by Tew, J. D.
The Acolytes of
Crane
By J. D. Tew
Copyright © 2012 J. D. Tew
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
ASIN: B00DQBZQFO
DEDICATION
To my Bew,
Every page in this book was created under a flurry of the Tew family’s daily operations. Your devotion to life is a testament of your worth to this world. For surrendering your strength and patience to my dream, I will be indebted to you forever.
Thank you for believing in me, and for the stainless steel pan you gave me for completing this book. When I sauté vegetables I will think of you.
CONTENTS
1 Prologue
2 Theodore: Our Only Hope
4 Theodore: Metalons
5 Lincoln: Paperboy
6 Theodore: Weird Science
7 Theodore: K. T.
8 Theodore: A Leaf
9 Theodore: Dangling
10 Theodore: Evil Within
11 Theodore: Sephera
12 Theodore: The Uriel
13 Theodore: The Traitor
14 Lincoln: The Missing Linc
15 Theodore: Hell
16 Mariah: Karshiz
17 Theodore: Jaakruid
18 Dan: Karshiz
19 Lincoln: Karshiz
20 Theodore: Localized Reckoning
21 Lincoln: Abomination
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Editing by Scott Spotson, Author of Life II, Seeking Dr. Magic, Delusional, and The Four Kings. Thanks also to Mr. Spotson for suggesting, and collaborating upon, minor plot twists that enabled this story to soar to a new level!
Cover designed and illustrated by J Caleb Clark. Thanks also to Mr. Clark for making my dream become a reality through his unique stylistic design and illustration.
jcalebdesign.com
1 Prologue
“We are feeding him, right?” the warden asks. I can barely hear him through the walls.
“Yes, warden. He has been refusing to eat.”
“Why didn’t anyone notify me? Never mind. Open this vault.”
“We are in position for disengaging the vault!” the guard yells. Over a communication channel, he says, “Prisoner number eight-six-seven-five, request to open, guns are at the ready—over.” I can see him now through that view box; he tilts his head upward from the receiver of his communicator and addresses me, “Prisoner! Stand and face the wall opposite of this vault! Place your hands behind your head, down on your knees. Lift your feet off the ground slightly and rock forward until your head is against the wall.” He nods to himself. “Prisoner is in the static pose, cover me while I move.”
I position myself in the static pose, in full compliance. Satisfied, the warden peers into my cell. There is a mount and gun turret eighteen feet above. It locks onto my position and anticipates my movements with its mechanical grinding and shifting.
The warden looks through the view box, obscured with accumulated breath moisture. “Prisoner, any idea why I am here?”
“Because I refuse to be your buddy?”
“I don’t recall ever enjoying jokes. Especially those with an Earth reference. Punish the prisoner.”
The vault opens, and this time I refuse to fight, for lack of energy. As the bemused warden watches, the guard enters my cell, and hits me with the enforcing electric prod. I smell burnt flesh—my own. After the zap hits my midsection, I shout and squirm, but try diligently to hold my stance. A tooth fragment lands on my tongue from clenching. Before I can spit it out, the electric prod jolts me again—painfully.
I don’t need to see the warden’s jubilant expression to know that he enjoys watching punishment. Appointed by the Multiversal Council, he savors the pure pleasure of his position. My muscle spasms from the shock continue to rock me to my core throughout our brief conversation. The lingering smell of my burnt skin reeks.
“Had enough?” the warden asks, pausing for my response. I try not to tremble from the strain on my muscles, but am on the brink of collapse. Defiant, I refuse to speak, and he continues, “I am here because you destroyed valuable information.”
I am shaking and glaring angrily, because the warden’s accusation is inaccurate. I say, “That isn’t entirely true.”
“Either way, we would like an account for the record.”
“How do you suggest I do that? Who is we?”
“Is it that difficult to figure out? The Council does not care how you record the events leading you here. Type it down or speak into this—if that works,” he says, as the guard places an electronic tablet on the ground behind me. “Don’t touch it until I am out of this cell. Don’t leave anything out of your account either.”
After twisting my neck to wipe the shock-induced drool from my face with my shoulder, I ask, “Why, because you’d like to prevent this type of thing from happening again?”
“That is the long and short of it,” he says, as my vault closes. The complex blips and whirs of the vault’s locking mechanism are confirmation I am in deep trouble—and there is no getting out any time soon.
Just before my view box closes, I retort, “What if I don’t feel like sharing? I am no traitor.”
“We have ways of extracting information. You know that, Prisoner. What would your kid think if you didn’t provide this information and had to suffer because of it?”
I laugh hard. “I don’t have a kid.”
“I know there are a couple of people who would beg to differ.”
“What?”
“Silence! None of that will matter if you don’t satisfy our request. Any attempt at dismantling the tablet or using it in any other way, will result in immediate activation of the prison’s cremation sequence.” Abruptly, he leaves, along with the guard. I experience a moment of disgust as I realize I’ve been mumbling to the damp, cold floor throughout my awkward kneeling position. Gasping for air, I breathe in heavily through my nose. The unclean smell of my floor nearly forces me to gag.
