Ben MacGregor’s  gripping short stories take you across the  Scottish Highlands, the Internet
and  the galaxy – detouring on the way through nuclear plants, maverick ministers, infallible  lottery
systems, long distance runs, and the strange and  dangerous world of the Mandelbrot set.

When ghosts and devils multiply their evil powers within computer networks it takes a most
unusual  adversary to prevent   mayhem or even apocalypse. Enter Lynne J. Thomas, professional
computer ghost-buster! Next time you sit down at a  keyboard you’ll do well to remember her
motto: I’ll survive,  even if it kills me!
          
This new title contains fourteen highly original  short stories. A  story’s  main purpose, says Ben,
should be to entertain, to hold the reader’s attention and engage  his or her imagination.  This
doesn’t, though, preclude the embodiment of some  deeper truth  or meaning. Much modern writing
seems to have forgotten this; nobody seems to be writing good,  cracking  tales any more. So, in
order to be able to read  stories he likes,  Ben has had to write  them himself. It then occurred to
him that others might like them too. Hence this book.

The stories do not explore the depths  of the human condition. They are  written to be enjoyed.

p&p free in UK, add £2-50 per book for p&p if overseas.

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from 'click 37 and die'

Even with all the power of the CRAY cluster, the program was running slowly   having to perform hundreds of millions of iterations at every point as the  picture gradually built up on the screen. Which was as well. As each detail  emerged  it was like being  hit by an electric shock. From the screen emanated  pure, impersonal, naked evil. It would have killed anyone else. Which of course it  already had done.  I could hardly bear it myself but still watched in horrified fascination as every malignant and malevolent tendril appeared.   Take the most beautiful scene you have ever seen. Invert it to ugliness and multiply it a million-fold. That was on the screen now.
‘Getting anywhere?’
Tim’s casual voice broke my reverie.
‘Don’t look,’ I shouted, reaching with such haste for the ‘screen off’ button that my tensed muscles sent the monitor flying on to the floor.
There was a crash of breaking glass. Alan unplugged the machine.
‘Are you OK?’
I must have looked white.
‘Sorry. I’m good at smashing up computers. How about a cup of strong coffee.’

A longer excerpt from 'Highland Cross'


The story so far:-

          Lynne Thomas, computer-ghostbuster, has been persuaded to take part   in  an annual 50-mile charity run and cycle across the Scottish Highlands.    The  weather has been appalling but, worse than that, Lynne has begun to realise that  this is much more than just a charity race. We join her as she first begins  to realise that the weather is the least of her concerns...

The emergency support helicopter roared low overhead, disappearing up the valley into the haze of rain. Ahead was the first watering station, water and isotonic drinks provided, then a steep climb into the hills. I’m better on the steeps and was taking it fairly easy on this relative level, just making sure I didn’t lose too much ground. I was gaining slowly on three runners, a team keeping together but taking up most of the track, Perhaps it would be best just to stay behind them. Several people were catching me up, running just behind. It was difficult to see the footing ahead as we dipped towards another stream with brown water rushing over hidden boulders, I dropped back a bit and was suddenly pushed, hard, from behind. Being pretty nimble I managed to avoid falling, somehow leapt from boulder to boulder without losing my balance, almost fell forward on the far side of the stream then regained my footing and ran on. Now I looked round. Four runners, taking up the whole track, were closing in on me. Ahead the three seemed to be slowing up. Now someone was beside me. I was being boxed in!

The track runs through rough grass, rushes and boulders, you can run beside it but it’s harder going. To the left was the river, roaring in spate, with a narrow strip of ground between it and the track. On the right a tall, fit looking runner in an unmarked T-shirt. The track in front blocked by three more runners. Four behind me, also in plain T-shirts...what was happening?

I stopped. Suddenly. The runners behind hadn’t expected that and were past before they, too, could stop. That gave me a chance. I sprinted as hard as I could, off to the right, leaping across a deep stream, balancing on rocks, tearing through rushes and bog to regain the track in front of the three who’d try to block my way. No way was I taking it easy now, they’d have a hard job to catch me. Why were they trying to nobble me? Surely not because...yes, I had a good chance of winning the women’s race. Not many women actually take part and the fastest time was likely to be around the four hours which was my target time. I was a dark horse and may have surprised people by my speed, the leading lady was not far in front of me. I hadn’t meant to try especially hard to win but if that was their game I’d show them!

