Ben Chaney - Son of Sedonia

IAfter a half-hour trip over skywalks, up commuter lifts, and into the Alessi Building, Sergeant Kabbard arrived at his single studio box in the wall. Neighbors passed without a glance as he buzzed himself in, shut the door, and plopped down in his beat-up recliner.

He looked around. Cardboard moving boxes stacked in each corner. How long had they been there? Seemed like only last week when he found Shannon’s note saying that she couldn’t ‘take anymore’ and was leaving with the kids. Their family pictures sat off in the corner, still encased in thick, green bubble wrap. He’d moved out of their dream apartment in Whitlatch and into this squat. Must have been, what, four years ago? five?

The long nights. The endless browsing through her Neu feed, waiting for a message, or worse, a news update. The painful, silent dinners and days off. The nightmares. The outbursts. She’d had enough. He both hated her and understood.

Kabbard got up and stepped outside to the shallow balcony. The City wound down to its midnight humming glow. The soft roar of civilization filled him as his civilian-clothed body tingled and twitched from Augmentor withdrawal. My City… he thought. All the sacrifices he’d made for it. Had he really helped at all? No clear answer came.

He looked up. High above the scraper-tops, the hazy spire of Sedonia Tower stabbed into the sky. The red light at its peak blinked silently like a watchful eye. He chuckled to himself.

“Well… it’d be one hell of a paygrade bump.”

AS ALWAYS, THE long daily pilgrimage to the Pits began in the dark blue haze of the gathering dawn. Bodies streamed out of their hovels to join the march, all in silence. Only the clink and rattle of handmade equipment and the shuffling of feet advertised their passing. Some didn’t want to wake their children. Some, the oversleeping T99s. Others kept quiet for no other reason than the fear of what the day might bring.

Matteo stretched in the gloom of the container apartment. His body ached as usual, but the pain had gotten lighter over the years. Already he stood as tall as Jogun ever had, and tight whipcord muscles wrapped his slender frame. It had taken four years of chores with Utu to get to this point. Changing bed-pans, washing soiled linens, bathing the elderly—all worth it. The healthier he got, though, the less he wanted to be around sick people. And there were other kids in need of Utu’s help. The old man had smiled. Seemed to understand. ‘Go find it,’ was all the Doc said.

Still looking . Matteo thought bitterly as he threw his gear into Jogun’s old satchel. Blowtorch. Ball cap. Tape-patched sunglasses. Handkerchief. Airtank . He didn’t need it much anymore, but sometimes… Curling a lip in disgust, he shoved it in the bag.

Breakfast was a hastily-cooked ball of rice. Lunch would be too. He shoveled some uncooked rice into a plastic bag, tossed it in the satchel, and yanked the draw-string shut. He switched off the hot plate and scooped his breakfast out of the pot with a bare, calloused hand. All five scalding mouthfuls were eaten in seconds. His stomach still growled on his way to the door.

Hand on the latch, he paused. Looked at the camouflaged metal plate in the corner by the door. He knew how much was in there. Down to the milligram. But the urge to check anyway was irresistible, especially at the start of another day in hell. Matteo put his satchel down and crouched in the corner. Uncovered the hidden compartment. Inside were three plastic containers, each no bigger than his palm. He picked one up. Breathlessly pried open the air-tight lid.

Kale seeds. Hundreds of them. He caressed the top of the little pile with a fingertip, feeling each of the pin-head size pellets. The other two boxes housed the tomato and spinach versions. Four years of savings. Enough to keep him fat on rice, chickens, and greens and still have plenty left for months of Utu’s advanced treatments and remedies. But they were worth more than that. Nine-point-eight more grams of Kale seed, and he could afford to hire a Lifter.

Matteo felt the rough skin on his left forearm where the jailbroken RFID would go. A new life. A new identity. A ticket across the Border. Word was Lifters could hack a new ID into the chip, square it with the City networks, and arrange for transport over the Border. No one ever came back. Most assumed that meant death. Plenty of ways to die here, too…without trying… Starving to death or getting crushed in the Pits among them. The only other option was the Nines. With them, he could make nine-point-eight grams in no time, but what would he have to do to get it? ‘ No blood.’

Matteo replaced the cap and returned the box to its hiding place. His stomach growled again as he stood. Pushing out of the front door, he tucked the sensation away for the ten mile trek to the edge of the Slums.

In the wastelands, beyond the fringe, the silhouettes of hulking cargo freighters, hover-liners, and vehicles of all other sizes and descriptions signaled arrival at the Pits. Although the place didn’t get its name from the scrapyard. Vast man-made sores yawned open in the ground as far as the eye could see. Deep terraces filled to the brim with garbage. One of Matteo’s magazines said they were made by something called ‘strip mining’ before all Earth’s ‘industrial resources’ ran dry. Flying scows from the City flew over the Pits, dumped their loads, and flew away. Scores of men, women, and children did their best to dodge the incoming trash then converged on it to get first pick of what fell. Watching them belch a few fresh tons, Matteo rubbed at a ragged scar on his shoulder. A bad day. A falling chunk of countertop had almost killed him.

His new job, while it paid slightly more, wasn’t much better. Few workers survived past the age of eighteen.

Sparks fell from the ship’s hulls in the distant scrapyard as the first Cutter crews got to work. Gigantic chunks of scrap metal were already falling to the dirt in violent, ground-shaking crashes.

The mood of the workers lightened when they formed up into their usual crews. Chatter, joking, and singing rose with the sun. Matteo approached a crew of four Cutters.

“I’m tellin’ you bro, she can’t get enough! We did this one thing last night…” A short, stocky Cutter stopped when he saw Matteo. Matteo smiled.

“‘Chu lookin’ at, freak? Move on!” said one of the others. Most crews were like that nowadays. Utu had called Matteo a ‘savant’ when it came to machines. He could strip an engine block down to clean, usable parts in ten minutes. Not normal and not appreciated like he would’ve thought. Matteo gritted his teeth. Kept walking. He listened to the other conversations while he stewed.

“I’m tellin’ you, that’s what I heard! They grab you up and shoot you to the damn Moon! Ain’t sayin’ I believe that shit!”

“—and maybe if you wasn’t so lazy, we’d do a decent Cut once in a while!”

“Whatchu know ‘bout a decent Cut? ”

“My cousin! He heard it from Suomo hisself ! They’re payin’ triple salvage on the shit…some shit about ‘parts for the struggle.’”

“Triple salvage?” Matteo blurted out. That kind of seed would go a long way. A crew of three young men no older than seventeen turned angry glares on Matteo.

“ You wanna keep your fuckin’ voice down!? ” the shadow-skinned one rasped. “Don’t everybody know ‘bout this yet!”