The Edison Enigma

By Thomas White

Dr. Tom Edison, a present-day physicist, discovers the secret to time travel. He soon learns that he wasn't the first to make this discovery. He also finds out that the discovery was used to change the history of the world. Dr. Edison goes back to correct this intrusion of time and restore the Earth to its original desti

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas White
• Release date: Feb 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798893725599

Thomas White

A native Northern Californian, Thomas White is a retired professional musician who has performed in both the U.S. and Europe. He resides in Carmichael, CA. THE RUNECASTER is his first published novel.

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The Edison Enigma

Thomas White

Copyright © 2024 Thomas White

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN-13: 979-889298521-5

Cover design by: Claire Dye

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to Richard and Marie McCarty.

The best in-laws I could have ever hoped for.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Acknowledgments

The Edison Enigma is my third novel. I would never have believed I could finish one novel, much less three. Along the way, many people have offered assistance and help. I’d like to take a brief moment and thank them.

More than twenty years ago, I met Raymond E. Feist in a football chat room. I had no idea how prolific an author he is until a while later. But, through this journey of mine, he has always been there with an encouraging word and generous offer of sound advice. I’m not sure he even realizes how much his friendship has helped me, so if he reads this, I’ll explain.

I have to thank my hero and mentor, Stephan King, whom I have never met, by the way. His non-fiction book On Writing has been my bible, and every time I sit down to write, I hear his words in my head, If a writer produces a sentence such as, ‘The sunset was indescribable.’ Fire him. It is his job to describe the sunset. I probably stop once a page and say, Describe the sunset!!!!

On a more personal note, there are several people that I am so honored to have in my life. Thanks to my wife, Kathleen, who reads all of my stuff in the early ugly stages, and offers her comments freely and honestly. My daughter Claire has used her graphic design and art background to design a cover that I truly love. My daughter Kaelan, thank you for being such a wonderful human being.

Laura Ray, an old friend from the Pacific Northwest, has always offered her opinions, and they are genuinely welcomed, as well as her husband Kevin, who handles my website updates. Robin Bonoccorsi also provided advice on the cover and helped immensely in moving it to a solid finish.

Thanks to you all. You are greatly appreciated!

Chapter 1

The rising sun reflected off Lake Michigan, projecting a silvery flicker on the buildings along the shoreline. As usual, the morning southbound traffic on Lakeshore Drive was bumper-to-bumper, moving along at a torrid speed of three miles per hour. As a serene Spring breeze drifted in from the lake, Dr. Tom Edison checked the dashboard clock, banged his palm against the steering wheel, and hit the phone button under his left thumb.

Call the lab. He barked with growing frustration. As the number dialed, he heard the chimes through the car’s speaker.

A dark gray sedan sat off to the side of the road about a hundred yards ahead. Smoke billowed out from under the popped hood. This fire was one of the reasons for the traffic jam, but if it hadn’t been this car fire, it would have been something else. Chicago’s modern population far outweighed the capabilities of its ancient infrastructure. Up ahead, Tom could see the fire department approaching on the Northbound side, lights flashing.

Barrington Scientific Research Center. How may I direct your call? The operator asked with professional precision.

Dr. Bruce Reeves, please. Bruce had been with him from the beginning, and with his invaluable help, they had hammered out the first feasible theories for their project.

I’m sorry. Dr. Reeves is unavailable. Can I take a message?

Tom gritted his teeth and reminded himself that this fellow was just doing his job.

Is this Cliff? It’s Dr. Edison. I need to speak with Dr. Reeves.

Oh, sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice. One minute, Dr. Edison.

The fire engine stopped on the far side of the concrete barrier opposite the fire. Eager firefighters jumped out and began to set up on that side of the highway. Tom could only hope to move past the car fire before the fire department shut down the drive in both directions.

The on-hold sound was the local radio station WBBM-Chicago. Lizzo was belting out the final lyrics of It’s About Damn Time, and the station shifted to a news report.

