Keeper of Time (Wealth of Time Series, Book 4)

by Andre Gonzalez

  Lewis shook her head, another common clasher with Murray, despite the two being best friends outside of the walls of the Council.

  “Anyone oppose or have a different thought?” Uribe asked.

  Everyone sat in silence as Uribe scribbled notes on a pad of paper. “Okay, let’s put it to a formal vote. In two weeks we will have Martin Briar brought back to the country and will begin the election. Election preparation typically takes another two weeks, so we can plan for election night exactly four weeks from now, let’s say November 19, 2019. All in favor?”

  All Council members said, “Aye.”

  “All opposed?”

  Silence.

  “That settles it. We’ll announce the election date tomorrow to the Road Runner population and allow any candidates to begin the nomination process and campaigning immediately. We also must inform Briar so that he knows to not get too comfortable. This session is adjourned.”

  Uribe plucked the glasses off his face and tossed them on the table before he stood and left the room, the other members breaking into casual conversation as if they had not just had a heated debate. They all shared the common desperation of getting a new commander elected as soon as possible. Not one of them enjoyed the responsibility of guiding the organization while it lacked a leader.

  Little did they know the one month window of time would be plenty for Chris to interject and cause a new wave of chaos never anticipated.

  4

  Chapter 4

  Chris wanted to wait—he really did—for Duane to return before moving forward with any of their previously discussed plans. But his lifelong advisor was gone without a set return date. And if he had to sit around one more day in this mansion plotting out the next steps, he might actually snap. That would be catastrophic for everyone.

  Duane offered up a name he thought might be a good replacement while he was on leave, longtime soldier Sherman Wilkes, a brainwashed man who lived for the sole reason of shooting Road Runners.

  “Sherman won’t challenge any of your thoughts,” Duane had explained. “But he knows our systems and can assist you with anything that might arise.”

  Chris didn’t want to call this mindless robot into his office, but it was time. He needed to broadcast a live stream into the Road Runners’ programming network, and had no clue of how to do so. Sherman did.

  He pressed his skeletal finger on the intercom button. “Sherman Wilkes, please report to my office immediately. Thank you.”

  Chris rapped his thumbs on his desk while he waited. He knew all of his soldiers well, directly recruiting each and every one of them to his team, but it had been so long since he’d had the chance to check in with them, swamped with these trying times of constant, difficult decisions.

  Heavy footsteps clapped from the hallway, approaching the office, the floor creaking and whining as the door swung open and revealed the behemoth of a man known as Sherman Wilkes. He towered at just a couple inches under seven feet, with broad shoulders that could break through a brick wall, and a jaw so thick that it could certainly absorb thousands of fists. Sherman wore his dirty blond hair in a buzz cut, his piercing green eyes immediately locking with Chris.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Are you in need of assistance?” Sherman asked in his mindless baritone.

  If Chris had a human soul, he might feel bad for what he had done to these people. When they had met, Sherman was a gentle giant who enjoyed playing cards with friends and sharing a good laugh over a glass of scotch. But after a hurricane in Florida had taken his entire life and family with it, Sherman fell into dark times, in need of intervention and guidance.

  Chris pulled him out of the darkness, and within six months, had himself a dedicated soldier, ready to jump at any command.

  “Good day, Sherman, how have things been?” Chris asked. The least he owed the man was some small talk after what he’d been through.

  “Very good, sir, thank you for asking. How can I help you?”

  Good boy, Chris thought. He had hypnotized these soldiers into staying focused on their cause, their minds unable to be distracted. This instance was no different; Sherman was here to serve.

  “I’m needing to broadcast myself to the Road Runners’ network. Do you know how to get me in there?”

  “Yes, sir. Duane has shown me everything.”

  “Just curious, how long ago did he start teaching you all of this?”

  Sherman kept a stern expression, but looked up to the ceiling, a robot’s apparent way of thinking. “About a week ago.”

  Duane, you sly dog. You had this planned all along.

  Chris wanted to get upset, but Duane had covered his bases, leaving as smooth of a transition as possible.

  “I see. Do you need to use my computer?” Chris asked, pushing himself away from the desk.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sherman shuffled his tree trunk legs around the desk and crouched over the computer, the mouse and keyboard miniature in his giant hands. His expression never changed, remaining laser-focused on the screen that splashed blue light across his pale face. He clicked around for a couple of minutes before standing up and taking a step back, holding an arm out for Chris to return to his place.

  His screen showed a new software open, revealing a livestream of the Road Runners’ network, currently featuring a news broadcaster updating the status of their precious Commander Strike, but a ‘Breaking News’ side bar scrolled along the bottom, announcing a future date for their election.

  Chris smirked, proud to be throwing a wrench into their organization just weeks before they were set to elect their new leader.

  Divide and conquer, he reminded himself, a basic, yet complex strategy he and Duane had been discussing for the past several months, but now ready with the proper ammunition to carry out the plan. Pit all of these people against each other, and I can swoop right in and appeal to those who start having doubts about the Road Runners.

  Chris let out a childish giggle, his senses throbbing at the thought of ending his enemies’ existence once and for all.

