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  CANAAN

  First Edition

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 David T. Salvi

  Published by Vero Creative LLC.

  All Rights Reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Cover Art designed by Dan Tomaszewski.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  ISBN: 978-1-7178-4998-4

  Connect with the author:

  Website: www.davidsalvi.com

  Twitter: @DaveSalvi

  This is a book for those who felt neglected, underestimated, counted out, and/or ignored. Remember, you are the hero of your life.

  CHAPTER 1

  “STOP HER!” shouted a man’s voice, bellowing and angry.

  Bystanders trudging in the streets turned toward the commotion in unison. More shouting bounced between the walls. These walls, a reddish wood with streaks of blonde, paneled horizontally and nine feet high, made up most in the city.

  A young man, Chris, strolled in the same ant march but paid little attention to the noise. His head was elsewhere. That was until he saw a young, fit woman sprinting past him from behind.

  A brief glance evolved into a long stare. Like most people on the planet, she wore little clothing. Brown shorts, black military boots just above the ankle, and a green tank top. Beads of sweat darkened strands of her red hair into a deep burgundy. A tattoo ran down her left arm like an extension of her tank top. It was highlighted by a hollow pentagram in deep green ink.

  When she brushed by, a swell of air broke up the sticky humidity that normally accompanied a breath. She ran for her life.

  Another Motus member, Chris thought, upon seeing the tattoo close up.

  Shouting, chasing, and mayhem plagued the city’s streets. It hadn’t always been like this. There was peace once upon a time ago, but that was for previous generations. Now the streets were thrill rides for locals when rumors of Motus lingered. The commotion ebbed and peaked throughout each year.

  Chris shook his head as he carried a brown, leather knapsack filled with clanking tools and equipment. It was a weathered bag that he had inherited from his father, or so his mother told him. Its frayed straps still held strong, thanks to durable craftsmanship. There was no official branding anywhere on the bag. Only stains from the countless times he loaded and unloaded its contents. Oil and sweat from Chris’s hands smoothed parts of the leather over time, deepening its brown appearance.

  Rushing around the same corner were military personnel. That’s where the shouting came from moments ago. When they made their turn, vicious commands continued with hate behind each breath.

  The Canaanite Military Force was on the prowl. Two men armed with stun sticks, or stunners, in hand. Their boots slid across gravel road and back into their pace, showing off their agility. Another waft of air broke up the stuffiness for Chris’s lungs. This one was less fragrant than the last.

  These brutish figures demanded pedestrians to help, so a bystander stuck his shoulder out and knocked the woman off balance the moment she looked back to locate her pursuers. The bystander smirked with pride.

  You were either with Motus or against them.

  The woman’s body flung around and crashed into the gravel, scraping lacerations down her legs, hips, and arms. Blood rushed to her wounds, and she hollered in pain. Her face winced, and pockets of reddened and whitened skin swelled forth.

  Chris watched the scene unfold in a slow motion.

  He had seen plenty of Motus members arrested in person. Motus activity polluted gossip circles. And there was plenty of activity to hear about—an explosion here, crowds crying out there. All in all, another reason to get the heck out of there.

  “You are under arrest by order of the Canaanite Military Force,” one of the soldiers shouted. He had a bald head and a beard that grew to the end of his neck.

  The brute pressed his heavy, hairy knee sharply against her neck, pinning a side of her face to the gravel. He recited her so-called rights while his partner, a brown-skinned brute with talon tattoos clasping his eyes, cuffed her with black oxide shackles. Condensation made the binding cold and slippery, but tight enough to leave marks.

  The men were both well-built—as if constructed or cloned in a military brute factory—with gray and black uniforms made up of tactical pants and tight t-shirts made of a native fabric that helped control body temperature. Shackles, stunners, an Apollo-powered flashlight, and a radio stored in their black leather utility belts. The cold shackles came in most handy when raucous behavior occurred on their streets. This was the standard outfit. For more turbulent times, heavier artillery was deployed.

  “Riley Reuben. Gotcha, Motus scum,” the bald one growled.

  Scum. Their default attribution. It let other Canaanites know not to mix with the likes of Motus Society.

  He then dug his knee into Riley’s neck further, blocking her windpipe and causing her to choke. There was a strange pleasure the soldier got from injuring his fallen prey.

  The name sounded familiar to Chris. But most gossip was third or fourth hand. Hardly a trusted source. He lowered his brow as in thought. Racking several disparate conversations swirling around Motus, he couldn’t pinpoint it. Chris shook his head from the angst.

  How did he know the name?

  Riley’s alarmed eyes darted around the alley but found only unsympathetic bystanders. Each of her breaths pushed a few strands of her red hair into the air. Strands fell back down and into the air again.

  The brute continued, “You couldn’t hide forever, ya know? Sabotaging Canaanite Government property is a big offense, scum.”

  Oh, that’s what that explosion was, Chris thought. He heard a blast at the end of his work shift. Normally he’d ignore disturbances, given the industrial nature of the current Regime. But this was different. This was Motus Society. The rebels and reason for all the unrest.

