The Mobius Factor

THE MOBIUS FACTOR

By

Ross Wilson

Copyright

Copyright © Ross Wilson 2014

eBook Design by Rossendale Books:

www.rossendalebooks.co.uk

eBook ISBN: 978-1-291-95066-3

All rights reserved, Copyright under the Berne Copyright Convention and Pan American Convention. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organisations, events or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

For Zain, read this when

your dad thinks you’re old enough

!

"What do you do when the fabric of the Multiverse has been ripped asunder, the Sisterhood of Wicca has fixed a price on your head, and it’s literally raining cats and dogs?’

‘Hi, I’m Howard Petty. Welcome to your brave new world, or should I say my brave new world. Accompany me for a short while and I’ll attempt to explain the unfortunate state I find myself in, problems of my own making I am sorry to say.’

The figure sheltering beneath the awning of a shop doorway peered out at the slowly ebbing animal-fall, unsure if the shower had ceased, glancing to the heavens before taking two cautious steps out into the street. A Siamese landed on all fours directly at his feet and he followed the path of the bewildered creature as it made for the dark sanctuary of a nearby alley.

‘Well, looks like that’s over. Come, follow me.’

Flickering gas mantles struggled to illuminate his way as he set off down a semi-lit lane, slowing his pace briefly halfway down the cobble-stoned pathway to study a sad looking unicorn feeding from an overturned garbage can. The animal eyed him casually as Howard drew nearer, and then with a snort signifying an air of indifference simply ignored him and carried on nibbling on a half rotten cabbage.

At the very end of the lane lay a small half-hidden café, a place only regulars and the very local would know of, poorly lit, a stale musty odour hanging thick in the air, but an inviting sense of warmth and welcome nevertheless. Howard found himself a vacant table, one as far back as possible from the main entrance, selecting a chair facing the small monochrome TV bolted onto a shelf behind the counter.

He gazed upwards at the flickering images relaying footage of the recent Callisto landing, listening to the news readers robotic commentary.

‘ . . . and contact with the surface is about to be made right nnnnnnow!’

Howard watched with some degree of fascination as the Tripod Lander bounced gently on the moon’s surface, kicking up clouds of grey dust. He smiled.

‘When did we land a rover on Callisto I hear you ask? Well, don’t expect too many answers from me, for I do not belong here. A more pertinent question would be how did I end up here in a world where fantasy has somehow merged with reality forming a grotesque new order where madness is the norm and legalised assassins lurk around every corner? A victim of my own folly I am sad to say. How can I explain?’

Picking up a serviette from the table Howard carefully tore off a thin strip almost six inches long.

‘Still paying attention? Then observe closely, for this was my downfall.’

Slowly he brought the two ends of the ribbon together forming a perfect circle.

‘Now, this is where you must watch closely. Can you see there are two separate planes here? One following a path on the outside ring of the paper and the other on the inner?’

He slowly ran a finger around the outer surface of the closed loop to emphasise his point.

‘See, no matter how long we travel around this outer loop we can never reach the inside plane. But wait! Put one half twist in the strip and voila! We traverse both planes.’

Separating the two ends of the paper he then made the half twist and placed the two ends back together, running his finger along the entirety of the surface, proving the argument that we did now indeed cover both initial planes.

‘So far so good?’

‘Excellent! Now consider this.’

Selecting a fresh serviette from the metal dispenser he first flattened it smooth with the palm of his hand before holding it up.

‘What if we now tear ourselves a dozen strips, but leaving the last few millimetres of each strip un-torn and still attached to the serviette? Then, what if we were to put our half twist in each of the twelve strips and attach our twelve free ends to the un-torn common base, now what do you have? Don’t know eh! Well, what you have are multiple planes, all with a common conduit which enables one to cross from any one plane to any other. Now multiply your dozen strips by 100, 1000, infinity. Understand? And that my dear friend is how my sad ass wound up here, in a world where up may be down and only fools conspire to have themselves noticed or be conspicuous in any way. What? You still don’t understand? Then for you I will start at the very beginning.’

Howard looked up briefly, catching the attention of the waitress before continuing.

‘Firstly you will have to think of these planes not of paper but as planes of existence, and secondly you will have to travel back with me to my original plane of existence, my world, my life. So! Close your eyes, listen, and I will relate my tale while you conjure up mind’s pictures to my story.’

Chapter 1

The wind howled in across Loch Roag, through the narrow isthmus leading into Ceann Hulabhaig, buffeting the thin figure struggling vainly to re-position the theodolite.

