The Dreamer Chronicles Trilogy Boxed Set Vol I - III: A Sci-Fi Parallel Universe Adventure (The Dreamer Chronicles - Science Fiction For Kids And Adults)

by Robert Scanlon

  The creature moved his talon away and watched as the Professor moved to the collider.

  He stood over the keypad and took in the array of codes on the small screen. He turned to the bird-man. “I will make some adjustments, then operate the device again. I can see the mistake the boy made.”

  He could indeed see the ‘mistake’. Nathan had been smart, but he’d underestimated the ability of the machine and the unknown element of Malden’s data settings. But if he modified Nathan’s codes to fall slightly short of the collision-ceiling, then he would avoid the possibility of creating another portal—though goodness knows how it happened in the first place—and finish what Nathan had failed to do.

  The creature hissed. “I’m waiting.”

  He drew in a deep breath. The one factor no-one was able to take into account was the instability of the collider. Almost anything might push it over the brink, and without the technology yet available to generate replacement rem-particles ... it didn’t bear thinking about.

  But what other choice was there? He placed a finger on the keypad and began punching in the new settings. He looked at the creature. “I am ready. You must also be ready to open the channel with ... your ‘master’. I’m not sure how long I am able to sustain the connection. I may have to shut it down at any moment, or we will all be killed.”

  The creature’s beak twitched. “Then you understand perfectly what is at stake. Begin.”

  Keeping one eye on the bird-man, the Professor tapped two more codes, then thumbed the grey rubber button. An array of LED lights on the bottom of the keypad sprang into life and flickered in a wave of regular orange pulses across the top of the collider. So far so good. He hovered his finger once more over the grey button—and pushed.

  A sharp high-pitched crack split the warehouse, and all the lights flicked out. The row of orange lights had turned red and were not moving across in a wave anymore. They were blinking in frantic unison.

  Not that anyone was conscious to see it.

  ~~~

  The Professor groaned and rolled over. Where was he? It felt like someone had dropped a computer on his head. The thought of a computer brought the memory of settings and flashing LED lights flooding back, and he pushed himself to his knees, bracing himself for the worst.

  Today might have been his lucky day. The creature was on its back and unconscious.

  Without hesitation, and ignoring the pounding in his temples, the Professor picked up a nearby crate and dropped it on the bird-man’s head. No point in taking chances, he thought. He ran to the ropes Valkrog had used on him; then spent the next few minutes securing the large creature; taking great care to isolate each talon, and noting again with curiosity the missing talon the creature had indicated was connected with his master.

  Satisfied the bird-man was well restrained, he moved to the machine. He had programmed the collider to include a timed event, then power back to standby, where any instability would be minimised.

  He stared in dismay at the row of red lights blinking on and off in oblivious unison.

  Maybe today wasn’t his lucky day after all. The timed event had worked, that was clear. He shot a glance at the creature. The spiking rem had knocked them both out exactly as he had predicted.

  But instead of powering-down to a more stable status after the spike, the machine had somehow shifted itself to a different state. A state of much higher instability. What that meant precisely, he didn’t know right now. But he could guess. In all likelihood, the machine’s appetite for sucking rem out of their world had just increased. Substantially.

  He patted his pocket and breathed a sigh of relief. He did have his phone. He pulled it out, thinking furiously. They would have to act fast if they were to have any chance of finding Nathan ... wherever he was.

  He punched in the number. “Blanchard? Good. No time to talk”—he glanced at the phone and confirmed what he thought: Low battery—“we’ve had a situation here. The boy has vanished and I have an unstable machine ... You don’t know where I am? Then put a trace on this phone, but be quick, my battery is almost out. Once you have my location, stop anything else you are doing and bring me Sarina—what? ... No, it’s an emergency. Have your men return to get headshields and a portable Faraday Cage. I daren’t move this machine, and certainly not in full view of the public.”

  He sat down on a crate and stared at the row of lights. Eventually, he would have to disclose the surprising discovery he had made since Malden’s disappearance—or death. But not now. Things were already frightening enough. What he needed was someone who could still open a portal, even in the face of disappearing rem. Right now he only knew one person who could do that. He needed Sarina’s creative powers. Badly.

