The Quantum Mechanic: The Secret

By James Shava

" Imagine wanting what you can't have and risking all just to have it?"

David Watson, a scientist, wants what he can't have... a girl called Anne who is trapped 400 years away!
– He risks everything and discovers the Secret...
With the Secret comes the birth of a nation - it has a price-tag and a Secret...
This Secret is a jackpot a radical group wants so badly, it is willing to pay any price for it.
The scene is set to explode as they now have the means ...
What will it take to unearth this Secret?
_____________________________________________________
In this tense romantic science fiction story, David Watson, a research scientist, gives up his career to find love by buying one way bus tickets to travel across the country. But David has his own little secret. It the kind of secret you can’t tell anyone. So he tries hard to keep it secret. But secrets are hard to keep secret. As David follows a life of travel he experiences strong migraines. One morning he buys a one way ticket to Virginia, the state for lovers, and has a migraine attack. He wakes up in a fort in Virginia through time. He is in Vaenmont is a dystopian fort settlement in Virginia, and it is the year 1610. He meets Anne, “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”. But, Anne has her own secret, which threatens to destroy everything David Watson believes in. David rescues her. They flee on horseback. The migraines return and David is swallowed by a blackness. He finds himself back in Vaenmont. Problem is Anne has disappeared, the fort has disappeared and it is now 2015. Vaenmont is now a modern city.
Vaenmont has its own secret. It had been hidden and waiting for four hundred years.
And in the nearby ghetto, the Forbidden Zone, the gangs want a piece of Vaenmont too!
Things happen too fast for David Watson. He is soon caught up in an unbelievable, breath-taking adventure ride.
He is arrested for a crime he didn't commit and when all seems lost, he finds Anne. OR does he?
Vaenmont is now a place where the past and the present meet in action to tell a bizarre thriller tale involving the kidnapping of his girl. By then David is at the mercy of a radical organization which wants him to use his secret - his teleportation ability and unearth the secret of this town or he loses Anne. Fearing they would murder her, David must act quickly and help them unearth the mystery of the town. Because he fears handing over the power to the gangsters, he prays for a miracle. As he unlocks the four-hundred-year secret of Vaenmont he cannot imagine what lies hidden there, waiting...the problem is, they all have no idea what lies in wait for them...
•"Vaenmont Fort was a surreal fort, whose bowels drove hunger pangs to persuade the occupants into gnawing at the bones of despair, until the unthinkable became thinkable...and happened. How could I ever begin to forgive such a place?"
•"The biggest mistake I made, was to fall in love with Anne. Before I met Anne, I had been happy to postpone having a relationship, preferring to deal with the likes of Melisa. Melisa could limit her emotions to jump into an affair so as to advance her career."
•Word filtered through to the other side of this divided city that all the forbidden things including sex and drugs could be found in abundance in the Forbidden Zone.
•"Imagine being eaten alive by a wild cat, a jaguar, while you watch from a distance?"
•"Have you ever felt something lick you even though you cannot touch it or see it?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Shava
• Release date: Jan 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370179596

James Shava

James Shava is a writer and web developer. He ran a newspaper with his Missouri-trained journalist business partner. He has conducted workshops and trained various organizations including UN agencies in desktop publishing. He is married with three children.

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Prologue

The Independent City of Vaenmont, Virginia, USA – 2015

Though Professor David Watson’s name was not easily recognizable in Vaenmont, Virginia, he was in fact a renowned researcher in the new field of Quantum Mechanics, and a dreamer to boot. His name was often referred to by fellow researchers in the field with either derision or absolute awe. The field of Quantum Mechanics involved teleportation, the movement of objects from one place to another, a field which, while removed from daily life was of great interest to space travelers and hence, it had attracted the interest of the United States Space Agency. To the layman, Quantum Mechanics, if carried to its logical conclusion, made it possible to trans-migrate a body from one geographical position to another, in space and time, through the use of universal energies.

