Son of Sedonia

by Ben Chaney

  “You sweet, sweet man...I do hope this evening won’t be too painful for you,” she said.

  “The press and half of Congress breathing down my neck about this Rasalla business, and Finley throws a damn party. I can’t wait to see the headlines...”

  “You knew this was coming,” Jada turned his wedding band between her thumb and forefinger, “People only like violence when the good guys don’t get hurt. But the effect will be the same, and you need to keep Elias happy so they didn’t die for nothing.”

  “Right...” said Sato. His eyes drifted up beyond the lamp posts to the Moon. Its historical ‘face’ gone, replaced by geometric patterns...like aerial photos of dead, gray farmland. He sighed. The broad, arched doorway to the ballroom loomed ahead. Above it, a one-hundred-fifty foot tall glass dome bulged up into the night sky. Its hexagonal ribs were nearly invisible due to the golden glow coming from inside.

  The door guards in their foppish red tunics stepped forward to open the door. Kabbard waived them off, and took the door himself, double-checking both inside and back down the bridge as he did so. His manner refused to let Sato relax. Maybe I shouldn’t.

  The host at the podium looked like he was dressed for the Nutcracker Suite. Appropriate, considering the classical chamber music lilting in the background. He peered at the trio through stiff features.

  “Ah. Governor Sato. Mrs. Sato. Welcome to the Plateau Ballroom. Stephen here will escort you to your table,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Sato said, nodding. They walked down the central aisle toward the band.

  “Ah,” Jada mocked. She turned to her husband, squinted, and sucked in her lower lip. A perfect impersonation. Sato elbowed her as they wove their way through the crowd to their table. Going was slow. The ‘smilers’ all wanted to shake hands or complement Jada or ask about some long forgotten invitation. Thankfully, Kabbard filtered them somewhat...it was both comforting and unsettling how the man checked everyone’s hands.

  Arriving at their table was a formality. They wouldn’t be spending much time there, except for Jada to drop off her purse. Oh, to sit down, Sato thought. His patent leather shoes already chafed his feet. One deep breath later, he put on his best ‘Governor’ face and turned to the crowd. Met Finley instead.

  “My friend, Enota! So good of you to come on such short notice! And Jada, such a peach...” Finley bowed. Jada curtsied.

  “Plum, actually,” she smiled.

  “Wouldn’t miss one of your shindigs, now would we, Elias? And an open bar at the Plateau? You’ve outdone yourself,” Sato said. Finley, mid-sip in a glass of cognac, pointed at him.

  “I’ve not yet begun to celebrate, sir,” gurgled Finley, “Now. Jada, would you mind terribly if I had a word with your Statesman here?”

  Sato smiled through his teeth, and started to shake his head. Jada elbowed him.

  “Not at all, Elias! I have hors d’oeuvres to investigate,” said Jada.

  “Try the serrano ham slivers and potato purée. Out of this world. Enota? Shall we?”

  Sato nodded. Followed the waddling tycoon. Kabbard kept behind at a respectable distance, scanning the room. Sato did some scanning of his own then pitched his voice for only Finley to hear.

  “Is all this really wise, Elias?”

  “All what?”

  “Throwing a party in the most exclusive venue in town after—” Guests walked by and greeted Finley. Sato smiled and nodded to them. Finley laughed.

  “After...our little arrangement? Why not? We’re celebrating the crushing defeat of dangerous terrorists and exulting the prosperity to come. I should have thought even you would be happy with such a victory.”

  “Overjoyed,” Sato said flatly, “But with twenty-one dead EXOs and their bereaved all over the news, I need to be grieving and venerating, not celebrating.”

  “Hmm,” Finley stroked his jowels, “Quite right. One moment.” He toddled to the stage and whispered to the conductor. The music faded as Finley stepped to the mic. Adjusted its height.

  “Your attention everyone! I have an announcement to make!” Finley waited a few moments after the crowd settled to continue, “On behalf of Virton Energy, thank you all for coming. Tonight, the esteemed Governor Enota Sato has reminded me that we celebrate not only the safety of our Border, but the deeds of heroes. That is why I officially declare that all proceeds from tonight’s event shall be donated to the EXO division of the Sedonia City Police Department, and the families of our fallen officers. Ladies and gentlemen, to the Governor— and our Heroes.” Finley raised his glass.

