by J. Richard Jacobs
Edgar muscled the lawnmower out of the shed, made a mental note that he wasn’t getting any younger, then bent down to grab the starter rope. He stopped. This wasn’t his lawnmower. There were all sorts of gadgets and dangling wires on it like a drunken copper spider trying to spin a web and failing.
Tommy again. That boy never stops. What has he done this time?
“Tommy,” he shouted.
“Yeah, Dad,” a voice responded from the kitchen window.
“What have you done to the mower?”
Tommy trotted across the yard to join his father.
“Well, Dad,” he began, “you know how you’re always hitting rocks out here?”
“Yes. So?”
“I fixed it so the rocks turn to dust before you hit them.”
“Turn to dust. Before I hit them. Hmm…how does it do that? Sounds dangerous.”
“Not really. It’s tuned for stuff with the density of rock, and it works on glass and ceramic. No more nicks in the blade like before.”
“Yes. Rocks, bottles, and nick knacks. I still think those kids across the alley throw rocks in here so I’ll hit them for the fun of it. Little monsters.”
“Yeah. They’re pretty mean, that’s for sure. Anyway, to use it, all you have to do is turn on the detector first. That’s the green button. It tells the beam what frequency it needs. Then you turn on the disintegrator, the red button, and it’s all set. Don’t forget to turn it off when you’re done, though. Red button first. You know, like backwards of turning it on.”
“Green button, red button. Turn it off when I’m done. Backwards. You’re sure this thing works? And where does the power come from? I don’t see any batteries or anything.”
“Sure it works. Just wait till you see it do its thing, and it runs the same way the clock does. It taps the Lamb Shift the Earth generates and uses….” His sentence bled off when he noticed his father’s face screwing up in confusion. “Don’t worry, Dad. It’s just simple quantum physics at work.”
“Simple quantum physics. Right.”
“Right. Oh, and I only call it a disintegrator because I couldn’t think of anything else. It really just breaks down the structure into small pieces.”
New Salem changed when Margaret Short gave birth to a nine pound baby boy. Not that very day, of course, but within a few short years the town was thrust onto the map. Each year, things got more interesting and the dot on the map that represented the town of New Salem became a beacon that hundreds homed in on just to get a glimpse of the Short family’s special little boy. Every day the town was in the news. Not just local. Not national. International. The entire world was buzzing with the name of a small boy in a never before heard of podunk.
Thomas Darrell Short, twelve years old, winner of the New Salem Science Fair three years in a row, built things. All sorts of things. His entire life revolved around creating machines to do all manner of work, and wonderful electronic gadgets to enhance the sound of his band, Xenoxerox. Their music was…unusual and terrifyingly loud. Yes, that is the best description. Unusual. Loud. Super loud.
Everyone in New Salem knew him or of him. He designed and built the clock that keeps perfect time and never needs maintenance. No electricity. No winding. That clock’s face, a full eight feet across and made from all recycled materials, looks out over the square in front of the courthouse. Just one example of his genius. He did that when he was nine. There is nothing else to call it. Sheer genius. Genius that rocked the nation. The world. At eleven he became the youngest ever to graduate from New Salem High. With honors. Thomas Darrell Short, like his music, was…unusual, though, unlike his music, he was mostly quiet and introspective. Not shy. Just quiet.
His life became too complicated in his Senior year, well, month, when major universities began hounding him to join them and major industries started sending representatives to talk him into joining their R&D divisions as soon as they could do a workaround with the child labor laws.
The thought of going to the university didn’t bother him. After all, it wouldn’t be more than about a year, maybe less, to get his PhD, then he’d be free to continue what he liked. Research and making things. That’s all he really wanted to do. He’d finally boiled his decision down to MIT or the Technion, but he couldn’t decide which, and he didn’t want to go to work. Not quite yet, he told them. “I’m still a kid, you know,” he said.
“Margaret, where’s Tommy? I need him to help with the mower.” Edgar Short kicked at the useless lawnmower and grumbled.
“He hasn’t been home all day, dear. He’s over at that shed he and his friends rented for their band.”
“Well, he’d better get home soon or I’ll tan…”
“No, you won’t, Edgar. Tommy’s a good boy. It’s not his fault you forgot to turn on that disinte-whatever thing of his and hit that rock.”
