The Red Book Of Ralston - Chapter 1

Here is the first chapter of my current novel in the Jonas Johnson sci-fi detective series. You can read it here or download it. The Red Book of Ralston will be released at the end of June/beginning of July! You can find the prologue right here. or download the first chapter here. Happy reading!

ONE

Entry date 11:01:2383 - Prima Materia: Blood of the Star. I took what seemed a wholly finished substance - Dust - and changed it by combining it with my blood, turning it a reddish color. It seems alive. I’ve watched it shift and foam in its sealed vial for hours, like waves at sea. I’ve created a new thing, requiring exploration! I’ve named it Blood of the Star and will begin testing it against the prime elements in several days. Three times to purify, three times to turn the wheel. Three times against each element, at last the inner gold revealed.

- - -

He buried the package at the bottom of the old leather bag, under the grocery items before making his way through the tight maze of tents and stepping out onto the corridor. The hairs on his neck felt like stinging electric wires. He thought he was seeing more security around his home space station than usual. And more spaceships were clogging the shipping lanes coming into the port as of late. Perhaps his imagination was getting away from him but after receiving the letter, he couldn’t shake the constant, low level feeling of unease. He just wanted to get back to his apartment unit.

Trying to quicken his pace, he nearly collided with someone every few seconds, forcing him to slow down and weave his way through. The crowds were growing as he got closer to the main square, some separating into unruly knots of rash talk and fiery anti-government slogans; the tension was contagious and spreading like a virus. Jonas approached a walkway leading to the main square and pavilion. The dull chatter and roar rose in energy, striking alarms in his head. He felt heat rising in his body and a dull pressure thumping at his temple. A migraine was coming.

As he came down the long corridor and turned left out into the market square the din of chanting grew louder: “No To SEP-PROP 90!”

A great, illegal protest was underway on Miramonte Station. One of the many flash protests happening throughout the system that were getting bigger and more unruly with each new wave. It was over SEP Proposal 90, a bill birthed by the System Economic Program, or SEP, slithering its way through the halls of the Interplanetary Regional Councils, ostensibly to protect the native resources of Earth. In reality it was meant to curtail natural foods leaving the Mother Planet. This ban did not apply to wealthy stations when one dug deep into the legalese. It was meant to increase the profits of the synthetic foods industry, the next step to eventually barring natural foods to anyone outside of Enhanced status. Jonas fervidly hoped this bill would die in those hallowed halls. If it passed, real food would be one more item of contraband he’d have to navigate and that list had already grown too large.

In irritation he turned back, looking for another way to his unit, away from the commotion. Jonas started back down the corridor around the adjacent hall and down a parallel corridor only to find the end of it swarming with USC agents. Some of them were gleefully pulling out their long, glowing battle sticks, wielding them in anticipation. The pressure in his head was growing. Again, he turned around to find another way out when he heard the cry of a familiar voice. On approaching the shops and market canopies that ringed the pavilion a heaving mass of drama was unfolding. Jonas watched in alarm as more agents boiled in from the main port like fire ants. Alarms suddenly started tearing through the station, ringing in his ears. He felt trapped in a sonic hall of mirrors. More USC ships were docking in the distance. Hundreds of protesters had surrounded a small group of cowering SEP agents, screaming streams of invective. Surveying the growing chaos he finally saw her, the voice plaintive and earnest; a slender young woman with shaggy, shoulder length, dark hair. She was dressed in black, her hood and mask falling away, letting him catch a glimpse of her face. It was Cassandra Ferreira.

A young man beside her, also dressed in black, yanked her hood back on her head, grabbed her face mask and pulled it back on her face, then he slapped her. Someone tossed something into the group of SEP agents. There was a loud “pop” and smoke exploded, spreading across the pavilion. In seconds the protest became a boiling melee of rage, fear and confusion. Jonas lost sight of her as smoke engulfed the square. The acrid smell made him choke and it stung his eyes. Covering his face he back-tracked toward the corridor. He was foreseeing a move to another space station in his near future. He looked around for Cassie and caught a hazy glimpse of Master Liu flanked by security personnel heading toward the scene on the opposite side of the square, his usually calm face creased in a grimace.

“Security forces in transit! Security forces in transit!” Blared the station warning. People were screaming and fleeing. Through the smoke he saw the swinging, glowing bats. When a cloud head of smoke cleared briefly he saw a large group of USC agents forming two rings; the outer ring trapping the protesters and spectators that had ventured too close to the drama and the inner ring subduing them with pepper spray and battle sticks. He winced inwardly, hearing the heavy, dreadful sounds of bats landing on flesh, breaking bones. A chill spread through him. He wanted to free Cassie from this mess but feared the endless trouble it would cause. More smoke descended and with growing dread, Jonas caught glimpses of glowing, swinging energy bats getting closer, amidst wails of terror. The pressure building in his head was turning into pain.

