The Planck Variable Read online

  THE PLANCK VARIABLE

  Benjamin Ache

  The Planck Variable

  Copyright © 2019 by Benjamin Ache.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover design by Ian Anderson.

  Editor: Pat LoBrutto

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Benjamin Ache

  Visit my website at www.benjaminache.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1-09-517589-7

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Afterward

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “I’m late!”

  Planck bolted upright in his chair. The glass surface of his desk had left a cherry-red imprint on his cheek. He didn’t even remember laying his head down.

  I must have fallen asleep.

  Slowly, the fog began to clear from his eyes. A peeled strip of display wallpaper oscillated back and forth from the draft of the overhead ventilation fan, dancing shadows about his bedroom. Years of wear had caused the adhesive to delaminate from the flexible substrate, but the organic light-emitting diodes were still able to intermittently transmit their electroluminescent image.

  The title of a scientific journal publication was warped on the screen, “Low-Energy Behavior of Gluons from Gauge Invariance.”

  He had been studying late into the night. Dazed, Planck looked at the clock on the screen. It was 7:32 a.m. Standard Solar Time. Today was the day that Dr. Brahms Liszt was to announce the reconciliation of Quantum Gravity, the first public appearance of the reclusive professor in over ten years.

  Damn. I’ll never get to Boston in time.

  Planck had planned this day over two months ago when he first saw the announcement:

  HARVARD UNIVERSITY

  press release

  RECONCILIATION OF QUANTUM GRAVITY WITH BRAHMS LISZT

  Professor of Theoretical Physics, Quantitative Institute of Scholarly Pursuit, NYC

  Instinctively, Planck reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Embossed on the header of the student application form was the logo for the Quantitative Institute of Scholarly Pursuit (the Quant). The lavish expense and infrequent use of printed media always conveyed a sense of importance to Planck. The thick card stock weighed heavily in his hand. As did the “REJECTION” stamped on the bottom of the page.

  He kept the letter as a motivational reminder. This was the third rejection letter he had received from the Quant. Despite placing in the 99th percentile on the mathematical assessment, the university still denied him acceptance: failure to provide sufficient proof of financial funds to complete the desired academic track.

  That is going to change today.

  The plan was simple—if he could just get a moment of Liszt’s time he could convince the professor to allow him to be his research assistant. There was no rule that required a research assistant to be an enrolled student.

  The same recurring daydream entered his mind; Planck standing in a lecture hall with Liszt, furiously exchanging turns at a virtual chalkboard while a crowd of professors and students gathered around to watch them work. He would become to Brahms Liszt what Wolfgang Pauli was to Niels Bohr—and together they would do great things.

  Easy enough, Planck told himself. But now I have to get going.

  Planck leaped up. He scuttled across his room, unthinkingly maneuvering around a burned-out cathode ray tube and dodging the sharp edges of a broken photovoltaic panel.

  He ran down the hallway, unconcerned by the gaping hole in the floor, the result of the defunct Newark Housing Authority’s inability to reinvest in repairs to public housing projects. A ladder jutted up from the abyss that was now claimed as his father’s basement workshop.

  “Where the hell you going?”

  John Senior—Planck’s father—was sitting at the kitchen table meticulously packing up his infrared surveying tool before heading to the Keegan Meadowland garbage mine. If John Senior was not overseeing a dig at the mine, he was usually found down in his workshop.

  “Job interview,” Planck lied.

  “Don’t fuck this up like the others.”

  Planck sighed. He didn’t have time to have the talk again. He hollered down the hallway as he continued to get ready. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “No?”

  “No. Well, not really. Those jobs were just … just not right for me.”

  He didn’t need to be in the room to see the frustrated look on his father’s face. “Damn it, boy! They were paying jobs. How is that not right?”

  Planck went back to the kitchen. “I just don’t see myself as some mindless IT customer service rep giving the hand-job story to every irate housewife who can’t set up their own fog network. I mean, what is the point of doing something if it is not going to be inspiring?”

  “Inspiring?” The vein in his father’s forehead started protruding as his face turned red. “Start by not being such a lazy fuck-head. You better get your shit together or you’ll be coming to work for me at the mine.”

  Planck ducked back into the bathroom to avoid the familiar battle. It was always the same conversation with him.

  The toilet seat slowly cranked open. Planck relieved himself, then stepped to the grimy sink. The faucet sputtered with the familiar thud of air until the reclamation system was able to recycle the water in the septic tank back into the bathroom. In front of him, the ha
lf-broken mirror flickered to life and a digital avatar of a newswoman popped into view:

  “Today … July 21st, 2096 … Another scorcher. Emergency drought precautious … in place. Waits at water rationing … stations … city blocks … eight hours long. ARM Corps … Graf Zeppelin … 121-billion-liter freighter … will bring relief.”

