REHO: A Science Fiction Thriller (The Hegemon Wars) (10 page)

As they exited
the jungle and entered the plains, still miles from the mountain, Thursday stopped fueling the burner. Reho monitored the speed. After dropping to fifty miles per hour, the train had maintained its speed for over twenty miles before showing any sign of slowing.

Just before daylight, they discussed ideas for slowing the train. Ends didn’t panic until he saw Killa-jaro approaching. Ultimately, they decided to go with Thursday’s idea.

Above the second and third passenger car, there were rain containers used to capture water for the passengers and to provide water for the boiler. The plan was simple: make a sizable puncture in both the water tanks and boiler for them to empty quickly. The trick was doing it without having the boiler explode.

Reho went with Thursday. If this worked, water would drain out onto the tracks and slow the steamer. Even Gibson had said it was a good plan.
It just needed to be tested.

Thursday held his pulse rifle at an angle, its barrel an inch away from the drainage valves. Reho examined the valves and wondered why there was no manual release, a serious design flaw. The boiler sat like a giant teapot reminding Reho of the Fighter. Instead of being mounted on two legs, it was mounted on and powering a steamer.

Thursday blasted into the valve. Nothing.

“Dammit!”
Thursday shouted, looking at Reho who had taken a position farther back. Reho nodded, signaling to try again.

Thursday fired rapidly this time. Reho counted five blasts before boiling water spewed out with a thunderous hiss below them. Thursday flung himself backward to avoid the boiling backsplash. Excess water poured out through a grate on the floor.

“Whoo hoo!” Thursday shouted. “I wonder how fast it’ll empty.”

Reho looked at his AIM; the speed had reduced some. He ascended to the top of the navigation car and blasted the two rain containers there. They drained in under a minute. Both now drenched, Reho and Thursday returned to the navigation room.

***

The train had stopped a mile short of the station’s platform. The cargo was loaded onto the steam-mule, as Ends made his way to the loading platform just west of the town.

The station at the foot of Killa-jaro was deserted, its whitewashed buildings in danger of collapse.
Where was the team to take them farther up the mountain to Jaro?

The town had been built with stone, wood, and concrete—structures lef
t over from before the Blasts. Buildings were painted with businesses names he recognized. There were no metal pipes connecting to some large boiler in the distance. After loading the steam wagon, Reho, Gibson, and Thursday walked through the town searching for any signs to show if someone had been here. Sola and Ends remained behind, examining the map.

Windows were boarded up, their glass shattered. He ran his hands across the concrete wall of what had once been a drugstore; its broken, blue and white sign read only
Rite
—
.
He stuck his finger into several bullet holes. They were the size of his index finger. Reho stepped back and took in the entire building. This town had been attacked and abandoned for decades.

The morning sun was bright and the air clean. He hadn’t eaten for almost a day but felt more energetic then he had in his entire life. His shoulder had healed. It was still tight, but that would soon been gone, too. The Casio displayed 10:51.
We’re early.

Thursday was waving his arms at Ends. “We came out here for nothing, Ends!”

“We’re early,” Reho said.

“Oh,” Thursday said. “What time is it?”

“Almost 11:00,” Reho replied.

Ends looked at his watch and adjusted its time.

“They will be here for noon,” he said. “Get some food and rest so we can move when they arrive.” He took the last drag from the flask and winced as he returned it to its ankle strap.

Reho dug a peanut butter sandwich from his sack. It was more than two weeks old but relatively fresh. Sandwiches from the vending machines placed in the Blastlands had the longest shelf life. They were packaged and sealed tight with a material capable of keeping out radiation. He finished it with half a canteen of water. Reho thought back to the peanut butter sandwiches he’d eaten as a kid. A memory surfaced: he was five years old, sitting at the kitchen table. His mother cut the crust from a loaf of fresh-baked bread and handed him a glass of cold milk. Reho drifted off under the midday New Afrika sun. The muted chatter around him and the chill in the air transported him not to his mother’s kitchen, but to another familiar, less-welcoming place.

