A Boy Called Hawk (Annals of Altair Book 1) Read online

  A Boy Called Hawk

  Annals of Altair Book 1

  Kate Stradling

  A Boy Called Hawk

  Copyright © 2019 by Kate Stradling

  katestradling.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written consent of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner.

  Published by

  Eulalia Skye Press

  P.O. Box 2203, Mesa, AZ 85214

  eulaliaskye.com

  To the real Hawk, Hummer,

  Honey, and Happy,

  may you live in interesting times

  Contents

  Preface

  Preamble

  Article I, Section 1

  Article I, Section 2

  Article I, Section 3

  Article I, Section 4

  Article I, Section 5

  Article I, Section 6

  Article I, Section 7

  Article I, Section 8

  Article I, Section 9

  Article I, Section 10

  Article II, Section 1

  Article II, Section 2

  Article II, Section 3

  Article II, Section 4

  Article III, Section 1

  Article III, Section 2

  Article III, Section 3

  Article IV, Section 1

  Article IV, Section 2

  Article IV, Section 3

  Article IV, Section 4

  Article V

  Article VI

  Article VII

  To Be Continued

  About the Author

  Also by Kate Stradling

  Preface

  I lovingly call this genre “dystopia lite.” Sure, there’s a sinister undertone of government control, but the average person can live their life without much fear or inconvenience. If they toe the line, I mean.

  As with all dystopias, it’s a reflection of the time in which it was written rather than a prediction of future events. That “time” was the U.S. banking crisis of 2008 and its aftermath.

  I’ve never been one to cleave to apocalyptic rhetoric (humans have proved to be nothing if not adaptable), but I find it interesting to observe. When the crisis loomed, voices claimed that only bailouts could save the American economy from collapse. Others said the bailouts would kick the can down the road to an even greater monetary upheaval. And I, who had no power whatsoever in fiscal policy-making, said, “Huh. I wonder what that kind of world would look like.”

  Thus was born the setting for A Boy Called Hawk.

  The bailouts happened, the can-kicking hasn’t led to hyper-inflation or economic ruin (yet, at least), and the past decade has seen an explosion of technological and societal innovations instead of the sweeping depression that underlies my alternate timeline.

  Even so, I still see echoes of that otherworld, in technologies proudly announced and then quietly walked back, in the modern crusades against thoughtcrimes, in the emergence of deepfakes and the rationalization of internment camps. Accusations of “fake news” ring from both sides of the political aisle and the Narrative governs all.

  Truth really is far stranger than fiction.

  All this is to say that even though history has successfully navigated past the point where my fictional timeline veers off into soft totalitarianism, I still feel like this story has its merits.

  It’s a fun little escape, if nothing else.

  K.S.

  July 2019

  Original Author’s Note (2010)

  I blame my sister, Kristen. Last year, as she told me a story about her oldest son, a single sentence among her words shoved my brain into its “create” mode. A character was born, and he demanded a name, so I gave him one—that I stole from her. He might’ve lived anywhere, in any time, but I had an itch to attempt a future dystopia of sorts, so that’s where I put him. Then, so he wouldn’t be lonely, I added his siblings, whose names were also pilfered from my sister. When I presented the inchoate idea to her and explained my sources, she gave her blessing for me to continue. Thus, this is all her fault.

  Many thanks go to Melia Kydd for providing feedback and to Angela Barrus for providing resources. I am also grateful to Walton Mendelson for making available his very helpful formatting guide, and to the people of NaNoWriMo.org for issuing their yearly challenge. Finally, to my patron, Edith, thank you not only for facilitating my hobby, but also for your incessant encouragement. This particular story would have been abandoned at the 50,000-words mark if not for you.

  K.S.

  June 2010

  Preamble

  A Subtle Revolution

  In the second decade of the 21st century, in the midst of global economic calamities, the monetary system of the United States of America failed. Upon the collapse of the dollar, the country descended into chaos. Those in power scrambled for a chokehold on the nation in order to secure its assets and future in a manner consistent with their ideologies. What emerged was a new system: of currency, of business, of government—in effect, a revolution with no revolution at all.

  The ruling elite claimed that they were “forced to sacrifice the nation in order to save the nation.” They assumed possession of the private sector, specifically of banks and all their private holdings. The new currency, the amero, based its value on the land itself. Many citizens lost claim to all worldly goods in the collapse, and only those few who owned a piece of land free and clear escaped total dependence upon the new national government.

  As a result of these radical maneuvers, the gap between the ruling elite and the common citizenry widened. Technology and innovation stuttered to a halt. The average individual had no money for such things, and the government preferred that its population remain focused on work and menial production rather than the many distractions that had characterized the failed opulent lifestyles of the former era. People learned to make do with the status quo instead of looking forward to the next big invention.

