The Ghost of Sephera

by J. D. Tew

  The temporalysis upon my head is wrapped around like a horseshoe. It systematically inhibits some of my motor activity, rendering me helpless. Luckily, the brisk wind that gusts into the prisoner transport momentarily lifts the bag over my head, just enough for me to glimpse a narrow sector of my environment. There is no immediate corrective response to this apparent security breach. The guards are chatting adjacent to the transport vehicle some distance away, oblivious to their duties.

  The details that I can make out, such as the distant glacial terrain at the horizon and the fading blue green sky signaling dusk, allude to the probability of this planet being a terrachron. But which planet? Terrachrons are terrestrial planets that are currently experiencing an ice age. I know of three.

  I could be in a mountain range, judging by the difficulty of breathing at such a high altitude. What a sight! The range of mountains in the background is completely covered by snow. As the encroaching darkness steals away the majesty of the panorama, the snowy peaks are fading. Nightfall is upon us and the guards are playing kiss-and-tell with respect to the prior weekend’s romp.

  Now the prison, my wretched home for the past several months, is in my sights, to my left. The brief view of the massive apparatus assembled onto the roof of the prison reminds me of the oil refineries back home, on Earth. These colossal guard towers stretch into the sky from the prison’s rooftop. The green and red tinted white lights atop these gigantic towers intermingle with the stars of the night sky, causing me to have difficulty in telling them apart as I extend my posture and crane my neck upwards.

  I’m not sure what is keeping the guards from entering the transport and leaving. The sudden veil of night alerts me to the fact that this planet rotates on its axis at an astounding pace.

  “I just received the orders from command. We leave now,” the corporal says.

  We are now moving again. The gusts of wind abruptly stop at the scissor doors, which rotate downward at their hinges to seal us in for transport. A guard slams his fist into my shoulder as he bends over next to me to more firmly pull the detainee bag on my head, cutting off my vision. He taps the automatic cinch system activator on the bag.

  “That will be the last time you ever see the outside, dirtbag,” the private says.

  “He was peeking?” the corporal asks.

  “Bag slipped a bit.”

  “I’d say so. It was practically off of his head.”

  “Who cares. After the vote, this guy will be toast.” Vote? What is this guard talking about?

  I can faintly see through the interwoven threads of the bag, slightly, only being able to make out what is directly in front of me. I’m like cargo to this gang of prison thugs as the private tosses me around the transport vessel; my head slamming into the opposing side of the vehicle causes my neck to stiffen and my head to conjure some stars.

  “Alright, ease up. He’s had enough,” the corporal says.

  “Whaddya think about this, then?” the young private asks as he slaps my face, my bag still on. He is the same punk guard that disparaged me earlier back in my cell. The sting from the slap subsides and I bottle my anger just short of the point of explosion.

  The reasonable guard says, “I said ease up, soldier. I may be a peon like you, but I still outrank your ass! I’ll have you reported for brutality.”

  “Oh yeah. Just like you reported the warden a while back? Yeah, that didn’t happen.”

  “It’s easier said than done. But I won’t even hesitate to report you, kid. Now ease up!”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  I get a moment of peace from the bickering stooges in charge of my transport. This is not a typical prisoner delivery. Prisoners within my institution are never, ever transported outside unless they’re sanctioned for freedom. Something mysterious is happening, riddled with political intrigue. Where are they bringing me? What is this—the vote that the guard mentioned?

  “The prisoner keeps collapsing onto me; his restrainers are broken. Corporal, can we at least place him on the floor and anesthetize him until we arrive?”

  “Let me clear it with the warden. Warden, this is guard eight-two.” There is no response. “Warden, this is guard eight-two. Requesting permission to place the prisoner on the floor of this transport vessel and sedate him.”

  “This is the warden. No! He needs to be alert for the Council!” I knew this would be big. I’m heading to see the Council.

  “What’s wrong with the zero point fasteners?”

  “They’re inoperable, sir.” Zero point fasteners use magnetic energy to stabilize subjects; these fasteners receive zero points for efficacy.

