by Jule Owen
Jack nods to Mathew. Elia whispers, “Goodbye. Good luck.” And Mathew and Isaac head off into the night, with nothing but an old-fashioned compass to guide them.
They follow the direction Jack has told them to go in, and Isaac grasps Mathew’s arm, thinking he has gone blind again. “I can’t see,” Isaac says, the panic rising in him.
“Neither can I,” replies Mathew.
The ground is solid under their feet at least. They are walking along a gravel path by a tall chain link fence overhung with trees. They find their way by feeling along the fence. Isaac, overcoming his initial panic, having had a few days’ training moving around by touch, is more confident now than Mathew. Nevertheless, it is slow-going to the end of the path. Here, in the open, there is some limited visibility. The land is flat and the clouds, dimly backlit by the thin-cloaked moon, reflect some small light down upon the earth. Mathew doesn’t like the idea of stepping out into such an exposed place, but Jack was adamant that they follow the compass and the compass is telling them this is the way they must go.
They are about to make their move when Isaac says, “What is that?”
“What?”
“Over there,” he points.
Mathew doesn’t know how he’s spotted it with his one not particularly good eye, but there is something moving towards them, a dark shape, barely visible, a swift kinetic smudge in the still greys and the blacks. It isn’t tall enough to be a man, and it isn’t a drone. A chill runs down Mathew’s spine.
It is the hound.
For some reason Mathew thinks about what Jack had said to him over dinner about the weight of his rucksack and he realises the bag isn’t only heavy because of the jar with his mother’s ashes. It also contains the gun that Falkous gave him.
With a speed and efficiency he is surprised he possesses, he pulls out the gun now. He pushes Isaac into the cover of the trees and shrubs growing on the edge of the end of the path where they now stand.
I need height.
He looks up; there is a twisting hardwood with a fork in its branches.
I know how to climb trees.
And he is in the fork of the tree before he’s given it a second thought, but as he releases the safety catch and aims the gun, it passes through his mind that he’s only ever climbed trees in his dreams.
His naked eyes frantically scan the open land for the killer machine. If he had his Lenzes he’d be able to use night and telefocus to find what he is looking for. He feels at a disadvantage, especially as he knows the hound will be sniffing out their body heat using infrared sensors. They only have a few minutes before it locks on to them and shoots. If he shoots now and misses, the hound will retaliate. He takes a deep breath. There is no more time to think. The red dot sight of his gun casts out its beam and miraculously, suddenly finds its target. He squeezes the trigger. The gun kicks back and knocks Mathew in the head. He falls out of the tree onto the ground below, his leg snagging painfully in the branches.
Isaac scrambles over to him. “Are you okay?”
“Did I get it?” Mathew asks, getting to his feet.
Isaac peers out across the land and says, “Well, it isn’t coming.”
There is no movement. Mathew reloads the gun and walks cautiously out. Five hundred yards away, there is something lying in the dirt. With the gun still trained on it, they approach. There’s a mangled chunk of material on its side; angular and utilitarian, grey metal. No attempt has been made to make it look like a real dog. At the front, on the “head”, there is a gun.
“Do you think it’s dead?” Isaac asks.
“It can’t be dead,” Mathew says. “It’s a robot. The question is, is it broken enough, so it can’t kill us?” Mathew kicks at it with his boot. The machine suddenly shudders and something whirrs inside. Mathew quickly raises his gun and shoots again, aiming first at the head and then at the body, having no idea where its ‘brain’ is supposed to be.
“That should do it,” he says, turning around to look for Isaac, who has run back several metres.
“You’re insane,” Isaac says.
“We’re alive, aren’t we?” Mathew worries the noise from the gun, silenced as it was, will have attracted attention. He says, “So far. Now let’s go.”
10 Clara Pays A Visit
Clara Barculo gets out of the Aegis car on Pickervance Road and glances at Mathew’s window, searching for his pale face, the aquiline nose she likes so much, his still, watchful eyes, knowing full well that he won’t be there. She is still smarting from the fact that he hasn’t called as he said he would. He must be in Elgol now. Telling herself he has other things to deal with doesn’t quite dampen the hurt she feels. She thanks her guard, turns towards Gen’s house and sees her teacher waiting. Gen stands back to let Clara past and shuts the door. They go into the front room. Clara takes her seat at the piano, then she turns and looks at Gen. Gen’s face is drawn and pale. She doesn’t look herself at all.
“Are you okay?” Clara asks.
“I had some bad news this morning.”
It doesn’t feel appropriate for Clara to pry into her teacher’s life. Finally, she says lamely, “I’m sorry to hear that.” Clara waits to see if Gen will volunteer more and when she doesn’t, and the silence grows awkward, she says, “Should we cancel? I can call back my car. It won’t have got far.”
Gen says, “No.”
“Should I start, then?” she points at the piano.
Gen says, “Clara, you and Mathew have become good friends, haven’t you?”
Clara reddens slightly, “Yes… before his mother died. We haven’t spoken much since.”
Gen nods, but she is distracted; she only seems to be half-listening. “Clara, the bad news I’ve had is about Mathew.”
