Reality Matrix Effect (9781310151330)
Read Reality Matrix Effect (9781310151330) Online
Authors: Laura Remson Mitchell
Tags: #clean energy, #future history, #alternate history, #quantum reality, #many worlds, #multiple realities, #possible future, #nitinol
Reality Matrix Effect
Laura Remson Mitchell
The Reality Matrix
Effect
Laura Remson
Mitchell
Copyright 2013 by Laura
Remson Mitchell
Published by Boo What
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What if Ronald Reagan had never
been President of the United States?
And what if the first
African-American President were a former Republican Senator from
Massachusetts who was elected in 1980?
In fact
,
what if the whole world you thought knew turned out to be only one
of many versions of reality?
…
And what if you
learned that
you
were responsible for shifting the world into one of these
alternate realities?
This book is dedicated to my husband, Neil; to our
son, Brian; to friends who encouraged me to complete and publish
this novel; to my brother Gary Remson, who helped proofread the
book; and to those who dream of a better world—and then help to
make that world a reality.
Chapter 2: Of Robbies and Rock
Farmers
Chapter 6: Merchanters’ Retreat
Chapter 12: Dinner at Eduardo’s
Chapter 13: Nitinol in the News
Chapter 14: Operation Strong Man
Chapter 16: Undercover
Operation
Chapter 17: Of Plots New and Old
Chapter 23: Something in the Wind
Chapter 24: Castles in the Air
Chapter 25: Proving Their Mettle
Chapter 26: Flies in the Ointment
Chapter 28: What Things May Come
My thanks to Gary Zukav, author of
The
Dancing Wu Li Masters
, which gave me a new
understanding of quantum physics and the nature of what we call
“reality.” Thanks also to Frederick E. Wang, co-inventor of
Nitinol, who sent me a sample of Nitinol wire and answered several
questions I had about this material. And on a personal note, many
thanks to Madelyn, Norman and Paul Gilbreath, who read this book
and gave me hope that others might be interested; to Linda Nudel
and Jan Merlin for encouraging me to pursue the idea of publishing
this book; and to my husband, Neil, and my son, Brian, who put up
with my preoccupation with completing and publishing this
novel.
Thursday, March 25, 1971
Al Frederick didn’t feel much like going back
to work. Not after a whole month of what George Locke
euphemistically called “scheduled overtime.” As far as Al was
concerned, it was more like indentured servitude. It was stupid,
too. George’s title might be “managing editor,” Al thought, but if
he could manage things worth a damn, we wouldn’t have to put up
with that kind of crap. Hell, the way things had been lately, he
and Vickie hardly had the chance to see each other outside of
working hours.
At least this time, there was a decent
reason. When you work for a daily newspaper—even a small one like
the
Valley Star
—and a really big story breaks, you have to
figure you might be needed. That’s how it was with the San Fernando
earthquake in February, and with all the assassination stories of
the past few years, too. So he wasn’t angry when the call came
after John Martin Roberts was shot. Still, he could have used more
than four hours of sleep after that last 10-hour shift.
“Okay, Herb. Whaddaya got for me?” Al asked
the copy-desk chief as he settled into a chair along the rim of the
aging, horseshoe-shaped table. The two men already sitting on the
rim greeted Al with casual waves of the hand and then quickly
returned their attention to the stories they were editing.
Sitting in the copy-desk slot, as usual, Herb
grinned and ran his fingers through his wispy gray hair. “‘Whaddaya
got?’” he repeated, looking up from a pile of typed stories and
wire-service copy. “What kind of talk is that for a copy
editor? You know it should be, ‘Whaddaya
have!
’”
Al feigned a look of contrition.
“You’re absolutely right, Herb. I’ll watch
that. Now, whaddaya got for me?”
The two of them laughed, and Herb began
sifting through the papers before him as Al glanced across the
roomful of typewriters and gray metal desks to where Vickie was
already hard at work, her face aglow with deadline adrenaline. He
heaved a sigh and ran a hand over his trim brown beard. He could
think of a lot of things he’d rather be doing right now, and every
one of them involved a 26-year-old reporter named Vickie
Kingman.
“You’re just in time to handle the revised
lead for the next edition,” Herb told him, giving him a loosely
folded length of paper consisting of pages that had been pasted
into a single continuous strip. “Taylor patched most of this
together from wire copy. By time you’re through with it, Vickie’ll
probably have the local reaction sidebar ready, and you can tackle
that.”
Al nodded as he forced his attention to the
story:
“Trouble is brewing in 10 of the nation’s
largest cities as a stunned world grieves following the
tragic death of Congressman John Martin Roberts.
“Ironically, the popular statesman was struck
down by an assassin’s bullets as he completed an appeal to his
fellow legislators urging passage of a strong gun-control bill.
Police and selected Army units have been placed on special alert in
anticipation of possible rioting.”