I raced through the first drinks station without stopping, in this cold and wet I could miss the odd cup of water and most certainly didn’t want to be caught by those men. Helpers huddled under layers of waterproofs. Someone was trying to get a radio to work without success: ‘Hello, Hello, are you receiving me, hello, hello...’ Round, down, over a footbridge with a roaring brown torrent below, the leading men already strung out up the steep path ahead.

A succession of steep rough climbs and short undulating sections takes runners up past another watering station, high above spectacular waterfalls, to the open glens at 1000 feet above sea-level. Better on the climbs I jogged upwards as hard as I could, soon catching the leading woman. Cutting a corner on a steep staircase of stones I passed her and looked back, to see an expression changing from surprise to hate.
‘Why you...’ she yelled out, the rest of her words lost in the roar of the wind and rain, which was perhaps as well. And this was meant to be a charity fun event. Some seemed to be taking it in deadly earnest.

I grabbed a cup of water from the bedraggled helpers at the drinks station above the falls and raced on. The weather was even wilder and wetter up here, fortunately the wind was from behind; I was fit and fast enough to keep warm but there could be an exposure risk for the slower people. It must have been sheer misery for the helpers, standing for hours in such conditions. At the highest point of the route stood a man, clad in layers of clothing and waterproofs and looking as impervious to the wild elements as a rock. One of the team providing a radio link, he too seemed to have been having problems with equipment; bits of wire and tape were lying around and there was no evidence that anything was working.

Low cloud blew across this highest part of the route, not even the helicopter was flying. Just for a minute or two, in the mist, there were no other runners in sight and I could have been the only person for miles. It was then that I noticed that familiar feeling of oppression. No, it couldn’t be, not here, miles from any computer, in the middle of a Highland rainstorm on a fun charity run across the hills – perhaps it was just me, I’d been going flat out for over an hour and was soaked, covered in mud and peat, out of breath, bruised from a fall... But I’d check. Slowing up, still with one eye on the rough terrain in front of my feet, I unzipped my palm-top from its case. A minute in the rain should do it no great harm but it was difficult to operate while leaping across streams and slippery stones. Just stop for a second and press a couple of keys to start the basic checks. I jogged on for another 30 seconds then glanced at the display. And had a shock. You know how it is when you’re feeling a bit unwell and take your temperature, expecting to see it perhaps slightly above normal and then discover it’s nearly up to 40. I’d been expecting a ‘clear’ or maybe ‘possible danger’ display. Instead there was the red warning ‘great danger’, just one point less than the highest warning of ‘extreme danger’. I really ought to run some more thorough tests but that would take time, which was in short supply...

I shoved the device back in its case, zipped it up and began to run properly again. Now came the descent towards upper Glen Affric, a mix of bottomless-looking peat and bottomless-looking pools of water, slippery grass and wet rock. Out of the cloud again, the bleak glen disappearing ahead into the driving rain, a few runners strung out in front. A leaping sliding balancing act which would have been hilarious had my mind not been otherwise occupied. What was wrong?

The route passes the remote Glen Affric Youth Hostel, around the mid-point of the running stage at ten miles out. A detour across deep peat-hags led to a footbridge over the swollen river, then a fast run up the stony track to the hostel. There were toilet facilities here, I had an idea – I’d probably gained at least five minutes on the next woman and on those men who’d tried to baulk me. It wouldn’t take more than two or three minutes to carry out a few more checks on my palm-top.

‘Toilets this way!’ shouted the helper in reply to my request. Into the hostel, and a door which could actually be locked. Sit down and quickly start typing into my palm-top... yes, there were two portable PC’s at the hostel, both infected. Neither looked particularly difficult to deal with; in a few seconds I had links to one via a satellite Internet connection, could download my exorcism software. Repeat with the other. Seconds later the two systems were clean. Check the danger level – blast, still ‘great danger’. What on earth could be wrong? No time to find out now. Perhaps things would become clearer on the later stages of the race.

Back out into the wind and rain, gulp a cup of isotonic fluid and race off again, still the leader of the woman’s race but quite a few men had caught up and passed. Ahead, on the left, a new mast. Surely not mobile phones out here? Must be. Could be related to the problem, whatever it was. No time to investigate.

The rough and stony track climbed up and down along the north side of the valley, I was beginning to feel the effects of the hard run, there were still some seven or eight miles to go. This had become more than just a race though. Blast. why couldn’t I just ignore things and get on with the running – perhaps I should, it wasn’t my problem after all.

