WARP world (71 page)

Jarin Svestil, Senior Theorist of the Cultural Theorist’s Guild, Selectee of Education and Council member, rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. His fellow Theorist, and clandestine companion, Maryel Aimaz, stood beside him where he sat.

“Despite your stance on the use of chemical enhancements, if you insist on forgoing sleep any longer I highly recommend you consider a dose of stimulants,” Maryel said, with a note of impatience.

He didn’t have to look up at her to know she was frowning, or that her eyes were as fixed on the monitor in front of them as his own were.

“Nothing a cup of greshk cannot remedy,” Jarin answered, lifting a steaming cup to his lips.

He had chosen to view the intrans of his former student, Theorist Segkel Eraranat, from the privacy of his office – one of the few places he knew he would not be observed, where he could speak freely.

On the screen, a rowdy group of Outers clustered together in the decon chamber. He glanced up at Maryel and offered her a wry smile.

“I don’t know why you’re smiling. Everyone with any bit of influence in the World is likely monitoring this feed right now. Your prized pupil is showing yet again that he is the very definition of unortho,” she said, her voice sour and clipped. “The CWA will make use of this.”

The smile faded as he nodded in assent to her words. Maryel was not only a Senior Theorist and member of the council that led the Guild, she was also one of the Lead Questioners in post-raid analysis. Normally, for completed raids, the Question was little more than a formality, a superficial study of the successful areas of the raid and how the process could be improved.

As with all things Segkel, however, nothing about his Question would be normal.

Unortho
was a word Jarin had known well would haunt Segkel’s career. Nevertheless, he had cultivated that very trait in the boy because the survival of the People and the World would require new, unorthodox ideas and methods.

“The vis feed is being trapped,” Jarin assured his companion. “As best we can, we will contain this. At present, Segkel’s image can survive a certain amount of unortho.”

“At present, yes, but we both know the CWA thinks in the long term. They will use moments such as these to chip away at his image.” She gestured to the screen and pursed her lips.

Jarin sighed, all traces of good humor evaporating. “He has complicated matters, agreed. But I knew, we all knew, allowing him the freedom to act on his instincts and intelligence would complicate everything. Genius burns like fire, Maryel.”

“You could have chosen a less alarming metaphor.” She crossed her arms and let out a sharp gust of air through her nose.

He shook his head as he turned back to the screen. “It would serve us to remain alarmed, I believe. In the interest of staying ahead of these matters..”

“Fifty Outers. Fifty! With weapons, no less. And an order specifying they not be processed, grafted, or even registered. Forgive my language, but what in the name of the Storm is Eraranat thinking?”

Revolution
. Jarin pushed the word to the far corners of his mind. No, not Segkel. Even the headstrong protégé had his limits. For all his unorthodoxy, Segkel was a true Citizen of the World.

“I believe we will have answers soon enough,” Jarin said.

“Indeed,” Maryel agreed, lifted a digifilm from the desk and crossed to her seat to make notes. “Theorist Eraranat may dazzle the primitives with his speeches but they won’t get him far in the Question.”

Jarin watched Maryel for a moment, out of the corner of his eye, then returned his full attention to the monitor once more.

He leaned forward and squinted. Amadahy. The girl was unmistakable, even if her gills weren’t visible on the screen. By the automed sleeve on her arm, the state of her attire, and the tangle of her long, blonde hair, it was obvious she had taken part in the battle at the temple. Segkel, battle-worn himself, held her hand and they spoke conspiratorially. As young lovers often do. Jarin’s mouth turned down at the sight and he felt a surge of anger.
Segkel, I warned you not to bring her back.

This would not end well.

“Hold.”

Ama stopped at the sound, turned to find the source, and was shocked to see raider Fismar Korth heading toward her.
Rolling
toward her, that was, in a chair with large wheels on each side.

“Why are you still here?” she asked, shaking her head. “What—” she gawked at the chair, mouth hanging open, unable to finish her question.

Fismar had taken a beating in the various battles on her world. When she had last seen him, less than an hour ago, he had been unable to move from the waist down.

“Medicals will get their claws in me soon enough,” Fismar said, in a tone that suggested he considered treating his multiple injuries nothing more than annoying interruption. “Had worse, anyway. I want to watch these boys a moment.”

The ‘boys’ were a group of about ten Kenda, most from the ex-prisoner contingent, who had their sefts raised and pointed at the decon crew.

“Fools,” Ama sighed. “Seg told them to unclothe and let the workers clean them. I have to stop th—”

“
Hold
, I said.” Fismar clamped his hand around her wrist. His other hand held the wheel of his chair to prevent it from rolling forward.

“Seg put me in charge until he returns,” Ama protested, tugging against his grip.

“Wait and watch.” Fismar held firm. “You’re dealing with troops. Or what’re going to be troops, unless I miss my guess. Your Theorist is a weird one, unortho as the Storm, but he’s got a plan here.”

“I don’t think his plan is to start a war in this room.”