  “Heroes,” echoed the crowd.

  “Thank you for your attention, and please, enjoy the remainder of your evening.”

  Applause followed, and the music resumed with a flick of Finley’s wrist. He returned to Sato’s side.

  “And between you and I...to the Moon,” Finley clinked his glass to Sato’s and took a sip. Sato looked down. When did I order a drink? It was already half empty. He shook his head and drank anyway.

  “...which brings me to the point,” Finley looked around and led Sato out onto the veranda. The Mesa Park fountain shone silvery blue in the center of the gardens. The City hummed softly in the distance with early evening activity. Millions of lights in millions of windows.

  “We’re going to need another raid,” Finley said. Sato gagged on a mouthful of scotch and clapped his hand over his mouth. Swallowed hard. Kabbard’s ears had perked up too...he started pacing like a caged tiger.

  “Oh come off it, Enota, why else would I pour perfectly good booze money into civil service? Beyond publicly advertising your conscience of course,” said Finley with a grin. Sato leaned on the veranda railing and stared at the park fountain. Finley waddled over and leaned beside him.

  “Your boys busted some heads alright, but they made a real mess of it. Out of the twenty-five hundred ‘eliminated terrorists,’ I got only two thousand viable workers. Don’t get me wrong, now, that’s a decent enough start, but we’re having to push further and deeper than we ever have up there. It’s dangerous work...hell, I was losing twenty units a month to radiation, solar winds, cave-ins, and all sorts of other extra-terrestrial pit-falls when we were just staying put on our current holdings! Now there have got to be more bad, bad men for your guys to grab in the nearly twenty million lurking beyond the Border.”

  “More bodies...” Sato shook his head, “Jesus. The public’s already reeling from combat deaths on our doorstep, and you want me to send them in again? With all the coverage about ‘decapitating the enemy leadership’ the counter-terror angle can only be pushed so far...and if you think I’m tossing more EXOs into that—”

  “You’re right! You’re right. The leadership is decapitated. Meaning there’s no way they’ll get any kind of a real fight the second go ‘round! It’ll go like the first one should have. Quick, clean, and easy.”

  “Easy because they’ll be grabbing street vendors and Pit workers on live TV? Sedonia fears the Slums, Elias, but they’ll see that for what it is.”

  “And what is it?” Elias asked. Sato couldn’t reply. He knew what it would mean...what it had already meant. Reports coming in had said not all the prisoners had gang affiliation tattoos. Not all the dead either. Entire neighborhoods were still smoking over the horizon.

  “Listen, you think it over,” Finley said as he turned to leave, “But remember the clock’s ticking. I’ll leave you to your ‘grief.’ There’s plenty of your favorite coping mechanism at the bar.” Finley nodded toward Sato’s empty glass, smirked, then walked back inside.

  The one quiet moment Sato had had in recent memory was spent rolling the implications in his head. Another raid. More blood. And the next time, people would be watching closer. What would they see? Augmentor-bound super soldiers kicking down doors and dragging worker families into the street? Regardless of being absolute evil, the Sedonia public might just resent such a spectacle. The jack-boot of military tyranny stomping firmly on the neck of the lowly working man.
That’s how his critics would spin it anyway. He felt Kabbard approaching.

  “I know! I know. I haven’t said ‘yes’ yet, okay?” Sato said.

  “Yet? Sir, with all due respect, the first time destabilized a fragile situation at the cost of lives! Most of which are on my head,” Kabbard paused and exhaled sharply. Laughter spilled out of the doors further down the veranda. Kabbard moved closer and lowered his voice.

  “It was my plan. My failure. Believe me when I say that we do not have the resources to pull off a second. Do this now, and things come apart...violence outside and inside the Border. You don’t just make a call like that to ship a little more—”

  “I said, I know, John. But without Finley...without the Helium flowing...the City suffocates.. What do you think happens to our little Utopian bubble if its lifeblood is choked off and sucked dry from every vein?” asked Sato. News footage of the devastation in the Slums and metal SCPD caskets flickered through Sato’s mind. He squinted hard and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I need another drink,” Sato said, tossing the empty glass over the edge of the veranda. He attempted to straighten himself as he walked to the doors. Kabbard grunted and trotted to open the way for him.

