by David Salvi
“For Eros sake, Jack,” Chris said.
“Who said you could talk?” the officer asked Chris. Now his hand was on Chris’s collar.
“No one, sir.” Chris’s eyes went from the floor to the man’s chest which was eye level.
Seemingly satisfied with Chris’s deference, the officer toured the rest of the bar with his partner interrogating patrons. No one spoke.
Several minutes later, the officers were gone without a suspect in tow.
“They are such asses,” Erin said while rolling her eyes.
“That was about as fun as an appendectomy,” Chris replied with a smile.
Erin laughed but turned to the gypsy woman and winked.
“Enough of a heart attack for one evening,” Jack said. He smacked his shoulder to signal an abrupt departure. Two drinks was enough, perhaps.
Jack hurried to the exit. Chris slowly rose to his feet. The aura of this lady captured his attention, the second person in one day. People in Canaan weren’t normally this intriguing.
“Motus needs you, Chris,” she whispered while looking forward at the bar. The comment stopped his feet, and he pivoted back toward the older woman. He had a face of alarm. Motus, even when talked casually, was a dangerous word to say in public.
“Who are you?” Chris said while squinting his eyes toward her.
“Ask your mother.” She got up from her stool swiftly. Her clothes’ frayed edges flew into his face. Within moments, she escaped through the back door of the bar that Erin had opened.
Chris watched the woman leave and left himself. He moved while replaying the words in his head. He reached Jack after bobbing and weaving through the alarmed crowd of Eros Pub.
“Can you even believe that?” Jack asked.
“Yeah, she was interesting,” Chris said.
“No, not the gypsy. The officers!”
“Nothing happened.”
“Damn right! If they would have grabbed me like that, lemme tell ya…” Jack said while laughing, but stopped when he opened the door and saw the officers waiting. His heart attack returned.
“Please, continue your thought.” the officer said, waiting in a chillingly stoic pose.
The silent one of the duo pulled his stunner from its holster.
“No thought. I’m without thought,” Jack murmured out of his mouth. His voice was unusually high.
“He didn’t mean anything by it, sir.” Chris tried to remain calm.
“You know how to get yourself into trouble, Menas. Hanging with the wrong kind again?” The officers knew him and his mom better than he had liked.
“No, nothing here, sir. My friend is drunk and an idiot,” Chris said. Keep cool, he told himself.
“Get the hell outta here before we stun his ass and throw him in the stockade for public disturbance.” This was their loose definition of public disturbance.
The two young men pivoted hard down the gravel road in a hasty walk. They looked back a few times to check if the officers followed. Thankfully, no. They dodged a stun and could live to tell a decent story.
Now out of sight of the officers, they slowed up.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Chris said.
“Sorry, man. And look? I peed a little.” Jack showed his wet crotch to Chris’s rolling eyes.
“We all know you peed a little, pal.”
Jack gave a sarcastic thumbs up to mask his embarrassment.
“Let’s go!”
On their saunter home, Chris’s mind swirled with isolated thoughts as Jack rambled about his ambitions. First the redhead, then the gypsy. Two Motus members in one day. How do they know my parents?
When Chris returned home, he saw his mother was asleep. Only her snore and dehumidifier filled the noise-voided space. His curiosity would have to rest with his body for the evening.
A woman, she was, red and fair
Running from the law, then ensnared
I never knew her name nor why
Couldn’t say hello, couldn’t say goodbye
She looked at me with her eyes
Magnificent, blue and clear
Never again will she though
Because tomorrow she dies
Chris lifted the pencil off his page. Goddamnit, I can’t shake her from my mind, he thought. Then flashed the few times he had attended the gallows, the red-haired girl’s fate.
Hordes of Canaanites were called to the gallows to witness executions. The government even allowed breakage of work to witness the breakage of necks. They called it “social teaching.” A grand announcement was made, along with a reciting of the criminal’s acts. Treason was the most popular reason for the gallows. Then the lever was pulled. A once loose noose tightened as its subject was drawn by gravity, snapping a neck at the end of its line. The “ceremonies” ended as soon as they started. People returned to their daily activity shortly after.
