REHO: A Science Fiction Thriller (The Hegemon Wars)

by D. L. Denham

  Reho recalled what little Gibson had said about Darksteam. It had been known in the Old World as Freetown, a colony populated at one time by freed slaves from OldWorld America. Reho couldn’t imagine a world with slavery. In Usona, living might have been hard, but everyone was his own person. In New Afrika, communities might war, but Gibson had explained that none enslaved the others. Those OldWorld mistakes had died with the Blast.

  Now it was Darksteam that seemed unreal, reminding him how far away he was from home. A bright sun shined, but the town was cast in shadow. In the distance, three gargantuan towers bellowed smoke clouds into the sky, covering the town in grey ash. At the base of the towers was a building that housed the coal plant that furnished steam to the town.

  “Reho!” Gibson jogged over to him. “It’s probably better if we go into town together. Sola nearly smashed my face when I told her you left alone.” He rubbed the side of his face playfully.

  He glanced back toward the boat. “She thinks I won’t come back.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. Maybe we shouldn’t.”

  “So, what exactly is here?” They made their way into town.

  “I’ve been here before, several times, actually,” Gibson said. “This is the closest port in New Afrika to reach Usona. Darksteam connects to Iron Ganda farther south and the Kingdom of Jaro to the East. It’s easier to experience these places than to try and explain them. They each have their own peculiarities.”

  The breeze continued to blow off the ocean, traveling through the streets, lifting the ash off the parked vehicles and roadway, sending a flurry ahead of them. The buildings were made from the same metals used to make the steamships: iron, copper, and steel. Mega sheets of various metals wrapped the steel structures in the town. OldWorld materials and newly-forged metals gave the town the appearance of a quilt that, after many generations, contained thousands of interwoven patches. Cast iron pipes ran through the town, attached to the buildings’ outer walls. Everything converged into one color: bronze.

  The breeze and beauty of the ocean was a blessing as well as a curse to the port town. Devastation caused by the salt and moisture from the ocean ate away at the buildings like cancer. Sections of the buildings had been cut away, removing the cancerous rust and then covered with either a bolted or welded patch of steel or copper.

  Reho was curious about the cast iron pipes. “What are these?” In some areas, more than a dozen pipes ran across a building’s wall.

  “Clean water and steam runs through most of them,” Gibson replied. “The smallest ones are gas pipes. Utilities are very competitive here. Each political party runs its own utilities for its constituents. But the main supplier is Torco, and its power comes from there.” Gibson pointed to the coal burning plant that powered the town but left it polluted and dirty.

  Reho bent down next to a cracked pipe. Steam spewed from where it had been poorly fixed. Reho dusted off fresh ash from his pants legs. He ran his hands through his hair, shaking out an inch of the fine soot.

  “It’s always like that, too,” Gibson said. “There’s no use rubbing it off; the stuff just smears. They’ve been living this way for at least half a century. They have made some impressive innovations, though. But none of this compares to Neopan. Hell, I hate it here. You lose your balance and you’re looking at a couple broken bones and few missing teeth.”

  Reho looked up at the ash cloud in the sky. “All for steam.” Ash fell over the town like filthy snowflakes. The farther away from the coast they moved, the worse it became.

  They didn’t see anyone moving around until they arrived at the center of town. At first Reho wasn’t sure what he was looking at. His initial thought was that a Hegemon or something else of an alien nature moved toward them on the opposite side of the street. The street was darker, gas lanterns already burning, casting the walkways with eerie shadows. It moved slowly then was joined by something else that stepped out of one of the buildings it passed. Reho could hear their whispering through the curtain of ash. Gibson seemed either unaware or disinterested in the sight.

  A lady wearing a bulbous, bell-shaped dress of the same tarnished-copper color as the buildings shook her oval umbrella into the street, creating a tiny whirlwind of ash in front of her. She cackled as she and the other figure disappeared into the building.

  Gibson noticed Reho staring as they passed the doorway through which the lady had disappeared.

  “They’re human,” he said. “Just . . . eccentric.”

