The Acolytes of Crane "Updated Edition" (18 page)

I
cupped my mouth with my hands and yelled after him, ‘Dude, if you change your
mind, be at County Hearth on Saturday at noon!’ trying not to be a disturbance
to the rest of the neighborhood. I just hoped that he would change his mind,
although that was a very long shot.

I
looked over at Lincoln, ‘That really didn’t go as planned.’

‘Yeah,
I think you need more patience. Please, next time let me do the talking. You
cannot just shove the end of the world down someone’s throat like that . . .’
Lincoln said, as he was obviously angry with me. He continued to ramble, and I
was just too shocked to think.

‘Why
didn’t you just give him a taste of your powers?’ Lincoln spurted out.

I
felt as if the ground would swallow me. ‘Oh, right. I never thought of that,’ I
said meekly.

‘Just
like you did with me!’ Lincoln retorted.

‘Well,
you could have thought of that too, Mr. Smarty Pants!’

‘I’m
leaving now!’

We
heard my grandmother’s concerned voice from downstairs. ‘Are you boys all right
up there?’

‘We’re
fine, grandma!’ I shouted though my door.

Lincoln
glared at me, then stormed out of my room, leaving me alone to collect my
thoughts.

Sunday
was almost gone, and the clock was ticking. I heard was the ticking from the
grandfather clock in the living room. Tick, tick, tick, tick,
ding-dong-ding-dong, it was nine-o-clock, and the chiming from the clock
snagged me back toward reality.

I
felt like I was ruining the adventure for everyone, and we weren’t even close
to assembling a full team. I ran into my room, and cried into my pillow.

There
was a knock at my room, and my grandma was standing there.

‘What’s
wrong, honey? You okay?’

I
continued to cry. ‘Honey, listen to me,’ she said, as she sat down beside me
and ran her fingers through my hair, ‘You have been living a tough life. I
know, but it is only going to get worse if you don’t sit down and try to figure
things out right from the beginning. You cannot fix everything around you
before forgiving yourself. I know that you are holding yourself responsible for
many things. The reason why you are crying right now is because you are trying
to understand things that you are not even capable of understanding . . . Am I
right?’

‘Yes,
but you don’t understand. There is a battle going on right now, in my head.
There are many tough things for me right now. You wouldn’t understand, because
you and grandpa are not my parents. Please, just leave!’ I yelled.

Tears
welling in her eyes, Laverne drew in her lips. She was about to say something,
but stopped herself just in time. Jolting up from her sitting position on my
bed, she abruptly left my room. She was such a saint, because even after her
obvious upset, she took great pain to ease up on my door as she closed it
behind her.

I
knew that what I said was wrong and unfair. A scream of frustration stayed
throttled in the back of my throat, and a whiplash of trauma seared my mind.
Taking deep breaths, I composed myself and calmed down. I needed to understand
more about what I was fighting for, so I dug deeper. I held up my hand to
consult my IPU.

I
thought—
Nezatron, what is this war all about?

Nezatron
said, ‘Sephera, clearance level three. In the beginning, space was deep, black,
and infinitely sparse. There was a universe, planets and stars were few, and
living beings evolved over billions of years from a single cell . . .’

I
could have sat and listened to Nezatron’s historical account about the Dacturon
creation of two Omnians—Odion and Zane—all night. Sure. If I wanted my mind to
grow so numb that it would think no better than a slab of particleboard. I
turned off the nanocom so that I could finally get some sleep.

In
the middle of the night, as I lay tossing and turning in my bed, dreaming, I
was soaked with sweat. In my fitful dream, I saw myself sitting in a strange
room in what appeared to be an industrial warehouse. The smell of dust and
oiled machinery hung about in the air like a heavy mist. Moonlight shone
through a shattered window; several shadows emerged from the large-scale
machinery inside, as well as from the gigantic oak tree just outside.

In
the dark, a vile, demonic figure arose from the gloom, directly blocking my
view of the window. The moonlight bathed his dark maroon frock. The manner in
which he emerged, the sinister pose he assumed—there was no doubt his intention
was to frighten, to intimidate, and to terrify. 

He
stood inside that cold, dark, and condemned room with the shadows as his army.

The
brisk chill felt real; goose bumps ribbed my arms, and crept to my shoulders.

Although
I had never seen this monstrosity before, I instinctively knew who it was.

‘Odion,’
I said.

The
evil Dacturon Omnian didn’t even introduce himself. In one powerful swoop, he
grasped me around the throat, and lifted me to the ceiling. I screamed, but no
sound escaped my lips.