***

The city radiated, its white-hot light reflected from every mirror-like surface. He saw himself everywhere: in the glass doorways, on the ninth floor windows. She was here also—the petite girl with the tattoos. He had seen her before in earlier dreams, those cold-milk-and-crustless-bread memories of his childhood. The city of light and mirrors shook like OldWorld gasolines racing through the streets. Reho walked farther down the street to a neon sign.
City of Lights.
It pointed down a flight of stairs to the city’s underbelly. Reho followed.

The air was damp and the walls wet. Further down, another neon sign glowed. There were no letters, but none were needed. The flickering outline of a nude woman—standing, then bending forward, fingers moving from breast
to lips—beckoned passersby. Reho entered. The place was empty. The club was filled with OldWorld leather chairs and sofas; a stage dominated its center. Reho followed a lighted footpath to the back.

Something metallic scraped in the distance.

The reception desk next to the door sat empty.

Ring
.

The noise startled Reho. He instinctively reached for the phone before the second ring and answered, having seen actors do the same in movies.

“Hello?”

“How may I help you?” A female voice whispered in his ear, her voice low, soft, and foreign. The words sounded like something out of movie.

“Who is this?”

The screech of metal-on-metal distracted him again.

“It’s me. It’s going to start raining soon. It’ll rain wherever you go,” the voice said. Then the call ended.

Reho opened the door near the desk. A long, dimly-lit hallway ran in both directions, its graffiti-covered walls dotted with closed doors. An orange and black cat appeared out of nowhere and raced past him and out the door. The floors were littered with syringes, rags, OldWorld soda cans, and newspapers. It reminded him of a picture he’d once seen in an abandoned office building—a picture of OldWorld Chicago.

Reho tried each door as he went down the hall. The grinding noise returned. The last door on the left was ajar; the light flickered as Reho entered.

Across from him, a black door was painted on the wall, a familiar image above it: a cross inside a circle with two curved lines spanning its midsection and a loop on its lower segment.
Where was Jimmy?

Jimmy was always at the door, his face hidden, engulfed by light. Reho walked closer to the painted door. Something had changed. An eye above the symbol blinked, it looked a
t Reho then toward the door behind him. Metal shrieked behind him, bringing Reho to his knees and his hands to his ears. Suddenly, the piercing noise ceased. Reho stood and turned, eye-to-eye with Jimmy. His eyes were bright beams emitting from green, lizard-like flesh and glinting off his metallic, animal-like claws.
The room went dark as an icy cold rain poured over him.

It’s going to rain.

***

Reho woke, startled. Thursday stood over him, holding his canteen.

“You wouldn’t wake man,” Thursday said.

Reho wiped the water from his face and cleared his eyes. “How long was I asleep?” Gibson and Sola were standing behind Thursday, the entire trio concerned.

“For nearly an hour,” Sola replied.

Reho stood and noticed the humming of gasolines.

“Our transport?” Reho asked, walking away from his spectators and to the source of the rumbling.

Two Humvees, both matching the terrain of a desert, were loaded with their OldWorld devices. Four black-skinned men stood next to Ends. One pointed toward the mountain while the others stood with their arms crossed. They looked military, and each wore rifles, pistols, and carried enough grenades on their vests to start a war.

“Ends is concerned that our cargo will be damaged in the Humvees,” Thursday said walking toward them, zipping his pants. “He is trying to convince them to let him and Gibson drive.”

“Good grief, what were you doing, Thursday?” Gibson asked.

“Well, I–”

“No,” Gibson said, “on second thought, don’t tell us.”

“How long until we leave?” Reho asked, still shaking off the images from his nightmare.
It’s going to rain soon.

“Not long,” Sola replied. “Come on.”

The Humvees were impressive in size. Reho had seen one before, in Red Denver. They were used for military transportation and designed to drive in any conditions. Reho placed his hands on the hood and listened to its engine idling.

“You a fan, huh?” one of the transporters asked, a wide smile stretching across his face. He had the darkest skin Reho had ever seen. His arms were scarred as though torn by an animal.

“Yes. I raced gasolines like this one. Well . . . not quite like this.”