  Another door opened, this time closer to them. A tall figure in a black suit and white ruffled shirt stepped out onto the street and turned in their direction. He held a cane but no umbrella; instead, his face was hidden behind a thick, black, copper mask with a large canister attached to one side. His voice was muffled as he passed them, but his words were clear.

  “Good day, gentlemen,” he said in a strange accent. Reho noticed his hands, encased in bright gloves with an intricate flower design, one he recognized from his mother’s garden. American dogwood.

  Gibson nodded as they continued past the man.

  “Some have breathed the ash for so long that it’s killing them,” Gibson said, responding to Reho’s intense gaze at the man’s mask.

  Suddenly, Reho heard a singular singsong voice traveling through the streets.

  They rounded the corner to find a young boy standing on a wooden box, a two-sided billboard hanging around his neck.

  “Mother nature, NOT Father Science!” the boy bellowed into the ridiculously large copper megaphone. The front of his sign read: Death to Industrialists! and Monet NOT Decay! On the boy’s back, a painting of a woman and young boy stared at Reho and Gibson, the woman holding an umbrella. Their amusement faded into the blues and greens of the paint that contrasted everything Reho had seen in Darksteam. As if on cue, ash fell.

  “What is going on here?” Reho muttered as the boy repeated his slogan. No one except Reho and Gibson stood in attendance. The boy never looked at them. He wore a round, black cap that reminded Reho of one he’d seen in an OldWorld film. The boy also wore beady goggles made of bronze and wrapped around his head with a leather strap. His shorts and short-sleeved shirt revealed black ash covered skin that aged the boy, causing him to resemble a stifled old man rather than a youth.

  “Reho, look here,” Gibson said as he gazed at two metal posters bolted to the wall of the building near the kid.

  Each poster supported a different color and tone. The one to their right was created to resemble how everything looked in the city, its colors industrial, while the other carried the same tone as the billboard the boy wore.

  “Rivals,” Gibson said. “Political differences can be intense in some of these communities.”

  Painted on the crude copper was the name of the leader of one party, Sir Leighton. Written beneath was a promise to control industrial growth and place greater restrictions on coal burning. It also had the slogan Monet not Decay. Part of the painting on the boy’s billboard was also painted in the background. At the bottom on the poster, it gave a command and then asked a single question: Look around! Is technology beautiful?

  The other poster contained only a name, the political party and a statement: Father Hugo, Industrialist, and Steam is Life. There were no colors, just the crude copper that the black words had been painted on.

  ***

  They passed few people on the streets as they continued farther into town.

  “Things seem worst than the last time I was here,” Gibson said. “That was maybe three years ago.”

  They kept walking. Reho looked at the vehicles parked on the street, waiting for one to roar to life and drive down the road. He had stopped and knocked the ash off several of them. Underneath they were modified OldWorld cars, trucks, and motorcycles. Bulky, crude steam engines had replaced their gasolines. While their trunks had been converted to boilers.

  A trio of young boys exited an apartment and descended a set of steps to the street below. They stopped whe
n they noticed Reho and Gibson. The boys wore identical shorts and jackets. One wore gloves and a pair of compact goggles with black lenses. As they passed, the one with the goggles stopped and looked at Reho.

  “Sir, where do you come from?”

  “We are from Usona,” Reho replied. For a boy of seven or eight, his English was impeccable, with an accent that seemed to belong to another generation.

  One of the other boys looked at Gibson. “Are you participating in the elections? It is the talk of the town these days.”

  “No,” Gibson replied. “We’re here just selling some wares, my lad.” He mimicked the boy as best he could, but it came off sounding insulting.

  “Brilliant!” The young boy was excited, and his two companions were now interested in the strangers, as well.

  Gibson waved them off. “No, not brilliant, kid. What we are selling wouldn’t interest you.”

  “Like what?” one asked.

  “Women’s clothing,” Gibson said, “and funny little umbrellas.” He spanned his arms out as though he was going to grab one of them, sending the giggling kids scurrying away.

  “What?” Gibson asked, seeing Reho’s shocked expression. “If we can’t have a little fun, then it sucks to be alive.”