  ~~~

  Sarina unpacked her bags in her Paris hotel room. After an exhausting day, exacerbated by the sleepless, nightmare-laden night that came before, she was almost ready to drop.

  She had her own deluxe room next to her mother, courtesy of Agent Blanchard’s team she supposed; perhaps men in black were capable of feeling guilty after all. She had to admit, looking around the room at the king-sized bed, the silk throw-pillows, and the cute Eiffel Tower-shaped chocolates placed on the folded back sheet, it was rather sumptuous.

  She lay back on the bed and enjoyed the luxurious feeling of a first-class mattress. Oh, how sleep tonight would be heavenly! As long as the rats kept away. But anyway, that was all ably handled and well under control now they had located the warehouse. The best thing she could do now was to put it all out of her mind.

  And to focus on painting. Finally.

  She stretched out on the bed. At long last, here she was. An advanced painting ‘creative workshop’; though in the case of these French artists and organisers, their idea of the perfect location for such a workshop was obviously a 6-star hotel.

  She twisted over and reached for the remote control. It had buttons for everything! Air-conditioning; the lights; the curtains; the TV.

  She pressed the TV button and it roared to life. She quickly turned the volume down. Not that it mattered to her if it was loud or soft; the announcer was speaking in French and she couldn’t make head nor tail of it.

  The vision was a different matter. A helicopter view of buildings that looked familiar. She clapped her hand to her mouth. What was her school doing on French TV?

  She turned the sound up again, but it still didn’t make any sense to her.

  News subtitles slid along the bottom of the screen. In French of course, but she noted the words down as carefully as she could. She would ask someone later tonight, after dinner and once the evening’s first session finished.

  The announcer continued. “Les psychologues sont encore intrigués par la sincérité des enfants. Ils insistent sur le fait qu’ils ont vu une grande créature noire, qui ressemblait à un homme comme un oiseau, qui leur a demandé à plusieurs reprises de l’emmener à une sorcière orange. L’enquête se poursuit. Dans d’autres nouvelles ...”

  The picture changed and Sarina switched off the television. She took a deep breath and tried to calm down. She had come here to get away from stress and follow her passion! Not to get more stressed by watching TV. Anyway, how silly was she—as if her school being on TV was anything to do with her. She was nervous about the retreat and feeling a little on edge, that’s all. She scolded herself and lay back on the bed. A short rest before dinner; get changed, call on her mother and they would no doubt enjoy some crepes and gateaux. She smiled. She did know some French after all.

  But no over-eating. She had works to create! Tonight!

  She dozed a while, then together with her mother, enjoyed the attention of the polite waiters and a typically busy hotel restaurant. Now they were standing outside the conference room, along with thirty or so other attendees.

  Sarina felt the goosebumps on her arms and the back of her neck and she strained to see if the doors had opened yet. This was going to be sooo exciting! All her life she had been by far the best artist i
n class; won awards; had exhibitions—and now, this was her chance to be among talented and respected creatives. People more skilled than her. People who would stretch her.

  The doors opened. She glanced at her mother and smiled. Her mother smiled back and held her hand as they walked in, then let go to sit at the back of the room in the guest seating.

  “Please, take a place at any easel.” The French-accented voice boomed from the stage. A jovial woman, short, and immaculately attired, beamed at her subjects and gestured to the array of easels, set out in a wide circle, with their canvases facing outwards. In front of each was a stool, where the artist would sit facing in to the circle.

  Sarina walked up to the easel nearest the woman on the stage and sat on the stool in front of it. She placed her materials on the tall rack next to the easel, and looked up at the woman, whom she saw, rather disconcertingly, was now looking directly at her. Sarina smiled back. She’d taken this spot, hoping not to miss any of the stage action, but now realised it was she that would be under the spotlight. Oh well.

  “What is your name, child? You are so young to be at an event of this nature!”

