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

  He shut the computer down and jumped down the stairs three at a time, and into the lounge.

  A man’s head peered up from the back of the sofa he was now standing behind and looked annoyed. “Shhh. We’re watching ‘Holiday Horrors’.”

  Nathan grimaced. His parents hadn’t changed—now they were glued to some reality show featuring hapless holidaymakers in strife. For as long as he could remember, they’d sat on that sofa night after night, hypnotised. TV parents, he called them. Oh well, it kept them off the streets. “Dad—your computer keeps freezing on me and I have to finish my assignment. I’m going to the labs to use the computers there, if that’s okay?” He waited for the response, and counted down the lag time under his breath. “7 ... 6 ... 5 ... 4 ... 3 ... 2—”

  A hand waved up from the couch. “That’s fine dear,” the disembodied voice of his mother said, “please be careful on the roads.”

  Please be careful of your imminent heart attacks, he thought, and grabbed his skateboard.

  Twenty minutes later he was at Professor Harrison’s lab building. He still had a swipe entry card, even though the last visit had been some time back. The Prof had told him to keep it. “Hang on to it, Nathan. I’m sure we’ll be working together again at some point. And in any case, you are a privileged member now. Come and go as you wish. My facilities are your facilities. Just don’t go pressing any buttons on any strange machines.” Nathan was still trying to live down his accidental foray into a parallel world by doing just that: pressing buttons on a strange machine when he thought he knew what he was doing.

  The building was devoid of people: the Prof must have been having a rare night off. He punched the code to open the old rem-collider room, and the door slid back. The room hadn’t changed, but the rem-collider was conspicuous by its absence. Only the blank podium and festoon of cables remained as proof of its existence.

  What was new though, was a shiny new bank of computers. Nathan whistled under his breath. “You have been busy spending money, haven’t you, Prof?”

  He pulled up a chair and booted up the biggest and shiniest of the lot. The monitor alone would have impressed his parents. He logged in and fired up the encryption site he’d been studying on and got to work. One of his major science scholarship assignments was cryptography and he had to say, he was taking to it mighty well. As long as he had a speedy enough machine to work on—and this one was blazing away nicely thank you. What he’d struggled to get anywhere near finishing in an hour at home would be done and dusted in a matter of minutes on the Prof’s new machine.

  While he waited for the last part to run, he swivelled around and looked over the room. Already what had happened was fading: his rescue of Sarina from the mental asylum, travelling to and from parallel worlds, then helping Sarina defeat Makthryg and Valkrog, the tyrants in the other world. His gaze fell to the empty podium and he wondered what Professor Malden had been working on all those years ago on the night of the explosion. He remembered what the Prof had said: “Ted was working on something new and all we know is that he was in an unusually excited state on the phone to his wife. That was the last we heard of him.”

  ‘Excited state’. A funny way to describe a scientist as methodical as Professor Ted Malden. The Prof had shared some of Malden’s older research on the rem particle with Nathan, and it was as dry as old toast. He’d had trouble staying awake reading the stuff. Maybe Malden had just had a creative hit and loosened some marbles. He scratched his cheek. That would make sense, actually. If he’d hit a creative streak, then even old dry-as-toast Malden could have made a giant leap to some conclusion no logic could follow. Information now lost to the world forever. Whatever it was, it killed him. And his wife. Nathan shuddered.

  A beep behind him tipped him out of his trance and he swivelled back, expecting to see the confirmation notice that his last routine had completed.

  Instead there was a pop-up message from Professor Harrison’s email. Nathan had no idea the email was even on, and he was embarrassed to find himself reading the message ... and then his jaw fell open and he forgot about his accidental violation of the Prof’s privacy.

  The message was a jumble of typefaces—like the old ransom notes he’d seen in movies, which they made by cutting out individual letters from a newspaper. When he tried to highlight and copy the words, he realised the message was an image. “I guess they didn’t want the words scanned,” he mumbled, and reached in his pocket for a pen. This was a message he had to get right. He retrieved the pen and wrote it down word for word, with a shaking hand.

