The Acolytes of Crane (Theodore Crane, #1)(20)

‘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.’

‘Can you speak English, please?’

He ignored my plea. ‘There is one last thing before I go. There is a boy named Travis who has already been visited by the Dacturons. He is the only remaining link to Theodore after Jason’s death. They are using him for something that Theodore has or knows about. We have not figured out what they are after, but I need you to find out what it is, and keep Theodore away from Travis at all costs. I must go!’

Around him, a whirl of matter, oblivious to me at the time, formed a type of portable jet and in a bluish brilliance, he rocketed into the atmosphere from which he had come crashing down earlier.

‘Lincoln, are you okay? Were you talking to someone out here?’ my dad asked from the deck, in his red silk boxers.

I rubbed my eyes and scratched my head, because the supreme being that stood before me was real. I realized that if I believed this joker, I had a starring role in the future that Zane foretold. I answered my dad by saying, ‘No.’

“The bus would arrive to deliver me to piano camp, but it would leave without me. I would be bound to that crucial meeting with Theodore by my fear of the world’s end and what a joke it has been. I am done! That is it!”

No one responds.

I realize that, once again, I have never hated anyone more than the warden of this prison.





6 THEODORE: WEIRD SCIENCE





“Open request! Prisoner eight-six-seven-five. Guns are hot, requesting permission to deliver the warden’s message—over,” the guard says.

The guard has the speaker on his communicator up loud enough for me to hear the response: “Permission granted—over.”

“Prisoner! Assume the static position!”

I hear my vault opening. It sounds hydraulic and in need of maintenance.

“Prisoner, the warden wishes for me to relay this message—”

The veteran guard from a day ago shouts, “Get on with it rookie. I am tired of holding my gun on this prisoner!”

“The message from the warden is as follows: prisoner, your efforts have been highly commended. If you continue to provide us with the information we need, at some point we might be able to discuss a transfer. Message end.”

The rookie’s feet tap the ground quickly, as he hurries out of the cell.

The veteran guard requests for the closure of my vault, and it closes.

Finally, I thought they would never leave. Transfer, yeah right! They are gone, and I cannot wait to hold a session with my tablet. I enjoy talking about Lincoln, so I start: “Later in the morning, after I met the paperboy, I woke up to the smell of oatmeal and honey. The aroma was intoxicating, and beams of sun cut shadows across my room; the sunrise invigorated me.”

I needed the cheering up because I had started developing an achy back, and my overall fatigue was worsening over time. I told my grandparents about the problem a couple of days previously, and they were looking into it.

My grandma whispered to herself, ‘I think I hear a little monkey stirring.’ She always thought of me as that little boy; one who used to pop over to visit with his parents. That little boy who would play happily for hours in their sandbox, out by the azalea garden, with that awesome toy bulldozer that was a prized hand-me-down from grandpa’s childhood.

I could hear grandma’s soft whisper thanks to my years of self-training to become a ninja, practicing the art of stealth. That skill enabled me to avoid my dad around the Red Brick apartment. The less noticeable I was, the more I dodged beatings.

My eyes widened as grandma walked in from the kitchen, winked at me, and handed me a plate with a forbidden item on it: a giant long-john donut. It was definitely a good start to the day.

There was a rapping upon the door. I approached the door with my long-john in hand and alien slippers on my feet. I saw, on the other side of the narrow vertical window panel adjoining the door, the palm of a teenager’s hand shaded with a familiar tone of ink.

It must be Lincoln.

I opened the door. He had his skateboard, and he was ready to shred. I had a plastic banana board that was, ironically, yellow. My board had these giant three-inch wheels that could take on graveled paths, and eat the stones for breakfast too. However, in reality, the only action these funky wheels had seen so far was upon tepid pavement.

‘Is it okay if you come over to my house?’ Lincoln asked.

Before I could answer, Marvin and Laverne stepped up behind me, curious. They then fired away questions at Lincoln out of surprise and curiosity: Who are your parents? Where do you live? Where are you going? My grandparents were extremely protective and old fashioned.

Lincoln wrote down his address, and my grandma reminded me of the appointment they made for me to see a doctor. She said she would pick me up at Lincoln’s house at around three. We diligently answered the rest of their questions, and when we were finished, we opened the door and sprinted down the street.

My grandparents yelled, but with the door closing behind us, the train had left the station.

Lincoln was shorter than I was, only by a few inches, but he was well beyond his years in knowledge and maturity.