Ben Chaney - Son of Sedonia

He stepped onto the ramp leading inside, and the mob suddenly hushed. Oki turned. Rusaam and Kolpa had entered the hangar. Without a word, everyone parted in front of them to make way. Then in walked the Healer. Cheers. Laughter. Shouting. Crying. All of it exploded in an instant. Oki let out a whoop.

“Rasalla!” he called out, waving. Jogun waved back to the room then gestured to Rusaam who bent to listen. Rusaam straightened and raised his arms. The noise died in seconds.

“Listen up y’all! Pick a ship, get inside! Pilots, turn your comms to Channel Three! We’re blowing the doors when the ‘Moon is Low’! LET’S GO HOME!” The noise erupted again, louder and higher than before. Oki yelled himself red in the face and still couldn’t hear his own voice. It felt amazing. The love people had in their faces when they saw each other, even for him. Not fear…love. Hands trembling, Oki climbed into the Copperfish, joining roughly fifty brothers.

As a hangar foreman, he had all the basic vehicle packages jacked into his brain. Crawlers. Loaders. And Scouts. Guess that makes me a pilot too! He rubbed his hands together. Inside the cockpit, two sixteen-year-old, bottom level T99 soldiers bickered in the flight seats.

“Cuz you don’t know shit! That’s why. Cuz you. Don’t know. Shit! Intra-atmospheric avionics just ain’t the fuckin’ same as low-atmo maneuvering, and if you think I’m trustin’ yo ass with the flight stick, you crazy!”

“The thing with the motorcycle? That what this is about? We were twelve , man!”

“And you was drunk, yeah yeah, don’t matter! I ain’t never forgave you for that shit, and I ain’t about to trust you now with my life and the lives of every other sumbitch in this boat—AH, hey what the fuck?!”

Oki grabbed the kid by the neck and picked him up out of the seat. The kid went passive once he recognized a senior enforcer.

“Run along back there with the rest of the ‘sumbitches.’ Me and little man here got this,” said Oki. The kid nodded and took off for the upper passenger cabin. His friend, Little Man, tried to bite back a shit-eating grin as Oki sat down and strapped in.

“Now this ain’t no damn motorcycle,” said Oki, “You got this?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah I think—”

“Cool. What’s your name, little Nine?”

“Kiosu.”

“Kiosu,” Oki put on his headset, took quick stock of the flight controls, then started flipping switches. “You know the song right?”

“Yeah,” Kiosu ran through the co-pilot startup protocol, “Pop used to sing it to me.”

“My man…” Oki toggled the intercom, “We full up?!” Replies came over the headset all at once.

“Yeah!”

“Fuck yeah, good to go!”

“Rasalla!”

“Aight brothers, get ready to sing! ‘When the Moon is low,’ we go!” Oki closed the main hatch, pressurized the cabins, then punched the ignition.

“Kiosu, flip us to Channel Three and patch it through to the cabin,” said Oki. Kiosu nodded and dialed the comms. Four minutes passed in static before it started. Many voices as one. Clear and strong.

“ Be back before the moon is low ,” over three thousand voices said in unison through the intercom. The hangar doors along the wall burst in a shower of sparks and were sucked out into the canyon. The rush of escaping air pulled at the ships on their pads, scraping landing gear across the deck.

“Gear up! Engines to Idle-Three,” said Oki. Kiosu did his part. The ship dipped all at once, then stabilized with a low-frequency vibration felt through the bulkhead.

“Main thrusters?” asked Kiosu, his hand poised on the throttle. Oki nodded. Chuckled.

“Moon’s risin’ tonight!”

SATO STOOD EXACTLY where he least wanted to be: at the front of a legion of grieving families. From the elevated stage in the Mesa Park Amphitheater, he waited for the Anthem of the Fallen to play its final notes. He had learned to dread that song. Played at every EXO officer’s funeral since the founding of the Border, it meant that he would have to look the bereaved in the eyes, and tell them their lost loved ones were heroes. The men and women of the EXOs certainly were. But every word of Sato’s rehearsed justifications made him feel ever more like a fraud. Thankfully it was almost over.

As the final somber note died in the choir, the mother of Officer Dreivan, one of the KIA Red Gate conscripts, stepped up to the podium. The short, husky woman, red-faced and dressed in a knock-off brand black dresscoat, shakily adjusted the microphone. Another working-class woman ’whose son had probably joined the EXOs to pay for school. She removed a piece of paper from her purse. Unfolded it. She took the time to write it down… on paper. Sato swallowed in a dry throat. The woman’s voice trembled as she spoke.

“Uhmm… I…” she lowered her head. Raised it. “There’s nothing I can say… to express what we’re going through. The loss… The loss of a child is devastating. Our boy… our man , Dreivan was more precious to us than life itself.” Naked grief flowed out of her in stepped, forced words. The momentum was the only thing keeping her going. In the middle of it, Sato felt Jada let go of his hand. When he looked, his wife had it clasped over her mouth. Tears streamed down her cheeks. When Sato went to touch her, she broke down and quickly excused herself from the stage. As the speaker continued, Sato realized everyone was watching him.

“But Dreivan believed in his City. He wanted to make a difference, and that’s what he did. He died… he died to protect us all,” the mother finished and stepped down to thunderous applause. Sato joined in as he wrestled with what to do. If I go after my wife, it could look like I’m abandoning these people… but… if I don’t go after her, I’ll be slammed for being insensitive. Like most decisions these days, he was fucked either way. He chose Jada. Felt the cameras watch him leave.

Sato found her by the pools, sitting alone on a curving park bench. She sat totally still, watching kids and families glide in circles over the water. Gentle ripples moved the surface as the patrons each banked and swayed on rented hover-domes. Some held hands as they went around, or waved to their younger siblings playing in the sand on shore.

The miscarriage. Sato realized. It would be six years ago this week. He turned to the Secret Service agents who had followed him, and gave the signal to hang back. Sato crossed to the front of the bench and sat down next to Jada. She sniffled.

“I’m sorry,” Jada said, “I didn’t mean to make you leave, I just… All those families … talking about losing sons and daughters, I… it’s like I was in the hospital all over again. Our baby…” Jada choked as Enota put his arm around her and pulled her close. After a string of heavy sobs, she tensed. Sat up.