The House Next Door Trilogy (Books 1-3)

by Jule Owen

  “Did you ever think it might be some kind of set-up?”

  “You think the boy is an assassin? He’s what, fifteen, sixteen?”

  “You were quite feisty at his age, according to the gossip.”

  “The gossip is wrong. But I spoke to him and he isn’t the sort. He’s just like his father.”

  “You are sure his father is Mathew Erlang?”

  “He’s the spitting image of him.”

  “Intentional or not, this is sabotage. He has got into your head. We need you with us today.”

  “All the hard work has been done. You see the map. It is a pile of dominoes set in motion. It is unstoppable. All we have to do now is turn up.”

  “I have been with you for twenty years. It has taken all those years – longer – to get to this day. Don’t let the appearance of this boy ruin your plans. We all have unfinished business. You will have plenty of time for revenge later. The Edenists plan to establish the Convocation. Erlang will be tried in court.”

  Hathaway gazes at Kilfeather thoughtfully, “You always were my good conscience, Kieran.”

  “We go back a long way.”

  “Not quite long enough,” Hathaway says. “Then you would understand.”

  “I do understand. I have my own debts to settle.” He lifts his arm.

  Hathaway nods. The projected image shows their section’s vehicles start to peel off the motorway; they both turn and watch.

  Hathaway says, “Today is one of the only days I will have the opportunity to pay my debts. Once the new government is established and things settle, men like Erlang will be difficult to bring to justice.”

  “After the GreyMatter broadcast, do you actually think so? He’s one step from the Devil as far as the Edenists are concerned.”

  “The men who will form the next government are pragmatists, not fanatics. They will not kill useful people. They will not cast aside useful technology, not entirely. Do you think they will destroy Silverwood’s roof and expose themselves to storms and heat? Do you think they will close the food factories and face food shortages, or shut down the rejuv program and deny themselves the possibility of an extended, longer, healthier life? With those temptations available to them, they won’t ransack the temples of science. Men like Erlang hold the keys to those temples.”

  “If you think Nystrom and the Edenists will be so easily corrupted, why are we supporting this coup?”

  “Because it will unite the country once again and we will use the power base and momentum we’ve established in southern England to eradicate corruption; police won’t take bribes. There will be hospitals and basic medical care, schools, basic security for everyone. It will curb the worst excesses of the elite and the Convocation will control and monitor science. It will tell the truth about Tagus and the Mercy.”

  They head for the city. Images, beamed from a drone, show the half-built dome rise above them, the colossal mile-high skyscraper looming over its half-built brothers and sisters, all surrounded by bowing cranes.

  “Look,” Hathaway says to Kilfeather. “Has there ever been anything like it? Tonight we will own this city. But think, a lot of the soldiers have been converted to the cause and believe what the Edenists preach. Once it is announced the government has fallen, they will open the gates of the university and let the people do what they want with the scientists who gave them Tagus and the Mercy. No revolution has ever succeeded without some bloodletting. The people need a sacrifice.”

  “Then we should order them to stop.”

  “Why?”

  Kilfeather looks at Hathaway like he doesn’t recognise him. “I have followed you through thick and thin because you brought order.”

  “And there will be order. There will be nothing but order. After tomorrow.”

  “You intend to let an angry mob kill this man you hate?”

  “No, no. Of course not.”

  Kilfeather is relieved but Hathaway hasn’t finished.

  “I intend to kill him myself.”

  29 Bad News from Dr. Bob

  In Silverwood, in the newly rebuilt St Paul’s Cathedral, George finds a seat amongst the empty chairs intended to later seat an audience of 3,500 invited guests. He watches his mother conjure Bach from a Bösendorfer grand piano, raised on a platform, surrounded by an orchestra. As the music consumes him, he rests his head back and gazes at Sir James Thornhill’s paintings of the life of St Paul on the sides of the dome above. Not for the first time, he marvels at the feat of engineering and artistry it took to move this architectural wonder 170 miles and rebuild it as if it had risen from the ground where it now stands.