The rain still drifted across in sheets but was lighter here, more a driving drizzle. It had turned warmer, the warm sector of the front must have come through. Past the next watering station, up and down, and below was the footbridge leading to Altnamullich at the end of the forestry road. Here, I knew, you could get soup, sandwiches, bananas or even Mars Bars from the helpers before the last gruelling six miles to the changeover. A table was laden with goodies under an awning which flapped and rattled in the wind. I can’t say I felt like eating, just stopped to gulp another cup of isotonics and grab a banana, long enough to overhear that they were indeed having problems with radio communications. The helicopter was grounded.

Once again that sickening feeling of oppression and it wasn’t just because of dehydration or exhaustion. Stop and investigate? No, carry on, seemed to be the message, push hard!

This last stretch of running, the ‘ Yellow Brick Road’ is notorious. After miles of rough and wet cross-country the stony surface is hard on the feet and inducive of cramp in the legs. There are two long climbs and a final mile on tarmac which is the last straw. The scenery is superb but by this stage most are past caring about soaring mountains and a loch ringed with native Scots Pinewoods.

I was running well, ahead of the main pack and amid other fast runners well spread out. A man had been gradually catching me up – then I heard a voice from behind
‘Lynne, is it you?’
I looked round.
‘Pete!’ How’s it going?’
‘Slow! Horrendous conditions back there. You’re doing well – if you can keep this up on the bike you’ll win the women's’ race!’
‘If,’ I said, as we ran along side by side, ‘I passed the leading woman back at the Allt Grandda – who was she?’
‘That’ll have been Susan from Kiltarlity. She won last year.’
‘She didn’t seem too happy about me going in front...’

We seemed to be pretty well matched for speed so I suggested that we keep together for the next mile or two. Having someone to talk to provided some distraction from the growing pain.

‘By the way, what was that new mast just past the Youth Hostel?’ I asked.
‘Oh that’ll be the Hydro. They’ve automated all their controls for the network of dams and generating stations in the Highlands so that they can be more flexible and efficient in meeting demand.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, they’ve bored some new tunnels to allow water to be moved from one valley to another, they can quickly empty or fill reservoirs, open sluices, switch on generators, all under the control of one or two people. Actually locals were a bit concerned about Loch Benaven, the one we’ll be cycling along soon – they reckoned that the dam was old and if all the sluices and valves were opened at once the rush of water might cause it to collapse. It’s nonsense of course, all the engineering has enormous safety margins on it, besides there are lots of control and interlocks to ensure that you can’t open the lot at once. I know, I was involved in producing some of the software. We actually go past one of the main computer installations in a mile or two.’
‘Any software can go wrong!’
‘Yes, but there are still manual over-rides. Also, as I said, the dams are designed to cope with any rush of water, the worst you’d get is some flooding downstream, as happened regularly in the days before the dams were built. There could however be some damage to the generators, so they’ve made pretty sure that the whole system is robust.’
‘Well, I look forward to seeing the loch, especially to getting on the bike ...’
‘Mind you don’t get cramp. A lot of people find the cycling difficult after the run, so take it easy to start with!’
‘Has there been some problem with radio communications?’ I asked, as we speeded up for a downhill stretch.
‘Don’t really know,’ replied Pete. ‘Certainly the helicopter’s not been flying and the RAYNET people seemed to sitting in their tents rather than out with their radios. There could be injuries or exposure cases, too, on a day like this, and with bad communications, rescue could be a bit tricky. I wonder how the Mackenzies are getting on. Some of them will be finding it tough going.... heigh, watch out!’

The occasional race marshal had been pottering along the forestry road on a motor-bike or in a Landrover. The white Landrover coming towards us now was certainly not pottering, it was roaring up the hill at about 50 and seemed to be heading straight for us, it WAS heading straight for us, straight for me!

Pete literally dived to the right, heading for a full length sprawl on the track. I leapt off to the left, the vehicle missed me by inches as I tripped and went headlong in the ditch.

The Landrover never slowed and was quickly out of earshot over the top of the hill.

‘Are you OK?’

It was another runner who’d been just behind us. Pete had a bloody knee and I’d bruised an arm but otherwise we were lucky, if shaken. We started running again.

‘What was that maniac doing. Trying to kill us?’

‘Quite possibly,’ I said. ‘Look Pete, I’m sorry if I sound paranoid, but there’s something going on here that’s more than just a race. Somebody doesn’t want me here, certainly doesn’t want me leading the women’s race. There’s some evil influence at work, too. Something connected with the mast and with the radio communications not working and probably with that woman who won last year...’
Pete groaned. He’d have heard all the tales about me from Norman.
‘Can’t help you there I’m afraid. Just seems another typically wet “Cross” to me – except for that Landrover. What on earth did he think he was doing?’