The gasolines he’d raced had been piecemeal, motley mixtures of cars and trucks. Anything that would increase their speed. These Humvees were original vehicles with no modifications or replacement parts. They rumbled beneath their hoods and smelled of gasoline as they would have before the Blasts.

“These are prized possessions belonging to my leader,” he said. “He sent these to secure your journey up the mountain.” He stuck out his hand. “I am Zen.”

“Reho.” They shook. His smile was wide, infectious. Reho couldn’t help but smile in return.

“You should’ve let
us drive!” Ends said as their Humvee skidded through the curve, nearly sending them over its edge. Two thousand feet up the mountain, Jaro’s walls ascended into view. They resembled the walls of a kingdom in an OldWorld country. Reho couldn’t recall its name.
Scotchland?
This city was well fortified from any invasion, except maybe one from the sky.

“I do the driving,” the driver said. “The leader will have what’s left of my fingers if I let foreigners run his gasolines.” He chuckled as he took one hand off the wheel and bit off his glove, revealing his three remaining digits.

“Great.” Ends flinched and returned to the map spread out across his lap.

Sola sat in the back with Reho, quiet. An equally silent transporter sat between them. She hadn’t said much since the attack at the tracks. Her hands rattled, and Reho thought he knew why. Before leaving with Darksteam, he’d seen her slip a tiny blue pill onto her tongue as they prepared the steam-mule. Their eyes had met, as did Ends’. It was withdrawal causing her hands to fidget and dance on her lap.

Through the dust behind them, Reho could make out the other Humvee, maybe a quarter mile back.

“The Kingdom of Jaro welcomes you, foreigners,” the driver said as they pulled up to the colossal, metal gate cutting the mountainous road off from the city. Guard towers lined the fence every three hundred feet. The massive gate slid into the wall, powered by some invisible force.

“Our gates are made of solid steel. Nothing has ever pierced our fortress. Our kingdom will stand for a thousand years and be here when Neopan becomes Atlantis,” the driver said.

“Atlantis?” Reho asked Sola, who just looked at him and shrugged.

Jaro was a world built on and into a mountain. The buildings were made of stone and wood, its streets paved with hard grey-and-white stones. Vehicles littered the street, some as rusted as the ones abandoned in the Blastlands.

The crew followed the transporters to Kibo’s residence.

“Ends won’t leave the cargo,” Sola said, answering Reho’s repeated glances back at the Humvees. He stood propped against the one they’d arrived in, holding his side.

“It’s delivered,” Reho said.

“He won’t leave it until he’s paid,” she said. “If it’s stolen, there is no payment. He was scammed a few years back. Not here, though.”

They walked through double doors and followed Zen as he scurried through the house.

Zen placed a finger to his lips. “You must refrain from talking as we wait for Kibo to meet with us. He doesn’t want anything to disrupt his daughter’s music in the afternoon. It’s the only thing that soothes his wife’s nerves.”

Music filled the air around them.
A piano.

***

Thursday, Sola, Gibson, and Reho had been waiting over an hour. The music traveled through the halls and filled the silence with soft melodies that Reho thought could only be played by someone very sad. For most of the hour, Reho studied the city on his AIM. It covered over two square miles, most of it carved into the mountain. Reho had rendered the map twice, searching for any hints of a sublevel. Everything was above ground except for the five-foot drainage pipes carrying away the city’s waste to the other side of the mountain, near the coast.

In the distance, a globular figure crossed the hall on two wheels, darting from one room to another. No one had noticed except Reho. It appeared to be a person wheeled by two towering figures.
She must be over six hundred pounds.
Just then, Zen opened both doors as though opening the room to hundreds of guests.

“The Magnificent Kibo will now see you,” Zen said. The music had ceased a few moments before, and Reho watched as a young girl walked across the room. She wore a white dress that sparkled with silver as the light twinkled off its fabric. It shimmered and contrasted against her black skin. She was shorter than Reho, younger. Reho sat next to Thursday on the sofa closest to the piano. The beautiful girl looked back as she paused at the door; their eyes met for the briefest of moments Her face was like something from a movie poster he’d once seen. Gemstones patterned her cheeks and brow. She was gorgeous, blue-eyed, and projected a sense of familiarity. Her face reminded him of Jena for a moment—not physically, but the way he’d felt when he looked at her. She disappeared through the doorway as a tall, muscular man paraded into the room, dressed in bright colors and escorted by a trio of hard-looking men. Their eyes told Reho they had seen their share of death.

