by Tew, J. D.
‘Grandma is going to be furious when she gets home,’ he said. ‘Really, you will learn Ted, that there isn’t anything you can do alone to stop someone who wants badly to do wrong. Heroics are reserved for certain people. Here’s something to think about. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen. The only thing you can control is what you do in that moment. How will you act or react? That’s it. We did the right thing with the punks next door. That is all we can control. What happens next, that is out of our hands. Trying to control the future is like trying to control the Mississippi. No matter what, that damn river is going to flood. Unless everyone tries to stop it.’ Marv turned up the TV and continued eating his milk and cookies. I put a lot of thought into that analogy over the years—hours of thought.
My grandpa lost his finger when he was eighteen while working a conveyor belt at his old workplace, Universal Mill. He was inspecting the rapidly revolving belt when someone called his name. When he absent-mindedly responded, the belt latched on to the sleeve of his shirt, then his index finger. This finger was ripped off right at the knuckle. Whenever my grandpa pointed at something, it looked like he was giving it the middle finger.
My grandpa was devoted to science. He was a graduate of some important technical college in Massachusetts. He would sometimes have fellow alumni over to ramble and reminisce of experiments or fraternity pranks. They would laugh and squirt coffee out of their hairy nostrils from some of the wild tales.
After the accident, Marvin left Universal Mill and found a job at a major scientific lab in town, working in the adhesive department. His job was to create adhesives that could be used for multiple applications. He did a lot of his research at home, and he allowed me to sit by his side for the experiments. At times, it seemed he was working on more than just adhesives in his makeshift lab.
‘Theodore, why don't we take a break from the television. I want to show you something.’
That night he was giving me lessons on chemistry within the stench of his carcinogen-clouded basement.
Chemistry was an extremely tough subject to grasp at that age, but he explained it in a way that I could understand. Marv mostly went over protons, neutrons, and molecules with me. It was all fascinating.
My grandfather's lab was a few hundred microscopes and Petri dishes short of professional. He was more of a scientific hobbyist studying in the basement. Most of his research was theoretical. It seemed that for every one experiment that he neatly explained and summarized in his notes, there were ten more experiments that he left half-complete.
He had wonderful drawings. He told me that he was onto something big. On his desk, I saw a paper that read, Metalons. As I thumbed through the diagrams, he quickly snatched the papers away from me.
‘No, no, don’t worry about these, Theodore. They are far too advanced and secret,’ he said and continued to put away the drawings of the mysterious objects, ‘Hold on tight to your dreams, my boy, because one day, you will see an adhesive scientist transform into a Nobel Prize winning hero. Okay, run along to bed.’
‘Please, Grandpa. What are metalons? It said in your notes that you thought they were fireflies.’
‘Okay. If you insist, but you must promise me that you will not say anything to anyone. Promise?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re right. At first, I thought they were fireflies. One evening, when I couldn’t stop myself pruning my rose bushes, it was getting dark out. I noticed a glow from one of my roses. I could see a glow, nothing more. It seemed to be a very strange firefly, because it didn’t fly like one. So I brought the rose inside, extracted this object from the rose, and examined it on a slide.’
‘What did you see?’
‘I am not quite sure yet. It seems mechanical, but very small. I am not sure what to make of it all, but I am learning more and more everyday. Okay, that’s enough. I need to get some work done in private. Get to bed, mister.’
‘Yes sir.’ I had my fill of science, for now anyway. I jogged up the brightly painted hardwood stairs leading to the main level and continued to my room to get ready for bed.
In the very early morning, while it was still pitch dark outside, I awoke to use the bathroom. My mouth was dry, and my tongue was rough against my palate. My grandparents’ wooden floors creaked at every step I took. I tensed as every creak threatened to invade the silence of my slumbering elders.
Whenever I stepped away from the rugs, my sweaty feet created instant surface tension as my soles flattened, one at a time, on the varnished wood floor. Each time I lifted a foot, I created a “blup” sound as the water seal peeled off. When I reached the bathroom, I gently turned the knob before I shut the door, to avoid the sharp click of the latch springing out. There was no avoiding the noisy flush down the toilet.