It
was if I was drifting away from my own body. My heart rallied with a pounding
ferocity upon the throat grip, but slowed to a faint murmur, as if readying me
for death. I felt light and woozy. For some unknown reason, my skin glowed with
yellow and green fluorescence. Perhaps the Dietons were frantically attempting
to signal protest against Odion’s villainy? Repeatedly squeezing in and then
withdrawing his thumb and fingers into my neck, he finally spoke to me as he
hissed:

‘You
are the human they say will defeat me? Your bones are pitifully weak,’ the
devilish demon said, as he laughed from within the hood of his robe, ‘Oh that
is right. You cannot speak!’

He
drew me in closer as if nonchalantly examining an object under a bright light.
I became petrified by fear. My hope dangled like a T-bone next to a rabid dog’s
jowl. As if reacting to his touch, my skin turned blotchy and pustular where he
clutched my throat.

His
free hand grasped the apex of his robe, rapidly pulled back his hood, and
revealed the vilest face, pale white, with varicose veins running down his
neck. There was total savagery in his eyes—grey eyes, and stunning red pupils.

‘Do
you think Zane foresaw this? You know he wants to add you to his collection of
Sepherans, which are nothing better than instruments of dead souls. Zane only
preys upon those who have no spark of life left, robbing them from the grave!!
You cannot see how sick that is?’ He was gazing off to his side as he spat out
these words, as if he was confronting Zane in the very room. I tried to squirm,
and he leaned in closer, ‘What if I send your grandparents to Sephera? Two
adorable souls to become wilted by time and burned by flame, only to be
resurrected as particles of matter by Zane? All for vanity!’ The walls
reverberated with his guffaws, which sounded more like screams due to the echo
effect.

He
released his grip ever so slightly and peered at me with eyes of hatred. ‘Where
is the research?’

I
had no clue what he was referring to, and there was no way I could even summon
the breath to answer. I was only left with my power of thought.
Nezatron,
Nezatron
—I frantically delved into my mind, before it turned into a black
void.

Over
my nanocom Nezatron said, ‘Migalt is closing in on your location now.’

Just
as I was about to pass out, there was a flash of blinding white light and a
huge
bang
, as if there was an explosion. Immediately, the grip on my
neck was released, and I fell to the floor, gulping down precious oxygen.

Looking
up, I saw a glowing, towering angelic figure, as if heaven had intervened.
Perhaps it had. Scattered flames licked at the walls and the floor, surrounding
my guardian.

It
was Migalt, the Bromel, whom I had earlier met along with King Trazuline when I
had boarded the Uriel for a very short time. He must have seriously scared the
crap out of Odion, because there he lay, kneeling, whimpering like freshly
caught prey. It was quite a sight to behold.

What
a magnificent creature, this Bromel! He scraped the room’s ceiling with the
tips of his monumental twelve-foot wings. In his large hands he held a spear
that shimmered with a radiant blue light, brightening the entire room and
blinding me somewhat. The majestic spear was humming; every time it crackled,
white-hot light burst from the blinding bluish beam.

As
if conveying evidence of my guardian’s dramatic entry into this room, the walls
were freshly splintered. Migalt had so much power that various cogs and wheels
from the industrial machinery in the room had exploded straight off their
supports and rammed into the walls. 

Odion
kneeled before the Bromel, writhing out of severe pain dealt upon him by the
aura of the blade. He was clawing away at his own body. It was as if he could
not stand the radiating power of the Bromel’s weapon.

‘I
am Migalt, and you are not welcome in the mind of the boy,’ he said, as he rose
taller, posturing over Odion.

The
Bromel was at least twelve feet tall, but Odion showed no fear as he overcame
his searing pain and rose on his feet.

‘You
don’t get it, you winged-freak? I can go and do whatever I please! There is no
touching me here in this realm or any realm. Do you understand me?’ he
screamed, as he rose up and punched into the massively broad chest of Migalt.

As
if offended by Odion’s assault, Migalt’s spear blazed with a dazzling array of
ultraviolet blue. I squinted as Migalt raised the spear high above his head,
his muscles striated and flexed. With a mighty heave, Migalt threw the spear
and impaled Odion.

Odion
gave one final scream that night. ‘Travis, go get the research!’

Then
Odion’s image de-pixelated before us. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them,
the devilish Omnian in charge of the Dacturons was nowhere to be seen.