Howard scribbled a few hurried notes as he attempted to stabilise the instrument with his left leg. The gusts had been almost gale force all morning, the only objects appearing impervious to the onslaught being the circle of silvery pillars Howard stood amongst, their sheen owed to the granite like properties of the Lewisian gneiss. Minute particles of mica and quartz reflecting each other’s brilliance.

This was the site of his latest project, Callanish 1, using up the remnants of what was left of his present research grant.

Almost nullified by the wind he only just managed to catch the faint tones of his name being called and turned to find his research assistant desperately trying to attract his attention, one hand clinging to the caravan door in an attempt to save it from being blown from its hinges, the other holding up and waving a cell phone. He could see her lips moving, but her words were being carried off long before they could reach him. Howard dug the tripod stand of the theodolite into the soft marshy ground, struggling against the elements as he fought to rope a canvas weather sheet around the legs of the instrument hoping this would be enough to protect his precious piece of equipment from the howling onslaught. Fighting his way closer to the caravan, the gale ripping at his loosely fitting anorak, he eventually was able to pick up the woman’s voice.

‘Howard, it’s the institute, Peter Hodge.’

Howard had always secretly worried over having a female assistant. He didn’t consider himself particularly sexist in any way, he just acknowledged the fact that women had to be handled differently and his disposition seldom allowed that. Howard knew his abrasive manner would be accepted by a male counterpart but could easily bring someone of the opposite sex to tears. Nevertheless, Allison Woods had been virtually forced upon him regardless of his strenuous and heated objections and he had been left with very little choice but to welcome her on board. But, as fortune would have it, it had only taken a matter of days before he realised his fears had been totally unfounded. Allison could shout, curse like a sailor, and drink with the best of them. She was most definitely no shrinking violet. And these dubious qualities aside, she had turned out to be one damn fine assistant.

He wrestled the phone from her outstretched hand and clambered inside leaving Allison struggling to close the caravan door, the unrelenting wind determined to mount a personal challenge of strength. Howard slumped himself down on the unmade bed which hadn’t yet been magically transformed back into a settee and raised the cell phone to his ear.

‘Hi Peter, Howard here.’

Peter’s tone was decidedly nervous.

‘Bad news I’m afraid Howard. They’ve had me in at a meeting all morning and it seems our new financial director has decided to make cuts right across the board. You know what they say, a new broom and all that.’

Howard knew instinctively what was coming, but he had to ask anyway.

‘And where exactly does that leave my project?’

‘Well, that’s just it dear boy, I’m afraid your research grant has been terminated as from today.’

Hodge pulled the phone away from his ear anticipating Howard’s reaction.

‘Now wait a fucking minute! I’m this close to having the final empirical data I require to formulate my intersecting planes theory. I’m not about to let some jumped up prick with an honours degree in how to piss people off destroy three years of research.’

Peter made the feeble obligatory attempt to calm Howard but knew from past experience the task was always doomed to failure.

‘Come on Howard, it’s no good shouting at me, I’m just the errand boy delivering the bad news. The decision to cut your funding was nothing to do with me. Why, if truth be told, I was the one in there trying to get you an extension at least to the end of the month.’

Unfortunately, and just as Peter expected, his words fell on deaf ears.

‘And that’s supposed to make me happy, is it?’ Howard was still shouting as he glanced down at his wristwatch.

‘Look, it’s almost eleven. I’m getting into the jeep now and I’ll be at the institute by this evening. If they want me out they’ll have to do it face to face.’

‘Howard, I’m not even sure I can arrange ………. Hello? Hello?’ Peter’s words were lost in the ether as Howard depressed a button terminating the call.

Howard made a grab for the small pre-packed overnight bag that he always kept ready for any last minute field trip and exited the caravan, making a bee line for the 60’s model Land Rover standing on the narrow gravel pathway above the site. It started at the first turn of the key. He was about to slide the gear-stick into first but then noticed Allison had followed him out of the caravan and was now standing by the side of the vehicle, a tartan car blanket wrapped around her shoulders. He realised then that Allison had only been privy to one side of the conversation with Peter and was most likely completely in the dark about the current situation.

‘They’re trying to shut us down Allison.’

‘I gathered that much,’ she replied, pulling the blanket tighter around her body.

‘Well, I’m going to stop them. If it rains pack up the gear.’

She smiled, ‘Of course it’s going to fucking rain, it’s Scotland. Now go kick some ass.’

The vehicle crunched against gravel as it moved off, the tyres forming muddy pools in the potholed surface. After a few miles Howard took the first turn right where the track met the A858, and from there it was only a twenty mile drive to the airport at Stornoway.

