The House Next Door Trilogy (Books 1-3)

by Jule Owen

  “So what happened after you read the book?”

  “I was pretty spooked. I tried to escape from the house, but the front door was locked. The network connection was jammed. I couldn’t call for help. I went into his Darkroom, thinking I might be able to get a connection via his skullcap.”

  “And did you?”

  “No. I got sucked into a game. It was like a kind of puzzle at first. But it wasn’t an ordinary game. Firstly, I was stuck there once I was in. There was no way to end the game. Secondly, it was the most amazing, real, terrifying game I’ve ever played. It went on for days.”

  “You haven’t been gone for days. You must have been dreaming.”

  “It felt like I was gone for days.”

  “How did you escape then, in the end?”

  “I was rescued.”

  “By who?”

  “One of the characters in the game.”

  “Please tell me you know you were dreaming.”

  “Of course it must have been a dream. But that’s why I’m glad I spoke to Eva. I realised the Russian parts must have come from her. There were Russian soldiers… Her dad’s a journalist who reports on military parades in Moscow and St Petersburg. Her project is to create virtual worlds to model various climate change impact scenarios, in particular places warming to an extreme degree. She mentioned a place in her virtual world called Chukotka. There was a Chukotka in my dream and a tropical rain forest. But this bothers me because I’m sure she only told me what the place was called after I had the dream.”

  “You must have forgotten.”

  “Yes, I must.” He is silent for a moment. “It just won’t go away, you know, losing O’Malley, falling through the conservatory. This huge cat chased and attacked me. I even have a scratch.”

  “O’Malley must have scratched you.”

  “Yes, it must have been O’Malley. But there are other strange things…” He remembers the beebot he flew down Mr. Lestrange’s chimney and the books that re-wrote themselves right in front of him. The ones that wrote about him Although he has no video evidence, he is sure it happened, and before his dream. He saw those books.

  Or did he?

  He starts to doubt himself.

  “What things?”

  Mathew knows from Clara’s voice he is stretching credulity. He says, “Never mind.”

  “I don’t think being on your own is good for you. Why don’t you come round to Gen’s tomorrow afternoon? I’ll get my car to take me back later. Perhaps we could all have dinner together? Gen’s mentioned a few times she’d like to have you round. I’ll ask her. I’m sure she’d be up for it.”

  “Sure.”

  “You don’t sound enthused.”

  “Yes, I am. Sorry. It’s this dream…”

  “You should have a night off. Watch the holovision or something. Distract yourself.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I will.”

  Mathew goes to the Darkroom with the intention of playing a holofilm, but as he scrolls through the options via his Lenz, the robotics project pops into his head.

  Earlier, he received a message from his professor and personal tutor, Nan Absolem, to tell him the school project will reconvene via the holophone conference centre next Monday. Mindful of his recent humiliation at the hands of his antagonistic classmate, Theo Arkam, Mathew is determined to have a working version of a drone with arms by the start of the session. He goes back to his bedroom and starts to draft ideas.

  The first beebot is on his desk on its back, its tiny carbon feet poking in the air. Bees fly and have legs to carry pollen, but Arkam had already taken the bee idea to pieces. Dragonflies have arms, fly and carry prey. He searches on the Nexus and finds 3-D print blueprints for one that might work. Using a virtual robotics program, he experiments with wings of various sizes and flexibility and with retractable arms, resizing the blades to counterbalance the weight of the arms, even when moving, even when the arms are lifting something heavy.

  By eleven pm, his mother hasn’t come home and he is tired, so he turns in and is dreamlessly asleep within minutes.

  3 Broken Glass

  DAY ELEVEN: Thursday, 2 December 2055, London, England

  In the morning, he finds a note on the kitchen table.

  Mat,

  I am sorry I was late home last night and left early this morning. I know it must be lousy for you, stuck in the house alone. There’s a lot going on at work. I wish I could talk about it. I am trying to find a solution so we spend some more time together. Please know I love you and am doing my best, in spite of everything.

