The Ghost of Sephera

by J. D. Tew

  “Liam. Do you have visual on Dan?” I ask.

  Liam says with excitement, “I have located Dan. He even has his own crew!”

  “What? Who?” I ask.

  Mariah leans over, as we walk, pressing against me. We almost trip and fall. “He hired the Armizards as a pit crew.”

  “The Piexon brothers! Those guys are crazy—but good. This is going to be an interesting show.”

  There is a multiplicity of ongoing side deals, wagers, stands, food shops and trinket stops at the base of the race stands. Unlike massive sports stadiums on Earth, these sports venues have towers in the form of pagodas—these ancient Japanese-looking stacks of overhanging roofs that serve as places of worship. These pagodas surround the playing field among the seats, much like how these corporate bigwigs on Earth savor too much in beer and chips in box seats in choice locations among the spectators. The one-tower pagodas typically are the choice of peasants, who usually turn into wild drunkards by the time the tournament ends. The more the layers of the pagodas, the higher the social status, and the seats in the uppermost levels are very expensive.

  Stray dogs weave through my legs and spin me around, and by chance I bump into Nilo.

  “Watch where you are going! Oh hey, Theodore!”

  “We made it! It is so great to see you. You and Dan have been so busy training.”

  “Yeah. Ever since your victory over Zane, things have been back to normal on Karshiz, now that the King has served out his sentence. The Urilian troops are aggressive, but for now, they’re all disorderly. And now here we are, living the way we were meant to. With the sand surfing competition back up and running, people here feel that peace is at hand at last.”

  “Do you want to show us to our seats?” We ride a hover platform toward our seats.

  “Sure. Right this way, Theodore. Man, it is good to see you up and moving around. That prison is no place for a hero of the Opposition.”

  “Well let’s not forget, you were there too.”

  “Yeah. That bastard warden kept me detained for about an hour. I was so relieved when Dan rescued me. The elite Rangier platoon that pulled us out of that hell grabbed Dan out of general population first. Then we both went looking for you in separate directions, with squads. I guess we all had a hunch you were in there, somewhere. Either that, or we just didn’t want to believe that you were dead. I am just so glad Dan found you.”

  “Well. This is our rest and relaxation. We’re lucky King Trazuline issued us some time to recuperate. Are these our seats?”

  “Yeah, right there.”

  “We could be down with the peasants and drunks you know,” Nilo says.

  “What?” I ask, not able to hear him.

  Mariah is attempting to outshout the boisterous noise of the crowd. She yells, “He said, we could be down with the peasants and drunks!”

  “Nice one, Mariah,” Nilo says. “Now the whole world knows. Haha.”

  I look down at Dan, as he fusses over his hoverboard with his pit crew. Then I stand up and yell to him without any shame, “Dude! Your fly is down!”

  Dan

  Did he really just tell me my fly is down?

  I look up at Theodore and give him a signature move of my own: the back of my hand to him, with my index finger and my pinky finger raised up. He[2] is my bro; he is always covering our backs in the heat of battle, and he is darn good at it.

  I am just standing here, visualizing a win.

  For a moment, I do a motivational checklist. I have the Armizards in my pit crew, and the best damn board ever made. My board is slick with a rad design—and when it hums, it is so faint—you can barely hear its noises. The other contestants are sneering at me, assuming intimidating poses with black smoke piping out of the rear ends of their flight contraptions. Many of them have greased-back long hair with split ends, and let’s just say that it’s good their mothers aren’t here to fuss over their appearance.

  One guy is just leering at me real hard. He is the only other racer that has a hoverboard deck that looks technologically cool. There is something a little off about him, and his pleather pants are a little strange.

  So I am standing there saluting the messiah of Earth, the engines are roaring, and the wild dogs are cackling like hyenas. It is my kind of show and I am hoping to light it up real nice. One of the stray doglings licks me with its fat tongue and the roughness of it almost rips off my leg hairs. “Yuck!”

  I start strategizing in my head before the race begins. Sand surfing is more than just a race. I need style to pull off any tricks while grinding these rails. Tricks bring in votes from the crowd. Each pagoda measures the sound from the fan’s cheers and tallies votes from the vote pods on every seat.

