by YS Pascal
I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’ve been sitting for two hours on my ship. I’ll just tell you about John.”
As succinctly as I could, I related the story of my brother’s work for Zygan Intelligence and his disappearance three years ago while he was working alongside the terrorist Theodore Benedict—undercover like Ward Burton, I insisted.
I told the ambassador about my painful discovery that my brother John had apparently partnered with Benedict in his unsuccessful quest to travel to a lost Eden in another brane with the help of a Golden Fleece to channel energy for the transport.
“He didn’t return. And we’ve heard nothing since.” I couldn’t disguise my bitterness. “Before he left our universe, Benedict denied knowing where he was, but—someone,” thank you, Wart, “has left us a trail of crumbs to follow.”
“What is it that you wish from us?” Cirra Stratum’s tone blew a wintry chill into the room.
I pursed my lips. “John himself never brought the Somalderis, the Golden Fleece, back to our brane. Otherwise Benedict wouldn’t have had to,” the words caught in my throat, “to brainwash a Syneph, Nephil Stratum, to serve as an energy conduit to fuel his own flight to ‘paradise’”.
“I am not unaware of those events,” Cirra Stratum returned, “but my question still stands.”
I explained my suspicion that Benedict’s destination was the dimension holding my brother prisoner. Now, I—we—needed another Syneph’s help to make the journey ourselves, to rescue John and bring Benedict back to Zygfed and to justice.
Cirra Stratum listened intently to my story without another comment, the color of her wisps remaining a frosty gray. Was she communicating to other Synephs with one of those internal crystals that Nephil Stratum had used to tap into Benedict’s lair? Was she sorting through a list of possible candidates that could help us in our rescue mission?
I waited silently as she wafted about the suite, her tufts growing darker and darker as the minutes passed. I began to worry that maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned Nephil Stratum’s betrayal--
The gust seemed to carry an army of icicles piercing my skin with a biting frost that froze me where I stood. “No!” Cirra Stratum erupted as she showered me with a stinging blast of algid air.
Before I could respond, she had X-fanned, disappeared, from the conference suite in one frigid swoop and was gone.
Chapter 2
Gesundheit
I was still rubbing my frostbitten skin when I met Juan and Spud at Juan’s office. Spud, Mr. Observant, took one look at my face and thankfully didn’t say “I told you so.” Juan smiled genially and pulled out a chair.
I shook my head. Additional elaboration wasn’t necessary. “Thanks, Juan, but we’ll be on our way. We’ve got a week off and I intend to spend it with my family.” No need to mention that the family I was thinking of was John. I turned to Spud, “Want a ride?”
Spud’s eyes narrowed. “Back to Earth?”
Dammit, Spud. I forced a smile, and quipped, “Where else?” before sliding out the door and heading towards the elevator. Once inside the lift, I hit the button for Ground and waited for the door to close. A firm, strong hand waved in front of the sensors, reopening the door, and letting in Spud.
“You know I didn’t want Juan to know what I had in mind,” I grumbled, in response to Spud’s chuckle.
Spud pulled out his Ergal and tapped it. “Too late. Contact metrics and authorizations for the Plegma are set in here for the Zoom Cruiser’s Nav Control. Juan knows you almost as well as I do.”
I rolled my eyes. “Does that mean you are coming with me?”
Spud nodded. “And leave you alone in the Plegma? Disaster.” Another chuckle. “For the Synephs.”
Just before the elevator door opened, I punched him in the arm.
* * *
Zygan Federation Border Region—present day
“Greetings, Rush. Escott.”
Captain Gil Pesci greeted us warmly on our comm screens from his Glieser ship as we neared the edge of the Lambda quadrant. The piscine species served as Zygfed’s border guards, their shark-shaped vessels patrolling the edges of Andromeda and the Milky Way for unauthorized travelers from the galaxies beyond. Or was their task really to keep Zygan Federation citizens inside the Zygan territories? Very few Zygans had the means or authorization to venture far beyond the borders as Benedict—and I—had into galaxies like Triangulum or M82.
“I am,” Pesci continued, “Astonished that Juan authorized this trip. You know that the Plegma seems to swallow up most travelers—permanently.”
