by Ben Chaney
“Well?” Utu said.
“Wasn’t doing anything...just went empty. That’s all,” said Matteo.
“Mmmm...” Utu nodded slowly. “Hold this under your nose and take ten deep breaths.” Matteo slouched in the chair, his small hands cupping the bowl under his nose. A strong menthol wave chilled his nostrils, throat, and lungs. The doctor turned away and hummed a gentle tune as he fetched a fresh canister. Through Matteo’s growing buzz, the notes seemed to have their own healing quality.
His thoughts drifted. One breath. Two. Three. He was back on the rooftop next to the soccer game, gazing out at the city. Four. Five. Memories of countless buildings in the skyline appeared. Every curve and line. Every arrangement and set of windows. Every hazy silhouette rose in his mind and was lovingly examined. Six. Seven. Eight. He saw himself climbing over the wall, tunneling under it, blasting through it, or flying a ship—like the one he saw today—over it. The humming tapered off.
“Where are you right now?” Utu asked.
Matteo blinked. Shook his head slightly.
“Oh, I only ask because you certainly aren’t here...or now for that matter.”
“Huh? But I’m—I don’t understand,” said Matteo
“Yes, your body is here, but you? You were far away...a place you like to go?”
A snapshot of the city skyline flashed through Matteo’s memory.
“Yeah...someday...it’s just a stupid dream though.”
“Dreams are a gift from God! Keep that one close to you, child, and it can be yours,” said Utu, pruning a jagged leaf on a potted plant.
Matteo shrugged.
“Jo doesn’t believe in God,” said Matteo.
Utu stopped halfway through cutting a stem.
“I know, my boy...I know. Your brother, he...has his reasons,” Utu continued cutting, “What do you believe?”
“I don’t know,” said Matteo, “I guess I’ve always had this...feeling. Like I’m supposed to be somewhere else. Like I will be somewhere else...doing something great. Is that God?”
Utu smiled.
“I don’t know either. Do you need to call it something?” asked Utu. Matteo shrugged again.
“Then don’t,” Utu said, “But it is up to you to follow it or not.”
“I want to...”
“That, my young friend, is Step One to achieving anything your heart desires,” Utu offered the full canister to him. Matteo looked at it. Frowned as he dropped it in his hood and fed the plastic tube over his ears and under his nose.
“I need to get better,” Matteo said, adjusting the nose-piece, “Stronger.”
“Now there I think I can help you...if you’re willing to work,” said Utu, mock frowning.
Matteo perked up. Nodded. Utu continued.
“Come over once a week from now on. There’s plenty that a kind young soul like yourself can do for me around the Temple. In exchange, I’ll give you regular treatments and physical therapy. Together we will test this ‘Faith’ of yours.”
Matteo’s heart fluttered, making him wheeze a little. He squeezed the release. A fresh tank always felt good. The sweet mint coolness swirled in his chest.
“Thank you,” Matteo smiled shyly.
“So! Back to the present moment...feeling better?” asked the Doctor.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man! Now, this fine orange you gave me...it’s something very special. Maybe too much for my services this evening...” Utu turned and trotted to a shelf. He bent and slid out a lidless cardboard box. Reached inside.
“Your brother’s friends get these from time to time. They’re not the most...literate lot, so they pass them on to me. Haven’t seen a new one in a while though.” Utu pulled out a magazine and held it up. ‘National…G-e-o…gra—’ Matteo squinted to make out the faded letters, but a big worn spot on the cover cut off the end. It didn’t matter much though. Here was something new.
“I’ve read each of them so many times now, I think it’s time to pass them along. At least to those who might be interested.” said Utu. Matteo fixated on the faded blues, greens, and yellows of the cover photo. He recognized the curved towers and cascading windows. But this... This was taken from the air! The words over the top of the picture tugged at his curiosity. ‘Sedonia City: The Great More Machine’
“Well!” said the Doctor, “I’ll take the vacant expression for a ‘yes.’ Why don’t you go on and take that?”
