The Boy Who Fell from the Sky, Jule Owen [classic romance novels txt] 📗

Mathew says. “Probably nothing. If I still have it at lunchtime, I’ll make an appointment.”

“You shouldn’t have a headache.”

“No . . .” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a headache. Or when he’d slept so deeply. He feels drugged. 

His mother says, “Let me know if it doesn’t go away.” She moves to go. “Oh and thanks for helping with the locks. They’re working fine. They let me in without a hitch when I got home last night.”

“The locks!” Mathew says, remembering. “O’Malley. . . . Oh, god. Where’s O’Malley?”

“He’s there,” his mother says. “He’s stolen your bed.”

Mathew turns his head gingerly and glances back into his room. O’Malley is curled in his bed, asleep. 

“Did something happen?”

Mathew is confused. “I’m not sure.”

A horn sounds on the road. “Okay, now my driver’s pissed off with me,” his mother says.

Mathew raises an eyebrow, and his mother grins. “Language,” he says.

“Caught red-handed. But I don’t think you’re well at all. Make the appointment. Better safe than sorry.” 

She leans towards him and kisses him on the forehead. “Take it easy today, okay?”

Mathew nods. She turns. He watches her walk down the stairs and hears the door slam, the strange sound of the new locks bolting in place.

Slowly, he makes his way downstairs. Leibniz is in the kitchen, cleaning up after his mother. 

“Good morning, Mathew. Should I fix you breakfast?”

Mathew sits down at the table. “Yes, please.”

Leibniz isn’t surprised at this change in the routine, but then why would it be? It’s a machine.

“What would you like?”

“Hot rolls.”

The lights on Leibniz’s chest interface flash on and off for a moment. “We have the ingredients for hot rolls. Breakfast ETA four minutes. Do you want butter and jam?”

“Yes please, Leibniz.”

“Coming right away, Mathew.”

The Canvas is on, tuned in to the news channel. There is film footage of a young woman in handcuffs being bundled into the back of a police car by uniformed policemen. The headline scrolling along the bottom of the picture is: “Seventeen-year-old Reagan Feye arrested on suspicion of being a member of dissident Blackweb group Psychopomp.” 

“Breakfast is served,” Leibniz says. 

Mathew sits at the table. “Thank you, Leibniz,” he says. 

He starts to eat, watching the screen. He increases the volume of the Canvas via voice control. 

Prime Minister Saul Justice is being interviewed. He says, “I am sensitive to the arguments concerning freedom of speech. We live in one of the oldest and most advanced democracies in the world and, unlike our enemies, we respect the right of our citizens to express opinions. But this must be balanced with the need for national security. We are at war, and at times like these the people of this country need to understand who the enemy is. We don’t have time to squabble internally. If we do, we will lose this war. Psychopomp, as many of you will know, has a history of leaking state secrets. 

“We cannot afford to allow this organisation to exist beyond the laws you and I obey each day of our lives. So we are shutting it down. Reagan Feye is accused of being a member of this organisation. She will have a fair trial. But if she is found guilty, we will use the new powers Parliament has given us to bring the full weight of the law down upon her and any other members of this group we find. Let this be a warning.” Saul Justice is staring dead at the camera. “We will not tolerate traitors and dissidents. We will find you, wherever you are.” 

The journalist is flustered and disturbed. The commentators in the studio talk all at once, trying to explain what has just happened. Mathew turns off the Canvas. 

He finishes his breakfast and allows Leibniz to clean. 

His head is pounding. He goes upstairs, finds his Paper and checks in to his medibot. There is an alert. It says:

 Unidentified chemical disturbance prefrontal cortex, neocortex, parietal lobe, and hippocampus. Recommended remedy: two paracetamol. Select print to send request to edible carbon compound printer located in room: kitchen.

Mathew accepts. 

The medibot interface says, 

Request sent. Thank you. Please make an appointment with your GP if symptoms persist.

A text message comes through on his Paper via the Blackweb network. He gets the usual security warning. He thinks it might be Eva or Wooden Soldier, No Right Turn, or whatever he is called today, but it’s his grandmother. 

“Did you see the news?” she says.

“Yes. Briefly. How did they catch her?”

“Ironically, she’s the daughter of a senior politician in Saul Justice’s government. The SIS put surveillance on him to protect him and caught her accidentally.”

“Do you think she’ll betray the others?”

“I hope not. We live in frightening times. Have they chipped you yet?”

“Yes.”

Ju Chen is silent for a few moments. 

“Hello?” he says.

“Sorry. I’m shocked they’ve done it so quickly. Are you okay?”

“I feel a little strange today, I have to admit. I had an incredibly vivid dream. You know those dreams that are so vivid they feel real?”

“Yes, I do.”

“It was extraordinary. But I can’t remember it. It’s bugging me. I played a new type of virtual reality holovision game yesterday. I think it has messed with my head.”

“I keep telling you those holo-things are bad for you.”

“Yes, you do,” he says.

“But you should trust your dreams, Mathew. Sometimes they work in mysterious ways.”

