment.

  It wasn’t until the end of the day that she began to worry about the fabric of the universe, because Heather North was not wearing Tommy Woodruff’s jersey seven minutes before the time her picture showed she would be. In fact, Tommy Woodruff was already in the boys’ locker room, getting ready for football practice. If it didn’t happen, it meant the camera didn’t really take pictures of the actual future, just a possible future. And if there was any concept Petula could not stand, it was the great “maybe.”

  “Maybe there’ll be something worth watching on TV.” “Maybe people will actually come to your equinox party.” “Maybe your parents will remember your birthday this year.”

  No, the hard cubic reality of her box camera had no room for uncertainty.

  So she stormed into the boys’ locker room, selectively ignoring things she did not wish to see, ferreted out Tommy Woodruff, and told him point-blank, “I hope you know that Heather is waiting for you to ask her out. Now get out there, give her your jersey, and seal the deal.”

  Somewhat bewildered by the news, Tommy Woodruff put on his pants, left the locker room, and with far more charm than Petula expected, told Heather North he liked her “a real, real lot” and handed her his jersey as a token of his sincere affection. Heather put on the jersey and a moment later was strolling down the hall, looking lighter than air, as she passed the exact spot where Petula had snapped the picture precisely twenty-four hours earlier.

  It was at that moment that Petula realized the true power of the camera, and this grand revelation could, and eventually would, change everything. Because although it was clear she had no power to change the future, if she knew what that future was, she had every power in the world to create it.

  Her first premeditated attempt to exploit this knowledge involved her current object of obsession: Nick Slate. Her plan was simple: find a way to lure Nick into her living room while her parents were still at work, and call forth his raging hormones through provocative conversation and her feminine ways. One thing would lead to another, and the afternoon would result in a make-out session worthy of the record books—or at least YouTube.

  All that remained was to take a photo of the sofa precisely twenty-four hours before so she would know whether or not her plan had succeeded.

  If Nick wasn’t with her on the couch, it would save Petula the trouble of having to set the whole thing up. In this way, she could save valuable time by only going through with schemes that she knew in advance would succeed. For what greater power is there than being able to abandon your failures before you even attempt them?

  And so, with the camera’s time ring set precisely to twenty-four hours, she snapped the picture of her sofa, then hurried over to Ms. Planck’s, whose darkroom she had become pleasantly addicted to.

  “My parents are awful snoops,” she told Ms. Planck. “And my photography is my business.”

  “As well it should be,” Ms. Planck said, and she proceeded to do her own snooping, looking at the various prin
ts that hung from strings around the darkroom, like laundry in neighborhoods of old. Somehow it didn’t bother Petula the way it did when her parents stuck their noses into her darkroom back home.

  “Slices of life,” Ms. Planck said. “You certainly have an eye for catching people candidly. And I even like the still lifes,” she said, pointing to photos of empty hallways and vacant tables, where Petula failed to capture anybody doing anything. “You have a curious sensibility.”

  Then Ms. Planck left her alone to get to the business of developing her future.

  Processing the negative took the longest. Spooling the film into a little drum, filling it with chemicals, and shaking it like one of her father’s cocktails. Developing solution first, then the stop bath and fixer. She was supposed to let the negative dry, but Petula didn’t have the patience—not this time.

  Instead, she put it right into the enlarger. And, to her joy, the negative image did show two people on the sofa, one leaning toward the other. With her heart racing, she brought the image into focus. The redness of the safelight only added to the intensity of her emotions, which bloomed from joyful anticipation into something very different.…Then she let out a scream when she saw exactly who was on the sofa with her.

  It wasn’t Nick sitting beside her—it was Mitch. And they were, indeed, making out.

  Caitlin’s experience that afternoon, while not quite as horrifying as Petula’s, was nonetheless profoundly abnormal. It seemed odd to her that, after having spent her evening talking to the dead, she should have to go about the busywork of school, but the simple fact of knowing about the Accelerati didn’t give her a way to do anything about it. In fact, if anything, it made things worse. Now she knew that the Accelerati were many generations old, and like a tree whose roots had wormed their way into the sewer system, they had grown strong by unpleasant means. She knew they could not be battled by normal methods.