THE
LAST
CITY
THE AHLEMON SAGA BOOK ONE
CASEY McGINTY
“If there’s a book you really want to read but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.”
—TONI MORRISON
Copyright © 2017 Casey McGinty
Visit www.caseymcginty.net for information about this author and his books.
Thank you for supporting writers by purchasing an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of this book in any form without permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and science either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Paperback ISBN 978-0-9979832-0-3
eBook ISBN 978-0-9979832-1-0
Dedicated to my mother
JOAN DOUGLAS MCGINTY
Your indomitable spirit still inspires me.
acknowledgments
with love and gratitude
To my wife Lori. For sending me to my first Room To Write retreat and for your steady encouragement to write simply because it is food for my soul. Thank you for doing life with me.
To my children: Emily, Zachary, and Caeleigh. For the joyful memories of bedtime stories and for your enduring excitement as I processed my ideas with you . . . for six years.
To Charlotte Rains Dixon, my writing coach. Your cheerleading and guidance turned an insecure draftsman into a writer. Charlotte can be found at www.wordstrumpet.com.
To Laura Valentine, the caretaker of Penuel Ridge Retreat Center. Your thoughtful care always leads me to care for my own soul.
To Penuel Ridge Retreat Center. For giving me real rest and room in my spirit to write. Seekers can find Penuel Ridge at www.penuelridge.org.
To all my Beta readers. For your positive energy and thoughtful input.
To my early readers: John Thompson, Crystal Bryant, and MariLynn Ross. I can’t believe you actually read through that early draft and still encouraged me.
To Renee Chavez, my copy editor. For polishing my manuscript, for your invaluable production guidance, and for being my first fan.
To my dear friends who have walked me through fear and insecurity.
To my outstanding production team:
Cover Design Roy Roper / www.wideyedesign.net
Typesetting Design Mandi Cofer / www.thetinytypesetter.com
Proofreading Kevin Harvey
Diagrams Ray Taylor
Photograph Stewart Doka
pronunciations
Names of the colonists are spelled with an h. A sharp ear would notice a slight huh sound when pronounced by native Ahlemoni speakers. For Earth speakers, the h is silent. Thorin is pronounced TOR-in. Mhara is pronounced MARR-uh.
Ahlemon – a•la•MAWN
Alto Mair – al•to MAY•or
Alto Raun – al•to rawn
Gheno Ra – jen•no raw
Leevee – LEE•vee
Matan – muh•TAWN
Meken – MEK•en
Rakaan – ruh•KAWN
Rhaji – RAW•gee
prologue
Eight hours before Push
A lone figure stood shadowlike on the observation deck high atop the city’s central tower, the humid ocean air whipping at his metallic skin. As he had countless times before, he wished that he could feel it.
“Atticus,” a voice spoke from the darkness behind him. “The Push is expected today. Everything is ready. Rakaan requests your permission to proceed.”
Every night for almost a thousand years Atticus had stood in this place, knowing that this moment would come, but not knowing when . . . until now. How did we come to this? The question lingered in his mind for a few seconds, a long time for someone with his processing capabilities; then he dismissed it. It didn’t matter; it would not alter his course. Instead, he was struck with the significance of the moment, and how a single word could hold so much power over the future of a planet, perhaps even the galaxy. He cocked his head and said, “Proceed.”
Then he returned to contemplate the causality between this particular moment and the word proceed, and how the two marked the beginning of the end for the human race.
1
Over the Rocky Mountains
His head resting against a window frame on a Boeing 737, Kane McKennon gazed through a clear sky at the snow-capped mountain range below. From the vantage point of an airliner flying at thirty-five thousand feet, he was always amazed at how much uninhabited land there was on the earth. What overpopulation problem? he thought. Space isn’t the problem. Keeping the masses happy is the problem.
Yawning, he brushed a lock of dark hair behind his ear and scratched at his beard, which was deliberately trimmed to a seventy-two-hour shadow. He closed his eyes and nestled in to the corner nook between his seat and the cabin wall. Two minutes later, he was wide-eyed, staring blankly at the seat back in front of him. Sleep had been elusive for days, his thoughts continually drawn to the one thing he wished he could stop thinking about . . . Leslie. Ever since she’d left him, a week ago, her I’m-breaking-up-with-you note had run in a continuous loop in his brain as he repeatedly tried to solve an unsolvable puzzle.
Kane,
It’s not working. You live in solo survival mode. I’m not some problem to be solved, and I don’t need constant rescue. You make a good hero, but not a good life partner. I really do care about you, but I need someone who wants to be in a two-way relationship. I’m sorry, Kane.
Good-bye.
Leslie
But there was no secret code. There was no hidden solution. There was only pain. And Kane simply didn’t know how to deal with it. Awash with an emotional ache he couldn’t identify, he gritted his teeth and pressed the back of his head into the headrest. He could still feel her warm body, smell her perfume, and hear her laugh. I’m such an idiot. What the hell’s wrong with me? Unbidden, memories of other personal failures floated like a swarm of ghosts into his consciousness. He winced and groaned out loud.
