Title: Rebel: the Alliance Chronicles, Book 4
Author: SF Benson
Genre: NA Post-apocalyptic Technothriller
Cover Design: Mae I Design/Regina Wamba
Editor: Maria Rosera
“Some secrets are costlier than others.”
Tru Shepard holds the key—a highly coveted piece of tech—in the palm of her hand.
Everyone in the American Republic has secrets—some innocent and some dangerous.
Tru Shepard, a Creative, thinks she’s fighting to maintain her identity. She soon learns that the struggle is much bigger, and she holds the key.
Zared Aoki, the guy she loves, thinks he’s fighting for happiness. The ghosts from his past are supposed to be behind him, but sometimes the past shows up when you least expect it.
In a world built on secrecy, will the truth set you free?
A slight tremor rocks my body. It shakes my foundation and shatters my fucking senses. The sensation, however, isn’t the aftershock from the blows Grekov delivered. No such luck. This internal riot comes courtesy of the sophisticated man staring back at me. A man who bears an uncanny resemblance to the face I’ve seen in the mirror every day of my life.
My mother never told me anything about the man. Everybody assumed Katsuo Aoki was my father including me. It’s the lie Mom told me for years. In all honesty, I had no reason to doubt her. I was a gullible kid easily duped by a woman skilled in the fine art of deception.
The first time I saw a video stream of Jacoby Craig Venter, my mother told me he was a cruel man who ran our country. In her opinion, Leader Venter was a self-serving bastard who didn’t know how to treat those around him. I never questioned her unkind words. After all, he was a politician. He didn’t have to be liked by everyone, including my mother. Over the years, her disdain grew for him while my curiosity flexed and stretched. I wanted to know more about the leader I shared my middle name with.
I’ve seen countless pictures of Venter, but the obvious connection between us slipped by me like undetected blips on radar. His eyes are my eyes. The hair, the nose, even the way his damn jaw is set. If someone took my picture and aged it, we would be the same person. There’s no disputing it, no matter how much I don’t want it to be true. The leader of this fucked up country is my damned father.
His hazy dark eyes rake over me with hawk-like intensity. I’m certain my stare is just as hard, just as cold. What the fuck is going on in his mind? Somehow, I doubt it’s surprise. Rumors say nothing gets past this man. Deep down, I’m certain he’s known about me for years. I was probably a burden he didn’t feel the need to recognize.
If my father’s smart, he won’t ask what I’m thinking. The appearance of the pompous prick screams patriotic. I’m sure someone selected the right clothes—navy-blue pinstriped suit with crisp white shirt and bold red tie—to perfect the image. Even his graying hair is flawless. Deep down, however, lies the truth. His patriotism is garbage. It’s pungent with the stench of a cruel government. Hell, it’s deeper than that. He’s deeper than that.
“Damned unbelievable,” Venter mutters. “It’s like looking at a fucking photograph. Glad to see you made a full recovery, son.”
My body tenses. Fire courses through my veins. The words push forth and squeeze past my clenched teeth. “Don’t call me that.”
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About the Author
SF Benson, a native of Michigan, resides in Georgia with her husband, a human daughter, and a couple of miniature fur kids (two female short-haired guinea pigs). At one time, she wrangled a household which included three Samoyeds, saltwater fish, a hamster, and three guinea pigs. When she’s not busy playing Doctor Doolittle, she enjoys answering the question “what if” by writing mostly Dystopian/science fiction and paranormal stories for young adults and new adults. And if a spare moment happens, she morphs into a bookworm and devours a few books simultaneously. Find her online at: