The Callum Emergence

By David R. Miller

Project Brevis was an ambitious endeavor, a groundbreaking experiment, but it went terribly wrong. And when the fate of the Universe was in the balance, there arose a team of brilliant scientists, one courageous soldier, and one very special child.

In the year 2046, two physicists have devised Brevis to open a portal through fourth dimensi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Island Time Books
• Release date: Apr 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088026069

Book preview

The Callum Emergence

The Callum Emergence

The Callum Emergence

David Robertson Miller

Island Time Books

Copyright ©2023 by David Robertson Miller

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.  For information write to:

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or contact us at [e-mail]

Miller, David R.

                The Callum Emergence

ISBN- 978-1-0880-2531-4

BISAC:    FICTION/Science Fiction/General

                FICTION/Science Fiction/Action and Adventure

                FICTION/Fantasy/General

Book Design by David and Ann Miller

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

                                                                    – William Butler Yeats

We are not human beings having a spiritual experience;

we are Spiritual beings having a human experience

– Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

The natural world is a spiritual house... man

walks there through forests of physical things

that are also spiritual things that watch

him with affectionate looks.

– Charles Baudelaire

A shortcut is the longest distance between two points.

-- Charles Issawi

Introduction

H ow has all of this come to be? he had asked.

Callum answered, My son, think of the world as it is now. Christopher, the world is ready for you; you must become ready for yourself.

But does it have to be this way? I think of all the people, the pain, the...

Yes, you know this is the way. It is the only way.

But it wasn’t like that was last time.

Christopher, the last time didn’t work, did it? Then Callum added, You will soon come to understand. You are learning, and learning well. Have faith in me, and patience with yourself.

As Chris sat now, watching the emerging stars, his mind carried him away. He was beginning to see, beginning to remember.

But why, Callum? Why?

Callum said nothing more, and Christopher Koenig buried his face in his hands, and wept bitterly.

Part I

The Widening Gyre

TEN YEARS BEFORE BREVIS EVENT

          Saturday, March 12, 2039

          12:30 PM

          Milan, Italy

Signore Alessandro DiCarlo of Milan was an accomplished chef. He had studied at several of the finest culinary schools throughout Italy, including two years with the master chef, Giancarlo Accardi at the scuola di cucina di Roma. Throughout the post war boom of the late 1940’s and early 1950’s, his reputation grew and his services were much in demand. Over those years he plied his trade in several of the best hotels and restaurants in a rebuilding and flourishing Italy.

But as time went by, Alessandro became restless and unfulfilled. Yes, it was wonderful being so popular and successful, proffering his services to the highest bidder, but he wanted more; he wanted a place of his own, where he could be free and creative, and make a lasting imprint on il panorama culinario.

So, in 1954, Alessandro opened Il Piccolo Ristorante DiCarlo in the Via Solferino district of his hometown Milan, Italy. The restaurant featured Alessandro’s own take on Carbonara, Bolognese, and Marinara dishes, and the house specialty, Cotoletta alla Milanese a DiCarlo. There was a large, airy dining room with white tablecloths, a marble-top lunch counter, and an outdoor bistro overlooking the bustling street. A large Zenith upright radio played Puccini, Verdi, and Mozart opera, and Alessandro could often be heard from the kitchen, singing along to La Donne è mobile and Nessun Dorma. His beautiful wife, Giulia was the hostess, la padrona di casa who always made the patrons feel happy and welcome, as well as the business manager who negotiated adroitly with farmers and suppliers, and turned Il Piccolo Ristorante into a prosperous and profitable venture. She also gained popularity, especially with the kitchen staff, when she shushed Alessandro’s feeble attempt at the high tenor notes. He would bellow out Nessun Dorma, and she would rush in, "Alessandro, dorma, dorma! Put it to sleep!" The DiCarlos proudly operated the ristorante for twenty-four years.

In 1978, Alessandro DiCarlo died and left the business to his son, Lorenzo.

In 1999, Lorenzo DiCarlo died and left the business to his son, Tommaso.

In 2022, Tommaso DiCarlo died and left the business to his son, Matteo.

This is where our story begins.

To say an individual is a typical-this or typical-that exemplifies the sort of broad-brush attitude many find offensive, especially those of this or that persuasion, or, just as often, those who take it upon themselves to be offended on their behalf. The term, politically incorrect is often bantered about.

That said, few could think of more apt words to describe Matteo DiCarlo; he looked like a typical Italian chef. Matteo was a tall, heavy-set man, with sparkling eyes, round, ruddy cheeks and a bushy handlebar moustache; he was not exactly corpulento, but it was quite evident that he often sampled his own wonderful creations. He sported his knot-buttoned chef’s coat, red neckerchief, and checkered cargo pants nearly everywhere. He would probably wear them to church if his wife, Catarina would allow it. He was a jovial, happy man who loved his family, loved his work, loved his city, and especially loved his little restaurant. But, as the kitchen staff would readily attest, he also had a fiery temper, and would sometimes go off on a spectacular rant; ask any cook in his employ who ever undercooked the veal or overcooked the pasta, or any bus boy who did not fold the napkin just right.