So when Dr. Watson was brought into Vaenmont Courthouse, there was a hushed silence among the audience. Judge Peter Byron, an African American, walked into the courthouse, exactly two minutes before nine, a habit of never being late which he had developed early in his life. He wore his identity and pride on his sleeves, and was quick to find offense where none was intended. Being on time was an article of faith with him, as he assumed that if he was late, he would be judged as one of those people of color who were indifferent to time. He was also very sensitive to what he perceived as insults on his dignity, and thus he insisted on absolute order in his courthouse, number nine. The phrase NUMBER NINE and Judge Byron were synonymous among the criminal community. He took no prisoners, gave no quarter, and was quick to slap an offender with contempt of court charge.

Dr. Watson’s case was the first to be called. Watson, a Caucasian male, petted his graying hair as he was led to stand before the judge by the bailiff. The court clerk handed the judge the charge sheet. Judge Byron read it, glanced at the accused and shook his head. His keen eyes shifted to the accused. The judge watched closely as the accused fidgeted while the charges were read out. Watson appeared as though he had jumped out of a fast moving train and survived unhurt. He had walked into court in the company of a group of petty criminals who were unperturbed, as they were familiar with court procedures in Vaenmont Courthouse. These young men were from the Forbidden Zone, the poor part of Vaenmont. Watson was out of place with this court’s regular guests. He wore the same clothes he had worn the day before. They were now rumpled and creased all over. He had bags under his eyes. And he had not slept well in the Jailhouse.

David Watson, the charges are: an attempted break-in, destruction of property and vagrancy. The Court Clerk read aloud.

Judge Byron’s attention was riveted on the accused. Was this the famous Professor David Watson, PhD., Fellow of the American Academy of Sciences before him? His judicial training had taught him not to jump to conclusions. There must be a simple explanation.

Your Honor, the Senior Prosecutor, Jason Small, said with his sonorous voice. Small was a vicious and small minded runt of a person, who always painted the accused as despicable and pestilent, a habit Judge Brown resented quietly since the majority of the accused that came before him were black like himself. He suspected that Small was a small town racist and that he wanted all African Americans locked up in the jailhouses the county had built. He further suspected that Small had bought shares in the for-hire prison companies that the federal government had introduced into the country.

Judge Byron soon returned his thoughts to the present. What role did Dr. Watson play in all this? He had heard about spoofs, people planted in certain spaces and time slots by the Secret Service of the United States in order to find out what the reaction of the populace in that particular area would be. Judge Byron was not sure what to believe. Was Dr. Watson a spoof then?

Judge Byron decided to cut today’s proceedings short, while he gave himself time to study the case. He would only allow the accused to plead, after which he would remand him in custody until a full hearing was set. Judge Byron felt that if the accused was indeed Dr. Watson, and he handled the famous researcher of Quantum Mechanics as an ordinary criminal, his name would stink among scientists and professionals who were too willing to deny African Americans their due.

The charge was read. Judge Byron, assuming a serious and censorious voice as if he was chairing an Inquisition turned his attention to Dr. Watson.

The charges have been read to you, criminal entry and vagrancy. Do you understand the charges? How do you plead?

Dr. Watson fidgeted with himself, as if he was in a world of his own. Apparently, he did not understand the charges. He seemed to say that he was not guilty. Judge Byron ordered that he be remanded in custody. The Clerk of Court whispered in his ear. The Sheriff has taken possession of a batch of papers, believed to be in Dr. Watson’s handwriting.

Judge Byron retired to his chambers, asked not to be disturbed, while he studied the papers. The Diary revealed the following information which raised further questions as to the true identity of this Dr. Watson.

After reading the above diary, it became obvious that Judge Byron’s action in adjourning the court proceedings was correct. The City Fathers, with whom he shared the information, were equally puzzled. They, too, like Judge Byron, were uncertain as to the true identity of this Dr. Watson. The Diary raised an important question. In Dr. Watson’s duffle bag were two bus ticket stubs indicating his travel itinerary to have originated from Charleston, West Virginia on September 8, 2014. But according to the second stub, he had arrived in Vaenmont on September 9, the following year. Surely a journey of 836 miles took only two days by Greyhound Bus Lines. The Sheriff prided himself in what he called old-fashioned police leg work. Sheriff Pixy was an easy going lanky fellow, who looked more like a younger version of Chuck Norris, and enjoyed his beer when off duty. He was friendly, polite but could just be as tough and enjoyed a fist fight if things got rough. In Vaenmont, things hardly ever got rough. The roughness lurked in the nearby Forbidden Zone. Sheriff Pixy had already checked with the Station master at the Greyhound Bus Station. Confirmed. A lanky absent minded graying white man had been dropped off at the station. Yes, indeed, he carried a duffle bag on his left shoulder. Yes, he seemed not to know where he was going. The station master had asked if he needed help. The man ignored the offer and walked slowly into Vaenmont. Shown the photograph of the prisoner, the station master said curtly: Yep, that’s him alright. He is wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday.

