Entanglement is a quirky mystery with a sci-fi twist which reviews say "blends the wit of Douglas Adams with the sci-fi genius of Terry Pratchett" and "If you’re a fan of Douglas Adams, Issac Asimov, Kurt Vonnegut or Haruki Murakami you’ll definitely love this book too".
David’s fiancée worries when he drops out of contact. MI5 panics when a secret airbase vanishes. Liz doesn’t understand when her research subjects go missing. Nigel is confused when he finds an ordinary house brick floating in thin air. And a woman spends her life shifting between parallel worlds. But how can all these things be connected? And why are cakes so important?
Entanglement is a warm, funny, and original tale about friendship, loss and coping when you’re out of your depth which also invites readers to ask, “What if?” What if you hadn’t answered that voicemail? And what if grass that never needs cutting wasn't being kept secret by the lawnmower companies?
Entanglement is a quirky mystery with a sci-fi twist which reviews say "blends the wit of Douglas Adams with the sci-fi genius of Terry Pratchett" and "If you’re a fan of Douglas Adams, Issac Asimov, Kurt Vonnegut or Haruki Murakami you’ll definitely love this book too".
David’s fiancée worries when he drops out of contact. MI5 panics when a secret airbase vanishes. Liz doesn’t understand when her research subjects go missing. Nigel is confused when he finds an ordinary house brick floating in thin air. And a woman spends her life shifting between parallel worlds. But how can all these things be connected? And why are cakes so important?
Entanglement is a warm, funny, and original tale about friendship, loss and coping when you’re out of your depth which also invites readers to ask, “What if?” What if you hadn’t answered that voicemail? And what if grass that never needs cutting wasn't being kept secret by the lawnmower companies?
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Overview
Entanglement is a quirky mystery with a sci-fi twist which reviews say "blends the wit of Douglas Adams with the sci-fi genius of Terry Pratchett" and "If you’re a fan of Douglas Adams, Issac Asimov, Kurt Vonnegut or Haruki Murakami you’ll definitely love this book too".
David’s fiancée worries when he drops out of contact. MI5 panics when a secret airbase vanishes. Liz doesn’t understand when her research subjects go missing. Nigel is confused when he finds an ordinary house brick floating in thin air. And a woman spends her life shifting between parallel worlds. But how can all these things be connected? And why are cakes so important?
Entanglement is a warm, funny, and original tale about friendship, loss and coping when you’re out of your depth which also invites readers to ask, “What if?” What if you hadn’t answered that voicemail? And what if grass that never needs cutting wasn't being kept secret by the lawnmower companies?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781916044029 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Ursus Publishing |
| Publication date: | 09/10/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 304 |
| File size: | 681 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
IT ALL STARTED WELL ENOUGH
Fate was bored. Nothing funny had happened in days, and it needed a laugh. When the UK's most secret research station vanished though, it smiled. When odd things started happening to some moles and a brick, it chuckled. When it realised what was coming next, its laugh was heard across every world. It was going to be a very good week.
But what was coming next? Well, imagine you wake up in a parallel world where everything looks familiar, but no-one knows who you are. Worse still, you've no idea how you got there. Then you shift to another world, and another, and another, year after year, until eventually you find yourself in one where it's you who doesn't know anybody. No friends, no family, no-one. Could you cope? That was what a woman called TC was about to find out.
Then there were the cakes.
* * *
I'll get to all that though, as our story begins two years before. In GCHQ no less, that ultra-secret government building which sits in plain sight, disguised as a giant, silver doughnut.
In a basement room sat the Director General of MI5, the UK Secretary of State for Defence, and five eminent scientists. They were there to discuss the security implications of some recent findings at CERN. It was an unusual mix of people, all of whom had different agendas. Even so, they still reached a conclusion, and three months later, the DG also got the support of the head of the Royal Air Force. Three months after that, the DG and the Defence Secretary met again, only this time in 10 Downing Street. The Prime Minister was testing both their knowledge and their patience.
"And you're sure he's the right person for the job?" demanded the PM in a thin, nasal whine.
"Well, both groups like him," snapped the Defence Secretary.
"Both groups?"
"The scientists and the RA ..."
"Remind me what role the RAF plays?"
The Defence Secretary ground his teeth. He hated being interrupted, and he'd already taken the PM through this twice. He was about to respond when the DG interrupted in his calm, soothing voice.
