Time Walker: Episode 2 of The Walker Saga

by Shannan Sinclair

  “So what exactly do you mean by that, Raziel? Would you care to fill us in?”

  “Blake is alive.”

  The rumble grew deeper.

  “The option-lock never worked.”

  An open-mouthed gasp came from Number 4.

  “And Demesne has been compromised.”

  Though they maintained a calm exterior, the explosion of outrage rushed out toward him, a highly concentrated punch in the gut. Raze reeled it in, thirsty for more.

  He continued. “I wish I could say that it was an easy fix, but it was irreparable.”

  Number 7 leaned forward on his throne. “Was?”

  I’m glad you caught that, Raze thought to himself. He tried not to smile as he delivered his next blow.

  “I destroyed it.”

  A temper scampered through the group: anger, disbelief and a tinge of panic. They directed every drop of it his direction, and Raze soaked as much of it in as he could gather.

  Number 6 was the first to start losing it. “What do you mean by destroyed? Do you mean gone? It no longer exists? Who gave you the authority to do that?” Each question was shriller than the next, but Raze took it in calmly.

  “I did.”

  “You did?” Number 3 growled. “Since when do you think you have the right to destroy II property without our consent?”

  “Since the moment I created it.”

  It was like a nuclear bomb of fury rose out of the collective.

  “This is an outrage!” Number 9 screamed.

  “This is unacceptable!” Number 4 chimed in.

  The rest of the uproar was indistinguishable from its sources, building layer upon layer to a boiling point in precisely the way Raze had expected.

  Number 7 stood up from his golden throne, gathered the storm, leaned over the table and launched into a tirade.

  “Raziel Tanis! You have violated protocol! You have displayed crass, blatant insubordination! You have destroyed classified company property without authorization! You have failed to uphold Command Directives! You have failed in your duties as a Control Operative XV for Infinium Incorporated! Do you have anything to say for yourself before we pass judgment and sentence you?”

  Raze held the silence, savoring the moment before leveling his eyes at Number 7.

  “Don’t start with me.”

  All the air sucked out of the room.

  “This is your fault.” Raze scanned The 8, including them all in his condemnation.

  “Excuse me?!” It was Number 7’s turn to turn into a shrill bitch.

  “Sit down!” Raze commanded. He pulled up some of their indignation and launched it back at them. “You have some nerve trying to pin your incompetence and lack of leadership on me. You—all of you—have failed as the command of this organization, while I have been the only one trying to save it and preserve its mission.”

  Several of The 8 began sputtering in outrage, but he rolled right over them.

  “For years you have been training control operatives to hunt Preston Reed, trying to eliminate ‘the end of the line.’ But you kept valuable, necessary information from us, sabotaging our ability to do our job.”

  “What necessary information?” balked Number 7.

  “Don’t play dumb with me,” Raze shot back, adding more of their own fuel to the fire. “I am talking about Number 1. Ichiban. Our founder. We’ve all been indoctrinated into this organization with the information that he had died, not that he was option-locked and ousted by the rest of you.”

  Number 3 sat down in his chair, visibly struck that Raze knew about Sigmund Lange. One down. Seven to go.

  “He was a ‘need to know’ classification,” Number 7 fired back. “You didn’t need to know about him.”

  “Well, actually… I did. Because he added a whole other layer to the clusterfuck we now find ourselves in. And there is even more shit you don’t have any clue about.”

  “Grant Parker: requesting immediate, emergency access into The Sanctum,” the Sanctum Sanctorum interrupted. She sounded just like The Womb: Siri with an attitude problem.

  Right on time, Raze thought.

  “Declined. When we are finished,” barked Number 7.

  “No. Please, allow him,” interjected Raze. “I mean, why not? He was in the ‘need to know’ circle.” He eyed The 8, daring them to contradict him. Number 4 dropped her eyes and slowly walked back to her chair. Number 6, no longer Ms. High and Mighty, glanced at Number 7, and then also walked back to her chair. Three down.

  The others followed suit one by one, resetting their positions behind the table.