I
woke up, drenched in sweat. The industrial warehouse room had vanished and I
was back under the covers of my bed. Jumping to my feet, I ran to my bedroom
window quickly and looked out. I saw Travis walking away from my house. He was
heading north, toward Seventh Street. He looked back with a sneer, flipped me
the bird, and in a burst of evanescence—he was gone. Only a pool of molten
blacktop was left behind by his teleport.

A
large thud on the side of my house grabbed my attention. I had to see what it
was, so I walked along the side of the house past the garden of perennials.
Standing there, proud and majestic, was the Bromel—Migalt.

‘Thank
you so much, sir,’ I said.

‘You
are very lucky. Any longer in Odion’s grasp and you would have been killed in
your subconscious, boy,’ Migalt said. He took a knee, and the ground trembled.
He whispered to me, ‘It has been your newly presented weakness of mind that let
Odion in, and by allowing that, you have opened a pathway in your brain for him
to re-enter as he wishes. Travis most certainly used a device to project him
into your mind from the window. You need to finish your objective here, by
getting that team of four to follow you. Then you must all leave.  The longer
you stay, the sooner your death will be. We need representatives from Earth.’

Migalt
carried on about the sovereignty of Zane and his record of accomplishment for
providing the multiverse with freedom, liberating them from misdirection. My
angst fled slightly and was overwhelmed by a feeling of guilt.

‘This
is the only way I know, Migalt. I have been fighting my whole life. And that
makes me think twice before I trust anything good or unexplainable,’ I said.

Migalt
leaned forward, hugging me with his arms and wings, and said, ‘Theodore. I know
that you have been dealt misfortune; you were brought into a difficult
position. Don’t waste your time trying to figure out the intricacies of the
multiverse. Accept that there will be things out there you cannot explain. I
have been monitoring your inquiries with Nezatron and I know of your doubts.
You need to take up the sword, and fight as you did against your parents.
Believe me, Theodore, when I say, Odion rules in a way not far from how your
father ruled his house.’

Migalt
stroked an emblem on the shoulder strap of his armor, and he instantly was
tailored in a majestic metallic suit. He slowly squatted toward the ground and
with a magnificent leap through the air, he launched into the star-lit sky, and
I lost him in the handle of the Little Dipper.

“I
had a task to complete, and there was no time to whimper and sulk. If I had
learned anything from Migalt, Nezatron, and Trazuline, it was that Zane had
done so much for me, and I had not done enough. I needed to complete my goal
once and for all.”

I hear the view box open, and I
stretch from a nap.

“Prisoner, move your ass and get
into position—now! Prisoner eight-six-seven-five. Open request—guns are at the
ready—over.”

I move quickly, because the angry
guard, Shifty, is impatient and rushing along. I scurry and snap into position.

“Squad—weapons hot!” Shifty
yells.

The mechanics of the vault are
pulling and rolling; grinding and unwinding. The vault is a masterful work of
security that no one can ever escape. A squad posts at the entrance; it is
usually an indication they are going to move me.

“Cover me! Don’t even think about
moving, prisoner,” the guard says. I hear footsteps that seem to slow from
caution.

My disk. It’s on the ground,
hidden under a millimeter of dirt. I dare not have it on my possession; for
sure it would be detected during a pat-down.

“You forgot to turn his room over
Shifty?” the veteran guard asks. “I am taking over this squad. Move along.”

“You cannot do that. The
council’s chancellor specifically delegated the order to me,” Shifty says.

“Ridiculous.
The Chancellor
?
You’ve been letting your pitiful ego take over. Report to command or I will be
reprimanding you instead of writing you up . . . you idiot,” the veteran guard
says scornfully. “Alright boys. We’re on the clock! Let’s move.”

“What about the cell search?”
Shifty yells.

The veteran guard retorts, “No
time. Thanks to your gross incompetence! Move it!”

I breathe a sigh of relief, yet
slowly release the expulsion of air, so that no one would suspect my anxiety.
The disk is safe, for now.

I start to shake, puzzeling and
feeling somewhat faint. The temporalysis is upon my head. This time, the
temporalysis program is set to disable my vision. I feel a numbing sensation as
the temporalysis paralyzes me, then everything goes black.

My heels drag along the floor.
Then, I experience severe discomfort as someone throws me over his shoulder, my
head and arms dangling over his back. With every step, he drives his solid mass
into my soft belly. The blood rushes to my head.

The Multiversal Council—my
warden’s puppeteers. What do they need this time? The Chancellor, the supreme
of them all. I knew he would be dying to clear up this mess.

As I am lowered, as limp as
seaweed, into a sitting position, braced against the wall, the pressure
transfers from my gut to my ass. The guard says, “File around the room. Form
along the wall there. Let’s go! He will be here any minute. Get those damn
restraints on the prisoner! Have you guards been reading your digi-manuals?”