Matteo’s stomach flipped. He reached forward and took a delicate grasp on the magazine’s edges. Peering into the photo, he fed these new angles and foreign shapes into memory. They slid into the gaps in his mental models, widening the big picture. The thought of looking inside the book overwhelmed him. He tore his gaze away and looked up at the Doctor.
“You’re welcome. Now be careful with that on your way home. The binding isn’t what it used to be.”
“I will, I promise!” Matteo blurted out. Shyness returned to him. He brushed a hand against the beads on his way out the door.
Utu chuckled with a full heart, watching the boy disappear into the street with the prize. Yet as the room settled, sounds of the early evening drifted in through the swaying beads. Sirens. Drug-induced babbling. Shouting. The muffled tap of distant gunshots. Utu’s gentle smile dragged down into a grimace he allowed few to see.
“Be careful, child...” Utu looked up at the ceiling. Beyond it. “Take care of that one.”
3
Weight
GOVERNOR ENOTA SATO sat oblivious to the fourth drink he’d poured that evening. Though the kinetic dampeners prevented any sensation of turbulence in the dark limo cabin, melting ice clinked in his glass of bourbon. The vinyl seat shook as his leg bounced. Multi-colored images, news feeds, and mail windows hovered before him, blurred together by the alcohol’s effect on his neurotech. The resulting lag made everything linger when he pinched his eyes shut. He rubbed them. Opened them again. Set to mute, an economic reporter raved and thrashed above a cascade of scrolling stock-tickers. ‘Full of sound and fury...’
Sato pinched the bridge of his thick, straight nose. Ring goddamn it! His finger itched, ready to dart out and tap the simulated “Accept” button that would appear in his Neural. For now, he stared at the barrage of numbers. One set in particular made him compulsively wet his lips. ‘Prescott Resource Group: -10.7, C230/share’
Text reading ‘Incoming Call: PRG’ appeared before him, shattering the monotony. Sato jerked in his seat. He tried to still the pounding in his chest and clear his throat. After two more obligatory rings he tapped ‘Encrypt,’ then ‘Accept,’ feeling the false vibration in his fingertips. A conference room materialized. The 3D effect offered by his Neural made him feel as though he sat amongst them. Surrounded. Seven people in spartan designer suits sat around a long mahogany table. Three women and four men. Behind them, the Milky Way drifted through an elegant bay window.
“Good evening everyone, I have two minutes before session, so if we could keep this brief—” Sato said.
“Cut the crap, Enota,” the throaty vibrato of PRG matron Janice Prescott came in vivid through his inner ear, “We need to know that this...incident with the DOJ is contained.” The false youth of her century-old face sent a chill through him. He feigned a casual eye-roll to avoid her piercing stare.
“Of course. Contained and isolated. All evidence has disappeared into the Slums and Kabbard’s hero cops are catching a few villainous faces for the eleven-o-clock news. Further inquiries into Slum dweller due process might seem a touch...vulgar, given the crimes of those imprisoned. Katheryn Roland’s successor is well prepared to be less sympathetic to murderers.” Sato internally loosened. The pitch. The tone. All exuded casual control, reassured by the focus augments in his head. Let them just see how useful I can be.
“Our concern is not with the plan or the execution. It’s with you,” Prescott’s response was a slap. “All you say may be true, but the method... Anyone skeptical may begin to see a pattern of ‘su
dden and tragic’ crashes in the slums. We need to know you’re solid. Four bourbons in one Limo ride make us nervous.”
Blood filled Sato’s cheeks as he felt the perspiring glass squeak in his hand.
“I’m fine. Let them look for patterns. Any crusading investigator will end up chasing the history of every civilian death in the Slums. There are too many dots to connect.”
“Kathy Roland connected more than a few...right under your nose, too. What happens when someone digs up Alan Rindal?” Prescott’s question hung in the air a moment. Sato swallowed hard. Only one way to conceal the rush of anxiety.
“How dare you even mention...!” Sato leaned toward the screen and extended a sharp finger. “Rindal is ancient history. Finished. Buried. Forgotten. You leave him in the past, and that is where he’ll stay.” He curled the finger back into his fist and reclined. Glared at Prescott’s glowing image in front of him.