  “Fine. But I want to see a completed work order on my desk by the end of the day,” the warden says. “No sedation! Use the temporalysis to deactivate his vision and speed his breathing. Then stimulate the claustrum in the brain with a low level localized electrical surge. That will put him out instantly. C’mon, that is textbook!”

  “Yes sir.” Seconds after the warden’s order to put me out, I feel the effects of warp speed from the ship’s activation. Everything fades to black from the temporalysis. Funny, it seems like only minutes have passed, yet the guards are waking me for arrival.

  “Wake him up. We’re almost there.” I can feel the signal from the guard’s most recent button press and a reverberation against my nerves as the guard finalizes the code entry to the temporalysis. Earlier, when they caused a surge to my brain, I bit the inside of my cheek. It is now slightly swollen and I keep pressing my tongue against it in order to check the damage.

  “Wow—”

  “Zip it, Private! We don’t want any security breaches. So have some self-control.”

  “It’s just... man, this place is wicked,” the private says, trying desperately to refrain from describing out loud the beautiful Council headquarters. There are three known locations that the Council uses for diplomatic rendering.

  I visited one of them once, before I was arrested. I recall from that time, it was a vast sea of skyscrapers tickling the clouds, with a glowing aura at night that could be observed from outer space. Now I can see why the guard is rapidly developing a predilection for what he sees. If I can find another clue in this small transport vehicle, I will be that much closer to strategic information, potentially of use for an escape. Maybe I can narrow the scope of possible locations.

  “That’s enough!” the corporal yells, and the private stops with his admiration of the Council’s area of operations.

  My vision is slowly restored as the temporalysis titrates my nerve impulses back to normal. A dawn of realization washes over me as I spot it. The final clue, so ordinary that another prisoner would have automatically skipped it. So maybe I was a gumshoe in another life. Through the veil of the detainee bag on my head, I can see a set of the guard’s gravity boots. They’re caked with a powdery golden substance called gotangon, which is a mineral mined from the core of the planetary ice giant, Tegoz. They’ve transported me to the Council’s headquarters on the planet Tegoz! This planet isn’t far from Zeerowan. Crap! Maybe my public execution is drawing near.

  Months ago, my initial indictment by the Council police revealed that I was being charged with trespassing, terrorism, and destruction of government property, but I’m sure they’ll pull some more skeletons out of my closet. The Premier likes to stack his jurisprudential closet with a surfeit of bones; that way, he can tantalizingly have more to pick.

  I am once again a punching bag as the guards ignominiously hoist me onto someone’s shoulder. I feel the motion sickness creep over me during the bouncing three-minute trip to endpoint unknown. I hear doors disengaging and guards confirming the safety of our entry. The sporadic motion of my body slows to a stop and my rear end is planted upon a flat seat, possibly a chair.

  “Remove the bag and activate speech,” the warden says. The warden is here! That’s no surprise. I can feel the warden’s hands massaging my shoulders in a creepy way. “They’ll be here any minute. Have fun.” Hi
s hands evacuate, and I can hear his steps hit the floor, quieting more the further he goes.

  The guards remove the bag. It comes off quickly and I can see the galactic Council’s Chamber of Justice. The two-tone grey and lavender columns support the ceiling with an elaborate and elegant traditional design. The sophisticated alloy bench is adorned with complex engravings, showing two gigantic stone beasts straining for control over a planet between them. Behind ten oversized chairs is the seal of the galaxies, a yellow showering of stars over a purple cloth backdrop draped from the wall. It ripples as the automatic doors behind the bench open and the Council Supremes approach their seats and settle down. Without a moment to lose, they begin.

  “Prisoner eight-six-seven-five, I am Silon Richerz, the Premier of the Council. These are my prime representatives to my left and right, from the ten galactic realms. You are here before us because of your indiscretions as a messiah of the planet Earth. It is our understanding that aboard the Uriel, stardate nine-seven-three enosis ephos, you destroyed two highly decorated Urilian Ophanim guards, while vandalizing many components of the ship, and then hijacked an escape pod, which you then crashed on the planet Tritillia. On stardate nine-seven-three-point-seven enosis ephos, your team hijacked a separate Urilian vessel, which you approved and commanded for the following events. Stardate nine-seven-three-point-eight in the subterranean city of Diode, on stardate nine-seven-three-point-nine enosis ephos, said prisoner destroyed a religious monument, recognized by the galactic realms as a Mecca, known as Eppa...” The Premier carries on with a laundry list of charges, all of which, can be argued.

