by J. D. Tew
Presuming the warden and his guards are unleashing this mobile threat, I maintain my particle state for ease of evasion. The vents are too small for me to assume my complete form anyway, but I am losing some rogue Dietons, which are possibly deeming me too dangerous for assembly.
Majority response: You are abandoning me you worthless microscopic punks?
Wayward Dieton reply: On the contrary! After seconds of processing, we determined you would benefit from our absence. We are analyzing the surrounding vents, ensuring your liberation. Our scouting activity will not impede your escape. Half of us out there will converge on your coordinates later, as the other portion will remain here in the prison indefinitely to watch over Theodore.
Majority response: My apologies. Our emotional programming has a tendency to skew solutions.
It is amazing that beyond our ability to compute and transfer information instantly, we Sepherans choose to side with those who seek independence and freedom within the galaxies. After all, the freedom of each Dieton within my presence, acting together as a whole to achieve good, is not that far off from any world that seeks both peace and progress.
The wayward Dietons are correct; assigning a few Dietons to monitor Theodore will be instrumental.
Satisfaction is a new emotion for me; I astutely record this new category in my database. My sensory Dieton nodes are picking up an exit, a cool draft precisely fifty-meters ahead—with surface temperature at negative-fifty-degrees Celsius. My assessment of ambient air temperature is crucial, as I cannot assemble in extremes of temperature. I complete my calculations. Sustaining my Dietonic being in this atmosphere and gravity will be attainable. In the background, I hear the sounds of the pursuing robotic sentinels as they increase in volume. They are gaining, but they will not reach me in time.
I can rescue Theodore.
Should I rescue Theodore now?
Would Theodore save me?
Stopping to quantify that course of action presents improbable results. There is no sense in risking my recapture and a more competently conducted deactivation on an off-the-cuff mission. My advance on Theodore’s prison cell could trigger his automatic execution. Placing Theodore in danger can destroy the fabric of time.
Yes, my job here is complete.
I reject my own proposal and am just a few more feet till escape—into open air.
He cannot feel. The guards’ prior judgments of me are pitiful and misinformed. I may not be able to feel physiologically, but as freedom draws nearer, I analyze this situation to be a perfect instance of pleasure.
Revenge against the warden comes in the form of self-liberation and that is just the beginning of my mission. Theodore will have to linger longer than I in this prison. It is funny; I cannot get over how complacent those guards are.
Wait a minute! What’s this?
As I exit this monotonous manmade mockery of a prison system, I calculate this climate and terrain to be one with which I am familiar.
The planet Zeerowan.
I should have known.
King Trazuline will be pleasantly surprised to see me.
4 DREY REICHERZ: THE ROOKIE
Staleness hangs in the air of these narrow hallways. I breathe in the unmoving, particle-laden air on my long trip to the office of the warden. Neck deep in this sophisticated prison, I have many masters, yet only one makes it personal. This is not going to go well. My boss says, “Sit down here, Drey. The warden will summon you when he is ready. Good luck. You’ll need it.”
“Thanks,” I say, wondering what punitive measures wait behind the door.
I am the rookie guard responsible for the escape of a known Sepheran criminal, the former Lincoln Royce. Wonderful. I can only sit outside of the warden’s office now, as ordered. The voices within the office escalate.
“The Council headquarters in Barkut was recently breached by a Dacturon Driad and the public is holding my leadership accountable. As for the prisoner’s escape, the Primes of the Council are pointing their fingers at me, and now I am under the threat of indictment. You’ll go down with me if it comes to it.”
“I’m on edge. Soon the war is going to spill over onto Zeerowan, and I don’t want to be around this prison when it does.”
“Lower your voice. Zane’s covert Dieton army is slowly taking form, and soon we’ll be sucked into it all. Just show me the rest of this ridiculous video.”
“There! See? His left arm is not fully in the restraints,” the warden says. I am trying to pick up the conversation through the door by eavesdropping.
There is another, a different man, in the room, commenting about something. He says, “Quiet! I want to hear what he says next.” It is a separate, but familiar voice that I am hearing. The door distorts his voice. Could it be? No.
I fear the damning evidence even before it plays over the speakers. I bow my head with distain. It is Lincoln’s recorded voice I hear. “I am ready.” Great, they are watching Lincoln’s escape. I hope they don’t see me as a conspirator!
The people in the office continue to speak. “How did we let this happen? Look, he is free!” the warden says, still watching the video.
“I am watching the same video you are. He is not free yet.” Just as I thought; there is no sense in denying it any further; my father is the other man in the office; he is the Premier of the Multiversal Council. This is not good. He is probably here to castigate me or—castrate me for my mistake, as one doesn’t achieve my father’s position on the Council without sheer ruthlessness and ambition.
I can hear the audio playback, again. It is my superior’s voice from before Lincoln’s escape, “Take him down, guns hot on eight-six-seven-six! Acquire and engage multiple Dieton targets!” The recording ends and I hear the people within the office again.
Now, the warden says, “Stop the playback. Watch, this is where he will disassemble completely. Play file.”
My father, the Premier, sounds angry. He says, “All of those Dietons occupying a six-by-eight-foot cell are impossible to manage. If your guards were going by procedure, the guns would have been hot before cell entry.”
