The Valkyrie_Genesis

by LK Walker

  Peche’s voice comes in strong over the top, “ten seconds until wipe.”

  I must have been clawing for something unique. “Nine-five-seven.” I blurt out. The recording has stopped on a still frame of Vera, head turned, looking into the distance.

  “Play it again.” The message starts to replay, I have on the same shirt as I’m wearing now and my hair is cascading over my shoulders. That was me only seconds ago, yet I have absolutely no recollection of being part of any conversation.

  Everyone’s watching me like some freak show, waiting for my response. “It would be a lot better if it was my real face saying those words.”

  All the same, it seems I’ve made up my mind, they are my words. Nine-five-seven was my locker code at school. I didn’t give it out to anyone, I don’t think. It’s not foolproof, but it’s enough. “You must have been convincing. I guess I’ll be making the leap. Permanently.” The thought is terrifying. But if I can’t trust my own good judgment, whose can I trust.

  “So, what happens now?” I’m looking at Zander for answers, but it’s Coby who responds. “It’s going to take a while to set up the required equipment. Maybe a week. We’re putting a lab together, but it’s away from here, in a place only the two of us know about.” Coby points to Peche. “We’re less likely to be tracked if we travel via land. That will clock up a couple of days alone. But the delay will be worth it. We have a vacant lab at a location that hasn’t been sullied by prior activity.” I nod along taking in what I can. “Once the equipment is set up, Peche and I will need to install a subset code into the terminal which will create a permanent disruption to your grey matter stopping any degradation or return procedure. The memories you have had here, in the future, will be severed from your primary consciousness.”

  “But my brain, in my real life, will be fine?”

  “It will remain as it is now. Without the reinforcement of the memories of the future, your subconscious will treat them like dreams and you’ll forget you were ever here. Your conscious thoughts that are linked to them will also be affected, although we’re not entirely sure how.”

  “But JT and I have talked about the future—at length.” I try to impress on them how deep into my psyche this has reached. “The time here might feel like a dream and when I wake up, I can see that slipping away from me like it always does. But my thoughts about this place, my conversations with JT, they won’t be disappearing anytime soon.”

  “In lay terms, we’re doing a copy and paste of your brain in the past into the one here.” He taps my left temple.” At the same time, we’ll effectively be pulling out the core of your memory of this place so your brain, in the past, will no longer have access to it. The rest of the thoughts associated with it will die off with time. After the memories are gone, you may have some confusion, thoughts that you can’t explain, but the brain is a wondrous thing and it will add in missing pieces—even if they aren’t the right ones.”

  “It’s going to be hard to let go of it.” What will it be like with disjointed memories. I imagine it will seem like I am losing hold of reality.

  “You can help your mind ease through that initial period by reinforcing the thought that we are nothing but a dream,” Coby says.

  “And what about JT?”

  “He’s in the same situation. I’d recommend stopping all contact with him until you’re through. Start repeating to yourself that any event you shared together was a coincidence, nothing more. That the details were different. It should help the healing process.”

  “When is JT coming through?”

  “Same time as you. The radiation signature omitted from the hardware will be distinctive.”

  “It will be like a flashing billboard to whoever is looking,” Peche adds.

  “The lovely people that bombed the compound no doubt know to look for radiation spikes and probably power fluctuations on the grid. But we’re hoping the specifics are beyond them. Nevertheless, as Peche rightly pointed out, the discharge will be distinct. After they record the activity, they’ll know exactly what they should be scanning for and there is no way we could adequately mask it for a second attempt. We’ve surmised that once they know the output signature they could find us within a matter of minutes, anywhere in the world. We only get one shot at this.” Coby is terrible at concealing his fears, they’re plastered on his face.

  “JT and me—we’re the only people you’re doing this to?”

  “Feel special?” Peche asks. “You should. It was a very distinct set of opportunities that got you here. I doubt we could recreate it anytime soon.”

  “Will you be there?” I ask Zander a little awkwardly.