We’d now reached the last drinks station, two miles before the changeover.
The track had dipped and a hundred yards on was a white cottage, just off to the side. As we jogged towards it I noticed a couple of Hydro-Board Landrovers parked outside.

‘Believe it or not,’ Pete began, ‘this used to be a bothy; I actually came here 25 years ago to help with roof and window repairs. The estate took it over again a few years later and did it up for wealthy guests. Recently the Hydro-board bought it for use as their main computer control centre in these parts.’

By now I wasn’t listening to Pete. Out of that building emanated a horrible psychic smell, something in there was very bad. O Lord, I thought to myself, what do I do now.
We ran on. The race, the pain of that endless ‘yellow brick road’, the approaching changeover to the bikes, all were now secondary. Something was badly wrong. A crisis was coming. Like it or not, the outcome would probably depend on me.

In the sheeting rain we jogged up the last hill, now on tarmac, towards the waiting bikes. A few hardy spectators cheered me on, they knew that I was well on the way to winning the women’s race. Gradually it was dawning on me that perhaps that was what I’d have to do. If people were trying to stop me from finishing, from winning, there must be a good reason. I’d have to finish to find out!

You can waste a lot of time at the changeover from running to cycling, what with changing clothes, eating... but all I did was slip my wet feet out of trainers and into cycling shoes, grab my helmet and set off again. I felt fine on the bike and soon was hammering along the hilly road above Loch Benaven. Midges hung in clouds under the trees, my bare legs swept them up and they kept going in the eyes, ever so often I’d wipe them off before their biting got too bad. Rain alternated between drizzle and sudden downpour. It was muggy warm. Below, a thunderous roar and a huge white spout of water indicated where a pipe was disgorging into the loch, presumably via one of the new hydro-board tunnels. The water-level looked very high, a small tree-covered island was submerged.

I was passing one or two slower cyclists, especially on the uphill stretches, also I’d be overtaken ever so often by some real racing cyclist bent low over his extension handlebars. Ahead was the Benaven dam, water right to the top and running down the overflow but the outflow river not especially high given the quantity of rain. Below, just across a low wall, roared the Dog Falls, ahead was a steep twisty decent to Cannich, which I knew could be dangerous. I sprinted up a short climb and suddenly felt a sharp pain of cramp in my calf, almost making me come to a halt. Blast – Pete had warned me. As I wobbled up to the crest of the hill, several of those I’d overtaken now hurtled past. At least the downhill would give me a chance to stretch those muscles, a good thing too as suddenly I could pedal no longer, only able to freewheel gently round the bends, foot stuck out at a funny angle as I stretched my leg. The cramp gradually eased off as the occasional fast rider zoomed past at up to 35mph, bike leaning at some crazy angle into the next bend. Here an ambulance was parked, door open, awaiting the almost inevitable casualties...

Suddenly, ahead was chaos. The road was strewn with bikes and fallen cyclists. I braked hard, I was doing less than 20 but even so the bike slipped from under me and I found myself sliding along the road on my bum, next my head fell back and cracked against the tarmac, thank goodness for my helmet. I came to a stop. There was a strong smell of oil. The road was covered in it.

I picked myself up. A bruised hip but no obvious other damage. Others    who’d  been going much faster were less lucky, including Pete. Several    had nasty  oil-covered grazes. Pete reckoned he’d broken an arm.  ‘You  carry  on Lynne,  you should still win. I’ll go back up  the road, warn  others  and get the ambulance.’ There was a yell and  a crash as yet  another  cyclist spun out of control on the oil. Pete jogged  back up the road, grimacing  with pain. I’d  inform the next  check-point.

A pedal was slightly bent but otherwise my bike seemed OK. The cramp had simply been forgotten in the panic. But if I hadn’t been taking it very slowly I too would almost certainly be out of the race. I set off slowly down the hill again, wondering what might be round the next corner. It looked like another attempt to nobble me...