According to a United Nations Climate Change report, it has been found that the US climate action plans remain well below acceptable limits to affect global temperature rise. Under the  Paris Agreement, there are parameters that have not yet been attained. Globally, even with increased efforts by some countries, more definitive actions are needed. The goal is to bend the world’s emissions trajectory downward and avoid the catastrophe of total climate change. Meanwhile, on a more upbeat note, a twelve-year-old Evanston boy won the National Spelling Bee yesterday. He correctly spelled annihilation to capture first place and the ten-thousand-dollar prize.

The phone buzzed, and Dr. Bruce Reeves was on the line.

Tom. Where are you? The harried scientist said.

I’m on Lakeshore, and there’s a car fire. Spewing smoke everywhere.

What the hell are you doing on Lakeshore?

Good question. I should have just stayed at the lab. Maybe I had an aneurysm. I’m coming up on Jackson. I’ll jump off there and take 290. Look, I should be about another thirty minutes. Get the advance work prepped and I’ll be as quick as I can. It was so stupid. I should have just stayed.

No, Bruce said with commitment. You needed the break. You can only go so many days without quiet, and you had already gone too many without a shower. The lab appreciates that you went home.

Tom chuckled. True, I was offending myself.

Self-realization noted. Now hurry!

Okay, just finish the prep. I have to check some data in my office, and then I’ll be with you in the lab. It’s a big day, Bruce! All the marbles are on the table.

Yeah, so is the watermelon. See you soon.

The phone went dead just as Tom rolled past the burning car. In the rearview, he saw firefighters leap the center divider and begin closing down the road. He let out a grateful sigh as he accelerated and exited Lakeshore on his way to making history.

Twenty-two minutes later, he turned onto Hyman and approached the Center. A series of brick buildings, all built between 1920 and 1950, lined both sides of the street. The architectural similarities were unmistakable. Wood-framed entrances, ornate cornices, and cantilevered balconies were plentiful. Most buildings still had the giant water towers on the rooftops. This area had been an industrial hub through most of the mid-20th century. The factories started closing up in the ‘70’s, and renovations and conversions began to revitalize the area in the ‘90’s.

He pulled into the parking lot at the BSRC. The BSRC was on 47th St. between Central and Hyman in Cicero. The building was a refurbished refrigeration factory, built in 1948 and acquired by the Barrington Corporation a decade earlier. There was minimal signage to identify the facility as they did not want to draw any undue attention. The designers had made a significant effort to ensure the exterior was as innocuous as possible. Security and secrecy were of the utmost importance.

Tom made his way to the front of the building and pulled into the third parking spot from the front door. The concrete bumper had a large chunk chipped out of the left corner, and the name, Dr. Tom Edison, that had been painted on it ten years earlier was now faded and worn.

At thirty-nine years old, Dr. Tom Edison stood a hair under six feet and, while not having an athletic body, had been able to maintain a slim waist. He had been the recipient of the Barrington Scientific Research grant a decade ago and was on the precipice of taking his theories to fruition. The funding provided by The Barrington Research Facility allowed him to develop a technique that could easily change the world as we knew it. Today was the day he would find out if his theories were viable.

Tom entered through the unmarked electronic door and slid his ID card into the turnstile reader that granted him access to the lobby. The lobby was bare except for a set of elevators on the opposite wall. Tom crossed to the elevators and placed his palm against the steel-framed glass pane mounted on the wall. A horizontal green light scanned his palm. The light turned blue and he stepped closer, angling his head for the biometric authentication of his retinal scan. The reflection in the glass scanner revealed his black mane now contained a few gray strands. A nano-second passed while the AI operating system, known as the Quint, verified his identity. Welcome, Dr. Tom Edison. You may enter the elevator and push the button for your desired floor. The elevator doors opened. Tom reached out and hit the LB button on the bottom of the panel.

The elevator door opened on the LB level, and Tom moved confidently down the long, white corridor. The fluorescent lights, apparently mandatory in any industrial facility, adequately illuminated the hallway, even if the irritating glow made him wish he had his sunglasses.

Tom’s office was down the hall to the left. He briskly walked through the door.

