Son of Sedonia

by Ben Chaney

  “Okay, there it is,” Corey whispered. The road bent ahead. Several alleys, stairwells, and pathways radiated out from it. One path dipped down and out of sight. A blue prayer flag flapped in the breeze, tied to a pipe on the corner.

  “Ready?” Corey asked.

  “As I’ll ever be,” said Liani. When the convoy turned right, Liani took off her helmet, spilling her red curls over her shoulders. She sucked in a breath. Gunfire erupted from the surrounding buildings. As the soldiers scrambled to react, Liani and Corey bolted for the alley. It changed direction several times inside, forking in ways Liani didn’t remember from the instructions. Behind, a savage thump-whine-thump-whine-thump-whine of military Augmentors bore down on them.

  “There!” Liani shouted as she saw another flag dangling from a clothesline. A door beside it opened and a little woman in blue robes leaned out. Waved them in. There were three women in all, old, tiny, and frail. But fast. In a series of deft moves, they slipped jammer-rings on Liani and Corey’s fingers and wrapped the two of them in earth-colored cloaks.

  “Come!” said one of the ladies, waddling to another door. She swung it open and shuffled everyone out. The Falari Market. The bustle of evening activity quickly swallowed them up between the tents, stands, and blankets full of items. Liani chanced a backward look. Saw one of her escorts perched on the roof, scanning the crowd. Not finding them.

  “We’re good,” said Liani.

  “Are we?” asked Corey, “Gonna have a chat later about flirting with Corporals and punching bullet wounds.”

  “Crybaby.”

  They reached the Temple of the Wheel within the hour, crossing through its round metal gate. Liani loved the place instantly. It was dirty, tarnished, and made from God-knows how many bits of scrap...but the space calmed her. She could see it was built with love. One of the ladies took Liani by the hand.

  “Oh! So soft!” the little woman said, “You betta’ tell me your secret!” Liani laughed as she and Corey were led to one of the metal containers. They passed through the hanging bead curtain into a makeshift broadcast room. Wires snaked over the floor like black pasta, hooked up to old-style consoles and monitors. Utu greeted them.

  “Fantastic!” he said, “You made it! Did you get what you needed?”

  “Right here,” said Corey, panting. He put down the case with a thud and opened it. Illyk stood up from behind a console, cigarette in mouth.

  “Perfect, help me hook it up over here to the mem-data ports,” Illyk said. Liani shot the sketchy kid a look that made him cringe. Illyk avoided her eyes as he turned and crossed the room. He had said his men acted alone that night. But he picked the men. She didn’t like trusting him now, but bigger things were moving.

  Corey grunted as he lifted the HBBU out of the case and followed. Liani pulled her hood off and ran her fingers through her hair. Her heart still hadn’t calmed down. Utu walked over with a small ceramic bowl of water. Handed it to her.

  “You and your friend have done a brave thing, Liani,” said Utu, smiling that smile she’d already learned to love, “We thank you. Would you like me to show you to a bedroll for some rest?” Liani drank deeply from the bowl then withdrew it from her lips. Stared down into the rippling water.

  “Thank you,” she said, “But...if he’s ready, I’d like to see him.”

  “Of course. This way.”

  Utu led her cloaked through streets and alleys to the West. The Slums were rebuilding, little by little. Scorched gouges, collapsed dwellings, and tumbled walls grew new structure, fed and shaped by scores of Dwellers. They sang as they worked. Liani eventually heard the sound of flowing water echo through the neighborhoods. Flowers and incense masked the pungent smell of the Rasalla River as she and Utu walked out onto the concrete-stepped shore.

  “There he is,” Utu said, pointing through the crowd. Matteo stood at the water’s edge, cradling something in his hands. Liani followed the Doctor to his side.

  “We got it,” she said to Matteo, “Corey should have everything working soon. You sure you want to do this?” Matteo knelt by the muddy water. A metal flower with a small lit candle in its center drifted from his hands, joining a flickering current of flowers. He stood, turned, and looked at her, rubbing his fingers tightly against his palms. After a deep breath, he nodded. Looked back out at the water.

  “Thousands of people are about to watch my life...They should know what I think about it,” Matteo said.