  Planck ignored the incoherent ramblings of the mirror, raced back to his room and grabbed his Scramble Pad, a palm-sized device—illegal in all forty-seven remaining states in the Reformed USA—and shoved it into his pocket.

  Never leave home without it.

  Planck bolted back down the hallway. “I’m working late tonight,” shouted John Senior as Planck ran past. “You got to get the water rations.”

  “Sure,” Planck replied, and slammed the apartment door behind him.

  *****

  Planck sprinted down his alley and veered on to Ferry Street, situated in the heart of the Ironbound District of Newark. This morning, Ferry Street was bustling with activity. Swarms of vagabonds had emerged from the shanty dwellings of the nearby abandoned warehouses. Planck pushed past them, shuffled through a maze of street vendor stands, and ran into a gang from Pipefitters Local 2971.

  “What is going on?” Planck asked one of the union pipefitters.

  “Don’t you know, kid? The Graf Zeppelin is docking at Peary City.”

  “I thought it wasn’t docking until tomorrow.”

  “It is,” said the pipefitter. “But there won’t be any water rations left if you wait until then.”

  “This is the line?” exclaimed Planck.

  Water Day. The Graf Zeppelin was the largest Aphelion Resource Mining (ARM) water freighter built to date. It was the single most desperately awaited source of clean water, free from heavy metals, carcinogenic chemicals, and dangerous pharmaceutical overflows. The colossal ARM freighters, constructed in orbit, continuously traversed the perilous space from Mars to Earth, hauling the aggregated water harvested from extraterrestrial bodies.

  The unprecedented three-year global drought made the turnout for each new freighter delivery ever larger, and the rations ever smaller.

  He was just a young boy the first time one of the ARM freighters made the journey. Every Water Day, crowds would gather in line and get their allotted ration ticket and then the new water balance would appear in their central metric water account, ready for use. Planck wasn’t sure how the mechanics of water distribution from Peary City on the Moon to Earth really worked. He was tempted to ponder it for a minute.

  This will have to wait. I have more important things to do right now.

  Planck continued to shove through the sea of people. The police had set up barricades in an attempt to peacefully herd the line. He tunneled through the crowd, following the flow of bodies.

  Water Day brought out some of the Ironbound’s most eccentric characters. Perched on Planck’s left on a nearby stoop, a local tattoo artist was rallying the crowd. As he flexed his biceps, the digital tattoo of a serpent snaked around his arm as if alive. The man arched his back. The reactive ink was in perfect synchronization with his muscles. Then the man threw a brick at the line of riot police.

  The brick cracked against a shatterproof riot shield. The mob ignited. The first protesters crashed up against the police like a wave. Everyone was clamoring to get to the front of the water line. The throng surged forward and Planck had no choice but to go with them.

  Planck darted quickly. Dodging arms and elbows, he navigated through the upheaval and eventually arrived at the Market Station platform. He quickly swiped his mobile device in payment for a ticket. The grossly outdated terminal still displayed an option for cash. The absurdity of physically printed paper as money made him chuckle.

  Panting, Planck joined the ranks on the platform. The working-class grunts of the Ironbound were lined up in a row. All were quietly immersed in their own thoughts, the familiar blank stares peering down the track.

  “Repent! Repent your sins, you moralless sons of bitches,” broke the silence. An old man feverishly preached from behind Planck. He wore the tattered rags of a once-expensive business suit. The pungent smell that followed confirmed that he was one of the many homeless.

  “Mars, God of War and Guardian of Agriculture, will come to cleanse us of our sins. And he is pissed!”

  Planck was amused by the fanatical man’s reference to the Roman god.

  “You think this drought is a fluke.” He spoke to no one in particular, gesturing with his hands wildly and waving his index finger. “Sure, we all like to live in quaint little homes, draw a warm bath, soap up, and whack it to the streaming perversion on our wall displays. But what are we really doing here, people? We’re killing ourselves!”

  By now the crowd had distanced themselves from the lunatic preacher. The only bodies in close proximity were Planck, too intrigued by the gospel of this introspective, albeit crazy, religion cultivated from Roman mythology, and the fellow next to him, a sewer diver, tasked with unclogging the nastiest of the nastiest, who most likely was used to crowds scattering away from him.

  This should be interesting.