The memory disturbed him. He switched off his portable light and put his pencil and paper down for the evening. Sleep, even poor sleep, was needed.
CHAPTER 3
AN OVERNIGHT STORM spotted the gravel floor with puddles. As Apollo rose over the horizon, rays of light reflected off the smooth surfaces and blinded the morning commuters. Their feet slid and sunk into the gravel and blotches of moist soil. Blades of brave native grass sprang up through the cracks to bask in the light. The wood, which all the buildings were made of, darkened in the dampness. A layer of fog finally burned off. It was still Augustus season on Canaan. The peak of heat and humidity.
Chris awoke in a daze. Dreams were popping in and out of his head, making little sense, and only providing images of what was on his mind the last few days. Work, the redhead, the gypsy, his mother and father. None of it meant anything though.
He climbed out of bed and called for his mother to start a conversation. Nothing. Off to her job for the Council doing paperwork at the Tower. But she wasn’t considered part of the elite group “working” in Canaanite Tower. She was a low-level service employee, a few steps up from a slave or work dog. This, however, offered her flexibility. If she reached her work quota early, she left to cook Chris dinner at home.
A calendar hung on a wall in the kitchen. First Friday of Imperium, the first month of the Augustus season. Sunday was the first Sunday of Imperium, Canaanite City’s one day off in the 35-day month. That’s when he’ll bathe. Instead, he threw on his clothes.
Chris tossed his knapsack around to his back and affixed the straps to his shoulders. He wore his normal brown boots with rubber bottoms, green shorts, and gray t-shirt. Today was a peculiarly hot day, so he added a red bandana to hold back his sweaty mane on his head. If he had let it dangle, it’d nearly reach his shoulders. Despite his mother’s endless pleas to cut the mess, Chris liked how it looked when he caught a glimpse in the window reflection. He especially liked it in a bandana. This was one of the rare times he drew an air of confidence about himself. The rest of the day he lived in perpetual doubt.
Another day, another opportunity to work. Chris tended the gardens on the north end, as Jack went off to the many needs of carpentry around the city. A few miles beyond city limits, a vast acreage of gardens held nearly all of the population’s produce, mostly imported species. It was located mountainside at a higher altitude than the city, and thus drier. They wanted to control the humidity and irrigation to avoid disease.
At the city’s edge, a small electric bus waited for garden workers. It was an elongated gray bus with blue stripes down its side. Apollo-powered panels covered its roof. A dozen pickers boarded with Chris, as did the Administrator of Agriculture. He stopped by the operation every other day. Chris nodded to him, and the Administrator nodded back with a smile. He was a nice enough man to Chris since Chris did a fine job in the gardens. Like other Arch Canaanite Administrators, he wore fine clothing with intricate swirling designs in various colors on his heavyset body. Today was purple with golden stitching. Thanks to his opulent appearance and status, others avoided conve
rsation with him. The ride was silent for that reason. Most enjoyed the view.
Chris arrived at the entrance to the Eden Gardens, as they were called and noted on an elegant archway sign. A queue formed, and Chris let other pickers in first. Once he arrived to the console, he clocked in at a computer with a hand and fingerprints. Up popped his information as known by the Canaanite government—age, present location, residence, closest known kin, occupation, status.
Twenty-five years | Eden Gardens | Block 0822-02 | Myra Menas | Garden Inspector | Good Standing
The last one mattered most.
A hydraulic lever released, and a gate swung open automatically. Chris entered and whipped his knapsack around to retrieve his clipboard and pencil.
First, the Administrator entered a hut adjacent to the entrance. He emerged with quota charts for the pickers, promptly sending them into the field. Then, he handed Chris papers for the clipboard. Inspector Chris handled this part on mornings the Administrator went to rice paddies, goat farms, or Fishing Ops. He did not care either way. Happy to snag his instructions, Chris clipped the papers. And so his day started, charting and reporting food supplies for Canaanites based on produce counts and seasonal standards. Everything in Canaan was meticulously calculated.