  He glances over at Coby. “Sorry Cara. But these two are capable of looking after you. Too many of us accessing the site may draw unwanted attention.”

  Not the answer I hoped for. I fix Zander in a cold stare. “I need you to change your mind.” My voice is a little raspy when it comes out. I’m envisaging waking up on a hospital bed, in a strange place, with Peche and Coby playing with their computers. Interacting with their futuristic contraptions and not me. Not the welcome I’m after. “I need you there when I wake.” Even after all the half-truths, now I know a bit more of the story, now we’ve spent some time without the lies, I trust Zander—I think. He is the only friend I have in this place. At least that number will double when JT arrives.

  With a cocky look on his face, Zander shrugs at Peche and Coby.

  “Fine.” Coby spits the word out. They must have had this conversation already. Zander glances back at me, looking relieved. “Of course I’ll be there.”

  “If I wake up and you’re not—they can send me back home.” That’s going to be the problem, this place isn’t home. It’ll be like going on holiday, one I won’t be coming back from. “I’m scared,” I whisper it. Zander steps up to me and wraps me in his strong arms. “I get it. You need a friendly face. I’ll be there—I promise.”

  Those words are comforting. “Okay. I’m ready to go home.” I lie back down on the table and wait to be returned to my ordinary life one last time.

  On waking, I clutch at the pieces of my dream. Remembering more than I think Coby credits me with. When my eyes open, it’s to find the outline of Jack beside me, his gentle snores filling the quiet night. How will I survive without him? My stomach twists in a knot. At least he won’t know any different. I’ll be here with him for at least another twenty-six years, it seems.

  For me, at least some part of me, there is only one week left to be with Jack.

  And, for a change, I don’t mind the deep, ventilating rattle of his snore keeping me from drifting back off.

  Chapter 25

  Time is rampantly moving forward, like a dog called for its dinner.

  It’s hard to comprehend that the next time I’m shuttled through my dreams to the future, I will both stay there for the remainder of my days and at the same time I will be back in this time, never to return to the future, and my memory of all that I have seen will fade into oblivion. I'm not sure which is the better option. Gratefully, I won't have to choose one over the other, I’ll do both. For the rest of my days, I will be two people.

  Trying to accomplish anything at work is hopeless, with a jumble of fear and anxiety bouncing around in my head like a rubber ball on steroids. To say I am not achieving my weekly targets is an understatement.

  But whether I want it to or not, time races on and I manage to survive until Friday without turning into a jabbering wreck. That’s a small success considering I’m having problems sleeping.

  Tomorrow I'll have a chance to sleep in, catch up on a few missed hours, but right now I’m contemplating why anyone would hold a meeting first thing on a Friday morning? I haven’t managed to get enough coffee into my blood stream yet. My concentration is poor. My pen, with some help from my semi-functioning brain, is doodling triangles in the top right-hand corner of my pad as if that’s going to help focus. I need to start paying attention. Maree has lowered her
voice to a rolling stone on stone rumble, an indication the topic is important and knowing my luck, something that directly affects me.

  “Cara, what’s its ETA.”

  Bugger. Too late. I take an educated guess and assume they are talking about the extra equipment needed for the lab. I saw an email about it when I logged on to my computer this morning and, since I’m not expecting any other significant deliveries, it’s a safe bet.

  “Monday,” I say giving no further detail in case I’m wrong.

  Satisfied with the answer, Maree nods sharply. “Good. We'll get the service team booked in. They can install it as soon as it arrives on site.”

  Thank goodness, I guessed correctly. “Already booked in,” I add. “You’ll need to approve security passes for the installers before then.” Maree makes a note.

  One of the lab tech’s voices beats out any comments she has. “While they’re here, can ya get those fellas to take a gander at the ducting in the lab? There’s a rank smell coming out of the northern side, the vent right above my bench. It ain't real bad yet. But if there’s something dead in there…”

  “The lab should never have been set up on the same air conditioning system as the rest of the building,” Maree comments. “The potential problems it could create, well it doesn’t bear considering.”

