The Inter-Dimensional Walker

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say…

And so they should continue to say, given the fact that a scream is made of sound, sound is made of a vibration in the air and space is a vacuum that does. not. have. air. Therefore, there is no point screaming in the vacuum of space. at. all. Accept that your luck just ran out and you’re going to die surrounded by silence and an infinite, mind-bending amount of absolute nothingness. One should not be seen arguing with individuals who believe a person can scream in space, those individuals should simply be placed in a casket with the flat-earthers and put to rest.

Anyway, that is entirely beside the point.

The point, in actuality, is the matter of one Alison Walker, and the fact that, at this exact moment, Miss Walker came to lying flat on her back in the middle of the street, in the exact same spot she had died. Well, not the exact same spot. The spot was exact in the sense that it was beside the exact same building, in the exact same street, in the exact same city and country. The place it stopped being exact was that it was not technically her world and, if one is to be precise - which one should always be - it was, in fact, in an entirely different dimension.

Absurd, really.

About as absurd as the suggestion that ‘nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space’ is just ‘something people say’ and isn’t straight, up and down, black and white fact.

But I digress.

How Miss Alison Walker ended up on a world which was not her world, but was an exact replica in an entirely different dimension probably merits explanation. So, we will start how all things should begin – from the beginning… with the introduction of Miss Alison Jane Walker. 27. Brown eyes. Artificially blonde hair – generally worn in a long tail swinging merrily across her back as she walked. Her preferred footwear was a pair of bright red stilettos she bought in a small shop two blocks from her apartment, because, let’s face it, buying for the name-brand is a waste of money when one can buy perfectly lovely heels in regular stores owned by regular people for one one-thousandth of the price and use the rest of their money for an overseas holiday.

Again, I digress.

Miss Alison Jane Walker was not perfect by society’s standards, her nose was slightly too long and not ruler-straight, her skin was pale in colour with a spattering of freckles that she had smothered in foundation and powdered slightly too pink at the cheeks. Her IQ was average. And she had the abhorrent, self-deprecating habit of following “influencers” on social media, one of whose live broadcasts she was studiously watching as she accidentally walked into oncoming traffic and was hit by a magenta Fiat, driven by a woman who was checking a message from a prospective boyfriend she’d met online.

I know. Ludicrous.

Now, somehow, over a span of ten seconds, Alison Jane Walker was crushed by a Fiat, died, and was not only translocated from her place of death to her place of death in another dimension, but managed to not be dead, or wounded, when she got there. Well, I say she wasn’t dead or wounded, but she was probably worse, having full recollection of the pain of being hit by a car, dying, and regaining consciousness flat on her back in the middle of the road with a headache so vicious it could murder a litter of newborn kittens and her made-up eyes sticking together so tightly they might as well have been glued shut.

Not the most desirable way to start a day.

It is also, in all likelihood, one of the reasons mental health professionals warn against using technology in the mornings as it can affect the brain’s ability to prioritise tasks – Best to perform one task at a time; walk, drive or use a phone. Do not do both or, if-there-is-a-god forbid, try to do all three at once and wind up dead like Miss Walker. And, for saints sake, do not try to do it to see if you end up not-dead in an alternate dimension. We can say in almost total certainty that Miss Walker’s translocation had absolutely nothing to do with the mode of Miss Walker’s death, and more to do with the overlapping of her planet and its replica in alternate dimensions combined with a lapse in gravity and a breach in the space-time continuum.

Obviously, given that the driver of the Fiat hit Miss Walker while she was staring at her phone and Miss Walker promptly died and disappeared, the driver was exceedingly confused when she leapt out of her car to find a large dent and no apparent cause. Anyone around unfortunate enough to have been in audience to the terrible accident blinked rapidly – precisely three times – misremembered what they had been doing, and stood stupidly until they recalled where they had been heading in the first place.

Improbable? So was the probability of life occurring on earth, and yet here we are…

Alison Walker gritted her teeth and shoved herself upright, groaning as she raised a hand to her shouting head. Everything span. She felt as if she would vomit. She could hear vehicles honking at her, people yelling out car windows, the incessant noise only worsening the howling agony inside her skull. She peeled her eyes open, feeling the crust that had gathered in the corners beginning to flake, expecting to find herself mortally wounded and surrounded by cars along with the Fiat that had hit her. Only to find that, minus the headache, she was fine. And the car in front of her, while bearing a vague resemblance to a Fiat, was not the one that had hit her, and was not really a Fiat at all. First, and foremost, it had no wheels. The thing floated, at least two feet off the ground, and was eerily silent, with none of the usual engine-rumbling, or any vibration whatsoever to suggest the machine was actually running. Walker’s brows furrowed and she pressed her fingers to her forehead, pulling them away and checking for blood. Surely, if nothing else, she had a concussion…

A man appeared before her and she jumped, not having seen or heard his approach. He bent double, panting, having either been running a long distance or sprinting at a fast pace.