The office had a spacious reception area where his assistant held court. His name was Jerzy Bartley. Jerzy held a master’s in physics and was, without a doubt, overqualified for this job. He had been offered three different promotions and had turned each down out of hand. Tom had been profusely grateful every time. His deep loyalty to Dr. Edison and his overwhelming fascination with the good doctor’s work kept him content with this position. In his early thirties, Jerzy was an African American male who stood six feet nine inches tall with a shaved head and a short, trimmed beard. He dwarfed everyone in the facility. However, his affable smile never failed to start Tom’s day on a pleasant note.

Jerzy looked up from his computer.

Hey, boss. Glad you were able to make it. Jerzy’s sarcastic side slid out.

Very funny. I was stupid to go home last night. I should have stayed.

The lab took a vote. If you hadn’t gone home and showered, we were going on strike. Jerzy chuckled.

That seems to be the consensus. Truthfully, I was happy to oblige, even though I am now behind schedule. Anything new happen in the last couple hours?

Jerzy shook his head. Nope, I got in about an hour ago and everyone was just sitting on pins and needles waiting. How’s it looking?

Tom zoomed into his office, yelling, I’ll know in a few minutes.

Tom sprang into his chair and opened the computer. He saw his reflection in the dark screen. His black hair needed a cut, but who had time? Tom’s hazel eyes were a tad bloodshot from over-work, but the dark circles that had resided under them were less pronounced. A shower and five hours of sleep in his bed could be credited for that.

There were several last-minute equations to confirm. Precision was everything if this project was to succeed. Tom immediately became engrossed in his work, and the rest of the world slipped into his rearview mirror.

Absorbed as he was, Tom failed to see or hear the subtle noises coming from the ventilation shaft at floor level behind him. Had he turned around, he would have caught a beam of light periodically flashing across the back of the vent. As Tom worked, the light grew closer and closer.

The BSRC was a full-security building with redundant security protocols. The ventilation shafts were part of the original design when the building was constructed in 1948. Large metal tunnels that webbed throughout the facility carried cool or heated air to every part of the building. In each room, an ornate bronze vent cover sat at floor level. When the BSRC retrofitted the building, the designers had concluded it was easier to install electronic barriers along the shafts rather than replace the entire ventilation system.

Inside the vent, she moved stealthily. It was cramped, but she was comparatively slight, so she moved with little resistance. In her hand was an uplink device called The Quince. It was a remote device connected to its AI master, The Quint. Electronic barriers had been installed to prevent anyone from doing precisely what she was doing. Still, using The Quince, she easily bypassed the security within the ventilation system. The fact that she had managed to get this far was no small feat. The journey had started on the east side of the building, and she had managed to maneuver this far without detection.

A holographic image floated above the handheld, detailing her route and giving her positional data in relation to her destination. She approached the next gate, read the number from the top of the frame, and entered it into her handheld Quince. The gate swung open. She continued her crawl forward.

Three gates later, she peered through the vent that would open into Dr. Tom Edison’s office. She could see the light from the computer casting a silhouette around the scientist’s head as he fixated on his screen. She read the number at the top of the vent cover and entered it into the Quince. The vent silently swung open. Now was her most significant moment of danger. As she entered the room, she would have to be completely quiet. The tiniest scrape or bump could alert this man, and her jig would be up. Inch by inch, she silently slithered forward. A slight twist combined with a silent turn, and she was out of the vent. Laying on the floor directly behind the clueless scientist, she placed the Quince gently on the carpet. Moving her legs under her torso, she stood up, careful not to sway into his peripheral vision. Taking two cautious steps forward, she raised her arms over her head, placed both hands over his eyes, and yelled, Guess who!!!

Startled, Tom jumped from his seat. He spun around, preparing to defend himself. Just before he struck out, recognition descended.

Oh, for Chrissake, Lori! What the hell?

Dr. Lori Pellitier was the scientific officer on this project and had been the conclusive third member of his core team, coming on board nearly eight years earlier. She was one of the country's sharpest computer/mechanical minds. In her mid-thirties, she had a slight build, thin but curvy, with dark black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her blue eyes and olive-brown complexion perfectly complimented her multi-racial background. Possessing a quirky sense of humor, this stunt was well within her wheelhouse. Baggy, gray overalls covered her five-foot-three-inch frame. There were dirt stains on her elbows and knees, and it was overall, just plain dusty from the trip through the vents.

