Gravity Rising (The Parallel Multiverse Book 2) Read online

  Gravity

  Rising

  Ward Wagher

  Gravity

  Rising

  Ward Wagher

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Ward Wagher

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781719907781

  Books by Ward Wagher

  The Parallel Nazi Series

  Accidental Nazi

  Improbable Nazi

  Impossible Nazi

  The Parallel-Multiverse

  ruBracks, Nazis, the Death of the Universe, and Everything

  Gravity Rising

  The Scott Baughman Saga

  Hannah Sorpat’s Eye (A Novel of Alien Abduction)

  Without Beginning of Days

  Witnesses in the Cloud

  The Chronicles of Montora

  The Mountains of Montora

  The Margrave of Montora

  The Snows of Montora

  Christmas in Montora

  The Diamonds of Montora

  Harcourt’s World

  The Wealth of the Worlds

  The Caledon Emergence

  Dynastic Ambition

  DEDICATION

  To my Father-in-law who reads everything I write, even if he thinks some of it is really weird.

  CONTENTS

  Dynastic Ambition iii

  DEDICATION iv

  CONTENTS v

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS i

  CHAPTER ONE 1

  CHAPTER TWO 7

  CHAPTER THREE 13

  CHAPTER FOUR 19

  CHAPTER FIVE 25

  CHAPTER SIX 33

  CHAPTER SEVEN 39

  CHAPTER EIGHT 45

  CHAPTER NINE 53

  CHAPTER TEN 59

  CHAPTER ELEVEN 65

  CHAPTER TWELVE 73

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN 81

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN 87

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN 95

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN 103

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 111

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 117

  CHAPTER NINETEEN 125

  CHAPTER TWENTY 133

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 139

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 147

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 153

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 159

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 165

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 171

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 179

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 187

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 193

  CHAPTER THIRTY 201

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 207

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 215

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 223

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 231

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 237

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX 243

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 249

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT 257

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE 263

  CHAPTER FORTY 269

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE 277

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO 285

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE 293

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR 299

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE 305

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX 311

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN 317

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT 323

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE 329

  CHAPTER FIFTY 335

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE 341

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO 347

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE 353

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR 361

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE 367

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX 375

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN 381

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR 386

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once again, thanks to Bob, Don, Ric and Drew who have reviewed the manuscript and given (mostly) good advice. I couldn’t get there without you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Larry, Larry, quite contrary, how does your dissertation grow?”

  Lawrence Berthold looked up at the smiling face in the doorway of his tiny office. “Maggie it is withering! Every time I turn around, you are salting the earth.”

  The willowy red-head walked into the room carrying two steaming cups. “Oh, nonsense, Larry. I am trying to keep you out of trouble with Dr. Pournelle.”

  Berthold snorted. “Some help you are. You’re going to get me thrown out of the program.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” she said as she slid one of the cups across the desk to him and flopped into a chair. “Pournelle keeps asking why you are in physics instead of the history program at some other school.”

  “And why should he be sharing that with you, anyway?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. People tell me stuff. Everybody likes to talk to me. I don’t know why.”

  Berthold looked across the desk at her as he mused. Maggie Bostic's frizzy red hair was roughly pulled back into a bun and secured with a stylus. An old-fashioned pencil stuck out of her hair at an odd angle above her right ear. Spears of hair pointed away from her head at odd angles. The pale skin showing on her face and hands were covered in freckles. Her glasses made her eyes look too large, and the lenses were dirty and smeared.

  Maggie dressed much the same way the other students at MIT did during the winters in Boston, if with less coordination. The collar of a red and yellow checked flannel shirt partially hung over a brown sweatshirt. She wore green corduroy pants and tan pig-skin boots.

  The mugs contained the ever-present tea, used by students and professors alike to stay warm. While the buildings were heated with gas from the inexhaustible Marcellus Shale, it was very cold outside, and the heating was not very effective. The institutional campus was old and there were no funds to cover other than bare maintenance.

  “So Fuzzy thinks I’m on the wrong track, then?” Lawrence asked. “Why didn’t he tell me, instead of you?”

  “He has told you, Larry. You just haven’t been listening.”

  “Maggie,” Lawrence sighed, “all he has told me is that he is worried about the grant running out. I’m trying to get this thing done before that happens.”

  “And he controls the purse strings on the grants,” she said.

  Berthold picked up the cup and cradled it in his hand, trying to absorb its warmth. “Cripes, it’s cold today. Whatever happened to Indian Summer. There’s got to be twenty inches of snow on the ground.”

  “Are you looking for an explanation, or was that rhetorical?”

  He sipped the tea carefully, trying not to burn his mouth. “That’s good. Thanks for bringing it. No, I was casually talking about the weather.”

