The Manifest Destiny Network Chronicles, Book 1: The Sister Diaries

By Maniel

Daniel has begun a quest to discover who killed his parents in 2037, when he was ten. Denise, a friend of Daniel's mother, had been arrested, tried, and convicted. However, in 2052, Daniel receives a diary and an electronic letter from a just-deceased Denise claiming her innocence. Given Daniel's few accomplishments in life, can he possibly resolve this complex cold case?
In order to solve the murders, Daniel consults the diaries of Denise and his mother and journeys back to the origins of MaDNet (Manifest Destiny Network), the country’s new transportation system. In passing, we note how far MaDNet has come since the ‘30s. Beyond the quest for the truth about what happened to his parents in the past, Daniel is struggling to bring order and purpose to his life in the present. This is made more interesting, if not more straightforward, by his relationship with Marcia, his tennis teacher and unlikely partner in the investigation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maniel
• Release date: Aug 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476442976

Maniel

By training and profession, I am an engineer; my years of engineering experience have taught me that “good intentions” do not determine results. Success in engineering is objective: your bridge will stand, your machine will function, and your computer program will run correctly, only if designed and built in strict adherence to physical laws and principles; emotions generally have little to do with engineering outcomes. Since the discipline of engineering, meeting goals through actions based on proven principles, is lacking in our daily lives, it is no surprise that it is missing from our public policy.Having said all that, I am reminded of a personal ad posted in our school newspaper by a coed who described herself as "dynamic and attractive" and who wanted to meet a "passionate, active young man." The final words in the ad were, "no engineers." We are all well served by humility and a sense of humor.

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The Manifest Destiny Network Chronicles

Book 1: The Sister Diaries

by Maniel

Smashwords Edition

The Manifest Destiny Network Chronicles, Book 1: The Sister Diaries

Copyright © 2012 by Maniel

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters and events are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Special thanks to Maxine, Kerry, and Thomas for their contributions to this work.

* * * * *

Chapter 1: It was time

Low-hanging clouds accelerate the onset of night. My mother lets go of my hand and says, Wait here. I watch her and my father walk away, but as they begin to blend into the mass of people, anxiety overcomes me and I run after them. I look to the right and left—my heart is pounding—but the light is fading fast and I can no longer see anyone.

I awake, alone.

*****

I was born, Daniel Li Southern, on 12 February 2027 in Arlington, Virginia, to Sarah (née Li) and Abraham Southern. Until my eleventh year, my childhood was unremarkable. Then, on 5 December 2037, it was reported that my parents had been murdered at our Crystal City home while I was away at a party. The combined funerals, held on a bleak morning at Arlington Cemetery (my father was a retired Marine Corps officer and combat veteran) must have been intended to satisfy the need that some adults have for pain and suffering; I was confident that I would soon be reunited with my parents who, ceremony and tears notwithstanding, were just temporarily unavailable. Although the confusion could easily have been set right by opening the caskets, I began to have doubts when I boarded an airplane for San Francisco with my mother’s mother and brother. When we landed in San Francisco, I expected my parents to meet us at the airport. They did not.

We traveled to my grandmother’s condo in Chinatown. I was shown to the second bedroom, which, although I didn’t know it then, was to be mine for the next eight years. The day had passed like a bad dream. My dream that night restored my sense of reality: I was back with my parents because, as I had known right along, it had all been a mistake. The following morning, I was shocked to awaken in the strange bedroom where I had begun the night. Taking clothes from my suitcase near the bed, I dressed quickly and then repacked the suitcase and laid my tennis racket on top in preparation for my return to Crystal City. At breakfast, I argued with my grandmother about having to leave home. She seemed to think she had done me a favor by bringing me to San Francisco. I waited impatiently for my parents to call to settle the misunderstanding. The call never came.

In the days that followed, my uncle Gary took me out to visit the city. I saw nothing wrong in these excursions, which helped to pass the time until my parents came for me. He and I walked and took the bus and the metro to Fisherman’s Wharf, Coit Tower, the ancient Cable Car Museum, historic Chinatown, Golden Gate Park, and the Golden Gate Bridge. We ventured across the great red single-span bridge to Sausalito and away from the wharf to Alcatraz Island.

Uncle Gary taught me about 19th-century Chinese immigrants who had built the railroads, survived prejudice, and prospered in San Francisco. His parents had wanted his sister to marry a man of Chinese descent but had accepted my father-to-be as family following the marriage. This was all very interesting, but I missed my home and parents. When I brought that up to him, he said, I miss them too, but they are dead. We can’t live in the past.