In my grandma’s house, it was a rule to flush, no matter what. I dragged down the lever of the toilet, and as the water coursed throughout the old plumbing of the house, echoes reverberated within. I grimaced. Exiting the bathroom, I opened the door and listened for any sign of disturbance. I could hear three rumbling black-lung hacks from my gramps and a rolling swish of the blankets, to my relief, but there was no stirring.
I decided to grab a couple of cookies from the kitchen. They were enclosed in a ceramic rooster next to the sugar. I grabbed a couple of them and headed down to the basement to snoop.
The nicotine-saturated basement was dark and cold with a hint of dampness, there was a single adjustable coil light situating a beam upon a microscope at the sewing table. My grandpa showed me how to use a microscope on numerous occasions, and I used it a lot myself for my homework for high school biology. I walked toward it and fought off a cobweb that dangled from the ceiling.
I looked through the microscope to acquire an image. I realized the light beneath was turned off, but right on the slide, there was a mysterious ambient light. It was if something was calling out to me. Not needing to turn on the microscope light, I increased the magnifying power further, and strangely, the light emitted grew larger. I adjusted the microscope’s power to the highest setting, and through the lens, I saw something magical.
It was definitely something technologically advanced. I watched as tiny ice blue laser light beams shot out in all directions from the bizarre object. It was almost like the light show effect commonly associated with that gaudy disco ball. My amulet turned cool and blue, tingling against my collarbone. The light began to pulse and flash.
Was it communicating with me?
Just as my curiosity peaked, I heard a car buzzing about the roads outside. I looked out the window, wondering if it was the cops again. When the car zinged into our driveway, I heard the pattering of steps, a bang, and the shattering of something.
It didn’t sound like a broken window, maybe a pot.
Worried that I would become witness to an unlawful encounter, I ran to the front door, and then I saw a young teenage boy, with longish black hair, and lanky in appearance. Wearing gleaming white athletic shirt and shorts, replete with logos, he looked like he was about to step into a volleyball tourney.
His hands were stained with ink, and he smelled like a fresh Sunday paper—if I held it up against my nose. He had probably stuffed three hundred papers into skinny plastic bags that morning. I knew what it was like because I had a route with my grandpa for a year. I became relieved that there was no sign of “trouble.”
Sure enough, he broke a pot. The green clay pot had no importance to me, so I didn’t give him guff. I opened the door, and he looked at me in the manner a kid might after breaking something.
I asked, ‘Don’t worry about it, bud, what is your name?’
‘The name’s Lincoln, and I’m not your bud. I’m sorry about the pot. I can go get my dad if you want,’ Lincoln said. He came off as someone who took his job seriously.
‘Nah, don’t worry about it dude, I will clean it up. I am Ted, by the way.’
“He told me that he had to take off, and that he might see me around. I
remember hoping to see him again. Lincoln really seemed like a cool cat. He ran off, and as he pulled away to catch up to his dad’s car, I experienced a visualization of Jason, as Lincoln disappeared into the dark.”
5 lincoln: paperboy
“Prisoner eight-six-seven-six, stand against the wall, place your hands in the wall restraints, cross your feet and put your head into the vise.”
I place my hands into the wall restraints, and I can feel them dismantling the energy from my body’s Dieton cells. As the restraints suck the power out of me, I straighten up and my head enters the vise. The vise grips my head firmly and aids the restraints in further disabling my power.
I cannot help thinking the guard sounds like a goon, as always. He speaks into his damn communicator. I cannot see him, but I know him by voice. He says, “Open request for the scumbag prisoner, eight-six-seven-six. Warden is en route. Guns at the ready. Guards, ready your cannons for turnover.”
The guard is apparently pissed off from a week ago, when I bested him. Obviously, I failed. Now they have a squad to monitor me when the warden visits.