  She grinned. “You cannot talk casually about the weather to a climatologist. You should know that by now.”

  “Uh huh, uh huh. And what is Fuzzy Pournelle telling you about your program? You don’t know what you’re doing any more than I, and you’ve been at it longer.”

  “Tut, tut, Larry. Everybody knows the climatologists don’t have a clue. If they hadn’t realized that by 2035, what followed the Super-Carrington convinced them.”

  Earth’s sun had been quiescent for two or three decades while the scientific community debated whether global warming had paused or if the temperatures were still climbing. The sun roused from its ongoing somnolence briefly in 2035 with a flare that generated a Carrington Event dwarfing the one that hit Earth in 1859. After destroying much of the electrical and electronic infrastructure, our mildly variable star had gone back to sleep and the climate continued its cooling process. The debate now centered on whether Earth was well into a multi-century cold period, or it was the beginning of a time of massive glaciation. While weather forecasting worked surprisingly well, Climatology was considered a
black art.

  “Listen, I keep telling you that I am trying to harmonize the gravitational theory of Westerly and Clenèt with Newtonian Physics, and also Einstein. It takes a lot of research.”

  “Dr. Pournelle doesn’t think you have the math for what you are trying to do,” Maggie said.

  “I’m not far enough into the project to start assembling the math.”

  “Exactly. He thinks you are going about this backward.”

  “Then, maybe I should go talk to him,” Berthold said. “I have identified the inconsistencies in Westerly’s and Clenèt’s work...”

  “So has everyone else, Larry,” she interrupted. “Somebody comes along with a new theory about once every ten years.”

  “You’re a big help,” Berthold grumped. “I thought we were friends.”

  “And friends help friends hide the bodies.” she quipped.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

  “It’s just that you are wandering along here, fat and happy, Larry. Pournelle is getting ready to drop the hammer on you. You’d better be ready for it. If he kicks you out of the program, you won’t have money for heat.”

  He looked down at his desk and considered what the woman was telling him. “All right, Mags, how many times have you kept me from screwing myself into the ground?”

  “It’s been at least once per year since we were in third grade.”

  He groaned. They had attended the same pre-college school, and invariably the teachers would seat their classes in alphabetical order, resulting in Lawrence Berthold eventually knowing Margaret Bostic as well as he knew his sister. Somehow, they had both attended Boston College and landed in many of the same classes. Fortunately, the lecturers at MIT didn’t bother with seating charts, but by this time the two considered themselves best friends.

  “Okay, if I get tossed out, can I move in with you? he asked.

  “Of course not,” she said primly. “What would people say?”

  “We could tell them we’re married, Maggie. We’re together all the time, anyway.”

  “We’re just friends, Larry.”

  “We’re best friends, Mags. Why don’t we get married?”

  It was her turn to sigh. “Larry, if we got married, what would we be?”

  “Happy?”

  “Uh huh. An unemployed physicist and a climatologist witch doctor. What’s wrong with this picture?”

  “Witch doctor? Why are you in this program, then?”

  She laughed. “My parents constantly ask me the same thing. It’s because I want to be a climatologist. And I want to restore some respect to the field. It’s like an itch I had to scratch.”

  “Exactly,” Berthold said. “Just like me.”

  “Listen, Larry,” Maggie said, “You are driven to nail down all these issues in gravitational physics. I know you pretty well. Our minds work the same way. I’m just saying that you’d better figure out a way to put some lipstick on this project of yours, or you’ll be suffering a career change.”

  “But, you don’t wear lipstick.”

  “You know what I’m saying,” she said, tapping her index finger on his desk. “You need to learn to start reading people better. Dr. Pournelle is pretty transparent.”

  “Is that why you have Dr. Isaacs eating out of your hand?” he asked.

  She stood up. “You got it, Gravity Boy. Listen, I’ve spent too much time here already this morning. I’ve got to get back to my beads and rattles. Go talk to Dr. Pournelle.”

  The cramped office seemed smaller, darker and colder after Maggie left. Berthold spun around and glanced at his comp term. No incoming messages blinked at him. He glanced out the small window where snowflakes danced, and the cold contributed to the rime that grew around the edges of the glass. The paint bubbled around the window and along the wall in various places. It had been decades since the offices had been painted. He was lucky to have a view outside. Rough wooden panels had been nailed in place in the offices where the ancient glass had cracked and fractured. He sometimes wondered if the building itself would eventually collapse.

  Berthold pulled up the research document he had been reading and began again to try to comprehend it. Finally, he leaned back in his chair. Okay, Larry, he said to himself, Maggie’s right. I need to go talk to Fuzzy Pournelle.