I had been with my grandmother for two weeks when a dinner conversation between her and Uncle Gary assaulted my senses. Did you hear the news? asked my uncle.

I was contacted by the Arlington police, if that’s what you mean, said my grandmother. They arrested Denise Benson. Denise was a close friend of your mother, she said, now looking at me, you must have met her.

Did they tell you what evidence they had? asked Uncle Gary.

They said that they studied videos from the front of the house and Cyber-bracelet correlations.

Denise was Sarah’s closest friend; why would she kill her? Was she jealous?

I don’t know, said my grandmother, her eyes filled with tears.

And why kill Abe? said my uncle, looking at his hands. What did she have to gain?

I left the table and returned to my room. I opened the closet door, pushed my tennis racket to the very back, and shoved my suitcase in front of it. I lay down on the bed and cried.

*****

Denise was tried and convicted of the double murder and then confined to an apartment-style prison in Virginia. I spent eight years with my grandmother in San Francisco and then moved to San Diego to study criminal justice at San Diego State. I dropped out of school before getting my degree and took a job as a clerk at the county courthouse.

*****

Monday, 12 February 2052, San Francisco, California

I arrived in San Francisco this morning to celebrate my 25th birthday with my grandmother. My old bedroom was vacant, but my grandmother, planning some remodeling, asked me to clean out the closet before I returned to San Diego. Behind boxes of forgotten toys and games, I found my old tennis racket. An alert sounded on my PORT. When I removed the racket from its cover, a single tear ran down my cheek. As I was clearing any evidence from my face with my sleeve, the alert sounded again. I called it up on the old wall screen: Notice: Denise Benson, who passed away at 07:10 this morning, has willed one or more items to Mr. Daniel Southern. If you are Mr. Southern, please confirm receipt of this alert so that we may deliver those items to you.

Denise Benson had only encountered me on three brief occasions as a child before sweeping away everything important and meaningful in my life. Could it be that, with death imminent, she felt guilty? Perhaps she had written a letter of apology, but how would that help me fifteen years after the fact? When I tried to erase the alert, I received a warning: If you fail to acknowledge receipt, items willed to you will be destroyed. I confirmed receipt and received this reply: Two class-1 items are available at your inbox. I opened the first—a letter written in a script that I could barely decipher.

*****

Dearest Daniel,

If you are reading this letter, I am no longer living. Doctors originally gave me six months, nine at most—I have already survived for twelve, but I am becoming weaker by the day. Oh, how I have wished that I could deliver these words to you face to face, but in here, though it looks just like any apartment, we cannot invite guests and it was very unrealistic to imagine that you would think to visit me.

Daniel, I swear to you on my deathbed that I did not murder your parents. I would never hurt your mother—we were like sisters. I would have given my own life before I ever hurt her or your father in any way. In here, I have so little time to live but so much time to think. I have imagined you receiving this letter and expecting an apology. However, I have only the truth to offer. The people who took your parents from you also stole the best part of my life from me.

In recent years, I have kept a diary. I have willed that to you; it is yours to do with as you wish. As you probably already know, your mother also kept a journal. Hers goes back even further.

I wish you a wonderful life. I know that you will honor the memory of your mother and father.

Love,

Denise Benson

*****

What do you think she meant? I asked. How did she imagine I would honor their memory?

The way I read this, said my grandmother, she was hoping you’d find the real killers.

All the evidence showed that the real killer was Denise Benson. Why should we believe some quirky letter?

Why would she lie just before dying?

Even if she were telling the truth, the murders were fifteen years ago.

That means that the real killers may still be out there.

It sounds like you believe her.

From everything I’ve read, she always claimed to be innocent.

All the technology showed she was guilty; that was enough for the police and the courts.

Technology can be used for good or evil.

Do you think I should try to find these ‘real killers,’ if they even exist?

It’s not for me to say, Daniel.

The murders were fifteen years ago—where would I begin?

The letter says that she left you her diaries.

That’s true.

Have you looked at them? They must contain some information.

I scanned them. Outside of a few random names, there was nothing obvious.

Solving this case would take real commitment.

Translation: you didn't complete your degree at San Diego State; it will take a lot more resolve and persistence than that to solve a double murder and a miscarriage of justice about which you know next to nothing.

