The Ghost of Sephera

by J. D. Tew

  Now, I am twiddling my thumbs as a war is raging in the galaxies, and the Galactic Council snatches away my chance to make a difference.

  They can try holding me here forever, but I know there is a way out. I just have to find it.

  I stand up and pound my fist on the wall so that I can feel something and confirm for the three hundredth time that I am alive and this is not a hellish dream. I wish it was, because then I could just wake up. That fresh air and the sightseeing from earlier resonate in my mind, welling up a vigor that may be illusory yet revitalizing.

  It seems like yesterday that my best friend Lincoln and I were experimenting and living out our childlike lives on Earth, embracing the carefree environment and sharing crude jokes. Now the only thing I can imagine at this time is spitting in the warden’s face.

  I miss Lincoln.

  Years ago, he died before my eyes.

  My friend Lincoln: scattered into billions of microscopic entities, yet he is one; he is one of Zane’s intricately designed replicas, now forever intertwined with Zane’s master plan to replicate every cell of every living being in the multiverse in order to create his own army.

  Lincoln, my closest friend, consists of fifty two billion Dietons, latched together to form the exact depiction of my human friend. Once a being is composed of Dietons, he or she is automatically a Sepheran, destined to live of the planet that Zane discovered and colonized years ago—Sephera.

  Zane has many sympathizers and, yes, even dedicated followers throughout the galaxies, often discreetly within several races. These worshippers seek a final answer to the age-old question, “Is there an afterlife?” And Zane provides an easy answer, in the form of digital resurrection. Some have even clamored for Zane to be sanctified as a new deity, to honor him for providing an easily accessible version of “heaven.” I always shake my head at how many members, of all planets, of all races, and from all backgrounds, that revere Zane. Zane, for one, shrugs and states that he is not a villain, that he is only providing “options” for the future of all races, regardless of spiritual belief.

  I have kept an eye on him, yet it’s impossible from in here.

  Here I go again. Once I start thinking about the debate that brought me here—that brought about my desire to destroy Eppa, it always ends with me mulling over Lincoln or the Sepherans, along with their existential enigma.

  Sepherans are programmed with the data of the public’s lives, enlisted into Zane’s war schemes, yet we quibble over their integration as a sentient species in our galaxies. Over the years, I have questioned my relationship with Lincoln. Do we hate or love these Dietons which by their very existence imply philosophical angst? Are they as part of the evolutionary process, or anathema to it? This is the premise of the war. As I have mentioned, one side loathes the very idea of Sepheran digital reincarnation, the other hails it as an afterlife that is real, rather than prophesized.

  I linger on these thoughts often; every second that passes in this prison’s purgatory, I repeat, rewind and repeat everything in my mind. The death of Lincoln’s human form was a horrid way to go, which is a memory I can never repress enough.

  In some ways I feel responsible; none of which are rational.

  I scratch my scalp vigorously to relieve an itch that is growing stronger. I’m not in the best of conditions, and I’m tired but fear the misleading solace of sleep. Sleep will only lead me to the only nightmare I see with exact accuracy. I start to doze off, but I refrain from closing my eyes to avoid a replay of the traumatic loss of my friend.

  The death of my friend, Lincoln.

  Often, I dream of the dark king of the planet Tritillia, Quasikeum, as he impales Lincoln with a golden trident. It is at that moment which I awaken, wishing that I was the one who took the lethal blow.

  3 LINCOLN: LIBERATION

  I can hear them—the guards. They are preparing for my deactivation.

  “Prisoner eight-six-seven-six, Replica number four-midogdezel. It is exhibiting brown eyes, black hair, and an olive human complexion... weight analysis shows this replica is two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, with a height of sixty-eight inches...”

  “Why is he so heavy?”

  “He’s on of Zane’s sentient androids, you imbecile!”

  I check my atomic time renderer because I am becoming impatient. This analysis of theirs can go on for twenty minutes, while they check the facade that I present. The guards continue to talk, without realizing I have the capabilities to send microscopic satellite portions of my body to hear around these solid walls.

