[Sequoia]

by Adrian Dawson

  I couldn’t hear him any more than he had been able to hear me, but I got the gist. The look on my face showed that my answer was quite, clearly ‘No, but I don’t really have much choice, thanks for asking.’

  Looking back to the console, Milton placed his index finger over the left of two orange buttons in the middle right section and looked up again. I nodded and he pressed it. A second digital display, one showing actual the power in gigawatts being delivered through the arm in readiness for firing it at the sphere, began to increase and a noticeable buzzing sound began to build. It sounded as though death had sent the eighth of his Egyptian plagues to come and collect me and, if I am to be truly honest, I had never been as frightened in my life.

  No going back now, I thought. Not from here and not from there. If indeed I ever made it there.

  This, truly, was it.

  When the buzzing had reached full intensity, Milton saw a green light labelled, appropriately enough, ‘System Ready’ illuminate at the top of the console. He took a moment, looked up once more and placed his palms flat together in front of his face.

  Good bye. Good luck.

  I nodded in acknowledgement.

  He hit Orange Button two. There was a slight delay, just a couple of seconds, and then all hell kicked in. In the brief moment of normality I was offered I noticed a single spark jump from the arm to the sphere, then my body began to feel as though it was being torn in every possible direction. Suddenly, everything went white. Very, very white. The kind of white that detergent advertisers would just love see see replicated on media screens across the globe.

  I was fairly sure that, within that glare, I saw Milton falling backwards from his chair.

  Then nothing. No sound, no warmth, no cold and no sensation.

  Just white.

  * * * * *

  Milton remained seated on the floor for a few moments, collecting himself, then slowly lifted himself back onto his chair. Looking back through the window to the laboratory behind he saw that, save for the sphere, the arm and the few pieces of data collection equipment, it was completely empty. Everything, it seemed, had gone well. Really well.

  Strauss was gone: the red jump-suit crumpled on the tiled floor as though Rachael and he had discarded it in a passionate exchange.

  He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, then looked to clock: 2:29am. Time to go. He readied to stand and collect the Peace Dollar from the console, his meal ticket once he got the hell out of there, then stopped. Suddenly. To his right, the door slid open without him doing a damn thing. He looked up.

  Two guards, both dressed in black clothing, both wearing helmets with dark visors obscuring their faces and both armed with assault weapons stepped in and separated in a pre-programmed formation to either side of the doorway, their weapons firmly trained on him. He didn’t move. Right at that moment he really didn’t think that moving would be the best idea he had ever had.

  A few moments later he heard the repetitive click of quite deliberate and focused footsteps coming along the corridor, female. Within seconds, their owner appeared. She stepped into the doorway and stopped, the guards flanking her. She was old, but it was hard to tell exactly how old. She had seemingly had one hell of a lot of work and so the face was smooth but the neck, as ever, belied some considerable disparity between the two. She was smartly dressed in a dark grey trouser suit, and very corporate both in dress and demeanour. Her medium length, flowing blonde hair was perfect to the strand, her understated jewellery undoubtedly extremely expensive and she carried a look on her face that she was someone who really did not want to be messed with. Not tonight.

  Milton didn’t watch too much media, especially not current affairs. The state of the modern world had long since started to bore, agitate and downright annoy him, but he did recognise the face. She was a senator, as he understood it, and a slick one at that. Scalise, if he remembered correctly.

  He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. Shit. Suddenly this wasn’t going very well at all.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Friday, July 21, 1645.

  South of Manningtree, Essex, England.

  I was starting to worry now; a lot.

  Rachael was flagging; stumbling at every turn. What’s more, she had not looked me the eye even once for the entire journey, nor offered any real sign along the way that she was ready. I was certain that the night had lost her again and, if some miracle did not present itself soon, I too would lose her. Forever. Short of getting the chance to see her face one more time, for which I could not feel anything but gratitude to the fucked up dichotomy of the Sequence, it would mean that my entire journey to this vile and wretched place would have been completely in vain.

  History might demand it, but I could not let her die today.

