Leopold Einstein in the Sixteenth Dimension

By Duncan Lane

Leopold Einstein—former janitor, accidental pan-dimensional being and occasional corpse—is brought back to life on a doomed spaceship where four parallel realities exist. Merrily mangling the mysteries of the cosmos, Leopold embarks on a mission across bizarre parallel worlds to "reassemble" Pen, the woman he secretly loves—and perhaps save the ship. A deranged professor, an Amazon warrior, hordes of zombie crew and a sex-starved big beautiful Princess can't stop him, though a psychotic Captain and a killer android just might...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duncan Lane
• Release date: Apr 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393496656

Duncan Lane

Duncan Lane was born and raised in England, but later moved to California. He is married and has two children. His degree in engineering initially led to a career in hi-tech. He wrote his first novel in his spare time (midnight to 2a.m.) over the course of several years. When it was published, he promptly quit his day job. He now has multiple novels and a screenplay to his credit. He currently lives and writes in San Francisco.

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To Beth for all her love and support

Prologue

Deep in the depths of space, or high in the heights—it's rather hard to tell—the ISS Gran Bretan hurtled through the silent void, the whine of its glowing blue engine a mute metaphor in the endless black vacuum.

In better times, the giant ship had moved along with a pleasant hum, but over the years since the accident, a definite whine had crept in—due, perhaps, to the stress of traveling at near light speed, or perhaps because of the four parallel universes inside the ship. Or perhaps it was all the zombies infesting the lower decks. Whatever the cause, an aura of impending doom hung in the air.

The silence on the bridge would have been deafening, if anyone had been present not to hear it. The crew had long ago abandoned their posts. The only motion came from dust motes floating in the glow above the navigation console. They danced an excited little jig when the speed display flickered up another digit toward the impossible velocity of light.

The computer registered the increase in speed, despite the insistent red flashing of the Engine Abort button.

Yet again, the engine shutdown sequence ran. And, yet again, nothing happened. The command had now failed exactly four trillion times, and in doing so, established a new galactic standard for futility, eclipsing the previous record held by Onanist Prime, a cyborg who had spent two solid years on hold, trying to delete a Pay-Per-View charge for Droids Gone Wild, which he claimed to have ordered by mistake while attending an IT-Party conference on Mars.

Sadly, the Gran Bretan's computer was ignorant of its record setting achievement and equally unaware that, five years ago—just after the explosion—the pilot had grown tired of pushing the Engine Abort button and jammed it down with a paperclip.

The brief flurry of electronic activity ebbed away, the automated systems settled back into the laborious task of scanning for new events, and the core circuits retreated to their idle loops. The ship’s designers had been wise not to use one of those smug, self-aware electronic brains from the AI Institute, as the tedium would have driven a machine like that mad.

This one was content, operating with clinical efficiency within a cold analytic shell and dealing only in facts. Even the fact that most of the crew had become zombies rated nothing more than a simple log entry. By contrast, many of the crew were quite emotional about their state of non-being. Some were, of course, too dead to care, but the less severely dead ones were downright annoyed.

––––––––

Everything had started out so well. The ISS Gran Bretan had been a technological marvel: Earth's first interstellar craft, a stunning engineering achievement and a proper looking space ship, not one of those flying bricks. Before the explosion, it had been a sleek and beautiful affair, its long body flowing in an elegant curve from the pointed nose all the way back to a single enormous engine protruding beneath four giant fins at the rear.

At the end of each fin was a huge, teardrop-shaped pod. From a distance, the four pods appeared like large auxiliary engines: over a quarter the length of the ship, and   parallel to the rear of the fuselage, spaced away from it by the fins which acted as massive mounting struts. However, the pods were not engines. Inside each were two devices. Firstly, there was a massive supermagnetic torus containing antimatter fuel. Secondly, a gravity flux generator to warp space itself and divert all particles and energy around the antimatter chamber. A bit like an umbrella in a rainstorm. Four fins, four pods, four torii, and four gravity flux fields—all balanced in perfect symmetry.

The launch of the Gran Bretan had been a proud moment for all of humanity though, truth be told, a somewhat dull one thanks to the anti-antimatter brigade. Their annoying nagging about a possible cataclysmic end to everything had forced the ship to be assembled in Mars orbit rather than on Earth.

The world had paused to watch the President push the launch button, but there had been no dramatic ascent to the skies on a column of fire. Instead, the ship had crawled forward across the black quilt of the star field. Commentators had waxed lyrically about the awesome hellfire of its matter/antimatter power source, but the energy emitted from the engine was almost invisible. Most of Earth switched back to watching naked female cage fighting, or confessions of an ex-naked female cage fighter, or re-runs of TopGear, before the ship was even clear of Mars orbit.

