The Zygan Emprise: Renegade Paladins and Abyssal Redemption (35 page)

You mean--oh.
That’s
what those
branches were for. Still, beating students—barbaric much?

Serious again, Spud added, “On the other
hand, if the Omega Archon discovers you’ve been interfering…”

I raised a hand. Spud didn’t need to remind
me how painful our own ruler’s sentences in Hell had been whenever
I’d violated one of the gazillion Zygan Federation rules.

“And I received no missive about an
assignment. Why exactly are you here anyway?” Spud queried, eyeing
my costume as a seventh-grader at the boys-only “public school”
with obvious disdain. “Dressed like that.”

I met his gaze despite my wavering voice,
“Just me. I came to find you.” A whisper. “I saw John.”

An eyebrow went up. “Your brother?”

I nodded, and recounted John’s spectral
manifestation at our Maryland farm the evening before. Sharing a
rowdy dinner with my seven brothers and sisters, my eyes had
wandered to the empty seat where, after three long years, we had
almost stopped hoping our brother John would magically re-appear
after leaving our home for what we thought would be a tour in the
US Army. John, barely 18, had stepped in to raise us after Grandpa
Alexander passed away. We never expected that five years later,
we’d lose him, too.

My quest to find my missing brother had led
me to join Zygan Intelligence as a catascope, an agent, just like
John had, unbeknownst to us, done at age sixteen. I’d uncovered
that John’s graduate school research with subatomic energy
particles at the University of Maryland’s synchrotron had somehow
tied in with a top secret Zygint mission called Project Helios. So
far, after months of diligent investigation, I’d stumbled on clues
that John may have been working undercover on inter-dimensional
transports along with Zygan Federation Public Enemy #1, Theodore
Benedict, but I’d had no success in figuring out where my brother
could be, or if he was even still alive. John’s trail had grown
cold.

Then, last night, for just a flash, a
cadaverous image of John, his eyes pleading for help, had appeared
at our family supper table, reflected in our silver water pitcher.
By the time I’d taken a second look, he was gone. No one else at
the table had seen his ghastly, ghostly image, but I was now
certain that John was alive and reaching out to me from—from…?

Spud raised the other eyebrow. “And
then?”

“That’s it. ”

“An hallucination, certainly.”

“No, Spud, it was real. It was John.” I
blinked to dam in the dampness. “He needs my—our help. I think he’s
trapped in another dimension, another brane.” I paused, hesitating.
“When Benedict had us locked in those cells on his planet-ship, I
had a vision.”

Spud’s pale skin turned ashen. I assumed he
was remembering the vision he’d had during our imprisonment,
reliving the childhood tragedy that cruel Theodore Benedict had
somehow unleashed from Spud’s chest of repressed memories. The
long-buried secret that Spud’s mother had been murdered at the
hands of his father.

“A dream,” Spud whispered after a moment of
silence. Louder: “They are simply dreams.”

“It felt so real, I tell you. I saw John
along with two of his fellow ex-catascopes, Benedict and Wart.”

After years as an honored hero, Zygan
Intelligence agent Theodore Benedict had betrayed the Zygan
Federation and our ruler, the Omega Archon. Forced into exile,
Benedict had become a terrorist, returning to Andromeda and the
Milky Way and launching an ostensible campaign to overthrow our
king. His fellow agent, Ward “Wart” Burton, who’d been our mentor
when we’d joined Zygan Intelligence as newbies, had gone undercover
in Benedict’s ranks to try to foil the traitor’s plans. I could
only hope that John too had been playing a similar role, a double
agent seeming to cooperate with Benedict to gain his trust, even as
I prayed that my brother wasn’t a misguided catascope who’d been
turned by the villain’s charm.

“I think John became one of their test pilots
for transporting to another dimension,” I explained. “He seemed to
be wrapped in a Somalderis and disappeared in a flash. And, unlike
the others, he never came back.”

Benedict and his minions had attempted to
transition without success to another brane, the heaven we called
Level Three, for years during and after his exile. His previous
cross-dimensional intrusions had blown all his ‘test pilots’, back
to our universe, many severely injured. But the Somalderis, the
Golden Fleece John was wearing, was able to channel enough energy
from our sun to fuel an inter-dimensional crossing. With the Golden
Fleece, John may have succeeded in making the journey to a universe
beyond ours.