"Group Captain Marston has a double first from Oxford in Meteorology and Computer Science, Prime Minister, which ..."
"So, what's our cover story?"
"A weather research facility, Prime Minister, to study high altitude weather conditions. And as the RAF will have aircraft on site, having one of their people in charge is standard operational practice. He's an excellent officer too. Trustworthy, well-liked, more than capable of doing the job ..."
"... and the fact that he looks like a movie star doesn't hurt. Is that it?"
"It can't do any harm, Prime Minister," replied the DG with a nod. "After all, the names of my predecessors have been common knowledge since '92. And Crianloch would be open to even more scrutiny if its real purpose ever got out."
"So, he's the acceptable face of ... What do we call it anyway?" "My office refers to it as Spooky Affairs, Prime Minister," replied the DG with a wry smile.
"Well we need a better name than that."
"I gather Operation Carter is the preferred name in the Civil Service."
"Why Carter?"
"Some science fiction reference I think."
"Hmf," snorted the Defence Secretary.
"So, we're agreed. Marston will head up what from the public perspective, is an ordinary weather station. But when we're talking about other matters, Operation Carter it is."
* * *
David Marston had joined the Royal Air Force after university, going straight to Cranwell officer training college, where he came first in his class. Then, when the top brass at RAF Wyton approached him, David leapt at the chance. He knew it by reputation as home of the Joint Force Intelligence Group and the National Centre for Geospatial Intelligence, so it was an easy decision. Careers move on though, and now he had his first base-command post. OK so it was at Crianloch rather than Lossiemouth, as he'd told his family, but he could get around that.
At 32, he wasn't the youngest person ever to hold the rank of Group Captain. But at 6'2" with blond hair, and eyes that matched the blue-grey of his uniform, he made a striking figure. What his challenges might be at Crianloch, he didn't know, and not because he hadn't been briefed, because he had, extensively. The thing was, the notion that the station itself might vanish had never been considered, and no-one had imagined a scenario that might change the entire world. Unfortunately, they should have, and sensing somehow that things were about to change, the planet waited. Not consciously like you do for a bus, but waited, nonetheless.
It was therefore ironic that when it happened, only a handful of people noticed, and none of them had a clue what it was, let alone what caused it. For one thing, they only saw their own parts of the puzzle. And although some parts were bigger than others, they were each so bizarre that only one person wondered if they might be connected. The trouble was, he wasn't the sort many people listen to.
For now then, the world slept. Group Captain David Marston did too, slumped over his desk as he often did. His fiancée, on the other hand, was sleeping soundly in the hotel room she'd called home for the last few months. And her soon-to-be-new-best-friend slept surrounded by cats at home. The only person not sleeping was David's cousin Nigel, but that was normal for him, so the world kept spinning. Kept waiting.
* * *
So, picture the scene ... An unforgiving highland landscape made of granite and carved by glaciers in a time when woolly mammoths walked the Earth. A grassy glen now, with a small, playful stream gurgling through its centre, laughing and dancing as it splashed over the rocks. High above, barren peaks grumbled amongst themselves as they gazed down in disapproval of anything so frivolous. And well they might, for the stream seemed almost to sigh with pleasure as it finally disappeared into the lush, green bogs.
Appearances can be deceptive though, and like The Great Grimpen Mire in The Hound of the Baskervilles, they were also the spots where many a small creature had lost its way ... permanently. As far as wildness goes, Dartmoor had nothing on Glen Crian, though and if Conan Doyle had ever visited, he might well have set his story there instead.
With eighteen-hour nights in winter and six months of rain a year, it was never going to be a major tourist destination. That said when you add in its mild, year-round temperatures, and the fact that it's hidden from the nearest village by a series of hillocks, you have one thing ... The perfect site for the UK's most secret research station.
It didn't take long to put the press stories in place either, all leading with a central message about the station's low environmental impact. It would have a single, short runway, with everything else underground, and be so remote that the security guards would have more sheep to worry about than people. In fact, it's only claim to fame would be the hundreds of boffins working there, and what could possibly go wrong with that?
Over the next twenty months, Glen Crian was transformed from a tranquil highland valley into the site of a high-tech research facility. It lived up to its low-impact promise too, and if you flew over it, all you saw was the green tarmac of the runway, a couple of single-storey buildings and a fence. Not a high fence either and no razor wire in sight.
