xp_logs | V=IR, Part One

While enjoying a night out at the Tesla Club, Forge meets a most unusual individual with some rather grandiose ideas.

Forge looked around the expensively-designed parlor of the Tesla Club's meeting hall, giving brief nods of acknowledgment to some of the other members that recognized him as he made his way to a small table and sat in the familiar wing-backed chair. The Club had a sort of eccentric style, mixing expensive antiques with modern wireless technology, where an 18th century hurricane lamp could be lit by LEDs giving the appearance of a flickering oil lamp to read by. In various small meeting rooms and alcoves, scientists and researchers met to discuss their latest projects, or more often, discuss matters unrelated to their research among peers.

For his part, Forge was content to sit and read from the Club's extensive library. While there was much to be said for networking with the most current minds in various technical fields, he gained just as much inspiration from the works of those scientists who had gone before him: Marconi, Heisenberg, and the Club's namesake, Nikola Tesla.

He set his iPod on the table and absently coiled the headphone cord around his fingers as he skimmed over the text in front of him. He was certain that Cronin's 1964 antisymmetry experiments could help explain some of the more inexplicable mutant powers he dealt with on a daily basis at the school.

So engrossed was he in the textbook, that he failed to notice when someone else joined him at the table.

"So, so, so, what's your opinion on the Oh-My-God particle?" The dark-haired young man that had sat down at Forge's table asked. "They don't really know what it means, it's a total mystery to everyone. Everyone." He leaned forward on his elbows, and pointed at Forge's textbook, and then went nearly rigid, mouth hanging open in surprise. "Oh. Oh, what happened to your hand? That's... is that titanium? How much did that set you.. you.. you back?"

"Ultra-high-energy cosmic rays?" Forge answered almost automatically without looking up from his book, "Subatomic particles measured with enough kinetic energy to postulate faster-than-light speeds? I tend to think that it's a case of either measurement error or yet another loophole in the accepted rules of field maxima. And no, it's not titanium. It's a myomer alloy of my own design."

After a moment, Forge's brain caught up to the fact that his mouth was having a conversation, and he looked up at the other gentleman across the table and did a very quiet double take. While many members of the Tesla Club fit the definition of "eccentric" and had a habit of wearing oddly out-of-style clothing or in some cases lab wear to the Club, this young man looked almost like the world's most expensive scarecrow. High-dollar clothes, but from the looks of it, ordered online by someone who'd never actually thought about how a crimson silk shirt would look with navy gabardine trousers and oh my god, suspenders, Forge thought to himself, suppressing a snicker.

"But as for Cronin's theories," he continued, indicating the book, "they're well-regarded in the field. After all, he did win the Club's biannual Wardenclyffe Prize in 1979. The year before he won the Nobel."

The young man stood up from his chair, shaking his head slightly. "I always forget to do this part. This part. " He stuck out a hand stiffly, and gave Forge a awkward looking smile. "Francisco Milan. But everyone who matters just calls me Milan. Except my grandmother, she calls me Frannie, which I do not think is respectable at all. Not at all."

"Riiiight..." Forge whispered under his breath, waiting a brief second before shaking Milan's hand. "John Forge. You, um, seem to know your theoretical physics." Even if you're easily the most socially clueless person I've ever met, he thought. "Are you here as a member or a guest?"

Milan sat back down, twisting in his chair a few times as if he was trying to look at the seat of his pants, and reaching behind him to tuck his shirt back in. "I read a lot." He explained. "I'm not a guest. I -brought- a guest." He said this somewhat proudly, as if it were an accomplishment. "John Forge. I know.. know you." He peered at Forge's face directly, blinking several times in a row and shutting his eyes tightly before opening them and pounding on the table with a fist. "You wrote that brilliant book! I read it in the doctor's office waiting to get a script!"

"Yes, I'm sure it - you read my book?" Forge's attention meter suddenly spiked. "I mean, that's ... okay. Just, um, well." He searched his mind for a way around the conversational obstacle course that was Francisco Milan. "I've always thought there's room for discussion on any subject. Even ones people take as fact. Like," he tapped the book in front of him. "ultra-high-energy radiation. Who knows, I might go after the Wardenclyffe Prize this year, maybe."

"Twice. Once in English and then when it was translated, I purchased a true copy." Milan looked up at the ceiling - several times in a row. "It would be a waste of your time to try to do that this year. I've already nearly won it already." He popped his knuckles repeatedly, cracking each joint in his finger, from pointer to pinky and then switching hands. "Why try to do it this year and have to make something new next year? If you wait, you could have time to write another book about... " he leaned in and said, with some awe in his voice. "The master of magnetism."

"The master of... okay, dude. One? You're kind of creeping me out with the Magneto-fanboy vibe. Two, if I want the Wardenclyffe, it's mine for the taking. Hello, John Henry Forge, genius? And three," Forge reached out to swat at Milan's hands. "Hands off my iPod, dude. Look, I've got places to be. I'm sure it was nice to meet you and all but, uh, maybe you ought to go find your guest, right?"

"I am sure he is is is fine." Milan said dismissively, not bothering to even look around the room. "He is very social. Your iPod's battery is low." He took his hands off the table, and by the gesture, either shoved them into his pockets, or under the seat of his pants. "I am building.. built, an encryption device. Two hundred and fifty-six bits. Out of clockworks." He straightened up proudly and beamed a huge off-white smile. "It is based off your country's Enigma machines. I saw them in the Smithsonians."

Forge rolled his eyes and stood up. "Yeah, two-hundred and fifty-six bit Enigma. The sheer number of computational gears would require floorspace the size of Belgium and take more mechanical energy to run than the state of New Jersey produces in a year. Listen, Frank," Forge said quietly, "I can appreciate that you want to run with the big boys of science, okay? But leave the hyperbole at home, okay? Try something more believable. Like TimeCube."

For a moment, Milan looked crushed, slumping in his chair and blinking rapidly. And then he scowled, squinting his eyes at Forge and biting his cheek. "I do not know what a TimeCube is but this is not a joke!" He stomped his foot, and then stood up, kicking his chair back. "You will wait and see, and then I will laugh!"

Forge blinked in shock, then erupted into laughter. "I'm sorry, did you just give me the 'you'll see!' line? Oh man, that's good, that really is. Look, it was fun meeting you, Frank. No one else here has that good a sense of humor."

He turned to go, giggling under his breath and repeating "mechanical two fifty-six bit decryption" and snickering to himself.