  This is no vert ramp or improbable gap. I need to land tricks and cross the finish line first, but it is a possibility I can win on the crowd’s votes alone. I throw my hover board onto the rail launch pads. I square my feet and steady my balance. My grungy rivals are deliberately positioning their noxious black fumes straight my way. I badly want to cough, but I just glare back at them.

  The horns signal the start: “HEEEEOOOON— HEEEEOOOONG —HEEEEOOONG!”

  This is it.

  As soon as the race starts, the goons are off and the fighting has already begun. One dude smacks the other with a mace-like weapon right in the face so hard that the victim does a backflip off his board. As I had been sucking all of his fumes anyway, I was glad to see his defeat. I pin the next two guys against each other when I slip between them. They are mad, and veer in to shoulder-check me. That is easier said than done. We are weaving through some columns. I slam on the breaks. As a result, they both smash like two drunk dips on jet skis into the pillars, and tumble to the ground.

  Two gyro-propelled TV screens are following us; they are jumbotrons, and they are carrying the projections of two over-excited commentators in hi-definition on the screen. One of them is that wild goon Chati-Fo-Sho. They are rambling, and their voices are amplified through speakers during the race.

  “This is Slim-Jen and I’m here with Chati-Fo-Sho for the one hundredth sand surfing challenge.”

  “Here at Wilcox’s Pass. Will they survive, Slim-Jen?”

  “We have a wild bunch this year, Chati! Wilcox’s Pass is very narrow and the terrain here is unforgiving. Even the slightest mistake will result in death or loss.”

  “The crowd is going crazy. We have our largest attendance today at sixty thousand. Now let’s watch as the riders take this wicked turn before the ravine.”

  “This is where the riders will show their true colors!”

  The commentators are entertaining, but I am focusing on speed and caution, because the racers are flipping insane. There is no use of projectile weapons in the competition by regulation, but brutality and hand-to-hand weapons are okay. Heck, I love the challenge. Oh man—the excitement.

  Really, how many riders do the organizers think can fit in this canyon pass all at once? And with weapons! Wilcox’s Pass is up ahead. That’s right. I remember. It is a large vert ramp, wholly made of sand, equipped with hover amplifiers and rail systems for board slides and grabs.

  I know I need to be as fearless as my rivals. As we pass the locals that are cheering along the canyon’s plateaus, I hop a rail, slip my pants just below my cheeks, and moon the cameras. At first the crowd is silent, but recovers with a wild ear-crushing roar. I am fueling their awesome rampage in the stands with a slick ol’ school trick—an impossible; the board wraps around my lead foot and I pull it back in to clap against my soles. The crowd goes wild.

  “Did you see that, Chati?”

  “I wish I hadn’t. That Earthling has one pasty ass. I’m blinded!”

  “Let’s not get all tied up on his ass. Let’s talk about his class. This kid has some moves, did you see that impossible? The way he spun it around his foot was clean and stylistically—radical.”

  “I’ve seen better.”

  “You’re just jealous, because he’s gai
ning on your declared favorite.”

  “J-Col? He is still making them bleed with a commanding lead.”

  “Let’s talk about J-Col, this could be his sixth straight win—he’s building a legacy here.”

  “He has the goods and the tight leather pants to boot!”

  The sport announcers are hogging the airwaves with their incessant chatter, whether we like it or not. I carve low to the crotch of the ravine and blast loose particles into the air, peppering the faces of the dorks behind me. The Skiorf oaf following me is waving his fist as we pass through the ravine. The crowd in the rafters above is still cheering and I am getting some serious attention from the flat-screen talking heads.

  I am approaching one of the most difficult transitions. All racers will need to choose two rails to grind through Figoriank’s Mine, which is a dark cavern full of dangerous stalagmites and columns. I can see it in the distance as I accelerate. At the same time, I am busy fighting off this persistent Skiorf, still tailing me. He keeps swallowing up my draft to pass me. In an attempt to hold him at bay, I make some quick minor lateral adjustments, feinting the pirate. I feel the nose of his petro guzzling waste mutterer tap against my board.