“Well-l-l…I don’t…. I know you’re right, but I sure could use some help here.”
“He’ll be along soon. He never misses lunch. If there’s anything that boy likes more than building things, it’s eating.”
“Why couldn’t we have a normal kid.”
“He is normal, dear. He’s just really, really smart, that’s all.”
“Smart hardly describes him. Did you see what he did to the car? It looks like one of those surveillance vans the cops use, and the neighbors are complaining about his drones again.”
Tommy looked at the numbers floating on the upper surface of his glasses.
Oh, man, I’m late again.
He gave his latest creation a quick once-over, gave an approving smile, then hastily packed his tools back into their proper places. He turned and made a quick check of the pH in the vat. His father would be wanting to do the lawn, and his lunch would be getting cold on the table. Why had he lost track of the time? It was always floating there on his Informaglasses.
Informaglasses. He was proud of that one. The entire Internet available right there on his face. Radio, cell phone, GPS, rangefinder and television, too. No external stuff to stick in pockets or hang on belts. No wires to connect anywhere. No batteries. Super light, too. It even worked under water. They were one of his triumphs over the whole digital industry, including the Goggle Glasses, and he could hardly wait to get the patent drawings done and submitted. His family would be rich in no time and his dad could quit his job at Bender’s Feed Loft. His mom could hire someone to clean the house and that would free her up to do her painting. She would like that. Yes, things would be different for the Shorts when his glasses hit the market. They’d be especially different when he finished his latest project. Tommy’s biggest secret that was keeping him occupied long hours at the lab. Well, okay, shed.
Lunch was on the table and his father had already begun to eat. He pulled out a chair and sat. Edgar twisted his chair around to face him.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time away from home, Tommy. Is there something wrong?” Margaret said.
“Oh no, Mom. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s right. I mean, really right. It’s my new project. Wow, what a great project. Really, really something. You won’t believe it when you see it. Hey, nobody will. It’s super complicated and it’s taking a lot of time, that’s all.”
“Want to tell us about it, Son?” his father said.
“About what?”
“Your new project. The one that’s keeping you away from home so much.”
“I’d like to, yeah, but I want to save it for a surprise. I think you’ll really, really like it.”
“Well, can you at least tell us what it does?”
“If I did that, it wouldn’t be a surprise. But…but I can tell you it can do everything I can and a whole lot more. Yeah, a whole lot more. And it can do it without ever stopping. Really cool.”
“Tommy, you can’t taste your food that way.”
“What do you mean, Mom?”
“You just shovel it in and swallow. You eat like you’ve never eaten before.”
“Hungry, Mom.”
“Got to admit, Margaret, he’s as good at eating as he is with everything else.”
“Then you must always be hungry. Look. Less than five minutes and it’s gone, and being good at it doesn’t mean it’s good for him, Edgar.”
“Well, now that you’ve eaten, can you help me with the mower?”
“Sure, Dad. When you crunched that rock, you bent the rod, I’ll bet. Should have activated the disintegrator, you know.”
“Yes, I know. About the mower?”
“The engine’s shot now, but I just happen to have something to replace it. It’s kinda new, but I tried it and it has lots more power than that little engine. And it’s real quiet, so it won’t bother the neighbors anymore. All they’ll hear is the blade, and if you remember the disintegrator, they won’t hear it hitting stuff. No gas, either. It’s cool. You’ll like it.”
A week passed. Then a month. Two months. Tommy was spending more and more time away from home and the Shorts were beginning to worry more than usual. It wasn’t like him to be away so much, and he wasn’t seeing his friends, either. He would lock himself in that shed of his for hours at a time. Xenoxerox hadn’t practiced there in months and the electric bill was straining Edgar’s patience. He was there every day, including weekends. At the table for meals he seemed to be preoccupied and was less talkative, and for him that meant almost silent. Sometimes he would sit there and pick at his food. Things weren’t normal. Well, considering how normal things ever got with a kid like Tommy around.
Edgar Short determined that he would pin Tommy down after dinner. Talk to him about what was going on. He was sure something was wrong. Tommy had never been like this with any of his other projects. He appeared to be…obsessed.
“Tommy, we need to talk.”
“Sure, Dad. What about?”
“Margaret, would you excuse us for a little bit?”