Three people are dead, she said, standing and putting her hand on my shoulder; one of them was your mother, my beautiful daughter. She’s been gone all these years, but I can see her face as if it were yesterday. The only good thing was that you came to live with me.

Have I been a disappointment?

You suffered—we both did. We helped each other to heal. But you’re a young man now. You make your own decisions.

I don’t know anything about what happened. I have no experience as a detective. I…

It would be wrong of me to put expectations on you.

You don’t think I could…

What I think doesn’t matter.

If what Denise wrote is true, the police will find the killers a lot quicker than I could.

No. The case will be buried with Denise. You’re the only link to the truth. She turned and began to walk slowly out of the small kitchen.

I have a job—that’s how I live. I would have to work on this nights and weekends.

She stopped for a moment and said, If you need money, I can help.

*****

Tuesday, 13 February 2052, San Diego, California

This morning, as I was preparing to return to San Diego, my grandmother brought me an old briefcase. I found your mother’s diaries, she said.

I guess I won’t need this old tennis racket, I said.

Take it. Go back to tennis. The physical discipline will help you.

I added the racket and briefcase to my luggage, kissed her goodbye, and walked the three blocks to the Chinatown Local MaDNet Station.

*****

My frame sped silently south along the blue and gold California shoreline. The Inter-City Line (aka the Orange Rail) from Monterey south runs in the open to Morro Bay, where the aerodynamic frames enter the pneumatic tube for the express ride to Goleta, just north of Santa Barbara. The sun, low in the southwestern sky, was sending reflections along the blue-green Pacific Ocean, once home to so many fish and ocean mammals. "I would never hurt your mother—we were like sisters." The words were running through my head. Things that I had known for sure for more than fourteen years were now suspect.

*****

I live in a two-bedroom house in North Park. It’s energy-neutral and I receive no proximity credits because I use MaDNet to get to the courthouse. I sleep in one bedroom; the other bedroom, which serves as my office and gym, has a combo-trainer, some weights, a desk, and a wall screen.

This morning I visited Morley Field, the tennis complex at Balboa Park. It was the dead of winter, but the courts, brilliant red, green, and white under the noonday sun now high in the southern sky, were filled with players and the loud pops of tennis balls on taut nylon racket strings. After a few minutes of observation—there were several excellent players—I went into the office, part tennis shop, part court-reservation arbitrator. A young man of African heritage with strong hands and forearms was restringing a racket. Welcome, he said, how can I help you?

I’m looking for a tennis teacher.

What’s his name?

I’ll know when I find him. I haven’t played for a long time and I want to start taking lessons.

Where do you live? he asked, threading a blue nylon string horizontally through white vertical strings.

In North Park.

He stopped to look at me. Are you a starter, or a re-starter?

It’s been awhile.

Would you like to begin your return to greatness here at Morley Field?

Do you have a recommendation?

One of the Dunlops, perhaps.

Is that a father and son team?

Brother and sister.

They alternate?

What’s your name?

Daniel. What’s yours?

Arnaud, he said, offering his hand and a strong grip. Can I call you ‘Daniel’?

Sure, most people do.

Look, Daniel, Harry and Marcia Dunlop roam these sun-baked courts as players and as teachers. They each have their own loyal following.

Have you worked with either of them?

I have on occasion played a set or two with mighty Harry.

Is he the one you would recommend?

Personally, I favor Marcia.

Why?

Let’s just say that if you start with Marcia, you’re more likely to continue.

Where do I find her?

Arnaud turned around to look at a digital readout behind him. She’s giving a lesson on Court 3, the teaching court, right about now. He pointed toward the door and motioned to his right.

Thanks, Arnaud.

Come in any time.

I left the little shop and walked slowly past several courts, stopping three or four times to watch the better players. When I reached Court 3, I saw two female players. The one on the far side of the net appeared to be about 11 or 12. The woman with her back to me was wearing a faded pink tennis cap; a baseball warm-up shirt, white with long red sleeves; and powder blue warm-up pants. I watched them hit. When the lesson ended, I walked onto the court.

Marcia turned to look at me. Her eyes were not visible behind her reflective sunglasses. Hi, are you Marcia Dunlop? I asked.

Yes, she said, extending her right hand.

Daniel Southern, I said, accepting the strong handshake.

How can I help you, Daniel?

See you next week, said the student, running toward the gate. Marcia waved.

Arnaud recommended you very highly.