––––––––

Two years into its maiden voyage, as so often happens to maidens, the ship experienced a spectacular bang, which yielded some analogy-stretching progeny. The bang was a devastating explosion caused by an antimatter leak on deck C10; the progeny were four parallel universes. The four gravity flux fields shielding the four antimatter fuel chambers had reacted to the explosion by instantly jumping to maximum-protection mode and, in so doing, sheared the single space-time continuum within the ship into four. This resulted in the instantaneous creation of four cloned ships with identical damage: all of the decks on C level destroyed; control systems shattered; engine stuck on maximum thrust; and the mutation of a normally harmless and people-respecting virus into a brain-eating zombie disease.

The Gran Bretan now had four destinies—parallel but different, because only two things were truly identical across all four parallel universes. First, a paperclip, though not the one holding down the Engine Abort button. This one was in a desk drawer in a small office on deck B6. Second, and much more interesting, was Leopold Einstein.

––––––––

Leopold was a direct descendent of A. Einstein—though the A stood for Arthur, not Albert. Great, great...great, grandfather Arthur had been born in 1879, the same year as his more illustrious namesake, though he'd always claimed to be smarter than Albert, having chosen to be born in England rather than in Germany with them Nazis.

A bright-eyed and intelligent child who lived next door once called young Arthur an idiot, which hurt his self-esteem and set him on a lifelong path of mediocrity. He left school early (every day) and failed to graduate. His feet kept him out of World War I, by rapidly scurrying him past every recruiting office.

While Albert Einstein was busy creating his seminal works in physics, Arthur was busy attempting his own seminal work with Millicent Abromowitz. They were engaged in 1921, the same year that Albert won the Nobel prize for Physics.

Arthur's love for Millicent knew no bounds, or handcuffs or any other form of restraint; thus, she grew bored and left him for an amateur escapologist she'd met while on holiday in Bexhill.

Distraught, Arthur sought solace in drink, let himself go and became wild and disheveled. One day while signing an IOU at his local pub, someone mistook him for the real A. Einstein. Free drinks flowed. Arthur, a self-proclaimed gifted mimic, soon had a small entourage of physics groupies decked out in tweeds, brogue shoes and wispy moustaches. And that was just the women.

One among these—Mary O’Doole—was special. She swept him off his feet; she was a big lass. They married that week. Three months later Arthur was dead and Mary was pregnant (not necessarily in that order), but his seed lived on, precious DNA passed down through the generations to Leopold, the latest in a proud line of underachievers.

––––––––

Leopold Einstein: scholar, poet, athlete—the list of things he'd failed at went on and on. He had managed to scrape a passing grade for his degree in philosophy, and like all great philosophers was living in his  parents’ basement on the fateful day when he saw the advertisement for joining the crew of the ISS Gran Bretan. Never one to let ineptitude stand in the way of ambition, he had promptly applied for every position from Captain to janitor. Miraculously, six months later and mop in hand, he found himself in space.

––––––––

This is the story of Leopold's life, death, life, death, life, death and possibly life—depending on which road he chooses, or chose, or will have chosen. Strange things happen in four gravity flux fields traveling at the speed of light.

The Afterlife

Leopold's eyes snapped open. He lay on a cold metal floor. His body was limp, though a strange energy pulsed in his veins. He stared up at a cold metal ceiling. Was his name Leopold? He'd always hated the name, so he assumed it must be his. He pushed an annoying lock of curly black hair away from his face, smoothing it back into the forest on top.

His eyes focused on the palm of his hand, as if seeing it for the first time. He found it fascinating, like a blotchy pink and white map of a subway system: a network of lines leading to stations of brown calluses with vague blue tunnels buried deep below the surface. He wasn't sure what the faint dark spot near the center might represent, other than where a friend had once stabbed his hand with a pencil. How strange to remember that, and nothing else.

Where was he? He tipped his head forward, straining his neck muscles to get his chin to rest on his collarbone. This yielded a foreshortened view of his body, which was clothed in a pale blue jumpsuit with a big red L on the chest. His scuffed brown shoes seemed enormous—a trick of perspective, unless he really was a dwarf with giant feet.

He began to sit up gingerly, but changed his mind. Ginger wasn't one of his favorite colors and, besides, it made his burps taste funny. He lay back down, then sat upright with a wild jerk.

What are you doing? asked the man who hadn't been there the moment before. He wore a silver-gray business suit over a white turtleneck shirt; blandness personified, except for the big red R on his jacket. His expressionless face shifted to what appeared to be an attempt at a reassuring smile.