  He has heard the piece Clara now plays, hundreds of times. It is her signature, a crowd-pleaser; the music that made her famous. Seated at a piano, she transforms into a passionate, highly physical person. People who don’t know her, people who only know her as a performer, assume she must be a prima donna, but she is practical and down-to-earth. George rarely shows how he feels because he is highly self-controlled, not because there isn’t a storm raging inside. Clara, on the other hand, is simply serene. He never ceases to marvel over her ability to drain tears from her audience and bound off the stage, back to her family as if she has just been to the local shops. He tries to concentrate on the music, but he is distracted, thinking of his father. He taps his foot impatiently, anxious, not quite sure why.

  The Prime Minister is due to arrive shortly for the end of the rehearsal. The Bishop of Birmingham, the Archbishop of Canterbury and a host of the right kind of celebrities and notable people are already gathered near the stage, watching Clara perform. Camcopters fly about under the dome and film the preparations.

  The music ends and spontaneous applause erupts. Clara stands up, bows slightly, holds her hands together in thanks and then goes to speak to the musical director.

  George receives a call. He hopes it is his father, but it is one of his mother’s friends.

  “Dr. Bob,” he says, surprised. He can’t think why she would call him.

  “George. Where are you? Where are your parents? I’ve been trying to get hold of them.”

  “I’m at St Paul’s. Mum’s rehearsing for tonight. Dad’s at the university. Why, what’s happened?”

  “You need to get them out of there.”

  “Out of St. Paul’s or the university?”

  “Out of Silverwood.”

  “I don’t understand. Where should we go?”

  “It doesn’t matter where to, just leave the city. Take them anywhere. Take them north. Get them to Scotland.”

  “Has something happened?”

  “The Accountants are moving north. We think they are about to invade Silverwood. We think they may have already surrounded the city.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “We were on our way north to come to the opening ceremony tonight. We ran into them. They killed five of our people.”

  “What?! Are you ok?”

  “Yes. Yes, we’re fine. We’re back in London, but the news is spreading. The Accountants are on their way to Silverwood. Your dad isn’t safe. George, you need to get going. Now.”

  George stands up, talking as he walks towards his mother. He waves at her. She sees him, recognises immediately something is wrong, excuses herself from the musical director and starts towards him.

  Bob is still talking to George. She says, “You need to find one of the tunnels. Don’t use a gate. They will stop you. There are tunnels. The crypt in St Paul’s has one. The university will have some, I’m sure of it. George, are you there?”

  Clara asks, “What’s happened? Is it your father?”

  George says to Bob, “Hold on, Bob, I’m with my mother. I need to explain.”

  George pulls his mother to one side, explains briefly that he is on a call with Bob and summarises what she has told him. The musical director stands on the stage, gesticulating, frustrated and confused. He calls after Clara.

  “Just a second, Julian!” Clara calls back.
<
br />   “I can’t leave,” Clara says. George takes her arm and leads her away. He has shared Bob’s call with her.

  Bob says, “Clara, it’s me. Bob. You have to go. Don’t tell anyone anything. You need to find Mathew and leave the city.”

  They pass a group of officials at the door, who watch them curiously as they pass into the sunlight. The square, the manicured lawns, the newly planted trees, all appear serene. George stops to ask an official where they get a car. He points and walks with them to the road, speaks to the on-board computer and opens the door for them.

  “Where to?” he asks.

  “The university,” George says.

  They get in. The car drives away.

  “This is insane,” Clara says.

  “It is insane,” Bob says. “The Accountants are insane. Clara, I don’t think they would touch you, but Mathew has the wrong job.”

  “Yes, I know. There were protestors outside the university this morning.”

  “Bob, keep talking to Mum,” George says. “I need to try to get hold of my father.”

  George starts a call.

  Mathew answers immediately, “George! We need to try a different channel,” he says.