  “This is a rare opportunity. To see a Sepheran de-activated, and to get rid of a blight within our prison,” the veteran guard says with an unmistakable tone of excitement in his voice.

  “Why are we checking him out? Why don’t you just de-activate him on the spot?” the rookie asks; I analyze a hint of dishonesty in his tone. Is he faking his conviviality with the veteran guard? Suspicious.

  “Well kid, years ago, a Sepheran entered the prison disguised as someone else to trick the warden and the Council. Sepherans have the ability to morph into other people, down to the exact detail. So we need this sophisticated equipment...,” he says shaking his head in disgust, “...to survey their bodies and look for biological life scans. It’s protocol before a deactivation, to make sure we don’t execute the wrong person.”

  The employees of this prison now refer to me not as Lincoln, but a remnant of him. They call me Replica—among other things.

  I am Sepheran. Even though I once was of Earth, I have been increasingly detached from what once defined me—my humanity.

  But there is no doubt, I am Lincoln as well. Now, a collection of Lincoln’s hopes, aspirations, and impulses live on through me—catalogued in my memory cache. I’ll be damned if sit here any longer, being qualified by these flesh-filled boneheads.

  Over the past several months, I have exhaustingly examined every detail in this prison, collecting intelligence that is of valuable importance to a potential escape plan. My work is complete. Although Theodore and Dan are still held here against their will, I would benefit them both more by escaping now so I can mobilize resources to free them.

  My calling is to be Lincoln. However, I must tread carefully; to blatantly circumvent my programming would be a betrayal to Zane’s design. My behavioral algorithms are bound to Lincoln’s past experiences and this is why I am him, and this means I would put my life on the line—again—to accomplish the successful rescue of Dan and Theodore.

  The guards continue to gossip. The rookie asks, “Why is he still here? You’d think the warden would have deactivated him a while ago.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, rookie. I will say this. They must want something from him. He’s just a computer-generated phantasm to me. All of these Sepheran scum, copies of dead people. It’s spooky. I still don’t understand why he even surrendered, just to be deactivated months later?”

  “Maybe he’s depressed,” the rookie says in a whiny tone, with the corners of his lips drooping downward. The private again smirks, his head down. I can see him through the vault’s display.

  “You don’t get it do you, kid? He’s an android!”

  “You keep saying he?”

  “Oh, well ‘it’ or whatever.”

  Surrender? As if! It has taken me a while to discover the corruption in this institution—this galaxy and its governors. Months ago, I could have left but it would have been premature. I didn’t have satisfactory intelligence on the warden and the Council.

  The warden is a royal prick, a follower. Part of me feels sorry for him, since I know he is merely part of the vast machination imposed by the Council.

  Now that I am assured that all authorities subscribe to my ruse—that I have been a mere statistic in the prison’s vast operations; a powerless victim who languished away—I can complete my mission here.

  Outside of this prison, all roads lead to one person, because there is nowhere that evil bastard Odion hasn’t sunk his v
enomous teeth into. He is a vector for hate, and I the vessel for liberty. We are at war, and there is no time left to postulate. I must not complicate my calculations further by injecting formatted emotional responses.

  This prison cell is composed of one single alloy. Plus, the vault door creates a new seal every time the guards close it. There is a dull electromagnetic field surrounding the cell that disables me. These are all security measures specially designed for Sepherans only, but I have found ways to surreptitiously evade them.

  “Well I have to say, private, I am sure glad this one is seeking deactivation. A suicidal one, for sure.” His words anger me, but I must remain neutral to the guards. They have done nothing to me, except annoy the hell out of me.

  “Did you hear about the power core failure on sector three?” the rookie asks.