I must remember to thank him for that. What’s your story?

It’s been a long time since I played tennis.

How long?

Fourteen years. I don’t know if I can, but I want to revive my game.

You’ll have to put in the time and effort, but you can.

When do you have openings?

I start my students with two lessons a week.

Sounds intense.

It will be, but if you’re serious, you’ll improve.

When do you have openings?

Tuesdays and Fridays.

I work at the courthouse—how late can you start?

Fifteen thirty.

I think I can do that. The only racket I have is fourteen years old.

Go back to Arnaud. He’ll set you up with a trial racket. See you Tuesday on this court.

*****

Back at the house, I examined the briefcase that my grandmother had given me. The leather was battered and scarred and there was no lock. The first thing I extracted was an old printout with the words "Company Founders Murdered written in red across the top. Beneath the title were two faded photographs: one of my parents and one of a woman with long blond hair and blue eyes. The captions read Sarah and Abe Southern and Denise Benson. All three looked young, healthy, and happy. The phrase Lovers’ Quarrel?" had been printed on the back.

*****

Why would a beautiful, successful engineer kill her best friend and her friend’s husband? Was it a lovers’ quarrel? Was Denise Benson jealous of Sarah Southern, her former college roommate? The one person who can answer these questions has denied any knowledge of the murders. Police, on the other hand, have no doubts that Denise Benson committed the double murder. Apparently, neither did the jury. Videos and a cyber-bracelet trace put her at the scene of the crime. Her counter-accusation against an employee at Freeman Engineering could not be substantiated.

The Southerns’ deaths leave their company, Southern Technology Services (STS), without leadership at a time when STS is competing to build components and a routing system critical to MaDNet operations. The killings, which occurred at the Southern residence, leave ten-year-old Daniel Southern with no parents.

*****

The cyberspace printout was dated 15 April 2038. I began a search for related information. Evidently, Denise Benson had been arrested almost immediately. The trial had gone smoothly for the prosecution. Her claim that she had been kidnapped by Rickey Tran of Freeman Engineering had been discredited through cyber-bracelet historical data. Following her conviction for first-degree murder with special circumstances, Denise received a thirty-year sentence and was confined to a limited-access Apartment Detention Facility in Arlington, Virginia. Her cyber-bracelet was modified to restrict her mobility and her ability to interact with other people.

*****

Thursday, 15 February 2052, San Diego, California

Hello, Arnaud, I said, entering his small shop.

It’s you again, said Arnaud. He looked at me for a few seconds and then asked, Daniel, right?

Very good; Marcia said to ask you for a trial racket.

Come here, he said, guiding me to an open area against one of the side walls. Take this, he said, offering me a short club. Start swinging it like a racket, he said, forehand, backhand, serve, volley. It will record your strengths and weaknesses.

I walked out with a technological marvel that Arnaud simply referred to as your low-cost, high-powered, personally-tailored, perfect-control, long-lasting, winning-shot tennis racket.

*****

Tuesday, 20 February 2052, San Diego, California

We began my first lesson with cross-court forehands and backhands. Marcia was feeding me from a ball machine. Racket back quickly, she yelled from the net; take the ball a little early, nice big follow through—keep that head down through the shot—good.

At the end of the lesson, Marcia said, I can see that you’ve played before, but I suggest that you watch the videos.

What videos?

They’re on this little gadget here, she said, moving to the side of the court. Just hit ID, select Daniel—you’re my only Daniel—give it an ID from your bracelet, and it’ll give you your videos.

Where are the cameras?

There are eight of them, she said, pointing to each of the night lights.

What should I look for?

Look for the things I was nagging you about: move your feet, get in position, shoulders turned, racket back, head down, move forward, and follow through. Match your mechanics with how well you hit the ball. When you practice, remember what you did right in the videos.

At 16:00, a young mother and two boys in matching tennis outfits came on the court. See you Friday, I said. Marcia nodded.

*****

Wednesday, 21 February 2052, San Diego, California

I spent most of the day at the courthouse thinking about the case, but when I was finally at home at my desk, I seemed to have investigator’s block. I reached for a pad of paper, mimicking my grandmother, one of the few people I knew who used pencil and paper. I wrote Denise Benson, Sarah and Abe, Rickey Tran, Freeman Engineering. Then I wrote cyber-bracelets.