  “What the…?”

  “You know, Du Fu. Please, George,” and Mathew hangs up.

  George dials into the Blackweb, selects the document titled In Memory of Ju Shen, finishes the poem, and when he’s onto the platform, selects the call option.

  “I’m here,” Mathew says. “Where are you?”

  “In a car on the way to the university. Dad, Bob called us from London. The Accountants are invading Silverwood.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You know? How?”

  “Hoshi and the others are plugged in to the Blackweb. George, don’t go to the university. I’m not there. Turn the car around and go back to St. Paul’s. You and your mother will be safe there. No one will harm your mother. No one will shoot up St. Paul’s, least of all the Edenists and the Accountants.”

  “Why? Where are you going?”

  “I’m on my way to the lab. From there, I’m not sure, but the sixteen will help me. Hoshi is with me now.”

  “Don’t go anywhere on your own.”

  “Is it your father?” Clara asks.

  George nods.

  “Patch me in,” she says. “Bob, I need to speak to Mathew. Please standby via text and voice. Okay?”

  “Will do. Clara, be safe.”

  “We’ll be fine, Bob. Thank you for calling us.”

  “No problem.”

  Bob hangs up. Mathew patches Clara into the Blackweb call.

  “Mat,” she says.

  “Clara.”

  “We’re in a bit of a pickle.”

  “We’ll be ok.”

  “I know.”

  “I told George you need to go back to St. Paul’s.”

  Clara stares at George. “We’re not going to, Mathew.”

  “Please, Clara. I need you to be safe.”

  “And I need you to be safe too. We’re a family.”

  “Please.”

  Clara indicates to George that he should speak to the on-board computer. “Mat, save your breath. There’s no way we’re not coming with you.”

  “Let me speak to George.”

  “He’s busy talking to our car.”

  “George!” Mathew says.

  George doesn’t respond.

  “Don’t try and bully him. I call the shots, here. Listen to me. Bob told us we can’t use the gates to leave the city. By the time we get there, they are likely to be programmed to stop us. She says there are tunnels.”

  “Yes, of course there are,” Mathew says. “There’s service tunnels beneath my lab. No idea where they go. Hoshi will know.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought. Can you ask Hoshi to…”

  “Already on it,” Hoshi says. “Sorry, I was listening in.”

  Clara sighs, “Take care of him, Hoshi.”

  “It’s our number one priority,” Hoshi says.

  George says, “Dad, I’ve re-routed the car. We’re on our way. We’ll meet you at your lab. Wait for us.”

  30 The Accountants in Silverwood

  Hathaway is up top, in the turret of the Nemean Lion.

  They are on the margins of the city, their vehicles poised to breach the walls. The men around him are nervous. Fingers flex on triggers, gun-butts find good firm places against shoulders. They are edgy, expecting the worst. No one quite believes they are going to get inside without bloodshed and without having to fight for it. These men have had to fight for everything they have ever possessed. They are nervous, too, of the clean surfaces, the shining metal, carbon fibre and spinel. This is not their world.

  They were promised the gates would open for them. Hathaway knows from the constant messages that flood through to him that the Accountants have already entered through other gates and are spreading across the city, meeting with minimal opposition.

  His party have announced their arrival and received an initial cordial welcome. Yet now they wait and it is making them jittery.

  Hathaway’s vehicle leads the convoy, now stationary facing the light-sucking black carbon fibre doors that tower above them. The wall appears seamless. They are seventy feet high where the lip of the outer rim of the colossal dome will eventually rest. Hathaway only knows the doors are actually there because his Lenz shows him the blueprint of the city. Jonah coughs. Someone below shifts and drops something. There’s muttering, an order for silence. Hathaway peers into the vehicle below. Kilfeather is still crouched by the table. He gazes up, his face questioning.

