The Planck Factor

Kevin

Kevin surveyed what he’d written with amazement. As a scientist and truth seeker at heart, he’d never thought of writing up his findings in any form except the straightforward scientific reports he was used to creating. Unfortunately, since it was clear that the truth was worse than anyone could bear, it had to be told as fiction.

It was Kevin who’d discovered the terrible possibilities suggested by the challenge to Einstein’s theory. He pondered the irony of his colleagues’ refusal to acknowledge the truth. The fact that they had dismissed Kevin’s concerns as the ravings of a lunatic had done nothing to minimize the government’s attention to his work.

Thus, by fictionalizing those concerns, he’d managed to bring them to light in a way that didn’t name names or threaten anyone.

Embedding the truth within yet another story (which, perhaps not so oddly, also reflected aspects of Kevin’s own life) was a clever way to create even more distance between readers and the truth, making the dreadful scenario of enhanced atom bombs and the greater potential for nuclear annihilation that much less real and more palatable.

And making the main characters women took him out of the picture entirely.

He felt incredibly grateful to the doctors who allowed him to use the laptop so he could write for “therapeutic purposes.”

Now that the story was finished, Kevin could copy the entire manuscript onto the flash drive he had received in secret from his daughter. He kept it stashed safely under the loose section of floor molding he’d discovered until she could pick it up during her next visit. Thank God for Denise, he thought. His lifeline to the outside world. She’d make sure the book got published. His late wife would have been so proud. He still felt the overwhelming grief of her loss, but reveled in the notion of her living on in his story.

Kevin had paid the highest price possible for finding the truth. He refused to let it lie without trying to get the story published somehow. Perhaps the true story told within a fictional one would lead people to wonder and ask questions.

He read the final chapters over once more, then stared at the pale green walls of his room. Institutional green, people called it. Appropriate. The day was cloudy and milky, thin light seeped through the lone barred window.

The door opened and a young orderly dressed in white stepped inside. He held a syringe.

“Time for your meds, doc.”

“I’m just finishing something up,” he said, turning back to the keyboard. “Can you continue your rounds and come back?”

The orderly glanced at his watch. “Well . . . .

“Please?”

The young man smiled and shrugged. “Okay. Be back in ten, doc.”

After the door closed, he muttered, “That’ll be more than enough time, thanks.”

Before the orderly returned to give him the shot that would keep him dazed for God-only-knew how long, he typed two more words before saving his work for the last time.

THE END