In the background, I hear
footsteps and the voice of the warden, increasing in loudness as he approaches.
The guards now prop me up on a chair’s surface—I think.

The warden asks, “Is the prisoner
in position? He had better be, because I only have five morgets. Where is he?”

“Right this way warden, as
requested,” the veteran guard says.

“Dim the lights on my end, and
place the spotlight on that prisoner,” the warden says.

“You heard the warden—move!” the
veteran guard yells, “Free up the prisoner’s sight.”

They press a few buttons on the
temporalysis. I have visibility, but the light blinds me. It is painful. The
temporalysis continues to immobilize my body, and the warden says, “I
appreciate your cooperation. Most of the information you have provided so far
is at least a bit strategically useful. Maybe this will be good enough for us
to reward you a bit more.” I start to speak, but this temporalysis had me
wrangled completely still.

“So, I bet you are wondering why
you are here. I want to make this quick.” I hear whispering, and the warden
continues, “Guards, get the cannons hot in this room and get the firing squad
ready.”

The shuffle of feet, the hissing
noise of the lock and the clattering of metal weapons fill the air.

“Squad, guns at the ready! Go turrets
hot in room seven-two-three—over,” the veteran guard says.

“If you cooperate, this will be
fast and painless. Tell me everything you know about Sephera. Where is
Nezatron?”

I feel this temporalysis release
me, but I am too weak to fight. I ask, “Another ghost of Sephera gone rogue?”

“That is not what I asked for,”
the warden retorts. “Again, Sephera. The whereabouts of Nezatron—now. Start
with Sephera.”

I speak to satisfy the warden’s
request, saying, “It’s complicated. See, Sephera is the forefront for digital
resurrection. It is as most imagine. It is a collective collaboration of
multiversal dreams and hopes of what an afterlife should be. That is it.”

“I bet you love that, thinking
there is a place to go once you die. Right?” he asks.

“Earthlings are not the only
people longing for a Sepheran conclusion. Everyone in the multiverse shares the
need for hope. Hope at the end of life. You could even say reincarnation,” I
say.

“Not the Multiversal Council. The
Council believes in truth. Namely, that there is nothing after death. To infer
otherwise is misleading and is propagating a living falsehood,” he says. “Keep
going.”

“Keep in mind; I am not saying
spirituality or God does not exist. I am only saying that I have seen Sephera
with my own eyes,” I say.

The warden speaks, “Some gullible
people are talking; they say, ‘If a heretic is blind enough not to choose the
path to Sephera, he chooses hell.’ Given how vile the concept of Sephera is, I
would say that hell and Sephera are the same thing.” He paces across this room
a few times. “Enough. So how has Zane been performing this evil deed—sending
people to Sephera, to their deaths?”

I throw caution to the wind, by
saying, “I don’t know how this helps you, but I have to tell you, people try to
destroy Sephera all the time and fail. That I know.” At this point, given my
lingering doubts, I wish they would just destroy Sephera and get it over with.

“Answer the question, prisoner,”
the veteran guard says.

“Alright. Whoever believes in a
sort of utopia or god fathoms an image of them, right?” The warden twirls his
finger, and I carry on, “The Dietons strategically extract, format, and use the
majority of people’s mental images to represent a utopia in Sephera. This is my
earliest perception of it anyway.”

“Okay, carry on,” the warden
requests, and sits.

“Sephera is a tangible creation
that represents an afterlife. A planet, with a massive physical metropolis made
from the dreams, thoughts, and memories of everyone”

“How?” The warden asks, finally
showing signs of curiosity.

“I am tired. Can I just go back
to my cell?” I ask. Suddenly, as I scan my surroundings, I notice that many of
the guards have expressions of unease on their faces.
What’s going on?
My hands are in restraints, and yet they fear me!
Maybe there is a way out
of this after all.
They know something I don’t, and I have to find it.

“Listen prisoner, if you want
your son to live a full—”

I interrupt him, and shout,
“There you go with my son again! I don’t have a son. How many times do I have to
tell you that?”

He slides a digital certificate
of birth in front of me. There is no photo on it. I look at it and the last
name matches up with mine. It could have been fabricated in order to deviously
manipulate my thoughts, but I cannot chance it.

 I say, “You’re just pulling off
a ruse. Can we just end this? Look, I’m telling you as much as I can. If you’d
at least have the decency to feed me properly and give me a warm bed, maybe I
would be in better shape to answer your ridiculous queries!”