Jonas finally spied a way out and jogged up a flight a stairs to a balcony. He finally caught sight of her again as she was being hoisted with other youths into a caged vehicle, trying and failing to twist her way out of the grip of security. An agent hit her across the face and she immediately collapsed. What in the rotting hells was she doing here? Why hadn’t she gone home? He wanted to do something but he felt helpless. A tiny voice in his mind told him to leave, that there was nothing he could do.

“Ho! You there!” barked a voice behind him. “Stop!” Sharp, electric sparks shot down his spine. Something struck him in the back. It remained lodged in his left shoulder blade, the sharp heat promising to become an terrific jolt of pain if he made any sudden moves. A gloved hand grabbed him roughly by the right shoulder and he spun around. Jonas paused mentally. His mind grew calmer as he automatically reached for the right meditative words that brought ice to his nerves and slowed his heart beat. He breathed slowly through his nose. Sweat trickled down his temples. The pain, the pain is coming! He had to find someway to still the pain or endure it.

“Yes officer?” he asked mildly. They were standing toe to toe. A wrong move or word and he’d lose every fragment of his life he’d cobbled together. Cordial and concise was the way.

“What’s your business in this area of the station?” Demanded the agent, slowly lifting the bat from Jonas’s shoulder, transferring it gently to the protective pad on his own right shoulder. Its dull glow flickered with an instant charge as tiny electrical discharges flashed and rolled up the length of the weapon as the agent’s thumb tapped the silver target sensor on the handle.

“I was just on my way from the store when this whole mess broke out,” he said innocently. He continued to meet his gaze mildly as the agent glared, sizing him up slowly. Then the agent’s eyes dropped down to the bag. Jonas felt sparks of pain shoot through his body in seconds.

“Do you live on Miramonte Station?”

“Yes, officer.”

“Documents.”

“Oh, you know, I don’t have them with me, but I do have my document code.” Jonas said simply and then gave it. He would find out if the new, fake ID kit Lana had given him was worth it. The agent threw him a suspicious look, attached his bat to a magnetic lock on his belt, entered and checked the code on a data-pad strapped to his arm. He peered at Jonas and looked down at his data-pad again. He grunted with satisfaction.

Gratias tibi ago, Lana! The agent looked him over again. His eyes returned to the bag. Jonas, his heart hammering in his ribcage, his knuckles taut, moved the bag forward as if to show the goods freely, hoping against hope the agent actually wouldn’t inspect it.

“What’s in the bag?” demanded the agent.

“Groceries. Meat mostly. Just trying to get as much of it as possible before the bill passes. I do body building,” he said. It wasn’t a total lie. The agent studied him carefully. Jonas wanted to bolt at the very thought that he might actually rifle through the bag. The agent took the bag and began inspecting the contents on the top.

“Where do you workout at? Which gymnasium?” he suddenly asked. Jonas jumped at the opportunity to expand the subject.

“ Oh, I workout at home. I have a mechanical dummy, kettle bells, mace. Clubs. I do a lot of free flowing work, martial arts.” The expression changed in the agent’s eyes to one of curiosity. It was then that Jonas realized this agent was very young, certainly younger than he was.

“Really? What kind of martial arts?” he asked, pausing.

“I like capoeira and glima.”

“I practice glima!” The agent said, glanced around. “I like the mace too. A lot more than regular heavy lifting. Where did you manage to get a training dummy?” Sweat broke out and ran down Jonas’s back but he embraced his excitement at finding a way to veer the agent’s attention off the bag.

“I used to workout at Archimedes Gymnasium back when they were still open. When they closed they were practically giving stuff away. I picked it up then. I was fortunate. A lot of gymnasiums these days don’t have them.”

“I know! So, you used to have a membership at Archimedes?” he exclaimed. “Wow. Gymnasium of the gods!” The young man sounded genuinely impressed. Jonas nodded and grinned. His stomach was roiling.

“They don’t make them like that anymore. Archimedes had everything you could think of. They promoted natural bodybuilding too. Gymnasiums today, well, you know.”

“It’s all about the designer drugs and modifications now.” Jonas decided to break a little more ice. As long as he kept him talking, he wasn’t rifling through the bag.