  The Council Primes look supreme in nature. They do not wear wigs or black robes like a bench of Supreme Court judges, but all the same, their expressions are harsh and dour, with nary a smirk among them. All are incredibly unique in terms of size, color, and cultural distinctions. One woman is a sentient plant Elon; I can tell as her bark outer layer is old and somewhat petrified, creaking at the joints of her body. Her leaves are bundled upward, over her plant nucleus, which is like our head, but without eyes or a mouth.

  It’s humbling to a lowly Earthling who not so long ago was performing dude-worthy skateboard tricks on a deserted parking lot behind an industrial building. I am sure that, behind these carefully orchestrated machinations, the Premier is enjoying this show of force. This is obviously a lynching as the accusations are presented accurately, but without the rationale for my actions.

  “For the record... Everything I have done up to this point was for the good of the galactic realms,” I say. Dammit... It always sounds better in my head.

  “The good of the galactic realms will always be decided by the Council, a council in which every galactic realm has representatives. Did the Clivolian Gurtians from the Bilovian quadrant petition these missions that you executed?”

  “No.”

  “No... Premier, you mean. Please address me by title, prisoner,” Silon Richerz says. “We are charging you for grand thievery and terrorism. Because of the extreme nature of your crimes and the lawless nature of your being, there will be no jury hearing. You surrendered those rights under section seventy-two of the galaxies’ common rights agreement eight-three-four-seven-dash-seven-six-two-two. Please remove the prisoner, so that he may proceed with his accounts. There, in your prison cell, you will await the Council’s decision of life imprisonment or death by cremation. Your compliance within this prison will be taken into consideration. Take him away.”

  “Premier, why no decision?” I ask. I should have been sentenced months ago, if going by procedure.

  “Because of the unique and extreme nature of these crimes, we have not only called upon the Council but the people. We have gone to the polls, prisoner. I hope you have some supporters out there. Things have been getting better without the involvement of these few troublesome messiahs, and that doesn’t bode well for you or the vote which will decide your fate.”

  A vote?

  I clear my throat, and swallow the smidgeon of saliva that blocks my oropharynx, but decide that my self-defense is an act of futility. I hold it in, because I can’t think straight anyway. The sludge they made me choke down earlier is making me feel submissive, and my spit has the consistency of molasses. I feel a hand wrench down upon my arm with an iron-like grip, and I am quickly removed from the room.

  They barely gave me a chance to fight back, and if that was it, I blew it.

  The entire prisoner transport process is about to repeat itself; I am to be transported to the hell-in-a-hole, my old prison. As the cold reality overpowers my senses, I feel a needle prick in my rear end, and the slow glaze of sedation smears my thoughts.

  As I am overcome with the sudden nauseating feeling of sedation, I submit to a slow slide into a blurred memory, meshed within the confines of a dream. In this dream state, I am in my grandparents’ home on Earth.

  I feel cold. My feet are bare. The dark is flooding the old quiet rooms of my grandparents’ house. I hear yelling and screams of pain. I hurry to the kitchen, from which a green light is emanating. Immediately, I realize this memory within a dream is inundated with inaccuracies; the dream distorts my true memory of the event as my grandparents are shamelessly naked, hovering above the cedar floor.

  My grandparents have no identifiable anatomy to compose their faces, as each face is only presented blank—void of character—no eyes, mouths, or noses. The same for their hair and extremities all over; it is as if their skin had transformed into flesh-colored, lifeless canvas stretched tightly. Yet I still recognize them.