  Mum

  Mathew crumples the note in his hand and puts it in the kitchen bin. Leibniz immediately opens the bin lid again and moves the scrap to the paper recycling. “Unbelievable,” Mathew says, shaking his head, and he is suddenly angry. Glaring at the bin, he considers kicking it, but instead, he stands for a minute, until his heartbeat stops raging fast, then turns and goes to his room.

  When he logs on to the school register, he receives another reminder about the group robotics session on Monday, as if he could forget. He also collects the voice notes sent to himself the day before about researching synthetic biology and the human brain project. The latter was a project begun more than forty years earlier to build a simulation of the brain and to create neuromorphic computing and neurorobotic systems, the basis of much of the artificial intelligence used in contemporary technology.

  In his study plan, he establishes a new line of investigation and makes a mental note to discuss it with Nan Absolem. The education system encourages lateral thinking and exploration, but Mathew suspects his recent learning choices may be perceived as random. Nevertheless, he spends the next three hours doing a course on neurorobots.

  When he breaks for lunch, he sends the dragonfly to the 3-D printer and, after he has eaten, he spends some time watching the nano-assembler put together the various parts on the kitchen table. The workings of the assembler are almost invisible to the human eye and the dragonfly appears to be assembled by a ghost.

  The flying robot is three inches long, nose to tail. It has two sets of wings or mini-blades. It is iridescent, like it has been dipped in oil. He hasn’t bothered to finesse it with any design. That can be done later. He wants to test it will actually fly.

  Mathew finishes the assembly and reluctantly goes upstairs to log back on to the school system. He starts to work, but his mind wanders. He wants to fly the machine.

  It takes him an hour to connect the dragonfly to the control software. He downloads an application he hasn’t tried before that projects an insect-eye view of the world via his Lenz.

  As he puts the assembler away, he receives a text message from Clara. It reads:

  Gen would love it if you came round tonight. Arrive at four and you can watch me play, then we’ll have an early dinner together. Let me know if you get this. C x.

  He contemplates the kiss for a moment then sends a message back,

  Sounds great. Looking forward to later. M x.

  At first he flies the dragonfly around the kitchen. He manages to grab a fork and lift it a few feet and carefully lower it. It should be able to carry heavier loads. He tries to grip a banana. This is trickier mainly because of the awkward shape, but the design of the little machine manages the weight. It is disproportionately strong for its size. The simulations in the virtual robotics environment predicted this, but he is nevertheless delighted it actually works. He flies around the kitchen searching for something heavier, but the kitchen is minimalist. Leibniz keeps the whole house laboratory-clean. There is hardly anything on the kitchen surfaces.

  He walks behind his creation as he goes upstairs. The machine hovers while he opens the door to his bedroom and then flies in. The Chinese art book, the paper one his grandmother gave him, is on the floor. The dragonfly’s robotic arms extend and grip one of the book’s covers. Once they have locked on, Mathew tries to get the dragonfly to gently pull upwards. The front of the robot tilts forward as it t
akes the weight of the book and the wings pivot as he has designed them to do, remaining parallel to the ground. The main body of the book flips open page after page, slowly at first and then faster and faster. The book upturns with a loud thump and the machine-insect loses its balance and is yanked towards the floor suddenly, before the safety mechanism fires and the arm releases its grip.

  “Close!” Mathew says aloud. His voice sounds strange in the empty house and for the first time since he has been grounded by the Curfew, he feels alone.

  He follows the dragonfly and goes to his mother’s room at the back of the house, where he stands by Hoshi’s window and scrutinises the garden. The leaves from the trees at the back are fallen and piled against the wooden fence. The ivy cloaking the little tool-shed that runs along the red brick wall boundary adjoining Mr. Lestrange’s house is the only thing still vibrantly green. He decides to test the dragonfly outside.

  The air has a winter bite. Although the sky is a clear blue, the sun is cold, too far away to warm anything crawling on the earth.

