The Ghost of Sephera

by J. D. Tew

  “Request denied,” my father had said at the time, his voice purring as he commanded supreme confidence that his word was law.

  “Why?” the rebel leader had asked, imploring him to re-consider.

  “Your planet is of key importance in mobilizing our defenses against the twin threats posed by Odion and Zane. Without your planet’s co-operation, the unifying forces holding the galaxies together will weaken. Why do you wish to betray your allies?”

  The Tangerian protested. “Remember, Premier, this is not a vote for or against your Council. We simply wish to proceed on our own independent path.”

  “United we stand, divided we fall.”

  The woman drew in her breath. “I will not be jerked in by your false analogy. If you do not grant us our wish, we will withhold the supply of minerals to the Council. We simply wish to follow our own path, nothing more. This is not personal...”

  Then I saw my father clasp his hands together, as he usually does when he is about to make a decision that he personally knows to be morally wrong, but follows upon in the name of the universe. “Then I have no choice but to charge you with treason.”

  “Treason?” the rebel leader hissed, appearing thunderstruck. “I am a guest at my invitation, and this is how you treat me?”

  “Take her away,” my father ordered, sitting back in his chair, appearing bored. He waved his hand at her, as if she were a mere nuisance.

  And since then, I have resolved to purge the universe of this iron grip that sows malfeasance, where Council decrees wrong to be right, and right to be wrong. It is not the first time my father has imposed questionable judgment on the federation of planets, but I am aiming for the day when he shall impose his last.

  After all, my father’s position is not always secure. I have ascertained, through private discussions with my father during good times in our relationship, that he loathes Zane. He is aware, but not fully reconciled, to the fact that most of the Council supports Zane. In fact, it was the Council which, decades ago, assented to Zane’s request to build Eppa on one of the Council’s strongholds, Fiota. The Rangiers there are among the most intelligent and reliable allies to be found anywhere in the multiverse, and they fight in a most cunning and ruthless way. Then, after each fight, they do not rest, but rather continue to challenge each other to games involving highly abstract concepts, such as four-dimensional chess. And specifically for Eppa, the Council has assigned the elite Rangiers to guard this technological wonder of Zane’s, his single most important contribution (and cynics would instead insert “doomsday machine”) to the galaxies.

  Despite Zane’s all-out war with his brother, Odion, the Council continues to stick with Zane, and it has long been rumored that Zane still commands a large degree of loyalty on the Council because they themselves dream of immortality when they someday meet their maker, bite the dust, kick the bucket, or whatever you call it. Personally, I also think the Council is so terrified of Odion’s evil, that they see Zane as a flawed, but necessary counterpoint to the treacherous balance of power. They are playing their hand, and Zane has been designated as their ace of hearts.

  My father is no fool. He knows the Council will depose of him if he so much hints at severing ties with Zane. He therefore plays along, leading but also following, waiting for any moment where Zane makes a fatal mistake, and then move in for the kill. My father hates looking behind his back, and the day that Zane is overthrown is the day he will finally uncork the bottle and raise a glass of his highly prized Cherrot wine, a drink so rare that only two bottles exist in the multiverse, one of which is worth the price of one scout ship alone.

  And now I have enabled a rebel, Lincoln Royce—yes, I am proud to state his name, in spite of my father’s opinion—to throw a wrench in my father’s plans. I fully trust Lincoln Royce to determine which of the two evils, Odion or Zane, should go. Preferably, both.

  Yes, the Premier will have to suffer through the effects of my resentment and role as the mole, who has now officially got away with releasing the one Sepheran prisoner most likely to free Theodore Crane.

  A week in solitary confinement is a small price to pay for a lifetime of reverence.

  5 THEODORE: PRISON BRUTALITY

  I look down at my dull and dirty floor. The floor is cool, solid, and gravelly to the touch. The boredom of imprisonment is continuously nudging me toward insanity. It is lonely in here, and I keep inundating myself with selfish pish-posh, or plotting yet again a way out of this prison.

  People have tried to make contact with me here before.