He started in a localized Earthy vegetation section, which housed plants that descended from hydroponic life aboard the Grand Exodus trip to Canaan. His board noted these as FRAGILE and had columns to track growth status, fruit count, and disease spotting. He measured sizes. He counted bulbs, flowering stems, and leaf quality. When something was suspicious such as disease, he’d take a picture of the plant and grab a sample for lab work.
Every twenty minutes, the automated irrigation system would pop on and surprise Chris. He recoiled and waited out the ten-second mist before continuing his work.
Bell Peppers | Cherry Tomatoes | Cucumbers | Dates | Figs | Lemons | Oranges | Sweet Corn | Zucchini | Potatoes
On and on he went, detailed with his calculations, counts, and recordings. Dates and figs grow best. Cherry tomatoes split on the vine. Cucumbers were dwarf. Lemons thrived. Zucchini did not flower as expected. The day’s trends followed suit with the Augustus season, the hottest and most humid of the Canaanite year.
At times, he’d pick a crop, draw his gardener knife from a belt holster, and look inside for rot or vermin. It was a two-toothed knife serrated on one side for certain crops. So far so good. It’s been a good year and Chris was pleased with what the city could expect for the upcoming season.
This took up most of his morning.
As the clock neared midday, Chris scanned his clipboard and was happy with the progress he had made. The afternoon, as he charted, was dedicated to the native vegetation. Teragine groves and masaga fields. The planet had thousands of wild plant options. All but teragine and masaga gave Canaanites major gastrointestinal issues. Masaga made people only a bit gassy. He peered over the clipboard and saw groves of teragine fruiting at the right time. Dozens to a tree. These were fist-sized fruit balls with knuckle-sized bumps around its skin. They were orange, faded with yellows, and sweet. In the distance, masaga fruit grew oblong and were colored brown. These were mushy and tasty inside and were often used as a base ingredient for Canaanite baking.
The day progressed easily, and Chris thought to sneak into the mountains to read during lunch break, especially with the Administrator out on his morning rounds. He snagged the Papa Hemingway book late last night while his mother slept.
The deep dong of Eden Gardens’ bell rang.
Chris enjoyed the pleasures of Hemingway’s terse writing. To the point and active. And with the collection of short stories in tow, he read through several during the lunch hour, whisking him off to unknown lands on their distant home planet called Earth. In Canaanite school, images of Earth were minimized to troubling depictions of overpopulation, pollution, disease, and urban rot. Warning signs for Canaanite youth: We can’t be like them.
Call it an unrelenting rebellious phase, but Chris refused to believe this is how it was there.
He’d glance down toward the north side of the city for his cue. Then it came. Chris saw the electric bus return with the Administrator from his morning rounds, signaling that lunch was over. He expected to hear a deep gong of the Eden Gardens’ bell any moment for a call to work.
But something else happened.
An alarm erupted from the city, shooting through the network of speakers installed all over the city and outskirts, including the Eden entrance. A high-pitched alert increased in volume and echoed off the Albertrum Mountains on the opposite side of the lake. Chris winced and put his hand over his right ear as he made his way down to the entrance in a full sprint. Jesus, what’s going on? Chris thought. The pickers stopped. The Administrator jumped out of the bus and looked back at the city.
“What’s that?!” Chris shouted as he jogged toward the entrance.
“An alarm like that can only mean one thing.” The Administrator stood still.
“What?”
“We’re under attack.”
Then an explosion rocked their small city. Rock, stone, smoke, and flames shot up from the Canaanite Tower.
***
Chris rushed to the electric bus, took the wheel, and put the pedal to the floor. The Administrator hollered something indiscernible to Chris, but he knew it wasn’t a cheery farewell.