  The woman’s positive energy was infectious and Sarina was used to adults quizzing her about her age. Most often, they couldn’t believe someone so young was capable of great artwork. Had they never heard of Mozart? “I’m Sarina, Mrs ... ah?”

  “Techet. Madame Techet,” Madame Techet said, still smiling.

  Sarina nodded. “Ah, merci, Madame.” She flushed. “I’m twelve actually.”

  “Then you are certainly the youngest one here! But obviously talented, or your application would not have been accepted.”

  Sarina blushed again. “I’ll let other people be the judge of that, Madame.”

  “Ah, and modest too. I like it!” The woman nodded with a smile, and bounced off to the other side of the stage. “Please! Take your places at any spare easel!” she boomed into the microphone. She glanced back at Sarina and smiled again.

  This was truly going to be great! Sarina relaxed and looked over at her mother, who waved. She smiled back at her.

  “Quiet please! Silence s’il vous plait!”

  The hubbub from the excited group of attendees calmed down, leaving a wonderful apprehensive tension in the air.

  “Good evening ladies and gentlemen ... and young lady.” Madame Techet beamed across at Sarina, and Sarina realised with a shock she must be only half the age of the next oldest person there. Not that she was very good with estimating ages, but everyone else looked much older. A few of the guests at the back smiled at her and nodded their appreciation. Sarina didn’t know where to look, so she gave them a quick smile and pretended to arrange her paints.

  “As this is our introductory evening workshop, it is my chance to get acquainted with everybody—”

  Madame Techet spoke perfect English, but with a delightfully artistic-sounding French accent. She pronounced each syllable of ‘everybody’ with equal weight. Sarina shivered with anticipation.

  “So we will experience some freeform expression for one hour, then discuss only the positive aspects of everybody’s work; the things that we all like. The choice of materials is up to each artist, and you are free to walk around at any time, and to introduce yourselves to each other. I like my creative workshops to be exceptionally organic.”

  Sarina smiled. This was going to be fun.

  She reached for her pencil—and felt the wave of darkness engulfing her. No! Not now! She fought the dizziness and just managed to clutch her pencil.

  She stared at the canvas. Surely this couldn’t be happening? She stood, and decided to walk around first. Perhaps she had eaten too much gateaux at dinner? She looked over at her mother, whose brow was furrowed in alarm and was already moving forward in her chair. She shook her head briefly at her mother and pointed to the other student artists. Her mother shrugged and sat back.

  As she walked, she saw not everybody had started. Some had puzzled looks on their faces. Madame Techet was talking quietly to a young man who looked to be on the verge of tears. Sarina frowned. Maybe everybody had eaten bad cake at dinner?

  She stopped behind a middle-aged woman who had started, but seemed to be having some trouble continuing. She turned and looked at Sarina and forced a smile. “A little stage fright I think, haha. Perhaps we’re all a bit intimidated by the Madame?”

  Sarina nodded. “Me too.” She walked on, straight into another wave of dark-dizziness and she stumbled slightly. She held her hand out to steady herself, and grabbed hold of a nearby easel. This was awful! She would have to excuse herself. Her mother arrived by her side.

  “Sarina! What’s wrong?” Her mother supported her and they walked to the back of the room, and sat down.

  “Maybe it was something at dinner, Mum. I ... I think I have to tell Madame Techet that I have to excuse myself. I’ll be alright tomorrow, once this has passed through my system.” But she knew she wouldn’t be ‘alright tomorrow’. What she had couldn’t be cured. Except by very long stays in mental institutions accompanied by people who liked to poke things into your brain, and who would ever want to call that a cure?

  A part of her wanted to hope. That if she had one more night’s rest, she’d be fine. Yes.

  She stood up and walked unsteadily to Madame Techet. “Madame, I, ah ...”

  The woman had a puzzled look on her face. “It is okay my little one. I think you are not the only one, no?” A few of the others appeared to be taking their leave.

  Maybe it was only an upset tummy? Now she was confused. And scared. “Thank you, Madame Techet. I ... I’ll be fine in the morning. I’m really looking forward to your creative workshop, honestly.” She gave the woman a weak smile, and walked back to her mother, who stood to leave.