“This speaks to my point. Making this personal is a mistake. We need you to detect and respond to threats and do so separate from emotional bias. There is too much at stake to miss a step now. If you can no longer differentiate between assumption and fact—”
“I told you, I’m fine. As of now, all facts indicate that the DA died a martyr’s death at the hands of those she sought to defend. And with her public investigation suspended, the news and the polls will bounce back to green. Now if you’ll excuse me...” Sato moved to press “Disconnect.”
“Work on your image, Governor,” said Prescott, “And be careful.”. Her stone expression underscored the final phrase. Meanings within meanings.
“Always,” said Sato. His smile weighed a metric ton.
“Thank you for your time,” said Prescott. Sato tapped ‘Disconnect’ and the usual message appeared in front of him. ‘Call Ended. Memory Block 081274_510p: Deleted.’ A bitter reminder that he, Enota Sato: Governor of the People, had much to hide from. His Neural flashed back to the muted economic report. He swiped a hand across it, dismissing all feeds from view, then grabbed the watered-down glass of bourbon. Gulped a bitter mouthful.
He traced a clockwise circle on the armrest touchpad. The tinted windows turned clear, brightening the limo cabin with the emerald skyscrapers of the City’s Center Ring. He squinted through the migraine as he peered outside. Almost home. He reached into his coat pocket, produced a small green capsule, and tossed it into his mouth. Spearmint erased his bourbon breath as he watched the two-hundred story high-rises pass by. The calm flow of traffic drifted in perfect choreography. It soothed him...until the thought of a crash intruded. Jesus, Kathy...why couldn’t you just take the money and keep quiet?
The limo merged with a climbing slope of traffic and exited into a neighborhood of luxury penthouses. Open-air swimming pools, roof deck patios, and lyrical floor-plans passed underneath. The limo dipped and touched down on the corner pad of a crescent shaped complex. Part of him relaxed, but luxury in this part of town brought with it the sensation of being utterly trapped. It took a moment to stir himself from the leather upholstery when his driver opened the hatch.
“We’ve arrived, sir,” the driver gently reminded him. Sato’s posture straightened. Chin raised, he lifted himself out of the hatch, triggering a head-rush. He winced as the ice-pick sharp pain bored into his temples. The driver moved to help. Sato waved him off, then descended the remaining limo steps, put his feet on solid ground, and adjusted his suit.
Walking was harder than he’d guessed. He reigned in his staggering as best he could along the paver-stone walkway. His rooftop villa didn’t appear to get any closer. The low arcades of curved window-walls swayed ahead of him, fuzzy against the shining backdrop of the City. The driver trotted ahead and waved a bare forearm over the security plate, triggering a beep. Sato caught up slowly. Nodded a terse ‘thank you’ and stepped inside the foyer.
His villa was dark and still inside. The main hall windows had all been set to maximum tint and no interior lights were on. Sato paused and swayed.
“Jada?” he called out, straining to hear against the ringing in his ears. Nothing. He cleared his throat.
“Windows thirty percent.” he said. The black glass panes cleared, spilling golden light into the main hall. Lacquered Spanish tables, art deco bronzes, and marble tile shone in the glare. Sato squinted.
“Make that sixty-five percent.” The hall softened to a rich, honeyed orange and he rubbed his eyes. Crossed the entry hall and turned into the kitchen. Black marble counter-space lined the walls, inset everywhere with stainless steel appliances. The place was spotless. Scrubbed in a way that told Sato she’d been stress-cleaning again. He poured himself a tall glass of water, drank it down, then turned to the right. Stumbled through the dining room. High arched ceilings of glass and ribbed rosewood craned above a long black table.
“Jada?” He listened. A muffled voice carried down the hall from an adjacent room. Sato followed the sound until he made out the words.
“On-scene investigators have said that with so much of the craft having been stripped, the exact cause of the crash could not be determined. However, many owners of the ‘72 model have issued complaints in past months referring to errors in the navigation system and aerial attitude control. The FAA has issued a statement that formal inquiries will also be made into the impact foam delivery system of the Pulsar HVX...”