Just checking out the security protocol in the ventilation systems while we all wait for you. This one needs work, obviously. She unzipped her overalls and let them drop to the floor. Underneath, she wore a blue silk shirt, black designer jeans, and red, bedazzled tennis shoes. Knowing her destination, she had prepared accordingly, and her subtle yet effective makeup had been undisturbed. She attempted to brush off the dirt with her palms, creating a small cloud of dust that swirled around the office. Pulling the scrunchie from her ponytail, her black hair cascaded around her lustrous face.

Tom didn’t notice. Yeah, sorry about that. For some reason, I thought I had enough time to go home. Stupid.

Lori folded the overalls, picked up the Quince, and wandered around to the front of his desk. She walked a bit slower than usual, accentuating her hip movement.

I told you Montrose Beach was too far. So, how’s it coming?

Tom smirked at her reference to his home location, unwilling to address this tired topic again, and said, I just need to input one more piece of data, and I’m there. Tom continued typing while he talked. So, you can override all those vent protocols remotely? Seems odd; why would they want that to happen if the intent was to keep people from crawling through? He looked up as she slightly tilted her head and smiled.

Well, it could be a way in, which no one wants, but it could also be a way out in an emergency. Maybe they wanted to be able to control who’s coming and going.

Sitting in the chair, she put her feet up on the edge of the desk. She opened the Quince and was searching through a variety of sites. Holographic images began popping up. Some were schematics, and others were pictures and graphics.

A picture of a couple on the beach making out popped onto her screen. She looked at Tom to see if he noticed. He hadn’t.

She decided to be a bit more obvious.

This Quince can access the vents, the elevator shafts, and the hallways. I can see the entire security video feed through this little baby, and it comes with some interesting capabilities.

A video popped up, and the audio caught Tom’s attention. He raised his head and saw a couple falling onto a bed as they began to make love. He chuckled and turned back to the screen.

Frustrated again, Lori turned the video off and said, So, this thing gonna work? Or are we all just prepping for a picnic lunch?

Well, if it doesn’t, we can use your skills to become industrial spies. I hear there’s money in that. The computer dinged and he leaned in toward the screen.

There it is, cried Tom. I’ll send this down to Bruce and we are good to go. Are you all set?

Darlin’, I haven’t been awake for thirty-six hours for nothing. Let’s do this.

Tom took a deep breath. Just as he was about to move, a moment of clarity struck him. He started to sweat slightly and leaned on the desk as though he was about to pass out.

Whoa, you okay there, cowboy? Lori came around to steady him.

Leaning against his desk, his hands clenched the edges, suddenly overwhelmed. We’re not messing with Mother Nature, right?

Lori took his hand and held it tight. Her nails were surprisingly short but well-manicured. Tom squeezed her hand, and the sheer warmth calmed him. It felt good to have someone who understood. He noticed her nails and was gratefully distracted. Looking at the hot pink, he said, It always seemed incongruous that your nails are so short. For whatever reason, I’ve always expected long, dangerous, and bejeweled.

She chuckled, With as much time as I spend on a keyboard, I don’t have a choice. But if I did, I can’t tell you the wonders you would see on the ends of my fingers!

They both laughed, and a moment passed between them. Tom looked into her blue eyes, felt better for a second, and then anxiety, again, smacked him across the face. Uncertainty clouded his mind and he felt like he did in high school when he first walked up the path to pick up his prom date. What if she changed her mind?

We can accomplish so much good if this works. I just want to be sure we’re not mixing the pasta and the antipasta. Tom’s voice was shaky.

Kinda late to be asking that question, and it's antipasto, but okay, no, we are not messing with Mother Nature. If we can accomplish this, then we have to see it through.

Tom squeezed her hand again, now doubting every decision he’d made. Is it best to send a watermelon through first? I mean, is that the right choice?

Lori chuckled. Hell yeah! What could be better? Whatever we send has to be organic. We don't want to use an animal, too messy with the activist groups. Using an orange would be cliché'. Watermelons have size and weight. I'd say it’s perfect, and if we succeed, we can have a picnic and eat it afterward. Still holding