* * *

The District Court of Vaenmont was built on the exact spot where the old city, fort, built by the founding fathers had once stood. The poorer section of Vaenmont was called the Forbidden Zone. In recent years the inhabitants of this Forbidden Zone had begun to express their dissatisfaction with the ruling class of Vaenmont. The story of Vaenmont was that in the year 1610, its 140 founding fathers were almost wiped out by a severe winter. Expecting death, they had dug a hole in the middle of the fort, buried their gold there and covered it with cement.

The courthouse is an impressive six story white marble building. If one is standing by the window on the 6th Floor of Judge Byron’s court, one can witness the ever flowing pulse of the Main Way Street. The activities on the Main Way Street measure the pulse and tempo of life, some days the activities are few and far between, but on other days, as when Judge Byron is holding court, the tempo and pulse increases. Loiterers stand purposelessly with their backs to the warm stone marble walls, absorbing the heat of early spring, chattering away time. They, however, seem to have a sixth sense as to when they are unwelcome. Saturdays and Sundays, the Main Way Street is virtually empty. During the week, traffic from the smaller streets feed into Main Way Street, creating traffic jams. This is an indication that a high profile case is before the courts. The Sheriff’s Office is housed there, and so is the public library, a museum as well as lower and superior courts. Somewhere in the labyrinth is a jailhouse. Visitors have sworn that they saw gallows and death chairs and even the ghosts of the founding fathers patrolling the corridors, guarding their gold bars hidden beneath the fort.

After hearing this report in his chambers, Judge Byron suspected that there may be more than meets the eye. He called for a more in-depth investigation on the activities of Dr. Watson, after he had left the Greyhound Bus Station the previous night.

* * *

The Chief of Police took it upon himself to interview Dr. Watson. He knew that nothing less than a thorough report would satisfy Judge Byron.

Dr. Watson’s narrative after he left the Greyhound Bus Station

Independent City of Vaenmont, Virginia, USA - 2015

I walked slowly along Main Street in Vaenmont. The street was clean and almost empty with only a few parked cars as the evening approached. I heard the sound of music being piped from a restaurant, and caught snippets of happy voices. I surrendered to the uninhibited laughter coming through the windows of the restaurant. The laughter reminded me of my loneliness. I could not remember when last I had been in a party of good company enjoying good food.

These were the things I missed most from this life.

I felt the loneliness as if it was a heavy cloak thrust upon my shoulders. It made me wonder about my previous love, Anne. I didn’t want to believe she had remained behind in old Virginia. Losing my horse, Swift, was fine. It made sense. But losing Anne? No! I tried to figure out how the events had played out. I prayed against all odds that Anne would have made it to Vaenmont. I kept looking up, patting my cropped graying hair, worried it was thinning and balding, and tidying up my stripped blue shirt as if I was on my way to a job interview. I realized I had been away for a year. Not that it mattered. At present, I was a person without a fixed residence, having last rented a duplex suite in Chicago, over two years ago. For the past two years I had drifted, traveling, never getting the chance to settle in one place.