The naturally unsteady vehicle usually had the weight of a dozen more passengers. On the gravel pathway back to the city center, it bumped and skidded going full speed. The windows were down, and Canaan’s thick breeze flew into Chris’s face. He gripped the steering wheel and squinted his eyes at the scene.
Smoke plumes stretched into the Apollo-kissed blue and purple sky.
As it approached the city limits in a few minutes time, the bus automatically slowed to a stop. No vehicles inside Canaanite City. Chris jumped out and headed into the commotion.
Shouting blanketed the streets. More explosions set off greater alarm among the populace. A few injured citizens were carried away by concerned compatriots.
Chris flowed in the opposite direction right into town square. The chaos only grew as he neared the scene. He saw that the gallows were set up for a public execution. Chris’s redhead. Riley.
But no one huddled near the gallows. Attention was on the periphery.
Fires were crawling up the sides of buildings with an aggressive fury. Workers from the Interior Administration were summoned to draw the piped water supply and extinguish the armageddon that would certainly burn down the city.
Running across the square was Jack, who had a backpack basin and hose in hand. His face was red, and he sweated more than usual. Strands of his hair stuck to his face.
“Jack!” Chris shouted while running over. He dodged several people on the way to his friend. But Jack did not hear Chris, as he was focused on his task.
Hydrants were arranged all over the city. Fresh, clean water ran through the city’s pipes and into people’s homes, places of work, and these street hydrants, which were more giant faucets to retrieve water in different ways. Canaanites could collect drinking water through a spout, cool off with the shower head, or draw an emergency supply for situations like this. Enter the proper code on its operating computer and the appropriate outlet would operate.
Jack hooked his basin and hose to the hydrant and filled his supply. He manually cranked a side lever on his basin for water pressure. Chris arrived right before Jack finished step one.
“Chris, what are you doing here?! Get outta here. The gardens were safe.” There was an odd hostility to his voice.
Thick heat pushed them away from the flames like an invisible barrier.
“We heard the blast. How can I help?” Chris asked.
“You can’t. Interior deployed everyone.”
“What the Eros happened?” Chris said. He witnessed the scene. Nothing but fire, screaming Canaanites, running dogs, and focused Interior employees. People rushed around
town square trying to find friends and kin. They opened doors, broke windows, and bashed into burning walls with homemade wooden battering rams.
Jack said in a hurry, “Public execution went awry. Riley something. First, Motus hacked into the Apollo-powered battery grid and overran the transformers and breakers in this sector. Heat caused sparking. Ignited the whole damn area. They created a diversion at the Tower with an explosive. Motus bastards.”
“It was like the whole town was here.”
“They were! Anyone in the city limits was encouraged to watch the Motus hanging,” Jack said. “Especially this one. She’s some leader.”
Jack finished filling the basin and moved Chris out of his way. Yards ahead flames engulfed a wall, turning it black and charred. Water burst out of the hose and into the fire. But the inferno proved too much. The crackling of embers hissed and mocked the water. White smoke rose forth, but the flames remained intact and in power.
“Ahhh!” Jack yelled while hoping for any progress in suppressing the fire. An onslaught of expletives followed. Chris turned and ran.
“Where are you going?!” Jack shouted, still focused on the fire while catching Chris in the corner of his eye.
“Home!” Chris shouted back in full sprint.
But before he could reach full stride, backdraft caused a blast of flames and heat and shoved him to the ground like a fiery smack to his temple. His ears rang. His face felt burned. Under him was his knapsack, breaking his fall except for his book piercing his ribs. Breathing became a problem.
Jack was too busy with his duties to notice Chris on the ground from the blast.
Chris suddenly found his body picked up with his arm wrapped around someone’s neck. His legs dangled, his head fell backwards, and he blinked his eyes nervously to capture the scene.
“Quiet,” his rescuer said. A female voice to his left.
“Who...who are you?” Chris’s ears still rang. He wasn’t sure if he said it loud enough. Trying to make out the figure, he refocused his eyes, while making a contorted face.