  While those in power still claimed to uphold the nation’s Constitution, they made concerted efforts to expand the control of the government, even into the most personal facets of its citizens’ lives. Within a decade, the Supreme Court ruled in favor of a state-sponsored population-control law. The opinion handed down in Dobson v. Massachusetts determined that the Constitution did not give couples a right to unlimited children. Soon after, a federal restriction of two children per household was enacted.

  Further, the executive branch of the government declared the news media outlets to be faulty and biased. Thus was born the National Public News Network, a state-controlled medium through which news could be reported without the corruption of private monies or special interests. After the implementation of massive taxes for operating costs, the biased, private-sector competitors withered and vanished from the public eye.

  Perhaps the most significant organization to appear during this period of time, however, was the Government-Civilian Alliance, an agency created by Congress to form a liaison between the ruling class and its citizenry.

  According to its mission statement, the GCA was established “to advocate citizens’ rights in order to prevent exploitation of any one individual by the corruption and greed of the masses.” With a budget to rival that of the military itself, the GCA became known best for its volunteer force: hordes of young adults fresh from college, seeking to make a difference in the world by acti
vely working to support their government.

  In the beginning, many complained that the government had grown too strong, that it had far overstepped its bounds. As the years passed, those voices dwindled, and the rising generation, which had never known true freedom, became ardent supporters to this new brand of liberty, wherein they could accomplish whatever feats their hearts desired, so long as the powers-that-be approved.

  Article I, Section 1

  Nothing Unusual Here

  July 1, 2053, 8:13am pdt, somewhere in Oregon

  It was a long, lonely stretch of highway that Deputy Zielinski and his partner had been assigned to block. Only a handful of cars had passed by the hastily erected barriers so far, and none of them bore the description of the fugitive vehicle. Zielinski had to give the criminals some credit for guts: only a daredevil or a complete idiot would steal a military jeep as a getaway car.

  Initially it had provided the perfect cover. No highway patrolman in his right mind would pull over a government vehicle unless explicitly ordered to do so by people very high up on the chain of command. Had the jeep’s theft been the only crime involved, Zielinski might have been amused.

  The situation was far more serious than that, though. Two children had been kidnapped in the middle of the night from the safety of their home. Somehow, the kidnappers had disabled the kids’ sub-dermal ID chips and disappeared off the digital radar.

  A chill traveled up his spine as he thought of his own two little girls, who by now would be boarding their school bus on this bright summer morning. His call to action had come before dawn, and Zielinski had failed to kiss them each goodbye before he left.

  He couldn’t imagine the anguish of the parents whose precious children had been taken. The state had responded as quickly as it could, enacting its ancient Amber Alert system and commanding that a radius of barriers be set up on all highways. The kidnappers had a head start, but the state had a tight network of dedicated public servants. It was only a matter of time before the kidnappers slipped up and got caught. Zielinski only hoped that nothing happened to those two kids in the meantime.

  The sound of an engine thrummed through the crisp morning air, much louder than the government-mandated electric cars that the citizenry drove nowadays. Zielinski spared a glance toward his partner at the roadblock, an unnecessary gesture meant to put him on his guard. In the distance, a vehicle careened into sight. It barreled down the road at an excessive speed, but it slowed as Zielinski waved his arms. His heart leapt into his throat. It was a jeep, dark green in color, with a canvas top, just like in the report.

  He jerked his stun gun from his waist, as did his partner behind him, but his anticipation quickly melted into confusion. As the jeep came to a complete stop ten yards in front of him, he took in its battered, rust-eaten frame and the loud ka-thunk of the gas engine. It had probably seen its better days a century ago, back during World War II or Korea. He had expected one of the smooth, sleek military vehicles common today, not this decrepit piece of junk.

  “Cut the engine!” he yelled, and the ancient, incessant chugging suddenly stopped. Briefly Zielinski wondered why the driver had not tried to run him down. Only he and his partner manned this roadblock, since the higher-ups had determined it an unlikely escape route for the kidnappers. The roadblock itself was flimsy at best, and could have been easily broken through, yet this vehicle had stopped as commanded.

  Perhaps it wasn’t the kidnappers after all.

  Even so, he approached with caution, stun gun at the ready. With each step, a growing sense of tranquility washed over him. Surely this could not be the jeep he was on the lookout for. Why, there was absolutely nothing suspicious about it.

  His eyes homed in on the driver, and beneath that smothering tranquility his confusion returned, a vague sense of wrongness that nagged at the edge of his brain. A pair of clear green eyes peered back at him from the driver’s seat, open and honest. Their owner looked nothing like the depraved kidnapper Zielinski had expected to encounter. In fact, their owner looked nothing like any driver Zielinski had expected to encounter.