Leopold decided to play it cool. That was me waking up in shock and confusion. What are you doing?

I'm wondering why you have an Irish accent.

Comes as a bit of a surprise to me too, said Leopold. Hey, I think I remember you—is your name Reginald?

Yes. I am Reginald. I am your friend. You are Leopold. The plastic American voice matched the plastic American face: perfect skin, perfect teeth, close-cropped brown hair meticulously combed.

I guess the names account for the R and L on our chests, said Leopold. Does everyone here wear giant monograms, or are we just trendsetters?

The R and L are symbolic, not literal. Would you like me to explain?

I don't forking care. I— Leopold stopped and frowned. Wait a forking minute, that didn't come out right. Why is me swearing all badgered up?

I presume the problem is some minor degree of brain damage—no doubt a side-effect of your most recent death.

What?

Please be quiet. I need to download the remains of your short-term memories to the memory cube.

What?

My name is Reginald. I am your friend. I am an android. I am, at present, connected to the right side of your brain. You are apparently seeing me as a hallucination via the left side of your brain. You are partway through the resuscitation process. You may experience flashbacks, but please try to relax and be quiet.

Leopold opened his mouth to argue, but was distracted by the sudden appearance of a beautiful woman curled up next to him. She wore a charcoal gray jumpsuit with red across the shoulders. The smartly tailored garment fit exceedingly well in all the right places. He brushed back the delicate veil of the woman’s chin-length blonde hair, revealing a lovely pale face. The fact that she had materialized from nowhere and did not appear to be breathing was slightly disturbing, but boy was she pretty.

Who is she?

Reginald sighed. I believe you called her Pen. This is how she looked when you died trying to save her in Reality Four.

Sounds like I've been doing a lot of dying.

Yes, but please be quiet and let me finish downloading.

Leopold looked down again, but Pen had vanished. She's vanished, he reported.

As I said—a flashback.

Well she can flashback with me any time she likes, said Leopold. Or flash-front if she prefers. I'm not fussy. His chuckle faded to an awkward silence. He searched for a new topic, his gaze settling on a large round window, which afforded a stunning view of a passing planet. Are we in space? Certainly looks like space. He stretched his arms wide and yawned. Feels like space, too.

Reginald ignored him.

Do you have any idea how we got here—in all this space?

In a spaceship, Reginald said, the bland smile on his face marginally dimming.

Leopold rapped on the steel floor with his knuckles, then stood up. The vast empty deck faded to somber darkness in all directions. He shivered. This ship seems a bit gloomy.

I cannot comment on its mood, but perhaps your perception is a reflection of your own mood.

So if I dance a little jig, maybe things will cheer up. He tried a few experimental steps, and the lights brightened.

Sit down and stop mucking around boy. The haughty voice made Leopold spin around.

Reginald seemed to have aged. His dark hair was now tinged with gray, and he wore a college professor's gown. He stood next to a blackboard in front of a row of student desks. He rapped impatiently on the blackboard with a wooden pointer. Not knowing what else to do, Leopold meekly took a seat at the nearest desk.

Reginald glared at him. We were discussing matter and wave-particle duality.

No we weren't. And anyway, you've gone all old. What happened to you?

My assumption is, you are about to recall a useful fact and need an authority figure to make sure you believe it.

I doubt that. I've never cared much for facts. They just get in the way of good ideas.

Nonsense. The more you understand, the greater the likelihood that your mission will be a success. What do you remember from our previous discussions about the structure of atoms?

Leopold never liked admitting stupidity; lazy class clown, yes—stupid, no. He trawled through his scant memories of physics in search of something useful. An atom has a nucleus at the center, and orbiting electrons—kind of like the sun and the planets.

Like this? asked Reginald, drawing brisk circles on the board; a large central one surrounded by a halo of smaller ones.

"Exactly. I remember seeing that in my high school textbook, Physics for Idiots."

Affirmative. However, it is wildly inaccurate. First, the scale is all wrong; the nucleus should be tiny and the electrons much farther away. If the nucleus of the atom were as large as a bowling ball, the electrons would be the size of peas and located on a sphere of ten-mile radius. Atoms are mostly empty space.

Fair enough, but you'd need a fork of a big book to draw it that way.

Reginald stared at him just a bit too long. Humor—most amusing. Let us continue. I assume you know that the nucleus is made up of protons and neutrons, and they, in turn, are made up of quarks.

Yeah I'm no dummy, I've heard of all them. Aren't quarks the bottom of the heap, the smallest things possible—like little ball-bearings?