Al massaged the bridge of his narrow,
aquiline nose. Things never change, he thought. Twenty years since
he got his first newspaper job—a kid fresh out of high school—and
the stories were still the same. Cops and robbers, political
shenanigans, riots, murder, hatred, greed, war or the constant
threat of it—the whole world progressively falling to pieces.
He used to think of the future as an upward
spiral, he remembered, always holding out the promise of something
better. Now he seldom thought of the world’s future at all, and his
thoughts of his own future were limited to providing for the
necessities of life and to nurturing his relationship with Vickie.
His career, which he had once considered a calling of almost
religious significance, was now just a job.
Serenaded by the clatter of typewriters, he
breathed in the familiar copy-desk odors of pencil shavings, rubber
cement and cigarette smoke. The setting brought normally
subconscious thoughts into sharp focus. Truth was, this job could
get to you if you let it.
It wasn’t just the low pay and the crazy
hours. It was the news itself. Most people in the business learned
to accept the daily horrors that confronted them on the job. You
had to maintain your emotional distance. So, somehow, you trained
yourself to ignore the human misery in the stories you worked on.
It was like the now-permanent layer of accumulated ink and pencil
smudges that coated the copy desk: After a while, you didn’t
even see it anymore. At 38, he had it all worked out. No more
castles in the air. The world had disappointed him so often he was
used to it. It just didn’t touch him now. Or so he’d been telling
himself.
“Damn shame about Roberts,” one of Al’s
colleagues on the rim commented as Herb handed him another story to
edit. “Roberts is the first politician I’ve had any use for in a
long time.”
“Yeah,” Herb answered, adjusting his glasses
to sit more comfortably on his nose. “He was all right.”
Herb Deutsch had been in the newspaper
business close to four decades. Few people in public
life—especially politicians—had impressed him. From Herb, “all
right” was high praise.
Al said nothing, but an emptiness filled his
gut, and a tightness stiffened his jaw muscles.
“Hey Al, I know you worked the night shift
and you’re tired, but if you’re gonna go to sleep, don’t you think
you ought to close your eyes first?”
Al suddenly realized that he’d been staring
straight ahead in a daze. “Sorry, Herb.”
“You sure you’re okay? Your dark
circles are getting dark circles. Maybe you should’ve told George
to shove it when he called.”
Al waited a beat before answering. “I’m fine,
Herb.”
Deutsch cocked an eyebrow and studied his
co-worker. “Yeah. Sure you are.”
Al smiled sheepishly and shrugged his
shoulders. “It’s funny. You think you’ve given up on the world—that
you just don’t give a damn anymore. Then all of a sudden something
happens and—boom!—you find out you’re really just a marshmallow
inside. A marshmallow that, in spite of everything, believes in
Santa Claus and happy endings.”
“Still the dreamer, eh, Al? Still
rooting for the good guys?”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it? Even
though the bad guys keep on winning.”
“Yeah, well, dreams die hard. But do me a
favor. While you’re dreaming your dreams, how about editing that
story. We have a deadline coming up, you know.”
Al nodded and turned back to the copy in
front of him. The editing didn’t take long. It was a reasonably
well done story—no glaring errors, omissions or inconsistencies. A
few spelling and grammatical corrections, a paragraphing change
here and there, a little polish on a few awkwardly written
sentences, and it was ready. Now to write the headline:
Riots Threaten 10 Cities in
Wake
of National Leader’s
Assassination
Al studied the half-sheet of copy paper on
which he’d written the headline, then called out “Copy!” as he
attached the sheet to the edited story.
If only the man hadn’t died, Al thought with
a sad shake of the head. If only that bastard had just wounded him.
John Martin Roberts could have been something special. He seemed to
bring out the best in people instead of the worst.... Well,
he brooded, I guess now we’ll never know.
Almost absent-mindedly, he handed the copyboy
a pile of material ready to be set in type. Then he saw it.
“Wait a minute!” he yelled as the boy began
to leave. Wide-eyed, he took the top story from the stack in the
boy’s hands. It was the story he had just edited. He recognized his
handwritten corrections and his initials in the top right-hand
corner. But the headline wasn’t quite the same. His eyes riveted on
the final word of the altered head:
Riots Threaten 10 Cities in
Wake
of Roberts Assassination
Attempt
“What’s the matter, Al?” Herb asked as the
wire service machines in the alcove down the hall began clanging to
announce a hot incoming story.
Al continued to stare at the headline sheet
in shocked silence. Time seemed to slow, and the sharp sounds of
the alarm bell dulled to a surreal refrain as the letters before
him danced in a nightmarish jumble of confusion. Yet, even as he
felt himself drifting helplessly past the hard edge of reality,
another part of Al Frederick was coolly assessing the situation.
Without conscious control, his senses picked up all that was
happening about him. Without conscious effort, the small part of
him that remained rational put the pieces together into a picture
that he somehow saw without really seeing.