The Acolytes of Crane "Updated Edition"
Read The Acolytes of Crane "Updated Edition" Online
Authors: J. D. Tew
Tags: #Science Fiction, #Young Adult
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.
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
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 powers up, and I
start from the beginning.
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 door, 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.
There
was a fearsome dangling belt beside him that could make a professional wrestler
let out a triumphant, ‘Oh yeah!’
The
Enforcer was two and half inches wide with metal studs. I think I saw that belt
holding up the leather pants of a gas thief in a post-apocalyptic movie. It
wasn’t a light plastic replication of metal, either. The studs were metal, and
the belt weighed at least a pound and a half.
I
knew pain because I was a familiar customer. After three strikes of the dreaded
belt caused mind-searing pain, my mind went numb. Shocked to my core, I could
no longer absorb any further anguish from the remaining twenty blows.
As
my mind reverted to fog, my dad stood tall in front of me, withdrawing the
lethal belt and rolling it up with his hands. He proudly announced the terms of
the grounding: a full two weeks. I stood dumbfounded, contemplating my
punishment: a couple of weeks stuck in my room, and an ass I could not sit on
for days.
I
remember that day so well. I will never forget the look on my mother’s face as
he paraded me in front of her in the living room, where she had just barely
restrained herself out of dread as she heard my blood-curdling screams. My dad
presented my bruises to my mother—her name was Ann.
Bill
said, ‘Look at what your son got himself into today.’
He
was wearing the usual black slacks from work. Above was an over-bleached,
worn-out T-shirt that hugged his terrifying biceps.
The
look I saw that day upon my mother’s face, I had seen before, and would observe
again and again in the future. It was the wide-eyed glare of cowardice. She
knew something was wrong, but was too afraid to do anything about it.
‘Go
to your room, Ted!’ Ann had yelled out of anger, while my dad escorted me. I
knew she was trying to pry my father away from me, but because of her fear of
him, could only defer to him as the Master, in command of my release.
Dad
always talked about me as if I belonged to my mother, and that he wanted
nothing to do with me. Unless it was a matter of meting out physical
punishment, he acted as if I did not exist. He delighted in showing my bruises
to Ann, triumphantly expecting her to cower before his might. After all, I had
hit a girl on her ear with a pebble. Even though I felt bad, there was no
denying it was a marvelous Hail Mary pass for his inhibited frustration.
The
way he marched me to my room, one would have thought I wasn’t capable of
walking ten feet on my own. Alone, as I rested on my belly, I bawled my eyes
out. After about ten minutes of crying, I thought about what I did.