  The nurse, an impostor affiliated with the Opposition, left a disc in my cell weeks ago. It was probably my most exhilarating moment in here by far, and it didn’t hurt that she was a very attractive woman underneath that lab coat.

  She said, “Hang on, Theo.” Or something like it. The nurse’s infiltration of this prison gave me hope. I presume the disc that the nurse left is a device for communication, but I have so far been unable to verify that.

  I kneel near the corner to check on the disc. There is a section of the ground that appears to be coated with a dark-grey powder, as imprinted in my memory forever due to my constant impulse to keep checking, and re-checking. I had long ago determined it was ash, perhaps the remains of a prisoner long forgotten to cremation. As I rub my impoverished skeletal fingers against the ash; I covertly find my disc, still hidden.

  The warden claims that with the mere push of a button, he can incinerate me. Shamelessly alternating the roles of tyrant and wannabe friend, the warden also asks me on occasion to tell him a good story. Maybe I should feel sorry for him. After all, we both are trapped in this soulless prison, with him on the outside and with me on the inside. The warden must be as mirthlessly resigned as I to this place of eternal damnation.

  Bringing my hand up toward my nose, I notice that the ash leaves a smudge on my finger, drawing my intrigue. I rub my thumb and forefinger together, pressing the ash. Before my smudged finger is close enough for my curious nose to gauge the smell of the ash, I realize the mustache above my upper lip is overgrown, concealing the entry into my nostrils.

  Has it really been that long since my initial detention into this room within this half star hotel?

  I sigh, because looking upward reveals a turret gun monitoring me. With each movement, I hear the gun turret’s mechanical swivels and spins; it is moving erratically today. I wonder if it is malfunctioning. In proper working order, it could easily shoot me full of holes, if the guards command it. Do I dare to hope that the guards have stalled upon another work-order without completion? I bring my hand close to my face, counting on each finger the lazy mishaps of the prison.

  The disc. What is it? Distally pulling my finger out of nervous distraction, I hear the knuckle pop. The crack of my finger’s joints echoes within the cell walls, which tower to eighteen feet...

  “...making it impossible to imagine an escape.”

  Wait, where the heck did that come from? I gasp, then remembering constant surveillance here. Are the guards still on alert? “Of course they are,” I whisper. I hunch down over my knees to conceal my subservient behavior. Maybe there are many of the Opposition’s operatives in this prison. Or maybe even Zane or Odion are watching me right now.

  I hope not.

  I hold my other hand over my face briefly to mask the motion of my mouth, in case I speak again. They may be watching, reading my lips. If I can read lips, then could they not use the same skill against me?

  They are.

  I hear another awkward squeak from the turret. It has definitely lost its calibration.

  Suddenly, the sounds of gates clanging alarm me, and I jump to my feet, thankfully leaving the disc untouched and hidden. My skittish response is now well-ingrained within me. It is the warden, with that frozen sneer plastered on his face, as usual.

  The warden says, “You are starting to look the part, Prisoner. We have convened, the Council and I, and we decided that since the results of the public poll
are approaching, we want to know why you destroyed the temple Eppa. But first, we want to know how you managed to circumvent highly guarded galactic corridors from Karshiz to Foita.”

  I nod, seized with dread at just how close the Council is to scratching at my deepest secrets. The planet Foita is an ice giant and the homeland of Rangiers, advanced human-like beings, who are by far the most intelligent beings in the galaxies. In terms of where they stand in the war between the two powerful Omnians, the Rangiers are completely neutral and devoted to Zane’s temple—Eppa. Rangiers zealously guard Eppa, a massive mainframe designed by Zane to act as a computerized medium between the advent of death and Sephera.

  Note, the fact that the Rangiers stand on guard for Eppa, Zane’s creation, does not mean they are affiliated with him. Rather, their overriding principle is the maintenance of what is considered to be a holy temple, proudly situated on their planet.

  Tell the truth, tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth; it is what people say on Earth if a trial is drawing near.

  “So what is it then? Will you continue your accounts?”