I can hear him pacing the corners. Again, I tire of the constant surveillance, furious at how the hosts treated me, held in this sparse, cruel cell with no possessions in the world to my name, save for the clothes on my back and a threadbare mat on the damp floor.
“Wardens approaching. Go live! Charge your cannons, men. If he as so much as flexes a muscle, take him down.” I can hear the hum of the cannons revving up.
The clap of space trendy dress shoes and the rustle of a tight suit let me know the warden is nearing my cell. He is the number one king prick of all the assholes in this joint. He asks, “Is the prisoner ready?”
“My name is Lincoln Royce,” I say, but my ability to speak normally is taken away by the draining restraints.
“Did you say something, prisoner?” the warden asks.
“I said, my name is Lincoln, you imbecile.”
“You are only a remnant of Lincoln. Why is that so hard for you to compute?”
“If that is so, then why am I here? Why can’t you turn me off or destroy me?”
“You prisoners think privileged information is a something we offer. Well, it isn’t. Now, the reason why I am here is that I want to know about the first time you became acquainted with the multiverse, and who was involved. That is all.”
“Why do I care? I am not going anywhere.”
“It is simple. If you give me what I want. Maybe we can discuss your release?”
“From here?”
“Hahaha—no, of course not. We will end your existence. How does that sound?”
It sounds good to me. “And all I have to do is tell you about the day I met Zane?”
“If that was the first time you learned about the multiverse, then yes. When you are ready to speak, just speak. We have fitted your room with a recording device. Talk, and it will activate the recording sequence. I want to know about the entire day from start to finish. Don’t leave anything out.”
I raise my finger to toy with the guards, and they fire a warning blast over the shoulder of the warden. The plasma collides into the wall next to me, and I smell the burn of its impact. Punks.
“Think about it, prisoner.”
“My name is Lincoln!”
“You deserted that name a long time ago. Close it up, guard,” the warden says. The guards initiate their retreat.
“Pull back. Keep cannons hot!” the guard shouts. The vault of my cell starts to shut, and I hear the clap and shuffle of the warden leaving.
It is easy for me to locate the file tucked away in my memory. Putting forward a recollection will be simple. All I have to do is talk. I broke Theodore’s ceramic flower pot by accident the morning we met. It is the beginning of my story.
My restraints deactivate, and limply, I fall onto the ground. I hate that warden and the Multiversal Council. I can feel my body recovering power, and because I would like to get out as soon as possible, I speak:
“Okay! I am going to start talking now. My dad and I finished with our paper route a few hours before he had to work. I slept for an extra hour, so I would not be groggy all day. My dad was trying to wake me up for school.”
Being the son of a dentist wasn’t easy. I spent every day under the shadow of my dad’s ego. He wanted me to be everything that he was—squared. A day at my house began with bubble gum toothpaste, mint dental floss, and cherry cough syrup flavored fluoride rinse—yuck!
‘Lincoln, you need to get up. Now!’ My dad yelled.
I said, ‘Dad, I am still tired. My stomach hurts . . . I don’t want to go to class today.’
Then of course he said, ‘Lincoln, if you miss the bus one more time, I am going to double your piano lessons—for good this time. Do you understand me?’ He cared so much about those damn piano lessons.
‘Yes sir,’ I said. I lowered my voice and told him how I really felt: ‘Piano is boring.’ It pained me to tell the truth because my late mother had so loved the piano.
‘Make sure you are quiet,’ he said, ‘I am going to read the paper for a bit before work.’ He retired into his room, because his first patient wasn’t until nine.
From my bed into the bathroom, it was an obstacle course full of comics, ancient philosophy books, and dirty clothes.
Mr. Mom was constantly on my case about getting up, picking up after our family dog, and building my portfolio of knowledge so that I could one day be the dentist who worked side by side with him—and someday, take over his practice. I wasn’t keen on being a dentist. My dad was A-type: Annoying type of person, who constantly bothered me about my punctuality.