  “Just click on the green button when you’re ready to go live,” Sherman said. “Wait about five seconds for our feed to override theirs—you’ll see it there on the left. Once you see your face you can start talking. The same button will turn red, and you click on that when you’re done broadcasting.”

  “Perfect.”

  Chris sat back in his chair and wheeled forward, sliding on a headset as he liked his voice to project as clearly as possible, while providing a solid noise-cancellation environment. He cleared his throat and ensured he was facing the screen straight on before clicking on the green button to start the broadcast.

  It lagged, and the anticipation swelled within Chris, a sensation he hadn’t felt in many years. The Road Runners’ broadcast cut out and was replaced with Chris’s grinning face.

  Damn I’m looking old, he thought, not having looked in a mirror in months.

  “Good evening, my lovely Road Runners. I hope I’m finding you well today.”

  He paused, and always imagined the people at the Road Runners office scrambling in a panic as they tried to figure out how the hell he hacked into their system once again.

  “We’re at an interesting time in this ongoing war, wouldn’t you say?” Chris continued, maintaining a wide grin while he spoke into the camera. “What a time to be alive! I have your only leader in my basement, and you people are floundering with what to do next. It truly brings warmth to my heart.”

  He paused, poured himself a glass of water from a canteen on the edge of his desk, and took two long gulps. He didn’t care for dramatics, unless dealing with the Road Runners. Having their undivided attention aroused him in a way unmatched by anything else.

  “To celebrate this delightful occasion, I want to make an offer to you, Road Runners. My ask is simple, and if interested, please send someone to my mansion to discuss the logistics. I promise you will not be harmed.

  “My offer is to release Command
er Strike back to you—in good condition—in exchange for Martin Briar. Bring me Briar, and you can all return to your happy little lives with Commander Strike to lead the way. I have been betrayed by Mr. Briar, and I want nothing more than to have a word with him in person.”

  Chris paused and ran through his same antics of sipping water—something he didn’t actually need to survive.

  “I will give you fine people seventy-two hours to make a decision. Like I said, if interested, come to the mansion and we can work out the details. If I hear nothing in three days, Commander Strike will be publicly executed on this live stream for you all to watch. It’s her blood on your hands. Choose wisely.”

  Chris leaned back in his seat and stared into the camera, trying to peer into the souls of those millions of Road Runners watching around the world. For the first time in his life, he actually felt like a villain. He’d done plenty of bad things during his time, unforgivable actions that normal people would never think of. But he’d never delivered such a gut-wrenching ultimatum before. He had always played the long game, believing that “one day” the opportunity would arrive for him to make a move and send the Road Runners into complete chaos.

  Through all the years of strategizing, refining, and planning, that “one day” had now arrived. He had just tipped over the first in a long line of dominoes, starting a chain reaction that would lead to his ultimate goal of gutting the Road Runners of their unity and common sense, characteristics that had kept them such a sound and strong unit in the past, bending but never breaking at all of the difficulties Chris had thrown their way.

  With one brief announcement, Chris Speidel would manage to bring the Road Runners to their knees. He had released a lone drop of his poison—his negativity—into their organization, and in a matter of weeks it would spread like a virus until some felt they had no choice but to leave the Road Runners behind.

  Chris leaned forward, stopped the streaming video, and stood up while howling laughter that echoed throughout the mansion, Commander Strike hearing it from the silence of the basement three levels below.

  5

  Chapter 5

  The Council convened an hour after Chris had made his announcement to the entire Road Runner community. They murmured to each other as they entered their private chambers underground, many looking like they had just seen a ghost.

  Chief Councilman Uribe entered the room, his wide frame commanding attention and respect, and all chatter immediately ceased as he crossed to the center seat of the oval table. He sat down, pulled out a notepad and pen, and began scribbling like an angry child upset about having to finish their homework before going out to play.

  No one said a word as the room remained in a deafening silence for an entire five minutes while he scrawled notes, flipped a page, wrote some more, then flipped another page. When he was done, he tossed his pencil down after turning over the notepad facedown. He rubbed his eyes and temples before planting his elbows on the table and clasping his hands together under his chin, leaning forward as he stared around the table.

  They all met his gaze and looked away with relief when he passed on to the next person. The tension was thicker than Los Angeles smog during the morning rush hour.

  He took a long breath, inhaling deep like a yoga instructor, exhaling through his mouth like a vape smoker after a long hit.

  “Excuse my language, but what the fuck are we supposed to do about this?” he asked, and immediately held up a stiff, thick finger. “Before anyone speaks, I need you to know that no bickering will be tolerated like our last session. This is a crisis, folks. I’m all for a healthy debate, hell, call it an argument if you like, but no bickering like schoolchildren. No personal attacks, no dirty looks across the table. If you do any of that, see yourself outside and come back when you’re ready to be an adult. Am I clear?”

  Uribe was typically a calm, level-headed man who rarely displayed emotion, but in this particular instance, he showed why he was chosen as the Chief Councilman, putting his authority on the table for everyone to see, and dare to challenge.