  I knew she was weak, desperately so, and the trek from Colchester was never going to be an easy one for her, but we had only just passed the Long Furrow. We still had around a mile to go before we reached ‘The Post’ - the [London: 70mi] mile marker - and it was looking increasingly as though Rachael would be unable to make it so much as another quarter.

  As a light summer rain began to fall, Porter led the group, with Ravven and Helen Clarke directly behind. Like the other women, Clarke had heavy manacles connecting her wrists and ankles together with a third chain connecting the two. Apart from the weight, which was not inconsiderable, they did not impede walking too greatly but, as I well knew, they would make an effective sprint nigh-on impossible. Ravven had been griping for the whole God-damned journey, a journey that had gotten hotter and more uncomfortable with every minute that passed. It seemed that the man, as ever, had anger issues and was desperate to prove it at every turn. He griped about the walk, about the track, about his shoes, about the ‘furkin’ witches and yes, about the fact that he was - yet again - hungry. He griped about birds singing and then griped again when it was ‘too furkin quiet’. He griped about the ruts when they were there and that ‘there was a reason nobody uses this road’ when they weren’t. He griped about the heat and now, when the heavens offered brief respite, he griped about that too. Porter had done his damnedest to lay distance between the two of them but he was old and both Ravven and Helen - who had no option but to travel firmly at Ravven’s pace - were not. Porter was really starting to look forward to Manningtree where he could just stick a big ol’ greasy pie in the guy’s hole and finally get him to shut the hell up.

  A gap of around fifteen to twenty feet separated Ravven from Atkins, escorting the older Anne West. There was a slightly larger gap between Atkins and Parker, who was charged with the permanently-weary Anne Leech, but it was not a gap to get too het up about. The distance between them and us, however, was growing by the minute and would soon become the one thing I did not want it to be: noticeable. If that happened, then Porter would stop the train and we would all bunch up again long before we reached The Post. That would make everything that followed considerably more difficult.

  “You need to keep walking, Rach.,” I said, under my breath. “Please. Try to keep closer to the others.”

  Instead of quickening her pace, however, Rachael stumbled again, the chains rattling loudly. She did not fall but it was through luck, I felt, rather than judgment. Her gait was an increasingly awkward one. She looked desperately emaciated, her shoulders sagged like a bale of hay breaking open and her thin legs, poking from beneath her ragged and filthy dress, looked as though they might snap at any moment.

  Which, only a few short yards later, they did. Kind of. Suddenly, her right knee buckled awkwardly and she fell hard to the ground, almost crunching onto the bare stones. Almost immediately she begin to cough, writhe and twist; blood-tinged spittle oozing from her cracked mouth. Her legs kicked in all directions and her eyes flickered wildly, almost rolling out of sight. Her right hand clenched her beads tightly, squeezing them. I crouched down and reached to grab her shoulders, to lift her up again, but she turned and placed both her hands against the sides of my ribs and s
hook me violently, screaming in my face. Not words, just guttural sounds. It shocked me to see her do that to me. After a few seconds she stopped, then pushed, sharply, and I was sent backwards, landing hard on the dirt myself.

  The others stopped and turned, but none more so than Ravven. Without taking so much as a breath he left the young Helen Clarke to Porter, shouting only “Watch my bitch” before heading off past the others to offer his own special brand of help.

  “Stand firm,” Porter shouted. “It is his issue, let him deal with it.”

  But Ravven was seething. Fucking witches bitches, he muttered to himself. Fucking hated them all. And you don’t get a novice to do a professional’s job. He’d set the bitch back on her feet alright and, if not, he’d fucking drag her to the fucking gallows by her fucking hair and he would fucking laugh as she fucking screamed. He opened and clenched his thick hands as he lumbered forward.

  Still on the floor, I looked up and saw the huge Goliath of a man stomping hard toward us, chuntering to himself through clenched teeth. He looked more than ready for a one-way fight. Shit, I thought, that is not what I need. If Ravven took control of Rachael from here on then the game was as good as over.

  Shit, shit, shit. I muttered. Think.

