Rising Son
Key Words:
SciFi, LGBTQ, Speculative Fiction, Sex Off Page, Fade to Black, Action, Love StorySynopsis:
When war erupts within the ruling class, he proves to be a lethal warrior, fearless, resourceful, and photogenic. His swashbuckling exploits awaken a long-dormant liberal underground hungry to restore democracy.
In a world both familiar and horribly twisted, Spartak becomes a symbol of hope, a flesh and blood icon for an America that used to be and might be again, if he can survive.
Dark, twisted, dystopian, uplifting, and romantic—The Chronicles of Spartak delivers a 22nd-century LGBT action hero who will make you cheer.
A riveting tale with a powerful political undercurrent.
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Ronald
Reagan Arena
San
Diego, California
Being shot out of a cannon is not how I
expected to spend my sixteenth birthday. “The audience will love it,” gushed
adults who didn’t have to climb inside. This seemed like something ancient
Romans might have wished to use on Christians when the lions weren’t hungry.
The vertical black cylinder, forty feet at the muzzle, nine feet in diameter,
has a tiny door on the side, just above the breech, giving access through the
chamber and into the round projectile inside.
This is supposed to be a showy and theatrical arrival
for the awards ceremony. I grin and rush toward the door, looking thrilled for
this new experience. Drama is one of my best high school classes. Downer boys
like me know how to survive in this America.
To get into the giant sphere—giant being a relative term
for a cannonball—I squat and waddle, not very dignified, four of us in a space
that shouldn’t hold one. I plop my gluteus maximus on the designated indent on
a shelf that circles the inside.
“Keep arms at your sides,” a mechanical female voice
orders. A dozen wooly steel fingers thrust out from each side and wrap around
my biceps, chest and thighs, python tight. A furry helmet, attached to the end
of a metal column and wriggling like it’s alive, drops from the ceiling and
swallows the top of my head before it stretches to my ears, pushing scratchy
fingers inside. The seat begins to heat and vibrate before contouring
intimately into my butt. A metal arm unfolds from the wall and swings a horseshoe-shaped,
undulating, disgusting white pad to my lips. “Open your mouth wide,” the voice
demands.
It pushes against my lips with
increasing intensity before I surrender and it invades, enveloping my teeth.
The arm detaches and folds back into its hiding place. I feel like meat in an
enchilada. I close my eyes, waiting for liftoff, the least of my worries.
Being “the hope of my people” and “a hero” isn’t
easy—more like a joke. Neither is acting dignified when I’m strapped to a bench
that’s feeling up my tail end or in public when teenagers are screaming for me
to take off my clothes. Not that it happens all the time, but Coach Johanson
says people in my social strata believe in me, that I’m a symbol and need to
make them proud, not act like a kid. A strange thing to say; acting like a kid
isn’t a luxury most kids have anymore but I still have my breakout moments.
“Att-en-tion boys!” the pilot bellows, inches from my
face, “lean into your harness, bite your bit and enjoy the ride!” Our luminous
silver aero-pod begins to vibrate and twirl inside the launch chamber.
Everything goes black except a floating control panel. We stare straight ahead,
not that there’s an alternative, as the centrifugal force pins us back and
whips our cheeks sideways.
An explosion below and we are airborne, my guts in my
butt, eardrums squealing, a thousand feet over Reagan Arena, the pod glittering
to those below like a mirrored dance ball. Before we lose our lunch, the
spinning slows and we descend, circling the field twice, our faces red and
slobbery but otherwise normal as we hover over the winner’s platform. An odd
hyena shriek from the pilot as his restraints withdraw; the man never offered
his name, his brown head shaved except for a massive kinked topknot and a zigzag
gelled beard.
We all yawn until our ears pop and stare into individual
floating Z-ether screens to see what’s happening below. It’s a circus, twenty
thousand teenagers, frenzied, howling and jumping up and down. The San Diego
Youth Orchestra looks near exhaustion blasting out our welcome, pounding drums,
endless violin tremolos, a female chorus reaching celestial peaks. It’s both
ridiculous and a total snort. In the lower stands I see hundreds of
hand-lettered signs with my name and assorted suggestions on what I should do,
mostly about displaying my anatomy, some more graphic than others.
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A young man finds love in the midst of a revolution.
Fighting to restore the America of legend, Spartak Jones becomes one. By 2116, the war between the ruling elites is now full frontal and the seventeen-year-old has become its celebrity warrior and icon for an America that used to be.
Kidnapped and taken as a trophy slave just a year ago, he remains his own man, willing to use his looks and other talents to survive and triumph. The liberal underground promotes his wholesome yet swashbuckling image to build support for democracy even while others plot for his destruction. Love may be his greatest weapon.
Is he a pawn or hero? How much evil is acceptable if you believe your cause is just?
From the Space Elevator, 22,000 miles above the earth, Spartak and Zinc McClain, scion of the nation’s richest family, launch an audacious scheme to thwart a religious war and a military coup.
Stalk Me
Website: https://stevenacoulter.com/
1 comment:
Chronicles of Spartak sounds like a great series. Cool covers, too! :)
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