‘There’s no one here, Chief.’ One of the agents finally stated the obvious.
‘There must be more than one of these teleporters.’
‘And your son?’ Anselm wondered if Taren had achieved her goal. ‘Has he been resurrected?’
The statement made Ronan turn pale. ‘Taren told you about this little fantasy they cooked up?’
‘Ronan, the last time I saw you, Yasper had been killed in action,’ Anselm stated. ‘So whether or not my daughter is cooking up fantasies would depend entirely on whether Yasper is alive or dead.’
Ronan was speechless for a second. ‘He is alive,’ he admitted at last.
‘Then you need to view this.’ Anselm held out the memory stick. ‘Only your own personal security code will unlock it.’
The chief’s office was cleared — only Anselm and Ronan remained. Anselm took a seat across from the chief’s desk, where he could not view the screen. Ronan tossed a couple of pills down his throat, which he swallowed down with water. ‘What is on this?’ He took up the memory stick from his desk where Anselm had placed it.
Anselm filled him in. ‘That is a recording I watched you make only a few hours ago. At that time Taren informed us that she intended to go back in time by two days to save Yasper’s life … which obviously she has managed to do. In which case, you have an agreement to honour.’
Ronan grunted and stuck the memory stick into his workstation. He was quite sure the memory stick would not unlock as he’d made no recording that morning and no one knew his code. The chief was startled when an image of himself filled his screen and began talking at him.
‘Zelimir Ronan, if you are watching this — and I doubt you ever fucking will be — but if you are, you are living in a reality where our boy is alive and I’m telling you, you should be very fucking grateful for that!’
Ronan found it confronting to watch the image of himself on-screen nearly collapse into tears, but he sucked in his pain and repressed it, both on the screen and in reality.
‘Of course, I’ll want proof of this miracle, as no doubt you are now wondering how to try and explain this elaborate fraud. But while you’re dreaming up your radical-conspiracy theory, ask yourself: what do any of the people involved stand to gain from this hoax besides your respect? It is you who is the winner, if Yasper is alive. So be a good sport and honour the agreement we have made with Taren Lennox.’ A tear escaped his eye and he brushed it quickly aside.
‘As I am such a stickler for details and a morbid old fart, find attached the official death certificate for our boy, along with the coroner’s report of how he was suffocated to death, and if you still need more evidence — there are some pictures of our son’s corpse attached to the aforementioned report.’ The chief’s image took a pause and lowered his head to ponder his conclusion and then looked back to camera. ‘I can’t imagine what far-fetched theory you are going to concoct to explain the events of the past few days, but whatever your theory is you’re wrong! The Timekeeper can see into the future, can teleport from place to place in the present, so why should it be any more unbelievable that she can shift her consciousness back a few days, or even ten years? I’d give anything to be in your shoes right now; I hope I am. And if I am, do not screw these people. I authorised this mission, they had our full support so honour this contract!’
When the recording finished, Ronan said nothing. He quietly went about checking the other documents on the memory stick, stony-faced, as if his spirit had left the building.
‘Do you believe us now, Chief?’ Anselm queried.
Ronan nodded, without looking up, the query did not even raise an expression from the man.
‘So you concede that psychics, unrestrained and acting on their own recognisance, rearranged time in order to save your son’s life?’ Anselm pushed.
‘I do.’ Ronan continued reading and did not look up.
‘As witness to this event, I’ve been thinking.’ Anselm saw a huge opening for political reform here, as Ronan carried a lot of weight with the President of Maladaan. ‘Why should we seek to control those with the Powers, when we can harness their unique talents, with goodwill and trust?’
Ronan finally looked up and he was not happy.
‘I’m not saying all psychics are so heroic and selfless,’ Anselm back-peddled a bit, ‘but they should be judged on their merits just like everybody else.’
