REHO: A Science Fiction Thriller (The Hegemon Wars) Read Free Page B

inland. He didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention. After six years absent, most wouldn’t recognize him; then again, thinking of his aunt and uncle, he hoped some might. Reho crouched, one palm planted on the ground as he launched high into the air. He landed with practiced ease on the other side of the fence, knees and back bent. He covered his head as he made his way home.
    It was nearly dark. Most workers would be near the port, drinking off their hard day’s labor. A soft light would fill the homes soon, and children would be spotted through the windows as they played Hegemon Versus Humans in their living rooms. Reho missed the world being smaller. As endless as Usona seemed, other communities continued in isolation and decline for decades. Civilization would never reemerge as it had before the Blasts until trade could expand. The Hegemon may have kept to themselves in Omega, but they’d also kept alive the fear of their return, especially for those living in Usona.
    Reho passed only one couple as he made his way to his childhood home. With arms wrapped around each other for support, their giggles and expletive-rich outbursts told Reho they’d put their daily labors far behind them as they staggered home, unaware that 4E’s killer had come home.
    ***
    Reho approached the same door he had closed six years before. He imagined his uncle leaving work at the tannery, headed to one of the bars at the docks. He hoped his aunt would be in her rocking chair, carving widgets or quilting a new blanket for someone in the area. Her carvings brought in just as many points as his uncle’s job in the tanneries. She was one of the few skilled people in town who could make parts from wood for various machines in the city. She could replicate any broken cog, nut, or plate that could be substituted with hardened wood, a process that involved chemicals turning the wood into a new metal-like material. It wasn’t as strong as the original steel, but it worked.
    Reho knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Still nothing.
    He tried the lock. Walking to the windows, he looked in. The inside of the house reminded him of homes scattered in the Blastlands—still standing, unoccupied, and left as ruins of another time.
    He spotted the table, rocking chair, mantel, and sofa. The OldWorld television and electronics were gone. He walked around to the back of the house and tried the knob.
    The basketball goal, its net rotted, still hung above the unnecessary garage door. No one in 4E owned a vehicle except those who raced. So many childhood years had been spent focused on that metal-rimmed goal. He had once been challenged to make twenty consecutive shots from fifty feet away. The prize: a deck of Bicycle playing cards. After the twentieth shot, he kept aiming and making them. The full moon had forced hi m to stop. The neighborhood kid— Charlie! That was his name —stopped count at 174.
    Reho slammed his shoulder against the door. The frame cracked, breaking the lock. The house was quiet. Reho walked through the kitchen. He opened a cabinet and found it empty. The sink trapped a few dishes, appearing to have sat in their shallow bath for weeks. The living room was foreign. How long had it been abandoned?
    The pictures were gone. White squares marked where they’d once hung, celebrating a family market by its share of tragedies and victories.
    The short hallway leading to the bedrooms reminded him of the prison hall in Red Denver. Doors lined the passageway, each caging its own hopeless life behind it. The door to his bedroom opened reluctantly, as if tape was being peeled from some stubborn surface. Everything sat exactly as it had the morning he’d left for the races, abandoned like the rest of the home but untouched. A lone picture of his parents sat on his dresser, his mother smiling, her countenance drowning in his father’s eyes. The photo had been taken outside the music club RT where she’d worked as a waitress until the