The man was Kibo, Leader of the Kingdom of Jaro. His clothing reminded Reho of the judge and councilmen in Red Denver.

“Stand please,” Zen said, motioning them upward. “This is our leader, Kibo III. He is the direct descendant of the Great Kibo who delivered the people of Killa-jaro from the Hegemon.”

“You may have a seat,” Kibo said. “Now that you know who I am, I, in return, want to know who you are.” His tone was rich, his English practiced and fluent. He made his way to a seat across from them. His dark skin was a seamless backdrop for the decorative gemstones that lined it. They dotted his forehead in luminous blues and greens and trailed down the side of his face, connecting with a multicolored row of gemstones at his earlobes. His Herculean appearance gave the impression of a warrior, but Reho couldn’t find any scars. The two bodyguards must be carrying those blemishes for him.

Zen suggested they enjoy some of the complimentary foods spread out on the table between them. Feeling obliged, Reho peeled a piece of citrus fruit and popped a section into his mouth. Its contents were juicy and sweet.

“This reminds me how bad your cooking really is,” Gibson said to Thursday, who had tossed a handful of nuts into the air, destined for his mouth.

Kibo laughed as he reached for a piece of fruit, his eyes resting on Sola.

“It is an honor to be here,” she said. “I’m sure you’re aware our leader is at the gates with your shipment.” Her eyes were serious, her tone leaving no doubt that she was in control. It reminded Reho of how she’d been with the Industrialists out on the ocean.

“Straight to work, indeed,” Kibo said, setting down his half-eaten fruit.

She fixed her eyes on Kibo. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s been a difficult day. We would like to conclude our business this afternoon, if possible.”

“Your business is already done,” Kibo said, surprising everyone. “Your leader has been paid and has already met with me. Is that what you thought you were doing here?”

“We thought the payment would be made here,” Thursday said.

“Business here?” Kibo sounded insulted. “This is my residence. You are my guests. I never handle business, especially of this nature, here at my home where my wife and daughters roam freely.”

“Sorry, we didn’t know,” Sola replied.

“You are my guests. You may stay as long as you wish. You’re welcome to anything in my home. Except my wife and my daughters, that is.” He guffawed, quite amused at himself, and slapped his hands on his knees.

He stood to leave. “Oh, I almost forgot. Our annual festival begins tonight. You should really experience this. Our kingdom has already begun preparing. This is a great opportunity for everyone to experience life in my kingdom. We are celebrating our Liberation Day. We will be entering into our seventieth year of independence from all foreign rule.”

With that, Kibo swept from the room, his bodyguards in tow.

“Kibo invites you to stay in his home,” Zen said. “Your rooms are already prepared. There will be a parade tomorrow at sunset. You have been asked to stay at least until the festivities end, three days from now. To leave any earlier would be insulting to the people of Jaro.”

“It would be our utmost honor to stay and enjoy these festivities,” Thursday said, catching a quick glance from Sola. Reho could read her expression:
You don’t speak for the crew.

“Thank you,” Sola said.

***

The residence was a picture-book palace, rivaling anything Reho had seen illustrated in children’s stories. The number of artifacts tucked away in every nook and cranny had impressed him. Paintings wallpapered every wall they’d passed. These images had survived the Blasts. They weren’t like the lightweight posters and pictures that littered the walls in forgotten homes and shops back in Usona. These were stocky and hung in heavy frames. The images varied and appeared to follow no consistent theme. Masterpieces from centuries of artists before the Blast now hung in one man’s home.