The Land Rover’s tank showed way less than quarter and he guessed he would have to top up as he passed through Achmore, but if he hurried he was sure he could still make the regular BA one o’clock flight to Edinburgh, it was never full. Less than an hour later he was passing through Sandwick with the airport tower in sight, and within another forty minutes he was boarding the Saab 340 in the company of four other passengers.

The two CT7-9B General Electric engines burst into life and the small twin-engine plane taxied out onto the narrow runway. Howard hated flying, especially in anything as small as the Saab, and especially in any kind of windy conditions. He mentally drew a small graph inside his head, the x axis being aircraft size in meters, the y axis being wind-speed, he was sure there had to be some obscure formula, some calculation that would show at what critical point the Saab would plummet from the skies. Howard closed his eyes and tried not to think too much about it.

A short magazine article, three double Glendower’s, and something vaguely resembling a cheese and chutney sandwich later, and the Saab was touching down at Turnhouse just outside of Edinburgh. And from there it was only a brief twenty-minute taxi ride before Howard was passing through the gate house of the Lynton Institute.

Peter Hodge turned away from the window on the third floor of the main building.

‘Well, he’s here.’

Besides Peter there were two other men in the room, both seated at a large circular table, Gordon Palmer the newly appointed financial director and his assistant Oliver Dixon. Palmer looked unmistakably edgy, he had not expected to have to deal with Howard face to face.

‘I don’t really see the point of all this. I shouldn’t have to explain my decisions to some Prima Donna who thinks the entire institute revolves around his research.’

Just as Palmer had finished this sentence the office door burst open and Howard entered the room. Peter was the first to react and gestured to an empty seat.

‘Howard, I hope we can discuss this in a civilised manner.’

Howard fought to repress his anger and sat down across the table from Palmer and Dixon.

‘Good,’ said Peter, ‘now lets get started. Gordon?’

Palmer cleared his throat a few times before beginning to speak.

‘The facts are quite simple really. One of our major benefactors has severed all financial ties with the institute, pulled the plug so to speak. I’m told he believes his money would be better utilised in the field of cryogenics. So, being financially strapped the powers that be have given me the task of cutting the funding to some of our more controversial areas of research, and let’s face it Howard, yours is way up there.’

Howard shook his head in a negative fashion. ‘Finished? Right! Listen, I am this close to publishing my findings.’ He held up his forefinger and thumb pressed tightly together to emphasise his point before continuing.

‘Why, within the foreseeable future we could be travelling to countless other planes, all due to my research.’

Oliver Dixon decided it was time he pitched in.

‘And we would want to do that because ….? I’m afraid more down to Earth projects which have the potential to show some financial return to the institute have to take priority over some of the, shall we say, more contentious areas of research.’

Howard was desperately trying to stay calm and losing the battle with each passing second.

‘Shit! You really don’t understand what I’ve done, do you? Let me tell you! All those recorded cases of people who have disappeared never to be heard from again, where are they? All those aeroplanes and ships magically whisked away in the so called Devil’s Triangle, the Lake Michigan Bowl, the Indonesia-Japan corridor. Just where the fuck do you think they wound up? I’ll tell you where! Accidentally transported from one plane to another that’s where!’

Gordon Palmer let loose an exaggerated audible sigh.

‘But there’s no real science to it, is there? From reading the findings which you yourself have submitted to the institute I agree with you wholeheartedly, as you have just said, accidents. Take the case of that Hobson fellow in your first report. Crossed over to the other side of the street, turned to wave to his friends, and poof! Supposedly disappeared without a trace in front of a horde of witnesses. Now, lets examine your handling of this miraculous event. From your own written reports you admit that you failed to replicate the circumstances relating to this unfortunates disappearance, even when you had taken into consideration all possible variables from time of day to weather conditions. Just what have you achieved over the last year? Absolutely nothing! Zilch! In over sixty attempts the event could not be duplicated, like you say, accidents.’

Howard realised he was rapidly losing the argument.

‘That report was submitted over six months ago. Since then we feel we have found the key, the missing ingredient which allows movement between planes.’

‘And this elusive philosophers stone is?’ smiled Dixon.

To Howard the smile appeared sickly, patronising. His inherent paranoia rose rapidly to the surface. He turned to Peter in frustration.

‘Just who winds this idiot up?’

Gordon Palmer could see Howard was becoming more and more agitated by the minute and realised there was a very real danger of him losing it completely. He made a hasty attempt to calm down the proceedings.