  The councilors nodded in silence as they looked around at each other.

  “This is a highly sensitive decision. I expect strong arguments for both sides of this issue, and you should expect that, too. This is a lose-lose situation for us, and either way we choose will leave a certain group of our population highly upset. There is not a correct decision in this scenario, and the sooner you all understand that, the sooner we can arrive to a peaceful, unified decision. Now, that all said, who would like to go first?”

  They stared around the table, most turning their attention to Councilwoman Murray, who seemed to always speak up first. But she offered nothing, returning a gaze to Uribe.

  “Do the Bylaws help us in any way with this choice?” Councilman Pierre asked.

  The Bylaws were the Road Runners’ version of a constitution, rules written in place with amendments added since their initial conception as an organization. The Council’s responsibility was to guide the Road Runners under their fairest interpretation of the Bylaws.

  “I’m afraid not,” Uribe said. “Our founders never bothered making rules based on our commander being held hostage by an enemy. The only Bylaw that applies to this situation is regarding the death of a fellow Road Runner: ‘No Road Runner shall ever be executed or enslaved for any reason whatsoever. Imprisonment or banishment is only allowed if a Road Runner has committed treason against the organization.”

  “This isn’t an execution or enslavement,” Pierre replied, a thin eyebrow cocked in confusion.

  “How is turning Briar over to Chris Speidel not an execution?” Uribe asked. “Or best case scenario, enslavement? If we hand him over, it’s his blood on our hands. We don’t have to do this, and according to the Bylaws, this would be a direct violation, in my opinion. Commander Strike is already in his possession, kidnapped right from under our noses. At this point, there’s nothing we can do. The rescue teams have come up with nothing for getting inside that mansion. Strike is at the mercy of Chris.”

  “Couldn’t you argue that doing nothing to rescue Strike is a direct violation of the Bylaws?” Councilwoman Murray asked. “We are knowingly not taking a chance to get in there and rescue her, essentially choosing to let her die.”

  “This is where the law is up for interpretation,” Uribe said calmly. “Thoughts?”

  “I think we have to save Briar,” Councilwoman Lewis said. “We can’t turn someone that valuable over to Chris. He’ll turn right around and use him against us.”

  “I don’t even know anything about the guy,” Councilwoman Thrasher said. “What’s the big deal?”

  “He’s a Warm Soul,” Lewis explained. “The only Warm Soul we’ve ever had on this side of the ocean, and quite frankly, our best hope for taking out Chris and ending this war.”

  “Does the public know this?” Thrasher asked. “I’m just trying to view our eventual decision from all angles.”

  “I don’t believe so,” Uribe said. “He hasn’t announced his candidacy yet, so he’s still very much an unknown player within our organization.”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t know this,” Thrasher said. “All the times we’ve discussed Briar and that was never mentioned. I thought we were just playing nice for the guy because of what happened to his mom. But this . . . this changes everything.”

  “Would it be appropriate for us to announce his candidacy on his behalf?” Councilman Ryan asked. Ryan was the second-most junior councilor. “Even if it’s a brief press release, we can announce him as a Warm Soul and the newest candidate.”

  “Who’s endorsing this guy?” Thrasher asked.

  “Europe and Asia. And I believe South America is on board, too,” Uribe explained. “The election is basically his.”

  “We need to make this decision in the membership’s best interest,” Murray said. “Tension is already high among those who feel nothing is being done to save Strike. Rumor is, a group of people are forming the
ir own coalition to try and break her out.”

  “That’s suicide,” Thrasher said.

  “I know,” Murray continued. “But these are the things we have to keep in mind. If we decide to save Briar and leave Strike to be publicly executed, those people will lose their minds. They might even take their anger to the streets. Does anyone have a good pulse on exactly what percentage of our membership is hell-bent on saving Strike?”

  They all turned their heads to Councilman Ryan, his face scrunched in deep thought as he ran his hands through his light brown hair, for he studied membership trends and issues. “It’s impossible to measure the extremes of this matter,” he said. “Overall, ninety-eight percent of the population supports rescuing Strike—that’s the general number, essentially an approval rating. When asked if they support rescuing her, even if it means other Road Runners will be sacrificed, that number falls to fifty-two percent.”

  “She won her election in a landslide,” Uribe said. “Seventy-two percent of the votes. She’s popular and still remains a key figure in the eyes of the public.”

  “And she’s certainly more popular than Briar,” Murray added. “If we rescue her, we don’t have to hold a special election.”

  “So you’re suggesting that if we get her back, Briar becomes irrelevant?” Uribe asked, his voice borderline accusatory.

  “Please don’t put words in my mouth. All I said was that we won’t need a special election next month as currently planned.”

  “Martinez, you haven’t said anything,” Uribe said, turning his attention away from Murray.

  Councilman Martinez was typically reserved, and this heated discussion was no different. He sat with his hands folded on the table, a blank, emotionless gaze as he looked around to his fellow councilors.

  “I think our choice in this debate is a simple one,” Martinez said, taking a moment to clear his throat. “We don’t make the decision. Let the community vote on what we should do.”