“Thanks for the warning, Gil,” I spoke into our comm screen. I’ve got a strong reason to want to make it out alive. We’ll be back soon, I promise.”
Captain Pesci saluted me with a fin and closed his feed. Our holos showed the Glieser ship changing course and turning away, leaving our coast clear.
I took a deep breath and glanced at Spud before cueing nav to proceed. Cirra Stratum may have said “no”, but there had to be another Syneph in the Plegma that would be willing to help us, even in an unofficial capacity, to travel to John’s brane. The Zoom Cruiser jerked forward and within seconds, our windscreens were filled with the colorful fluorescence of the enormous nebula as the interior of our ship was plunged into darkness.
* * *
The Plegma—present day
“What the hell?” I shouted as I keyboarded instructions to turn on auxiliary power.
Spud’s face was lit only by the light from the nebula surrounding us. Irritation? Anger?
Our vessel’s systems refused to respond. No holos, no nav, no juice. Spud’s expression? Definitely anger.
We sped along by inertia, or was it a tractor beam? We actually seemed to be accelerating—I felt the weight of the Gs heavy on my chest now that our ship’s grav monitors couldn’t counteract the increasing forces. If we didn’t slow down soon, it’d be very hard for us to breathe.
I started to hear Spud wheezing in the jump seat next to mine. I’d warned him about those darn cigarettes. But, I wasn’t doing much better myself—each breath required all my muscle strength to move my ribs and diaphragm. Yet we continued to go faster and faster.
Just when the lightheadedness had enveloped my consciousness and I had reached what I feared was my last gasp, our ship tumbled to a rapid stop. Spud and I both sat up in our seats, enjoying a few moments of luxurious oxygen exchange before either of us could speak.
“What a ride!” I croaked, as I, back on alert, scanned the windscreens to see if I could make out any structures among the colorful clouds.
Spud’s tone was all business. “Keep your stun gun handy. I expect a welcoming party that may be less than welcoming.”
He had barely finished his sentence when our ship’s lights came on, and we saw we were surrounded by our wispy hosts inside our vessel. I didn’t bother with my stun gun. Actually, I couldn’t. Somehow, we’d been stunned immobile by the Synephs and couldn’t move any of our limbs. Their fog thickened around each of us, and I could no longer see Spud who should be only a few feet away from me. I hoped.
In a few minutes, the fog started to disperse. Yay. Spud was sitting at my side. In a chair. A wooden, polished, fancy, plush chair.
“Louis Quatorze,” Spud said inexplicably as we gazed around a room that resembled a Victorian salon. The fireplace nearby crackled and sparked as the flames warmed our chilly feet. Misty, damp, and cold. Spud, you should feel right at home.
On the divan opposite our couch sat a small, pale, bespectacled man, whose white hairline had receded back to his occiput. He smiled at us with full, thick lips.
I returned the smile as I tried to move my legs and shift in my seat. Good, I was un-stunned, unfrozen. Now to get to my Ergal.
“Welcome, travelers,” said the small man. Unusual accent. Couldn’t quite place it, but it almost sounded like it came from Earth.
“I am Mel,” the man continued. Definitely Earth. “Your liaison. I will arrange fo
r your schema.”
Huh? I looked at Spud, whose brow had its “puzzled” furrow. Good. I hate being the only one confused.
“Hey, Mel,” I dived in, stalling, allowing my fingers to creep towards my pocket—where was my Ergal? “Thanks for the offer. What kind of a Syneph is a Schema?” Damn, they took our Ergals.
The little man seemed perplexed. “I don’t understand. A schema is not a Syneph. It is a Gestalt.” He pronounced the archaic word with a “sh” in the middle. German?
“It will be your world. I will arrange it,” he insisted. “You will find everything you seek.” Mel waved an arm and the lights came on in the formal dining room beyond where we sat.
My jaw dropped. Twenty feet from me, sitting at a long, lavishly appointed table, vividly real, were my brothers and sisters. George, the law clerk, Connie, a student teacher, her engagement ring sparkling from a sunbeam, Andi, with her long flowing auburn locks, sketching the scene. Bobby and Billy, toggling handheld holos in a video game match. Kris, eyeing her reflection in the casserole dish. Blair, facing me, deep in conversation with a massive man, whose gray-haired locks were bound in a—my God—it’s Grandpa Alexander! Alive!