  “Back off, Dude!” I shout.

  Vrooom-kajugu-juga-vroo! happily went my board as I pulled ahead with a smirk on my face. The Skiorf rival was letting loose a string of expletives, but I was too far ahead to hear his nasty words.

  Now, one guy remains ahead. The bizarre guy I spotted at the beginning of the race, J-Col. He is good. His leather pants glisten and shine in the harsh sunlight as if they are bathed in tar. His board and gear are gnarly like mine, but I am not worrying about him. If I ever find myself close behind the dude while he is in first place, all it means is that I am going to try like hell to pass him. To me, that isn’t a disadvantage at all; it is a motivation.

  The Skiorf behind me is gone from my sight and I am about twenty meters from Figoriank’s Mine. The mysterious J-Col is entering in front of me. He lets out a warrior cry before going in.

  He shouts, “Catch me if you can! Punk.”

  Oh, I will.

  I adjust my vision. To somber in this black void, only dimly lit up with guide beacons along the walls to ensure that we don’t crash due to the dark I hear J-Col laughing, his guffaws echoing off the limestone walls. I feel like he is screwing with me.

  “Hey, Earthling.”

  “What? Who the hell are you?” I yell.

  “You know you can’t defeat me! Didn’t your sand surfing guide tell you that?”

  “No... but it told me that you’re a dork—ha-ha! Had your picture in there and everything, under the word dork.’ I yell, laughing at my own joke.

  “This is the sixth year of my grand legacy!” the voice replies.

  I can see the exit of the cave. It is revealed by a faint glow of yellowish white in the distance, and as we get closer to it, I slip over my goggles to shield myself from the upcoming harsh glare. The exit portal of the cave slips downward and I can see the black shiny legs of the dork that is yelling at me in the cave. We exit the dark.

  I speed ahead quickly and yell, ‘You’re going down, dude!’

  The annoying commentators rejoin with our race for victory once we are en route to the finish gates, now returning from the wild country portion of the race.

  “It looks like J-Col is starting to feel the pressure.”

  “Slim, the only pressure he is feeling, is the weight of an approaching win. This guy is going to win, and you know it. The crowd knows it.”

  “Hey, you can call it as you see it most of the time, but Dangling Dan has a warrior spirit. The crowd is rooting for him.”

  “Ha! The judges will be dangling a giant L above his head after he loses. I promise you.”

  There is a huge dip in the terrain that I am nearing, as I increase my speed. It is the perfect spot for a rad dismount. I am going to treat it like a stair or ledge back home and flip over the mini gorge below, but J-Col looks too calm.

  Just as I pass over the gorge and my board is in mid-flip, J-Col dramatically slows down and flanks me with a heel kick to my leg. My board flies ahead, and my body crashes fifteen feet below upon the soft sand. My feet strike the ground first and luckily I am able to roll and absorb some of the impact. I clutch my shoulder with a grimace, because of the dull pain. My board, soaring through the air by itself due to the homing device in my collar, returns to me. As I look up ahead, I see J-Col fade to a spec. The Skiorf pirate that previously tailed me passes by to join J-Col in the hunt for a win.

  I get up, hop on my board, grinding my teeth and yelling to myself, “Get up, you punk—get up, and let’s get these guys!” I smack myself a couple of times against the sides of my head, and now I am psyching up. It doesn’t matter how tough or scary it gets. I just need to do whatever it takes to win here.

  I throttle down hard on my board and lean aerodynamically, closing the gap, and the commentators start firing up the crowd. The commentary ping-pong match starts and soon the famous race around Gardungen’s Peak will draw to a close. I can see the pagodas and the crowds in the distance.

  “My eyes are fixed on the dunes, Chati!”

  “You and me both!”

  “Dan the Dangler has to find something extra now; dig deep kid!”

  “They’re approaching the Peak.”

  “I bet Dan is gritting his teeth now!”

  “He has to pump with his legs if he’s going to hit this transition just right—he has to trick hard!”

  “He’s going for it—OH! By the Gods, what an amazing McTwist! He flips and twists with the best of them. This kid has the moves and he’s pressing on the leaders fast now!”