Matteo and Caterina DiCarlo had no sons. Their only child was their tall, beautiful, dark-eyed daughter, Marianna. In March of 2039, with his retirement age looming on the horizon, Matteo bounded up to the 22-year-old Marianna. He gave her one of his patented bearhugs, congratulated her, and informed that in a very few years, she was to be the heiress, la proprietaria del ristorante, the proud owner of the longstanding family business. She had worked there in various capacities since she was a young girl, and he was confident that in the next few years she would become a great chef under his tutelage, carry on the tradition, and someday turn the business over to a child of her own.

Marianna had other ideas.

Science?! he bellowed as he strode the room, Physicals?! What the hell are you talking about? That is no job for a woman!

Marianna had a fiery personality that sometimes rivaled her father’s, and it was showing itself. "Physics, Papa, not ‘physicals’ – physics! You are cocciuto, pig-headed! You don’t know what you are talking about! There are many great women in science! Many! Making great discoveries! Your thinking is a hundred, two hundred years ago, and it was balordo then!"

Usually taciturn, Caterina rarely spoke up, especially to her husband or her daughter, preferring to stand apart and let them slug it out, and pick up the emotional pieces later. So, when she did have something to say, it was usually well thought out, and to the point, and they listened. Now she chimed in, "Matteo DiCarlo, you are vecchio testardo, stubborn old man! You listen here, Marianna got her Laurea two years ahead of her class. Two whole years, and the very top of her class, Matteo! Now she has been accepted at the University, a great University. This is for graduate classes, Matteo! They are giving her a full scholarship. Don’t you understand what that means? She’s got a chance at Master degree, Doctor degree, and we don’t have to pay nothing for it, nothing at all! They don’t do that for just anybody; our daughter, she is brilliant! She deserves her chance, and she deserves to make her own choices! Matteo, she will be great; she will make a shining place in history, you wait and see!"

Caterina could not know how prophetic those words would be.

"But, Catarina, we have had this ristorante for generations! My great-grandfather opened this place eighty-five years ago. She cannot just turn her back on it! Daughter, you cannot just turn your back on it! You have family obligations!"

I have obligations to science, and to myself. I do not intend to spend my life making Carbonara for a lot of goddamned tourists!

Her mother made the sign of the cross, Language, Marianna!

And I do not intend my daughter to spend her life with a lot of goddamned test tubes!

Language, Matteo!

Papa, listen to me. I have been accepted for graduate studies at the IMT School in Lucca, one of the finest science programs in the world! This isn’t some cooking school we’re talking about.

And what is the matter with a cooking school?

She ignored that. At the IMT they are doing wonderful work, groundbreaking work, work that could change the world! I want to be a part of that, and they want me to be part of that!

Oh, so a chef’s daughter from Milan is going to turn the world upside down?

Papa, several of my professors at University studied at IMT, and now they are recommending me! One of the professors there won the Nobel Prize three years ago. The Nobel Prize! Do you even know what that means? They want me there, Papa, they respect me. Otherwise, they would not have offered the scholarship. I’m sure my cousin, Leandro would love to take over the business for you. He is your nephew; he would keep the business in the family.

"Leandro? Leandro? Surely you are joking, Marianna. My nephew, Leandro is an idiot! A goddamned idiot!"

Language Matteo!

Well, I am not! You do not own me, Papa! And you cannot make me stay here; you cannot run my life, and you cannot make me take over this shit-hole restaurant!

Voi due idioti! Caterina threw up her hands, and as she stormed out of the house, she declared. "I am going to the church! I will light a candle for both of you pagani. Dio abbi pietà! God have mercy!"

See there, you have upset your mother!

"I have upset her?! No, Papa, you have upset her, and you are upsetting me! You are a... Marianna took a deep breath and softened her tone. She crossed the room and took her father’s big hands in her own. Papa, I am sorry. I love you, and I love Mama. But you have to listen to me. You may not ever understand this, but I feel I have a calling, to science, to research; there is an amazing world out there to be discovered and explored, and I want to be part of it. Papa, I know how you feel about the restaurant; I am proud of it, too. But I have to live my own life. This business is your life, not mine."

"Ti amo, mia bambina. Perhaps I am just a little jealous of your amazing mind. I really am proud of you. You are a genius; I’m just an old pasta head."

"Oh, Papa, don’t say that. You are a great businessman and a better chef. AND, you are a wonderful Papa."

Matteo leaned over and kissed his daughter’s head, "And you, my cara figlia, are a wonderful bullshitter."