They’d each been escorted to their own private rooms on the second floor. If the other rooms were like his, it would be hard to leave in a few days. From the balcony, Reho could see the city. The people of Jaro were the opposite of those he had seen in Darksteam. Their skin was blacker. A cluster of women walked the street, their dresses similar to that of the girl he had seen in the piano room. The dresses were loosely-fitted, the fabric fanning out as they moved. They resembled the pleated paper fans girls made on hot summer days when he was in school. The men wore shorts and button-down, short-sleeved shirts. There was brightness and vivid color everywhere as people bustled to their destinations. No pipes connected the city to a monstrous industrial boiler, but there was power here.
Generated by machines running on what?
It was a question Reho would have to ask later.

The room was packed with furniture, making it hard to traverse to the bed. Its frame was massive with balusters with intricately carved flowers and vines—a bed fit for a king. He sat on its edge, then stretched out across it. The noises coming from the street mingled with the fresh mountain breeze, forcing him to close his eyes and take in the moment. His thoughts drifted to Ends.
He had handled business away from his crew.

Then his thoughts traveled to the city of light, with its voice calling out to him through the phone.
How may I help you
?

“Reho!”

Reho startled. He had been on the verge of sleep when Gibson brought him back to the Kingdom of Jaro. Reho opened the door and found Gibson wearing a brightly colored hat resembling a disk-shaped yellow flower.

“Don’t worry,” Gibson said. “There are plenty to choose from.” He handed Reho a glass of purple liquid.

Reho held the glass skyward and examined its contents. “And this is . . . ?”

“I’m not sure, but there’s a bowl of it downstairs,” Gibson replied, finishing off his glass. “It’s definitely spiked, though.”

“Did Ends arrive?” Reho asked as he followed Gibson down the hall.

“Yes. One of the house doctors is sewing him up now. Thursday went out to see the city. We have to meet everyone downstairs in a few hours, but there’s something I want to show you before it gets dark.”

***

The sky above them was a soft, cloudless blue.
The stars would look amazing out here.

“
It's a freaking pool in the mountains!” Gibson said. He charged toward the pool, dropped his drink, and stripped down to nothing before hitting the water.

Reho couldn't help but laugh. He walked closer to the water but had no desire to swim. Something else caught his eye. The piano girl disappeared behind a counter near the pool. Reho sat down at one of the stools, his drink still untouched in his hand. He took a sip and immediately understood why Gibson was in such a good mood.

She rose from behind the counter and dropped the bottled drink she was holding. Reho reached behind the counter and snagged it before it could hit the floor.

“Sorry,” she said with a nervous chuckle. “I didn’t know you were there. I can be so clumsy.”

“It was my fault,” Reho said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay.”

She pointed to his drink. “We have some of the best citrus drinks. They’re carbonated. Just like before the Blasts. Is that the one from the house?”

“Yes. There’s more than just juice in it, though.”

She laughed again. “My mother makes it. She ferments some of the fruit to give it that effect.”

She was unlike anyone he had met since Jena, yet was nothing like her. Her words flowed off her tongue, reminding him of 4E’s bookkeeper. As a child, he would go weekly to borrow books just to hear her speak. He couldn’t recall her name, but he remembered how she’d sounded. Her words had always been so exotic and mellifluous.

She smiled. “My father said your crew was brave enough to smuggle in some important devices for our community. On behalf of the people of Jaro, I thank you.”

“You’re Kibo’s daughter?” Reho asked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Yes. My name is Rainne.” She walked back toward the pool. “Do you swim?” She dropped her covering and dove into the water.

Gibson was on the opposite end of the pool, taking notice of Reho and the beautiful piano girl. Her body was thin, fragile even, but she appeared strong, her muscles flexing as she shot off the pool’s edge.
Rainne
.

“Yes,” Reho replied once she emerged from the water. “But I am meeting my companions.”

“
Swim!” Gibson said from across the pool. He raised another glass of something. This time it was honey-colored.

Reho stripped down to his undershorts and dove into the water, the scars on his body hidden beneath the water’s surface. He ran his fingers over his shoulder wound; it had already healed. New Afrika was a place where people could heal, a place with a future, unlike Usona and the Eastern Blocs, which would still be contaminated a thousand years from now.