  “They should, indeed,” said Utu. Matteo shook the nerves out of his arms and squared himself to Liani.

  “Okay,” he said. Liani pressed a finger to her temple, calling up her Neural’s camera mode.

  “Remember, you’re just talking to me...tell me what you want to say,” she said, framing him in the floating interface. She tapped the record button and held up her hand.

  “Okay...five, four, three,” Liani held up two fingers. Then one. Pointed at Matteo. He lowered his head. Took three long breaths into his belly, and looked up into Liani’s eyes.

  “My name is Matteo. But I was born Aden Rindal. Son of Alan and Patricia Rindal. I’ve lost family on both sides of the Border. My City mother and father when I was a baby. My Rasalla brother who raised me, to the War. You’re about to see events in my life that...that changed yours. All of ours. And you’re about to see the plans of the people who think they own the world. I won’t tell you what to think about all this. Your life is up to you. But after you’ve seen this story, take a look around. Ask how you’d change things if you could. Then know that you can. I am a Son of Sedonia, from both City and Slums. We’re in this together.”

  EPILOGUE

  THE SLIGHT COLD, burning sensation in Janice Prescott’s veins grated at her last nerve. Each one of these yearly treatments felt worse than the last. Probably because these sadists keep upping the dosage. A cadre of the world’s best doctors and nurses buzzed around the pristine infirmary, monitoring Janice’s vitals, taking samples, and fine-tuning the fresh nanotech as it settled into her decaying cells. Hooked up to wires and tubes, she felt like the TVs of her twentieth century childhood. All the irritations that came with immortality.

  The Narayana progress reports didn’t help. Documents in her Neural showed that fuel was frozen at eighty-two percent capacity. Not near enough for launch. Leave alone the fact that entire sections of the hull were still open to Space. It was comfortable progress for their pre-Intervention timetable, but the ‘Son of Sedonia’ broadcasts stuck a fork in those plans.

  A thousand needles suddenly raked Janice’s chest. Ugh, god dammit, just stick a fork in ME!

  “Please, Mrs. Prescott, try to relax,” said the doctor through his clean-mask, “A spike in your cortisol production could complicate the exchange.”.”

  “Relax. That’s your advice, Lucius? Just relax? Have you even been conscious for the past month?! Do you have a planet’s worth of damage control to manage?” Prescott’s anger cooled to a sour distress as she saw the Doctor’s reaction. The anti-aggro dose had made the man bloody sensitive. The nurses cowered too as they monitored and adjusted the state-of-the-art equipment.

  “We’re done here,” Prescott said, swinging her frail, Augged legs out of bed, “I have far too much on my agenda right now to—”

  The door to the hall whispered open, revealing a familiar face at the door.

  “Marcus, my savior! Take me away from all this,” said Janice. Marcus, second on the PRG board, stepped into the room with the soft clack of his lambskin shoes. Hands folded behind his back. The usual charming humor she’d come to admire was gone from his tanned, weathered features.

  “Nobidyne has called a meeting. We’ve assembled on the Veranda,” said Marcus.

  “Right...” Janice sighed. She straightened her neck through a stab of pain, “Give me a moment to ‘detach’ and dress. I’ll meet you in the hall.”

  The nurses around her quietly got to work removing the tubes from Janice’s taut, dry skin. Fire shot up her arm as one of the IVs slipp
ed out of a vein.

  “Enough!” Janice waved them off and did the rest herself.

  With brittle posture forced upright by the Augs under her pantsuit, Janice met Marcus in the vaulted hall and from there they walked to the tram entrance. Together, they entered the open car and sat facing each other. She studied his grim, wrinkled expression as they coasted to top speed.

  “How bad is it?” asked Prescott.

  “Bad,” said Marcus, “They want to clip our time-table by another six months.”

  “Six months?! That’s—”

  “Impossible, yes. But Alhaka, Qin, and Seelatek are all on track to launch their fleets before that. The trip to Gliese may take twenty dull years of travel time, but months are going to count in the first land-grab,” said Marcus. “Territories will be claimed.”

  “New nations founded on prime real estate, yes. But if we launch prematurely, we won’t make the fucking trip!” said Janice.