  “One thousand zigons to go. J-Col the champion, Jigon the Skiorf, and Dan the Dangler nearing the finish.”

  “Dan might gain if he just hits his nitrous!”

  “Here comes Dan to the inside! He pushes ahead, with Jigon following. J-Col has the lead. The heat is on now, everyone’s bumping boards!”

  “Jigon is making a charge!”

  “This is so close! I can’t believe my eyes, Chati!”

  “It’s now or never!”

  “It’s now-it’s now!”

  “Dan has the lead! The finish line has never looked so good for the Dangler!”

  “It’s not over yet! It’s too tight to call. Who’s got the balls! It’s the champion, the champion has beaten the challengers!”

  “I wouldn’t decide just yet, Chati! Dan has the trick points to make it an interesting decision.”

  “I guess he will be heading to the victory ring! What a masterful performance!”

  “I’ve been waiting ten years to say this, but that was the best damn race ever! Man, that kid Dan has some skill! The Skiorf came out of nowhere and J-Col crossed first, but it was close.”

  “I don’t know how to call this one Slim. It’s going to the fans! The fans—will—decide!”

  I am out of breath and nervous.

  Victory doesn’t matter; I put it all out there. It all pivots on the next few moments and the announcements to follow. I am fricken exhausted. The crowd is all over us, the roar of people is building my confidence. They lift me up on their shoulders, and I know now: I am where I belong. I just hope the decision goes my way.

  Theo

  I rise to my feet, because I am witnessing the most incredible display of racing ever. I can hear Mariah yelling to me, as I run toward our gate, with the plan of heading down to ground level. We are all there on the platform, trying to beat the crowd and get to our friend, Dan. Liam is shaking me and shouting, “I think he did it. I think he did it!”

  I don’t even care if he wins or loses. It’s awesome seeing him find his excitement. I see Dan now clearly; the cameras are mechanically hovering near his face. The announcers are shouting and the crowd is closing in on him. The contestants are standing near the platforms, awaiting the results.

  My crew and I are pushing and weaving into the cr
owd, which is corralling into a small cheering section near the finish line.

  Only five feet away now. Dan is looking toward the sky with his fist in the air. He looks happier than I have ever seen him. I cannot help but smile with him, as we get closer. We are within arm’s length of Dan, as he stands in a heroic pose.

  “Dan!” I shout.

  “Theodore! Did you see that! Oh my God, it was nuts!” Dan yells.

  “I can’t hear you!”

  “What, Ted?” Dan asks.

  He holds his finger up to signal for us to hold on for one second, and we are doing our best to contain our excitement. Liam and I are wringing each other’s collars and dancing about, as if Dan has already won. Mariah clasps her hands onto her cheeks, caught up in the frenzy.

  A hand suddenly rests on my shoulder from behind. As I turn, I am overjoyed. Lincoln is in front of me, wearing dark sunglasses to hide his identity. I grab him instantly and hold him, feeling like I will never let him go. “Where’ve you been? Man, I’m so glad to see you!” I slug his shoulder and fondly gaze at him.

  “Hold on, I don’t want to miss this,” Lincoln says. “They’re going to announce the winner!”

  “Ladies and gentleman after a vote of roughly six thousand—to twenty thousand, observing trick points and cheering gauges against the actual finish... The majority rules here! The winner ... and ... NEW … sand surfing champion of the galaxies. Dan! The Danglerrrr!” The crowd is roaring, and I can think of nothing else by Dan’s convincing, well-earned, and fulsome victory.

  Dan jumps down as if he is crowd-surfing at a concert, his back landing into our arms, as we pull him into our grasps. The whole crew is here as one. Finally. Dan, Liam, Mariah, Nilo, ED, and the Sepheran that made it all possible, Lincoln.

  I remember back to the prison and my statement that our victories in war do not come without a sense of failure; while I stand here reflecting and embracing my friends, I know that no matter how ugly war is, it also brings out the best in us.

  Lincoln leans toward me, within earshot and he says, “The time to pay that debt is here. I need you to come with me to Sephera.”