“Yes, dear. I wanted to get back to my ducks, anyway.”
“Ducks? You got some ducks, Mom?”
“No, Tommy. She’s painting ducks swimming in a pond.”
Mrs. Short disappeared into the den where she liked to work, and Mr. Short motioned for Tommy to follow him out to the porch.
“So, what’s up, Dad?”
“Well, at first I wasn’t going to say anything, but now I think maybe there’s some kind of problem. Do you want to talk about it?”
“What problem?”
“You’re never home except to eat and sleep. You don’t talk to your friends anymore and you haven’t practiced your music in ages. You don’t talk to us when you’re home, and you pick at your food. You’ve never done that. Is it something we’ve done? Are you having problems with your friends? What’s happening?”
“Oh. I’m sorry about being away so much, but my project is getting so close to finished I keep forgetting the time. And it’s taking a lot of time, like I said before. There are things I have to do that I can’t leave until they’re done. Reactions to watch. Temperatures. All that stuff.”
“Are you sure that’s all there is to it, Son?”
“Yeah. That’s all it is.”
“So, when do you think you’ll be finished so we can have our son back? We miss you, you know.”
“Almost done now. Yeah. I’m excited. Maybe a week. Wanna play catch?”
The following week passed in much the same way as before. Saturday evening, while his mother was getting the table ready, Tommy burst through the front door and headed straight for the stairs.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” he said as he raced through the living room.
Margaret watched as he bounded up the stairs, taking them four at a time.
“Did you see that? Where does he get all that energy, that strength?”
“Yes, I saw it. He’s never done that before and…and he doesn’t look right. Something’s different about him. Maybe he’s sick. Wouldn’t surprise me any, what with all that time at the shed and being off his feed.”
Edgar walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Tommy, dinner’s ready,” he said.
“That’s okay. I don’t need to eat now, but thanks.”
With that, Tommy dashed into his room and closed the door.
“Edgar?”
“Yes, dear, I know. Not normal. I’ll go up and have a talk with him.”
When he reached the end of the hall, Edgar tapped lightly on Tommy’s door.
“Yeah?”
“May I come in? I’d like to talk to you.”
“Sure, Dad.”
When he entered, it was like entering a laboratory. He hadn’t been in Tommy’s room in quite a while and he was taken aback. It was more packed with things than he remembered. There were all sorts of electronic gadgets lining the walls and a small desk was littered with chemical equipment. Tommy was stretched out on the bed tinkering with a small metal box. There was something odd about him, but Edgar couldn’t quite decide what it was.
“Tommy, it’s not like you to skip dinner. Did you have something to eat before you came home?”
“No, Dad. I told you, I don’t need to eat.”
“You always eat.”
“That was before. I don’t need to eat now. None of us do.”
Edgar realized what had been bothering him about Tommy. There was an unnatural pallor and smoothness to his skin. It looked almost…plastic.
“You’re sick, Son. Look at you. You’ve lost your color. Not eating won’t help, you know.”
“Oh, you mean my skin? It’s okay, Dad. It was just a small error in the formulation, but we’re working on that. It’ll be okay in a couple of days. You’ll see.”
“We are working on it? I didn’t know you had helpers. Who is this ‘we’?”
“The others. There are ten of us now.”
“Ten of who?”
“Tommies, of course. We are cooperating on the project.”
“Ten…Tommies. What do you mean, ten Tommies?”
“Oh, I see. You’re confused. That’s okay, Dad. You’ll understand real soon. You’ll see.”
Edgar’s mind was reeling. It was Tommy there on the bed, but it wasn’t Tommy. The boy on the bed was not his son. He couldn’t be. He was different. His skin looked like plastic. Like a mannequin. Edgar’s nerves were stretched so tight his skin was twitching. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His throat went dry.
“You…you’re not Tommy. What…what have you done with my son?”
“Yes, I am. I’m Tommy Two. I’m a Tommy. We’re all Tommies.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. I want to know what you’ve done with my son,” he said through clenched teeth.
“You’re referring to our progenitor?”
“Pro…what?”
“Progenitor. The one who made us.”
“Right. The one who…made you. Damn it. Where is my son?”
“Well, Dad, in order to continue our research, we had to…dismantle him.”
Just the Other Side of Reality 
oops!
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