Mind you, as the Ministry of Defence now owned the entire glen, it's not like people could walk in without being noticed, as the valley floor was dotted with hundreds of hidden sensors. Consequently, anyone who came visiting set off an alarm in the underground control room, and if they kept walking, they were picked up on camera. It was deliberately low key ... up to the point that they were greeted by heavily armed members of the RAF. Purely as a courtesy, you understand.
As for air traffic control, gone was the usual, tall concrete tower. In its place, the job was done by dozens of networked cameras positioned around the valley sides, all with inbuilt infrared to handle night flights.
What wasn't made public, was the massive mining operation needed to construct the station's three underground levels. Nearest the surface were vast hangers such as on aircraft-carriers, and on the level below that, twenty-five parallel corridors, each running the full length of the station. Each half-a-mile long, with dozens of offices, laboratories and living quarters leading off on either side. Below that again sat a server-farm the size of a football pitch, and numerous other basement rooms even I can't tell you about.
As for people, naturally the station had its complement of RAF personnel and meteorologists, but that was only the beginning. Its real purpose lay with the dozens of computer scientists, astronomers and astrophysicists, all crunching petabytes of data from around the world.
Then on Friday, September 10, everything went wrong.
SOMEWHEN ELSE ...
Data aside: reality is a funny old thing. I mean, it's always the same distance between London and New York, but it still feels nearer if you're going on holiday rather than on business. "Ah, but that's just different perspectives," you might say, and you'd be right. What happens though if you come across something so weird, your mind refuses to accept it, even if it's right in front of you? If it's a gigantic, salivating monster ripping the roof off your house, you probably run like hell. On the other hand, what if the person you've been secretly in love with for years suddenly notices you? In that case, I guess you either run towards them or faint with shock.
But what if the something is small? What if it's insignificant? What if it can't possibly matter, but it still bugs the hell out of you all the same? In that case, I reckon you worry. Not perhaps in a front-of-the-mind kind of way, but more like a coffee percolator. The bubbles are barely noticeable to begin with, but as they start to heat up, they get bigger and bigger.
So what was TC's reality like?
Well, no-one noticed her much as a child. Her parents loved her, and she had her fair share of friends, but she was nothing out of the ordinary. She didn't excel at sport, she was an average pupil, and although she took piano lessons, the music she played was at best, accurate. She had two pet rabbits called Bill and Ben, half a dog named Amber, and anyone she allowed into her room found the floor covered with clothes.
The walls were very much her too, which at six years old meant posters of unicorns. At ten that changed to ponies, and from twelve onwards it became a succession of boy bands ... with a few photos of kittens thrown in for good measure. She was loved, she was liked, and her best friend thought she was ace, but extraordinary? Not really.
At eighteen, all that changed.
CHAPTER 2EVERYTHING GOES WRONG
Friday, September 10th
Group Captain David Marston took it in his stride when the air traffic control cameras failed. Likewise, when the goods-lift broke down, leaving the weekly delivery of groceries stranded on the runway. It was only when the coffee machine in the Senior Officers' Mess stopped working that his day really started going downhill.
"At least that's three now, sir," his steward said cheerily.
Marston glanced up.
"They say problems come in threes don't they, sir."
"Well, let's hope so this time." Ever a man of few words, Marston's accent was clipped and nondescript, yet easy to listen to. He smiled and stood up from his desk. Issues with air traffic control and the station's food supply were bad news. Ever one for prioritisation, he, therefore, headed straight for the civilian mess to see if their coffee machine was working.
He liked the openness of the place and the way it served as the station's social hub. Plus, it had a commercial grade coffee machine like the Senior Officers' Mess, and today that was important. As colleagues had quickly discovered, Marston was a coffee aficionado, and while some people have favourite cars, holidays or pizzas, he had a favourite coffee machine, and the Gaggia D90 Evolution was it. Thankfully, the one in the civilian mess was working. So, after chatting with a few of the scientists while he got his morning pick-me-up, he strode off to look into the station's other problems.
Later that morning, with the air traffic control cameras and the goods-lift working again, he headed not back to the civilian mess, but to the smaller one intended for him and his senior staff. It was private, and over time, had become a dedicated, meeting room for them. It was also where, as they sat down this particular day, all the lights went out.
