Any Now: Any Now, #1

By William Bowden

If you go looking for something impossible, there is always the risk that you might actually find it. And for physicist Rhoda Mollo, finding such a something saw her banished to the fringes of what can only just about be called respectable science, her work dismissed as more heretical than theoretical.

 

That Rhoda had been the architect of her own downfall had, at first, seemed an agreeable outcome for all concerned.

 

But strange results from the world's largest atom smasher now threaten to put her centre stage once more, and in so doing, unwittingly expose a discovery being kept secret from the world.

 

Those protecting that secret desperately seek to keep attention away from Rhoda by any means, only to then realise that she is, in fact, a solution to a pressing problem—just what is it that they have found, and why do the omnipotent organisation known as the Veil want it?

 

Pursuit of the answers will take them all to the very edge of reason in this mind-bending science fiction thriller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Bowden
• Release date: Jun 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393173809

William Bowden

William Bowden is a British Science Fiction author. He lives near the city of Bristol and when not writing rules over his unruly garden.

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Self-published by William Bowden in 2016

Text Copyright © 2016 William Bowden

All Rights Reserved

The right of William Bowden to be identified as the author has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction. All characters in this work are fictitious and any resemblance to any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover art by agsandrew/shutterstock.com

JURA

He could be sitting in a lush meadow of flowers and grass, were it not for the outcroppings of rock all about. And then there is the view—a sprawl of villages and towns, forests and fields, laid out like a carpet on the great plain below, stretching all the way to the Alps. A truly impressive sight, lost on him, his gaze finding only a most peculiar and personal juxtaposition, set like a gemstone amid the beauty of creation.

Joseph’s parents had let him roam on his own for the afternoon. It isn’t so much his turning fourteen as the need they could see within him. The crossroads he is at. The choice confronting him. Besides, he is only an hour’s trek from the holiday lodge they had taken in the Jura Mountains.

The walk and the time spent with the view had been exactly what he needed to clear his mind. But despite all the distractions being swept to one side, the path is no clearer. A fork in the road, but which to take? Science or faith? All he sees is the imagined circle of the machine that will be.

And then his solitude is interrupted. An elderly couple with kind faces, Joseph’s immediate reaction to wonder how they had gotten here. There are no roads nearby, so they would have had to hike. The man looks to still have some agility about him, but the woman seems quite frail. And neither is dressed for the occasion. He resists the urge to inquire.

I am so sorry, the man says. We didn’t mean to distract you. He has something of a Middle-Eastern look about him and a heavy European lilt to his voice.

We couldn’t help but wonder about the direction of your gaze, the woman says. Her accent matches her appearance—quintessentially English.

I was looking at the CERN site, Joseph replies. English is no bother for him, and he is glad of the chance to use it. Where they are going to put the LHC.

He immediately realizes he should have explained better. LHC will mean nothing to them—

The Large Hadron Collider? the man asks.

Yes…the particle accelerator.

But it is to be underground, isn’t it? the woman says. And construction has not yet started. There is nothing to see, is there?

No. But there will be, Joseph replies. And perhaps one day the scientists will find what they are looking for.

And what is that?

Some call it the God particle, Joseph says, awkwardly gazing back at the view below.

The Higgs boson, says the woman.

Joseph is a little taken aback that they know but did not let on before. He can’t help but sheepishly look away.

You seem troubled by it, the man asks. Why is that?

I’m not sure mankind should go looking for God, Joseph says.

And why not?

Because God is already here. In our hearts. And that should be enough.

But it is not enough, is it? says the man.

Not enough for you, suggests the woman. Is that why you are really here? Perhaps the difference between science and faith is not what you think, not what it seems. Perhaps there is no difference at all.

What do you mean?

Those scientists down there, the man says. They have faith also, that that which they seek exists.

But isn’t faith enough? Joseph blurts out. Why seek it out?

Well, now there’s a question. We shall leave you in peace to ponder it.

The man and woman politely take their leave, and Joseph returns to his view.

* * *

Out of sight, the man and woman linger to observe Joseph further. They are not far from him yet certain that they will remain unseen.

It has the air of providence about it, does it not? the man suggests.

If we are to subscribe to such things, retorts the elderly woman. One might say that he is simply as good a choice as any.