  “Magistrate will expedite your sentence,” the soldier said. He yanked Riley’s body up by her arms. Pebbles stuck to her face. Ones that fell off left indentations and tiny lacerations. Her eyes, blue like crystals, caught Chris’s eyes and pleaded for help. She was as stunned as he was at first, like she knew him.

  Chris stood there instead, knowing he would suffer her same fate if he acted rashly. You don’t act against the state on this planet. When you did, problems happen to you and your family. The Grand Exodus and Canaan colonization taught the populace one thing: disorder caused death.

  Their locked eyes broke when the soldiers dragged her away toward the town square. Same process for them all. Riley was to be imprisoned in a public cell, tried, and executed the next morning for treason, the highest crime and usual sentencing for Motus members. That or the Games, which were worse.

  The commotion subsided. The Canaanite populace returned to their separate courses home, not saying a word about what just happened. Riley’s face would be only a blip in their memory.

  Chris continued walking home with his knapsack over his shoulder. Instead of normally focusing on the gravel-filled ground, he thought about the red head. She hadn’t said a word but looked at Chris like she knew him. Every other face on the road in this compacted civilization was familiar to Chris. Yet she piqued his curiosity for the oddest of reasons. He saw an innocence in her eyes. And a truth.

  On the path home, people waved and greeted friends and acquaintances. But Chris was ignored. You knew everybody in the city. If you didn’t know them personally, you knew about them. And since everybody knew something about everybody, Chris’s public shunnings stung, like the
y had a secret against him. It made him hold his knapsack a bit tighter as a social shield against the small world on Canaan. The feeling stung him right in the heart. He was at least getting used to it over time.

  But a few more minutes into his stroll, Chris couldn’t shake the image of the redheaded woman.

  Motus Society.

  Where did they all live? Somewhere west, but that was a treacherous journey. No one really knew. They only knew when a Motus member was breaking the law. Public hangings don’t shake from public memory quickly.

  On he went thinking about it. Until something else interrupted him.

  His view opened to Lake Albertrum—the planet’s largest freshwater lake—Albertrum Mountains on the opposite side of the massive body of water, and a heavenly landscape above, pitched with deep blues and heavy purples skies. Eros, the closest of the planet’s three moons, dipped below the horizon like a smooth, blue marble stealing a portion of the night’s sky. Mythos, the second closest moon, was visible farther in the western sky. Paros, the third moon, tucked itself away at night this time of year. And Apollo, the planet’s star, slowly retreated beneath the mountains.

  Indigenous krakona trees blanketed the landscape except for the mountain peaks and patches of knolls. These were tropical trees with thick, red trunks, broad leaves, and dangling vines. Forests of krakona plants created a thicket of vegetation wherever they sprouted.

  This was Albertrum Point. The scene in front of him, save for nature’s wonder, was sparse of human behavior. A few dozen fishing boats rowed and sailed across Lake Albertrum for the evening catch. Herders pushed around sheep and goats by the best water source in the lower knolls.

  Not much else. Wind in the trees. Waves on the lake. The last light of day.

  He spoke to himself, quiet and somber, “One day I’m leaving. Don’t know how or when, but I am.”

  He basked in the beautiful nature of his world when he had a moment to breathe. Not many people took the long way home for a view, but these calm moments were seldom. This view was the only thing that kept his mind and heart calm.

  Others only tried to survive by scurrying home to deposit the days’ chips and feed the family. Chris, wired for something else, lingered to watch the Apolloset end his day.

  Welcome to the planet of Canaan, humanity’s last civilization—four light-years from Earth.

  CHAPTER 2

  CHRIS swung open his apartment door and threw his brown knapsack down on a table left of the entryway. It was a small and modest apartment, as they all were on Canaan. And like all apartments, except for high-level government politicians, it was attached to a line of standard housing. A single level with two windows and two doors on either side of the house, one to the street, the other to the alley for trash. Roofs had supplemental solar panels to help power each unit. The block was nicknamed Shanty Row by the occupants, and each unit’s layout was identical. These were for the laborers.

  Adjacent to the entrance was a common area with two sitting chairs and a table. Down the hall were two bedrooms large enough for a bed and end table. On the other side of the unit was a kitchen. The walls and furniture were wood. Everything inside was lit by ordinary light bulbs in shoddy lamps. Pockets of shadows lived in corners and between furniture when Apollo hit the other side of the world. Tight quarters felt tighter when Apollo rested for the evening.

  “You’re late,” Myra said, poking her head out from the kitchen. She gave Chris a scornful stare while wiping an iron pot.

  Dinner. He was late.

  “Sorry, ma. I lost track of time,” Chris replied with a sigh. She was always on him for little things. Asking him to be on time, straighten his posture, chew with his mouth closed. Things like that.

  He motioned for a hug to combat her glare. Myra quickly surrendered and opened her arms to her son. Bending forward at the waist, Chris towered over his mother and wrapped his arms around her neck. They had their daily embrace. After a few moments, he looked into her eyes and saw his own, green and innocent.

