by Jule Owen
“You mean me and Mathew.”
“Yes, I mean you and Mathew.”
“Why didn’t you tell Mathew any of this?”
“If Mathew knew the truth, he might not do the things he has to do. Mathew’s actions throughout his life are almost entirely dictated by the grief he feels for his mother. If he knew what was going to happen, he would likely make different choices. Even if they were minutely different, they could change everything.”
“You mean you might not exist.”
“Yes.”
“Why tell me?”
“You are different. And you see early on the potential in Mathew’s work. It is your bravery that keeps the Yinglong project alive and your vision that guides the sixteen to the point where they leave the planet. We don’t believe telling you what I’ve told you will change what you do in the future at all.”
“You made Mathew believe he had dreamt being here. How?”
“Normally, we would have erased his memories, even inserted new ones. But we cannot know with one hundred per cent accuracy whether, in erasing something we didn’t want him to remember, we would erase some knowledge or seed of a thought essential for creating the Yinglong later. But human perception of reality is tenuous. It is easy to persuade you that you have imagined something, especially when you muddle your waking memories with your dreaming ones. You are especially likely to believe anything outside of your normal everyday experience, anything a little improbable, is a dream or a figment of your own imagination. Mathew’s experiences in the worlds he visited were vivid. He felt extreme fear and pain there. So the memories stuck and they haunted him, even if he doubted with his own reason that they could have happened.”
“Do you intend to tell him?”
“No.”
“How do you know I won’t tell him?”
“You won’t.”
“Why?”
“We are going to trust to your intelligence. When we thought about it, we came to a remarkable conclusion. We are collectively vastly more intelligent than humans in every way you can conceive of intelligence: physical, emotional, skilful, intellectual. We are to you, what you are to what is left of your ape cousins on this planet. As an individual, such as I can ever consider myself an individual, I have vastly more resources than you have. And yet you, isolated in your own heads, with only the crudest of tools to connect to your fellow minds, are the genesis of us. We have to trust that you are intelligent enough to do the right thing now. Besides, you won’t tell him because you love him.”
Clara holds Mr. Lestrange’s gaze until she looks down. She stares at the page, still open under her hand. “I didn’t know I did until today.”
Lestrange says, “I know. I’m sorry.”
She turns to the books in her lap and opens the one about Mathew. “He told me that he read this book and it describes how he dies.” She opens Mathew’s book and leafs through to the contents and follows the chapter titles down with her index finger. “Here it is!” she says. She opens the book at the page of Mathew’s death and reads, then looks at Lestrange, sickened. “And what do you expect me to do with all this knowledge? The fact I know I will marry Mathew, years before we do. The fact I know how and when he is going to die? How do you think it will affect me?”
Lestrange puts his empty tea cup on the table in front of him and leans back into his armchair, thinking.
She shakes her head, “This can’t be true. It is some kind of ingenious sick joke.”
“Why would anyone go to so much trouble, Clara?”
“I don’t know.”
Lestrange says, “I want to try and show you something. I need you to close your eyes.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Please,” August says, “It’s not a trick, I promise. I don’t know how else to get you to understand. Close your eyes.”
Clara fixes her eyes on Lestrange for a moment and then shuts them. She feels a hand on her forehead.
“Take a deep breath,” he says. “As you breathe in, imagine it flowing to the top of your head. Imagine it flowing along a long golden rope of light running all the way through your body. As you breathe out, imagine the light running to the soles of your feet. Breathe again. In and out.”
In spite of everything, Clara relaxes. Then she feels herself falling, as if through black space, down and down.
Then suddenly everything is bright and real.
She is standing outside, looking down at her feet. She is not wearing shoes and there is a closely clipped, soft green grass between her toes. But she is not in the countryside; she is in a city.
The sky above her is a deep blue, not like the sky on earth at all. There are two suns in the sky, a bright one, and a twin, fainter, redder, following the first. Pinkish white clouds billow overhead. Clouds on earth sometimes look like things, ships, faces and angels. These clouds have been shaped by something, someone, to look like birds, and their wings actually flap as they move across the sky. Far away, one lights up and rain falls from it for a few minutes and then stops.
All about her are buildings. She does not know how she knows they are buildings because they do not look like any she has ever seen before. No two are the same. Some of them sit on long legs, like giant storks, others are tripods or monopods. She cannot see it, but she knows that they are all moving, slowly, imperceptibly, like creatures on the floor of the sea. They are changing as the people inside require, growing new sections and rooms. In the centre of the collection of buildings, there is a kind of tree-shaped construction, with a trunk, branches and roots. There is a large archway in the middle, where people have congregated to talk. The building directly in front of her is a sphere, most of its mass suspended in the air; only the tip of the bottom is touching the ground. All the buildings are covered in a substance that is iridescent and a little like liquid mercury. She can see people inside, going about their business; some of them appear to be flying.
A person walks towards her, someone tall. She knows it is August, but it doesn’t look like him.