Clara’s mind is racing. “He’s in Scotland with his grandmother.”
Gen shakes her head, “He never made it. His grandmother called me this morning. His car was attacked on the motorway. The Panacea guards with him were both killed.”
“Killed?”
“Shot. They didn’t find his body, but it’s been three days now and there’s been no word. Mathew’s grandmother says Panacea have people out looking for him, but they would have expected to hear something by now if he’d been kidnapped for a ransom.”
Clara can barely process what she’s hearing. She doesn’t want to pursue the conversation to its logical conclusion. If she leaves it hanging here, then Mathew is still alive. She turns back to the piano and puts her hands on the keys.
“Clara?” Gen says.
“I’d like to continue my lesson,” she says.
“Perhaps we should leave the lesson and talk about this.”
Clara’s response is to start playing.
At the end of the hour, Clara leaves Gen’s house and walks in a daze towards the waiting car. Just before she gets in, she turns back to Mathew’s bedroom window and her eyes sweep across the front of his house until they reach Mr. Lestrange’s bay. She remembers what Mathew told her about him watching them both. There is no one there now.
Her guard coughs, prompting her.
“Just a second,” she says and strides out across the pavement, through the little gate, up the short red-tiled path.
Banging on Mathew’s strange neighbour’s front door, she thinks, Mathew said that he never comes out.
“Mr. Lestrange!” she shouts. Her voice echoes down the silent street. She doesn’t care.
Then the door opens and a tall man with hooded eyes is looking down at her. “Clara,” he says, as if he is expecting her.
“I want to talk to you.”
“Come in,” he says, opening the door wide.
Mr. Lestrange’s front room is exactly as Mathew described it, except that, in addition to the table, there are two armchairs. Something about the way they are positioned makes Clara think they have been placed there for her benefit, but she dismisses this idea immediately. Mathew’s crazy stories have tainted her mind.
“Pleas
e,” Lestrange says, indicating she take a seat. He sits in the one opposite, leaning forward, studying her face with extraordinary attention. “How can I help you?”
“Mathew,” she gasps, surprised at herself, at her emotion. She digs her nails into her palms. What can this man do to help? Why have I come here?
“You are worried about him.”
“He is missing.”
“Ah,” Lestrange says. Clara thinks she detects a slight smile. “I probably shouldn’t tell you, but as you are here, I don’t think it will do any harm. You needn’t worry about him.”
“Gen says his car was hijacked. The people who were with him were shot. They haven’t found his body but they think…”
“He is alive,” Lestrange says.
As Lestrange speaks, fleeting images of Mathew pass through her head like a badly calibrated slideshow. Mathew exhausted, hungry, walking across open land with a boy. Scrambling together, helping one another to climb a hillside. Clara blinks, dumbfounded, and says, “How can you know that?”
Mr. Lestrange shrugs, a slight movement like his smile.
“How can you know?” Clara insists. She is angry.
Lestrange raises his eyebrows. He asks, “Would you like a drink?”
“A drink? No, I would not like a drink!”
Lestrange sighs and stands up. “Well, I would like one. We are going to be here a while.” He goes to the window and looks out at the guard, who is fidgeting at the roadside.
“You haven’t asked me why I’ve come,” Clara says.
Lestrange turns to her; his eyes are like dark glass. They reveal nothing about him, but seem to reflect Clara back to herself. She sees herself sitting in the armchair, gripping the armrests.
“Why have you come?” Lestrange says at last, although he seems to be asking the question to please her rather than to get an answer.
“Mathew said you know what is going on.”
“What is going on…” He repeats this as if he likes the words, as if he is storing them away somewhere for later. “And what is going on?” Lestrange asks her.
“I don’t know,” she says, confused and cross. “That is why I am here!”
“I am going to make some tea.”
With Lestrange absent, she looks around the room at the books. If she hadn’t remembered so clearly Gen telling Mathew about Lestrange’s library that first time they had met, she would have found it uncanny being here. Even so, the room seems to tally with Mathew’s dream descriptions and she finds herself scouring the shelves with her eyes, looking for Mathew’s book. He had said the particular bookcase was behind the door. She goes to it, bends down and looks.
Her flesh goes cold.
There on the shelf is a book with the title Mathew Erlang and another one with the title Clara Barculo.
The door opens, bumping into her. “Excuse me,” Lestrange says, as he comes into the room with a tray carrying a teapot, a milk jug, sugar bowl and two cups on saucers. He puts it down on the table.
Clara pulls the two books from the shelf. She turns to him, “What are these?” she asks, holding them up.
“Ah,” Lestrange says. “I thought you might ask.” Lestrange sits down in his chair. He says, “I never know how long to let the tea brew for.”
“Are you going to explain?”
“Come and sit down,” Lestrange says. “As I said, we are going to be a while.”
“I can’t be a while. I have a car waiting.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.”
“You keep telling me not to worry, but you are not telling me why I shouldn’t.”
Lestrange indicates to the empty chair, “Clara, please sit down.”
Clara looks at the chair, thinks for a moment and then goes over and sits in it, the books clasped firmly in her hands, resting on her knees.
