The Acolytes of Crane

The Acolytes of Crane By J. D. Tew
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.


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 powers up, and I start from the beginning.