  Mathew decides to test how easy it is to control the dragonfly when it is beyond sight. He flies it into Gen’s garden and patrols the perimeter, snooping for an object to pick up. There’s an old broom propped against an empty greenhouse. Too heavy. Inside the greenhouse there are things the dragonfly might potentially lift – shrilk pots, garden canes, a small ball of string – but the greenhouse door is firmly shut. He flies back into his own garden and hunts like a real dragonfly in straight lines, angles and sudden changes of direction and height. As he climbs higher, he has a good view across the three gardens. The little machine turns and pans from Gen’s garden all the way across to the back of Mr. Lestrange’s house. It brushes the ivy as it wings over the fence and skims the roof of the conservatory, its tiny rainbow body cast back on itself, submerged in a blue pool of reflected sky in the mirror-like glass.

  At the back of the conservatory there is an area of greenery, untended shrubs and brambles, stripped to leafless winter brown. Mean spikes pierce the cold air. A glinting object catches his eye and he turns slowly and hovers.

  There’s something lodged in amongst the thorns. He takes the flying machine in to get a closer view. He instructs one of the arms to reach out and it takes hold of an object with slick smooth sides and jagged edges. Shakily, it pulls back away from the foliage but he has a good grip on it. Carefully, the dragonfly retreats with its prize and comes back to him. It lands on the paving slab next to his feet, and he bends and picks it up. The shining thing in the hand of the robotic insect is a piece of glass, the sort of thick glass with a slight tint that Mr. Lestrange has in his conservatory. Seeing the fragment stirs a vivid memory of him kneeling, gazing at the floor with shattered glass all around him. A crystal clear mental image of a piece of glass like this one stuck to the skin of his palm.

  He goes to the garden bench, stands on it and pokes his head above the top of the wall to take a closer look at the conservatory roof.

  With a shock he realises Mr. Lestrange is there.

  The peculiar man stands with a watering can poised above the pot of an orange tree. There are other plants too, plants that give every impression that they have been growing for a long time, undisturbed. Mr. Lestrange regards Mathew with his hollow, dark eyes. He doesn’t smile. There is no sign of recognition but Mathew feels him, watching. It is like the man is inside his brain.

  Mathew drops from the bench onto the ground, hurriedly retrieves his dragonfly, goes into the house and shuts the door.

  It seemed real, he thinks, for the first time in days sure of himself, because it was real.

  4 Hoshi Mori Comes Home Early

  It is five to four. Mathew sits in his front room, his right leg dancing, his fists clenching and unclenching on his knees.

  He is wearing dark blue jeans, a t-shirt and jacket. To the untrained eye they are indistinguishable from the clothes he wears every day, but they are his favourites. His t-shirt is made from sustainable bamboo. It is jet black and snugly fitted across his chest. The jacket is his best winter one, made from fine merino wool with deep pockets and wide lapels, as is the fashion. His jeans are tight-fitting and snug at the ankles; Leibniz washed them that morning.

  It took him forty minutes to choose the outfit and a further fifteen to style his hair in the bathroom mirror, after taking a shower, something he never normally does during the day. The cloud of aftershave surrounding him is still quite overpowering. For once, he is grateful for the absence of his mother. She would tease him mercilessly.

  He doesn’t really understand why he is nervous at the thought of meeting Clara.

  In his pocket is the piece of glass the dragonfly retrieved from Mr. Lestrange's garden. He pulls it out now. His fingers roll it around and hold it to the light.

  Through the window he watches a black car pull up. He takes a deep breath, stands and goes to the front garden. Clara smiles at him as she exits the car.

  “You look nice,” she says and he immediately regrets dressing up.

  “Just my normal clothes,” he mumbles awkwardly and senses himself flushing.

  She smiles a small, mischievous smile and her eyes shine.

  “What?” he says.

  She shakes her head, walks to Gen's front door and rings the bell.