  Number 7 glowered at Raze. “Access accepted for Grant Parker.”

  The steel doors slid open and Grant stormed in, starting in on Raze before he was even in the room. “This man is a traitor!” he yelled, pointing his finger at Raze. Troy Kellen strolled casually in his mentor’s wake. He glanced sideways at Raze, throwing him a smug smile.

  “He has been undermining our company mission, making decisions without authorization, and withholding critical information from you regarding Scott and Blake Parrish. And there has been a breach in The Stratum!” Grant was ready to run Raze over with the bus he was throwing him under, but Raze had already laid the road.

  “Now that he’s had his little tantrum, may I proceed?”

  Number 7 shifted his attention back to Raze. “Proceed,” he seethed.

  “As I was saying.” He glanced at Grant, then back to The 8. “There has always been one loose end in the form of Preston Reed. Now that I am aware of him, there is also Sigmund Lange.”

  “That’s impossible!” Grant exploded. “Sigmund Lange was option-locked and put in storage a long time ago. Troy here has been keeping an eye on him.”

  Raze looked back at Grant. “You’re joking, right? Sigmund Lange was the one who discovered the technique ! You don’t think he would have also known a way around it? And really, Mr. Kellen here might be a great thug in 3D, but you didn’t think he was capable of keeping an eye on Lange’s 4D activities, did you?”

  Raze pointedly eyed Troy up and down, then looked back at Grant. “Really?” He turned back toward The 8.

  “The point is, Troy here failed, and Sigmund Lange possessed Blake Parrish, trespassed into Demesne through Blake and sabotaged the whole project.

  “And he isn’t even our biggest problem,” Raze continued. “Because Preston Reed had a secret…a wee, little anomaly that goes by the name of Aislen Walker.”

  Grant tried to interject.

  “Shut. Up,” commanded Number 7, looking back at Raze. He sat up straighter and folded his hands, clearly trying to regain the upper hand. “Preston Reed never had contact with any women while he worked for his grandfather or Infinium Incorporated. And once he absconded, he never stayed in one place long enough…definitely not long enough to father a child. Whoever this Aislen Walker is, she cannot be his daughter.” Number 7 sat back against his throne.

  “Really? You sure about that? Because he sure as hell stayed in one place long enough to fuck someone. I mean, in your circle that only takes like, what, three minutes?”

  “How dare you!” Number 7 was back out of his chair.

  “No! How dare you!” Raze stepped out of the circle and marched toward the dais. “I stand for the values that this organization is based on. I created a place that allowed this organization to fulfill the mission of your elite class. I have given my life to that mission, and I fulfill that mission!

  “And you.” Raze pointed his finger at Number 7, then drew it around the table at each of them. “You allowed that man to exist. Your incompetence and lack of disclosure to me gave him an opportunity to create a line into the Stratum, to work his particular brand of magic, and to call in Aislen Walker, a blind, naïve outsider with the genetic potential to destroy us. And newsflash—that is what Sigmund Lange intends to do.”

  Raze could feel the shift from 2, 5 and 8. They visibly shrank in their chairs. Number 9 sat defiantly with his arms crossed,
still not buying it. Number 7 wasn’t going down without a fight.

  “And just what makes you so sure about this, Raziel?” Number 7 said, still leaning over the dais glaring down at him. “What makes you think that you have all the answers and we don’t?”

  He looked at each of The 8 before he looked back at Number 7, measuring his next words for maximum impact.

  “Because Preston Reed paid me a visit. And told me everything.”

  Number 9 dropped his head to his chest.

  “Preston Reed?” Number 7 was losing steam.

  “Preston Reed.” Raze turned his back on The 8 and walked toward Grant and Troy, rubbing his victory in with a knowing smile. “Apparently, Reed can do whatever the fuck he wants. He can just wander into The Stratum, confront a Control Operative, spill the beans about his daughter and try to make a deal.” Raze turned back to Number 7.

  “What kind of deal?” 7 said, failing miserably at containing his seething rage.