 

  He sat back and tried to breathe. Now what? Whoever was blackmailing the Prof had no idea the rem-collider was missing in action—blasted out of existence by Sarina’s reinforced-rem from the other world. What would they do when they discovered the Prof didn’t have a rem invention to give them? And what did they mean by ‘children’? It dawned on him. He was one of the ‘children’. The note referred to Professor Harrison’s Dreamer Kids, no doubt about that. And he and Sarina were the two most powerful.

  But what would the Prof think of him reading his email? Should he tell him that he’d seen the message too? His brow creased. The Prof’s daughter was also a Dreamer Kid. He’d have sorted out some mega-nifty security, wouldn’t he? Shadowy men patrolling his house or something. A click from the door made him jump—until he realised it was only the latch completing its regular security cycle. He let out a long breath. What was he thinking? The Prof and Agent Blanchard would have everything under control—and it was possible this was only a crank message and he’d been reading too many spy thrillers. No, he didn’t want the Prof to think he’d been the one doing the spying and logging in to his email. He’d pop by in the next day or so and wait for the right moment to ask a casual question, and in the meantime, do some research of his own. Just in case.

  What he would do though, was tell Sarina to be on the alert. Also just in case.

  ~ 5 ~

  Secrets And Eggheads

  Sarina, her mother and Rona waited for the woman in charge of Chelton’s town records to meet with them. Sarina and her mother had picked up Rona at the train station in her mother’s car, and here they were, already investigating her family history. Sarina shifted on her feet.

  “What’s the matter, Sarina? Aren’t you interested to find out more about your great-aunts?” Her mother frowned at her.

  “Well ...” She didn’t know where to look. After all, both her great-aunts had gone quite mad and spent most of their lives in mental institutions. She was sure all this trip would do was confirm how depressing it was to have lunacy in her genes. Potentially. Maybe. Quite likely, the more she thought about it. Then there had been that awful period where she thought she was going mad, and it turned out to be the Professor’s dratted rem-collider machine. Something to do with super-creative people being sensitive to blasts of particles—what would she know? And according to Dreary Drysdale, she wasn’t even that sensitive. She rubbed her head again, for about the fifth time.

  “Sarina? Hello? Are you alright?”

  Sarina looked up at her mother, who was now peering at her with an even deeper frown. “Umm, yes. I just don’t understand how knowing more about my aunts will possibly make any difference.” She bit her tongue about the idea of having faulty genes.

  Rona spoke up. “If you study enough artistic history, you’ll find plenty of examples of extremely creative artists who pushed the edges of sanity. Some of them couldn’t handle the intensity of the creative process, and I think by learning more about what happened to them, we learn more about ourselves. Personally, I’m rather curious about these two ladies.” She gave Sarina a warm smile.

  “So you’re saying I nee
d to be on the edge of madness to do what Dreary Drysdale thinks I can’t?” Sarina couldn’t help return Rona’s smile with a hard stare.

  “No, that’s not what I meant. You’re still very young to understand how—”

  She was interrupted by a woman arriving at the information counter. Squat and with short grey hair, Sarina expected her to be quite unhelpful—until the woman’s face broke out into a welcoming smile. “So here’s a family after some information I hear?” She carried on smiling at the three of them. “I do apologise for the wait. I’m June Bradfield, and if it’s Chelton’s records you want to see, then I’m your go-to girl. So what can I help you with?”

  Sarina’s mother spoke first. “Thank you, Mrs Bradfield. I’m Francis Metcalfe—this is my daughter Sarina and her friend, Rona. We’re wondering if you have any information about Sarina’s great-aunts—my own aunts of course—it’s part of a research project that we hope will help Sarina understand her creative heritage.”

  The woman’s eyes twinkled as she looked at Sarina, then she pulled out a pen and notebook from under the counter and returned her gaze to Sarina. “How exciting, dear. Young people should take more active interest in their personal history. There’s often lots of fascinating nuggets waiting to be discovered—and maybe a few skeletons in the cupboard, eh?” She winked at Sarina.