  Gen opens the door. Mathew has already tensed up. He expects her to comment on his clothes and tease him, but she isn’t focused on him at all. She stares over his head. He turns around. Another car has parked behind Clara's and the back door opens.

  It is his mother.

  “Hi, Hoshi!” Gen shouts.

  Disorientated, Hoshi gazes at their little group gathered on Gen's doorstep and vaguely registers Mathew’s presence. He expects her to ask what he’s doing leaving the house, but she doesn’t.

  Gen says, “We’re having a little gathering, an early dinner at mine after Clara’s lesson. There’s plenty of food, enough for a fourth if you want to join us?”

  “Another time,” Hoshi says.

  “It would be no bother.”

  “Not tonight,” she says brusquely and then immediately realises how rude she sounds. She says, “Sorry. Long hours at work.”

  “Are you alright? You seem…”

  “Yes,” Hoshi says. “Thanks. Just tired.” Her face is pale and grey and her movements cramped. She forges a determined path to the porch and slumps against the front door, waiting for the lock to sense her bioID and open.

  Mathew glances at Gen. “I’d better go.”

  “Yes… of course,” Gen says.

  Mathew hurries after his mother, who has gone into the house.

  “Mum?” he says, not sure at first if she has gone upstairs. A chair scrapes on the floor in the kitchen and he goes after the sound.

  “Mum? Are you alright?”

  Hoshi is slumped in a kitchen chair. “I felt dizzy at work. I couldn’t concentrate. I thought it might be what you had the other day; remember, your headache? Perhaps you had a virus and passed it to me.”

  “What does your medibot say?”

  “It didn’t find anything.”

  “Did Dr Girsh call?”

  “No.”

  “That’s strange. You would think he would have immediately called you. Do you want me to call him? You don’t look well at all, you know.”

  “I’ll be fine. I just need to lie down.” She stands shakily, her legs barely strong enough to hold her. Her eyes find his and she sees his fear. She says, not very convincingly, “Don’t worry. It’s just lack of sleep. A migraine probably. A few hours’ rest and I will be much better.”

  “Let me help you,” he says, rushing to her and taking her arm. She leans against him heavily. He has to almost carry her as they climb the stairs, one by one.

  “Nearly there,” he says.

  Somehow they make it to her bedroom door; he pushes it open and helps her to the bed. He lifts her feet onto the mattress and takes off her shoes.

  “Can I get you a
nything? A drink?” Where is that fricking robot when it is actually needed? “Leibniz!” he calls.

  “No. No. I’m fine. I just need to sleep.”

  “I’m calling Dr Girsh.” Mathew starts a Nexus call.

  Leibniz comes into the room, “You called, Mathew. How may I help?”

  “Get a glass of water for Hoshi. Quickly.”

  “Yes, Mathew.”

  The call to Dr Girsh takes a long time to connect. Finally, he gets a message that reads, “Unable to connect to contact at this time. Please leave a message.” Exasperated, he sends a message, requesting the Doctor call as soon as possible.

  Leibniz returns with the water. Mathew takes the glass from the robot and passes it to his mother, “Here,” he says. She struggles to sit and he has to help her hold the glass. “Mum, what has happened? This isn’t just tiredness. Something serious is wrong.”

  “Did you get the Doctor?”

  “No. I couldn’t get through.”

  “That’s odd.” She is staring at him. His face is close to hers as he bends and holds the glass. Then he watches a thought occur to her. Her face whitens further. An expression of horror spreads.

  “What?” he says. “What is it?”

  “Get away from me!”

  Mathew is startled. She pushes him away, upsetting the glass. Water spills and the glass falls onto the bed and then smashes on the floor as she continues to push at him.

  “Go! Leave the room! Please!”

  “No. I won’t go. What on earth’s the matter?”

  Pain passes through her and she closes her eyes and gasps.

  “Mum…”

  “Please. You must leave!” She speaks through gritted teeth.

  “Are you in pain?”