  ***

  It was sunset when Reho and Gibson returned to the docks.

  A dog with two legs caught their eye as it wheeled across the road near the pier. Its back legs had been replaced with two wheels, emitting a faded red glow as they turned. A wispy line of steam trailed behind the altered mutt.

  “Oh God! These people have gone too far,” Gibson said. “We need to get away from the coast before they attach a pair of copper balls onto us.” Gibson laughed at his own joke, a sick, nervous chuckle that suggested to Reho that he might somehow believe there was a possibility of such a thing happening.

  What could possibly happen at sunset that could be more surprising than this dog?

  The docks were vacant except for two other boats. Thursday wiped sweat off his brow and Ends cleaned his hands with a rag. They had just loaded the cargo onto what Gibson referred to as a steam-mule. It was a steam powered cart and the size of a truck bed. Judging by its wheels and suspensions, Reho presumed it was built to carry loads heavier than their crated gadgets. It was constructed from steel and highly mechanized with brass and copper parts moving and twisting along its body, reminding Reho of a windup watch.

  Reho looked west toward the lands in which he had spent the first twenty-something years of his life. The setting sun illuminated the docks a bright, blood red. Behind him, the town lay beneath a blanket of black and grey.

  Ends tossed Reho a heavy bag. “Go get your stuff. We need to be ready to move when the whistle sounds.” Ends and Thursday now had their rifles across their shoulders and were strapping on their bulletproof armor. A military hood sat atop the cargo next to Ends. Thursday wore a short sleeve shirt and military pants with enough pockets to rob a peddler. His muscles and tattoos reminded Reho less of the smart-talking cook from the trip to New Afrika and more of one of the knock-down-drag-out sort.

  Reho checked the bag. There were several dozen rounds of ammunition inside for his OldWorld pistol and L86.

  “I figured you wouldn’t part with that pistol and rifle,” Ends said.

  ***

  The sun had already set. The full moon casted shadows around the docks. The ash continued to fall, painting the distance grey beyond the evening shadows. The copper gaslights scattered along the empty walkways cast golden halos of light on the otherwise bleak town. A loud, airy whistle sounded in the distance, overpowering the hundreds of steam engines fueling the town.

  Reho found the others talking fast, yelling over the noise of the steam-mule. Ends voice rose, silencing their scattered conversation. Ends rose above the others, standing on a lower step connected to the side of the steam-mule.

  “The whistle is a train,” he said. “It’s our ride out of Darksteam and across New Afrika. The locals here are not going to want us to get on it with unchecked cargo. So, our buyer in Jaro has arranged a disturbance between some rival political factions in town. A zeppelin will signal the start of an uprising by a weaker faction called the Monets. This isn’t the first time they’ve rebelled, so their fight is not on our hands. We are not to interfere, only to take advantage of the distraction.”

  Sola cringed. “What is this, Ends?” she asked. “We’ve never taken advantage of something like this.”

  “The zeppelin is going to come from the north,” Ends said. “They may try to attack us. If so, defend yourself; kill them if you have to.” Reho saw it for the first time. He was a military leader. Something Reho had never seen before except in movies. His crew was his army, and they would go into battle for him. Despite what they disagreed with or didn’t understand, they would fight for him.

  Mounted on the front of the steam-mule was a sizable lever for steering and speed control. Speed and temperature monitors were housed on brass knobs with glass faces and mounted on pipes suspended a foot from the controls. Sola took the position at the lever. The machine was already running, steam lifting from pipes below it.

  “Defend the wagon and move to the train. Don’t shoot unless the bullets are coming toward us,” Ends said. “And remember, plans are only good until the fighting starts. So, use your best judgment and we’ll make it out alive!”

  “Roger that, sir,” Thursday said, lighting a cigarette. The smoke from his cigarette disappeared into the steam. He held one out to Gibson, who responded with his middle finger.

  “Gibson, pull the trigger with the other finger this time.” Thursday laughed, the cigarette bobbing on his lower lip.