  The road at Cannich was lined with people cheering me on but the sky ahead  looked black like the end of the world then the heavens opened into a torrential  downpour. Damp already, in seconds I was soaked. The road ran with water.  Lightning cracked and thunder roared instantly after.  ‘I’ll survive, even if it kills me,’ I yelled at the storm and all who were trying to stop me, and pedalled harder than ever. Cars were driving slowly, headlights on, except for one, by now I was expecting trouble and wasn’t surprised when it made straight for me, crossing the road to run me down – but anyone used to cycling at night knows how to miss a car when dazzled by lights, just aim for the headlight then  miss it – which I did, charging straight at that right-hand light then swerving at the last minute just as another lightning bolt cracked nearby.  ‘Missed!’ I shouted at both car and storm, standing on the pedals  as the rain became  hail, bouncing off the road and turning it  a slippery  white. My blood was now really up, I’d survive, I’d win, even  if it killed me.

The road up Aigas Brae was almost a river, the wind had sprung up from the east and the hail had turned back to cold rain. Nobody had caught me up for a long time, that hiatus in Affric would have held up a few till they managed to spread sand over the oil. Over the top, still a few hardy spectators cheering in the downpour, down, up, down past the fish ladder and Kilmorack dam. No more attempts to stop me, fatigue and the elements the only obstacles, hurtle down the hill to the main road, turn left as the policeman stops the traffic, the last mile to Beauly and ... The Finish! Cheers and claps as I turn off the road into the finishing stretch, the first lady home in just under four hours. Can I get off my bike? Just, I hobble up to where they’re presenting the medals. Now for a shower and a bite to eat, or so I hoped...but somebody was rushing to talk to me.

‘Miss Thomas – sorry to bother you so soon after the race but we desperately need your help. Do you think you could come into the van – we’ve got a cup of tea for you.’ It was the Hydro-Board.

‘If you could give me five minutes to change into dry clothes...’
‘We’ve got all your stuff here. You can change in the ambulance.’
True, it wouldn’t attract any attention if I disappeared into the ambulance for five minutes, presumably for massage or treatment to a cut. I climbed in, shut the back door. All my dry things were there, it’s one of the great things in life to put on warm dry clothes when you’re soaked to the skin. The shower would have to wait.

Leaving my muddy wet clothes in a heap, but carefully removing my palmtop, I climbed out of the ambulance and into the back of a waiting Hydro Landrover. Here was a steaming mug of sweet tea, a plate of cakes, sandwiches and a banana. Already I was feeling a new woman. The rain roared down on the roof again, dispersing the crowds outside.

‘We’re very sorry about having to bother you so soon. I’m Al by the way.’
‘Don’t worry Al. It’s the story of my life. What’s wrong?’
I already had some idea.
‘We’ve got major computer problems. All our engineers and experts are trying to sort the system out but we need to get things working soon or we’ll be getting into serious difficulty, given the weather conditions.’
‘What sort of difficulty?’
‘Well, we seem to have lost control of our water distribution network. All the water from both the Monar and the Mullardoch watershed is pouring through the new tunnels into Loch Benaven, in addition to the spate coming down from Affric. We can’t close the sluices, they’re computer controlled and the manual overrides aren’t accessible in the flood conditions. All – and I mean all – the sluices on the Benaven dam just opened about five minutes ago, on their own, we couldn’t do anything. Now there’s a tremendous flood coming down the glen, we’re going to have to evacuate Cannich and all the low-lying houses, there’s more water on the way than ever before. But we’re concerned for the dam itself, the volume of water pouring over and through it is greater than our design calculations allowed. To be blunt – it might go.’
‘The Highland Cross?’
‘That’s another of our headaches. All the competitors who aren’t through yet will be cut off by the flood at Cannich. We’re already scrambling helicopter rescue teams but there's a violent thunderstorm up there now and flying conditions aren’t good.’
‘So – your main control centre?’
‘White Cottage, Affric. You passed it at the end of the run.’
Of course. It had been there that I'd known something was really wrong.
‘Right, you’d better get me up there as quickly as possible. Presumably you’ve a helicopter?’

‘If you’re willing to take the risk. The weather’s pretty dire!’
I thought of those still attempting to run and cycle through the storm. A tough lot those Highlanders, though. They’d survive, providing the dam didn’t go...

We drove a quarter of a mile through the now drizzly rain to the old Beauly priory where a Hydro-board helicopter was parked in the grounds, rotors turning. Al leapt out of the van and jogged across to the waiting craft, I followed rather more slowly and stiffly.