Ronan stood, absolutely fuming. ‘Have you lost your mind? Your daughter has the ability to change events in the past! Do you realise what that means? She holds the future of every man, woman and child in the United Systems to ransom and as chairman of that council you ought to be a bit more concerned about that! We have to shut the Timekeeper down!’
‘My daughter is not a fucking machine, Ronan.’ Anselm stood to impress his authority. ‘Touch one hair on her head and Maladaan can consider itself at war with Sermetica.’
‘And how are you going to explain that to the voters?’ Ronan challenged. ‘Besides,’ he checked the time on his screen, ‘you’re already too late, it’s done.’
‘You had better pray your people are running late.’ Anselm gripped Ronan around the throat and then cast the older, rounder man back into his seat and stormed towards the door.
‘Don’t threaten me … you … you … Fuck …’ Ronan went into cardiac arrest.
Zeven departed Chief Ronan’s office at the same time the agents, hoping to capture him, did. It was up to Anselm to convince the chief of their mission’s success; Zeven’s concern was Taren.
With the thought of Taren, Zeven found himself inside a memory bank, with several medical personnel. The medics were all focused on the subject whose memory they were violating. Zeven was sickened to see the subject was Taren — in the very situation she had fought so hard to avoid!
‘Memory reduction request seventy per cent complete,’ advised the monitoring database.
‘What!’ Zeven freaked when he heard how far along the procedure was and drew the attention of all in the team. Door: Jam. Internal monitoring cameras: Out! he willed, and the sound of the devices blowing out startled his foes. ‘Mental blackout!’ he suggested, pointing to two of the medics, who dropped to the floor, and Zeven confronted the one left sitting by the keyboard. ‘Reverse the procedure —’
‘Memory reduction request eighty per cent complete,’ advised the monitoring database.
‘Now!’ Zeven pulled the more studious form of a man up by his shirt.
‘I can’t do that during the process without direct authorisation from the chief,’ he cried. ‘Please don’t kill me.’
‘Then you can replace the information once the process is complete,’ Zeven concluded. But the little scientist, whom he still held by the neck, fearfully shook his head. ‘Why no?’
‘Because the deposit is set to be deleted upon completion,’ he confessed, and visibly began to shake. ‘Once it completes it will be irretrievable.’
‘Memory reduction request ninety per cent complete,’ advised the monitoring database.
‘Shit!’ Zeven began to panic. ‘Can you slow it down at least?’ He let the scientist go.
‘I can try.’ The fellow pushed his glasses back up his nose and began typing away madly. ‘If I run some other big programs at the same time, it might slow things —’
‘Five per cent of memory reduction request remaining.’
‘You’re speeding it up!’ Zeven accused the frazzled operator, who was suddenly whipped from his chair by Chief Ronan.
‘Out of the fucking way.’ The chief was seated and immediately set to work on reversing the procedure.
Zeven didn’t dare question what he was seeing until the monitoring computer announced.
‘Ninety per cent of memory reload request remaining.’
‘Chief Ronan?’ Zeven queried, relieved that Anselm had obviously won the man over to their side.
Ronan looked to Zeven and smiled, something he never did. ‘I knew you always held a secret flame for me
.’ The chief blew a kiss in his direction.
Zeven was so stunned by what he was seeing, it took a moment to register. ‘Abi,’ he said with great relief.
‘Bob.’ She winked at him. ‘Knowing the chief as I do, I figured we’d all get screwed.’
‘And not in a good way,’ Zeven added.
‘Eighty per cent of memory reload request remaining,’ advised the monitor, as Jazmay rolled her eyes at Zeven’s innuendo.
‘This is programmed to finish up and release the subject automatically.’ She stood. ‘I need to find Yasper.’
Zeven nodded to give her leave. ‘I’ll see Taren to safety, as soon as she is freed from this contraption.’
The chief gave Zeven the thumbs up and vanished.