Seven years since I’d last seen his generous smile. Seven long years since his bulky arms had comforted me with sturdy hugs. When he’d passed away, the task of keeping us safe had fallen to John; and John’s wings, despite his best intentions, were much more fragile than Grandpa Alexander’s.
My eyes narrowed. Who was that woman with the red hair sitting next to Grandpa? She looked somehow familiar. I’d seen her before, but-- Oh, my God! There, at the farthest end of the table was John! John! Looking healthy and strong, laughing and glowing as he always did when relating his latest adventures. John. Here!
I jumped onto my feet, once again unable to breathe. Could this be where John was imprisoned? In the Plegma? “John!” I cried as I launched forward.
And couldn’t move. The dining room plunged into darkness, and, instantly, my family was gone. I stood frozen, blinking back tears, until I heard the whispered “Maman” and turned to see Spud standing next to me, pale, jaw clenched, locking in a moan.
Mel chimed in brightly. “There now. You see. All is as it was--and as it could be. You will be king of a world entirely built of your paramount hopes and dreams. Shall I prepare your rooms?”
“You mean our Bastille,” Spud snorted, his voice hoarse. “You have shown us nothing but a fantasy. And fantasy sans reality is but a prison.”
“No, not a prison, Escott. Paradise.”
Spud shook his head. “Then your paradise is a prison. A cocoon that swaddles those without the courage to fly beyond its fetters. You may keep your luxuriant indentured servitude, Mel. I, for one, should rather ‘rule in Hell,’” he averred, grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the door behind us.
Mel stood up slowly, his voice weary. “And I should not be so sure that you are not doing so already.”
Before I could ask Spud what Mel’s remarks meant, Spud had run to the door and, after a moment’s hesitation, leapt off the doorjamb onto a fluffy cloud which hovered conveniently below the floating suite. He gestured for me to follow. I took a quick look around. Aside from the room itself, where Mel was now standing, observing us with a curious mien, I could see nothing but the resplendent Plegma around us, bordered by scattered pink streaks below. Feeling naked without my Ergal, I decided to follow Spud’s lead, and jumped.
The soft cloud, with us both riding bareback, sped away from the suite as soon as I’d landed. “I’m almost afraid to ask this question,” I whispered to Spud, “but how are we breathing? Outside of that room up there?” I nodded at the receding box from which we’d fled.
“Oxygen-nitrogen environmental capsules surround you. They should be quite effective.” The voice answering me wasn’t Spud’s.
“Who?” We both looked around.
“Me. Down here. Alto Stratum.” The cloud we were riding on spoke again. “I’ve gotten an urgent message to get you two out of here. I’m taking you back to your ship. We have to hurry.”
“Wait,” I said. “From who?”
“Whom,” Spud had to interject.
“I know why you’re here,” Alto Stratum continued. “But none of us can help you. I mean with the transport to another brane thing.”
“Cirra Stratum told you?”
“Not exactly. If she finds out where you are, well let’s just say that all three of us will be molecularly dispersed into M81 space. Bad enough her protégé escaped her clutches.”
“Protégé?” Spud interrupted again. “Nephil Stratum?”
“Here you go.” Alto Stratum pointed a tuft at our Zoom Cruiser that had just appeared in the mist. “Climb inside and you’ll find your Ergals. I’ll swallow up the ship and tow you to the Plegma’s border. After that, get out of Dodge. Fast.”
“Wait,” I repeated as we stepped off the cloud and into our vessel. “You didn’t answer Spud’s question.”
Alto Stratum’s wisps felt warm as he reached over to close our gull-wing doors. I heard “He knows the answer” as the doors clicked shut.
* * *
I hadn’t expected the return trip to the Plegma’s rim to be as heart-stopping as our tractored entry. I’m an experienced Zygan pilot, but being a passive passenger while my dimly-lit ship, its nav holo dead in the water, was being steered by the cloud that fogged up all my windscreens was enough to set my nerves on edge. Well, at least the lack of scenery “outside” gave me time to think about Alto Stratum’s clues.