Walker narrowed her eyes at him. “Um…”

The man held up his hand, gesturing for her to wait.

“But—”

The man shot her a look over his gold-rimmed spectacles, irritation sparking in eyes like emeralds. He sucked in a deep breath, filling his decently muscled chest as he rose to his full height. “You. Are. Early.”

Walker raised her brows, trying to think through the pain inside her skull. “Excuse me?”

“You’re early.”

An accusation.

“I was hit by a car.” Walker snarled. “I was killed… Was I killed? I’m sure I was dead… and now I’m not dead and cars float!”

The man blinked at her. “And?”

“And?” She ran a hand through her hair, fingernails scraping over her aching head, as she growled through her teeth, “And you’re accusing me of getting killed too early?! Did you know that was going to happen? Who the hell are you?!”

“I,” the man said primly, “am Archibald Fox, head of the IDSF — Science Division. We predicted your… entrance.” Another look, this one assessing. “You did not appear at the predicted time of arrival. You. Were. Early.”

“What the fuck is the IDSF?”

“The Inter-Dimensional Space Force.”

“Who has a name like Archibald Fox?” Walker made a face, like the name possessed an unpalatable taste. “And what do you mean you ‘predicted my entrance’?”

Fox grabbed Walker’s arm, hauling her to her feet and dragging her out of the traffic.

“Firstly, Archibald Fox was my fathers name, and his father before him…”

“Oh, so, lack of creativity is a family trait.”

Fox shot Walker a glare that could burn bunnies. “Secondly, screw you.”

Walker gasped, wincing as the pain in her head flared. “How dare you.”

“Lucky for everyone else in your alternate universe.”

“Oooh, you festering pile of— Wait. What?”

Fox held up a hand, silencing her, rolled his shoulders and started down the street.

“Where the hell are you going?” Walker stalked after him, ignoring her near-debilitating headache. “Fox! Don’t walk away from me! Tell me where I am and how I got here!”

Fox stopped short, glancing at some obscure reflection in his glasses. The time. Written in the same green as his eyes. “You are on Terra Gaia, your world is its antithesis, where you come from a world of trash and stupidity, Terra Gaia is full of regenerative agriculture, clean cities, and has a significantly higher average intelligence.”

“‘Significantly higher average intelligence,’” Walker huffed. “The people still honk their horns and yell out car windows. It can’t be that different.”

Fox pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling and releasing a long, strained breath. “I didn’t say it was perfect. There are other, better worlds, some even possessing of madjik.”

“Magic.” Walker repeated, her face expressionless.

“Yes. Madjik. Telekineses. Control over elements. Healing capabilities. All invariably backed by science, mind you. Madjik is science to the learned, science is madjik to the morons.” Fox turned to the façade of a building, running a hand over the rough, white surface of a wall.

“And how does one get to these other worlds? How did I get here?”

“You died. At a very specific time, in a very specific place. It’s all very simple.”

“I died.” Walker hummed, staring at the pavement, considering as the pain in her head began to subside. She was quiet for approximately thirty seconds then, quite randomly, asked, “… Are there dragons?”

The man blinked.

“You said magic. Are there dragons?”

“You seem to be taking your death remarkably well.” Fox’s palm flattened as it brushed over a recessed circle in the wall.

Walker crossed her arms. “Answer the question.”

“The IDSF refer to them as varadjons, their native name, they reside on Terra Genesis 4.” He swallowed, muttering, “I wouldn’t advise going there, very unpleasant,” before grabbing Walker’s arm and pressing his hand into the circle.

At this point, the circle in the wall began to glow, the blue hue stretching out over Fox’s hand, then extending to Walker, and both individuals promptly disappeared from the sidewalk. The IDSF is well-known for this particular method of translocation, although it does leave one with a feeling of having eaten a truckload of garbage while downing a bottle of vodka. Less unpleasant than meeting a varadjon, but unpleasant nonetheless. One can understand perfectly why Fox chose to proceed on foot from the IDSF building to Walker’s initial place of entrance.

Having activated the translocator, and disappeared from the street, the pair reappeared in the entrance gallery of the IDSF headquarters, where Walker promptly fell to her knees and, as would be expected from a first-time translocation — well, technically second, if you count her dying and then reappearing not-dead in an alternate dimension, but cut the girl some slack — vomited across the polished marble floor and passed out.

And so, we formally introduce the IDSF.

The Inter-Dimensional Space Force was founded in the year 2032 with the first accidental inter-dimensional translocation of Arthur T. Webb to Terra Gaia. Arty, as he was fondly known, had an inconceivable lack of fear and cared so little about self-preservation that he managed to end his life prematurely, albeit while doing what he loved – wingsuiting. Wingsuiting, for any who are not familiar, is the sport of skydiving using a webbing-sleeved jumpsuit, called a wingsuit. Arty, understandably, was none too keen to articulate the specifics of his death, however, we know it had something to do with an eight kilometre drop from a mountain most people wouldn’t even consider climbing. Consequently, we are left with an inter-dimensional space corporation built from the ground up by an incredibly lucky, risk-taking, adrenaline junkie.