The pilot raced the engine and we were off, Beauly slanting off sideways through the haze of rain. Next we were flying up the glen, above the dams.
‘I wouldn’t vouch for Kilmorack or Aigas dam, either if Benaven goes and a sudden flood comes down the valley,’ yelled Al above the roar of the engine,
‘We could be heading for a real disaster.’
Below, I could see cyclists still heading down the road towards Beauly and the finish. One of them could be Don, who was aiming for five hours. Ahead, the sky was black, lightning flashed.
‘Hold on for a bumpy ride,’ shouted Al.
We plunged into the storm. Hail and rain roared against the windscreen. Dazzling lightning flashed. The helicopter dropped like a stone, leaving my stomach behind, then rose again. We carried on, bumping wildly up and down. I peered out of the window.
“Bloody Hell!’ I exclaimed. I’m not given to swearing. The river, along which I’d cycled just over an hour ago, now filled the whole valley floor. There was Cannich, houses marooned in a flood where people had so recently been cheering me on. The road would be at least a metre underwater.
We bounced and bucketed up into Glen Affric. Where the road ran out of the glen we could see perhaps 150 stranded Highland Cross cyclists on a stretch of road just above the flood. Of course, that would be the Mackenzies. The river, roaring down the steep glen was a frightening brown spate like I’ve never seen before, well above any natural high level. We flew over Benaven dam, water was pouring over the top, spouting out of every sluice. You could almost feel the shuddering roar of it, even if drowned out by the helicopter rotor – and, crazily, there were still cyclists heading down the glen. They’d not get past Cannich. Ahead, the glen disappeared into the thick mist of the muggy warm sector weather.
The pilot skimmed low over the muddy brown water of the loch, keeping the shore just in view. We rounded a corner and there was a bustle of cars, tents and people, the Highland Cross changeover.
‘He’s going to put down here,’ shouted Al,’We’ll carry on by Landrover.’
It wasn’t a minute too soon for me, I’d been feeling increasingly queasy on the bumpy ride having only just completed four hours strenuous exercise and then been fed on tea and cakes and sandwiches...
We landed next to the grounded Highland Cross helicopter, as we jumped down, ducking involuntarily beneath the still turning rotor blades, a man dressed in waterproofs ran up to meet us. It was Jerry Thomson who was in charge of organising the whole event. There was no radio or mobile phone contact and he was getting very worried about conditions further up the glen for the runners. It didn’t take long for Al to let him know that this was the least of his worries, that the glen below was flooded and the dam in a dangerous condition and that nobody else should be allowed to set off down the valley. Jerry put his face in his hands. ‘Never again! Let me just organise the Sunday School picnic next year...’

A spare support Landrover was quickly commandeered and we were off again, roaring down the road to the bridge over the Affric, in full spate, then bouncing through potholes and puddles on the ‘yellow brick road’ back to White Cottage. We were still meeting the occasional bedraggled Highland Cross runner who’d braved the appalling conditions in the mountains.

          The bumpy ride was almost too much for my stomach. We reached White Cottage just  in   time – and immediately a different onslaught on my battered body.   Another  battle to fight and I already sick and weary... too bad.

I put tiredness, even the drizzle and midges out of my mind as we walked up to the entrance and Al unlocked the door. Work, vital work to do. Quickly. Concentrate on that alone.
Al led the way to the control room. Usual semi-circular desk, a couple of computer screens, a big mimic panel map on the wall showing the Northern Highlands with dams and pipes and various lights and flashing colours. A man at the desk, typing desperately, two others with manuals, a pile of CD roms.
They looked round as Al came in
  ‘Are we pleased to see you! We’ve lost everything and we’re  no  nearer getting it back.’
  ‘This is Lynne,’ introduced Al. ‘She’s our best  hope of sorting out the system. ‘Lynne, meet Jim.’ We shook hands.
‘Sorry there’s no time for proper introductions,’ I began. ‘If you let me sit at the main console can you take me through what’s wrong?’
‘The system seems to be running with a mind of its own. If we shut the system down and reboot, it just comes back in the same state. All sluices and valves are open so that everything’s pouring into Loch Benaven. All the sluices on the dam there opened, on their own, about a quarter of an hour ago. Apart from the flooding we’re very worried about the dam itself.’

I pulled out my palm-top, Jim showed me where to connect it to the back of the console computer, and I began to probe. Yes, it was as I’d expected. Probe a bit deeper – suddenly, up on the screen, came a familiar face – it was that lady I’d passed early in the race, last year’s winner, Susan Mackintosh. ‘You’re too late, Lynne, you can’t stop us now, revenge is sweet,’ cackled a voice from the machine’s loudspeaker.

   ( If you want to know what happens next you’ll just have to buy the  book!)

