Ben Chaney - Son of Sedonia

Most of the messages complained at length about the same things they had for the last twenty-four hours: Helium-3 shipments have ceased, Virton is unresponsive, and supplies are running out. Fast. The super fuel could run the entire early twenty-first century United States for a year on a single shuttle load. Sedonia City torched through at least half that every day. Utopia on the outside. Insatiable monster inside. Or rather a swarm of locusts.

For the hundredth time, he hit the shortcut tab for Elias Finley’s direct line. The call tone beeped eight times then clicked over.

“Hello, Enota Sato, and thank you for calling Virton Energy Industries. How may I assist you today?” The clipped female speech of the AI answering program buzzed in Sato’s ear as it had the previous ninety-nine attempts. Sato hung up, snatched up the bourbon glass, and chucked it across the lavish office. It bounced once then skittered to a soundless, pathetic stop on the Sixteenth Century Spanish rug. Sato bit his teeth together until it hurt. Calmed.

Finley had always been ready with some sort of tailored political response. Didn’t matter how catastrophic the situation, the almighty Bottom Line kept the man in check. But now. To hear nothing at all. It had to mean the bastard was in the wind. That left only one other number to try.

“Call Janice Prescott,” Sato said, holding the command key. It rang the characteristic three times before her spider silk voice answered.

“Hello, Enota. Good news? —Christ…you look like hell,” she said, leaning forward in the video feed. A tickle on Sato’s scalp told him his thinning hair must be an abomination. He smoothed down the cow lick as best he could then straightened in his chair.

“Considering the Devil has skipped town on our deal and left me to manage Hell, I should think so,” Sato said.

“Yes. Finley. He’s emptied his accounts and fled the country. Wise, considering Virton Energy is ruined,” she said like it was gossip at a lunch meeting. Sato blinked.

“Ruined…” Sato’s heart flopped in his chest.

“Oh yes,” she said, “Themis is quite inoperable. Most of the staff dead, equipment destroyed or missing. Literally ruined.”

The news punched Sato in the throat.

“An attack. One of the hostile firms: Qin Industrial or the Alhaka Group,” said Sato. It had to be. Who else could? Prescott coughed a dry laugh.

“I’m afraid it was your little army of, shall we say, ‘civil servants.’ We’re not sure how they reversed Finley’s illegal mind-jacking operation, but they did, and they’re coming,” she said. Sato felt like his legs had been cut off underneath him.

“Oh, don’t look so terrified,” Janice scolded, “Something like this was always on the horizon and it fits the program, so you can rest assured that intervention will occur when it needs to. As for the fuel, our people have established a foothold and are restoring basic function to the Themis facility. It will be a while before it’s back to production strength again, but it’s at least a viable bargaining chip.”

The pieces of their plan floated in Sato’s awareness and settled into shape, but the blatant gaps defied him. He formed pointed questions, grasping for some semblance of control.

“When does Nobidyne take over?” he asked.

“Once their check clears, they should start retrofitting Themis within the week. We’ve purchased a quantity of product for immediate distribution, but Sato, there isn’t much and it isn’t cheap. Austerity measures and rationing will have to be put into effect,” Janice sighed, “Your constituents will have their lifeblood, but they’ll want their pound of flesh too. Yours, I’m afraid.”

You fucking bitch . The hangover made it hard to hide the shaking in his hands. He curled his fingers into fists.

“ Austerity measures?! You know full well that there is more than enough available fuel—”

“No,” Janice said, sunken eyes glittering, “There is not. Not for this purpose. There will be no further debate on the subject.”

Sato fell silent, shamefully swallowing the unspeakable secret. But the blame… more unemployment, more food riots, ruinous fuel prices, another inevitable market crash, and a pack of angry T99’s whereabouts unknown… all on MY head? For all history? That he refused to swallow.

“I should have been kept in the loop, Janice. The City is breathing down my neck for a workable solution, and I have not given up on them! My head on a platter won’t fix this!”

“Oh, but it will, insofar as we need it to be fixed moving forward. This is too delicate a game to balk at strategic sacrifice. Personal sacrifice. It’s for the survival of humanity, Enota, you know that,” she nodded, drawing her thin lips in a matronly frown. Sato snapped.

“You mean ‘Stay of Execution,’ don’t you?”

“Wait right there!” her words whipped at him, “The bourbon is driving again and you’re headed for a cliff. You made a desperate call with the Raid and now that it’s backfired. It’s up to you to take the blows and beg for the people’s forgiveness. There is no other way forward.”

Sato felt the vice lock on his balls.

“Fine. I’ll draft my crucifixion speech at once,” Sato moved to hang up.

“One more thing before you go,” Janice said.

“More?!”

“Yes. More. The Rindal matter has continued long enough. Let’s be clear about something that has been, until now, implicit. Yours, Jada’s, and your extended family’s seats onboard the Narayana are officially contingent upon your success. Right here. Right now. Your last chance. Wrap this up, Sato, and chalk the rest to early retirement.” A twisted cousin of pity showed on Prescott’s waxen face. The video feed closed with a beep and his Neural displayed the message ‘ Call Ended. Memory Block 081280_1130a: Deleted .’

Sato slumped back in his chair. The air in the office hovered, still as a sealed tomb. From the silence, a dead man’s words rang crystal clear in Sato’s memory. As though a program embedded deep within him had been set to go off at the precise moment. ‘ They’ll come after you one day. ’

A sickening chill ran up his spine. He clasped his hands together and squeezed as the voice of Alan Rindal set his guts on fire. Furious tears stung his eyes. I’m sorry Alan… I should have helped… really helped… should have listened. Not—

A bolt of lightning struck his brain. He swept his hand through the air to refresh the Neural home screen then hit the icon marked ‘History’. Before him, in a vast grid, lay folders for every year since he was implanted as a teen. He hadn’t touched the one folder in eighteen years, but never forgot its place on the grid. It was the recording. The one he’d brought to Prescott’s desk. The one that had buried Alan Rindal… and the family. Discovering the boy’s existence had been bittersweet.

Sato studied it, feeling his hand and arm tingle as they waited for him to give the order. He pressed and expanded the folder. Found the month, then the day, then the time. ‘ Loading Memory Block 072262_645p. ’ The task bar stuttered as it hunted for the data.

All at once, he was in the old kitchen of his executive block apartment, back on the lower Mesa. He was just a PRG lobbyist back then, working his way up the corporate ladder. Alan faced him with a pleading stare, leaning forward on the marble island. Rindal had been a hard man for years, masquerading as a lackey for the PRG. His thin, wiry-athletic frame never fit his clothes right, giving him the look of a college student wearing hand-me-downs. His wide eyes burned bright next to his light-brown complexion. The sharp jaw and cheekbones had a way of underscoring his fanaticism.