“What if he landed in enemy territory? What
if he’s a prisoner? ” I badgered Spud. “What if he was hurt? We
have to mount a rescue.”

Spud leaned his lanky torso against a marble
column and sighed. “My dear Shiloh, it pains me to temper your
fervid disposition with logic. Our own universe, our brane, is
nearly infinite in space and time. For the last two years,
utilizing the resources of the Zygan Federation and Zygan
Intelligence, mind you, you have had no success in finding your
brother. If, as you so imply, John survived the transport and
is
in another brane, and if we
could
somehow succeed
in travelling to that dimension alive ourselves, we would likely
have neither the assets of Zygint, nor our Ergals to aid us in our
quest. Our very own survival would be in doubt.”

“It’s crossed my mind,” I returned. “But we
don’t have a choice. It’s like in that old adage. ‘I’ve been
looking in the wrong place—our universe—just because –‘“ I did the
quote gesture with my fingers—“‘the light’ is better’. We’ve got to
bite the bullet and search in the darkness. Even if we do it
without our allies and our tools.”

Spud offered a small wave in the direction of
a group of robed students that passed us as they walked by us
towards the Chapel, then resumed stroking his chin. “Leaving for a
moment the question of how we can find something if we can’t see
it,” he whispered, “how do you propose that we travel to your
universe without ‘the light’. As I recall, not only your brother,
but even a keen terrorist such as Theodore Benedict needed a
Somalderis to succeed in the trip. And the last Golden Fleece I saw
was draped over Yeshua Bar Maryam’s shoulders at the Temple of
Eshmoun. In ancient Phoenecia.”

“Exactly,” I said. “And, I’m sure Yeshua will
let us borrow it. After all, we’re not criminals fleeing this
universe to storm the gates of heaven like Benedict and his Andart
guerillas.
We
plan to come back.”

“I’m not entirely convinced Benedict may not
be planning to return to our universe himself someday—if he
survived the trip to Paradise. Especially with the Omega Archon
still reigning over Zygfed. But I doubt Yeshua and the Keeper of
the Temple are willing to take the chance that
we
might not
return and deign to lend us their Somalderis.”

“You never know until you try.” I insisted,
feeling over my pocket for my Ergal. “I’m going back in time to the
Temple of Eshmoun to find our young prophet and his mentor.
Coming?” I added, my tone impatient.

Spud scanned the school grounds to ensure we
were out of sight of probing eyes, but the crowd’s attention had
once again focused on the spectacle in the arena, where poor
Neville had just tasted the first fiery sting of the birch. I
shivered again, remembering the agony of the Omega Archon’s hellish
punishments when I had violated Zygfed’s rules, the figurative
flames ‘burning me alive’.

Spud sighed and shook his head. “Yes, I shall
join you. If only to keep you once again from the blazes of the
Omega Archon’s Hell.” He grabbed my forearm and pulled me behind
him under the shade of a stone parapet.

I slipped a hand inside my robe and found my
Ergal.

* * *

Sidon, Phoenecia—two thousand years ago.

A wall of dust whipped up by the wind blinded
us momentarily. As the gusts paused to inhale, we were able to make
out the outline of the path we had taken a few months before
towards the city of Sidon in ancient Phoenecia, circa the second
decade ACE. “No temporal vector shield,” I coughed, reaching out to
find Spud’s hand. The force field had been installed by Zygint
Central to protect young prophet Yeshua Bar Maryam from Benedict’s
assassins. It should also have blocked us from breaking into
Yeshua’s time and space. “Wow. I don’t know how but we made
it.”

“Obviously,” Spud’s hoarse voice returned
through the haze. “I expect Zygint Central was convinced that with
Benedict’s successful departure from our universe, the Keeper of
the Temple would be adequate protection for young Yeshua and the
temporal vector shield would be no longer necessary.”

I felt a tug on my black robes. No need to
change costumes into white togas with this weather. The sand was
already bleaching our clothes.

“This way,” said Spud, “stay with me.”

“On your tail--your
tails
,” I giggled,
grabbing his penguin suit as, my free hand shielding my eyes, I
followed him gingerly through the sandstorm.