  “Won’t we look suspicious walking through town with this?” Reho asked, looking at Sola.

  “Who is going to notice us?”

  She was right. No one was out. The streets were empty.

  “Do we even know for sure that this will go down tonight?” Thursday asked, stubbing out his cigarette.

  “Our buyer wants these things bad enough to get involved in the politics here. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him do this. I’d say he wants them pretty damn bad,” Ends replied.

  Reho took the rear with Thursday as they entered the town. The streets were vacant except for parked automobiles. The copper gaslights flickered a dull yellow light onto the sidewalks and storefronts, but they did little in the way of illumination. Their steam-mule’s front lights emitted a bright yellow beam that was only good for a few feet.

  Sola tapped on Gibson’s shoulder. “How far are we from the train?”

  “Probably ten minutes, at this rate,” Gibson replied. Then he gestured toward a light in the distance, shining down onto the town farther ahead. “But it’ll be twice that in a minute.”

  A zeppelin the size of their boat appeared—half in the ash, half above it—and dozens of soldiers crawled through its miniature windows and onto the ground like ants scurrying home to the queen. The zeppelin then disappeared above the ash clouds.

  Thursday grinned as he lifted his rifle. “Here we go!”

  “We’ll only interfere if we have to,” Ends said. “Let’s push to the steamer.” The steam-mule’s top speed was five miles per hour. Reho checked his AIM. It had already mapped the town’s grid. The iron and steam outlined a town that connected the west-side docks with the east-side train station. The tracks waited seven blocks ahead.

  ***

  A mixture of blasts and sounds from OldWorld and pulse rifles filled the air. The bullets ricocheted and pinged through the ashy darkness. When a pulse hit one of the buildings, it didn’t ping like the OldWorld bullets did. Instead, it hit with a thud as energy dispersed through the metal causing it to wobble. It would take several direct shots for a pulse blast to burn through these buildings. Those inside would be safe from most of the violence. Doors were closed, windows bolted.

  Reho was sure they were the only ones on the streets. The Monet’s were targeting the Ind
ustrialist, their political rivals, elsewhere in the town. Yet, there was something else. It pounded the ground again, its impact strong enough to vibrate the metal on nearby buildings.

  Sola pointed ahead. “What is that?” The source of the pounding was partially in sight four blocks from the train station.

  Reho knew what it was before Thursday had a chance to give it a name.

  “It’s an armored gunner,” Reho replied. “Maybe twenty-five feet high.”

  “That’s a Fighter! Those things are bad business,” Thursday said. “It has guns and clamps powered by an engine on its back and six-inch-thick steel.”

  “No time to admire. I just hope that thing—” Ends’ words were cut short by a burst of rapid fire from somewhere in the distance. The OldWorld bullets ripped through the street near them. Whatever it was, it hadn’t aimed for them. The crew could hear screams as the next round of fire hit its target. Although the fighting was still to the north, the Fighter was tall enough to take advantage of its distance. It was only a matter of time before the Fighter would spot them.

  “Can we go around?” Sola asked.

  “No way,” Gibson replied. “It’ll add another ten minutes to go different route.”

  Ends lifted his weapon and slid the pulse rifle’s charger to maximum power. “Gibson is right.”

  Ends gave directions to Thursday and Sola. They were responsible for guarding the rear of the steam wagon. He commanded Gibson to take the controls. He didn’t say anything to Reho. Ends led them, taking the front. They traveled another block before being pinned down. Any farther and the Fighter would locate them. Above, the zeppelin had reappeared near the docks, away from the Fighter and most of the action.

  Sola swung her pulse rifle around in time to blast a soldier with a tall hat and carrying a strange rifle. Her blast sent him skyward, smashing ten feet high into a building. A group of figures appeared to the south. Reho assumed they were not from the same political party as the guy they’d just shot. It was next to impossible to tell people apart in the ash, but Reho could see that both their dress and their weapons were different. The Industrialists wore bowler hats and carried OldWorld rifles. The Monets had tall hats and were using pulse rifles as well as some sort of modified rifle that fired something Reho hadn’t seen before.