‘Look, I agree your report on Hobson is over six months old, but it’s the last damn report you’ve filed. As far as the institute is concerned you may as well have been on holiday for the last six month. Just what have you been up to?’

‘OK, I admit I’ve been a little lax in the paperwork department, but that’s only because one hundred and ten percent of my time has been spent in the practical aspects of my research. If you give me a chance I can explain just how far we’ve come since the Hobson affair.’

‘Fine,’ said Palmer, ‘I won’t have it said that you were never given full opportunity to put forward your case, please continue.’

Howard bit his lip hard, making a determined effort to compose himself.

‘What we’ve recently found is that every one of the locations where disappearances have been known to occur lie along ancient ley lines, particularly at man-made or natural structures where these ley lines intersect or terminate. Magnetism, or magnetic flux density to be more precise is the key. Just think, all those scientists for years pondering the meaning of Stonehenge, Carnagh, Callanish, and coming up with all manner of theories from ancient burial sites to solar calendars. Shit! They were stone-age transporters.’

Palmer cut in.

‘Forgive me, but if you know its this flux density thing that makes it all work then why can’t you duplicate it?’

Howard had been ready for this.

‘Think of the Earth as one big magnet. What I believe is that countless millennia ago the magnetic field surrounding the Earth was much, much stronger than it is today, perhaps sixty to eighty percent stronger. The stronger the magnetic field then the stronger the flux density. It follows from there that these so called ley lines, these magnetic pathways, had much stronger lines of flux associated with them in bygone times, and at their termination points this energy could have been magnified a hundred fold.’

Palmer looked puzzled.

‘If what you say is true then how do you explain the more recent disappearances?’

‘Ah! Why we still have activity around certain sites even although the flux density is at a much lower level is that the conditions surrounding the sites are randomly enhanced by outside elements such as severe electrical storms, cycles of the moon, solar flares, or even the Earth’s position relative to other bodies in our solar system.’

‘I’m sorry,’ coughed Palmer covering his mouth with a handkerchief, ‘but I still don’t see how we can control any of the variables you’ve just mentioned.’

Howard was flowing, he was beginning to feel he was actually getting through to them.

‘But we don’t have to! Take Stonehenge for example, if we were to install banks of field coils at cardinal points around the structure each would interact with the others due to mutual inductance and form an intense level of flux density at the centre of the henge, thus simulating the high level of Electro-Magneto force caused by any of the outside variables.’

Palmer clapped his hands together.

‘So, what you are saying is that you have solved the puzzle and therefore your research is at an end.’

‘We have to build it,’ said Howard, ‘without a series of practical trials all my work remains theory.’

Palmer smiled, ‘And that brings us full circle I’m afraid, with no money to build expensive toys that may or may not work.’

Howard realised at this point that no argument, no matter how convincing, would ever sway them from their original decision to cut his funding.

‘It was a total waste of time coming here wasn’t it? I was never going to change your narrow little minds was I? Well, fuck you all! I’ll find some other way to carry on my research by myself.’

‘Really,’ said Peter, ‘there’s no need to . . . . . . . . .’ But Howard was already exiting through the office door.

There was no late flight back to Stornoway that evening and Howard made himself as comfortable as he possibly could, stretching out on a row of the airport lounge’s hard padded chairs, well known to be specifically designed primarily to induce pain and secondly to be as uncomfortable as possible. He was firmly convinced airport seats were purposely engineered to discourage people from doing exactly what Howard was attempting to do.

He caught the first flight back in the morning, it started to rain as the aircraft’s wheels left the tarmac. And an hour and a half later he was flooring the Landover, following the twisting road back to the site. It was almost midday. The rain was beginning to fall even harder by the time he arrived back at Callanish, the caravan in darkness, Allison nowhere to be seen. He ran from the Landover down the muddy slope towards the mobile home, the door was locked.

‘Where the Hell was Allison?’

Digging deep in his trouser pockets he found the spare key but only succeeded in dropping it in his hurry to be out of the wind and rain. He fell to his knees, groping around in the muddy puddle which had formed at the side of the small set of wooden steps which led up to the caravan entrance.

Wiping the sludge from the key he wasted no time in forcing it into the lock and wrenching the caravan door open, hastily stepping inside, but just as he was on the verge of closing the door behind him a flash of lightning lit up the darkened skies illuminating the entire site. His eyes immediately focussed on the theodolite, still standing out in the rain, the canvas cover ripped away from one side and flapping in the wind. Howard had to smile, even the weather had decided to conspire against him.