So we are agreed then? He shall be our gift to the Seventh Day?

He is just a boy, the woman laments. Would that we should wish this upon any man.

The Six Days have sent many a boy, and man, to the Swan.

But the Seventh Day, and the Last Day? the woman says wistfully.

Their vantage point still affords them a view of the valley below, the man turning his gaze to the CERN site.

What we have done down there marks the beginning of the Last Day, he says. It is fitting.

And what of the Seventh Day? They will see, and they will not see.

They will see enough.

Then we are agreed, says the woman.

* * *

Joseph sinks back into the grass, his gaze tilting to the piercing blue infinity above, leaving him to ponder the words of the couple he just met.

He wakes to a twilight.

The grass beneath him is gone, and he finds himself on a cold, hard surface.

Lifting his torso, his eyes adjusting to the light, he finds the grand architecture of a basilica—a vast space of carved stone and marble floor, walls with ornamental pilasters rising to a clerestory lavishly glazed with the full spectrum of color, all spanned by a coffered ceiling of gilded reliefs, its pediments highly detailed.

Joseph is reminded of St. John Lateran. His parents had taken him on a tour of Rome’s prominent buildings earlier in the year. But this is no ecclesiastical building—absent are the statues and imagery one would expect. In their place are geometric shapes and patterns that give the illusion of some religion, without its story, yet with the tracery and finery being no less superlative.

His position appears to be at the center of a transept crossing, his body having been arranged along one axis and within a circular pattern set in the marble floor.

Rising to his feet reveals to him a further disparity, for behind him he finds something akin to an altar—or, rather, a low rectangular structure whose placement suggests such. But if that is the altar, then the bulk of the space would be the transept, with the axis along which he had been lain being the nave, making it greatly foreshortened by comparison, and not as one would expect.

Still, the overall dimensions are breathtaking.

Beyond the altar is more glazing, an expanse far wider than the altar itself. Uniform and plain, it emits an even distribution of light that makes no suggestion of what might lie beyond. Indeed, the windows throughout the basilica seem to be the only source of light, yet there is little in the way of shadow.

Back down the nave, there is a dramatic stone reredos at its far end—an architectural screen intended to conceal a chapel.

It is only now that Joseph collects his thoughts, finding himself to be quite at ease though he is fully aware that he had been lying in the thick grass of a Jura mountainside. So what is this? A dream? He feels so awake—

Hello, Joseph.

A child—a little girl—has appeared from nowhere to greet him. The initial impression is that of a ragamuffin, her feet bare, her clothes rags, her hair unkempt, but a moment’s inspection finds all to be clean. Joseph’s lanky frame towers over her as if he were an adult.

Who are you? Joseph asks—in English, because she greeted him that way.

I am nobody, the little girl says politely.

Nobody?

I am nobody because I am not a person. I am a familiar. The White Swan sent me.

"A familiar? I know that English word, but the way you use it seems odd—"

"Delega. Ma come una macchina."

Like a machine? You speak Italian?

English, Joseph, the little girl giggles. Always English.

"How do you know my name? What’s your name?"

You can call me Iolanthe, if it helps.

Who is the White Swan?

Not just ‘who,’ but also ‘what.’ The White Swan is this place. Sort of.

Is this a dream?

It is whatever you want it to be, Joseph. Come, she says, holding up a little hand. I am to take you to prayer.

He takes her hand, without questioning whether he should, and she leads him away, down the nave toward the reredos. The time to get there seems to flick by.

A moment and they are beyond the reredos. It has the appearance of a chapel, but without an altar of its own. Instead, stone seats are arranged in a circle about an otherwise large, empty space, the walls plain, smooth, well-lit despite the obvious lack of windows, or any other form of lighting for that matter. The ceiling, though, is of a very curious form.

He takes a seat.

* * *

He wakes lying on the grass, quick to prop himself up. A dream? He can’t…quite…remember, being left only with a profound sense of time having passed. For a fleeting moment, he catches himself thinking of Rip Van Winkle, but finds the view before him to be reassuringly the same, the world as it had been.

The sun is low—much later in the day than he’d planned for. And with an hour’s hike before him, Joseph quickly gathers his things to head off, the quandary that had been so perplexing now gone from him.

