Read Online Red Denver: A Prelude to REHO (The Hegemon Wars) by D. L. Denham - Free Book Online
Authors: D. L. Denham
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Red Denver
Six Weeks Prior to REHO
Red Denver, Red Hall holding cell
A shrill scream woke Reho from a deep sleep during his last hours in Red Denver. The sound had reoccurred several times since arriving at Red Hall. It came from outside the building and filled his head with memories of that mangled wolf dying out in the Blastlands. Reho had stopped its deathly howl and screams. Now they had returned.
Reho looked down at his Analysis Interface Monitor, AIM. The multileveled Red Hall had already been mapped.
Level two contained the holding cells where he waited, imprisoned for killing one of Soapy’s goons. Above him, the top level housed administration, where the judge would determine his fate. Below was the processing level where both he and the goon’s body had been brought in and registered. The enforcers had taken and tagged his personal items. The other guy was tagged and destined for the crematory across the street.
The high-pitched sound returned.
Across the gloomy, dimly-lit hall, Reho watched the other occupant stir in his cell. They had only spoken once. He’d referred to himself simply as an old man and had been silent since their last conversation. He’d warned Reho not to eat the food, perhaps the best advice he knew to give. He’d then returned to his strange exercises, a ritual that Reho found fascinating.
Reho watched as the old man stood erect. Through the darkness, he could see his slow-motion movements as his left leg rose with practiced precision, and his arms waved through the air. He had seen fighters exercise before but never like this. Quick and hard had always been the focus of those fighters. He displayed a strength and single-mindedness unlike anything Reho had witnessed before. Reho rose from the tattered mattress on the floor and walked to the cell door. The bars were OldWorld: iron spaced eight inches apart. The rust from the cell door stained his hands, a guilty sentence already delivered before the judge had even spoken. Reho watched him and thought back to his instructor in Virginia Bloc. As a boy, he had exercised only when he was forced to do so. The need for practice never seemed necessary.
Growing up, he’d always been the quickest and strongest, always been the victor. This gift was double-sided. Whether it was racing OldWorld vehicles at the gasolines or fighting some knock-down-drag-outs, Reho consistently won. But there was also a down side, the inevitable bad karma. The end result this time found Reho here—in a dank, dark holding cell in Red Denver.
It was the gasolines that had driven him from his home community of Virginia Bloc 4E. Being unbeatable meant making points, but with that came making enemies, too. The OldWorld vehicles used in the gasoline races were a part of him. The power roaring under their hoods gave him a rush he could find nowhere else, producing an intoxicating chemical that became deadly to anyone challenging Reho. Nothing in the Blastlands or in Usona could rival that feeling. But his unrivaled victories came at a great cost. Six years ago it had cost him his home community. Today, Soapy and his men thought it should cost him his life. But Reho had no intention of dying—not today. He’d gone along with the arrest and would deal with whatever the judge decided. He would do what he was meant to do: win.
He ran through the facts in his mind. All of this was because of Soapy, one of Red Denver’s crime bosses. Everyone knew he managed the gambling and controlled the bets for the gasolines, a business that earned many high-ranking community officials a slew of points. He had spent the past year winning every race, turning the gasolines into a one-man show and making him a sure bet. For the past five races, all bets were placed on Reho, bringing an end to Soapy’s gambling in Red Denver. Soapy had done what any efficient crime boss would do: he’d sent his best henchmen to visit Reho.
The enforcers had charged him with the murder of one of
Six Weeks Prior to REHO
Red Denver, Red Hall holding cell
A shrill scream woke Reho from a deep sleep during his last hours in Red Denver. The sound had reoccurred several times since arriving at Red Hall. It came from outside the building and filled his head with memories of that mangled wolf dying out in the Blastlands. Reho had stopped its deathly howl and screams. Now they had returned.
Reho looked down at his Analysis Interface Monitor, AIM. The multileveled Red Hall had already been mapped.
Level two contained the holding cells where he waited, imprisoned for killing one of Soapy’s goons. Above him, the top level housed administration, where the judge would determine his fate. Below was the processing level where both he and the goon’s body had been brought in and registered. The enforcers had taken and tagged his personal items. The other guy was tagged and destined for the crematory across the street.
The high-pitched sound returned.
Across the gloomy, dimly-lit hall, Reho watched the other occupant stir in his cell. They had only spoken once. He’d referred to himself simply as an old man and had been silent since their last conversation. He’d warned Reho not to eat the food, perhaps the best advice he knew to give. He’d then returned to his strange exercises, a ritual that Reho found fascinating.
Reho watched as the old man stood erect. Through the darkness, he could see his slow-motion movements as his left leg rose with practiced precision, and his arms waved through the air. He had seen fighters exercise before but never like this. Quick and hard had always been the focus of those fighters. He displayed a strength and single-mindedness unlike anything Reho had witnessed before. Reho rose from the tattered mattress on the floor and walked to the cell door. The bars were OldWorld: iron spaced eight inches apart. The rust from the cell door stained his hands, a guilty sentence already delivered before the judge had even spoken. Reho watched him and thought back to his instructor in Virginia Bloc. As a boy, he had exercised only when he was forced to do so. The need for practice never seemed necessary.
Growing up, he’d always been the quickest and strongest, always been the victor. This gift was double-sided. Whether it was racing OldWorld vehicles at the gasolines or fighting some knock-down-drag-outs, Reho consistently won. But there was also a down side, the inevitable bad karma. The end result this time found Reho here—in a dank, dark holding cell in Red Denver.
It was the gasolines that had driven him from his home community of Virginia Bloc 4E. Being unbeatable meant making points, but with that came making enemies, too. The OldWorld vehicles used in the gasoline races were a part of him. The power roaring under their hoods gave him a rush he could find nowhere else, producing an intoxicating chemical that became deadly to anyone challenging Reho. Nothing in the Blastlands or in Usona could rival that feeling. But his unrivaled victories came at a great cost. Six years ago it had cost him his home community. Today, Soapy and his men thought it should cost him his life. But Reho had no intention of dying—not today. He’d gone along with the arrest and would deal with whatever the judge decided. He would do what he was meant to do: win.
He ran through the facts in his mind. All of this was because of Soapy, one of Red Denver’s crime bosses. Everyone knew he managed the gambling and controlled the bets for the gasolines, a business that earned many high-ranking community officials a slew of points. He had spent the past year winning every race, turning the gasolines into a one-man show and making him a sure bet. For the past five races, all bets were placed on Reho, bringing an end to Soapy’s gambling in Red Denver. Soapy had done what any efficient crime boss would do: he’d sent his best henchmen to visit Reho.
The enforcers had charged him with the murder of one of
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