  Rachael was still writhing uncontrollably on the floor; spittle flying, eyes rolling and freshly damp mud beginning to paste around her feet. I pulled myself upright as best I could and, as Ravven arrived, I moved to push him away. “Leave her, she is mi...” I began, but Ravven simply punched a massive hand flat into my chest and set me back on the floor again, harder this time. Then he leaned over the still-writhing Rachael and began to roll up his sleeves...

  “Doggy gonna be on my leash now!”

  He grabbed her firmly by the hand, squeezing beads into her palm and started to drag her upward.

  Suddenly... in the blink of an angry eye... Rachael stopped writhing. Silence fell, as though time itself had paused for breath. The world around us seemed to fall silent in expectation. It lasted for just a few seconds and then…

  She smiled. A very nasty smile indeed.

  She pulled her hand back fast, the flesh behind her knuckles tearing under his uncut nails in deep tracks. Then, very slowly and very deliberately, she lifted herself up, the chains falling noisily at her feet. Ravven looked down and saw them crumpled like discarded clothing. For a moment he too was shocked; frozen to the spot. He lifted his eyes to look into hers and his mouth fell open. She stared right back at him, dark eyes narrowing and burning deep like he was being blinded with coals. He felt as though he could actually see a fire in them; building as though getting ready to explode. Her battered, bruised and filthy face clenched tight and she curled her upper lip like the menacing dog he probably believed her to be, dark creases forming beneath her crumpled nose. Sharpened words began to slither out between her teeth, her hands curling toward him, uncut and filthy nails looking like an eagle’s talons fit to strike.

  “Lay your filthy paws on me you twisted little fuck and you shall burn in hell.”

  She pushed her upper body forward just a few inches, whilst pulling her arms sharply back, and snarled. Ravven instinctively backed away. She took one pace forward and then slowly and eerily bent her arms in toward her chest, curling them so that her fists faced his upper body. Then she thrust them out, violently catching him mid-chest with her tightened knuckles and sending the huge man flying backward like a skittle. He landed on the dirt beside me and remained completely motionless, unable to take his eyes from her. She walked forward, stared down at him one last time, blood dripping from the back of her right hand, hair rising in the wind and spat a thick wad on him. Then, with a wide-eyed, devilish “Ha!” she was gone, disappearing over the east wall and through the curtain of ripening corn which lay beyond.

  Save for a single crow squawking at the rain in the distance, silence fell again.

  I rose to my feet. What the fuck just happened? I thought. We were a good mile from The Post. At least. It was there that Rachael would need to collapse and writhe, there that I would surreptitiously remove her chains. I was to use the key which had been contained in the manacles I had secured for Prudence at Colchester, for they were all the same - or close enough to jiggle. Then she was to take off down the scrubland track as fast as she could manage.

  So, how the hell had she...

  Though I could barely believe that such a ridiculous thought was even daring to stray into my (fairly) logical mind - her new-found abilities in escapology, sadly lacking in the cells at Colchester - her unnatural strength - and the look that I had seen firing shards from deep within her eyes - was making even me begin to wonder if she had actually somehow become... a...

  I looked down to the pile of chains, still resting on the track. They seemed unbroken, every visible link intact. Then I looked to one of the ankle rings and saw that it was... open. Unlocked. I looked left and found another; the same. And the wrists. Looking deeper, I saw among tangled strands of metal the one thing I had not been expecting to see. A key. The key. Frantically, I checked the left-hand pocket on my tunic and found it empty. Indeed, it had probably become empty as Rachael had - I thought for a moment - quite deliberately shaken me by the ribs and slipped her fingers inside.

  Clever girl, I thought. Clever, clever girl.

  I looked to Ravven, still shaking on the bare earth like a scared child hiding under a bed-sheet. “You want to go after her?” I asked, cockily. There was no answer, but I already knew what it would have been if there was. I couldn’t help but smile. He was a Goliath alright and she was his David. “No? Then get back to your woman and continue on. The bitch will hanging from her noose by noon, I guarantee it.”

  With that, I too hurdled the wall and disappeared into the mist of rain which was enveloping the thick corn.