"Oh, what now?"
"What the heck?"
"Oh no, not another ..."
Confused, complaining voices rippled around the room as laptop screens provided the only glow of normality in the darkness. Seconds later, the emergency generators kicked in, and the lights flickered back on. Marston's operations manager was already punching keys on the conference phone in the centre of the table.
"Systems Control," came the instant reply.
"Jim, it's Doug Smoke; what just happened?"
"Everything tripped, sir. We don't know why yet. I'll get back to you."
The line went dead.
"He's brisk," commented Marston with a smile.
"He's a good man, sir. He'll find out what's going on."
He didn't though. At least not before the shutters over the helicopter bays had refused to open, and the air conditioning decided it was a good day to imitate an arctic winter. Consequently, when the top team met again, they were wearing padded jackets, furry hats and gloves. They made a comical sight with their breath steaming out into the cold air. None of that mattered though, because that was when it happened.
The time was 13:32, and as the station was plunged into darkness for the second time in as many hours, everyone's first thought was that it was just a power cut. This time though the generators didn't kick in. There was also the odd, green light. An impossibly bright pulse that had filled every corner of the station for a fraction of a second, then nothing.
Anyone on the peaks surrounding Glen Crian would have seen it too because it enveloped the runway and surface buildings as well. In fact, for barely the blink of an eye, it blanketed the whole valley floor. But as there were no hikers about, and the hills shielded the place from the outside world, no one saw anything.
Even so, the milkman and the newspaper boy still thought it strange when the station wasn't there the following morning. They'd always felt there was something funny about the place though, so they figured it must just have been more secret than they'd realised.
Why didn't either of them rush to tell the police?
As for the newspaper boy, he was saving up for a new mountain bike, and the way he saw it, if there was no station, then he was out of work. OK so he'd have to hide the extra newspapers for a few days, but that was fine. He already occasionally dumped some in skips around the village when he couldn't be bothered to finish his round.
And the milkman? Well, he went the other way altogether and started by telling the couple who run the Post Office and village store. From there he told his mates in The Shepherd's Arms, and with that done, he was happy to let the rumour mill do the rest. Like the paperboy though, he didn't go straight to the police. The whole thing was just too strange.
Not strange in the way clipped poodles look mind you. Or the way celebrities on botox do, let alone the notion of pineapple on pizza. No, this was the sort of strange that makes governments tremble, and fills headlines the world over.
As for the pulse of green light, the last thing Marston saw as it flooded the Senior Officers' Mess was Doug Smoke reaching for the conference phone again. As the station's operations manager, problems were literally his problem. This time though he had no ready answer for Marston, for along with everything else, the phone was dead.
"It must be some kind of EMP, sir," he said in the darkness.
"They're real?" asked Marston, "I thought they were only in movies."
"Oh, they're real alright, sir. Off the top of my head, it's the only thing I can think of that could make everything go down like this."
Suddenly Smoke had a thought, and pulling his phone from his pocket, he pressed the power button. It still worked.
"Well, at least it's not affected batteries. With your permission, sir, I'll go down to Systems Control. Find out what's going on."
"Fine," replied Marston, "you do that. There are emergency torches at every corridor intersection? Yes?"
Illuminated by the glow from his phone, Doug Smoke nodded.
"Good. The rest of us will go around the offices and reassure the scientists. Meet back here in an hour?"
Smoke nodded again and left the room. As he walked to Systems Control, he was struck by how odd everywhere seemed in the dark. It was a route he knew well, but apparently not today. Distances felt different, and corners weren't quite where he remembered them.
From time to time, he encountered people coming out of their offices to see whether it was only their power that was down. Apart from the few who'd remembered the emergency torches, they were all using their phones, and it gave a spooky feel to the place. Navigating the stairs down a level was interesting too, and by the time Doug reached Systems Control, he was happy to be in familiar territory.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Entanglement"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Andrew J Thomas.
Excerpted by permission of Ursus Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
TABLE OF CONTENTS
It all started well enough
Somewhen else …
Everything goes wrong
Weird coincidences
Meaningful meetings
Finding out, Covering up
It minus 11 years
Travelling north
First answers?
The thing about coincidences
Days 7, Answers 1½
Soon?
Truth emerges
Green and Blue
Parallel running
All’s well that ends well
What came after
A word of thanks