  Sarina wasn’t sure she wanted to discover any nuggets, and other than finding out about her crazy great-aunts, she wasn’t searching for more skeletons. She forced a smile, not wishing to dampen the woman’s enthusiasm.

  Mrs Bradfield raised her eyes. “Not ready to speak yet? No problem, dear. Let’s get started then, shall we.” She turned to Sarina’s mother and assumed a business-like expression, with pen poised. “What names would we be searching for? And what do you hope to discover?”

  “The situation is a little ... delicate, shall we say,” Sarina’s mother said. “I was very small and knew nothing directly of my aunts, and ...”

  “And?” The woman looked puzzled.

  Sarina’s mother took a deep breath. “They were both taken into mental institutions at a relatively young age, as I understand it.”

  The woman pursed her lips. “Well then we would surely have records of that—and anyway, it’s nothing to be ashamed of these days. Can even be a bit of fun having a couple of eccentrics nesting in your family tree, don’t you think?” She said the last sentence while looking and smiling at Sarina, who again forced a brief—and tiny—smile in return. “So it’s information about the whys and wherefores of their ah, incarceration that you especially wish to learn, is it?”

  All three of them nodded in unison.

  June Bradfield smiled. “Very well then. But I’ll still need their names.”

  Sarina’s mother jumped a little. “Oh yes, how silly of me. Their names were Wendy and Samantha Masterton.”

  The woman froze on the way to putting pen to paper and looked back up at Mrs Metcalfe. “Wendy Masterton and Samantha Masterton?”

  Sarina’s mother nodded.

  The smile had vanished from June Bradfield’s face. “Then I cannot help you.”

  Rona frowned, and wheeled closer. “Why not? Surely it’s a matter of public record?”

  The woman looked at Sarina’s mother. “The records for those two are prohibited access due to the Official Secrets Act.”

  Sarina groaned. “Not the stupid Secrets Act again.”

  June Bradfield fixed her gaze on Sarina with a twinkle in her eye. “Hmmm. There’s more to you than meets the eye. I gather by your words you’ve already encountered the Official Secrets Act?”

  Sarina did not reply, but tugged on her mother’s sleeve. “Mum. You have Agent—er Mr Blanchard’s phone number, don’t you? I know you do, I’ve overheard you two chatting.”

  Sarina’s mother blushed. “Why ... yes, I do happen to have his number.”

  “Then call him, and ask him to get us security clearance or whatever it is we need—is that right Mrs Bradfield?”

  June Bradfield nodded. “It is. Though frankly, I very much doubt you’ll get it. I had some pretty high up eggheads in here just recently poking their noses in, and they weren’t allowed access. That’s how I first heard your great-aunts’ names.”

  “Why were their records classified?” Rona asked.

  The woman raised her eyes. “You’ll need security clearance to know that won’t you?”

  Sarina pulled her mother away from the counter and towards the double-doors to the street. “C’mon, Mum, call Agent Blanchard!” she whispered.

  Her mother looked bewildered. “But Sarina, I have no idea about all this secrets stuff. It’s the first I’ve heard about it.”

  “And the last, unless you call Agent Blanchard! Please, Mum?”

  Sarina’s mother thought for a moment, then nodded and pointed to the doors. “Better we do this outside I think.”

  All three of them made their way outside and down the ramp. Sarina’s mother was already on her phone by the time they reached the end. “Hello, William?”

  Sarina elbowed her mother in the ribs and whispered. “William?” Her mother ignored her.

  “It’s Francis. Yes, very well thank you—I’m sorry to rush, but you might be able to help us.” She explained what had transpired, then there was silence while she nodded, then looked back at the building they had exited. “Chelton Town Hall, Department of Public Records. The person to speak to is June Bradfield. She’s pleasant, but a stickler for the rules.” She nodded. “Okay ... and thank you, William. Yes, I’d like that.” She hung up and smiled at the other two. “He said wait a few minutes then go back in.”

  Sarina threw a suspicious look at her mother. “What would you like?”