  “Mars feels every ounce of iron stolen from his red planet, every asteroid fortuitously raped for its water by these ass-clowns they call water miners. So, what does our great god Mars do? He teaches us a lesson. A lesson so we may change our foolish ways before it’s too late!

  “The god Mars devastates our crops so that we must learn to share our food with our brethren. He withholds our water in drought so we might learn to cherish each drop. Look at me! I haven’t bathed in five years and I feel fuckin’ great!”

  The preacher spread his arms. “Join me. Join me in the ways of Mars.” The crowd collectively took another step back. “You, young man.” He pointed feverishly at Planck. “Will you change your ways?”

  Screech.

  Saved by the arriving train. The passenger car doors opened and without any hesitation Planck jumped on.

  The onboard compressors kicked in and the car glided forward. The network of aboveground train lines, colloquially referred to as the Tube, had stolen its name from the British underground rail system. The train flew along the tube above the old iron rails of the subway system, abandoned long ago after the Great Flood.

  Planck walked down the aisle and settled in an open seat. As the train sped along, the constant whiplash from a bent guard rail or inconsistent compression due to wind turbulence in the tube caused the train car to rattle vigorously, instantly making Planck feel nauseous.

  The train jolted along. The man next to Planck eyed him warily. “Don’t worry.” Planck burped. “I’ve been working on my gag reflex.”

  “Great for you,” said the man.

  “I’m training to go into space—maybe to Peary City one day.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I am not going to stay in the Ironbound forever. I’m no lifer.”

  “That’s what we all say.”

  The man stood up and squeezed by Planck to beat the crowd to the exit. The next stop popped up on the overhead display: PENN STATION. A lump of excitement formed in Planck’s throat. He had never flown before. For that matter, he thought, he had never even been in a spaceport before unless he counted the time him and his father went scavenging in the sunken remains of Newark Liberty—another of the casualties of the Great Flood, like LaGuardia and John F. Kennedy Airports. Penn Station only launched small vertical-lift commuting aircraft, none of the large intersolar ships like Kensico Interplanetary Spaceport in Westchester County, but it was still exhilarating to Planck.

  The train came to a sudden halt. The masses poured out of the opened doors and trudged along the exit ramps, some at their destination, others to continue onward.

  Planck marveled at the magnificently restored Penn Station. A network of impressive concrete arches stretched upwards past several levels of commuter terminals and restaurants, even beyond the upper pedestrian walkways. Thick sheets of impermeable acid-proof glass
formed the ceiling, bathing the station in brilliant sunlight, while crisscrossed jet streams from the passenger shuttles lined the sky above.

  That’s where I need to be.

  Planck eagerly raced up the ramps into the main hall and scrambled up the five flights of stairs to the upper loading gates. He desperately needed to get the next flight if he wanted to arrive on time at the Harvard Observatory. Finally, he reached the departure gates. He looked up at the schedule board. “Boston—08:25 a.m.—SOLD OUT.”

  That wasn’t in the plan.

  Chapter 2

  Planck traced the cracks in the sidewalk instead of gazing up at the Giant Magellan Telescope, relocated from Las Campanas Observatory and historically preserved in its new location right above him at the Harvard Observatory. The sprint from New Logan Regional Airport was more than he anticipated.

  Apparently, they do not take kindly to stowaways.

  He stood perfectly still in the stifling morning sun, his head hung low and his clothes soaked in sweat. The dry heaving subsided for now.

  The sense of urgency finally overcame his desire to keel over and lie on the ground. Planck slowly approached the front entrance until he stopped suddenly. A dozen security guards were checking the IDs of incoming guests. He hadn’t realized the event was invite only. Planck pulled his Scramble Pad from his pocket.

  Good thing I came prepared.

  Planck worked his way to the back side of the observatory and carefully crept through the rear fire exit near the loading docks. He made quick work of decrypting the non-biometric security lock with his Scramble Pad.

  The back was buzzing with activity. Media outlets were gearing up for the lecture; field producers shouting, reporters rehearsing their opening lines, swarms of network engineers tweaking the AV systems. Planck overheard a pair of correspondents talking.

  “Do you really think this Quantum Gravity stuff will change space travel?” said one.

  “Maybe. Ten years ago, the PPRA almost didn’t give ARM the clearance for the freighters based on testimony of the faulty Fusion Driven Rocket design.”

  “Well, look where we are now.”

  “Desperate times. Desperate measures.”

  Planck circled around to the main entrance and entered the auditorium. All the other attendees were quietly seated. The door banged loudly behind him, drawing the stare of a thousand perturbed eyes.