  “I’ve been telling you everything, right down to the number of tentacles on the Morlorian that attacked me!” I grumble to the warden, “You keep promising me my release every time I tell more, and your promises are as empty as the Premier’s annual new year speech.” I know well that my release is not likely, more likely is my death.

  The warden scrunches his face and he toys with the buttons on his console. “For the record, I really liked the honorable Premier’s speech. Where he advocated for the unity of the galaxies and drew a line in the sand against Odion’s expansion.”

  “Good that he chose sand. At least he can re-draw the line,” I retorted.

  The warden doesn’t even blink. “Do you see that cremation button! I wonder if your cell needs another sprinkling of ash...”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll do it!” I yell. The warden is probably toying with me, but it would be foolish to die over a mere taunt. Grunting, he glares at me, then walks away.

  I quickly reminisce about Eppa, the mainframe where all of the Dietons save their infinite recordings of every person or thing in the galaxies; the joy of destroying it leads me to a state of euphoria, and I smile, but it is a victory the Council has yet to embrace and is why I am in this prison. Given the decades of alignment between the Council and Zane, I can see why.

  It’s not really the loss of Eppa that angers the Council, but the rage it has wrought upon him, threatening to abandon the Council and to wage war against them leaving them vulnerable in a two-prong war throughout the multiverse. As well, the Council is miffed about its destruction, knowing of the roomful of papers—sealed in another vault as top secret—that their predecessors spend years preparing upon its blueprint, neatly rendered treaties, and minutes of meetings. Bureaucracy, after all, can feel the pain of the overtime hours spent decades ago by its predecessor bureaucracy. It’s almost like a living organism with long, deep memories.

  Indulging in the memory of Eppa’s obliteration often is my only form of satisfaction.

  The warden says, “You’re smiling. You think this is a joke? There is no release for someone like you!”

  “I guess I have nothing to lose, then.”

  “You do have something to lose or someone rather. Remember your son is under our watch. You will do exactly as we ask, whether you like it or not.”

  He keeps up with the futile notion that I have a kid outside these walls. The warden uses that as a tool to manipulate me. I still cannot believe it, but I will not rule it out either. After all, the warden has shown me a digital birth certificate. It may be fake, but how could I risk jeopardizing the innocence present in a child?

  “You keep saying I have a kid, but I don’t recall ever being that irresponsible. Ever!”

  “I told you before, this child is not a product of what you have done, but what you will do.”

  “You’re admitting I’ll get out of this prison if I have this kid,” I cackle, holding my finger up, defiant.

  The warden’s face falls, and he looks away.

  “Screwing with my future now. You can’t get any lower,” I say to the warden, but I know what is to follow. A wave of the warden’s finger, to the guards, is enough to bring the excruciating sensation of pain. I can hear the guards moving toward me. A clicking and crackling electric prod, similar to the one on Earth designed to discipline cattle, strikes the underside of my thigh. They’ve found a new part of my body where they haven’t zapped before. In agonizing pain, I scream. My teeth chatter and grind. The stomach-churning of my burnt raggedy clothes is intense as it wafts towards my nostrils. With each shock, the torment jolts me to revert back into flashes of a pale and demonic Odion sapping me of my life, years ago.

  It has been years since I was first attacked by Odion, and the excruciating mental anguish of his power is linked somehow to the pain I am experiencing now. The warden is a tyrant, like Odion. I lay on the floor, moaning from the pulsing pain from the prod and the traumatic visuals of my near death experience within the merciless grasp of Odion as he attacked me, invading my mind. That happened three years ago, and I still wake up from nightmares that stubbornly refuse to dissolve the memory of this attack by Odion within the recesses of my mind.

  The warden grins and expresses his jubilation over my suffering, but he has no idea of the recurring torment that I am enduring. “Guard! Make the prisoner drink from this vial.” The guard hooks his hand under my nose, while another guard pries my mouth open; the first guard tips a vial against my lips. I feel the effervescent substance drain down my throat. “I expect that recording tablet will be turned on shortly after I leave, and prisoner ... You know the deal. Do not leave anything out of your account If you so much as leave a gap, I will initiate the cremation sequence in this cell, and you can join the previous piles of ashes that reside in the corner.”