Lestrange says, “Mathew is alive and well. Tomorrow, Gen will call you to tell you he has been found and is on his way to Elgol and his grandmother.”
“How do you know he is safe?”
“Because I can see him.”
“See him? How? You are some kind of spy! Mathew thought you might be.”
“A spy?” Lestrange considers, tilting his head. “I suppose, from your point of view, I am in a way.” He bends forwards, lifts the lid off the teapot and peers in. “That must be brewed by now, surely?” He puts the lid back. “Do have some,” he says. “Keep me company.” Clara doesn’t respond, so he pours two cups anyway, and stands to place her cup at the edge of the table nearest her seat. “Do you take milk?” He watches her stiff, angry face that refuses to look at him and pours the milk into her cup. Once he has finished, he retreats back to his armchair and takes the cup and saucer in his palm.
Clara opens the cover of the book on her lap and starts to page through. “This is incredibly creepy,” she says. “Are you SIS? We are not radicals, you know. We are just kids. Mathew plays around on the Blackweb but he isn’t doing anything wrong.”
“I’m not SIS,” Lestrange says. The cup chinks in the saucer as he places it back. “I don’t mean you any harm. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“Do you work for the opposition? Are you with the Garden Party? Or are you an Edenist?”
Lestrange smiles, “No, I’m not either of those things.”
Clara’s eyes wander to the page that is open before her; she reads:
After the death of her husband, Mathew Erlang, Clara Barculo established the Bach Society, a secret society masquerading as an elite musical social club. It acted as a cover for the continuation of Erlang’s work and in particular the Yinglong Project.
Clara raises her eyes to Lestrange’s face in horror and says, “Who are you?”
Lestrange takes another sip from his tea, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“I know you are watching Mathew,” she lifts the book. “And me. He told me he got into your house and played a game in your Darkroom. But he wasn’t sure if he dreamt the whole thing.” She studies his face and says, “Mathew’s dreams. They weren’t dreams, were they?”
Lestrange says, “Not exactly, no.”
“Are you really called Mr. Lestrange?”
“I have his body. There once was a man called August Lestrange. He was an academic at the University of London who specialised in medieval history. He had no family, few friends and lived alone. He was stabbed one night, mugged for his Paper, Lenz and e-Pin, taking a bad shortcut from an evening lecture. He was dead by the time the human medical team arrived and I took over. They thought they had performed a miracle and brought him back from the dead. They were very happy with themselves.”
“What do you mean, took over? You saved his life? I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t save his life. I took his body. I inhabited it. That’s how it usually works for those in the field. They adopt the bodies of someone who has been killed before anyone has noticed. In this way we can live as humans do; feel like they do, experience the chemical confusion in their brains and react to the environment. It means our research is more evidence-based. We found pure observation meant that we were missing a huge amount of information. Lestrange was dead and lying in an alley; he was observed to have no actual historical impact. I took over and moved into a house I’d made vacant next to Mathew’s house.”
“So you can live as humans do… You are telling me you are not human?”
“Of human origin, of course.”
“What are you then – an AI?”
“Not exactly.”
“Mathew was right; you are something to do with the government. A project.” Clara declares this with such certainty that Lestrange doesn’t feel the need to contradict her. “Then if you are not August Lestrange, who are you?”
“My real name is Atteas, but I like the name August. Please continue to use it. You look very confused and concerned. I think I need to start at the beginning. Do drink your tea.”
“I don’t want any tea!”
Les
trange shrugs.
“What are these books for?” she asks.
Lestrange looks at the open tome in Clara’s hands. “They were a bit of whimsy.”
“Mathew says they choose the world of the games you play in the Darkroom. He told me he got into your house and played a game in your Darkroom and it was like a real world, but the books controlled everything.”
“They don’t control everything, but they do select the situation and the time. We don’t need to do it. It seemed like a fun construct. It is a way of visualising a humdrum technical process. We have done this kind of thing from the beginning. We thought the library a good idea. When we dreamt it up, it made us smile. But as it turned out, it is not a good idea when you have a smart sixteen-year-old boy living next door. We are artists and writers, you see. And at the best of times, my people are given to play. We have less to be serious about than you.”
“We? There are others like you?”
“Of course. Mathew met two of them. He knew them as Quinn Hacquinn and Colonel Borodin, but they are really Berek and Kwiller. There was an actual man called Quinn Hacquinn but he died, a couple of years ago now, beaten to death by an Accountant sympathiser in a row in a pub and thrown out into the street by the mob. The real Borodin was killed by a sniper’s bullet.”
“If you intervened in the original Mr. Lestrange’s life, and brought him back from the dead, and you did the same with the original Borodin and Quinn, why didn’t you help Mathew? Why didn’t you save his mother?”
“We did not bring Lestrange, Borodin and Hacquinn back from the dead. We assumed their identities. They are dead.”
“But you could.”
“Yes, we could.”
“Then why not?”
“The first historian-observer from our time, a person the humans who meet him will call the Tekton, taught us that we should not interfere in history. We cannot disturb the path of events because in doing so we may disturb the path of our own history. We might even eradicate ourselves from the future.