“Are you OK?” his row mate asked.
“Yeah,” Kane said, embarrassed but quickly composing himself. “I just realized I forgot something,” he lied.
“You didn’t leave the oven on, I hope.”
“No, nothing like that. I think I left the car running.”
The man’s eyebrows rose; then a smile crossed his face as he realized that Kane was watching for his reaction. “Good one.”
“Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.” Kane faked a smile.
Having made eye contact now, the man said, “You know, I didn’t want to bother you when you sat down, but you’re Kane McKennon, aren’t you?”
“That I am.” Kane knew what was coming.
“I watch your show, Surviving. It’s a good one. I love the survival programs; they’re such an interesting blend of brain and brawn. Guess I fantasize about having more brawn . . . and rugged good looks.” He extended his hand. “I’m James Manassa.”
Kane looked him over. He was tall and lanky, probably in his forties, dark hair, well groomed. Kane took his hand. His grip was confident. “And what do you do, Mr. Manassa?”
“I’m a doctor, a surgeon. But I’m a student of everything, much like you, Mr. McKennon. Your work is very multidisciplinary.”
“Call me Kane. Yeah, I’m always looking for anything to help me become better at what I do.”
“So, are you filming an episode in the Canadian wilderness?”
“Actually, no. My friends t
hink I’m a workaholic, so they bought me a fishing trip for my fortieth birthday. I’m on my way to meet up with a couple of them at a lodge outside of Vancouver. How about you?”
“I’m returning home from a Doctors Without Borders symposium. I was on a panel discussing critical care without electricity.”
“That’s gotta be some challenging work. Sounds like you’re already a survival guy.”
“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Not really. I’m just a typical doctor with a busy practice in Vancouver who likes a little adventure once in a while.”
“Any doctor doing work like that is not typical. You’re doing a great service.”
“Thank you.” Then, sheepishly, the doctor ventured, “I wonder . . . would you mind walking me through one of your spontaneous survival exercises? That is, if you feel like talking. If you’d rather not, I totally understand; just say the word and I’ll shut up and go back to reading.”
“No, I’m good.” Kane was still getting used to the public recognition from having his own TV show. The forced conversations with total strangers could often be awkward, but he was intrigued by Dr. James Manassa. “We need a scenario.”
The doctor was prepared. “What if we had to make an emergency landing in these mountains?”
“OK.” Kane looked out his window. “First, it’d be a miracle if any of us survived a landing down there.”
“Say we did, I’d really like to hear what you would do.”
Kane didn’t respond immediately, already considering the scenario.
“Evaluation, right?” Dr. Manassa jumped in. “Three things: people, conditions, and resources.”
“That’s right.” Kane smiled, pleased that someone was paying attention to his show. While TV was mostly about entertainment, he really wanted his show to be practical as well.
“Does it matter where we start?”
“Depends on the urgency of the situation,” Kane replied. “In this case, we can start with the people.”
“So . . . ,” Dr. Manassa looked around the cabin, “what do we have here?”
Without so much as a glance at the passengers, Kane launched into a verbal analysis. “This 737 has 138 seats. Eighteen are empty, so that leaves 120 passengers. Add the pilot, copilot, and three flight attendants and there are 125 people on board. The demographics are almost evenly male and female. There are two college soccer teams traveling together, a men’s and a women’s, and they’re planning one hell of a party when they get home—they both won their recent matches. We’ve got the usual solo travelers; I’d say half business, half personal. There are six couples, two that are elderly, no children or infants, and a couple of older teens. The woman in 1A is brown haired, single, probably mid-forties, and wearing a beige blouse and black slacks. I could describe the rest of the passengers and tell you what seats they’re in, but it’s irrelevant, although you might suggest a sedative to the guy in 13C; he’s terrified of flying. My takeaway? It’s unusual for such a large, randomly assembled group to be so focused in its demographic; this one is made up of mostly younger adults, and they’re healthier than average. As a group, they should do better than normal in the colder conditions. But a younger group is more disposed to leadership tensions, especially under stress.”
Dr. Manassa stared, awestruck. “How did you do that?”
“I boarded last and walked the entire plane before I took my seat. It’s a habit from my military days—the evaluation thing follows me everywhere. And I have a photographic memory.” Uncomfortable with the doctor’s stare, Kane scratched at his beard and added, “Don’t be too impressed, doc. It’s a blessing and a curse.”
“I can see the blessing. What’s the curse?”
“I can’t seem to shut it off.”
“The gift that won’t stop giving, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, that was amazing.”
Kane nodded, acknowledging the compliment. But Dr. Manassa’s comment had set him thinking . . . how his so-called gift might be spoiling his relationships.
“So, conditions,” the doctor said. (If he had noticed Kane’s mental distraction, he ignored it.)
Kane looked out his window. “It’s late winter, but there’s some clear valleys, which means snowmelt—”
A brilliant flash of light filled the sky, turning Kane’s vision to a wash of pure yellow. There was a collective gasp in the plane as he recoiled. He felt the doctor’s hand fumbling for the armrest, where it found Kane’s forearm and squeezed desperately.