  “And if we don’t accelerate, Nobidyne will leave without us. Taking the lion’s share of the supplies, personnel, and equipment with them. Three G-ships to our one,” Marcus, short of breath, tapped a few buttons in his Neural. Took in a smooth, even breath with the sudden release. “They need to be reassured.”

  “Reassured,” Janice repeated to herself. She looked, with weary eyes, out of the tram’s clear canopy. The sprawling green preserve below them was coming along, to be sure, but the workers were still in the planting stages. Full crop rotation was at least another ‘season’ away, and there would be a lot of debugging to do. Both on the facility and the personnel.

  “We had their consent to let the Themis riots escalate into a rebellion. The Invasion, the Intervention, martial law...all of it right on schedule. Now they want what? For me to fall on my sword because of this...externality?”

  “Letting Sato handle it was your call, Janice,” said Marcus.

  Prescott couldn’t argue with that. Not without sounding like a pathetic child, especially to Marcus. How the hell was I supposed to know what Alan Rindal hid inside his own son?! She pursed her thin lips and scowled. Through the tram canopy and the Preserve’s colossal geo-dome, the curvature of the Earth pressed down on her. Amongst the sprawling grid-webs of light on the planet’s surface, tiny explosions winked in the dark. A few glowing strands and branches faded to black with each blast.

  “Regardless,” Marcus continued, “We have to convince them to wait. By any means.”

  Janice sighed.

  “Agreed.”

  Their tram car arrived at the marble pillared terminal, and they both stepped out. Climbed the spiral stairs to the Preserve Veranda. Janice had helped design the modest finery of the circular Veranda platform. Granite tiles, green topiaries around the edges, upholstered wicker furniture... It could have been part of the family’s Mediterranean villa she’d visited as a girl.

  The entire board had assembled there, some seated and comfortable, with others standing and shiftless. Janice spotted an extra face among them. Nathan, her eldest nephew, sat on the end of a couch. He took a glass of brandy from one of the uniformed server’s trays. Sniffed it with his surgically straightened nose. What is that idiot doing here?

  “It looks like we’re all here. Are we ready to proceed?” asked Prescott. A general mutter of consent answered her. Everyone tapped their temples, revealing a shared Neural display hovering above the coffee table.

  “Call Kuwahara,” Prescott said, “Authorization: Janice Prescott. Encrypt and Connect.” The display shifted and pulsed in mid-air as they waited for an answer. Prescott used each ring as a call to composure. Confidence. Strength. Control. She repeated her mantra over and over until the connection went through. Akira Kuwahara materialized before them.

  “Hello Aki,” Janice said, “How are you doing?”

  “Not well, Jan, not well. Demonstrations in our Cities are on the rise, and the local governments are restless. Regardless of our promises and reassurances, it appears no one wants to be the next Enota Sato,” Kuwahara said.

  “Restless is not rebellious. At least not yet. I have several strategies in mind that can buy us the appropriate ‘padding’ with regards to our timetable, and—” a tickle in Janice’s throat stopped her mid-sentence. Marcus stepped into the silence without hesitation.

  “We understand the complications the Intervention and this ‘Son of Sedonia’ have produced. We want to express our deepest apologies for this lapse in judgment, Kuwahara-san, but the timing of this was never going to be comfortable or convenient. That’s the simple reality of the challenges humanity now faces. We want to assure you that our partnership remains not only strong, but essential to maintain our collective advantage moving forward to Gliese 581g.” Marcus finished and relinquished the floor as Nathan Prescott stood.

  “Wha—” Janice choked on the breath. Realized her throat was closing. She clawed at her neck with one hand and pawed at the Neural with the other. No help or relief came. The treatment...!

  “It is in that spirit,” Nathan said, keying a few buttons, “that we offer atonement for the error, and thus guarantee that insightful, fresh leadership prevents any future missteps.” He pressed ‘Enter.’ Janice’s Augmentors switched off simultaneously, dropping her ninety-six year old body to the granite tile. Her throat closed completely as her chest seized. She reached for Nathan. The spoiled ingrate just turned and cracked a smarmy grin.

