The Octopus Effect (2 page)

Everybody who's not in the Union. Yes, that includes you. And him. And her. Not sure about that one over there, though. . . .

You know that universe you're living in? It's a pretty old place. Every religious group, philosopher, or scientist has a different explanation for when—and how—everything got started. But, at the very least, it's clear the universe is no spring chicken.

After all that time, you'd think it would have learned to take care of itself. Unfortunately, that's not true. The universe is a messy, danger-filled place in need of constant watching after, like an infant playing around electrical outlets, a busy road, or a gang of hungry alligators. That's one of the reasons the Knowledge Union was formed. The members use the immensely powerful Books, each one allowing access to the secrets of the universe, so they can keep reality from winking out, or everything turning purple, or whatever other catastrophe might occur.

With the Union around, you'd think existence would be fine, right? Wrong! Accidents often happen in spite of—or even because of—their work.

My job in the Union is Narrator—I chronicle history as it unfolds. It used to be a dull job; I rarely got to watch any fun changes or exciting mistakes. Then, five months ago, Simon Bloom entered my Chronicle and prevented a disaster.

By finding and becoming Keeper of one of those incredible Books—the
Teacher's Edition of Physics
—Simon gained control over all the laws of physics. Aided by his friends Owen and Alysha, he used the Book to stop the terrible Sirabetta from using her terrible powers in her terrible scheme to take over the universe. (Which would have been really bad.)

Pretty impressive for an eleven-year-old. I even helped in my own way; it was a great day for Narrators everywhere!

You'd think that would have been it. The Union should have gotten everything on track and put it all back in neat working order. Sure, Simon still had command of three physics laws, but his friends and he should have been able to return to their normal lives of friends, family, and school.

Only five months later, however, the universe we worked so hard to save was about to get in more trouble than ever. And Simon Bloom, now twelve years old, was going to find himself in an enormous amount of danger.

As before, it began on a Sunday. . . .

It was Sunday morning in the quiet town of Lawnville, New Jersey. The time was eleven o'clock, part of that long, getting-hungry stretch between breakfast and lunch.

Simon Bloom was spending it doing his favorite thing: reading. He'd loved it since he'd first learned how, and the ability to control a few laws of physics hadn't changed that.

Of course, he could enjoy his powers, too. Simon was sitting above his bed . . . eight feet above. On the ceiling. His butt was firmly planted there as he sat, cross-legged, with his head hanging down toward his bed. He had used his control over the law of gravitation, changing it on himself so he was pulled up instead of down like everything else on the planet. For Simon, the ceiling
was
the ground. To him, the rest of his bedroom—his bed, his desk, his bookcases, the dirty laundry he'd not quite gotten around to tossing into the hamper—appeared to be on the ceiling.

He preferred to sit that way whenever his parents weren't home and thus couldn't walk in on him. This was often, since his mother, Sylvia Bloom, was working on a new advertising campaign that had her putting in long hours in her office. His father, Steven Bloom, was focused on his own lab work as an astrophysicist, studying gravitational relationships between certain star systems.

Now, Simon was deep into one of his favorite books, about children in the future training in zero-gravity for an alien war. One brilliant boy gets stuck with terrible responsibility and pressure, but he just wants to be a kid.

Simon was distracted from his reading by a twisting sensation inside his stomach and his head. He wasn't sure what it was, but it made him feel something strange was happening. Something he should be prepared for.

He spoke a series of words that were complete gibberish to me; only a Keeper of the Book of Physics could understand them. Fortunately, Narrators can often read the surface thoughts of our Chronicle-subjects, so I knew he was using his second formula. This gave him control over friction, which he used to make the pages of his book stick in place: it worked much better than a bookmark. He then increased the book's friction to make it adhere next to him on the ceiling. Now his hands were free, if needed.

Simon looked up (down, really) and frowned at a blurry patch forming in the air above (er, beneath) him. Something was making a hole in the middle of his bedroom.

The hole was accompanied by the jarring sound of air ripping. It was a noise Simon knew well; it was about as pleasant as taking a swarm of bees, teaching them how to use maracas and finger cymbals, and putting them inside your ears for a music recital.

Simon's frown turned to a smile as he saw who his visitor was. The
Teacher's Edition of Physics
appeared, bursting out of the hole like a jack-in-the-box. Though it looked like an ordinary textbook, it was far more. It was a Book: one of those links to the endless power of the universe. It was also a dear friend of Simon's.

You see, Simon knew what every Keeper and Narrator did: the Books are more than just tomes filled with powerful formulas. They might not be alive, exactly, but they were aware. They could think. And, most importantly, they could act on their own. Simon Bloom found and was able to use the Book of Physics because
it
had chosen
him
.

“Hello, Book,” Simon said aloud. He tried to be calm, but his heart started beating faster. He hadn't seen the Book on its own since it was returned to its previous owner, Ralfagon Wintrofline. Ralfagon, the Keeper and leader of the Order of Physics, was careful to keep the Book by his side.