  He wondered for a moment what the days were like for his mom, before he was born. What did she aspire to do before surrendering her life to a child?

  “Dreaming on your way home again?” she asked. She had spanked the side of her son’s hip and returned to the small kitchen.

  “Something like that.” Then he recounted the day in his head, mostly the end of it. The redhead came to mind. Then the soldiers’ forceful arrest.

  When Myra returned, she had a warm plate of food ready for him. She had made a Canaanite standard: sauteed tigrus.

  Tigrus was a local fish in Lake Albertrum that had become a staple of Canaan’s culinary culture. It was the length of a man’s arm and had patterned silver stripes streaking its body with a small puckered mouth at the end. Its fins were jagged and sharp, which would cut fishermen and cooks when handled poorly. They bred fast and grew fast. Plenty to go around. Myra had served it with white rice, an imported carbohydrate farmed in the paddies south of Lake Albertrum. Chris quickly attacked his ration with wooden utensils.

  Between bites, Chris said, “I saw a redhead today.”

  “You don’t see many of those,” his mother said. “I don’t suppose you talked to her?” Standard mom question, worrying about her son’s love life at every turn.

  “No, she was a Motus. She was arrested on the street for something.”

  “Oh.” Myra went silent. Her face dropped from her initial interest to blatant disregard.

  “Probably another public hanging tomorrow in the town square,” Chris said with a mouthful of fish. He enjoyed the traditional meal, although he had it almost every day of the week.

  “Chew with your mouth closed, please. I don’t want to see that.”

  “Sorry.”

  Myra got up and moved his knapsack from the table. Its flap was open and she saw a thick paperback book poking out.

  “What’s this?” Myra investigated the cover. Its color was dull and fading, and it had worn edges. She made out the image of two young men in a canoe, paddling on a river. Complete Short Story Collection of Ernest Hemingway.

  She quickly inquired, “Where’d you get this?”

  “I found it in Dad’s things a few months ago. Been reading it at Albertrum Point.” Chris kept his head down.

  “Do you have any idea what’ll happen to you if the government catches you with this?” Myra said.

  “Yeah.”

  Same fate as the redhead, he thought.

  “Then you know I have to put it back with Dad’s things.” She took the book out of the knapsack and rushed it to her room where all of her deceased husband’s belongings were. She kept his journals, books, and jewelry, including a silver wedding ring, in a key-locked chest—one she said could never be found or the Games were their fate. It was a secret to the world, one with a key in a hidden drawer at the bottom of her bed. Chris knew exactly where it was.

  Myra returned to the common area. Then her son asked something that made her sad, this time talking without any food in his mouth: “You ever feel like you don’t belong here?”

  He asked this several times when he was a young boy. Now asking when he was grown, the question stung her more. Protecting him was that much harder.

  The mother frowned and replied to him, “Sometimes…”

  She paused and reversed her frown. “But you’re here. So I feel like I belong here. You are special.” She rubbed his head of long, dark hair, tugging at it a little in an affectionate way.

  “I don’t feel special. Everyone looks at me as an outsider. I’ve never fit in.”

  “I know.”

  “An outcast.”

  “Okay, that’s enough.”

  “Remember the bullies?” Chris asked.

  Myra tried to erase those from her memory. Unwelcome images came back to mind. She brushed it away by shaking her head and heading toward the kitchen.

  Chris continued, “All I wanted to do was go to school like the other kids. Get good grades. I
couldn’t even do that. The kids called me...”

  “Names,” Myra interrupted quickly from the kitchen. “I remember.”

  “Teachers called me a dreamer.”

  “I know, honey. I remember.” She tried her best to forget and move on. It’s all you could do on Canaan.

  His mother came back out while drying a pan and said, “I know. I remember. And screw the teachers.” Her motherly instinct was to rip the bullies’ hair out by the root for trying to damage her son’s self-esteem. Instead she countered their hate with acts of love.

  “Never stop dreaming, Chris.”

  “I know, I know. You always tell me that,” Chris said, forcing a smile with a dose of confidence. “I can’t look after fruit the rest of my life.”

  “You’ll figure it out. I know you will. You’re my shooting star.” She had always called him that. He had a twinkle in his eye since birth, even when he was kicked down by his peers.

  A few moments passed. Then she heard another question, but it was one she hated hearing. Chris asked, “Why won’t you tell me what happened to Dad?”

  “He died before you were born,” she said. Back to the kitchen.

  As he previously had many times, Chris let it lay.

  He finished his meal.

  ***

  Obnoxious knocks on their wooden front door pulled Myra and Chris’s attention from their evening activities. Myra was knitting a blanket out of wool, although temperatures in Canaanite City never called for it. The city was on the equator. She had dozens of blankets for no reason and stored them on the far end of the common area. Chris curiously asked her about the blankets, and she had no good answer. It felt right, she’d say. For the mountains, he figured.

  Chris’s eyes rose from a small bit of wood he whittled. He finished one more carve of the edge to smooth it out. He eyes then went to his mother.

  Myra glanced at Chris.

  “What?” Chris said. Another knock drew their attention back to the door.