  Was he watching me before, fiddling with the disc? No, I will be dead if he catches me playing with that seemingly useless trinket.

  The warden continues. “Back to it, prisoner. Last time you spoke into this, it was three years ago, and you had just barely escaped the planet Tritillia. King Trazuline and his daughter were declared enemies of the Urilians, because of your mistake. Ring any bells? Close it up guards, and this time don’t screw up.”

  “What was in the vial?” I ask, desperately seeking an answer, as I fear it is poison.

  “An insurance policy. Make it count.”

  I suspect the bubbly liquid, now in my stomach, is a truth serum of some sort. This being the second time I have ingested it.

  My vault closes. The sounds of marching guards, in files, echoes against the walls until their distance leaves me, isolated and injured, within my near-silent prison cell.

  6 THEODORE: THE PREDICAMENT

  I can take five minutes to recuperate from the prod’s jolt of electricity to my thigh, but what’s the point? Rummaging through memories may further rekindle my motivation. I suppose I can backtrack my storytelling a bit.

  While grabbing the tablet, my hands twitch due to the shock from the prod. I sweep the dust off the recording tablet, making sure I do not deviate from the warden’s rules. After all, who wants to be burnt to a crisp at nineteen years old? The cremation sequence can turn me into ash at their command.

  Where do I start? The battle of Tritillia? My victory there resulted in many satisfactions, defeating Odion’s minions, liberating the jungle planet’s most influential Elon tribe, and reuniting with my team. This defines my newfound independence and self-reliance in outer space. From now on, all adventures are of my own making. That’s right! I’ve been in worse binds than this.

  It’s weird. I feel like revealing all.

  This tablet finishes its uploading sequence. I slide my finger along the screen to activate the recording and say, “It was after the battle of Jaakruid, on the jungle planet of Tritillia. The volatile jungle planet nearly consumed us with its sentient
vegetation. But through an epic battle, we destroyed Odion’s mercenaries, and we escaped the planet into outer space. I was sixteen years old then. I’d say those were the days, but I’ve barely lived a full life.”

  As I speak at the tablet, I can envision everything as it was three years ago, as if I am entering a teleport using nostalgia. It feels good to embrace this feeling, so I continue.

  “My crew of rag-tag humans, and I, were aboard the spaceship, ZF-Targine.”

  Our ship could travel several lightyears, orbit planets, and breach favorable atmospheres. There were ten cabins on our aerial vessel; each cabin was about five-by-five feet, with a bed and locker. It was sleek, but cold. It was ours, but stolen.

  The environment reminded me of a hospital; it was hard and sterile, and it smelt almost too clean from the disinfectants left behind by the ever-busy miniature cleaning bots. The cleanliness wouldn’t last. The ship was designed decades ago by Zane and the Urilians. In the central portion of the ship, there was a small greenhouse that was colorfully and carefully cultivated with fruits and vegetables from the Galaxies. The plants were raised under artificial sunlight, generated by photovoltaic modules mounted on the ship’s exterior; they harnessed solar energy and released it through dual spectrum fluorescent lights.

  My friends, Lincoln, Mariah, Liam, Dan, and Nilo had taken the ship from a hangar on Karshiz, several hours before my suicide mission on Tritillia. This crew’s hostile takeover of Freebird wasn’t exactly grand theft lawn mower—this crime could be punishable by death.

  Anyway, I was in my dorm aboard Freebird, cherishing a moment of digital communication with Tez, the daughter of King Trazuline. We were going on about our victory and sulking over our losses. I was in one of the dorms aboard that hijacked vessel, and she was huffing and puffing in hologram form. I recall the moment we lost Tez as if it was yesterday. We were so naive. Tezmarine and I knew of the screw-up immediately after revealing the secret and our emotions intensified. The distress in her voice was evident.