“What are you doing here?” he asked it. “Is Ralfagon okay?”

The Book ignored his questions and floated over to him. Simon took hold of it in one hand (despite being the size of a huge textbook, the Book weighed about the same as a small paperback). He stroked its spine, and it glowed bright blue and vibrated in response. The scene was rather like a boy and his pet dog, although this dog was blue, hairless, rectangular, and could destroy the universe. Plus, it was house-trained.

You must get ready, Keeper,
it said, using the mental link they'd developed.

“Ready for what?” If Simon's heart was racing before, it was sprinting now.

What?
Simon thought back to it.
What do you mean?

Once again, the Book ignored his question.
Make sure Owen Walters and Alysha Davis are prepared, too.
It made a mental noise that was surely the Book version of a sigh.
The end is coming. You must make sure there will be a new beginning.

The Book hovered silently for a moment more and then vanished with a noisy tearing of air and a
poof
. Simon stared with confusion and more than a little fear at the space the Book had been occupying. What had it meant? End? Next stage? Dangers? He remembered well the problems his friends and he had faced when he first found the Book. Some were a lot of fun, but some had been of the almost-certain-doom variety.

Simon glanced at his clock. Though it was upside down to him, the big, red digital numbers were easy to read. He was late!

I have to figure this out,
Simon thought.
But I've also got to go.

Simon stood up on the ceiling, bringing his head a few feet closer to his bed. He jumped, twisted in midair, and shifted his personal gravity back to normal. Suddenly the ground was his ground again. Simon landed feetfirst on his bed and bounced to the floor. After gathering a few items into his backpack, he went to his window.

He was halfway outside when he remembered the book he'd been reading; it was on the ceiling, still stuck by friction. With a snap of his fingers, Simon made the book drop down to his bed; it remained open to the right page.

Simon hopped outside his second-floor bedroom window, using his friction control to let him scramble up the side of his house like a much shorter, less-colorfully-dressed Spider-Man. He climbed onto the roof and glanced at the trees in his backyard. The beautiful autumn leaves were turning from lush green to vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows. They also hid him from neighbors or passersby who might glance up.

From the roof he gazed at the low clouds hanging sheetlike across the October sky.
Perfect. All the cover I'll need.
He rubbed his hands together, licked one finger, and held it up to test the wind (mild, southerly). He reached out with his mind and sensed the twists and curves of gravity along his intended route, noting every falling leaf, strolling person, flapping bird, zooming plane, and suborbital satellite. He smiled. There was no danger of being spotted or, worse, getting smeared painfully in a collision.

It was time to fly.

Simon spoke a few more words and, now nearly weightless, jumped into the air. What should have been a regular jump for an average twelve-year-old instead sent him hurtling hundreds of feet above the roof, up to the bottom of the cloud layer. Simon laughed in the thrilling rush of air. He reached the upper limit of his leap and, for a quick moment, peered down through the wispy clouds. It gave him a magnificent view of Lawnville and its surrounding towns.

Then Simon spoke two words that made him zoom across the sky like a human rocket. He'd restored his normal weight, but he'd also changed where he was falling
to
: for him, the ground was now a location in midair, and he gained speed steadily as he was dragged across the sky toward it.

Technically speaking, this wasn't flying—it was more of a carefully aimed plummet. But when soaring through the air without a helmet, parachute, or even a soft cushion, the not-splatting-part mattered much more than the name of the method. Checking on the weblike network of gravity around him, Simon made the necessary changes to keep on the proper route. After five months of practice, he was able to do this mentally, without words or even gestures.

He fought back the urge to yell, part with delight and part with horror, as he streaked across the sky, zigzagging when needed to adjust his flight path or to avoid a frightened bird. I could sense what he felt—the rush of the passing air, the watering up of his eyes, the shaking in his stomach. No roller-coaster rider, skydiver, or jet pilot had ever felt such exhilaration. At least none that survived.

As exciting as this was, he still couldn't stop thinking about the Book's warning. What did it mean that the end was coming? And when was that supposed to happen? Unfortunately for Simon, this was not the best time to let his mind wander. Despite five months of practice there was a certain . . . trickiness . . . to this type of travel.

Flying by falling means you start by going from zero to about twenty-two miles per hour in the first second. From then on, you're constantly accelerating every second until you reach something called terminal velocity (and doesn't
that
sound charming?), which—if you're flying Superman-style and are Simon's size—is about one hundred forty miles per hour.

That's too fast for anyone to be moving comfortably through the air without any sort of protective suit, jet plane, or Kryptonian heritage. Simon could have changed his personal gravity so he fell—er . . . flew—more slowly, but he was in a hurry. So he had to remember to reverse his gravitational pull every few seconds to slow down. If he got distracted and flew too fast, the rushing air could be blinding. Oh, and he wouldn't be able to breathe very well, either.