The Boy Who Fell from the Sky - Jule Owen (english love story books TXT) 📗

He opens the Nexus and searches for the house in the freely available directory, but then, of course, it isn’t there. Lestrange has never broadcast any data. It’s like his house is sealed. Whatever is in there, he really doesn’t want anyone knowing about it. 

Mathew glances over his shoulder. Across the line of garden walls, he can see the roadblock at the end of Pickervance Road. A couple of the soldiers are staring his way. He decides on a tactical retreat and goes back inside his own house.

Clara comes at five. They go to his room. He offers her his seat at his desk, sits on the edge of his bed, and gives her a summary of what he and his hacker friend have done to find out about Mr Lestrange.

“He might just have been out,” she says when he tells her about knocking on his door.

“I don’t think so. I don’t think he goes out. Cars don’t visit his house. I’ve never seen him on the street. It’s so frustrating. His house is just there, through that wall. Last night I was lying awake thinking maybe I should just break in.”

“You’re not going to do that! Seriously?”

“No. Of course not.”

She turns to scan the bay window. “You haven’t seen him in the window again?”

Mathew shakes his head.

Her eyes drop to his desk, and she sees the beebot. “What’s this?” she says. “Is this the thing you sent down his chimney?” She glances at him. He nods. She says, “Can I pick it up?”

“Yeah, you can’t break it. It’s pretty tough.”

“It’s so small!” She turns it over in her hand.

“We need a way to talk to one another,” he says. “Privately, without fear of being listened to.”

“Can’t I just come here?” she asks, smiling cheekily.

He smiles, then blushes and coughs. “You can.”

They both laugh.

Then he says, “But we can’t really chat on Consort. It would be good if we could chat the way I talk to Wooden Soldier.”

“I hate Consort anyway. It’s a meat market.”

“Exactly. And Nexus is mainlined to SIS. I wanted to talk to you privately because of what you said about your parents.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“Guess.”

“Wow… The Blackweb? No! Isn’t that illegal?”

“Actually, it’s not illegal. The prime minister is only threatening to outlaw it. He hasn’t done it yet.”

“But it’s full of criminals and terrorists, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never met any, if it is. But then I haven’t used it long, to be honest.”

“Won’t SIS track us using it?”

“It’s a lot harder for them to monitor us on the Blackweb than on the Nexus. But if you’re worried, I won’t do it.”

“Actually, I think it’s kind of exciting.” 

He smiles. She smiles. 

“But I wouldn’t know how to start. How do you even access it, anyway?”

He examines the beebot again and remembers Mr Lestrange’s message, Why don’t you use it to talk to Clara? He says, “I have an idea, but I don’t know if I can make it work.”

“What is it?”

“I might be able to turn the beebot into a Blackweb communication device.”

“My guard is pinging me,” she says, standing up. 

He shows her downstairs. At the door, they reach for the latch at the same time, feel a sudden spark of electricity, and withdraw their hands like they’ve been bitten. 

“Sorry!” they say at the same time and laugh. 

He steps back. 

She catches his eye, serious now, “Please be careful.”

“I will,” he says. 

After she’s gone, he sits at his Paper and starts to edit the beebot blueprint. As he works, he listens to a recording of Clara playing. Music is her gift to him, he thinks, so he will send her something in return. 

“This is great, Leibniz,” his mother says. 

Like Mathew, she feels compelled to thank the robot for the things it does.

“You’re welcome,” Leibniz says.

“We’re getting new locks,” Hoshi says to Mathew. 

“What’s wrong with the old ones?”

“Nothing, but now we can use our bioID to open the doors rather than a hackable digital key fob we might lose.” 

“Surely our bioID details are freely available to the security services. Doesn’t it mean they can march in here anytime they want to?”

“Not with these locks,” his mother says, holding her son’s gaze and smiling, somewhat mischievously, he thinks. “Anyway, the locksmiths are coming at 2:30 tomorrow afternoon to fit them, front and back of house and all of the windows. Will you let them in and make sure O’Malley doesn’t get out?” 

“Of course. No problem.”

16 The Beekeeper

DAY EIGHT: Monday, 29 November 2055, London

Nan Absolem is sitting in her office. The war has killed her exuberance, or perhaps she thinks it’s a more fitting setting to pass on bad news.

“I’m afraid it’s no go with Eva and your dragons project, Mathew. I’m sorry.”

He considers whether he should tell her that he’s already started working with Eva. He thinks better of it and says, “Oh. Bad news.”

She doesn’t notice how flat his voice sounds. She says, “Yes. I know. I did try. I argued that your project would be a symbol and hope of peace, a beacon in the darkness, but the school board, the regional education board, and the police thought it would be a security risk. I hope you’re not too upset.”

“No, it’s fine. Really.”  

“I’m afraid it means we still need to find a way to get you collaboration credits. We’re scheduling a holophone session on the Nexus with your robotics class.”

“Alright.”

“Are you okay?” she says. 

“Yes. Why?”

“You’re unusually agreeable.”

