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

  “But I can’t do it without your help. Um, do you have any idea how we can get our hands on about one-and-a-half million Dreamer Kids in a hurry?” She heard Agent Blanchard suck air through his teeth. “Would your mass-text-SMS thing help? What would you do?” She cringed and waited.

  Nathan turned around. “I thought you were dead. When you were sucked through that portal I mean. And Rona—is she ... ?”

  Sarina shook her head. “Not dead. And not legless either. I’m sorry, Nathan. You’re not a bully, I know you’re not.” She sighed. “How are we going to get everyone to work together?”

  Blanchard butted in. “Miss—does Professor Harrison know about this idea? To mass-recruit Dreamer Kids?”

  “I hope so. If Professor Malden has managed to squeeze it into their enthralling and most intelligent private discussions about strings, quince, and spin.”

  Nathan snapped his fingers. “That’s it!” He looked at her. “And it’s quintessence, not quince.”

  Sarina frowned. “Quintessence? How will that help?”

  Nathan scowled at her. “No, not quintessence. What are you on about? Intelligence. Private Intelligence.”

  She had no idea what he meant.

  “Remember that Tabberwacky guy?”

  “Yes—the one who came to our school you mean? Before we were—”

  “Yes, before we were friends”—he looked at her strangely—“if we still are. Anyway—he has this show on TV called Intelligentsia or something—something to do with Private Intelligence Made Public.”

  “Well what about him? And his name’s Quentin. Quentin Tabernacle.”

  “Tabernuckle. Right. So, I don’t know how much you know about him, but he has the best address book in the world—I mean this guy’s interviewed Nelson Mandela, Princess Diana, Buzz Aldrin, Mother Theresa, Michael Jackson, John Lennon, Bobo, Branson ...” he trailed off as he appeared to realise something. “Okay so most of them on that list are dead which doesn’t necessarily mean being interviewed by Tabermucky is fatal, but my point is—he’s the man most connected to all the influential peacemakers—well the ones that are still alive—and maybe he can help us put out an appeal?”

  She chewed her lip. “He wouldn’t remember us. He might remember the painting of mine that won—but we were just kids at the school, and ... and he’s a famous TV star!”

  Nathan grinned. “What if I told you I had a personal line into Mr Taberwocky?”

  She pouted at him. “Can’t be that personal if you can’t remember his proper name. Have you really?”

  “Yep. He and I are like this”—he twisted his first and second fingers together—“on a first name basis actually, which is why I always have trouble with his surname—but I reckon this is right up his alley.”

  “I hate to butt in again, but now you two are friends again, I suggest we return to our two mad scientist friends and get on with the plan. From some of the conversations I’ve heard, I believe time may be of the essence?” Agent Blanchard looked at the two of them.

  Sarina flinched when she heard the words mad scientist, and she gave him a sheepish look. “Sorry. We’ll get right to it.” She moved past him to the door and mouthed ‘thank you’ as she did.

  Nathan scrambled over the seat. “I’m glad she came around to see my point of view.” He rolled his eyes. “Girls!”

  Blanchard nodded.

  ~ 65 ~

  The Blame Game

  Sarina walked back through the truck and up to Harrison and Malden. “Have you found the rift opening yet?” she asked.

  Professor Harrison shook his head. “Part of the problem is having limited access to helpful resources.” He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “If we weren’t hampered by being public enemy number one, then I could contact colleagues and speed up our number-crunching.”

  Sarina heard Nathan behind her, and beckoned him to join them. “Nathan has a plan to ask Quentin Tabernacle to tell the world’s leaders we need a large number of Dreamer Kids. Maybe he could ask those same people to ask the people in charge of their science stuff to help?”

  “Um, actually you haven’t got that quite right,” Nathan said.

  “You were joking? You don’t know Quentin Tabernacle at all? That’s not very fair of—”

  “No. I mean yes. I do know him. I have his mobile number. We had a common interest in busting scientific myths—he’s quite the inventor actually, when you get to know him. In fact he—”

  “Nathan! Get to the point.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean Quentin would ask the world leaders to find more Dreamer Kids, not at all. My plan is much more genius—it bypasses all those procrastinating decision-makers and their silly committees.”