‘Par for the fucking course’ he shouted towards the sky and dashed across the open ground towards the instrument.

The storm had now reached its peak, and as he reached out his hand towards the theodolite a brilliant flash struck the centre stone sending a ring of blue light to engulf the other uprights. Howard looked on in amazement, took one step forward, and vanished.

***

And that my good friend is it. I suppose I validated my theory and proved that inter-dimensional travel was possible, and I suppose you think I should be pretty pleased with myself. Well, there is just one tiny flaw, one tiny piece of data I hadn’t accounted for in the jigsaw. You see, when I stepped forward I had never any doubt that to return to my own plane I had only to step back. Not so, when I stepped forward I found myself in what I can only describe as a dark empty passageway, archways of bright light along its length, disappearing into infinity.

I stepped through the first in the long line and found myself in a sunny green meadow with not a cloud in the sky. No clouds hence no rain, no rain hence no storm, no storm hence no lightning to amplify the flux density to the required level. And it gets worse. I have found the residual magnetic flux around the area where I entered this plane to be minimal and I can only conclude that the gates between the planes are omni-directional, and with this in mind I have resigned myself to the fact that I may well be hereabouts for quite some time to come.

Chapter 2

The day I literally burst into existence in my new reality I instinctively knew something was not quite right. The sky was blue, the grass green, a welcome breeze rustled stalks of reeds growing around the banks of a small stream bringing with it the faint smell of cooking. All seemingly quite normal, picture perfect, but still there was definitely something I couldn’t put my finger on that just wasn’t quite right.

Following the trail of the scent and clambering up a muddy slope on the other side of the stream the sounds of faint singing began to reach my ears. No, not singing, but more of a methodical chant.

Keeping as low as possible and creeping up towards the crest of the bank I spread the reeds apart just enough to allow me to view the meadow beyond. The scene I beheld proved to me that I was correct in trusting my instincts, there was definitely something not quite kosher about what I was witnessing.

Flashbacks from Macbeth immediately popped into my head as I stared out at what appeared to be three crones stirring a great cauldron, muttering in a monotone drone as they circled the pot, flames licking at the cauldron’s sides as its contents boiled and bubbled. But no sooner had memories of this Shakespearian trio been dragged from my subconscious when I was forced to re-assess my analogy with The Scottish play as on closer inspection I realised that the three women were not in any way dressed in a fashion you would expect of your typical self-respecting witch. In all fairness to them I then had to admit to myself that they in no way resembled your normal stereotypical occultist in any way, no pointed hats, no broomsticks, not a cat or a wart in sight, zilch.

And then I began to re-question my instincts, perhaps all we had here were three women given the task of preparing the evening meal for the men-folk returning from the fields. But just as these thoughts were beginning to take hold and fool my mind into making perfect sense of the scene the faith in my instincts was then abruptly restored.

One of the women ceased stirring the cauldron and moved off behind a small bush and I was forced to slide further along the bank to keep track of her progress. She halted and knelt down in front of a wire mesh cage, unlocking and lifting a flap at the front, straining on a long leather leash as she fought to drag out whatever seemed incredibly reluctant to leave the cage. At first I could not quite make out what manner of beast struggled at the end of the leash as I could only manage to catch brief glimpses through the reeds as the woman’s swaying sackcloth habit hid and un-hid the creature. And then it was in the clear, in full view. An Aardvark? Surely not. I rubbed my eyes and looked again, but the animal was still most definitely an Aardvark.

The woman continued to drag the unwilling beast over towards the cauldron where her two accomplices waited, the Aardvark struggling even harder the closer they came to the pot, beginning to make loud squealing noises reminding me more of a pig than an anteater, although I must confess at that point I had really no idea what noises an Aardvark would or could emit.

It suddenly occurred to me that this creature was indeed headed for the bubbling, boiling pot. Were they about to cook the beast alive? I rose from my crouched position and moved towards the trio. The three women immediately sensed my presence and halted their activities, they stared hard at me, then at each other, then at the Aardvark, and finally back at me.

The woman dragging the unfortunate beast was first to speak.

‘What do you want here? Begone!’

Before I could make any sort of reply one of the women who stood by the cauldron suddenly began rushing towards me, screaming as she came, brandishing a long curved blade not dissimilar to a miniature scimitar. She came within three feet, lunging distance, before my right hand instinctively rose and a fist caught her hard and square in the face, her nose exploding in a mass of blood and snot.

I very soon made up my mind that these were not very nice people and decided not to waste too much time in meaningless conversation, instead I simply walked over towards the woman holding the Aardvark and relieved her of the creature.