“I might consider it, if I’m ever sure of the difference between dreams and reality again. Things are so weird here I don’t think I know the difference.”

“You need to play fewer Darkroom games,” his grandmother says.

Mathew has worn Soren Erlang’s spare Lenz and e-Pin ever since his father’s death. Lenzes are made to personal specifications to exactly match eye colour and retina pattern. When he disappeared, Mathew’s father was using his corporate communication equipment, and he left his personal devices at home. Mathew adopted them, and for some reason, even though it was obvious he was wearing his father’s Lenzes, his mother never objected. However, she gave him a new pair for his last birthday, to match his own eye colour, with a fashionable e-Pin. Now he removes his father’s Lenzes and replaces them with the pair his mother had made for him, peering into the mirror, into his own brown eyes for the first time in two years. 

Downstairs he collects his paracetamol from the printer and takes them with a glass of water from the kitchen. He stares out of the kitchen window at the garden. Finding himself staring at the garden wall, the one separating their garden from Mr Lestrange’s, something flashes in his head – a series of images: a blackbird with a bright yellow beak. O’Malley with a bird in his mouth. 

I climbed over the wall last night. 

The conservatory . . .

I fell through the conservatory!

Running upstairs, two stairs at a time, he bursts into his mother’s bedroom and goes to the window. Mr Lestrange’s conservatory is as it ever was. It isn’t broken. His mind bends. 

In the bathroom, he starts the shower running, undresses, and examines himself in the bathroom mirror. His ribs are a little more visible than normal. He tells himself he must try to eat more. Food is always the last thing on his mind. 

On his shoulder he notices a tiny red line he’s never noticed before, like a scratch or the scar of a scratch. Running his index finger along it, he has another one of those flashes. 

A cat, he thinks. A cat did this. 

A vivid image flashes into his mind of being knocked off his feet by a large wildcat, being chased through a jungle. It was in the game. A game, Mathew, he says to himself. It’s a coincidence. O’Malley must have scratched me in the night. 

He’s had O’Malley on his mind for days. His head is pounding, and he closes his eyes and leans against the sink. I need something stronger than the paracetamol. Maybe I will make an appointment with Dr Girsh.

After he showers, he goes back to his room and logs in to the school register on his Paper. He remembers he initiated some courses on quantum computing and security. It seems like a long time since he has considered these things. His mind wanders, and he feels restless. 

Opening Charybdis, he logs into the Blackweb and starts a MUUT session. MUUT is ugly and difficult to use, deliberately so, he guesses, as he starts a search on military virtual reality programs.

Leaving it to run, he goes downstairs again, to the Darkroom. O’Malley runs inside in front of him, straight for his litter tray. For a moment Mathew is confused. Why is O’Malley’s litter tray in the Darkroom? But then he remembers the locksmiths. The locks did get changed, and he did put O’Malley in the Darkroom, after all. O’Malley finishes in the box, and Mathew takes it back to the utility room, where it’s normally kept. Leibniz immediately sets to work cleaning it. O’Malley’s water and food bowls are also locked in the Darkroom. The poor cat was probably hungry and thirsty. Mathew puts them in their usual place and tops up O’Malley’s food bowl himself, giving him some enviro-chicken from the fridge to apologise for the delay to his breakfast. O’Malley eats gratefully. Mathew stands thoughtfully watching him. In his mind he’s retracing the events of the day before. The locksmiths came, he locked O’Malley away, and sent the beebot to Clara. Did he do this? 

He decides to call Clara on the beebot and goes back to the Darkroom where he starts the control software and makes his call. She answers immediately. 

“Hi,” she says. She sounds pleased to hear from him.

“Is this a bad time?”

“No. It’s a great time. I’m halfway through a music theory video lesson and bored to tears. It’s probably something you’d like. It’s on mathematics and music.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“I wish you could take the test for me at the end. Do you have video activated on your end? Here, I’m going to move the beebot, so you get a better picture.”

“I did a voice call. Hold on. It’s activated.”

“Is that better?”

“Yes. You’re still in your pyjamas.”

“My parents are both in town supervising some group project work, and I have virtual school. I’m being lazy. I’ll get dressed in a bit. I do feel at a disadvantage, though. When are you going to fix the beebot so I have video on my end?”

“Working on it,” he lies.

“I was going to call you.”

“Sure.”

“No, for real I was. I wanted to ask you if you would come to Gen’s later this afternoon to watch me play when I have my lesson. I’ve cleared it with Gen. I told her you are a Bach fan.” 

“Yes. I’d like to. Thanks.” 

“Great. What are you up to today?”

“Oh, you know. School.”

“What are you studying? I probably shouldn’t ask. I won’t understand it.”

“Quantum computing and security.”

“I knew I wouldn’t understand it.” 

“I’m not sure I do, either, to be honest. My head’s all over the place today.”

“Why, has something happened? You sound a bit strange. Are you okay?”

“I have a cracking headache. And I had peculiar dreams. Something weird happened last night . . .”

“Oh, hold on, Mat! Sorry .