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “He can’t hear us,” the rookie says, and there is that smirk again. I have one percent of my Dietons outside of this cell now, monitoring their entire conversation. The rookie seems peculiar, but the veteran guard is right to hush his buck private. Yes, the list of prison precautions is long and the list of mistakes is mercilessly short, but it only takes one small mistake to form a gut-twisting feeling of regret.

  The Council has a clear idea of what and how powerful I am, but they made one tiny miscalculation. Months ago, the power core surged. As a result, compounded by shoddy craftsmanship, a leak was formed in the electromagnetic field around my prison cell, allowing me to conduct carefully concealed security breaches at my discretion. This leak causes the command nodes of each security sextant to degrade over time, and now four of the six are nearly inoperable. I don’t need to hear their leaks of vital info—I already know.

  And I will exploit everything.

  This electromagnetic damage is not limited to one circuit; the corruption is universal, disabling every device monitoring each security node. There is no telling how far this damage goes, but it’s safe to say that this prison cell, which was meant to hold a Sepheran completely intact, is now just a dull room with a gun turret stationed above. And I cannot allow them the time to fix it.

  Haha. I smile a mischievous grin. I’m having too much fun.

  I will break this chain of slipshod security, and the Council will not be happy; especially, since the rookie guard is the council Premier’s son; it will seem that the rookie is freeing me for the benefit of his father. This is all part of my plan.

  It’s getting close. I am pacing now, like a human would. Have I processed every aspect of this prison. Confirmation? I wait for a moment to receive a global response from my Dietons. They each have processors of their own, and it’s unanimous. One hundred percent of the Dietons, billions and billions of them, agree. You could not ask for more perfect unison anywhere else in the universe.

  The warden cried out triumphantly, “Security clearance complete! The results show that it is none other than the Sepheran form once known as Lincoln Royce! Now we can terminate him!”

  It’s time.

  The guards are probably eagerly waiting my de-activation request, anyway. Their grubby fingers are just itching to push that button that will end my Sepheran life.

  “That is the end of it! Can you hear me guard? I am finished,” I shout to the guards, notifying them that I am done with my silly account for the warden, but really I have covertly pretended all along to play the role of victim.

  I hear the guards’ steps outside of my cell, and reality returns to jolt me. My assessment is that this intergalactic jail is the origin of my physical imprisonment. However, the detainment of my metaphysical essence, registering into Dieton form on Sephera, is the beginning and the source of my anger. I will use this anger to hunt Odion once I leave here, since he commanded that subordinate of his to thrust the trident into my chest, ending my life. One would think I would hate my creator, Zane, but a second chance blessing from an Omnian is nothing short of convenient.

  Guards carry plasma rifles, which incinerate and cause cellular damage. This is a low level threat to me. My major concern is the electromagnetic band they are now programming to deactivate my Dietons. Even from a distance, the acute and intense electromagnetic power of this procedure will do critical damage to me. The guards will be wearing protective gear, to avoid tissue disruption from the fallout; this will slow them down.

  “Prisoner eight-six-seven-six, stand against the wall, place your hands in the wall restraints, cross your feet and bend over until your head enters the wall vise.” The wall restraints and vice are designed to render my microscopic Dietons semi-powerless, incapacitating me to a point that I cannot fight. To that I say, good luck, as the damage from the electromagnetic leak extends far beyond these restraints I have been pretending to succumb to. The restraints are not functioning at full capacity.

  I do what they ask, but my actions belie my intentions. I leave my left hand partially out of the electromagnetic wall restraints, ready to strike for freedom.

  “Prisoner, do you have any final requests?”

  “Yes. Tell Theodore I appreciate his efforts.”

  “That’s all?” the guard sneers. “Wimp. We’ll just tell your very good friend Theodore that you were executed on the spot, and that his turn is next.” He turns his head to speak into the com, and I can’t help but wonder why the younger guard’s reaction to me is so emboldened; he is peculiar. “Warden. This is guard twenty-eight, requesting termination sequence for prisoner eight-six-seven-six. Awaiting confirmation.”

  “Will he feel pain?” the younger of the two guards asks. He is the guard whom his peers call, the rookie.