It is 1995, and Joseph Ansoni is set on a course that will come to define him, the next three decades shaping the rest of his life in ways beyond his wildest imaginings, for he is caught in a divine circle. It’s just not the one in the valley below.

RHODA

Consistent with something of a routine that had been established these past three weeks, Rhoda finds Monica waiting for her at the entrance of the building, a ten-story office block whose manifest dullness casts the two young women into sharp relief, Rhoda Mollo’s gothic punk being set against the cool Manhattan chic of Monica Satori, with neither fitting into the surrounding environs.

Monica pulls off her look with aplomb, while Rhoda’s perfect olive skin is somewhat at odds with the black-denim-and-leather creation that had been assembled more out of necessity than care for her appearance. That one sports a Louis Vuitton satchel, and the other a knapsack slung over her shoulder, serves only to complete the picture.

Checked again this morning, Monica remarks casually. Definitely plenty of parking spaces.

That a fact? Can’t imagine how that applies to me.

We could car share.

"We could share my car, you mean. You get that the subway’s way faster, right?"

Rhoda sidles on by, underscoring her response with a withering stare, facilitated by the two of them being equal in height, though Rhoda’s lanky frame would be no match for Monica’s athletic build, should it come to a fight.

Not that there would be any reason for the two of them to come to blows.

Under any other circumstances, the relationship between the likes of Rhoda Mollo and Monica Satori would have been decidedly adversarial, and with Monica firmly in control of the high ground. But every now and again, fate conspires to bring together two individuals that have in common some unexpected facet of their lives, one capable of forging the strongest of bonds.

Thrust together many months before, it had not taken long for each to recognize their remarkably similar heritage, both being British-Italian, by way of grandparents, World War II, and the rural countryside of southwestern England.

Though Monica had liked Rhoda immediately, it had not been an alliance quickly reciprocated; Rhoda had suspected an ulterior motive, her family background being what it is. But after the first week, it had become clear that the friendship offered was genuine, and while Monica does indeed have the kind of agendas expected of her ilk, they do not apply to Rhoda, nor has there been any exploitation of her beyond what might be considered reasonable given their respective situations.

Staring contest over, and with no clear victor, they head inside, the lobby as dull as the exterior. A quick flash of their passes for the security guard and they are in the elevator, Monica leaving Rhoda to jab away at the unreliable button labeled garage.

Most visitors seeking the garage would be taken to the first level below the lobby, but in the presence of their microchipped passes, the elevator takes Monica and Rhoda a further three levels down.

Not that there is anything to hide. The above-ground offices serve the facility below, with that facility being very much in the public domain, all its details readily available for inspection at City Hall. And as it should be, with the city being one of its principal architects. Where one might have seen the clandestine, the reality is simply a level of building management befitting the nature of its purpose.

Their exit from the elevator is greeted by Cyril, a stocky clerk responsible for everything and everyone that comes and goes, his desk and duties doubling up as the facility’s reception, not to mention a second layer of security should anyone step through those doors without the proper authority.

Doctors Satori and Mollo, he grins.

Hi, Cyril. Rhoda makes time for the jocular man. There’s always a laugh to be had when passing his way.

Big day, he says, grin undiminished. New York still going to be there when I finish work?

It’s just a relativistic test, Cyril, sighs Rhoda, with a smile.

I told you, I don’t get none of that shit—but I’ve seen what you got down there.

Here you go, Cyril, says Monica, fishing a paper bag from her satchel. These will take your mind off things.

Cyril inspects the bag’s contents: a selection of petite cakes from a very expensive bakery.

Rhoda is already at the next set of doors, waiting on Monica.

And Cyril, Rhoda says, if you see me leaving in a hurry, be sure to follow.

"You have any idea how not funny that is?"

* * *

Rhoda’s office, if could be called that, is large but stark—white walls, white ceiling, and a gray floor are home to three giant chalkboards, arranged in a row, each mounted in a wood frame set on casters.

Like all the other research offices in the facility, the far wall is a single span of toughened glass, an observation window looking out on to the machine hall that occupies the office level and a further two below, with Rhoda’s view being of the cathode, a giant stainless-steel cylinder set on its side, ten meters in length and two across, festooned with instrumentation and cables—the business end of a particle accelerator whose first hundred meters occupy