“I was bioIDed yesterday,” he says.

“Me too.”

“The official who processed me said I wasn’t British.”

“Outrageous! Did you complain?”

“Who to?”

Nan thinks. She doesn’t know what to say.

He says, “Don’t worry, Nan. I’m going to do some courses on quantum computing and security, if that’s okay.”

“Sure, that’s fine. Do you need anything from me?”

“No. Thanks. Not a thing.” 

The locksmiths arrive at 2:30 on the dot, a tall, thin, grey-haired man with a moustache, wearing a shirt and tie, and a younger man wearing jeans and a sweatshirt.

While the men are bringing in their tools, Mathew holds O’Malley. “We don’t want him to get out,” he says to the younger man. “I’ll put him in here.” He indicates the Darkroom. “The police will shoot him if he escapes, and there’s a roadblock at the end of the street now, so the chances are high. Make sure you don’t open the door. It’s important.”

“Are there any doors or windows in your Darkroom?” the younger locksmith asks.

“No.”

“Then we won’t be going in there.”

Mathew fixes the Darkroom with all the things O’Malley needs – food, water, his bed, and his litter tray. O’Malley scratches at the door and jumps and stretches at the door handle, wanting to be freed. Mathew feels guilty, so he starts a holofilm for the cat. It’s a natural history film. O’Malley starts to chatter and leap at the birds flying across his path. 

Mathew shuts the door tightly behind him and goes to the front room while the men work. 

Mathew works on the beebot, turning it into a Blackweb communications device. Based on a course provided by the school curriculum and a bit of research on MUUT about the quantum security his anonymous friend suggested, he manages to build something he is fairly sure will allow him to have a private conversation with Clara. The first beebot was primitive in design, an off-the-shelf agricultural model. Last night he printed a new beebot for Clara with flourishes. It’s covered in tiny gold and black hairs, has iridescent eyes, and long, elaborate, tightly curling antennae. The finished product is like a pendant or a brooch. 

He leaves the beebot on the doorstep, waiting for Clara to arrive, and retreats to the Darkroom. The miniature robot is now in the air, circling the street light outside, and through its eyes he watches as her car drives up Pickervance Road. 

As she exits the car, she looks up at his bedroom window. The shadow of disappointment passing across her face when she realises he isn’t there makes him exhilarated, but also slightly ashamed of himself. He flies the beebot behind her, at a low level, avoiding the suspicious, sunglassed gaze of the guard. It zips up and around quickly and lands on her collar, gripping on with tiny carbon-fibre beebot feet. 

He puts through a message request. Knowing it will get through to Clara as an unrecognised incoming message, he says, “This is Mathew. I’ve managed to do what I said I might. I need you to download some software. Please accept the prompt.” She accepts, the software installs, and then he says, “The small insect that just landed on your jacket is mine. It will allow us to talk in private. If you are okay with this, please don’t knock it off. Also, could you please wave at the window? I’m not there right now, but then I will know the beebot works and I didn’t stay awake all night making this thing for nothing.”

Clara raises her hand. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

She smiles. 

“I am smiling back. I’ll add video for you at some point,” he says. “Will you leave it on while you play? I’d like to listen.” He isn’t going to tell her he’s been listening to her for days. 

She says, “You’ll find it boring. It’s classical stuff. Most people our age don’t like it. Can you hear me alright?” She smiles at the guard, who she knows will assume she is making a normal e-Pin call.

“Yes, I can hear you, and I will like it.”

“How do you know?”

“I hear you playing through our front wall every afternoon.”

“Oh, god, really? I’m sorry. I didn’t realise the walls were so thin.”

“Yeah, they’re like paper. But don’t be sorry. You are amazing.”

“Hardly. But thanks.” 

They travel into Gen Lacey’s house together. He manages to manoeuvre the beebot so it is facing down. 

She sits at the piano, and he watches her hands dance.  

At the end of her lesson he waits for her to say goodbye to her teacher. As Gen moves into the hallway, Clara whispers, “Don’t go. Let’s speak when I’m in the car.”

She waits for the guard to shut the door on her and for the car to start to drive away before she says “Hi.”

“Hi.”  

“Do you mind if I move?” Mathew says. “From this angle I can’t see much.”

“Not at all.”

He detaches the tiny beebot feet from her collar, flies to her knee, and focuses on her face. 

“Better?” she says. 

“A bit,” he says.

“Is this better?” She offers her hand. He crawls the beebot into her palm, and she lifts it. “Is it too close?”

“The lens is adjustable. There,” he says. “Perfect.”

“This is different.” 

“Is it too weird?”

“Yes.”

He smiles.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes. I’m smiling.”

“I can’t see you, remember? I only have the bee. It’s sweet but not very expressive. It’s different from the other one. Where did you get it?” 

“I made it.”

“You made it?”

“I got a template on the Nexus. Where are you now?” he asks. 

“I’ll show you,” and she gently grasps the beebot between her thumb and index finger and puts it on the edge of the passenger window. 

“You’re not going to the