This cell is comfortable compared to most. But as any prisoner can tell you, it’s the lack of freedom that settles like a heavy stone in the pit of your stomach.
“...your kid...” What was the warden thinking? It must be a clever, yet futile bluff! I slowly push off the ground and limp over to the floor mats, tense and frail.
I now hear a man whining from another room. I perspire from the oppressive heat. This soulless, bleak cell encourages me to fulfill the warden’s death wish. The whining man’s voice disappears after the sliding talk space automatically closes.
“Where do I begin?” I ask, and my walls offer no response. My nerves were shot, as a result of several months in harsh captivity. Shaken, I stand on the edge of utter defeat. I am ready to reveal all, despite my contempt toward my cruel, yet ruthlessly efficient captors, for they constituted the “neutral” zone within my galaxy. No, the despotic Multiversal Council did not choose sides. Like a merciless prosecutor, the Council single-mindedly hounded only one thing—the Truth, wherever it might lay in this desolate void of space. It is wise to be on their good side, I affirm to myself, if I have no other choice but to be sentenced to death.
It hits me: it started in a house of hard lessons, back on Earth. I remember the first time I was acquainted with my destiny. After I press the switch on the tablet, the device po
wers up, and I start from the beginning.
2 Theodore: Our Only Hope
Here goes. I am going to be in this cell for a while, so I should make it good. Maybe I can annoy the guards by being overblown and loud.
“You know! I will not be able to remember what everyone said, so I will do my best to entertain!” I shout, and then to myself I whisper, “Is this thing on? Okay.”
I take a deep breath through my nose, inhaling dust particles.
“My name is Theodore Crane, originally of Minneapolis, Minnesota.”
I cough, then start again.
“As a kid, I experienced pain from three separate origins in life: the destructive catastrophe of my parent’s marriage, the cold steel of a burger spatula, and the rigid edges of a metal studded belt. This is ridiculous!”
After pondering the start of my account, I decide the introduction is satisfactory and continue loudly, with intent to annoy. “Before I was recruited by Zane, there were two things I knew to be constant, pain and loss!”
The guard bangs on the vault, the intercom clicks, and with a grumble, he says, “I am going to tell you this once, prisoner, keep it down!”
I say, “Yes sir,” because that is the only response warranted toward an imperial prison guard. I return to the recording, and pick up quietly where I left off:
“Alright, here we go again. It wasn’t until the end of the one-hundred-sixty-two game season that I realized there was more to life than just baseball. My favorite team won the series that year.”
The excitement surrounding their triumph stuck with me. I remember seeing it all on television. The team was strolling down the strip with their floats and limos, as multi-color confetti rained down. The players were covered waist up in fur. They waved to all the people that stood by them throughout the year.
It was all a spectacle. The team had a record that year of eighty-five wins and seventy-seven losses. It was the worst single season recorded for a world championship team in baseball history. Their success in the midst of defeat meant a lot to me.
Enough about baseball. Now, the beatings. I would never have ended up where I am now if it wasn’t for my freakish home environment. Now that I look back, it was very much like a parallel universe, where I could visualize my alter ego waving at me stiffly from across the vast realm of space, nodding, “Uh huh, no thanks, dude, I’m not gonna cross over.” I was a prankster, and foolish as a lonely kid can sometimes be.
That one day I recall vividly. It was humid and sticky outside. The kind of weather one dreams about in December, yet moans when it happens. I was wearing a tank top over my sun blazed back.
As the bus stopped, I peeled my exposed shoulders off the vinyl seats. The action reminded me of my stupidity; there was still a lingering sting around my shoulder blades and arms from a few days earlier, because of a prank that Jason and his friends put me up to.
I was dared by Jason to tag the dumpster situated behind our apartment building. This green steel monstrosity was overflowing with trash, with mattresses and mufflers stacked up ignominiously against it. I only had to sprint toward the heap of trash, and touch the side of this butt-ugly dumpster.
Sounds easy, right? But the catch was that we both knew it was a hot day in September, and hovering above every dumpster spewing out garbage in the area, was at least one swarm of a hundred bees. In accepting the dare, I stupidly thought I was immune to danger. The pulsating bee stings on my shoulders was the equivalent to those of several sharp blows from a cold metal spatula striking my ass. I could never back down from a challenge, because in my mind, there was nothing that I could not do—except find a solid friend.
I shook off my thoughts. It was my stop.
When the accordion door to the bus opened, I hollered out to my fellow riders, ‘See ya wouldn’t wanna be ya!’
‘See ya, Theodore,’ the bus driver said.
I was a skinny little twelve-year-old platinum-haired jerk. I felt like no one noticed me up to that point, except for my scraggly haired female bus driver Willy. She was the only one to bid me a good day. Willy swore at us all the time, and wore hilariously huge sunglasses.
Most of the passengers witnessed me as I slipped on the top stair of the bus and tumbled helplessly to the curb. As I lay on the hot asphalt, crippled, I glanced back, seeking pity from my chums on the bus. All I received were laughs. Even Willy, the bus driver, had no shame.