My mind started racing faster than our ship. Who else might be in Alto Stratum’s helpful “us”? Were he and Nephil Stratum part of some underground movement working against…against…who? Whom. Cirra Stratum? The Omega Archon? And, could Nephil Stratum actually have the ability to communicate from another brane with Synephs in the Plegma? Maybe. Wart, as Agriarctos, had sent us that comm module from Benedict’s planet ship in the brane beyond, hadn’t he? Nephil Stratum’s communications skills far, far exceeded Wart’s. If Nephil Stratum was contacting friends and allies to help us out, then perhaps she was playing Wart’s game, undercover agent, rather than Benedict’s, Zygfed traitor.
That thought gave me a warm burst of joy, quickly snuffed out by the aggressive worry that Cirra Stratum or that creepy Mel were behind all this theatre and had arranged to dispose of us in the depths of the Plegma. Whoever had put Alto Stratum up to “rescuing” us may instead be expecting us to be led blindly to our slaughter.
Spud must have been thinking the same thoughts, because we both reached for our Ergals at the same time. Sitting on the dashboard of the Zoom Cruiser, my Ergal was still in the form of a smart phone. I tapped on the black screen, and waited for access to the Zygan data banks. Nothing happened. My Ergal too was dead.
“Navigation.” Spud said as he shook his stopwatch-shaped Ergal. I heard him snort in disgust. Our Ergals didn’t even shine us a flicker of light. Were we trapped in an E-shield that drained all our power? Locked inside our drifting ship without any nav controls we were literally powerless to protect ourselves from attack or termination. Riding towards an unknown destination on the fumes of faith.
Then, darkness.
We must have both blacked out from the G forces as Alto Stratum ejected us from the Plegma. By the time I regained consciousness, the Zoom Cruiser’s control panels showed that power had been up for 4.37 minutes. And the border of the Milky Way was only 2.41 minutes ahead.
I put nav on auto-pilot right after we cleared the Gliesers and sat back in my jump seat with a loud sigh. Once more, empty-handed. I muttered, “Curses, foiled again.”
“We are alive and free. That is a cause for gratitude.” Spud grunted as he stretched his long arms and legs.
“Not if you buy all that prison stuff that weird guy Mel and you were talking about. You’re the one studying literature and philosophy in that Gothic mausoleum of a high school. You think he meant to imply we’re really living in H
ell?”
Spud didn’t answer immediately. “Many have likened our lives as analogous to Purgatory,” he finally began. “Others have written that heaven and hell exist on Earth. I prefer to ponder the wisdom in the Chinese proverb, that the only man unhappier than the man who has not been able to satisfy all his wants is the man who has.”
Huh. Not bad. I needed to ponder that one a bit myself.
Chapter 3
The Greatest Story Never Told
Zygan Federation Space—present day
I decided not to try Zygint Central again. Juan had already done all he could for us, and appealing higher up to the Omega Archon would be futile. Travel to another dimension wasn’t legal in the Zygfed rulebook. Except for Level 3, of course, to which Zygans usually transitioned after a lifespan of thousands of years (unless one was killed sooner in the line of duty as a Zygint catascope or Sentinel Corpsman). As suicide would bar one from Level 3 forever, I, just eighteen, had a long way to go before I’d be getting an invitation to heaven. Knock wood.
But we were still back at square one. The clock was ticking and we were no closer to rescuing John. If I couldn’t get a Syneph to act as a Somalderis and help us into another dimension, I had to find another Golden Fleece to do it. I wished myself luck. I’d drop off Spud at Eton and head to Earth Core and bury myself in the historical holo files in the Terran archives. Starting at A for Argonauts.
“You would do better to let me assist you in the search,” Spud said as I leaned over to instruct nav to take us back to Victorian England. “Else you waste precious time seeking the mythical Jason.”
“Bollocks.” I tried not to admit he read me again. “Based on Wart’s comment that he’d seen it in Colchis, John apparently had Jason’s Golden Fleece, anyway. The one John took over to the other brane.” And never brought back…