  The older guard replies quickly, “He cannot feel. He isn’t alive.” I process the truth in his statement, and he is right. I cannot feel as organic beings do, but the complexity of my programming does complicate my calculations with emotional algorithms.

  “Prisoner. The warden wants a verbal confirmation of your termination request. It is the Galactic Council’s protocol.”

  “I am ready.”

  After delivering the warden’s verbal permission to deactivate me forever, the guards walk toward me, preparing to slip the portable electromagnetic pulse-emitting band around my neck. I have done well to deceive them. If ever there was a moment as perfect as this, I may have missed it, but not today, and not in this vile cell. They place their unclean hands upon my titanium Dieton-compiled arm, and I do my best to shield trickery from their sight.

  Then, chaos as I start to break free. The reaction from those goons is priceless.

  I laugh with unbridled glee as the rookie guard shouts, “H-h-his arm is free from the restraints!” Moving with rapid speed, I smack the electromagnetic band from his left hand as he tries to grab me with his right.

  “Take him down, guns hot on eight-six-seven-six! Acquire and engage multiple Dieton targets!” the older of the two guards yells, as he fires his weapon recklessly. The turret gun above locks onto whatever parts of my body that still materialize with enough mass to attract a target, but due to the instantaneous, ever-shifting permutations within my Dietonic form, it is futile for any weapon to seek me out.

  I can feel the younger guard’s hand cinch around my left arm tightly. Pitiful attempt. His hand grasps empty air as my Dietons’ composition gives way and dissembles. Amorphously, I crumble like a dry clump of sand, and my Dietonic particles scatter throughout the air within the cell. Computing furiously, I find I have erred, but in a good way. This is far easier than earlier calculations predicted. Chuckles erupt within me as I savor my newfound freedom.

  “We are losing him! Seal the vault!”

  “You will lock us in here, sir!”

  “Shut up rookie! Fire that damn gun of yours.”

  “Where do I shoot? I can’t see anything!”

  The guards are not fully realizing their total and complete failure yet, but I am still disassembling. The Dietons that make up my full body are now dispelled and skimming the edges of the cell as I pass like gas t
hrough a bored-through hole that I cleared and tunneled through, months ago. Upon exiting the long, tiny escape tunnel through my cell’s massively thick wall, I immediately enter a roomy, comfortable ventilation shaft adjacent to my cell.

  We Dietons are a fraction of the size of dust particles—too minute to observe while in motion, even to the sharpest eye. While dispersing, I assign a tiny bundle of Dietons to assail my aggressors, examining the ports of entry to their mouths. Bullets from the turret gun are zinging by, aimlessly seeking the remainder of my freeform Dietonic cells, and the guards are engaging with plasma rifles.

  “Activate the electromagnetic band!” the older guard shouts.

  I, the majority, send another group of my Dietons a message: Enter the guard’s lungs to obstruct and lower their oxygen levels.

  The guards are frantically grabbing at their necks, and I leave them with an epic failure, as they pass out and fall to the floor from a lack of oxygen to their brains. I do not intend on harming them further, as Theodore once told me that kicking a man while he is down is not logical.

  My sensors are picking up an approaching sound from behind me. Instantly, assessing all damage from the turrets, I calculate my losses; point zero three percent of my assigned Dietons are inactive due to destruction, and four percent are unstable. I am Sepheran, therefore I will need to collect Dietons to complete my makeup of this form—this Lincoln form. That is, if I can find any Dietons without designation. It is my desire to be complete. Although, losing point zero three percent is the equivalent to a minor scratch on a human’s body.

  The vents within the prison walls pose a threat of their own. I can sense several approaching heat signatures. It is likely an army of airborne sentinels. These tiny hovering sentinels are quick, robotic, and precise; my initial reconnoiter of the prison revealed these potential foes to be bothersome. After all, they are equipped with electromagnetic rounds that attach to targets and explode upon impact.