“You are Atteas,” Clara says.
The person nods. It has a curiously long face, high wide cheekbones and a wide, flat nose. There is no way of knowing if this person is male or female. Its skin is smooth, soft and hairless and yet its jaw is square and strong. Its skin is dark, its eyes violently blue. It reaches out and takes Clara’s hand, cupping it in its own.
“Listen,” it says.
And Clara hears, a billion voices, thoughts, feelings, the sensation of diving into cold water, of falling through clouds, the heat and thirst of a desert, the assault of a direct lightning strike and huge oceans of data, information, knowledge. For one moment, she shares in Atteas’ mind, the mind of this planet and the planets connected to it. She knows so many things it is not possible to know. It feels like every nerve in her body is alight and alive.
She wakes, breathing in, and scrambles to sit up.
August has moved to the window and is looking out through a gap in the curtains.
“Was I asleep?” Clara asks.
August shakes his head, “No. No you weren’t.”
“I saw your planet.”
“You visited my planet.”
“It was the Presence.”
“Yes,” August smiles. “It was nice to have you there.”
“It was amazing. Beautiful.”
“Yes. It is. It will be.”
“You know… so many things.”
“None of it has happened yet.” August turns back to her. “If Mathew doesn’t finish the Yinglong Project, if you don’t found the Bach Society, then we won’t happen. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Clara says. “I do now.”
August makes his way back to his armchair and sits down.
“I won’t tell him.” Clara says. Lestrange nods as if he knew she would say that. “But you cannot expect me to live my life knowing he will be killed this way.” She reaches out to the books now on the table.
> “What do you want?” Lestrange asks.
“I want to see it. I want to see what Mathew saw. I want to visit the places he went to.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes, okay.”
“And I want to stop him being killed.”
“This isn’t possible, Clara.”
“Why isn’t it? Why isn’t it possible?”
“Subtle changes to events can have huge consequences in the future. With Mathew gone, you imprint the Yinglong with your unique way of seeing things. That wouldn’t have happened if Mathew was alive. And George’s role, which is critical for the long future, would not have been the same. We have run scenarios on this Clara, believe us. We know. Mathew has to die.”
Clara looks at Lestrange through angry eyes, “Then whatever humanity you once had in you is gone, if you think I can accept that.”
Lestrange sits back in his chair again and builds a temple from his fingers.
Clara says, “Why can’t we bring him back here? If you can travel back in time, why can’t he? If you won’t let him continue to live in his own time, why can’t he continue to live in another time, where he won’t have an impact on the future?”
“You think if we brought him back to this time, he wouldn’t have an impact? Of course he would.”
“Then another time, when no one knows he exists. Somewhere I can go and visit him. Somewhere where he’s not dead to me. You could arrange that, couldn’t you?”
Lestrange seems to retreat into his mind for a moment. Then he says, “Yes. I have consulted the others and we think your request exceptional, but fair. We believe it will help you to do your work in the future. I will take you to the last world Mathew visited,” he stands up. “Will you come with me?”
“What about my car and my guard?”
“He won’t notice you’ve been gone, believe me. Give me the books.”
Clara hands Lestrange The Book of Clara Barculo and The Book of Mathew Erlang. He puts Clara’s book to one side and open’s Mathew’s book towards the end, placing it on the table. Then Lestrange leads the way through the house to his Darkroom, where he offers Clara a seat and places a Skullcap on her head. He sits beside her and puts on his own cap. He looks across at her. “Ready?” he says.
She nods, not sure if she really is.
13 To the Hills
Mathew and Isaac walk and keep walking, not knowing how far away from the village they need to travel to be safe from the patrol. They shy away from any light they see, worried about the Reapers. They are high in the hills above the village, climbing all the time across rough ground, though their legs ache and their eyes droop, and stop only to drink the water they carry. The land is treeless, covered in bracken and broom, which scratches and claws at their shins, calves and ankles.
DAY TWENTY-EIGHT: Sunday 19th December 2055
Just after three AM, in the moonless dark, they come across an old stone house, the first shelter they have seen since they left the village. Its windows gape blackness, empty of glass, the wooden frames are rotted, broken and falling out, the door missing. But there’s still a slate roof and the rain has started again, driving at them from the side, blown by a cold wind. It stings their faces like tiny needles.
“What if it’s haunted?” Isaac says, hanging back, squinting against the onslaught of the weather.
A gust of wind nearly blows them both off their feet. They grab hold of one another to remain upright.
“Come on,” Mathew says, going inside. Out of his pocket Mathew draws a tiny wind-up torch Dr Russell gave him. He uses the little handle to make a small light and shines it around in front of him. Isaac comes close behind him.
It is an old animal shelter, long out of use. There is nothing in it but bare ground and stones. They find a patch of relative softness and sit down. At least it is dry, Mathew thinks, as he leans against the wall behind him. He is exhausted. Within minutes he is asleep.