  “I will assume control of the Prescott family assets, and take my Aunt’s place on the board. But as a senior shareholder only. My friend Marcus Rindal, who has endured personal sacrifice time and time again for this venture, is our unanimous choice for the role of Chief Executive Officer.”

  Vision tunneling, Janice Prescott turned her gaze on the Rindal grand-patriarch. Her friend and confidant of so many years didn’t even look at her as she slipped away. Heart-rate slowing and thoughts drifting, Janice stared at his face. The cheekbones. The skin tone. The hard eyes under heavy brow. So much like the grandson...so much alike...so much alike.

  Her world faded to the sound of polite applause.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It almost seems unfair that so many people did so much to help this book come to be, yet my name is the only one on the cover. Although if I did justice to everyone, taking the three days to paint the cover illustration might then have been a moot point. Still, none of this would have happened without the encouraging, inspiring, selfless people I’ve had the good fortune to know.

  My teachers Mrs. Garland, Lora Stager, Mark Schultz, Paul Hudson, Jay Hawkins, Michael Nolan, Michaela Roessner, and countless others who taught me lessons both complex and simple. So many of you did so over the internet or TV, and we’ve never met. I hope that changes one day.

  My past employers Redstorm Entertainment, Epic Games, Schell Games, Radioactive Software, and Villain LLC. May your fantastic games be fruitful and multiply.

  My friends. Many of you feel like family to me, regardless of how long we’ve known each other. Thanks and love to Ryan Johnson, Jack McAlpin, Jonathan Krug, Kari Barry, Dave Yeaman, John Washington, Mike Schaefer, Oliver Burling, Kevin Altman, John Gabbard, the Rockers, Danny Green, Roger Collum, Lindsay Edwards, Ben Namie, Shaun Smith, Dwayne Brown, Willie Smith, Byron Youngblood, Rachel Acquaviva, Evan Miller, Lauren Holt, John DeRiggi, Nicole Epps, Jared Mason, Kwamé Babb, Reagan Heller, Sam Polglase, Suzanne Kafantaris (whatever the end result, she saved this book), my Brent-hood neighbors, and the countless others I wish I had more space to list.

  My editors, designers, and compositors at TIPS Technical Publishing in Carrboro, NC. I apologize for the post-period double-spaces on every sentence in the manuscript. Old habits die hard, but consider the lesson well learned.

  As you can probably tell, I’ve saved the best for last. My family. Thanks to Uncle Jim, Aunt Sandra, Foster, and Aunt Jan (both of them). Thanks to Jacob for playing video games, watching movies, and spending time with a little brother thirteen years younger than you. Thanks to Meagan for all of you
r heart-to-hearts, sisterly advice, and for making time to read the book while being an awesome mother to my two nephews Cooper and Fletcher.

  Mom and Dad. Patty and Les Chaney. Two people who sat me on their shoulders so that I could reach as high as I dared. They struggled, saved, and sacrificed to support whatever I chose to do, all the while repeating “we’re so proud of you.” Mom, Papa...you are my light in the world.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ben Chaney grew up with a passion for SciFi and Fantasy that led him to study visual storytelling and illustration at the Savannah College of Art and Design. After graduation, he worked his way up through the video game industry: QA testing at Epic Games and Redstorm Entertainment; game art production at Schell Games in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; then art direction at Villain LLC in Cary, North Carolina.

  But storytelling had taken a hold of him at SCAD, and manifested in a pet writing project. Often neglected or pushed aside for other things, Son of Sedonia grew slowly over six years. Somehow, the image of the boy on the slum rooftop endured. As Ben honed his craft, the world changed. America plunged into recession, political discord, and uncertainty, triggering a desire for information the likes of which Ben hadn’t before experienced. His writing, and this book, matured as he did.

  Video game development had given Ben the confidence in his abilities. What to do with those abilities became impossible to ignore. That and the ceaseless, loving voices around him, all saying the same thing: “Follow your heart.” In June 2012, Ben quit his successful job in game development to do just that.

  The book you hold in your hands is the result.

  Copyright © 2013 by Ben Chaney

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, Web distribution, or information storage and retrieval systems—without written permission of the publisher.