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From 'the fastest bathroom in the universe'

A human observer would  have been completely overwhelmed by the computer display, stars hurtling from nowhere to fill the screen in a blue-white glare then vanishing within fractions of a second. Ahead was a huge dust cloud,  the apex like a hand with three great fingers each a light-year long.  The craft hurtled through the gap between two of the outstretched digits, close to a new, hot blue star whose intense radiation was evaporating the dust and uncovering  stars  just lighting up as dusty globules now tenuously attached to  the main cloud. Creation in action. How ever much he travelled, Jay was always impressed by the sight.

At the centre of every  galaxy lies a super-massive black hole, with its attendant inward-spiralling bands of matter. From the poles, beams of radiation jet out at immense energies. By skimming close to the edge of the black hole, the so-called event horizon, and then riding out on the polar particle beams, Jay could gather even more energy.

Should you stray inadvertently beyond the event horizon of a black hole,  no energy or technology in the universe can rescue you from being dragged ever inwards till ripped apart by tidal forces and swallowed into nothing but mass, charge and angular momentum. So Jay was  concentrating hard in the milliseconds up to that close approach. This was all very familiar territory to him, many a time he’d surfed out into space on the particle beams or bathed in the radiation from the nearby  super-massive star which was one of the brightest in the galaxy.

Yet the star had gone! In its place was an expanding sphere of brilliantly glowing debris. Jay had just missed one of the most spectacular events in the galaxy, the catastrophic supernova explosion of one of its brightest stars. He stared, hardly believing what he was seeing.  Alarms were ringing. He'd been distracted for a crucial microsecond. The inertial damping was being overloaded. Too close!

From 'Medusa 2005'

I may have fought imps, demons and  evil powers  but I’d never dared to try and alter the fabric of the universe.

Computer  art can kill.

Some of the worst evil I’d encountered was related to those computer fractal images which had suddenly become very popular. Striking multi-coloured pictures of spirals and whorls, images of the Mandelbrot and Julia sets, could appear very  beautiful and were surely harmless. Yes – but if you dug too deeply you started  uncovering some of the raw chaos left over from the creation of the universe, if you went  deeper still you risked disturbing evil which had been lurking in dark mathematical recesses since before the dawn of time.

It wasn’t a problem until computers became powerful enough to start invading those remote corners of the mathematical world.  It was, I think, more than a coincidence that  fractal images of Mandelbrot and Julia sets  became fashionable after the dreadful Warrington murders (you remember of course).  Computers were by then so cheap and powerful that anyone could easily generate the things. It started with ties – then T-shirts,  carpets, wall-paper, even cars... everywhere you looked you were seeing those complex multi-coloured patterns of spirals and buds and petals. 

It was of course a Mr Mandelbrot who first generated the pictures that bore his name. It’s text-book example of a very simple process generating great complexity  and in turn needing some pretty high-powered maths to understand. Not even a brilliant mathematician like Mandelbrot foresaw that the complex set named after him would  kill people and form the basis of a jackpot-winning lottery system.

Mr. Julia worked out the theory in the days before computers and never lived to see the  pictures of his sets, closely related to  Mandelbrot images,  which now also appeared everywhere. Any integer can be used as a label for a Julia set, the bigger the number,  the greater the complexity of the picture and the more possible varieties. Numbers like 240 with lots of factors are especially interesting.  Mr Julia never imagined however that academic, pure mathematics could kill people.

A mathematician by training, I took care after the Warrington case to thoroughly understand the maths behind the pictures. Next time some evil involving them appeared I’d be well prepared. Unfortunately I got the maths wrong. We all know that numerical mistakes  in engineering or financial calculations can have serious consequences. Mistakes in pure, abstract maths are however surely only of interest to mathematicians? Not so, I discovered to my cost, when it comes to those wretched Mandelbrot and Julia sets!

Various companies producing  fractal images had started up but most had merged together or been taken over; eventually fractal designs in the UK and latterly throughout the world were mostly emanating from one company, Mandelpic Ltd. The owner/manager, Robert Urquhart, was known as something of a recluse and had set up his headquarters in the old Abbey buildings at the southern end of Loch Ness next to Fort Augustus. Why choose such a relatively remote location?  Why not, these days! High speed data links meant that a computer based business could be located anywhere and the owner had family connections in the area going back into the distant past.

I’d disliked those Mandelbrot and Julia images ever since the Durham episode ( You recall the case of the three maths lecturers?) Once Mandelpic became an almost  monopoly provider I liked them even less, they set my teeth on edge and made me shiver. Everyone else seemed pleased with them though,  Mr Urquhart accumulated his millions and the images became more ubiquitous and more complex,  exploring larger numbers and greater depths. I  hoped Mr Urquhart was no more than an entrepreneur with a flair; the potential for wilful misuse of dangerous regions of the sets had  been at the back of my mind  ever since that Durham affair...