I stared at the words for a couple of minutes before I tuned into the Freeman Engineering site. Freeman was a company with more than 50 years’ experience in transportation systems. There were historical notes, such as the first recorded use of the term MaDNet. "Every day I’m asked whether this country can ever return to prosperity and preeminence. My response: why not take bold measures? Why not build a Manifest Destiny Network to merge rail and automobile transport, to save our environment and our energy while we resurrect key industries." [From a speech by Louise Hawkins, running for the U.S. Senate from Virginia in May 2020]

The site proclaimed proudly that Freeman Engineering was the prime developer of MaDNet technology in the United States. The title Isaac Fisher, Godfather of MaDNet caught my eye. Dr. Fisher’s cyber site offered five-minute discussions between 15:00 and 16:00, Tuesday through Thursday afternoons. I signed up for 15:00 later in the day. I entered author as my occupation following my new penname, Daniel Simon.

*****

Isaac Fisher was, by my computations, only sixty-seven, but his hair was white and there were bags under his eyes. So you’re writing a documentary, he said in a soft voice.

"Yes, sir; MaDNet Origins."

Is Simon your real name?

It’s a penname. I know it’s asking a lot, sir, but I would like to interview you.

I’m free on Monday at fourteen hundred.

Excellent. I’ll call you then.

We’ll see how it goes. You’ll need to convince me that yours will be different from all the other documentaries and videos about MaDNet.

Understood. Thank you, sir.

That’s your five; gotta vanish.

Chapter 2: The Sisters

Thursday, 22 February 2052, San Diego, California

I carefully extracted my mother’s diary from the old briefcase. Untouched for years and in excellent condition, it was written much like Denise’s letter—in a cursive script like some ancient foreign language.

*****

Monday, 11 September 2017, Westwood, California

Apartments near campus go quickly just before fall quarter, said the girl in the UCLA housing office. "To live walking distance from campus, you can try the east side; Hilgard used to be Sorority Row, but there are only a few sororities left. Or you can try the west side—Gayley, Strathmore, and Landfair—where the fraternities were. A little noisier, but I’d check there first."

Is that where the least expensive ones are? asked Sarah.

Nothing is cheap close to campus. Rent a one-bedroom and find a roommate.

It took me twenty minutes to find a place to park; is it always this bad?

Yes. That’s why we’re having this conversation.

*****

Nine-month lease. Two thousand a month. Six thousand now; two for the first month, two for the last month; and two for the deposit.

You want six thousand dollars right now? asked Sarah.

You’re not going to find anything cheaper this close to campus, not this late, said the short, white-haired woman with a frown.

It’s a lot.

Get a roommate—a girl roommate.

When do you need to know?

I’m not going to hold it for you.

Okay, I’ll take it, said Sarah.

How are you going to pay?

I’ll link to your PORT.

Mmh, the old woman grunted, pulling hers from a black leather handbag. Don’t bring a lot of boys around here. No wild parties or you’ll never see that deposit again.

*****

Yes, Mama, it’s expensive, but the apartment is close to campus.

You have a car. Why do you need to be so close?

At Berkeley, I lived on campus. It saves time, no parking problems, and no gas to buy.

What about living in a dorm?

There’s no dorm for grad students. I plan to find a roommate to split the cost.

*****

Wednesday, 13 September 2017, Westwood, California

Sarah had no problem finding Boelter Hall (one of several buildings, newly renovated, dedicated to the godfather of UCLA Engineering) and Room 3400, a large classroom with stadium-style seating. She chose an aisle seat near the front. Just before the new-student orientation was scheduled to start, Sarah felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up. Is that seat taken? asked a tall, blond girl, indicating the seat next to Sarah.

No, said Sarah, standing to let her pass.

What an ant farm! I tried to arrive early to get stuff done but I had to park near the ocean.

My sympathies.

Where’d you park?

I walked.

How’d you manage that?

I rented an apartment near campus two days ago.

Denise Benson, Sedona, Arizona.

Sarah Li, San Francisco.

How can you afford an apartment on campus?

I’m looking for a roommate. I…

Good morning ladies and gentlemen. I’m Dean Russell...

Let’s talk afterwards, whispered Sarah.

*****

What classes do you plan to take? asked Denise, as they walked together out into the hallway.

Professor Nishimura’s simulation class, for one. I was hoping to see him before next week, but he’s in Japan. His reputation was one reason I chose UCLA.

What’s so great about his class?

"I’ll know more after I’m in it, but multi-view