Son of Sedonia

3

Weight


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 sound 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.

He traced a clockwise circle on the armrest touchpad. The tinted windows turned clear, brightening the limo cabin with the emerald skyscrapers of the City’s Center Ring. He squinted through the migraine as he peered outside. Almost home. He reached into his coat pocket, produced a small green capsule, and tossed it into his mouth. Spearmint erased his bourbon breath as he watched the two-hundred story high-rises pass by. The calm flow of traffic drifted in perfect choreography. It soothed him...until the thought of a crash intruded. Jesus, Kathy...why couldn’t you just take the money and keep quiet?

The limo merged with a climbing slope of traffic and exited into a neighborhood of luxury penthouses. Open-air swimming pools, roof deck patios, and lyrical floor-plans passed underneath. The limo dipped and touched down on the corner pad of a crescent shaped complex. Part of him relaxed, but luxury in this part of town brought with it the sensation of being utterly trapped. It took a moment to stir himself from the leather upholstery when his driver opened the hatch.

“We’ve arrived, sir,” the driver gently reminded him. Sato’s posture straightened. Chin raised, he lifted himself out of the hatch, triggering a head-rush. He winced as the ice-pick sharp pain bored into his temples. The driver moved to help. Sato waved him off, then descended the remaining limo steps, put his feet on solid ground, and adjusted his suit.

Walking was harder than he’d guessed. He reigned in his staggering as best he could along the paver-stone walkway. His rooftop villa didn’t appear to get any closer. The low arcades of curved window-walls swayed ahead of him, fuzzy against the shining backdrop of the City. The driver trotted ahead and waved a bare forearm over the security plate, triggering a beep. Sato caught up slowly. Nodded a terse ‘thank you’ and stepped inside the foyer.

His villa was dark and still inside. The main hall windows had all been set to maximum tint and no interior lights were on. Sato paused and swayed.

“Jada?” he called out, straining to hear against the ringing in his ears. Nothing. He cleared his throat.

“Windows thirty percent.” he said. The black glass panes cleared, spilling golden light into the main hall. Lacquered Spanish tables, art deco bronzes, and marble tile shone in the glare. Sato squinted.

“Make that sixty-five percent.” The hall softened to a rich, honeyed orange and he rubbed his eyes. Crossed the entry hall and turned into the kitchen. Black marble counter-space lined the walls, inset everywhere with stainless steel appliances. The place was spotless. Scrubbed in a way that told Sato she’d been stress-cleaning again. He poured himself a tall glass of water, drank it down, then turned to the right. Stumbled through the dining room. High arched ceilings of glass and ribbed rosewood craned above a long black table.

“Jada?” He listened. A muffled voice carried down the hall from an adjacent room. Sato followed the sound until he made out the words.

“On-scene investigators have said that with so much of the craft having been stripped, the exact cause of the crash could not be determined. However, many owners of the ‘72 model have issued complaints in past months referring to errors in the navigation system and aerial attitude control. The FAA has issued a statement that formal inquiries will also be made into the impact foam delivery system of the Pulsar HVX...”

A ninety inch screen reflected its grim images off the vaulted glass ceiling. Sato’s stomach turned. A GloboMetro Special Report showed HD video of Kathy Roland’s family transport, gutted and stripped on a rooftop in the Slums. A series of sharp sniffles and sobs came from the leather sectional couch. He swallowed.

“Jada? What’s going on? What happened?” Sato said. Jada pushed upright from her nest of blankets on the couch. The folds of her satin bathrobe wrapped her round, protruding belly. She wiped tears and bleeding mascara from her cheeks.

“Enota! You scared m—it’s Kathy... Kathy Roland, her car crashed in the Slums. She’s missing...they,” Jada’s throat tightened, “they say that she and her family have been taken...probably killed. She was coming to the shower next week, I...” Her soft features twisted in anguish as she cradled her round belly. Trembled with each heavy sob.

Sato sat next to her, pulled her close, and placed a hand on her stomach. She cried hard into his chest. His mouth opened to say something but the words evaporated when he felt a tiny kick against his hand. Jada’s sobbing died down, and she sniffed hard.

“H-have you been drinking?”

“One in the car on the way here, that’s all. Rough day.”