After pushing my thoughts aside, I remembered it was time to get out of bed. I stepped gingerly around my pigsty, and entered my bathroom. I stared at the mirror of my bathroom with blurred eyes, lined with mucus. I threw some pomade in my hair, completed my dad’s prescribed teeth ritual, and put on some clothes that were stylish but indeed dirty, because the laundry was piling up. Content, I gazed at lingering fog through my bedroom window.
This day, today, would be so pivotal, so paramount, that any hushed mention to the Multiverse Council would render them into fits of gnashing desperation. Yet, I dared not breathe a word of this day. What was the honest gist? The dirty secret? Theodore Crane wasn’t the first of our group to meet Zane or know of Odion.
Let me explain.
I remember it as clear as the cellophane that encased Carolina Jim’s—my mother’s favorite smokes. It was seven-thirty in the morning, and I had about twenty minutes before the bus arrived.
I was walking through the morning dew in my back yard, toward the pond. My designer sneakers drew up dew from the ground and saturated the bottom stitch of my pants. The morning fog was thick like pea soup; I could not see two feet in front of me.
A light bulb clicked off above my head. Would it be possible to test a scientific theory: if I circulated the moist, saturated air in my own backyard, could I clear out the fog? The challenge engaged my over-active imagination.
‘Ready, set, go!’ I told myself. Laughing out loud, and gasping for breath at the same time, I sprinted, waving my arms for maximum disruption of the heavy mist. Darting back and forth with glee, I started panting with exhaustion. I was enjoying myself in the backyard until I slipped. In falling, I almost did the splits. I lay upon the ground on my side, holding my groin, and whimpering like a possum in heat.
Suddenly, from the sky, there was an ear-shearing scream, then a blast of wind against me, as if a sonic boom had exploded in front of me. I sat up, mesmerized, and the dew that wet my socks and shoes, and the left side of my shirt and pants, was now soaking my ass.
I thought to scream for my dad for a moment, but I was spellbound by the spectacle of a creature standing erect, awash in tendrils of fire that greedily swirled about, dramatically displaying a fiery aura about him.
A whirl of dazzling light danced around the masculine creature and cooled his body. Ste
am hissed as the fog rapidly evaporated in contact with his body, preventing me from identifying him. When the steam had wholly dissipated, the being spoke:
‘Boy. Don’t scream. I have only a few moments to explain why I am here. In one minute and twenty-seven seconds, your dad will run out of that house in his silk boxers. He will ask if you are okay, and if you were talking to someone. You will say no. Everything that you hold dear is in jeopardy.’
The man briskly hovered towards me, his feet not touching the ground. His hair was white; long; braided cleverly behind his head. A regal crown floated still above him. He settled next to me, and said, ‘There are a few imperative things that you must remember. My name is Zane, and I hold the key to saving this beautiful rock you live upon. Listen carefully. Was there a boy whom you met yesterday?’
‘Yes,’ I said, my voice tinged with awe. ‘His name is Theodore.’
‘Tomorrow you will skateboard over to Theodore’s house to ask for him.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or on the sixty-ninth year of your life—after years of servitude to an alien race known as the Dacturons—you will watch as the Earth you live on becomes a tomb to five billion dead earthlings.’
‘This is a joke. I am dreaming. Ha! That is it—I never got up. I didn’t listen to my dad, and I fell back to sleep,’ I said, laughing and starting to walk away. I was soon proven wrong.
The mysterious voice beckoned to me. ‘Lincoln, you must agree or the end is inevitable for all of us and all the multiverse. You will pretend that this meeting didn’t happen. You will tell no one of our encounter, and if you do, you will never see or hear from me again. Moreover, the fate that I have presented to you is real, and must be avoided at all costs. Do we have an understanding?’
‘I guess. What are you?’ I asked.
‘I am like you—one citizen of the universe preventing a future that is unthinkable. An evil has risen, and his name is Odion. He is my evil brother. We are both Omnians. He has intentions of destroying everything with his Dacturon army.’