Marianna let out a gasp, crossed herself, and in a silly imitation of her mother, cried out, Oh, language, Matteo!

He laughed heartily, then, "Let’s say we have some lunch, then we’ll ride over and talk to your cousin, Leandro. Just remember to talk slowly, so he can keep up. Dio aiutami! God help me!"

FIFTEEN MONTHS BEFORE BREVIS EVENT

          Tuesday, October 8, 2047

          12:30 PM

          Horsetooth Mountain, Colorado

T his is just not working, Alain!

Two men, two physicists, professors, colleagues, co-authors, friends, working on opposite sides of the globe, were speaking via videoconference, as they did every day. Dr. Joseph Koenig was in the conference room adjoining his laboratory office in the mountains a half hour west of Colorado State University, Fort Collins; Dr. Alain Moreau, a Parisian physicist currently associated with the Institute of Theoretical Physics in Bern, Switzerland, was at his own lab in the Swiss Alps. For their work on Project Brevis, the mountains would work best. Koenig was of medium height and athletic build, with neatly trimmed beard and a full head of dark, curly hair. He was known to joke around in the classroom, and was very popular with his students, especially the undergrad girls, At thirty-two, was the younger of the two men by thirty-one years, and as such, was the less experienced, and the less patient.

Now, now, Joe.

No, really, we have been at this stuff for over two years now, and have nothing to show for it. I think I'm about ready to give up.

My friend, I don't know if I am dealing with the impatience of youth, or the impatience of the Americans. He straightened his trademark bow tie, and continued calmly, If you recall, you impatient young American, we fired up the colliders on February twelfth, 2046; this is October eighth, 2047. Unless there was some change in the calendar they forgot to tell me about, February to November is twenty months, not two years. I think it just seems longer to you because you are just a snot-nose little kid.

"Old man, thirty-two is not that young."

"And, pipsqueak, sixty-three is not that old. You think I'm Methuselah, but let me tell you, it sneaks up on you. By the way, is that a grey hair I see there in that curly mop of yours?"

Uh, let’s get back to the subject at hand.

"Yes, the subject at hand. Joseph, mon ami, you have crunched all the equations; you wrote the damn equations. You know how all of this works as well as I do. We've done over a hundred simulations. You know it works, theoretically. But it’s a complicated process; you also know the odds of success on any given release. Trillions to one! Eight particle collisions in a very specific tolerance, across 5,200 miles of space, with only a fifteen-minute window twice a day. But, we release a couple of thousand particles per second, for the entire fifteen minutes at a time. It might happen today, or it might not happen for two more years, but it will happen eventually. You know it will happen, don’t you?"

Joe looked at the little wooden plaque that had been a gift from his students, the one he put right above his desk where he could see it: "Invenire Brevis! Yes, he thought, we will find the shortcut." He knew in his heart that Alain was right, and he should not be the impatient, young American.

In the evenings, at the end of long days at the school and the lab, Joseph would often sit alone in his den and unwind, in the warmth of the fireplace, with an aromatic pipe and a glass of wine or bourbon, with Mozart, or Bach, or Miles Davis on the stereo. Sometimes in these quiet moments of solitude he would close his eyes, and in his mind he could see those particles colliding, just so. His mind would transport him breathlessly across the reaches of spacetime, to Switzerland, then across the world, and across the galaxy, and to the far reaches of the Universe. He would sail across the vast expanse of eternity, through higher dimensions of space, of time, of mind. His imagination would take him there. And someday, Brevis would make it happen for real. He just knew it.

After a quiet moment Alain spoke, slowly and confidently, "And, it will work, Joseph Elijah, it will. Then, resuming his jovial tone, said, Now, young pipsqueak, it's time for you to go get your Pastrami Reuben, or whatever God-awful thing it is you call lunch, and for me to go home to bed."

Yeah, I suppose you old codgers need your sleep.

Goodnight, Dr. Koenig.

TWENTY-FOUR MONTHS BEFORE BREVIS EVENT

          Tuesday, January 15, 2047

          1:30 PM

          Fort Collins, Colorado

Ten months earlier, Joseph had lectured his freshman physics class. All the bright, eager faces. They all envisioned themselves as up-and-coming scientists, the next coming of Michio Kaku or Leland Asher. But as Joe looked out at the class, he saw most of them working in retail stores, waiting tables, or delivering pizza.

"So, did everyone read the assignment, Flatland?"

Steve, a big kid in the back with greasy blonde hair (Joe envisioned Walmart, perhaps the automotive department manager) spoke up. You know there's a typo. It says his name is Edwin Abbott Abbott. The girls sitting in front of him rolled their eyes.