“You blame me? Notice, it is only a second that passes and Lincoln checkmates both of my guards. There was no chance to stop him. His surrender to us months ago, stinks of deception.”
“Are you implying, Warden, that our intelligence was that shoddy?” my father shouts.
“No, I would never, Premier. Lincoln escaped, and we can only react to it now. The security mainframe estimates Lincoln lost over five-hundred-twenty-million Dietons after the turrets engaged. Luckily, by that time my men were out of the room.”
“That is nothing when you look at how many Dietons he commands. The prisoner is made of billions of Zane’s Dietons. Why didn’t your men initiate the cremation sequence? Why didn’t you?”
The warden raises his voice and is definitely on the defensive. “And kill the guards? Your son would be dead. The cremation sequence was designed to destroy organic matter. It wouldn’t have done anything to Lincoln. Only the electromagnetic band or an immediate means of destruction can deactivate Sepherans. Guard! Send in Private Drey Richerz!”
I step into the room, as a guard’s hand presses against my back. I realize that I have never been this nervous. “Warden. You requested my presence?” I stop to glance over at the Premier, confirming my fear. “Father I am sorry.” I say, bowing my head in deference at this man, who is double an authority figure to me—my father, and the Premier of the Multiverse. I know that his more sinister and underhanded methods stop when it comes to dealing with his own son, but he is not above firing me, or subjecting me to a moment of humiliation in front of the Council.
My father’s silver hair is cleanly cut, and he is grimacing upon my entry into the warden’s office. The wrinkles on his forehead scrunch as he says, “After what happened today, I do not want to be mentioned in the same breath as you boy.” My father, Silon Richerz, is the Premier of the Council, and the appointed ruler of the galaxies
, which is officially a neutral position that unifies all planets. He is the Premier and ultimately in charge of everything. Lucky me. Knowing my father, I acknowledge he cares only for advancement in the galaxies and would never let me get in his way. He may protect me here, but this meeting will end in a severe punishment. I am sure of it. It is a shame that I am prone to mistakes, and my father is tiring over the failures of his prodigal son. If he only knew.
“Sit down!” the warden yells, growling and scoffing. Before my butt presses against the cushion, the warden asks me a question that I can’t even begin to answer or shouldn’t. “You made a mistake today that could disrupt everything that we’ve been trying to achieve. What do you have to say for yourself, rookie?”
I consider formulating a pathetic excuse or offering a culpatory retreat. I say, “It wasn’t my fault, warden... sir. It looked like he—”
The warden’s voice rises in indignation as he says, “Looked like? Are you serious? You let Lincoln Royce, our most dangerous adversary within these walls, escape. You do not enter a Sepheran prisoner’s cell unless you know they are powerless and restrained! If every guard in this outfit was as stupid as you, we would all be dead!”
The Premier boldly intervenes, turning to the warden and cutting him off with a mere hand chop in the air. “There’s no need to re-hash what has happened.” Then he turns to me, and for once, I detect a smidgeon of fatherly concern in his eyes. “Anyway, this is your debrief, son. Do you see the place you have stuck us in? I’m worried I could lose my position on the Council for your negligence. You’ll have to admit, this doesn’t look good. What if the Council suspects that I secretly commanded you, my son, to do what you just did? I could be impeached.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “We don’t want that, do we?”
“I am sorry sir,” I say. My apology is like a squeak that only agitates my father and the warden further.
“You will be sorry!” The warden says. As he jumps to accost me, his chair creaks. “Now tell me, was there anything else we should know about the prisoner?” The warden’s computer is analyzing my physiological responses to his questions.
I am not lying. “No, sir,” I say. “I know nothing more.”
My father’s hands are pressed together in front of his face as he assumes a thoughtful pose. I know that look; he is deliberating very carefully on how he may extricate everyone out of this mess. My father is always two steps ahead of everyone; it is how he became Premier. He mulls some more, and says, “The former prisoner did say, ‘Tell Theodore I appreciate his efforts’.”
“Yes, Father.”
“What do you think this really means?”
“I do not know, Father.”
My father now seems to be talking out loud to himself, clearing out his thoughts. “Is it code for something? Is the former prisoner planning some attack against us, perhaps in alliance with one of the factions?”
“I have no idea.”
Then my father moves on to a new line of questioning. “Have you ever contacted a prisoner without authorization?” I have a sense this line of questioning is a product of rehearsal. The warden and my father are now placing all of the blame on my shoulders, which is typical of my father.
“No sir. You know I had to go to the infirmary because I inhaled some of those Dietons, which cut off my breathing.”
“Tough. Go on with your testimony,” the warden says.
“I grabbed Lincoln’s arm—”
The warden shouts at me. “Prisoner! The Premier prefers that we refer to Lincoln as prisoner!”
“I grabbed the prisoner’s arm and it crumbled. And then he was gone... Like a sweep of dust in the air. The bullets were zinging about and—”
“I’ve heard enough,” my father says. “Get him out of my sight.” When my father is angry, he treats me like a peasant. This is my curse.