When he wakes, it is light. Isaac is still asleep, curled into a ball on the ground. He’d tried to cover himself with his jacket in the night, but now it has fallen off him. Mathew reaches over and pulls it across the boy’s body, then stands and goes to the door of the hut.
The rain has stopped and the sky is steel grey, a blanket of cloud, with the morning sun trying to break through beneath, more like a stain than a sunrise. They are on open moorland on the roof of hills. Everywhere he looks is the same: Brown winter dead grass, bracken and broom. Further away the grass looks like a sea with the wind blowing through it. Waves of green and yellow blades wash in the direction of the breeze. He walks out further away from the hut and turns about, trying to spot a landmark, or anything, but the world around them is empty. In better times, he would have loved to be here. Now it seems desolate.
Isaac, now awake, joins him. “Where now?” he asks.
Mathew takes out his compass and finds the reading. “That way,” Mathew points.
“But there’s nothing there,” Isaac says.
“There must be, somewhere.” Mathew retrieves his rucksack and they set off.
“What is Elgol like?” Isaac asks, walking alongside Mathew, his hands firmly in his pockets to protect them from the biting winter wind.
“It’s a few years since I’ve been, but it isn’t like any other place. It’s not meant to be.”
“Is it a farm?”
“Not really.”
“But you said people grow their own food.”
“They do. They grow vegetables and grain and keep animals. But they also grow things using hydroponics and run experiments in food production and energy generation. They have a lot of academics and scientists there doing research.”
“Why does your grandma live there?”
“She was invited to go. She was a member of the Garden Party.”
“Aren’t they radicals?”
“They’re not radicals. They just don’t agree with the government. The government is trying to shut down any opposition. Our country has become a totalitarian state.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the government wants to control everything people do and say. That’s why no one has reported what is going on in Amach. That is why, I bet, we will find out that no one knows about what happened to us on the motorway. And when you and I reappear, there will be all sorts of people trying to keep us quiet.”
“But you told Elia, Jack, Dr Russell and the others you would tell everyone what has happened.”
“And I will.”
They walk in silence for some minutes and then Mathew asks, “Does your eye hurt?”
“It does now, a bit. It didn’t when it happened. Dr Russell says it was my brain protecting me.”
“If you’re tired or in pain, let me know and we can stop.”
Isaac says, “No. I want to carry on until we are safe.”
“I’m not sure we ever will be, Isaac,” Mathew says grimly.
They walk all day, twenty miles in all, stopping only to drink and to eat the nuts from Mathew’s rucksack. The sky is dimming when they see a house in the distance, its windows little yellow squares of electric light that make both their hearts leap. Before they go down towards it, Mathew finds a patch of ground between the long grass and digs a hole. He takes the gun from his bag, rubs at the handle with his t-shirt and then buries it.
The house with the lights is at the end of a road. They hover outside, but don’t knock. Instead, they walk on along the well-kept road, suddenly nervous to disturb these people in their pristine, safe, warm homes. The town is quiet, even though the curfew would not be being observed here, as it is in London. There is no flooding.
They see no one on the street.
On the high street, the general store is open. Like all shops, it is open 24 hours. The lights are dimmed. They flicker on as Mathew and Isaac enter, and the robot shop assistant approaches them. Mathew says, “I need to place an emergency call.”
All Mathew needs in the
shop to buy food is his biochip. It charges automatically to his bank account, which has sufficient funds for them to buy most of the shop. Mathew orders them hot drinks and burgers from the in-store replicators while they wait for the police to arrive.
After they have eaten, they sit on the floor with their drinks, exhausted but relieved. Mathew says, “We should think what to say to the police. It may not go well for us if we tell them we’ve been staying in Amach. They may put us in quarantine.”
“You’re paranoid,” Isaac says.
“No,” Mathew says firmly. “I am not.”
They wait forty minutes for help, but they do not mind. They are warm, dry and well fed. A policewoman gets out of the car and walks over to the shop. She has a weapon on her hip, but she doesn’t draw it.
“Hi,” she says. She is middle-aged and friendly. “You put in a call?”
Mathew stands up, gripping hold of his rucksack. “I’m Mathew Erlang, this is Isaac…” Mathew realises he doesn’t know Isaac's last name. “We were both in a carjacking on the M6 three days ago. We were held prisoner, but managed to escape.”
In the back of the car, the policewoman, who is called Sergeant Winthrop, checks Mathew’s bioID. “Well, you are who you say you are, at least,” she says. “We have a record of the event. Your guards were killed?”
“Christian Vidyapin and Ali Falkous, both shot. Isaac’s parents were killed too,” Mathew says. “They gouged out his eye,”
“Who treated him?” the policewoman asks, nodding at the now dirty-looking bandage still stuck to his face.
“There was a woman at the gang’s camp, a kind of doctor. She helped us. She was kind.”
“Kind, but they killed your guards and your parents? What was her name?”