No, but your point is not unreasonable. Eventually we must get down to something indivisible. However, even that must be made of something. What do you suppose is the fundamental component of matter?

Could just be a bubble in space-time, Leopold answered. Like a tiny black hole. I read that in the annual Penthouse Quantum Physics Issue—the one where they use naked women to explain stuff. The Klein's bottle explanation got a bit biological for my tastes, but the part with three girls demonstrating twistor theory was magical.

Reginald shook his head—a somewhat jerky, servo-driven movement. Wrong. The smallest particle of matter is actually formed by the smallest quantum of energy circulating at a point. It has no substance, only the appearance of substance based on the way it affects the surrounding space.

Despite being totally meaningless, that sounds quite reasonable, Leopold agreed. You're a very smart hallucination.

Thank you. Let's move on to the wave aspect of particles. To do so, we will of course need a banjo.

Now you've spoiled things, Leopold said. Go away. He screwed his eyes shut and clamped his hands over his ears. When he peeked, Reginald was gone.

Leopold wandered around the empty deck of his imagination, hoping to come across a decent memory or, even better, an indecent one. A distant light drew him. Moving toward it, he found row upon row of women sitting at desks, typing at computer terminals. They all wore the same drab khaki jumpsuits and the same blank expressions. He waved his hand in front of one of them. She paused in her typing, but did not respond. He poked another on the shoulder. Her body had a strange crinkly newspaper texture. She seemed more like a stuffed mannequin than a person.

A sudden chill passed through Leopold. He turned, aware of a new figure approaching—another woman, though very different from the sterile mechanical blandness of the typists. This one wore a full-length black burkha, and moved with a hobbling sideways gait.

She stopped at arm’s length, her brown eyes blazing at him through the narrow slit in the black fabric covering her face. Her hand drifted to the side of her veil and ripped it away: skin like the remains of a campfire, eyelids swollen and red, lips pulled back, revealing yellow teeth, each framed in a black arch of decay.

Leopold tottered back a step. The woman lunged forward. Leopold cowered, eyes closed, bracing for impact as his arms made the sign of the cross in front of him.

Nothing happened. He opened one eye. The woman was gone, and Reginald stood in her place. He now wore a military uniform and matching disdain.

That was how you died the second time, Reginald told him. Killed by a female zombie in Reality 2. You should have been more careful.

Am I still dreaming?

Reginald nodded. Go over there now, you'll feel safer. He pointed to a three-story glass cube that had appeared in front of the typists. Inside the cube, behind opaque yellow windows, people-shadows moved about.

Leopold entered through a small front door into a big open-plan, mission control-style room. Military types were all busy doing military type stuff at consoles, and talking urgently in small military groups. Military Reginald was already there, seated in a large swiveling captain's chair. He appeared to be in command. He signed something on a clipboard with a flourish, handed it back to a subordinate, and looked to Leopold. You again. Well no harm I suppose, I'm almost done here. I'm glad you brought the banjo.

Where the fork did that come from? Leopold said, dropping the instrument. It  bounced back from the floor and cracked him in the shin with a tuneless chord, before landing face-down on the arch of its bridge and settling into a sullen rocking motion at his feet.

Reginald came over and picked it up. This will help explain wave-particle duality; the paradox of how energy moves through space as a wave, but then stops and spins at a point, to become what we perceive as matter. Some people even blend physics with philosophy and say matter does not exist until something else exists to experience it.

You lost me. And where does the banjo come in? Are you going to start singing?

No. A vibrating string is a useful way to illustrate a wave. Reginald plucked a note.

Why a banjo?

Why not? Now, suppose you touch the string. Reginald plucked another note. Leopold obediently reached out a finger and quelled the sound.

Your finger absorbed all the energy at the point of contact—analogous to energy moving through space as a wave and collapsing to a single point when a receiver is encountered.

What if I touch the string at two places?

The energy will still collapse to a single point—it will, in effect, choose one location or the other.

Are you implying banjo strings are intelligent?

We are talking about multi-dimensional wave functions collapsing. If you prefer, you can instead think of a probability wave propagating through space, and defining all possible locations of a particle at any given time.

I'm going back outside, said Leopold, and he did. The typing pool was gone—women, desks, everything. In fact, the entire deck was empty, and seemed to be getting darker, as if a single overhead light was slowly being dimmed. He turned to go back inside, but the cube-shaped building had disappeared. Or perhaps shrunk: a one-inch cube of opaque glass sat at his feet, glowing yellow. He scooped it up, gave it an experimental shake, then put it back down.

He shivered as darkness crept in around him. The sound of limping, dragging feet encroached on his shrinking pool of light. A pair of polished army boots came into