Free The Kingdom of Ohio by Matthew Flaming

seat.
    â€œBut listen,” she continues, “and I will tell you the truth, as simply as I can.
    â€œFor all my life, I have been fascinated by theories of science. In the laboratories of Europe I spent years studying physics and mathematics, hoping to glimpse the shape of the universe and its laws. Some years ago, working with a man named Tesla, I undertook a project—”
    â€œNikola Tesla?” Although Peter had decided to just hear her story without commenting or getting involved, he can’t stop himself at this point. “You know Tesla?”
    â€œI did.” She hesitates. “Perhaps he would not know me now.” An uncomfortable expression crosses her face and she looks down at the table. “Our goal was the construction of a device to transport men instantaneously from one place to another. I—”
    â€œWait—” Peter finds himself interrupting again. “I’m a mechanic”—he is startled to hear himself say these words, by the loftiness of his new title—“and I can tell you that’s impossible.”
    â€œImpossible?” She smiles humorlessly. “Of course. But would not electricity have seemed like an impossibility a hundred years ago? The idea of harnessed lightning?”
    â€œMaybe so.” He nods. But the fact is, he thinks, she’s obviously lying, or maybe just plain crazy. “Then tell me how it’s done.”
    She looks down at the half-eaten plate of food between them. “You are a mechanic?”
    He nods.
    â€œPerhaps you have heard of Leibniz’s concept of the monad?”
    Peter shrugs noncommittally.
    â€œWell, from there it is a simple enough idea, at least in principle. If the world is composed of unitary particles, and if one of these particles were somehow split, then the two halves, however far separated, might still resonate together, being fundamentally entwined. Given this fact—”
    To Peter, her words quickly become a maze of bewildering detail and technical speculation that extends in every direction, seemingly without end. The few questions that he manages to ask lead only to more questions, more complexity that makes his head spin. And soon, he stops really listening: she rests her elbows on the table, cupping her chin, her face close to his. Her eyes are bright and flickering and he can smell her breath, sweet and heavy with wine. She sketches rapid diagrams on the dirty surface of the table between them, lines crisscrossing into nonsense.
    â€œâ€”existence of diallel gravitational-field lines,” she is saying, “that emanate from every entity. In the case of the Earth, they emanate radially from its center, providing a conduit for combined particle and vibratory flow beyond the speed of light—”
    Finally, he raises his hands. “Stop. Stop, please.”
    She takes a deep breath and falls silent, leaning back in her chair. Her face is drawn and even paler than before, the light in her eyes unsteady. She takes a sip of her wine and passes a hand across her forehead.
    â€œYou’ve lost me,” Peter admits. “But you were telling that story . . . ?”
    She nods. “I was. And pardon if I am unclear.” She sips the wine again, then continues in a rush. “Although I told you that the device we were building was a means of instantaneous transportation, the truth is that Mr. Tesla and I never completed the work. We were close—very close, perhaps. But when I finally did attempt its practical use, before all the necessary tests had been performed, an accident happened.
    â€œTo put it succinctly—have you heard of the Royal House of Toledo?”
    He shakes his head, and she nods, looking away, her eyes abruptly wet. She angrily wipes the almost-tears away, and Peter experiences a brief moment of admiration—her performance is as good as anything he’s seen in a penny theater, he thinks.
    â€œSuffice to say, my