  “That we leave his daughter alone and stop Sigmund Lange.”

  “And why would we do that? How can that decrepit skinbag be any threat?”

  “Because his energy is still strong, and his vengeance fuels it. He plans to take over his great-granddaughter’s young, able body and utilize her genetically engineered skill sets. Then he will come back here and reascend to his rightful place.” Raze looked at the throne. Its emptiness was potent. “And he will destroy every one of you if necessary.”

  The silence deepened as his words sunk in.

  “Well, why didn’t you kill her then?” Troy’s snarky voice chimed in from the back of the room.

  All eyes looked to Troy and then back at Raze.

  Raze turned and strolled toward Troy, enunciating every word as if speaking to an imbecile. “Because I’m not the fucking idiot around here. I don’t leave loose, live wires hanging around. Killing Aislen still leaves a competent Sigmund Lange and a master, Preston Reed, out there. Killing Aislen will make them both very angry…angry with a target.” He got face to face with Troy, eye to eye. “Eleven targets.”

  He let them do the math. They were all doomed.

  He turned back to The 8. “I’m thinking we would all like to tie up all these live wires, right? Finish it? Once and for all so we can go about our business?”

  And they all fall down.

  “What do you suggest?”

  Raze resumed his position at parade rest.

  “I propose we kidnap Miss Aislen Walker. In the flesh. And use her as an energetic hostage. Go fishing for our other targets using her as a lure. We can get Number 1 taken care of once and for all. We can eliminate Preston Reed finally. And then, last but not least, eliminate Aislen Walker. Exterminate the whole lineage.”

  The 8 looked from one to another. One by one, they nodded their approval.

  “Okay then,” Number 7 said, looking at Grant. “Mr. Parker, take Mr. Kellen and prepare the test facilities for our guest… personally. No one is to know of this project. Mr. Tanis, you are directed to initiate the project. Kidnap Aislen Walker and bring her to the test facilities. Then notify us directly.”

  “I won’t be doing that,” Raze said, making them his bitch now. “Troy over there is going to do that. He’s been wining and dining that piece of ass for quite a while now. Isn’t that right, Troy? You have quite a connection with her, wouldn’t you say?”

  Troy tried to defend himself. “Well, I didn’t know who she was! She’s just a dumb nurse...”

  “She isn’t as dumb as you think. Anyway, since you were hired for your charm and good looks—you know, like a hooker—you go ahead and hook her. That shit is beneath my skill set, and I need to prepare for the real work.”

  “Raziel is right,” Number 7 said. “Mr. Kellen, if you have established a…how shall we say…a friendship with Ms. Walker, invite her on a date. Bring her here, and we will have Raziel handle the rest. Raziel, prepare yourself. And I am sure that my colleagues will agree, if you handle this situation for us, for Infinium Incorporated, we will make it very worth your while. You may go.”

  Raziel turned on his heel and walked toward the steel doors, Grant and Troy left to follow him like puppies. Once they reached the antechamber and the door slid shut behind them, Grant lost it.

  “What the fuck, Troy! You’ve been trying to get in this girl’s pants? The girl who could destroy us!”

  Raze turned around to enjoy the ass whooping.

  “You took your eyes off your responsibilities for a piece of ass?!”

  “To be fair, Grant,” Raze interjected, “she is hot. And you know the weak cannot control their base instincts. What did you expect?”

  Troy glared at Raze like he wanted to rip his throat out.

  Raze smiled. Fat chance.

  Grant turned on Raze. “Fuck you, Raziel. I swear on all that is unholy, I will find a way to destroy you if it’s the last thing I do!”

  Raze looked down at him. “Good luck with that.” Raze turned his back on both of them.

  “Get to work,” he threw over his shoulder as he walked out.

  Twelve

  Aislen drifted in a nowhere place, an inbetween with no form or structure, suspended in the air. She felt like she could be awake, lying in the chair in the strange room.

  She looked down at herself, and there was nothing there. She didn’t have a body. Her thoughts and ideas, her essence, were just floating there by themselves.