  Sarina’s head was spinning. “I don’t understand. If Quentin Tabernacle isn’t doing the asking, who is?”

  “You.” Nathan was grinning at her, and all she could feel was the blood draining from her face.

  She looked at Professor Malden. “This is what you meant, isn’t it? How did you know? Did you plan this?”

  Malden considered her for a moment. “Yes, it is what I meant. And I could no more plan this than stop the moon falling with my bare hands. As to how I knew?”—he shrugged—“I don’t understand enough to explain. Except to say you are a remarkable girl, who, as far as I can glean, we seem to find at the centre of all these happenings. Including my own resurrection.” He fixed his gaze on her. “To my mind, that must be for a very good reason.”

  At the centre of everything. He was right about that. She was aware of someone speaking. Professor Harrison.

  “... help us reverse the sentiment against us. No matter what or who they think caused this, everyone needs it fixed. I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

  What were they thinking? That somehow this Tabernacle guy would channel her supposed super-powers and cause world leaders to be convinced a thirteen-year-old girl had the answers? She shoved the thought out of the way. “But what about the language barriers? It’s all very well for this nice little chat with our world leaders to go out to the English-speaking world, but won’t it get lost in translation? If it gets broadcast at all.”

  Agent Blanchard called across from the other end of the truck. “Professor, I have a concern. I’d be fearful the message will be hijacked by all the bureaucracies wanting their piece of it. Decision-making will come to a grinding halt, and we’ll all be crushed to dust before anyone agrees on what to do next.”

  Harrison opened his mouth, but Malden held up his hand. “You are quite correct, Mr Blanchard. Forgive me if I am wrong, but I believe Nathan had something else in mind. I believe he planned to ‘cut-out the middle man’, if that’s how you put it.”

  Nathan smiled at Malden. “At last, someone who understands me. You see—”

  “Sarina, you’re an artist of considerable skill, from what I have witnessed,” Malden continued over the top of Nathan. “Nathan has hit on something powerful. We must mobilise the people, not the politicians. The people will identify with you, and will believe you, in the same way I have and everyone around you has. Including your friends in the other world. Now you have to believe it for yourself”—he held up his hand again to stop her interrupting—“and as I said: you’re a talented artist. Have you never heard the phrase: ‘A picture tells a thousand words?’”

  She nodded slowly.

  “This is how we must tell our story. In pictures, and through this Tabernacle chap. Your own conviction and your artistic expression will connect with any Dreamer Kid. They will instinctively feel your rem-manipulation. Nathan is indeed a genius.”

  Nathan stood up to speak, but Sarina pushed him back with a firm shove on his chest. “Enough from you. Thanks for your idea.” She looked at Professor Harrison. “Do you agree? That this will find us our Dreamer Kids—by somehow making some kind of connection in their brains?”

  Harrison nodded. “I wish I’d thought of it. It’s perfect—and makes complete sense now we understand the em
otional components to rem-manipulation.”

  There it was again. Emotional components. She bet Drysdale would be rubbing his hands together with glee.

  “We will help, of course. Help make it easy.” Professor Harrison’s expression was soft. Did he know? Could he see into her doubts?

  Nathan perked up. He had a strange look on his face she couldn’t read. “Yes—we should practise. You know, get comfortable with Tubbynackle.”

  “But won’t they just blame us for causing all this?” After all, she’d created the stupid rift in the first place. She felt the tension in her jaw and rubbed her cheek.

  This time Blanchard moved to join them, his slight limp proving no impediment to navigating the truck’s rolling motion. “You’re taking it far too personally, Miss. We suspected the Consortium has been aware of this technology very early on, and have been monitoring those who made the breakthroughs. It’s one reason we buried all those records. And remember: it’s through their actions we no longer have the collider. If we can influence public sentiment and attract the attention of those in power, then I will play my part. I will make sure those who direct the thinking of their leaders help them to focus on what it would be like if their enemies possessed this technology as a weapon. We have merely been trying to recover it and to prevent groups such as The Consortium from gaining it. This rift is a by-product of that. It’s not your fault, nor is it ours.”