  “Huh?”

  “You told William you’d like something he suggested.”

  Her mother blushed. “None of your business, Miss Metcalfe. Now let’s focus back on the task at hand, because I must say, this has got me quite mystified. Official Secrets Act indeed. As far as I ever knew, they were just a pair of batty old aunts.”

  Sarina had to admit, her own curiosity level had also jumped up a few hundred notches. But something the woman had said bugged her ... something about eggheads? “What did Mrs Bradfield mean by ‘eggheads’?”

  “It’s an expression for scientific or mathematic types. Not a very flattering one either,” Rona said. “Seems a bit odd, doesn’t it? You look a little less scared of what you might uncover now though.”

  “I was not scared!” Sarina pouted. “I still don’t see why learning more about my two crazy aunts will help me with Drysdale—do you?”

  Rona smiled. “Not yet. But you never know. At the very least, it will make an interesting story for you to tell your grandkids. Come—let’s go back in and see if our dear William has been able to open some doors for us.”

  They walked—and wheeled—up the ramp and stood at the counter. June Bradfield was already waiting for them wearing a bemused expression. She arched her eyebrows and nodded at them. “Well, it isn’t every day three ordinary women surprise me by pulling strings to bypass the Secrets Act.”

  Sarina smiled at her mother, then looked at the woman behind the counter. “Did Mr Blanchard sort it out for us?”

  The woman shook her head. “I have no idea who your Mr Blanchard is, but he has friends in high places. No—I just received a call from Minister Leighton himself. The man in charge of Home Security.”

  Rona and Sarina’s mother exchanged glances.

  “Great,” Rona said, flashing the woman a disarming smile. “Now where do we go to view their records?”

  “That’s the thing, isn’t it. Their records were moved to Gloucester. I don’t know what your aunts did, Mrs Metcalfe, but someone doesn’t want anyone to find out about it. Gloucester has an Archival Unit of Home Security where some of our country’s most precious secrets are stored.”

  Sarina slumped. “So after all that, we still can’t see anything.” She turned to go.
<
br />   “Actually the opposite is true. I’ve been authorised to give all three of you clearance to see anything and everything to do with your aunts. Not even those eggheads got anywhere near that. I’ve telephoned George over at the Unit—knowing him, he’s already in contact with the Department to obtain your codes.” She studied all three of them. “I don’t know what you do—or did—to have that much influence, but I hope the powers that be trust your judgement. Overriding the bureaucracy of the Secrets Act is not an everyday occurrence.”

  Sarina didn’t know where to look, and tried to offer an explanation. “We ... um ... I helped out when—”

  June Bradfield held up her hand to stop Sarina. “This is what I mean. I don’t want to know, and neither should I know.” She fixed Sarina with a stern expression. “Blabbing about anything is bad business. Remember: Loose Lips Sink Ships.”

  Sarina flushed, and nodded, lost for words.

  Rona looked at her watch. “We’ve still got time to get to Gloucester—if you’re willing to drive us there, that is?” She looked up at Sarina’s mother, who smiled.

  “I think Mrs Bradfield here would be quite disappointed in us if we didn’t,” she said.

  “You’ll need this then.” June Bradfield thrust a piece of paper into Mrs Metcalfe’s hand. “The address and confirmation of your status.”

  “Thank you,” Sarina’s mother said, “I think.”

  Back in the car, Sarina sat in the back and tried to sort out the thoughts spinning in her head, while her mother negotiated the traffic. She knew her great-aunts had suffered some awful mental illness when they were not much older than her, and had been confined to mental institutions for the rest of their lives. But she realised she didn’t understand enough to know what a mental illness was. She leaned forward between her mother and Rona. “What was it that great-aunts Wendy and Samantha actually had?”

  “Some sort of mental illness, dear.” Sarina’s mother was concentrating on the road ahead.

  “Yes, I know that. But what is a mental illness exactly? Does it make you”—she furrowed her brow, searching for the right words—“stare at people with big eyes, or freeze in one position or something?”