  With nothing to anchor her, she was unable to get her bearings. She felt adrift on the sea, intoxicated or drugged. She swooned and began spinning out of control. Instinctively, she pulled all her attention close to herself, down, down, down, into a tiny pinpoint of singularity. The spinning stopped.

  She could feel the weight of something holding her down and looked up. A shimmering wave rippled above her like she was deep underwater. She swam toward it. As she moved closer to the shiny veneer, she could see it was part mirror, part window, molten together seamlessly.

  Aislen caught her reflection in the mirrored part. She almost didn’t recognize herself. She seemed older; her eyes looked hard, like steel. Just beyond her reflection, through the frosted glass, another version of herself was lying far below, curled up in the arms of the sterile white chair, sound asleep.

  She was right there! If she could just push herself through the thin membrane, pop the imaginary bubble, she could fall back into her body and wake up.

  Aislen pushed against the reflective image of herself, stretching toward her body below, trying to extricate herself from the trap of the dream. Her body inched closer as she struggled with the mirror, feeling it pressed taut against her.

  Almost there.

  Just a little further.

  Da bist du ja, Poppet!

  His distinctive rasp rattled her concentration, and she was thrown back into the inbetween.

  Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you.

  Aislen scoured the emptiness for the old man, but he wasn’t there.

  She felt a tapping against her skull. No, no, dear. I’m right here. But you shouldn’t be running away from me like that. We have work to do.

  Aislen started feeling a tickle against her scalp like he was scratching her head with his spindly old man finger. She shook her head violently and turned to run away. She moved quickly, flying rather than running. She could feel the speed and the wind, though there was only the blank canvas around her and she could not gauge how far she was traveling.

  Young Sigmund appeared out of nowhere, stopping her like a brick wall. “I am not letting you get away this time,” he said in Old Lange’s voice. His phantom finger went to work on her skull again, scratching and digging, like a prisoner trying to spoon his way out through limestone prison walls…only Sigmund was trying to spoon his way in.

  Aislen pushed herself back from the phantom.

  “I’ve seen what you do. What you did!” she spat with disgust.

  “Which part are you talking about, Poppet?” he said, encr
oaching upon her.

  “To that poor man! The drugs! The visions!”

  Sigmund cocked his head to the side. “Which young man would that be? There were so many, you know.”

  “Thomas!” she yelled, whacking at the worm digging at her head. “You killed him!”

  “Ooooooooooh, you mean your grandfather!” Sigmund smiled as he let that information sink in.

  Of course, it was her grandfather! That was why he reminded her of her dad.

  “And he wasn’t dead… yet. Do you think I was going to let that happen? Tsk tsk.” Mr. Lange moved in closer to Aislen’s face, his icy pale eyes boring into her. “You really need to get to know me better if this is going to work out between us.”

  The worm stopped boring into her skull, and he shoved Aislen backward.

  ∞

  Tap tap tap. Sigmund hammered the final nail in his office wall. He picked up the large frame on his desk and carefully hung it on the nail, balancing it so that it was perfectly straight. He stepped back to admire the masterpiece. This was the moment it had all changed, the first jewel in what would be his crowning achievement.

  Sigmund admired the contents. It wasn’t the most arresting front page the Chronicle had produced; too much text. Sigmund would have preferred the photo to have taken up half the page, not the bitty 3 by 5 snapshot swimming in a sea of gibberish, but it was beautiful in what it represented.

  The EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA banner across the top was a nice touch. It was indeed an extraordinary edition. He perused the article for the thousandth time. It was the June 5, 1968, edition, announcing to the world that Senator Robert F. Kennedy had been shot in the head in Los Angeles the night before.

  “Kennedy was shot in the head early today by a gunman who turned a victory celebration into a scene of terror,” the article read. “Six neurosurgeons began a delicate operation to try to remove a bullet in the brain and save his life.”

  Sigmund caressed the photo with his eyes. Oh, Bobby, you would have made so many people happy.

  Even though he wasn’t technically dead in the photo, he looked it. He didn’t die until the next day.