  “This building wasn't exactly built for purpose.” Eli reminds her. “The building in San Francisco was designed specifically so we would have an isolated floor, which would have been perfect if half of the ceiling hadn't collapsed in the earthquake. This building was only earmarked for standard offices.”

  “I get your point, Colonel. Let’s add the lab’s ventilation to the list of requested upgrades we put to the Board after lunch, along with the security requirements.”

  A shadow flashes over Eli's face. His concerns about who is running our project haven’t dulled, yet he hasn't made any further mention of corporate ownership since his birthday. The problem must have been dealt with on some level. Otherwise, I’m sure he would have left the project dead in the water. But the solution can't have been the one Eli was hoping for.

  Finally, the meeting ends and I take a stroll through the eighth floor to see if I can smell anything coming from the vents. Sure enough, there’s a disgusting odor and I dry retch as soon as it cascades through my nostrils. My own fault, I was a little cavalier with my sniffing. Initially, I neared the vent and hadn’t noticed any strange smells. I had jumped up on a swivel chair and drew in a big breath to see if I could catch a whiff of anything directly under the vent and, as a result, got the full flavor. It had packed a punch and my jolt of shock had unbalanced my feet on the chair causing it to swing perilously under my feet, attempting to buck me off. Health and safety would have had a field day if I had injured myself. As I walk away, I can still smell it. The nauseating pong is attached to my nose hairs and persists for a while after I’ve left it’s origin.

  As a way of looking busy, I pull out the floor plans for the building. Sure enough, the ducting for the lab connects with the floor below, where my office is. It wouldn't take much to split the two floors, although the cost might be a hindrance. They could isolate the ducting so it channels next to my office and connects to the unit seated under my window. I know it’s there by its dull whirring. It might work. I scribble down my idea and drop it on Maree's empty desk, along with the plans, before I leave for lunch, just in case it is discussed in the board meeting.

  JT and I have decided to take Coby’s advice and stop talking to each other before D-day. But all I want to do is call him and debate what we might expect from our new life. I miss talking to him. It dawns on me that I have no idea how he’ll look. When I wake in the future, I will be staring at a stranger, with JT inside.

  Instead of dialing his number, I pull my collar up against a cool breeze and walk around the large grounds that the office is positioned on. The footpaths weave through muddy brown patches, littered with pink-coated grass seeds. A row of three saplings, as tall as me, has been recently planted, disturbed dirt is piled high around their trunks. The lime green leaves flitter through my fingers as I trail an outstretched hand through each tree as I pass. These are a new development since last time I was out here. I look around to see if the gardener who planted the trees is still around, but there’s no one out in the fresh air but me.

  Maree let me look over the new plans she had drawn up for the site. The whole place, buildings, gardens and all, will be fenced and a gate erected somewhere along its borders. I don't like the idea of being caged in, but I don't get a say. I may as well make the most of the freedom while I still can.

  The path meanders its way to the road side and I walk along the footpath watching the occasional car go past. Other than our facility, there are only a few buildings on the street, and not all of them are occupied. Only one car is parked along the stretch of road outside work. That's not a big surprise since we park in the carpark on site. The lone car appears brand new, not a scratch on it and the sun is glinting off the perfectly polished black paintwork like it's covered in twinkle lights. The trunk lid is up and the driver is obscured from view, other than the occasional sighting of his elbow as he plays around with something in the trunk.

  His head pokes out from behind the trunk lid as I near the car. His face is sweaty, perhaps from activity, although I wouldn't have thought rummaging was classed as cardio. The driver’s hair is slicked back from his clammy white face. Overall, he appears decidedly unwell. It makes the perfect suit he’s wearing look out of place.

  His eyes are vacant before they fix on mine. Immediately, his expression changes as if he recognizes me from somewhere. The intensity of his gaze is uncomfortable and I have to refrain from taking off in the opposite direction. “Hello,” I say trying to remain polite. The word is insincere and comes out accusatory.