  “Thanks, Mum. I think I need some rest.”

  Her mother nodded and opened the conference room door. Standing on the other side, his hand raised to pull the door open, was Agent Blanchard.

  “Agent Blanchard,” Sarina said, in a dreamy voice, before fainting to the floor, “we must stop meeting like this.”

  ~~~

  Sarina was not unconscious for long, according to Agent Blanchard, who was now sitting in her hotel room, across from her mother, who occupied the chair on the other side of the bed. Sarina sat on the bed, oddly feeling much better.

  Her mother was talking. “Mr Blanchard, I still insist this is most extraordinary. While I do appreciate the lengths you have gone to in arranging transport and the wonderful accommodation, my daughter is already terribly stressed! She already agreed to help, which as I understand, she has done, and now you want more. Please, make your case and then leave us. Sarina needs rest, and then she has a very busy creative workshop to attend, and if that’s not all, she has the final of the National Young Artists Breakthrough Competition in three days.”

  Agent Blanchard nodded. “I understand, Mrs Metcalfe. If this emergency was not of the status Professor Harrison has assigned it, then I would not even be troubling you. But—”

  “There’s always a but with you people, isn’t there! Surely you have the entire FBI and goodness knows who else at your disposal? But no, you need a twelve-year old girl.” Her mother crossed her arms and pressed her lips tight.

  The Agent straightened his suit jacket before replying. “I’m sorry to say, Mrs Metcalfe, that right now, the Professor believes Miss Metcalfe may be one of the only people who is talented enough to help.”

  “What about Nathan? Didn’t he find the Professor? I mean, if you are talking to the Professor, you’ve found him, right?” Sarina said.

  “We’ve struck an unusual situation, Miss Metcalfe. Apparently Master Goldberg attempted a rescue before we located him and the warehouse. I am not privy to any more details yet, only that the Professor told me there was an accident with the collider.”

  “Is Nathan okay?” Sarina felt clammy sweat beading on her forehead.

  “We don’t know. He has vanished. Something to do
with a temporary portal, the Professor thinks.”

  Sarina’s heart sank. The silly boy. What had he gone and done? Now what?

  Agent Blanchard turned back to Sarina’s mother. “As for the FBI? This project is quite separate. I have a small team on secondment from various ... agencies ... but we are not instructed to share this with any others in any other departments. The Professor has some important friends who do not wish to have his research widely known.”

  “Then why involve children?” her mother said. “Official Secrets Acts mean nothing to them you know.”

  “That’s up to the Professor, Mrs Metcalfe. But if I might offer my opinion? When children are entrusted with power and secrets, they are far more likely to respect the human race than adults.”

  “Except for Nathan!” Sarina had shifted from being concerned for Nathan to being annoyed. Her friend’s impetuous transgression was likely to cost her the creative workshop. But she owed Nathan bigtime for rescuing her from that horrible Stratfords Mental Health Institute, and if this really was an emergency ... then her sense of what was the right thing to do meant she would help the Professor, no matter what. The thought of Stratfords brought the very real threat of her own health and her recent episode back into her head.

  “Master Goldberg’s actions were ... unfortunate,” Agent Blanchard said. “This is one reason why Professor Harrison asked me to locate you and ah, ask for your help.”

  Sarina’s eyes narrowed. “He didn’t ask at all did he? He told you to bring me, no matter what, didn’t he?”

  The Agent nodded. “I will not lie to you, Miss Metcalfe.”

  “Well, tell him he’s just lucky I live up to your idea of kids who can be trusted to do the right thing, because I’m coming anyway!”

  “Sarina!” Her mother looked shocked. “You’ll miss the creative workshop!”

  Sarina grimaced and looked at Agent Blanchard. “I’m sure Agent Blanchard will make it up to me. Once I’ve helped the Professor. Isn’t that right?”

  Agent Blanchard smiled and stood. “I will meet you in the foyer in ten minutes. Time is of the essence, Miss Metcalfe. If we are to save your friend.”