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

influenza that had plagued their community that summer. Not expecting the eldest to live, they named the newest child Ron to carry on their father’s name. The papers had already been filed with the community when his uncle’s health improved. Thus, both boys grew up sharing the name.
    His uncle looked as though he had aged twenty years instead of six.
    Reho sat, removed the note from his jacket pocket, and slid it across the table.
    His uncle looked at the note. His shaky hand reached out and clasped it, hiding it from view.
    There was a long pause before his uncle spoke. Reho listened as the band’s words crashed over the half wall and into their table.
     
    The day’s glow burns our impression
    Carved into a life unsupported
    Taking down the reminder of yesterdays
    Looking forward to a newer age
     
    “It’s really you,” his uncle said, his words clawing their way to the surface, desperate to be heard. He sounded convincingly sober.
    Reho leaned forward, his hands on the table. “How long has she been dead?”
    There was a long pause. “She died . . .” He fidgeted with something in his jacket pocket.
    Reho leaned closer. “How long?”
    “Three years now,” his uncle replied, his hands still toying with whatever was in his pocket.
    This was not the uncle Reho remembered. There was no smile, no witty sarcasm or life in his speech.
    His uncle’s hands shook. “Listen, Reho,” he said, “I have some business to take care of. I’ve been working up my nerve all day. Why don’t we meet later tonight? The house is in your name. I transferred it a year before your aunt died. She wanted it that way in case you ever came home.”
    What kind of business required him to be drunk?
    Reho watched his uncle’s free hand clasp the empty glass; it rattled against the table at his touch. “What kind of trouble are you in?”
    His uncle looked at the note. He crumbled it into a ball and rolled it across the table.
    Reho stopped the paper. “Ron! What kind of trouble?”
    His uncle signaled the waitress. “The kind that requires another shot of this rancid shine.” She brought him another glass and took his empty one way. “You need to get out. I don’t want you seen with me tonight.”
    Reho stood and moved to the half wall. His uncle was broken and tired, his face worn and soured from years of shine and depression. There was nothing left of him. Just a corpse waiting to be told it was dead.
    The band stopped playing and addressed the energetic crowd. Hundreds of screams filled the room, and the crowd reacted with horrific, deafening applause as the musicians played the opening notes of their next song. Reho thought of his mother. She would have loved this — the live music, its energy.
    Three men entered the room from the back and stopped at his uncle’s table. They’re coming from Rodman’s office.
    Each wore dark green OldWorld fatigues and looked out of place, almost absurd. Reho returned to the table. One of the fatigued goons lifted a hand, signaling for him to stop. He now knew what kind of trouble.
    A bullnecked man with a wide chin quickly established himself as the leader of the three. “You owe twenty thousand. And Rodman doesn’t give a damn if you lost it betting on the gasolines.”
    “You know I don’t have it,” Ron replied, shooting back the last of his shine while his other hand remained in his jacket. “What radiated fool would have twenty thousand points anyway?”
    The head goon laughed hysterically. “That’s not our concern.” He leaned across the table, his face an inch away from Ron’s nose. “Taking care of those with unpaid debts is my job, though. Rodman says it’s my specialization .”
    “I guess it’s the little fish that bite you when you’re at the bottom,” Ron said and lifted his arm to signal the waitress. “Let me get us one last drink before we go outside.” The leader grabbed his arm and slammed it onto the table. The other two men stepped back, taking