  Once inside, he wanted to go right back out again. The lights. The gaudy band. The swarming glad-handers. At least he could throw things out on the veranda. He scanned the room with aching eyes for Jada. Spotted the bar instead and set a course through the least inhabited side of the ballroom. It was there that Tycho Kirnden of Globometro News found him.

  “Bourbon on the rocks?” Kirnden held up a glass with his chubby fingers. The table, one of the only ones occupied on this side of the room, pressed into Kirnden’s enormous belly. He flashed a stained-tooth smile up at the Governor. Another scotch sat on the table, and the ‘rocks’ of both had almost completely melted. Been planning this ambush for a while then. Fuck my life...at least he brought booze. Sato tapped his dwindling courtesy reserves.

  “Tycho! My savior,” he accepted the drink. “To what do I owe this fine and, I must admit, well-timed gesture?”

  “Not a thing, Mr. Sato, save to ask after your satisfaction with Globometro’s coverage of the ‘Scourging of the Slums.’ I do hope you found all the angles approached fairly and completely...”

  The scotch, albeit watered down, tasted the same. Yet it no less left disgust in Sato’s mouth. Perhaps it was the man’s breath wafting over. I’m five feet away, and it still smells like death.

  “Of course, Tycho, of course! Very professional and...evocative! Now, if you’ll excu—”

  “Thank you, sir! I daresay the public will sleep much more soundly knowing the Border is secured. Yourself as well, I expect! Quite the master-stroke, solving so much at once—”

  A pulse-tone went off in Sato’s inner ear, followed by a message in his Neural. ‘Incoming Call: PRG.’ Simultaneously thankful for the excuse and flushed with terror, Sato got up.

  “Apologies, Tycho...I have to take this. State business,” he said, turning to leave.

  “Certainly, Governor...lunch next week?” Kirnden asked. Sato pretended like he didn’t hear as he hurried away. Pressed ‘Encrypt.’ ‘Answer.’ Prescott appeared at her usual conference table, flanked by the Board.

  “Go someplace you can talk, Enota,” Prescott said immediately. A wave of anxiety crashed into the Governor. What fresh hell is this? He scanned the ballroom and found Kabbard. Waved the man over.

  With Kabbard running interference ahead, Sato made his way to a set of pearl white doors in the corner. Opened them onto a long hall. On the left, a magnificent window wall of ribbed glass looked out on the veranda and Mesa Gardens. On the right, rows of doors to several of the Plateau’s lavish conference rooms. Sato pointed to a door, and Kabbard went inside. Eventually emerged with a thumbs up. As the Governor entered, Kabbard tried to follow.

  “Stay here and watch the door. I’ll only be a moment,” Sato said, hoping. The former Sergeant didn’t seem to appreciate that. Honest men hate secrets. Sudden jealousy struck Sato. Honest men... A sad fate that duty should bind such men to liars. Kabbard scowled and shut the door, leaving Sato with his secrets.

  “I am hermetically sealed and alone, Janice, now what do you—”

  “Ten minutes ago, we received a flag on a person-of-interest originating from the Themis Facility. The transmission was killed before download completed, so our people dug into the corrupted data and salvaged what they could. Found one of the new ‘inmates’ gathered by your little smash-and-grab gambit,” Janice said.

  “You pulled me back here and scared the shit out of me for a POI flag from the Slums? Don’t you have the resources to take care of whatever—”

  “Aden William Rindal,” was all Prescott said. The name was like a bullet through the center of Sato’s brain.

  “You...you’re sure it’s genuine? The corrupted data...it could have errors.”

  “Our people are the best. When they are sure, we are sure. This could be a simple ident theft, but we think you’ll agree, this warrants careful and immediate action,” said Prescott. Sato could almost taste the subtext. ‘This is YOUR mess...clean it up, or else.’

  “Send me what data you have, and I’ll see to it at once,” said Sato.

  “That would be best. If you find anyone or anything, it ceases to exist. Are we clear?” asked Prescott. Sato nodded.

  “Good.” The transmission went dead at Prescott’s final word. ‘Call Ended. Memory Block 080980_841p: Deleted.’ Sato chugged the rest of his watery bourbon, wiped his mouth, and knocked on the door. Kabbard opened it, greeting him with the signature steel glare.

  “I have a job for you,” said Sato.