  She didn’t see it that way—as a by-product—and hung onto the hand rail for a while as the truck lumbered its way along ... somewhere. Where were they going? Round in circles it felt like. Everyone was convinced she could do this. Everyone except her, that is. But Agent Blanchard had a point: they had located the collider, and it was a ruthless paid mercenary who had tried to steal the thing, destroying it in the process. She gritted her teeth, thinking of all the people across the world engaged in developing and manufacturing weapons. How dare they? How dare they make scientific breakthroughs; keep them to themselves, then turn them against their fellow human beings? What a horrible species humans had turned out to be. Well she would show them all. If this thing with Tabernacle worked, she would force them to put down all their weapons, for good. If it worked.

  “If anyone can do it, you can,” Nathan said, scrutinising her expression, not realising what he had inadvertently endorsed. “I’ll go and get Quentin on the line. I reckon he’ll be chomping at the bit. If Agent Blanchard can get the truck to make another pit-stop for some art supplies, we can start practising as soon as possible. We do have a universe or two to save, after all.”

  She held his gaze. “Practice. Yes. Good idea.” The words floated out slowly, and she watched Nathan give her a suspicious look as he walked off to the driver’s cab with Agent Blanchard following behind him.

  ~ 66 ~

  Butterflies

  Nathan returned just as the truck came to a halt—to pick up the numerous art supplies Sarina had requested—and he plumped himself down in a chair near the keyboards and screens. He looked over at her. “All set. Quentin was salivating at the prospect. Told you. Now, I’d better get set up, with cameras and lights and get the feed patched through to the studio server address Quentin’s techie gave me. He wants to record a special broadcast, so I reckon we’ll do a couple of dry runs. He thinks he’ll get it on all major stations.” He nodded at her. “He’ll help us, Sarina.” He turned to the bank of screens and started to tap away.

  Professor Harrison detached himself from his discussions with Malden, and sat on the bench beside her. “Anything you need?”

  She shook her head.

  Harrison nodded. “We need to pull anyone with rem-manipulation capabilities out of the woodwork—but you don’t need me to tell you that. Malden and I are getting closer to figuring out the calculations, but not being able to consult our colleagues openly is hindering our progress. And there’s a small matter of building some kind of focusing device, but Malden assures me he has that under control.” He hesitated. “Just in case this doesn’t work out, I wanted to thank you for bringing Lena her father back. Malden is a remarkable fellow.”

  “I know. It’s hard to believe he was such a ... bad man.”

  “Maybe that excitable overdose of rem and dark-rem in the accident multiplied the less-desirable part of him—made it stronger—and it took over. I think we all have those parts of us. Parts that need healing. His parts were in need of a major operation—a successful one, thanks to you.” He pulled her into a hug. “Good luck. I’m sure you don’t need it.”

  The sliding door to the truck opened, and they all had to shift to one side to allow a bunch of canvases, easels, palettes loaded with pastels and paints, and a box full of artistic pencils to be bundled inside the truck. They hadn’t left anything to chance, she thought, and sat back, pondering Professor Harrison’s words and trying to suppress the rising flutters in her stomach.

  “Hey, Sarina—can you set up an easel somewhere? I need to get the lights and camera happening.” Nathan twisted around. “Maybe over there?” He pointed to a less-crowded area of the truck. This would be the strangest reality-TV art-show anyone would ever see. And maybe the last. The truck began to move again.