I received a sharp blow to my
head.

“All right,” I say. “They use a
telepathway. It is a device made by Zane to intercept and interpret brain waves
at the time of one’s demise—I think. Again, this is all rumor, and I have no
clue where the transmitter is. Honest.”

“How do you know about digital
resurrection then? If you don’t have a clue about where the telepathway is and
how it works?” the warden asks.

 “I know how it works. I just
don’t know where it is. Nezatron is the source of this information—okay?” I
ask, and the warden nods, “The concept of digital resurrection is based on
Zane’s device, the Telepathic Life Continuum—also known as TLC. TLC is the
concept of extracting someone’s experiences, memories, and behaviors. Before
one dies, the TLC inserts a replay of the people’s own imaginative
representation of Heaven and God, or whatever deity they believe in. It is an
occurrence most humans say is
a life after death experience
.” This is
done in order to prevent them from seeking their own destruction when they are
born again as brand new Sepherans. This dream sequence resurrects them and
inspires them to survive, but in a different life form.”

The warden scoffs with revulsion.
“So Zane acting like a puppet master, deluding them into their deaths with
visions of angels. And you condone this behavior? You and your friends?”

“I never said that. Look, I am
just as disgusted with it as you are. Can we be done? None of this even helps
you. We were kids then. All we were doing was responding—misguided and misled
as we were back then—to what was happening to us. We know about as much as you
do.”

“We will be done when I say we
are done. When we have all the information necessary. You destroyed the
database, and because of that we have no choice but to interrogate you. It will
be vital as evidence in support of your acquittal at your trial,” the warden
says. “If it comes to that.”

“We? You mean the Multiversal
Council? That is what I thought. Anyway, when all the life experiences
belonging to an individual are being extracted, the mind usually sees them all
in a flash. It is sort of a quick dream reel of one’s life. People refer this
as
seeing your life flash before your eyes
.”

“Yes,” the warden says, his eyes
gleaming with intrigue. He was finally getting to the heart of the matter.

I continue, “This near-death
experience can go in one of two ways. One, the subject’s mind turns to concepts
of God, and that’s where the TLC kicks in, to entice them to Sephera.”

“And,” the warden jumps in,
licking his lips, “…if they don’t?”

“If the subject refuses to
embrace unconditional love, if they don’t turn to God, then the TLC will fail
and they will integrate into dust, to be scattered among space.”

The warden looks away, teary.
“That bastard Zane,” he growled. He turns back to me. “How does Zane monitor
everyone?”

“Zane can create an infinite
amount of Dietons, and he has. There’s billions of them.  The Dietons form an
aura surrounding every living being in the multiverse. These Dietons record and
save all information in Eppa’s mainframe for future use.”

“Very diabolical,” the guard
murmurs. I take his tone to be that of reluctant admiration. “Zane makes Big
Brother look like a Commodore 64.”

“Huh?” I say.

The warden waves me away. “Eppa,
the Mecca database that you spoke of, was on the planet Foita. The place you
destroyed. Now, what about Nezatron?” the warden asks.

“Our last meeting? Aboard the
Uriel. And I have not seen him since,” I say.

The veteran guard jumps in. “He
is telling the truth warden. The temporalysis didn’t collect any fabricated
responses.”

“Take the prisoner away,” the
warden says.

The entire detainment process
repeats and reverses, ending with my entry into this cell—do I dare to call it
home? I am sore from a guard carrying me, because my body is malnourished. There
are fresh bruises on my ribs where I bounced against the shoulder of the guard
as he brusquely marched with me in tow, as if I were a sack of potatoes.

No shakedown this time I re-enter
my vault.

As I sink to the mat upon the
floor, I reflect some more. I actually saw a birth certificate for a kid. It
was probably the real deal. My kid. I am nineteen years old, and I have a kid.
I never imagined it.

Now inspired by how the
Multiverse Council seemed to latch on to the true state of Zane’s Machiavellian
empire of deceit, I play back my previous recording to find where to begin. I
know it will be the most painful, most anguishing part of my story, and that I
risk heart failure—in my weakened health—by forging ahead with my memories of
that horrific day. That day, if I may adopt a quote, was ‘
a date which will
live in infamy
.’

My hands shaking, I start once
the device powers up.

 Without warning, I break down,
crying. My body wracks with sobs, as I heave from caustic memories flooding in
and seizing my soul. Spasms snatch my body; it twists and contorts into
grotesque poses.

“Prisoner in state of emergency.
Repeat, prisoner appears he is dying,” a voice rings out.