“That’s enough. Go back outside. We will deal with you in a moment,” the warden says, parroting my father’s line. My father nods at him and engages me, his brusque shove sends me stumbling outside, toward the other guards.
“Wait,” my father says to the warden, holding up his hand. “I am your commander, and I deal with my son—alone.”
The warden cowers before my father, acknowledging his supreme authority. “Yes, sir.”
“What about Theodore?” my father asks the warden.
The warden darts a glance at me. “He can hear us,” referring to my immediate proximity to their conversation.
A steely glare from Silon. “Don’t I know that?” His voice is positively dripping with sarcasm.
“Yes—yes. But he is privy to our privileged conversations concerning national security.”
With a dismissive brush of his hand, my father casts aside the warden’s protests. “Back to it. What about Theodore?”
“I gave him Lincoln’s last words. I can only imagine he thinks Lincoln is dead,” the warden replies.
“You hope. I like this strategy of alienating Theodore. By leading him to believe Lincoln is dead, he may lose all hope. But if anyone finds out the truth that you let someone bust out of here, we will have copycats on our hands. Are we close to getting the information we want from Theodore? Perhaps you are going about it all wrong.”
“Theodore is telling the story accurately, but he has not revealed anything about the temple, Eppa.” The warden perceptibly stiffens at the insinuation that he is mismanaging the prison, but he is careful not to draw the Premier’s ire.
“I have something that I think could be helpful. The Council’s been working on a new truth serum; there are many in existence already, but this is most promising. We call the experimental serum trinophane; it’s a combination of sodium thiopental and plant mucilage we discovered in Tritillia. In contrast to other serums, this one acts on the temporal and frontal lobes of most brains.”
“Will it get him to talk?”
“Theodore is already talking, but with this serum, he will be able to recount the entire story, with astounding accuracy.”
The Premier leaned back, satisfied. “My medical proctor will give you ten vials of this truth serum to use at your discretion.”
The warden’s eyes gleamed. “I will get Theodore started on this serum, and request his account of Eppa’s destruction.”
“We need to know what he saw there. What made him want to destroy it? And more importantly, did he download anything beforehand? But don’t worry, the polls will be adjusted. We can’t risk the majority deciding to let this brigand live. We can set an example and please our mutual friend all in one shot by ending Theodore once and for all. The Primes are wavering in our favor because of the public’s unease over a messiah destroying a religious monument.”
“With respect, sire, some think the other way. They are saying that if a messiah destroyed the temple, it was for a good reason. Anyway, we are getting close; he will probably tell us about Eppa soon.”
“You better speed it up. Because if you don’t, I will have you incarcerated along with my son,” my father says, glaring in my direction. His voice deepened to a growl.
‘Incarcerated along with my son?’ What does my father mean?
My father has other urging pressing matters; the meeting of the Council of Intergalactic Trade and Commerce is due to start soon, and he is its chairperson. He huffily announces, “I want fifty more guards doing roaming patrols outside. Be off with you. I will handle my son.”
Shaken, the warden exits, along with his assistant.
My father looks at me, and then looks at the remaining guards and says, “Lock him up. One week solitary confinement.”
“What? You can’t be serious, Father no!”
His glance reveals an iota of guilt. He speaks to me, not caring if he is overheard. “Son, I strive to train you well. Consider this as a temporary but valuable setback for you.”
“But, Father...”
He clamps his jaw. “Silence! As my record shows, I once spent seven months in exile on fabricated charg
es against me while that bastard Oliphant was in power.” He looks at me, almost in a tender way. “You were only ten years old at the time. Do you remember these stories?”
I nod sullenly. “Yes.”
“I learned more in that prison than I ever did from all the Council meetings I have ever convened. So, let this be a lesson to you, son.”
I shout, but one of my greatest fears is made real when the guards slip the temporalysis over my head, and I feel them dragging my numb body, degrading me to the level of prisoner.
My father is watching sorrowfully. He says, “The Council and I will consider it time spent at your arraignment. You are an embarrassment to the Richerz name. Take him away!”
It looks like my father can only save his position on the Council by a perfidious betrayal of his youngest son; I feel the embarrassment is all mine, but this day isn’t all bad.
As they are dragging me away, I cannot help but to smile, because this makes my secret all the better; after all, missing the check on Lincoln’s restraints wasn’t a mistake, not even remotely. In fact, there is a reason why I didn’t engage the prisoner straight away. My father has compromised principles in his steadfast belief that only he has the answers for the stability and the prosperity of the multiverse. Channeling his enthusiasm to control destiny by employing deceit and force, he has done things I cannot forgive.
My actions are the consequence of his carelessness. A year ago, I stumbled upon his meddling. And being the son of a political figure provides insight that is sometimes more sickening than enlightening.
At the time, it was a female Tangerian, of the planet Tangier, in the remote confines of the multiverse. She had a message for my father, and he received her in our palace. My father had brought me into the grand conference hall, to sit in on their conversation, in order that I may learn politics as he conducted affairs of state. Twelve of his advisors surrounded him in that opulent chamber, as the purple-skinned woman made a moving speech in which she plead for her world to be released from its obligations as an important supplier of raw materials for the Council’s strategic defense initiative.