  “Aren’t you Cara Sullivan?”

  That takes me by surprise. I'm sure I've never met him before.

  “Yeah, that's me.” I stop walking and turn to face him properly. “I'm sorry. I don't think I know you.”

  A smile crosses his face and it looks genuine.

  “Tony. Ferrara,” he says as he offers me a hand to shake. I've never heard the name before.

  “And what brings you here, Mr. Ferrara?” I ask as I close the gap between us and take his outstretched hand. He glances quickly behind him without relinquishing his grasp. Something’s wrong. My mind tells me to get out of here. Then his hand bites down on mine—hard. I try to free myself from his grasp. But brutally he yanks my arm, forcing me to stagger towards the open trunk of his car. My muscles clench down. I don’t want to move. His force has thrown me off balance, I stumble forward. How can I stop this? There is nothing to grab. There is nothing to brace against.

  “I can't believe you just walked up to the car,” he says. His free hand is fumbling in his pocket.

  All I can do is scream. And I do, as loud as I can. I turn my head towards my office building, hoping for help, but no one is there. No one is running to save me. Maybe they can see me struggling through the big glass windows, or perhaps my screams will get their attention, so they will look. Whichever, I pray it brings them to my rescue. I take another breath and shout and shriek and screech and yell until my lungs are exhausted. The effort burns the back of my throat.

  There is a sharp prick in the top of my arm. That has me looking back at the sick man in the suit. His eyes dart around in perpetual motion. Looking at every inch of the world around him—everything but me.

  “This should quieten you down for a while.”

  My eyes see the syringe depress while the needle is stuck in my arm.

  I don't get to take another lung full of air before my vision blurs. I can't scream anymore, I can't even hold myself up. As if expecting my collapse, the man's arms grasp my waist, catching me before I collapse.

  Can I hear voices in the distance? I think I can make out a voice screaming ‘stop’. I can't be sure it's real, though. I want
to turn my head to look, but I have no control of it. I feel the man push and poke my body into the trunk. I’m numb. Before the boot slams shut, the last thing I see are dreary gray clouds covering the sky. The darkness is absolute. If there are voices, would-be rescuer’s yelling at the man to stop, I can no longer hear them over the car ignition. There is a screech of tires. With all my strength, I try to hold on to consciousness, but it slips away.

  Chapter 26

  My eyes aren't open yet, but I can remember. I remember being shoved in a trunk and the force of acceleration smashing me into the rear of the car. Who knows what happened after that. I think I’m sitting upright now but it’s hard to be certain. Whatever was in that syringe is screwing with all my senses.

  Nausea is coming in waves. It feels like acid is crawling up my esophagus. I shuffle in my seat trying to get away from the queasiness. My shoulders ache at the movement. Something doesn’t feel right with my arms. Wriggling my fingers, I understand why, they’re behind me. An attempt to move them forward is useless, something binds my wrists. Rotating my hands is no better, they’re bound tight. Whatever ties them feels fibrous and gnaws my flesh with the movement. Probably a safe guess to say it’s good old-fashioned rope.

  My head is throbbing. A sudden influx of light will make my head explode. But I need to see where I am. Cautiously, I slide my eyelids open only to find myself in a world on the verge of darkness. The moon is shining somewhere in the night’s sky. Although I can't see it through the solitary window high on the wall, it is letting in enough light to see the edges and silhouettes of what’s around me. I've been shoved into someone’s shed. Near the window is a rickety-looking wooden door, with a couple of old wooden crates piled up next to it. There’s a long bench in front of me spanning most of the back wall. A few tools are scattered across its surface. All I can distinguish is a screwdriver and a hammer. Below the bench, a couple of the drawers are open as if someone was hurriedly looking for something and didn’t bother closing them again. There isn't much else visible. I try to twist around to see what’s behind me. There’s a garage door in the middle of the wall and a cluster of bigger tools in one of the corners. At least the sick man isn't here.