Spud stopped us in front of a large stone
gateway which heralded a stone path lined by juniper trees. Once
sheltered slightly from the gale, I could make out the ancient
temple up ahead, only a few steps away, and wondered if the Keeper
would, as he did on our last visit, greet us warmly as we
approached.

Our arrival seemed to go unnoticed this time,
however. We climbed several steps onto the front landing and stood
before the door. I looked at Spud, his black robes dotted with
flecks of beige sand, and shrugged. “Nobody’s home?”

I reached over and knocked on the door.
Loudly. Again. And again. At last, I thought I heard the
‘clip-clop’ of wood sandals on stone on the other side of the
portal. The door opened slowly with a squeal, and revealed a
grey-haired scalp followed by a wizened face that peered back at us
with a frown.

I nudged Spud who was much better at
Phoenician than me, Ergal translating or not. “I am Akbar,” he
began with less enthusiasm than I’d have expected, “and this is my
brother Danel. We wish to speak with the Keeper.”

The old man gave us the once over before
responding, “I am the Keeper.”

“No, no,” I interjected, lowering my
register. “The other one. ‘Bout your height. With a beard.”

The frown didn’t disappear. “I know not of
whom you speak. There is no other Keeper.”

“Then this isn’t the Temple of Eshmoun?” Even
Spud wasn’t infallible.

“Yes, it is.” The door started to close.

“Wait,” I cried, “Yeshua. Yeshua Bar Maryam?
Young, thin, black beard, student?”

Spud shook his head as the elder slammed the
door shut. “It is futile. They, and the Somalderis, are gone.”

“Gone? Wait! Gone where?” My knocks, and then
bangs, on the stolid door went unanswered. I plopped down on the
steps in frustration; my eyes, stung by the wind, once again
brimming with unshed tears.

“It is a mistake to theorize before one has
all the facts,” was Spud’s only response as he set off back towards
the gate.

* * *

Hollywood—present day

We M-fanned in the present—
my
present—looking like a pair of ragged exiles from Harry Potter’s
Hogwarts. As we waited in the Hollywood garbage bin to enter Zygan
Intelligence’s Earth Core Station, I could swear the guards from
the planet Chiduri, disguised as rats by our feet, were snickering
at us. Not quickly enough, the hidden door on the side of the bin
opened to let us in to the deserted warehouse corridor, and out of
range of their snarky squeaks.

“Empty handed. Now what do we do,” I said to
Spud as we passed our WHO scan and entered the housekeeping
closet/hidden elevator. I leaned against the wall, and, during the
jarring descent to the Earth’s heart, closed my eyes to call back
the sense memory of the inner peace I had felt with the soft touch
of Nephil Stratum’s tendrils massaging my aching muscles, the
soothing caresses that had eased my physical and psychic pain. But
that inner peace had vanished--along with Nephil Stratum. The
Syneph, a cloud-like being, had been the one classmate of ours at
Mingferplatoi Academy I’d never have suspected would have betrayed
us. Nephil Stratum’s awesome talents as a living Somalderis had
allowed her to channel energy from a sun in galaxy M81 to Theodore
Benedict’s planet ship, finally propelling him and his minions into
that other dimension (John’s dimension?) far beyond our reach.

“Nephil Stratum is not the only Syneph in our
universe,” Spud said softly, as the lift accelerated down towards
Earth Core Station.

How did Spud always know what I was thinking?
If we couldn’t get the Golden Fleece from Yeshua and the Keeper,
yes, maybe we could talk another Syneph into being our booster
rocket into John’s brane.

“You think Ev could get us a meeting with the
Syneph ambassador?” After Gary’s death—and Wart’s “disappearance”,
catascope Everett Weaver had become the new Chief of Earth Core,
but he wasn’t exactly a power player millions of light years away
on the Zygan Federation’s home planet of Zyga, where
representatives from the thousands of Zygfed planets gathered to
pompously rubber stamp the Omega Archon’s edicts. Even calling in
markers wouldn’t guarantee us an audience with Syneph big-wigs; the
cloud-like Synephs were a notoriously cryptic and cloistered Zygan
Federation species. Their home world, a treacherous nebula-like
sector at a distant edge of the Milky Way known as the Plegma, was
off limits to most Zygans.

“Or, we could go to the Plegma ourselves,” I
offered, as we stepped off the lift into the barren receiving room.
I chose to ignore that few who had visited the nebula had ever
returned.