  She slid off the bench and set up two of the easels, side-by-side, and arranged a couple of canvases, picked over some pastels and tested them on the art-paper block someone had thoughtfully organised. The pastels felt good in her hand. Her body wanted to create again, after such a break. She looked at the pastel in her fingers, and thought of Rona, giving up her chance to return and now waiting for them to make contact, squatting in a cold cave, held captive by a malevolent storm. Paolo and Andreas were with her of course, and that warmed her. Paolo would protect Rona as if she were his sister. She sighed. At least Paolo had known his father. Her mother had never even told her what her father did. Her brow creased. That was a little strange. Why hadn’t she questioned that until now? A movement caught her eye, and she saw Lena tugging on Professor Malden’s sleeve. She smiled. That was one thing she could be proud of: bringing Lena’s father back home. Her thoughts again returned to Rona, alone in a new home. She shook her head—she was losing focus, too many thoughts pulling her everywhere. A voice leaped into her mind—Rona’s?—she didn’t know. Don’t think. Let the thoughts go. Paint from your heart.

  ~ 67 ~

  Twisters

  Rona stood on one side of the cave mouth, and clung to the rock. She looked out, her hair whipped around by the whirling winds. On the other side, Paolo, flanked by Andreas, was scanning the worsening weather. She looked over at the two men. She still couldn’t think of Paolo as a boy, despite his age. Both their faces were set in expressions of determination. Proud men. Men who would defend their world to the last. She cupped her mouth with one hand while the other held tight. “WHAT DO YOU THINK? IS IT MOVING PAST?”

  Andreas turned back out of the wind, took care to judge his footing, then let go of his handhold and was almost blown across to her. He slapped his hands against the wall to prevent being slammed by the wind. He leaned in close to her. “If this storm does not abate, I fear our help will be useless. Do you hear anything?”

  She shook her head.

  “Neither does Paolo. If they do not make contact soon, then this dismal shelter may be our last resting place.” He glanced out of the cave and up at the sky. “The storm is concentrating around us, I am sure. If I was a superstitious man, I would say it pursues us.” He thumped the wall. “What is taking them so long?”

  She brushed the hair away from her eyes and spoke into Andreas’s ear. “There is the possibility our friends never made it back to the township. But my own mind won’t let me choose that option until it is the only one available. We still have something to aid us.”

  “What is this?” His eyes narrowed.

  “Hope.” She turned and leaned out of the cave mouth a little more. Hope might not move this storm, but it might keep them alive until they were needed. She mentally crossed her fingers.

 
“ANDREAS! LOOK!” Paolo pointed out to the right. “THEY COME.”

  Rona sucked in a deep breath. Twisters were racing up the slopes from the forest below, bringing with them a maelstrom of debris and whirling rocks. She turned to Andreas, but he was already motioning to Paolo to retreat back into the cave—

  A howling black twister spout whipped past the entrance, and showered them with a hail of stones and sand. Rona squeezed her eyes closed and hung onto the rock, but the wind was tugging at her feet, pulling her, then shoving her, grabbing her. She screamed as her hands scraped across the rocks she clung to—then her feet were torn out from under her at the same time as she heard someone exclaim a deep ‘oooff!’—

  —and then she was gone. Cartwheeling through the air, the wind plucking at her clothes from all directions, and sand and gravel tore across her skin, as she spiralled out of control.

  Then with a bang it was over, and everything went dark.

  Time. Passed. How long?

  Fingers moving. Mouth spitting out gravel. Wiping sand from nose and eyes. Sitting. Noiseless, but the wind still driving across her. Ears plugged with dirt—scrape them out—the turbine roar returned. Blinking. Anything broken? She patted herself down. No. A headache—she put her hand to the side of her head and winced. She drew her hand away and saw the dried blood.

  She stood, steadied herself shakily against the wind, and looked around. All she saw was an unfamiliar rocky mountainside path, and reddish earth. She cupped both hands and called. “Paolo. Andreas.” Of course. They wouldn’t hear her over this roar. If they were still alive. She walked unsteadily a little way up the hillside to a rise, and crouched down against the wind, scared to be pulled off her feet again, but there were no more twisters to be seen. She scanned the terrain and spotted them. Down the next trail, two figures, one kneeling and attending to the other. She crouched low and scurried down the narrow rocky path. Her balance had returned, but she could feel her scratches and bruises as she moved. She shoved the discomfort to one side. She arrived to find Paolo kneeling beside Andreas, who was lying on his back, eyes open, but his face was white. And in agony.