  Running. Smiling.

  What I did not know as I ran; and what I would perhaps never know because I ran, was that almost exactly one mile up the track, gathered at ‘The Post’, were around a dozen villagers eagerly waiting to escort the convoy into Mistley. They had also brought The Boy, the fastest legs in town, so that he might run ahead and give word to the crowd in town of their imminent arrival.

  There would have been no getting away at The Post; no getting away at any point thereafter. No getting away ever. I had no way of knowing that, and nor had Rachael.

  And yet, somehow, possibly, she had.

  FORTY-NINE

  Wednesday, August 23, 2043. 2:28am.

  5th & Alameda, Los Angeles, California.

  “Badge,” Scalise said bluntly. She nodded to one of the visored guards who stepped forward, his hand outstretched in readiness.

  Milton pulled his ID badge from his jacket with a snap and handed it over, the guard returning it to Scalise.

  She took a swift look. “So, Mr. Grady. what brings you to my lab in the middle of the night?”

  Milton looked suspicious. “I wasn’t aware it was your lab,” he said. He looked desperately unfazed.

  “Few people are,” she said, her air of superiority intact. “It’s the beauty of silent investment. We keep things silent. Indeed, I was very much a sleeping partner until somebody went and woke me up in the middle of the night.”

  She walked over to the control desk, eyeing the various switches for just a few moments and running her fingers along the buttons with some admiration, then looked through the glass from the console room into the main laboratory. The sphere was intact, the arm reset, but the room was not as she suspected it should be. Her eyes narrowed. “Who’s jumpsuit is that?” she asked. There was no need to point, everyone in the room knew precisely what she was referring to.

  Milton shrugged. “How would I know?” he said. “However, if you’re pushing me, I would hazard my guess at the young Ms. Bond. Wasn’t she the last person you idiots sent back..?”

  Scalise turned to him, clearly not convinced. A check of the data from the console would give her the answer she needed anyway, but that could
wait. There were more pressing matters to deal with. She pulled her glass phone from her inside pocket and started pressing and swiping, speaking as she did. As with many of the current generation tablets, the larger cousins, her phone was basically a sheet of glass with a chrome surround containing the relevant technology. Like many of the older generation, Scalise had really failed to get to grips with the whole concept of fo’glasses and the earpieces favoured by those under thirty.

  “Where is Peter Strauss?” she asked, still flicking.

  Milton looked around the room. To her, to the guards and to the walls. Anywhere and everywhere. “Who?”

  Scalise, having found what she needed, smiled. “Milton Jonas Grady,” she said. “Born 31st July 2023. Educated: CalTech.” She sneered. “Joined KRT in January 2041 in waveless and now works within the communications division.” She thought for a moment, taking this in. “So… Milton Grady does not work in the same department as Peter Strauss, nor even on the same floor and therefore it is possible he may not know him? Is that what we’re saying?”

  Milton looked smug. “To be fair,” he said, “that’s what you’re saying. But I’m happy to agree with you if it makes you feel special.”

  She threw him a knowing look tinged with a dark smile. “Rachael Garlens..?” she asked.

  Milton shrugged again.

  “So you’ve never heard of either Peter Strauss or Rachael Garlens?” Scalise asked.

  Milton shook his head. “Should I have?”

  Scalise, from Milton’s I.D., had easily accessed his personnel records and from there his tracking number. The tracking number gave her his GPS log and that log gave her his movements within KRT on any given day. From there it was very easy to find the very clear link she needed.

  Scalise smiled. It was not a good smile. “Nix’d degrees of separation, Mr. Grady. So… you don’t know either of these people and yet you attend Ms. Garlens’ funeral. Indeed, you’re even seen speaking to Mr. Strauss.” She held up the semi-transparent screen. The image obscuring the view was clearly company-wide security footage of him in deep discussion with Strauss at Rachael’s funeral. “Then, to make it worse, you scurry into this lab in the middle of the night, and well, blow me down if you don’t go and use Strauss’ access code to do it. So I will ask you again,” she said. “Where is Mr. Strauss?”