“Kane, are you blinded?”
“Yeah. Are you?”
“Yes. Did an engine explode?” The doctor’s fear was evident in his voice.
“No. We’d feel it.” Kane was alarmed, but he was already analyzing the situation.
“Thank God.” Dr. Manassa relaxed his grip. “The flash has bleached our retinas, but it should pass shortly. Close your eyes for a minute or two; then open and close them slowly.”
Kane closed his eyes and listened. The plane sounded and felt normal. From the distressed voices, he gathered that only those looking out a window on his side of the plane were blinded. Many of the passengers were asking questions, wondering what had happened. Nearby, a flight attendant was trying her best to calm a woman who was particularly upset.
“My vision’s clear enough,” the doctor said. “I’m going to see if I can help.” He slipped out of his seat.
Opening and closing his eyes methodically, Kane fixed his blurred gaze on someone sitting across the aisle. A red-haired girl came into focus. She was staring back at him with a what-are-you-looking-at? glare. He pointed to his eyes and mouthed, “Sorry.”
Turning back to the window, he looked for the source of the flash. His first thought was an atomic detonation, but there was no sign of a blast, at least not on the ground. Looking up, he searched, and almost missed it; there was a subtle distortion in the sky. He blinked a few times, wondering if his eyes were still adjusting, but then he overheard the man directly in front of him pointing out the anomaly to his travel companion.
A patch of sky rippled, like water from a stone thrown into a pond. In a perfect circle, concentric rings pulsed outward, in slow, repeating cycles. The wave grew and appeared to be moving toward them, but because of its transparency, it was difficult to discern how far away it was. Kane first thought it was some kind of thermal wave, generated by the source of the flash. But it didn’t fit the logic; a flash of that magnitude had to have come from a blast that would have sent waves out in all directions. Instead, what he was seeing was a focused beam of energy . . . and it was on a direct intercept path with their plane. Since they were traveling at over five hundred miles per hour, he didn’t think it was coincidence. Apparently, neither did their pilots. Kane felt his body lift as the plane abruptly dropped altitude; they were taking evasive action. But the wave moved with them, tracking their plane like a heat-seeking missile.
A man yelled, “It’s gonna hit us!”
While most of the passengers looked to see what he was talking about, several panicked and tried to move to empty seats on the other side of the plane, hoping that would somehow protect them from the impact. Tempers quickly flared as people jostled one another.
“Everyone, please stay in your seats,” a flustered flight attendent entreated over the speaker system. “Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts.”
Dr. Manassa had already returned to his, apparently deciding it was time to tend to his own safety. In the midst of the rising chaos, Kane caught the words of a distraught female sitting in the seat behind him.
“I don’t want to die,” she whimpered.
How quickly a situation can go from totally normal to life threatening, he thought. And he knew that there was absolutely nothing he could do about this one. He was not a religious man, but as was his habit in times like these, he uttered a prayer. “God, we could use a little help.” Then, willing his body to relax, he watched the wave approach.
Passengers screamed.
“Now,” he breathed, as it struck the plane.
Silence.
Literal and complete silence.
The screams, the whirring of the jet engines, the whoosh of the air vent blowing; all sound was gone. Kane thought to jiggle his ears, but his hand didn’t move. He willed it to move; it still didn’t respond. He tried to look at his hand and discovered that his head and eyes were locked in place; he could only see what was directly in his line of sight, framed within the windowpane. Then it struck him that the plane wasn’t moving . . . but it wasn’t falling . . . it was frozen in midair. It was as if someone had taken a photo of an instant in time, and he was trapped in it. His brain was working: he could see, he could think, he was aware, but he wasn’t in any pain. Am I dead?
There was another flash of light, this time coming from behind them, followed by movement in his window—the ripples of a second energy wave rolling over the plane. The sky and the earth completely disappeared and his window turned black. Then he stopped breathing. He couldn’t even hear it in his head. He tensed, waiting for the pain of suffocation to start, but it never came. He was still self-aware, but there was nothing, no sensation at all.
A terrible thought struck him; maybe his mind was trapped in a body that didn’t work. He recalled a horrific scene in a spy thriller where the antagonist suspended a guy in a dark, liquid-filled tank, fitted with a special breathing mask, and removed all stimulation to his five senses. He quickly went crazy, imprisoned in a living nightmare. A wave of intense anxiety flooded Kane’s system, and his heart rate jumped dramatically.
Stop! he yelled inside his head. Stop! Calling on years of training and high-stress experience, he forced the fear fantasies out of his mind and willed himself to calm down.
To his relief, a thin, white line streaked horizontally across the black of his window. They were moving; the plane was moving. Or were they? It was the oddest sensation: more like everything outside the plane was moving instead of . . . instead of what? A second white line appeared, then another, and then a pair. Before long, a mass of white lines streamed across his window. That’s when it struck him.
The Last City (The Ahlemon Saga Book 1) Page 1