  He thought it fortunate that the Physics Department of MIT occupied a single building on the campus. In fact, the entire school rattled around in the main central building it had occupied for centuries. Parts of it were closed off and no longer habitable. The rest seemed to be in tumble-down condition. The school administration focused the bulk of its funding on research and the equipment necessary to support the work. The general assumption seemed to be that there were plenty of abandoned buildings in Cambridge in these times, and it was easier to find usable space than to build or renovate.

  “Come in, come in” Dr. Jerzy Pournelle yelled in his affected bonhomie.

  Berthold walked into an office that was no larger than his, and possibly even shabbier. This office had a sheet of plywood nailed over where the window had been. Larry wondered why the department head had not simply appropriated another office with a functioning window. Pournelle was a large, florid-faced man with horn-rimmed glasses and lamb-chop sideburns so long as to be fantastical. His sideburns were the source of his nickname Fuzzy. He was leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on an open drawer and his hands behind his head.

  “Sit down, Lawrence. So good of you to stop by.”

  “Thank you, Sir. I just wanted to give you a status report. I am making substantial progress.”

  “Are you now?” Pournelle said. “That is certainly good news. I assume this also includes a deliverable.”

  “Yes, Sir. I have almost completed a draft of the basic research part of the dissertation.”

  “And you are also making progress on the math,” he stated.

  Berthold shook his head. “Once I complete the research part, I will dive into the math. Part of the harmonization requires a thorough understanding of the theories of our predecessors.”

  A slightly skeptical look in his eyes caused Berthold to pause. “Do you have concerns about my approach, Dr. Pournelle?”

  The older man shook his head. “Oh, not so much so. Rather I am concerned that you have not spent more time on the math.”

  So in other words, he does think I have taken the wrong approach. What do I do now?

  “What would you suggest, then, Sir?”

  Pournelle rocked forward and placed an elbow on the desk. He rubbed his hand across his mouth and appeared deep in thought.

  “I mean, Sir, if there is a problem, I would appreciate you telling me. I’m not here to argue with you. I would like some guidance.”

  Pournelle gazed at him for a long moment and then sighed deeply. “I suppose there is no good way to tell you, Lawrence, but the dean has been concerned about your progress. As you know, much of our funding is now coming from the National Assembly of Quebec. The free cities of Boston and Cambridge are unable to contribute anything beyond the basic city services. The dean has advised me that we must terminate your stipend in two weeks. You are free, of course, to stay and continue your work. Unfortunately, we no longer are capable of funding you. I trust you will understand.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lawrence sat at the desk in his small room, resting his chin on his hands; his elbows on the desk. Getting this room was quite the coup, he thought. Most of the students, as well as many of the professors, lived in Maseeh Hall. He had a fourth-floor room, with a window looking out over the Charles River. In the summers, he could look across the river at the forests which were reclaiming the corpse of Boston. The remains of the Massachusetts Avenue Bridge were interesting, if dangerous to attempt walking across. It provided a soothing backdrop for him to ponder the next moves of his career.

  This afternoon the blowing snow obscured the other side of the river. It was the middle of October, but it seemed the
river would soon freeze over. And his thoughts and hopes mirrored the weather. Two years of work were now a complete waste. He remembered arriving in Cambridge from Montreal after an arduous trip in elderly lorry over the crumbling remains of the Interstate Highway System. He was full of himself, he freely admitted. At age 21, he was confident of making his mark on the world. Unfortunately, the world was not cooperative.

  It was not so much the sudden change in his fortunes that shocked him to the core, for the world he knew was a rather impermanent place. But, for the first time in his life, he had no idea of what to do next. It was more than a shock. It was frightening.

  There was a peremptory knock on the door, and Maggie bustled in carrying a large ceramic crock in both hands. Her glasses had slid down her nose, and she bumped her face against a shoulder to adjust them as she kicked the door closed.

  “I decided to share my dinner with you, tonight, Larry,” she announced. “I’ve been simmering this soup all day and I made too much, as usual.”

  “I’m not hungry Maggie. And, I really don’t want company right now.”

  “Right,” she replied as she fished in the drawers of the small kitchenette for spoons. “You’ve been sitting here simmering all afternoon, yourself. I don’t have time for that, and neither do you.”

  She reached into the cupboard and set down a couple of bowls, and then carried them and the spoons over to the desk. After walking back over to the kitchenette she placed the palm of her hand on the tea kettle.

  “You haven’t even made tea! You must really be distracted.”

  Berthold emitted a long sigh. “I know you probably already know this, but I’m the one who got myself fired. I don’t know what I’m going to do, and having a cuppa really didn’t occur to me.”

  She turned the knob and the small gas ring ignited with a pluff. She filled the kettle with water from the sink, and set it on to the blue flame. She then walked over to the window.