The Acolytes of Crane (Theodore Crane, #1)(52)

“I know how it works. I just don’t know where it is. Nezatron is the source of this information—okay?” I ask, and the warden nods, “The concept of digital resurrection is based on Zane’s device, the Telepathic Life Continuum—also known as TLC. TLC is the concept of extracting someone’s experiences, memories, and behaviors. Before one dies, the TLC inserts a replay of the people’s own imaginative representation of Heaven and God, or whatever deity they believe in. It is an occurrence most humans say is a life after death experience.” This is done in order to prevent them from seeking their own destruction when they are born again as brand new Sepherans. This dream sequence resurrects them and inspires them to survive, but in a different life form.”

The warden scoffs with revulsion. “So Zane acting like a puppet master, deluding them into their deaths with visions of angels. And you condone this behavior? You and your friends?”

“I never said that. Look, I am just as disgusted with it as you are. Can we be done? None of this even helps you. We were kids then. All we were doing was responding—misguided and misled as we were back then—to what was happening to us. We know about as much as you do.”

“We will be done when I say we are done. When we have all the information necessary. You destroyed the database, and because of that we have no choice but to interrogate you. It will be vital as evidence in support of your acquittal at your trial,” the warden says. “If it comes to that.”

“We? You mean the Multiversal Council? That is what I thought. Anyway, when all the life experiences belonging to an individual are being extracted, the mind usually sees them all in a flash. It is sort of a quick dream reel of one’s life. People refer this as seeing your life flash before your eyes.”

“Yes,” the warden says, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. He was finally getting to the heart of the matter.

I continue, “This near-death experience can go in one of two ways. One, the subject’s mind turns to concepts of God, and that’s where the TLC kicks in, to entice them to Sephera.”

“And,” the warden jumps in, licking his lips, “…if they don’t?”

“If the subject refuses to embrace unconditional love, if they don’t turn to God, then the TLC will fail and they will integrate into dust, to be scattered among space.”


The warden looks away, teary. “That bastard Zane,” he growled. He turns back to me. “How does Zane monitor everyone?”

“Zane can create an infinite amount of Dietons, and he has. There’s billions of them. The Dietons form an aura surrounding every living being in the multiverse. These Dietons record and save all information in Eppa’s mainframe for future use.”

“Very diabolical,” the guard murmurs. I take his tone to be that of reluctant admiration. “Zane makes Big Brother look like a Commodore 64.”

“Huh?” I say.

The warden waves me away. “Eppa, the Mecca database that you spoke of, was on the planet Foita. The place you destroyed. Now, what about Nezatron?” the warden asks.

“Our last meeting? Aboard the Uriel. And I have not seen him since,” I say.

The veteran guard jumps in. “He is telling the truth warden. The temporalysis didn’t collect any fabricated responses.”

“Take the prisoner away,” the warden says.

The entire detainment process repeats and reverses, ending with my entry into this cell—do I dare to call it home? I am sore from a guard carrying me, because my body is malnourished. There are fresh bruises on my ribs where I bounced against the shoulder of the guard as he brusquely marched with me in tow, as if I were a sack of potatoes.

No shakedown this time I re-enter my vault.

As I sink to the mat upon the floor, I reflect some more. I actually saw a birth certificate for a kid. It was probably the real deal. My kid. I am nineteen years old, and I have a kid. I never imagined it.

Now inspired by how the Multiverse Council seemed to latch on to the true state of Zane’s Machiavellian empire of deceit, I play back my previous recording to find where to begin. I know it will be the most painful, most anguishing part of my story, and that I risk heart failure—in my weakened health—by forging ahead with my memories of that horrific day. That day, if I may adopt a quote, was ‘a date which will live in infamy.’

My hands shaking, I start once the device powers up.

Without warning, I break down, crying. My body wracks with sobs, as I heave from caustic memories flooding in and seizing my soul. Spasms snatch my body; it twists and contorts into grotesque poses.

“Prisoner in state of emergency. Repeat, prisoner appears he is dying,” a voice rings out.

I hack and heave some more.

“Send in reinforcements,” the perturbed voice shouts out.

I hug myself and shake my head vigorously. “No! I’m okay. Leave me alone!” They mustn’t find the hidden disk. I stand up in a show of bravado.

There was silence.

After keeping on my toes for another two minutes, I collect my resolve and clear my throat. It is very difficult to pour out the harrowing recollections, but I persist, speaking in a flat monotone, “My grandma and grandpa—” I wiped away tears, “—had come into my room after they heard banging noises during that altercation with Odion in my subconscious. They found me walking outside the house in my pajamas, but thankfully did not see Migalt. They appeared scared for me and were concerned I was losing my mind.”