Ben Chaney - Son of Sedonia

“I need to get better,” Matteo said, adjusting the nose-piece, “Stronger.”

“Now there I think I can help you… if you’re willing to work,” said Utu, mock frowning.

Matteo perked up. Nodded. Utu continued.

“Come over once a week from now on. There’s plenty that a kind young soul like yourself can do for me around the Temple. In exchange, I’ll give you regular treatments and physical therapy. Together we will test this ‘Faith’ of yours.”

Matteo’s heart fluttered, making him wheeze a little. He squeezed the release. A fresh tank always felt good. The sweet mint coolness swirled in his chest.

“Thank you,” Matteo smiled shyly.

“So! Back to the present moment… feeling better?” asked the Doctor.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good man! Now, this fine orange you gave me… it’s something very special. Maybe too much for my services this evening…” Utu turned and trotted to a shelf. He bent and slid out a lidless cardboard box. Reached inside.

“Your brother’s friends get these from time to time. They’re not the most… literate lot, so they pass them on to me. Haven’t seen a new one in a while though.” Utu pulled out a magazine and held it up. ‘ National… G-e-o… gra—’ Matteo squinted to make out the faded letters, but a big worn spot on the cover cut off the end. It didn’t matter much though. Here was something new.

“I’ve read each of them so many times now, I think it’s time to pass them along. At least to those who might be interested.” said Utu. Matteo fixated on the faded blues, greens, and yellows of the cover photo. He recognized the curved towers and cascading windows. But this… This was taken from the air! The words over the top of the picture tugged at his curiosity. ‘Sedonia City: The Great More Machine’

“Well!” said the Doctor, “I’ll take the vacant expression for a ‘yes.’ Why don’t you go on and take that?”

Matteo’s stomach flipped. He reached forward and took a delicate grasp on the magazine’s edges. Peering into the photo, he fed these new angles and foreign shapes into memory. They slid into the gaps in his mental models, widening the big picture. The thought of looking inside the book overwhelmed him. He tore his gaze away and looked up at the Doctor.

“You’re welcome. Now be careful with that on your way home. The binding isn’t what it used to be.”

“I will, I promise!” Matteo blurted out. Shyness returned to him. He brushed a hand against the beads on his way out the door.

Utu chuckled with a full heart, watching the boy disappear into the street with the prize. Yet as the room settled, sounds of the early evening drifted in through the swaying beads. Sirens. Drug-induced babbling. Shouting. The muffled tap of distant gunshots. Utu’s gentle smile dragged down into a grimace he allowed few to see.

“Be careful, child…” Utu looked up at the ceiling. Beyond it. “ Take care of that one. ”

GOVERNOR ENOTA SATO sat oblivious to the fourth drink he’d poured that evening. Though the kinetic dampeners prevented any sensation of turbulence in the dark limo cabin, melting ice clinked in his glass of bourbon. The vinyl seat shook as his leg bounced. Multi-colored images, news feeds, and mail windows hovered before him, blurred together by the alcohol’s effect on his neurotech. The resulting lag made everything linger when he pinched his eyes shut. He rubbed them. Opened them again. Set to mute, an economic reporter raved and thrashed above a cascade of scrolling stock-tickers. ‘Full of s ound and fury…’

Sato pinched the bridge of his thick, straight nose. Ring goddamn it! His finger itched, ready to dart out and tap the simulated “Accept” button that would appear in his Neural. For now, he stared at the barrage of numbers. One set in particular made him compulsively wet his lips. ‘Prescott Resource Group: -10.7, C230/share’

Text reading ‘ Incoming Call: PRG ’ appeared before him, shattering the monotony. Sato jerked in his seat. He tried to still the pounding in his chest and clear his throat. After two more obligatory rings he tapped ‘Encrypt,’ then ‘Accept,’ feeling the false vibration in his fingertips. A conference room materialized. The 3D effect offered by his Neural made him feel as though he sat amongst them. Surrounded . Seven people in spartan designer suits sat around a long mahogany table. Three women and four men. Behind them, the Milky Way drifted through an elegant bay window.

“Good evening everyone, I have two minutes before session, so if we could keep this brief—” Sato said.

“Cut the crap, Enota,” the throaty vibrato of PRG matron Janice Prescott came in vivid through his inner ear, “We need to know that this… incident with the DOJ is contained.” The false youth of her century-old face sent a chill through him. He feigned a casual eye-roll to avoid her piercing stare.

“Of course. Contained and isolated. All evidence has disappeared into the Slums and Kabbard’s hero cops are catching a few villainous faces for the eleven-o-clock news. Further inquiries into Slum dweller due process might seem a touch…vulgar, given the crimes of those imprisoned. Katheryn Roland’s successor is well prepared to be less sympathetic to murderers.” Sato internally loosened. The pitch. The tone. All exuded casual control, reassured by the focus augments in his head. Let them just see how useful I can be.

“Our concern is not with the plan or the execution. It’s with you,” Prescott’s response was a slap. “All you say may be true, but the method… Anyone skeptical may begin to see a pattern of ‘sudden and tragic’ crashes in the slums. We need to know you’re solid. Four bourbons in one Limo ride make us nervous.”

Blood filled Sato’s cheeks as he felt the perspiring glass squeak in his hand.

“I’m fine. Let them look for patterns. Any crusading investigator will end up chasing the history of every civilian death in the Slums. There are too many dots to connect.”

“Kathy Roland connected more than a few…right under your nose, too. What happens when someone digs up Alan Rindal?” Prescott’s question hung in the air a moment. Sato swallowed hard. Only one way to conceal the rush of anxiety.

“How dare you even mention…! ” Sato leaned toward the screen and extended a sharp finger. “Rindal is ancient history. Finished. Buried. Forgotten. You leave him in the past, and that is where he’ll stay.” He curled the finger back into his fist and reclined. Glared at Prescott’s glowing image in front of him.

“This speaks to my point. Making this personal is a mistake. We need you to detect and respond to threats and do so separate from emotional bias. There is too much at stake to miss a step now. If you can no longer differentiate between assumption and fact—”

“I told you, I’m fine. As of now, all facts indicate that the DA died a martyr’s death at the hands of those she sought to defend. And with her public investigation suspended, the news and the polls will bounce back to green. Now if you’ll excuse me…” Sato moved to press “Disconnect.”

“Work on your image, Governor,” said Prescott, “And be careful .”. Her stone expression underscored the final phrase. Meanings within meanings.

“Always,” said Sato. His smile weighed a metric ton.

“Thank you for your time,” said Prescott. Sato tapped ‘Disconnect’ and the usual message appeared in front of him. ‘Call Ended. Memory Block 081274_510p: Deleted . ’ A bitter reminder that he, Enota Sato: Governor of the People, had much to hide from. His Neural flashed back to the muted economic report. He swiped a hand across it, dismissing all feeds from view, then grabbed the watered-down glass of bourbon. Gulped a bitter mouthful.