Koenig looked over and caught eyes with his young grad assistant, Amanda Cole; they both suppressed smiles. Amanda was twenty-four and was pursuing her doctorate and had been Joe’s lab assistant and graduate teaching assistant since the beginning of the fall semester. She had grown up in Mirabel, Quebec, a suburb of Montréal, and studied at the Université de Montréal where she earned dual bachelor's degrees in Computer Science and Nuclear Physics. She then went on to earn her master’s degree in Theoretical Physics from Brock University in Ontario. In between, she spent a year at Ludwig-Maximilians-University in Munich under the tutelage of Dr. Hannah Schneider. It was she who introduced Amanda to Professor Joseph Koenig when he was there as a guest lecturer. When Joe took on the Brevis Program, Amanda was the first person he contacted about working with him in Colorado. Besides her emerging reputation as a researcher, she impressed him with her imagination and curiosity. The way she delved into the details of Project Brevis, Joe came away from their meeting not sure who was interviewing whom. In addition, her fluency in French, German, and English made her the ideal assistant/partner in the Switzerland project. She had taken to life in Colorado like a fish to water, becoming an avid mountain cyclist in the fall, and an equally avid skier and bobsledder once the winter had set in. She often spoke with Dr. Moreau’s lab assistant, Élise Leblanc about taking a skiing holiday in the Swiss Alps or Canadian Rockies.

She and Joe often laughed about where their eager young undergrad students would wind up. They agreed about Steve landing at Walmart, but she thought Joe was being too generous in making him a department manager. She thought he was stock-boy material at best.

Sorry, Steve, not a typo. Edwin Abbott Abbott really was the guy’s name. The main character is ‘A-Square,’ get it?

Steve didn’t.

"Now, what is the point Edwin Abbott Abbott is making here? Anybody?"

From the front row, a bookish looking, curly brunette with thick glasses said, It is a satire of Victorian society and norms. But mostly it was kind of a layperson’s introduction to the idea of higher spatial dimensions. In our three-dimensional reality, we don’t really have the capacity to envision what four-dimensional space looks like, so Abbott drops it all down one dimension in order to make an analogy.

Correct Susan. Flatland’s two-dimensional plane represents our three-dimensional space. When ‘A-sphere’ comes down to Flatland, and lifts Mr. ‘A-Square’ off the plane and into the third dimension, it's like it would be for us if we were to be lifted out of our three-D into four. Three dimensions to a Flatlander would be as bizarre as four dimensions would be to us.

He let that percolate for a few seconds, then continued, "Guys, when you start thinking about dimensions, it leads to a lot of different questions and some paradoxes. Now, imagine you have a straight line. How many dimensions are we talking about?"

Several voices piped in, One.

Right, one dimension. You can travel forward and backward all you want, but no left or right, no up or down. Now, Duane, is the one dimensional line finite or infinite?

Duane, a rather short and thin black kid, one who Amanda and Joe agreed probably actually did have grad school in his future, said, If it’s a line, not a line segment, then it’s infinite, right?

I don’t know, Joe teased, is it?

Uh, yeah! I guess.

Yes, Duane, that is correct. Have more confidence in yourself! Joe laughed. a line is one-dimensional, infinite and unbounded. What does that mean? Unbounded?

It never hits an edge?

"Correct. You can travel up and down that line all day long, and never come to any definitive beginning or end. We say it is unbounded. But, as Duane was saying, a line segment is finite, correct? There is a certain measurable amount of it, a certain length. And, is it bounded or unbounded? Anybody?"

Several voices, Bounded.

Yes, you have a definite end here, point A, and one here, point B He took out a straight three foot length of steel wire and held it up. Everybody now, How many dimensions?"

One.

Infinite or finite?

Finite.

Correct. Bounded or unbounded?

Bounded.

Yes. Now... He bent the length of wire into a circle and taped the ends together. Now, how many dimensions? Susan?

Two. No, wait. She thought about it. No, it’s still one dimension, right? I mean, you can still only travel forward or backward.

Duane, is she right?

Yes, I think so.

Steve, is she right?

Huh?

Never mind. Yes, she is correct. Any point can be defined with one coordinate, so it is one dimensional. Is it finite or infinite? Susan?

It’s definitely finite. About three feet long.

Correct. Bounded or unbounded?

Here, the class was silent for a moment. Anybody?

Duane: Is it bounded? I mean, you’re bound to stay in the circle, aren’t you?

"Remember what ‘bounded’ means. Do you remember what you said a few minutes ago? Bounded means you come to an edge, right? So you can travel along this circle all day long; you can only cover this amount of length, but you never hit an edge, okay? So, the circle is finite and unbounded."

He put the circle of wire down and moved on, So now, think of a plane, like a flat piece of paper. How many dimensions?

Several voices, Two.

Correct. Finite or infinite?

Finite.

Bounded or unbounded?

Bounded.

Are they right, Steve?

Huh?

"Never mind. Go back to sleep. Okay guys,