When the phone-call came from Mandelpic, asking if I’d be available for discussions with Mr Urquhart, I was only too glad to comply. Evidently he needed advice on the dangers and pitfalls of the Mandelbrots, advice I would be delighted to give.  I could also nicely fit in a  visit to Norman and  friends from Caithness who’d invited me to join them  for a weekend at Melgarve bothy, just over  the Corrieyairack pass from Fort Augustus. I’d have my business discussions during the week, leave the car in the town and walk over the pass to the bothy for the weekend.

I’d lived in Caithness for a spell but had moved back to Cumbria, a much more central location for my work which rarely  involved visits beyond Glasgow. I drove north through wind and rain, typical blustery early October weather, downpours through Glencoe and Fort William but  skies clearing to a fine late afternoon at Fort Augustus.  Accommodation was being provided for me at the Old Abbey on the following night but I’d come early to get a look around.

I soon discovered that Mandelpic was not popular locally.  The whole Old Abbey had been ringed with a high, alarmed security fence like a jail.  The gate was manned 24 hours a day. A few local people had been employed but most of the staff were from the south, living in the abbey and communicating little with  the locals. Little of the money from the company was finding its way into the area. Unfriendly, secretive, pushy – these were the sorts of words used to describe the place. When the landlady of my B&B heard that I had business there,  she clammed up and  wouldn’t  talk to me any more about it. 

‘Just another business trip,’ I assured myself. I get to see all kinds of companies and organisations, good and bad, the common theme being that they need my help. I wouldn’t choose to work as an employee for many of them; gambling, tobacco, weapons production or just plain cut-throat business, but it is individuals within these places that call me in for help, and without my help things would be much worse. So as I drove my red Porsche up to the security gate in the high fence, I wasn’t too bothered. No nuclear weapons or nerve gas here, anyway.

The guard at the gate was business-like and raised the barrier to let me through, I noticed however that he was wearing a gun – how, I wondered,  did they get permission for that?  I carried on down the main driveway  through fine trees to park, under a prominent video camera, near the main entrance. Collecting  my laptop I strode briskly up to the  security door, a pretty standard  code-operated thing with microphone and video camera. I rang the bell, spoke into the mike, ‘Miss Thomas to see Mr Urquhart,’ smiled breezily at the video camera and waited.

The door opened and I walked in. It shut behind me with that particular ‘clunk’ that denotes high security. Two burly men, in other circumstances I’d have called them ‘heavies’, were waiting.
‘This way please.’ One man walked silently in front of me, the other walked silently  behind me.

I now noticed that familiar feeling of unease which I get when entering premises with a ‘problem’.  It didn’t concern me too much; why else would anyone want to see me? That was my job, of course, to sort out such problems – for a handsome fee. And this company wasn’t short of money.

I was ushered into a secretary’s office and a couple of minutes later in to see Mr Urquhart himself.   I was rather surprised to see a man in his fifties, dark hair, double chin, turned-down mouth. Most people in these hi-tech businesses are a lot younger than me. He sat at a huge semi-circular desk that would have done for a cabinet minister, nothing on it but two computers. The office, I noticed had no windows, no decorations, no furniture other than the desk and a spare swivel chair which the secretary had wheeled in.

‘Good morning Ms. Thomas,’ he began in a smooth, slightly American accent. ‘So pleased you could come.’
‘Pleased to meet you Mr Urquhart,’ I replied,‘ You know my line of business presumably.’
‘I know your line of business.’
Not a normal response, that. Nevermind, press on.
‘I understand you have a problem and that I may be able to help you?’
‘We may be able to reach a mutual agreement, yes.’
‘Perhaps you could explain your problem to me? I’ll then be able to see if I can be of assistance.’
Mr Urquhart suddenly spun one of the computer monitors around on its base so that I could see it. ‘Have a look at this,’ he said, and clicked the mouse a couple of times.

I wasn’t prepared.

Even if I’d known what was coming I’d have needed to call on all the help available to resist. Something utterly horrible, the worst I’d ever encountered, pure naked evil, supreme ugliness, leapt at me from the screen of that machine. I certainly screamed. I think I heard laughter. For a split-seco
                                Server out of Memory.
Sorry. You’ll just have to buy the book to read the rest.

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