The last thing I remembered was boarding the Greyhound bus in Charleston, West Virginia, at the Charleston Greyhound Station on Reynolds Street ten minutes before the departure time of 8:00am. I was always early for such trips. They excited me a lot. Each trip made me feel like a boy again. I felt rejuvenated. I must have dozed off or something. Yes, I remembered having a terrible migraine. Then I woke up in the other world. Everything seemed to be fine until I visited the fort. With it, came the nightmare. When I came to, after the escape on horseback, I found my clothes and my duffle bag where as I had left them, a year ago. It was as if I had just dropped off the bus and the year away had never happened. I remembered buying the ticket in Charleston, West Virginia destined to find love in the state for lovers, Virginia. I hadn’t met Anne then. I had bought a $98 special, non-refundable one-way ticket to Richmond. The journey should have taken me a day and five hours. The ticket had a departure date of 8 September, twenty fourteen, and an arrival time of 12:15pm on the 9th of September, twenty fourteen. The dreamlike year away took me back four hundred years in time. I had found love, and unbelievably lost love, in a non-gambling state of all places.

Now I was back, in the same place I had fled from. It was as if I was destined to be stuck in Vaenmont, a place I could only relate to as a fort entombed in its own nightmares. Anne was the only good thing to have come out of that place. Beautiful Anne, so sweet and pure that she was, in essence, a denial of the morbid world she came from. I had never felt such a strong love for anyone before. Anne had awoken deep feelings I never imaged I possessed. She was as refreshing as pure spring water. Like water, she had slipped through my hands and vanished.

Looking around me at modern Vaenmont, I felt strange. The buildings were imposing. They were an impressive work of human achievement, like they were from a dream… It was as though they had magically appeared; springing up into three dimensional structures like fairy story pictures from a children’s board book to deny the nightmare world of their birth, a world I had just fled from. I was overwhelmed by the remarkable transformation around me. I needed more time to absorb and admire the breathtaking change from the familiar one block of wooden cabins trapped in a sickly miasma, to this imposing concrete and brick expanse of modern architecture. Beautiful skyscrapers stretched over eight blocks. Everything looked different and impressive. It was mind bogging to think that four hundred years of human civilization had produced all these solid structures. I read humankind’s history, told in centuries of surviving building structures. I studied how the older buildings stood out in their marble white finish, orange and maroon hues, painting a neat picture as they gleamed in the warm heat of a midsummer sunset. The sidewalks were mostly adorned with Victorian gaslights and cobblestone taking me back into a dreamy world I wished to escape from. I realized I was looking at over four hundred years of history since my days at the fort. It was comforting to know something good had come out of the doomed fort. Maybe it was hopeless for me to expect to find Anne here. She must have failed to come. I felt my heart sink as a deep-rooted panic sent a wave racing down my spine. Despite the odds, I kept hoping Anne had made it. The big question was: Why was I here? Yes, in the same place I had just fled from? Four hundred years' memories kept seeping through my sub-conscious, seeking relevance in this modern setting. Was time this expandable?

As darkness settled in, the streetlights fluttered and shaped the sky like a thousand stars. I realized I still had not booked myself into a hotel or inn for the night. One night's sleep at least, then I could sort out the cobweb mess in my life. Anne was not here in this modern place they call Vaenmont. Maybe she couldn’t have coped with the transformation from that dark world to this strange world of electronic gadgets and modernity. I can image her huge green eyes glowing with awe at the amazing transformation. Well, anything was better than that nightmare world we had both fled from. Both? Maybe not her. I felt the sinking sensation stir like a splash from a bucket of cold water. Oh, God, please make sure she is fine where ever she may be…

I met a few of the residents walking along the sidewalks. They walked leisurely, like they were at peace with life. Most of the local folks greeted me with unpretentious cordiality, speaking in their thick tidewater accent. This unexpected display of warmth dispelled all my previous trepidations. I felt at ease. This reception from the locals made me feel as if I belonged, even though I was a stranger. Life had definitely changed for the better in Vaenmont. I wished I could tell these folks how lucky they were. But, I knew they wouldn’t believe me. How would anybody even begin to imagine the nightmare I had just escaped from? Yes, that was another story.