‘Seventy per cent of memory reload request remaining …’
This is pure fear. Ronan recognised it, although he had not allowed himself to feel it for a long time. He’d taken his pills already and the pain wasn’t ebbing at all. So now, as Ronan feared the end might be near, all the wrong he’d done by others came flooding back to haunt him. His thoughts turned to his son and the position he was leaving him in. What if Yasper wasn’t lying, what if he had developed a psychic ability? Then the MSS would lock his son up and throw away the key, and the only woman capable of rescuing his boy had had all memory of him erased.
The pain shot up from Ronan’s heart and wedged in his throat, where his regret threatened to suffocate him and his eyes moistened with tears. No, this is unacceptable. I am the Chief of the Maladaan Secret Service and I do not cry! Ronan attempted to stop the tears and pull himself together. He pushed the pain back down, sending shooting pain down his left arm, whereupon he began to choke once more and his heart stopped dead.
‘Chief?’ Anselm seemed to be yelling to him from some distance away. ‘Are you okay?’
Zelimir Ronan’s physical senses fell away one by one, and his perception of the world soared upwards to where he could see President Anselm calling for help.
Where do you think you’re going?
Ronan’s perception shifted to one side where he was stunned to find a young, fit, fair-haired fellow floating beside him, wearing only a pair of trousers and a vest. Am I dead?
Not for long. The young man beckoned Ronan closer with his finger. Your death would prove a political nightmare, so I fear I cannot allow it just yet.
As Ronan was drawn, through no will of his own, towards the Lord, his base human emotions such as resentment began to surface. Who are you that you can deny a man a peaceful demise?
I am Sacha, Lord of the Inner-world. The roguish being grinned.
Ronan’s consciousness was expanding rapidly with the revelation that there was a state of being that followed death. I find this completely perplexing … there is life after death?
There is life after death, in the next universe, in different dimensions, timelines … life is everywhere, said the Lord. In fact here is a little bleed-through that you might find particularly relevant now.
Ronan’s consciousness went into a whirl and the next thing he knew he was seated behind his desk addressing Taren Lennox. ‘How are you doing this?’ he asked her, although Ronan had no control over his words; he was trapped inside a memory he’d never had.
‘Loving, wilful intention,’ she replied, ‘that’s all. Love sustains light. Light is the communicator of intention to the molecular world which responds to the most influential force in its environment … usually me … but only because I am more aware and confident of my influence than the next person.’
‘I am most eager to see you prove that,’ Ronan conceded sincerely. ‘Return my boy to me and I shall be forever in your debt.’
Ronan’s consciousness shifted quickly back to his spirit form beside the young Lord, floating above the calamity unfolding below in the office as MSS staff scrambled to bring their chief back to life. What was that?
A reminder of the promise you made, said the Lord. You don’t appreciate what you have, nor do you push the great advantage you have to be constructive in this world. And I’m not sending you back until I know you are going to be an asset!
What if I don’t want to go back? Ronan rather liked being above all the chaos for a change and not embroiled in it.
Is there nothing you will miss? Nothing left for you to fight for?
With the Lord’s prompting, Ronan’s dying regret sprang to mind and again he was filled with a foreboding feeling that he had betrayed his own son …
The magnitude of his guilt engulfed him like a black hole and spat Ronan’s consciousness out into a bed, inside a very small but grand chamber.
There was a beautiful woman standing beside his bed smiling warmly at him and she said, ‘For a man to be despised, he must first despise himself. What was it that made you despise yourself, Zelimir?’
‘I lost my son,’ he told her, and once again Ronan had no control over his words, but he felt and sympathised with the intense emotions he was feeling in this instance — guilt, regret, loss, sadness; Ronan clutched at his heart, wishing for it to just stop and put him out of his misery. ‘I should never have interfered! It didn’t matter that he was in love, happy and successful … what I would not give to see Yasper thus now.’ Ronan collapsed into tears.
After a moment Zelimir felt a tap on his shoulder, whereby he realised he was back in his spirit form, floating in his office. Why are you doing this? This was worse than any physical torture he’d ever endured.