“Have you ever worked with clubs?” He asked. The young man shook his head.

“Not yet. I may look into them. How much do you lift with the mace?”

“Oh, forty pounds. You have to make sure you keep up with that or you lose too much strength being in zero gravity for much of your life.”

“True. I’m at fifty pounds right now!”

“You lift heavier than I do! You seem like an Arthas man. Have you ever trained at Arthas Academy?” Even as he struggled with the desire to void his guts and collapse, his shield of calm anchored and armored him. He remained alert to any change in energy.

“I wish. You?”

“No. New Sardis,” said Jonas smoothly, picking from an invented background and school he’d created for himself years ago. “I wanted to go to Arthas but my family liked the sports program at Sardis.”

“Ah. I went to Blue Ridge. Played rugby. You?”

“Football.” Primary school training was everything to everyone below Enhanced status and above laboring status. Finding common ground on such information built relationships and helped people silently rank another’s status. Jonas’s mind swirled with the strange calm he felt. It was almost as if he were floating outside of his body, existing between the calm razor’s edge he walked here on the balcony and the mayhem erupting below. He could have laughed at the frozen grin on his face. He wanted to vomit instead. He wondered in a distant part of his mind how this might transpire. Would his body give him grace enough to get home first, or would it be a projectile stream of effluvia all over the USC agent? It would be amusing and horrible at the same time.

“How did a man like you come to be in this mess here?” The agent asked. Jonas’s stomach rumbled. Oh, dread God! He thought.

“I had nothing to do with this rabble-rousing,” he said with an air of insouciance. “I thought, as I came out of my favorite bodega that I saw someone I knew. Some well-off kid that got caught up in all this madness that I used to hang out with years ago. He used to buy sweets in my grandfather’s shop and we became friends over trading snack items when we were kids. My grandfather owned a neighborhood commissary.”

“Really? Mine too.”

“But you know how some of these rich kids are. Fake rebels against the society that gave them everything they have.” The agent smirked, rolling his eyes. Jonas laughed. “As it turned out, it was just a figment of my imagination. It wasn’t him.”

“Alright. Sorry to bother you, Mr. Johnson. Stay far away from things like this. No good comes from getting caught up with vermin.”

“Yes, officer, you bet!” Jonas said giving him a wide smile and the agent grinned even wider. He hated himself just now. You bootlicker.

“Agent Dale! We need you down there! Is there a problem up here?” called another agent, approaching the steps.

“No problem, sir!” Agent Dale handed the bag back to him, waved him away and started down the stair. Euphoria swept over Jonas and with it, most of the pressure and pain of the headache. But the other feeling now overwhelmed him. He whirled around, leaning over the balustrade and vomited into the smoke below.

Jonas looked almost like an Enhanced man and it often fooled people who didn’t know him. It was both a gift genetics and of traditional food wisdom from his family. His height, health and physique made him stand out. He was clear-eyed and had the look of someone who was present in mind and body.

He slowly sank to the floor and put his head between his knees. When the vestigial sensations of illness had slipped away he rose and started down the adjacent corridor, making his way home by a much longer route, careful to stay away from the action. But his thoughts soon turned back to Cassie. He couldn’t just abandon her to the USC.

Reaching his unit, he turned off all of the lights except for a tiny socket light in the kitchen wall, fixed an electrolyte drink, drank it down and worked in soothing dimness, unpacking and putting away groceries, thinking through what to do next. He set a box of chocolates and a bottle of rum on the counter near the teapot. Then he carefully took out his hidden package at the bottom of the leather bag, untied and opened it and looked over his new batch of drugs. The difficult search for an artisanal dealer had put his nerves on edge for weeks. Quaaludes, caffeine pills laced with crystal meth. Or was it the other way round? There was a small silk bag of desiccated mushroom in the package that the druggist said some used for shamanic practice. It was also a mild downer in minute amounts. He couldn’t remember what it was called at the moment. This had been thrown in at a reduced price. Then there were a few barbiturates. He’d only wanted a few. They were getting more expensive and these particular ones had funky side effects. They weren’t as pure as the stuff he was accustomed to. None of it was, really. The very things to wither away his strength, mind and looks even though he needed them sometimes. Only just, sometimes. He thought.

He counted everything he’d bought this morning from the druggist. Present in mind and body, he thought darkly. Sure. Right. He glanced toward the journal sitting on his desk. He missed Ralston. He retrieved his drug box from the bottom drawer of the desk and carefully placed the forbidden desiderata, like delicate things, into the box, on top of the letter.