  “Aren’t you a little young to be driving?” he asked helplessly.

  “I’m eleven,” the driver said in cheerful response. Zielinski’s confused gaze shifted to the passenger seat where an older boy, twelve or thirteen, calmly stared back at him. His eyes were hazel but the same shape as the driver’s, and his face was similar as well. Brothers, maybe? Perched atop that passenger’s seat, a coal-black raven dug its sharp talons into the upholstery to maintain its balance, and one beady eye stared back at the confused deputy trooper. Zielinski swallowed and slid his gaze to the back seat and the little girl and boy who were there.

  No seat belts, he mentally noted. That wasn’t right. Driving without seat belts was dangerous.

  “Um, why are you driving?” Zielinski asked the eleven-year-old in complete bewilderment.

  “Because he doesn’t know how to drive a manual transmission.” The boy jerked one thumb toward the front passenger, who smiled blandly.

  There was something wrong with that answer, but Zielinski couldn’t quite put his finger on it. His eyes darted again toward the back seat and the little boy, who sat staring at the canvas ceiling above him. The child, five or six years old by the looks of him, appeared wholly unconcerned with the situation. Somehow Zielinski found that reassuring.

  “Hey, Mister,” piped up the little girl, and his attention snapped to her small, delicate face. She was about the same age as his oldest, eight or nine. “Can you let us through the roadblock?” His heart melted at the sound of her voice. “We’re kind of in a hurry.”

  Again that feeling of wrongness nagged at him, but he instinctively ignored it. “Sure, of course,” he said. “Just make sure you guys drive carefully.”

  “We will,” the little girl said, and the two boys in the front smiled brightly. The little boy in the back continued to stare at the ceiling.

  Zielinski vaguely nodded, secure in that warm, overwhelming sense of tranquility that enveloped him. Without hesitation he raised one hand to motion to his partner to open the roadblock.

  Another car approached, its electric hum lost as the military jeep churned back to life. Above the din, he heard the little girl say, “Hey Happy, what do you s’pose is in the trunk of that car? I bet it’s something really interesting.”

  Even as the little boy next to her finally pulled his eyes from the ceiling and turned to look, Zielinski’s attention snapped back to the trim coupe that had just come to a stop. Curiosity overwhelmed him. There had to be something of note in that trunk. Perhaps the kidnappers had changed cars, and the two missing children—

  His heart quickened, and he again motioned his bewildered partner to let the jeep pass. They had much more important leads to pursue.

  As the ancient jeep inched forward, the incredulous expression on his partner’s face disappeared. The roadblock eased open enough for the jeep to pass through, and it barreled away down the road, speed increasing as it spewed black pollution from its tailpipe.

  Zielinski had already moved to the little electric car and its irate driver, who took offense at being thus waylaid. He rubbed his hands together greedily as he commanded the woman to open her car’s trunk. She complied, but not without grumbling under her breath. He fruitlessly shifted around the contents—a couple blankets, a tire jack, an emergency kit—and suddenly couldn’t remember what he was looking for in the first place.

  Befuddled, he straightened and frowned down at the completely normal items.

  “Hey,” his partner said helplessly as he joined him, “wasn’t that the jeep we just let pass?”

  “Those weren’t kidnappers,” Zielinski replied irritably, “just a bunch of kids out for a morning drive.”

  “I know, but… kids… can’t drive, can they?”

  Zielinski stared at his partner as this question tumbled through his head. “They… can’t, can they.” This piece of logic seemed unusually difficult fo
r him to wrap his mind around.

  “Maybe we should call it in,” said his partner slowly.

  The idea sounded better and better the more he considered it. “Yeah,” said Zielinski. His head felt hazy. “Yeah, maybe we should.”

  A few miles down the road, the gasoline engine roared as its young driver shifted gears and accelerated.

  “We have to ditch the jeep, Hummer,” said the little girl from the back seat.

  The driver’s hands instinctively tightened around the steering wheel, even as the truthfulness of her words struck at him. “Yeah,” he agreed vaguely, but the next moment he shook his head and glared at her reflection in the rearview mirror. “Honey! Don’t do that!”

  The little girl, Honey, let out a sulky huff and slumped back into her seat. Arms crossed, she directed her eyes out the window. “It’s common sense,” she muttered.

  “Honey’s right,” said the oldest boy where he sat in the front passenger seat. He was far more tentative about the subject. “We have to ditch the jeep. I know you love it, Hummer, but…”

  “Maybe we should ditch your bird, Hawk,” Hummer retorted with a sidelong glare. “How’d you like that, huh?”

  “Leave Revere out of this,” his brother replied, and the raven cawed its throaty agreement. “The jeep makes us too identifiable. You know perfectly well that Happy’s projection can’t last forever—those troopers are probably reporting us as we speak.”