I heard the sound of shuttering glass as I passed a sidewalk. I stopped. Anne? I shifted my eyes down the sidewalk. My eyes caught the attention of a teenager standing at the other end of the sidewalk. The boy was barely in his teens, a gold chain hanging from his vest, and a mop of ginger hair barely covered by a baseball worn to cover half his skull. He met me with a brashness only a gangster can possess. The youth had a team of four small boys, all about ten years old, who were busy trying to break into a drug store with a crowbar and with what looked like a bolt cutter. The boys were so engrossed in their crime they didn't even see me approach. The entire scene looked so out of place that at first I thought I was imagining things. But the juveniles were as real as the buildings themselves. No, I wasn't dreaming. Yes, I had unwittingly stumbled on a crime unfolding. I stopped. I was lost as what to do next. An inner voice warned me things could get nasty if I intervened. Just walk away, I told myself. Pretend you didn’t see anything. The older kid obviously had a gun. I kept a watchful eye on the older youth who was certainly the gang leader and look out. The youth was rubbing his hand in his inner jacket pocket watching as I began clapping my hands in order to scare them away. Nothing happened. I clapped my hands again. They seemed to be ignoring me. Unbelievable!

One of the boys picked a brick decorating the front of the shop and threw it at me. I ducked. The brick hit the wall behind me. The cheek of it! I was annoyed. I picked up the brick and was about to return the favor when the ginger haired teenager whistled. The boys immediately abandoned their break-in attempt and scurried towards their handler like puppies. They disappeared into the darkness at the other end of the sidewalk. A flashing blue light broke the dull spell of the streetlights. Two police officers jumped from their patrol car, their guns were drawn and pointed at me.

Drop your weapon! Put your hands behind your back and get down on your knees.

That is how I came to be a guest of the Sheriff of Vaenmont and a resident of the Jailhouse hotel for the night.

This narrative left the Sheriff with more questions than answers. Who is Anne? How did Dr. Watson pick Vaenmont as his destination of choice? Did Dr. Watson live here four hundred years ago? If so, then he was one of the founding fathers and he might know where the gold was buried. But there was a bigger problem for the Sheriff then than these questions posed. He was not sure that if he shared this knowledge with Judge Byron and with the Vaenmont Council, he would not be declared a raving lunatic.

* * *

Chapter 1

You have to kill someone to be accepted as a full member of the Main Lane Gang. Ginger-haired Vince Gomez killed his first victim when he was just fifteen. The victim happened to be Stubs, the number three main man in the rival Zone Complex Gang.

As a token of appreciation, Vince was given a car, his own street corner to rule and a full lifetime membership. He didn't feel anything about the kill. It hadn't taken much effort on his part. Just a good job of surveillance and patience, and it all paid off.

Stabs, like all gangsters who had become used to living large, had become reckless. Against well-set gangster rules he got himself involved with a girl whose brother was a well-known member of the rival Main Lane Gang. It wasn't difficult for Vince to find Stabs. Just after dropping off his girl, inside Main Lane Gang territory, Stabs was ambushed by Vince driving a stolen garbage truck. The truck rammed Stabs' gold-plated Austin Martin and blocked his escape. Stubs didn't even have time to reach for his famed sawn off shotgun.

Stabs died in a hail of bullet fire from an Uzi semi-automatic. When the police found his bloody bullet-ridden body, they also found a 'V' signature carved by a knife across his open chest.

* * *

Judge Byron was not a believer in the theory that justice delayed is justice denied. He believed that the wheels of justice take their time, and that it is better to be slow, master all the issues at stake before making one’s judgment. It was better to be right than to be hasty and wrong. Now, his Clerk of Court, a woman who had been by his side for almost twenty years whispered into his ear. "While in prison, Your Honor, prison officers removed from the person of Dr. Watson a certain parchment, on which were written these words: My Diary: (Keep From Prying Eyes)."

The Clerk whispered into Judge Byron’s ear once more. Your Honor, we really do not know who this Dr. Watson is and why he is in Vaenmont. The Diary may shed some light into this matter. It seems that Dr. Watson was working secretly on some experiment for the Space Agency which may have gone wrong. As far as we know, his biography says that he has worked on autonomous trans-migration of atoms through space and time.

Judge Byron did not often call the Senior Prosecutor and the Vaenmont Council for consultation. On this occasion, he felt that Dr. Watson’s presence in their city needed a thorough vetting. Any mishandling of such a renowned figure might place not only his judicial reputation at risk, but the good name of the great city of Vaenmont. Exceptions alter cases. How many days the court was to remain adjourned, Judge Byron did not