A ninety inch screen reflected its grim images off the vaulted glass ceiling. Sato’s stomach turned. A GloboMetro Special Report showed HD video of Kathy Roland’s family transport, gutted and stripped on a rooftop in the Slums. A series of sharp sniffles and sobs came from the leather sectional couch. He swallowed.
“Jada? What’s going on? What happened?” Sato said. Jada pushed upright from her nest of blankets on the couch. The folds of her satin bathrobe wrapped her round, protruding belly. She wiped tears and bleeding mascara from her cheeks.
“Enota! You scared m—it’s Kathy... Kathy Roland, her car crashed in the Slums. She’s missing...they,” Jada’s throat tightened, “they say that she and her family have been taken...probably killed. She was coming to the shower next week, I...” Her soft features twisted in anguish as she cradled her round belly. Trembled with each heavy sob.
Sato sat next to her, pulled her close, and placed a hand on her stomach. She cried hard into his chest. His mouth opened to say something but the words evaporated when he felt a tiny kick against his hand. Jada’s sobbing died down, and she sniffed hard.
“H-have you been drinking?”
“One in the car on the way here, that’s all. Rough day.”
4
Promises
DUSK CREPT ACROSS the overcast sky toward the horizon. Miles of evening lights flickered on, feeding the dull orange glow of the clouds and the ruddy twilight of the Slums beneath. But the south-western Rasalla district waited quietly in the dark. With the EXOs on the war path and the risk of stray bullets, the locals shut off their lamps and locked themselves indoors.
Jogun felt exposed no matter which corner he ducked into. Word was the EXOs could see in the dark...maybe even through walls. He crouched at the edge of an alley underneath a fire escape. Pouring sweat and out of breath, he struggled to hold still and listen. No engines. No thump-whine-thump-whine of Augmentor boots...at least none that he could tell. He eased a hand into his satchel and searched through the contents. Touched the cool sweat of his water bottle. A few things shifted and clinked in the pack. He winced.
Jogun gulped a mouthful of cloudy water, replaced the cap, and swallowed the urge to clear his throat. He put the bottle back in his pack then pulled the draw-string shut. Settled a moment. His exhausted muscles throbbed in the stillness. I made it quick for her...it was mercy. Mercy. He shook his head, cleared the woman’s bloody face from his mind, and leaned out of the alley’s edge. Scanned the red gloom of the street. Beyond a few meters of open ground, a narrow stairway carved a path upward through a multi-tiered neighborhood of scrap metal shacks and lean-tos. They’d run him all the way to
the Northwest edge of Rasalla, almost to South Bogi. Jogun stayed still for a few more heartbeats. All quiet...
He sucked a breath, ducked low, and sprinted toward the stairs. No more than four strides passed when he heard it over his own footfalls. The rhythmic, violent thumping of an approaching EXO. Panic begged his body to push harder. Shit! He leaped for the stairwell and crashed hard against the mud-brick steps. Pain shot up his right side but fear kept it dull. He pressed his back against a shack wall.
Thump-whine-thump-whine-THUMP. The EXO crouched on the rooftop two buildings down from where Jogun had hidden in the alley. A black silhouette against the dim copper sky. The EXO touched something on his hip then the whine of Augmentor servos died to silence. The ambient roar of the City filled the neighborhood.
Jogun paralyzed himself against the wall. He was out of the cop’s line of sight, but that didn’t mean much. No way of knowing if they could hear the faintest sound, trace the smallest sign...or even smell fear. Jogun slid a hand behind his back and wrapped his fingers around the pistol grip. He eased the weapon out from his waistband.
Two electronic beeps from the rooftop shattered the moment. Jogun froze.
“No sir, it’s all lights-out over here. Sector 7’s on lock down—.” The EXO’s voice, though hushed, echoed against the thin metal walls of the block, bouncing down to Jogun.
“Yes sir, on my way.” The EXO’s Augmentor gear whirred to life. He straightened, stretched, then loped off East. Jogun slackened. Hearing the thumping foot-falls fade away, he holstered the pistol. Pain flushed through the shoulder that had broken his fall on the steps. He threw the satchel over the less-sore shoulder and limped toward home.