  Then the wall opens, silently; the monumental doors glide apart. There’s no deep mechanical clunk, no grind or creak. When the doors have parted, a man stands between them, a soldier in a coalition uniform. The scale of the architecture makes him seem tiny. Jonah and Drake raise their guns to their shoulders. The soldier walks towards them until he is directly in front of Hathaway’s vehicle. He glances along the line of vehicles, absorbing the scale of the invasion, trying not to show whatever it is he is really thinking. He salutes.

  The guard says, “You are welcome.”

  “Why did it take such a long time to open the door?” Hathaway asks, hyper-alert to any deviation from the plan. Passing through the doors, they are vulnerable to an ambush. “Is there a problem?”

  “I needed to get a confirmation from my senior officer to open the doors.”

  “And?”

  “He went to the bathroom, Sir.”

  Kilfeather laughs, as do the men around him. Weapons are lowered, the tension palpably lifts. The soldier steps to one side.

  Their vehicles move off through the open gates and proceed into a holding area the size of a small stadium. Hathaway expects this. There is a no-man’s land surrounding the entire city, for processing immigrants and emigrants and to prevent invasion. The city’s architects probably never imagined Silverwood would fall with such ease.

  Hathaway’s personal guards are still edgy, surveying the higher levels of the structures all around them, seeking warm bodies. There is no one. The area has been completely cleared.

  There is a man alone on the concourse ahead of them. The Nemean Lion stops before him. If the war had been fought on couture alone, the Silverwood soldiers would have won with one hand tied behind their backs. No amount of discipline compensates for poor quality cloth, Hathaway thinks grimly, as the suave older man with a silvered clipped moustache stands before him. He is much taller than the petite, blond leader of the Accountants. No one would have bet on the outcome of this confrontation and got it right. The dapper Major snaps to, salutes Hathaway and says, “Major Clark, Sir.” He wants to be remembered when Hathaway redistributes jobs, after the coup.

  Hathaway returns the salute, suppressing a smile, “Director Hathaway, controller of the Accountants.”

  “Welcome to Silverwood.”

  “Thank you, Major. We were told we would have safe
passage,” Hathaway says.

  “No one will stand in your way, Director Hathaway.”

  Hathaway nods. The Major steps to one side.

  Jonah raises his hand and ploughs it through the air, shouting, “Forward!”

  A second set of colossal doors on the other side of the buffer zone swings open and they spill onto the streets.

  They are a ragged bunch, with their fourth-hand, recycled vehicles, with their second-rate weapons and their cobbled-together uniforms, yet somehow they now rule this shining city. A wave of cheers washes to Hathaway and his army moves forward.

  At the perimeters of the city, where they are now, footings are being dug for the skyscrapers soon to be built there. The foundations are great square holes, hundreds of feet deep. Tunnels run between them, a vast network to carry sewerage and water, power and communication cables and underground transport. The area is deserted, all available robotic workers and construction equipment are allocated elsewhere. Their caravan has the road to itself. They head for the city centre. Their vehicles’ on-board computers have received the latest map data and they know the way.

  Silverwood has only recently started to settle residents and is at ten per cent capacity. It is mostly empty; a ghost town. The process of selecting Silverwood’s citizens is yet to begin. Those people moved across already are government officials or employees of state institutions. The timing of the Accountants’ invasion is not coincidental and has been planned for a long time.

  It takes them twenty minutes to reach the city centre, driving fast along what will be one of eight long main straight roads, into the hub of the centre. The roads are like spokes on a giant wheel.

  AI-controlled cranes are at work, even now; they swing massive carbon fibre piles and spinel sheets into place. Robot builders guide them into their slots. The city is building itself from the ground up. Hathaway ought to be appalled at the sheer inhumanity of it all, but he is awestruck.

  The city guard has cleared the streets near Broadcasting House. The Lion pulls up outside along with five other vehicles. The rest of his convoy continues to spread across the city, securing other key strategic places: the new Home Office, the university, the Cadmus Tower, St Paul’s.