I told you why. The Lord didn’t like repeating himself. You have an agreement to honour, and you must be more constructive!
I will! Ronan had never been this emotionally distraught in all his born days — for someone to have control of his being was one thing, but for someone to have control of his emotions and thoughts was a nightmare.
I’m still not convinced we’re on the same wavelength here, the Lord of the Inner-world cocked an eyebrow. Allow me to give you a quick pop quiz.
No! Ronan protested his consciousness being bandied about from one instance to another.
He was back behind his desk addressing Taren Lennox and a very beautiful Phemorian woman was there with her.
‘However, I put it to you,’ the Timekeeper was saying, ‘would your resolve about my relationship with Yasper have been different if you knew it would ultimately save his life?’
Ronan felt affronted by the question.
The Timekeeper moved to join the Phemorian who was staring at him with daggers in her eyes.
‘Abi?’ Taren queried as the Phemorian approached his desk to state her mind.
‘I am one of thousands of psychics who were imprisoned by you, I hated you for that, and yet you died selflessly to save my life and many others. You have the power and the intelligence to accomplish great things, Ronan, your heart is your weakness, and if you do not learn how to channel a love of all things that is unconditional, your heart will become diseased and it will kill you,’ she informed him bluntly.
‘Are you a prophet?’ Ronan asked, disturbed by the woman’s prediction.
Jazmay smiled. ‘No. I am in love with your son, and I’d like my future father-in-law to be alive and contributing to a world that his grandchildren will be safe living in.’
Ronan was returned to his station by the Lord, gasping on the revelation. My son is in love with a psychic Phemorian!
The Lord had a very large smile on his face. So what kind of a world shall you build for your grandchildren, Ronan? For despite the many lives we lead, one law remains constant … if you are constructive in this life you’ll advance to a place where you can be even more constructive in the next, but if you are destructive? Well, let me just say that at present your soul’s next incarnation will be in a place where torture and injustice abound.
But Maladaan is such a place, Ronan objected.
Well then, I’d get to work changing that, if I were you. The Lord of the Inner-world directed Ronan towards his defunct form and the chief’s perception was
hurled towards his earthly body and back into a conscious state.
When the chief suddenly drew a deep breath, the crowd around him all gasped in awe of his return to life.
‘Chief Ronan. How are you feeling?’ Anselm queried.
‘Who drugged me?’ Ronan asked, as he was seeing bright-coloured light around everybody.
‘I think we’d best get him to hospital,’ advised one of several medics attending.
‘No!’ insisted the chief, brushing everyone away as he sat up and buttoned his shirt. ‘Take me to my son.’
Everyone looked blankly at the chief.
‘Now!’ he roared, startling his underlings, before he took a deep calming breath. ‘Please.’ As Ronan viewed the wonder-struck faces around him, he realised how rarely he was polite. ‘I’ve just come back from the dead, is it really so surprising I should want to see my son?’
‘Of course not,’ Anselm answered, as no one else was game, and got the medics to assist. ‘If you would be so kind as to help the chief to his feet.’
‘Why are you still here?’ The chief looked to Anselm, touched that he had chosen to aid him while his daughter was still in peril. ‘You should have been stopping —’
Anselm held up a hand to waylay the man’s worry. ‘I feel sure Bob had a very successful fishing trip.’ He forced a smile in conclusion, as he had yet to confirm that hope.
‘Good.’ Ronan was appeased. ‘I must request a meeting when all this is done, Anselm, to discuss those reforms to MSS policy that you were suggesting earlier. Tell the Timekeeper she has her deal,’ the chief advised as he was aided into a wheelchair, and Anselm looked on, stunned.
Jazmay entered the cellblock in the chief’s form, so no one dared to look twice, let alone question her. ‘Where is my son?’ she asked a male nurse on his way past, who motioned to a cell a few doors down the corridor.