  17

  Arrivals

  JOGUN WATCHED THROUGH the cockpit glass as scout ships streaked soundlessly overhead. Back toward Themis. The dim light of the Crawler cockpit changed from gray to green as the ‘All Clear’ notification came up on his dash monitor. He tapped the screen and the Helium-3 deposit appeared on the topo-map. Not much, but spread out into several thinner, smaller deposits. The Cash Layer, untouched He3 paydirt, had been stripped clean a while ago. By someone else, judging from the pattern of the tracks.

  He did his best to rub the aching behind his sunken eyes. Fifteen hours and counting behind the dash and still no quota. He’d have to scrape a huge pattern to get all the deposits in one go, taking at least two more hours...it might just be enough for a ticket back to the cells. Those reinforcements can’t come too soon. The thought was honest, but heavy. Reinforcements would come from only one place. Home. Jo shook the longing from his head and laid in the course.

  The Crawler rumbled to life, chewing into the rocky soil with rotating metal teeth. Once he felt the vibration smooth through the bulkhead, Jo started his pattern. A big perimeter cut to define the area, then back and forth in long strips to cover all forty-thousand square meters. Too much time to think. He wished they would have erased that part too with their mind-rape drug.

  Food might help. The freeze-dried protein blocks came in three flavors. Chalk, dirt, and sand. Sand it is. At least it’s kinda salty. Jo reached a boney arm, slid the wall panel down, and removed one of the silver pouches. He gripped the edge and pulled. It wouldn’t budge. Pulled again. Still nothing. Again. The wrapper barely had a dent in it, and his forearms were throbbing. He looked at his hands. Bones and veins shrink wrapped in skin like cellophane. Making a fist hurt. Tears welled up in his eyes.

  BWOOOP! BWOOOP! BWOOOP! The blaring proximity alarm filled the cockpit. A sunken crater loomed ahead, big enough to swallow three Crawlers. Jo flung the food block away, gripped the wheel, and wrenched it hard left. The Crawler’s right side treads dipped down into the hole, tipping the vehicle’s left toward the black sky. Not enough to flip it. It leveled out again as Jo steered past, thudding safely in a plume of gray dust. Exhaling, he throttled down and checked the topo-map.

  The area showed all flat and clear according to the Scout data. An
ger bubbled up inside him, but, like always, a hidden switch flipped. They must have missed it. Too many of us out here on fumes. He calmed, then resumed his pattern with extra care. More than a few craters dotted the landscape from there. Some he could drive over, others he couldn’t. With this kind of terrain, the job would take three hours, not two. More interesting, though.

  Pass after pass, he wove the Crawler through them and watched the Quota Bar slowly tic toward ‘FULL LOAD.’ Over a hill. Into a dell. Across an open stretch. Through a rocky patch. The Crawler tines ground and ground and...stopped. Screeched to a halt midway into the fourth-to-last pass.

  “Warning!: Obstruction in combine system! Check immediately!” The message blinked on screen. Jo turned to look at the pressure suit in its casing on the wall. The thought of going EVA sent a chill down his spine. Even less shielding from radiation than the Crawler and a whole lot less oxygen if something happened. And something usually did, especially with combines that liked to suddenly restart when unstuck. He turned away and looked out the windshield. Not going out there for some moon rock stuck in the gears.

  Jo flipped the Crawler into reverse and tapped on the gas. The engine protested, squealing and grinding. He let up and allowed the Crawler to settle. Tried again.

  BOOM! The gray horizon outside the windshield spun as the Crawler flipped. Jo tucked himself into a ball in his harness. Screaming. His head rapped against the pantry wall panel as the Crawler crashed on its side. Moments in darkness passed. Seconds or years, Jo couldn’t tell. He awoke to alarms roaring in the Crawler cockpit...and a kind of whistling hiss. As his eyes focused, they fixed on expanding cracks in the windshield.

  Jogun tore at his harness with numb, boney fingers. The button wouldn’t go all the way in. He pressed until he thought sure his thumbnail would rip off, and finally heard a snap. The straps released him. He clawed over the seat, wrenched open the EVA pressure suit’s casing, and took out the gear. His breathing had shortened to choked gasps by the time he got it on and secured the seals. Air rushed into the helmet and filled his quivering lungs. It sounded like Matteo’s wheezing as he panted. He shook his head and sat there a moment. Okay. What. The fuck. Happened?