When I rolled over to get up, I splashed into a puddle that I had not noticed when I fell. After the rippled water settled, I saw my reflection. Right in front of me was my face sizzled by the sun, hardened by trial, and marked by misfortune. The color of my eyes matched the cloud-shrouded blue sky; my hair was bleached by the sun-dazed summer days. I might have drowned in that warm, stagnant puddle if I were any tinier for my age.
As I turned away from my reflection, I once again became conscious of Jason and his friends’ deep guffaws from within the bus; their laughs punctuating the sticky air. I knew they were heckling at me. There was no way I was going to stick around and listen to them pummel me with trash talk. With a dash, I was off, far away from the scene of humiliation.
Jason and I played together all the time—whenever he was not busy with other friends, that is. He was quite a popular guy. If he wanted me to do something absurd, he was my best friend, and if he didn’t like what I did, he was my worst enemy. He was tough on me like an older brother, even if we were the same age.
My eyes flashed a mischievous glance as I formulated a devious plan to get back at Jason for his cruel mocking of me. Running in the direction where the bus had headed, I hid behind some pine trees that were next to the “Red Bricks.”
The Red Bricks was the informal name we gave the broken-down apartment complex we lived in. The residents who lived there usually fit one of three categories; lower class families struggling to survive with the assistance of Section Eight and welfare; older kids on their own, in limbo between high school and college; or destitute old geezers who had long ago decided to wither away. The first description defined my family. People on the outside expected us Cranes to be an average family. The reality was the exact opposite.
Behind that pine tree, I sat waiting, plotting. I didn’t enjoy being laughed at—I never have. That mentality thrust me into trouble all the time.
At my feet, on the poorly maintained lawn of the apartments, there were three small well-composed rocks placed close by, taunting me like little devils. As if each had two tiny horns growing out. I picked up all three rocks and, pulling the edge of my T-shirt out, made a convenient “sling” for these objects of revenge. I straightened up behind my hiding location, giddy with anticipation. As Jason emerged within sight, surrounded by his entourage, I chucked the first stone like a four-year-old girl. With a bounce, the stone settled at Jason’s feet.
The hopping stone had distracted Jason and his friends. Startled, they looked about, still unaware of my location. That was all the fuel I needed. Any young kid could describe that giddy feeling. I was mischief, in the flesh.
They could not see me concealed behind the tree. Too bad for them. My attention snapped to the remaining two rocks, wrapped within the fold of my shirt. I didn’t even think about that second toss; it came so naturally. What I do remember is that it felt good leaving my fingertips—a perfect toss that arced like a jump shot from the three-point line.
That second rock soared ominously through the air. My target wasn’t Jason’s girlfriend Roxanne Schneider, but that was how it ended. I struck her dead on the left ear. I felt remorseful, and began a retreat into survival mode.
I should have deployed the third and remaining rock, because I had never seen Jason run that fast. I wish he had caught me. The beat-down I could have received from him was a fraction of what my dad would dish out. I think Jason just wanted to tell on me. Vigorously running up the stairs, I escaped into my unit in the complex, but I could not escape the punishment that would follow. Jason’s girlfriend Roxanne knocked on the d
oor, waking up my dad Bill. She told my dad everything.
Next thing I knew, Jason and Roxanne were shooting me smug glances as they linked arms in solidarity on their way out of my apartment. ‘Dude, if you want to hang out, just ask me next time,’ Jason growled.
‘Yeah, Theodore, that hurt,’ Roxanne said, tilting her head back in disgust.
‘Theodore!! You know what to say, boy!’ my dad shouted, as he held my shirt by the collar.
‘I am really sorry, guys! I wasn’t trying to hit you, Roxanne!’ I yelled after my friends just before the door shut.
Pain and regret are profoundly experienced by any kid in all walks of life. In my case, my misfortune was to be the son of a father who still beats the crap out of his kid. First, the beating. Then, the grounding. Trouble was my middle name.
My dad enjoyed taking out the frustrations upon me. It was his release from his wounded pride, which resulted from his lowly position as security guard during graveyard shifts.
The punishment may have been fitting for my crime, if it was only a couple of thwacks.
I received twenty-three.
Initially, Bill had sent me to my room immediately. For now, I had escaped the prospect of a beating, although I wasn’t thinking that far ahead. As I lay there flexing my fists, full of fury, I remember thinking I would do anything to escape this place.
I had dozed off, and later I felt a chill on my feet that woke me up. The air conditioner was in my room at full blast, and I had to cover up my feet, if I was ever going back to sleep.
As I twisted, I pulled up what I thought was my blanket wrapped around my ankles. Suddenly, a snap and a bang occurred, followed by a series of booms. What I had thought was the blanket, were actually the bottoms of my spaceship curtains. As my bed lay firmly adjacent to the wall under these curtains, I had unknowingly dragged them into tangling with the creases of my blanket. The snap was the curtain rod detaching from its brackets. The bang was the rod smashing into the first of many junior encyclopedias off the nearby shelf. The booms of the heavy books pounding the floor, one at a time, were an insult to injury, because by that time my dad was standing near the foot of my bed.