  Odion is laughing and suspending my faceless and lifeless grandparents in midair. This sapping of their lives’ force straps their skin against their bony rib cages, as Odion destroys them from within, with his powerful innate abilities. He casts them to the floor as objects of his dastardly entertainment. I want to wake up. I scream, so horrified am I that I am unable to compose any words.

  I go out of consciousness long enough to miss the entire trip, but awaken right before the guards return me to my cell.

  The guard says in a mocking tone. “This one has lost his mind, screaming like that.”

  “Is he awake?” the sarge asks. The guard removes my form-fitting bag from my head.

  “Good. See that prisoner?” I see a dejected Rangier peering through the bars at us, his face etched with such a degree of despair and hopelessness that could only be measured in years, not months. “They just finished installing the new system in your cell. You’re never getting out of here.” He risks allowing me to catch my first glimpse of the environment outside of my cell. It isn’t much of a reconnaissance, but I’ll take it. I’m still shaking from the unspeakable nightmare of my grandparent’s murders.

  While the temporalysis is actively paralyzing me, the guards throw me into a vacant cell, kick me a few times, and shove me to the ground. I am curled up on the floor, whimpering. They deactivate the temporalysis, remove it, and leave me alone to reflect on my trial before the Premier of the Council. The ten-inch thick vault door automatically closes. There are so many obstacles between me and my goal to kill Odion.

  When will the naysayers on the Council undermine the Premier’s verdict? Probably never. A poll? It will be a snowy day in hell if the warden lets me out of here alive, whether the majority rules in my favor or not.

  “You have three seconds to pick up that tablet and start recording, prisoner. One, two... that’s what I thought.” I pick up the tablet to please the maniacal sergeant, who is barking orders at me through the intercom. I can only see his forehead and eyes through the three-by-eight inch display window. He steps back and completely out of my sight, so I set the tablet down.

  Now in my cell I am missing that crisp free air from earlier.

  It seems I only have my memories, and these fade more day by day. My pathetic existence becomes more pitiful by the second. I look at my reflection in the tablet while it rests on the floor mat, and I don’t even recognize myself or even remember what I’m suppos
ed to look like. My once vibrant sandy blond hair has taken on a dull sheen and is so matted that no barber would have been able to run a comb through it. My eyes are sunken, rendering my face demonic in appearance. My lips, ravaged with dryness, are lined with dozens of blistering cracks.

  The guard is still loitering outside of my cell; he taps on the window, showing his impatience. He wants me to pick up the tablet again and get started with my accounts, but my thoughts are too convoluted to piece together any meaningful outline. So I let him have it. “Once upon a time there was an old sow with three little pigs; the warden, the Premier, and the filthy guard outside, who has yet to discover deodorant.” Then I wait for the guard’s indignation to build to a red-hot intensity.

  “Open request for eight-six-seven-five! Oh I can’t wait till I get in there. You’re going to beg me for cremation!” the new sarge shouts.

  I can overhear his communicator, and the door command officer says, “Sorry sarge. Access denied. The new security protocol requires that an open request for a maximum security prisoner must come from the warden or the Premier. Since you are neither, you may not enter.”

  The sarge bellows, “Are ya Drey Richerz? You rookie punk! Fine. I don’t need to get in’er. That Earth scum is gonna rot either way.”

  After setting the tablet down, I lie upon the floor upon my back, cupping my hands behind my head smugly to quietly celebrate this small victory. The name... Richerz, a rookie. Is this a relative of the Premier maybe? Weird.

  The guard leaves, and I reflect on how I was dragged into this prison.

  It was months ago, yet the mere memory still causes me a renewed bout of anguish. I was on a measly jaunt to the planet Greevsu in the far reaches of the Glowing Rift to influence a Council lobbyist; some of my crew members and I were brought in on border violations and then extradited to this dungeon. Law enforcers just love to arrest blacklisted suspects on bitty bad deeds that are easy to prove, while savoring the reprieve from having to cough up charges for major misdemeanors that require complex paperwork for court. And oh yes, they deviously dangle these big, shiny gems, such as my destruction of the temple Eppa, to shut me up fast when I protest. To think a traffic ticket landed me in this prison.