Ben Chaney - Son of Sedonia

“This should be enough…‘specially with the seeds,” said Jogun. Matteo held the alien object close, studying the texture and shape, “Don’t even think about it. Not one bite, understand?”

Matteo rolled his eyes. Nodded. Jogun’s ears perked up at a rising sound in the distance. The other T99s did the same. The distant, familiar thrum of hover engines echoed across the slums. Getting louder every second.

“Five-O! Get the fuck out!” shouted Suomo. The gang exploded into a frenzy, holstering cutting torches, bagging remaining scraps, and securing their satchels for escape. Jogun stooped to Matteo.

“Get to the Doc, and be home before dark!”

“Will you—”

“NOW!”

Matteo shuddered at the command, and hobbled to the fire escape. Jogun watched his little brother go as he tightened the satchel straps. Be safe, little man… With the gunship seconds away, Jogun broke into a dead sprint across the rooftops.

The IG-6 gunship, a repurposed military relic painted EXO blue, pulled its nose up as it reached the crash site, blasting the rooftop with a breaking thrust. Vet pilots called them FFT’s or ‘Flying Freight Trains.’ The force of the hover engines floored a few T99 stragglers as seven EXO-Cops dropped to the roof like lead weights. Sergeant Kabbard and his men stood tall in the urban camo Augmentor gear on their arms, legs, and partial torsos. Each EXO drew his weapon and formed the first-response perimeter. Through his visor, the Sergeant’s steel eyes took a quick survey of the scene.

“Davis! Leitmeyer! Ruiz! Olin! Legs on! Pick up some trails and run ’em down!” The four officers nodded in their tight-fitting helmets, and crouched. Each turned dials on their upper right hip, triggering the crescendo of a high-pitched, electronic whine. Four audible clicks snapped at full charge and each officer bolted in a different direction. Their bounding, inhuman strides cleared rooftops at a time.

“Shima and Mason, you’re with me. Switch to spurs.” Kabbard pulled the barbed stun pistol from his shoulder holster. Shima and Mason followed suit, converged on the recovering T99s, and fired stun spurs into their backs. Short convulsions followed by deathly stillness. The three fanned out to secure the wreck. Kabbard double-tapped a hotkey on his temple, dousing his vision in electric blue. No movement or body heat signatures appeared inside the wreck.

“Sound off!” Kabbard shouted.

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

Kabbard retracted his visor and glared at the stripped skeleton of the wreck. Ground his teeth. Another failure to add to the list.

“We were dispatched what, six minutes ago?” asked Shima, “How the hell could they have done this so fast?” The mouthy rookie lifted his visor. The sharp, bird-like features gave the kid a shifty look. Kabbard didn’t think much of him. Too much of a taste for violence and cool gadgets. Mason, the fatherly elder vet, was all too happy to offer a sagely answer.

“You saw the prelim scans coming in. There were kids up here. They do this kind of thing from the second they can hold a blowtorch,” Mason grumbled, squatting to inspect the torch-cuts on the mutilated rear-end. Ahead, Kabbard leaned into the cockpit. Fucking mess. He found it difficult to focus on any particular thing in all the twisted metal and shredded plastic. Only a wet, crimson smear on the passenger side caught his eye. His boot nudged a bullet casing on the ground by the frame..

“Sir!” Shima called from the opposite side of the ship, “I got three RFID chips here, minus three civvies! By the look of ’em, they were carved outta the vics’ forearms right here…nasty shit! Sir.” The rookie pulled out a plastic bag, dropped the bloody, square-inch microchips inside, and handed it to Mason.

“Must be gettin’ wise…” said Mason, passing the bag to Kabbard.

“Won’t be trackin’ ’em that way anymore,” said the Sergeant. He studied the chips. Bits of flesh clung to the tight circuits. Dark blood pooled in the bottom of the bag. All that was left of three more innocent lives. Twenty years on the force…five Governor commendations for valor…two holes in my shoulder, one in my hip, and one in each leg. None of it makes a damn bit of difference… Anger flickered inside of him, but had scarce little fuel to burn. Empty.

“Think they can pull the mem logs?” Shima asked.

Kabbard ignored the question. He pressed two fingers to his throat just beneath the jaw. Felt the familiar pop there.

“Pursuit Team, we’ve got civilian casualties,” he paused, hating the words, “Find me at least one of these shitheads, and put the blue octopus on ’em. Can’t let this go without a message.” He released his fingers and turned from the wreck, walking straight toward one of the unconscious T99s.

“Blue octopus?” Shima raised a thin eyebrow.

“Yeah. Four cops. Eight arms…” Mason buried a fist into his meaty palm. A tight grin stretched over Shima’s face.

Kabbard pulled out a stun pistol and pressed a button on the side. A dual-pronged barb flicked out of the grip. He stooped, twisted the T99’s head to the right, plunged the barb into the base of the neck, and squeezed the trigger. The skinny gangster seized, shocked out of the stupor. Kabbard waited calmly as the thug shook his head and looked up at the three EXOs.

“The fuck you want, robo?” asked the gangster.

“Oh yeah, we’re a hard ass , aren’t we?!” Kabbard stood with the buzz of servos. Planted the armored toe of his boot in the scumbag’s ribcage. Once the coughing died down, Kabbard knelt.

“Names and whereabouts,” Kabbard said, “The pain stops when you tell me.”

MATTEO CRADLED THE orange in the belly pocket of his hoodie. The faded-yellow pullover was so baggy on him, no one would see anything bulging from the pocket. Not that anyone would think to find food on a scrawny kid like him anyway. All the same, he kept his head down through this part of Rasalla. So near the Falari Market, the streets swelled with the poor and starving. One whiff of his precious cargo, and they’d swarm him.

Dusk had settled over the Slums, casting scary shadows into the alleys flanking the street. Matteo’s heart pounded against his ribcage. Detailed scenarios of desperate, violent thieves came to mind without permission. He shook his head and tried to focus on his route. Right at the Alati Shuttle House, walk two blocks, and left into the Temple of the Wheel . The wheezing was getting worse. He freed a hand from the orange and pinched the release on the tube. The medicine trickled in. Starving noses nearby caught something strange as he passed them. Matteo slipped his hand back into the belly pocket and sped up. Hung a tight right around the Alati House, a salvaged medical shuttle turned hospital that signaled the start of the Healer’s Quarter.

“Healing” came in many forms. If you had the cash to spend or the goods to trade, you could buy anything here from antibiotics for an infection to the best highs in the Slums. Witch doctors and surgeons worked as neighbors. Lines between pusher and pharmacist blurred. They ignored Matteo, barking over his head to the shuffling crowd. He squeezed unnoticed through the queues of sick and wounded and came out at a T-junction. Took a left. Then the second right.

A twenty foot tall, circular metal gate spanned the path. Strings of lights wrapped around the red painted frame, making it glow like a warm hover coil. Matteo smiled. The Temple’s smells of honeyed melon incense and fresh-grown herbs always felt like a greeting. Breathing was easier for a moment. Past the gate, high rafters loomed above him with multicolored prayer flags hung in long, drooping lines. He wondered what each of them said… and if God really listened.