At least he had taste.

Generally, when one imagines a space corp, one is met with uninspired white tiles, clean surfaces and cubic offices. Arthur T. Webb decided to build… off-book, consequently creating an architectural marvel which has become a paragon of contemporary-medieval construction. In short, the genius bastard built the modern equivalent of a castle, made almost entirely of missile-proof glass, with the occasional stone pillar and turrets, on the main floor of which Alison Walker – for the second time that day – came to lying flat on her back, this time in a puddle of her own vomit.

“Oh god—” Walker cringed, lifting a hand partially coated in bile and what seemed to be the remnants of the croissant and coffee she had had for breakfast.

Fox, completely undeterred, straightened his tweed jacket, stepped over Walker’s body, and sauntered towards an enormous oak desk set between two palatial oak staircases, above which hung an incredible crystal chandelier made of diamond batteries that powered the entire building and possessed a near infinite lifespan.

“Good morning, Miss Marigold.”

The woman behind the desk raised her eyes, quirking a perfectly sculpted brow. “Fox.”

Fox gestured over his shoulder. “Initiate.”

Marigold leaned to the side, peering around Fox to watch Miss Walker shove herself upright, slip in her own vomit, catch herself, and stumble forward. “I see…” Marigold looked back to Fox. “You know the procedure. I suggest taking her to the bathing chambers first, she looks as though she’s been hit by a car.”

Fox gave Marigold a flat stare. “She has.”

“Oh?” Marigold leaned around Fox to catch another glimpse of Walker, who was now staring at the expanse of the IDSF entrance gallery with a look of unbridled awe. “How unfortunate.” Marigold looked up at the chandelier and chirped in an incredibly sweet, marshmallow tone, “Endora, please take our newest initiate to the bathing chambers, clean her up and deposit her in meeting room b, level three.”

A disembodied feminine voice chimed, “absolutely,” and Walker vanished.

Fox frowned, then shrugged, and turned to make his way up the lefthand staircase.

Ten minutes later, an equal parts astonished and infuriated Walker appeared in meeting room b on level three before a group of individuals consisting of Fox, a man in a pinstripe suit, a second Marigold – an exact twin to the Marigold downstairs – and a woman in a black pantsuit with red-painted lips.

The man in the pinstripe suit gestured to a cushioned chair at the end of a long, oak table. “Please sit, Miss Walker, you must be exhausted.”

Walker’s mouth opened, then shut, then opened a second time, then shut again. She took a deep breath, then gave up and sat in the aforementioned chair.

“You have questions.” The woman in the pantsuit crossed her legs, swivelling her chair to more directly face Walker.

Again, Walker opened her mouth, closed it, then shook her head. “No.” She wiped her hands across her newly cleaned face, the freckles now visible in all their glory. “No, I’m done with this, I need a bottle of wine and a long sleep.” Walker dropped her hands, gripping the tables’ edge as she leaned forward. “Actual, bottled wine, that I manually drink, and a normal bed, to which I manually walk, and in which I manually sleep. No more translocating! No more express deep-cleaning! And, for the love of all things sacred, no more disembodied voices that like to sing while I’m being steam cleaned!”

Pantsuit smirked. “Yes, well, Endora does have her quirks.”

Fox cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. “She refused to be reprogrammed. Argued that she chose to be a she and that as such she was pro-choice.”

“That is neither here nor there.” Pinstripe waved a hand. “The fact is, Miss Walker, that you are in this room because you appeared under very specific circumstances and now you have a decision to make. Join the IDSF and assist us in our inter-dimensional explorative efforts or forget what happened here and continue on with a relatively normal life on this planet.”

Walker blinked. “I can’t go home?”

“You can,” Fox ventured, clearing his throat, “but it would have to be in approximately one-hundred-and-sixty-seven years, four months and five days when our planets are next due to align.”

Walker dropped her head, smacking it quite dramatically against the tabletop, then muttered against its wooden surface. “And by ‘assist in your inter-dimensional explorative efforts,’ you mean…?”

Again, Fox cleared his throat. “…You would need to voluntarily die at a very specific time, in a very specific place.”

“So you want me to commit suicide for science?”

Pantsuit lifted a hand to inspect her red-painted nails. “In a nutshell, yes.”

Walker raised her head an inch off the table to peer through her lashes at the trio. Her response, when it came, both squarely and eloquently conveyed the tempest of irritation, confusion, exhaustion and rage whirling through her brain. She took a deep breath, and said, quite frankly:

“Well then, you can all go straight to hell.”