The Kenda shouted and rattled their sefts. The decon crew took nervous steps backwards, as white-suited security personnel, scattered through the decon chamber, stepped forward.

Just as Ama was about to launch another protest, Fismar pointed to a solitary Kenda, pushing his way through the scrum with a purpose. “Him,” Fismar said, and released her wrist.

The man had dark hair, almost black, which made Ama suspect there must be some Welf or Damiar blood in his line. The hair was pulled back in a ponytail, the style of those who spent their days in the wind and spray. A cargo hauler perhaps? He wasn’t as brawny as some but carried himself as if he were twice his size. His eyes were two dark, unmovable stones.

As the crowd parted for this man, Ama felt a twinge of recognition. He wasn’t from the temple or the Secat, he didn’t wear a prisoner’s uniform, he wasn’t one of Brin’s workers (that she knew of), but he looked familiar nonetheless.

“What about him?” Ama asked Fismar, conscious that she had lowered her voice and that, somewhere inside, she was answering her own question.

The dark haired man grabbed one of the shouters by the collar, a newly freed prisoner from the Secat, catching his hand before his seft could curve back toward him.

“The man explained his purpose, brother,” the dark haired man said. “Let these people do their work.”

The ex-prisoner with the blade turned to voice his objection but something in the dark haired man’s face made him silent.

“They want to take our sefts! They defile the names of our ancestors!” another ex-prisoner shouted.

“I wouldn’t mind doing some defiling of my own,” Viren said, with a lecherous glance toward Shan, who was still at the skyship.

“Our sefts are sacred!” the man continued to protest.

This outburst was met with a snorting laugh. Viren Hult stepped forward, chortling and clearly enjoying the spectacle, “You didn’t even have that seft until this morning, old timer. Hardly long enough to make anything sacred.”

“Show respect,” the black haired man tightened his grip on the first ex-prisoner’s collar to prevent him from lunging forward, then turned his stony glare on Viren. “This man suffered in the Secat for the freedom of his brothers, while you played cards and whored your way through T’ueve.”

He widened his focus and spoke to all the Kenda, his tone low but commanding. “We are not animals! We gave our oath and our honor to this man, Segkel Eraranat. And, through him, to Brin Kalder. We are Kenda and we are on a far shore where our names and the names of our ancestors are meaningless.” He let go of the ex-prisoner. Then his mouth twisted into a savage grin, as he glanced down between his legs and winked, “Let’s show them what the true weapons of men look like.”

Ama shook her head as the men laughed and hooted.

Viren turned to the man beside him, “Prow, I do believe that…
pirate
…tried to insult me.”

“Wouldn’t be the first,” Prow said, stroking his ample chin.

“You wound me,” Viren pressed his hand to his heart, then turned his attention back to the black haired man. He fixed the man with an overly large smile and held out his own seft for the white-suits to take away for cleaning. “Not animals, no. Civilized, we are,” he said, when the weapon was removed from his hands. “From the mouth of Cerd Jind himself, Nen take me.”

“Jind,” Ama whispered.

“That mean something?” Fismar asked.

There was a low murmur among the Kenda. Some of the men raised their index fingers and touched their left eye. A few stepped away from the black haired man.

“Cerd Jind was a criminal on our world.”

“And…?” Fismar shrugged, “Seems you like you have a few of those in this bunch.”

“This is different,” Ama said.

“Look lively, deckies!” Viren called out, as he unlaced his trousers, “Let’s see who’s carrying the biggest weapon!”

Without another word, Cerd Jind, the black haired man, picked up his seft and handed it to the decon crew, then pulled off his shirt. The scars and lean muscles could have belonged to any of the Kenda; the tattoo was a different story.

Spread across Jind’s back were swirls of black ink. Though highly stylized, any Kenda would have recognized the symbol as a drexla – the lethal, poisonous predator that hunted in the Big Water. Ama’s calf bore two scars left by drexlas; not many could say they had escaped such an encounter, twice. But the ink was more than a symbol of a water creature, it was the mark worn by those Kenda who betrayed their own and ran with the pirates of the Rift Tribu.

Why would Brin trust a man like Cerd Jind? A man who had murdered and stolen from his own kind.

“Well, no bloodshed. That’s a first from this crowd, I’ll wager,” Ama said, forcing lightness into her tone. She turned her eyes from the Kenda men as they shed their clothes, just in time to mark Shan’s approach.

“Did I miss the animal show?” Shan asked, as she stepped up beside Fismar’s chair. She spoke only to Fismar and was careful to keep her distance from the ‘Outer’.

“Think you would’ve learned something by now, skyrider,” Fismar said as he engaged the wheels on the chair. “Fighters are fighters, wherever they come from. These boys ain’t troops, but they
are
fighters.”

“Yeah, yeah, kargin’ Outers all look the same to me,” Shan said, scratching at the unruly mop of black hair that jutted out from her head in every direction.

Fismar waved the medicals over at last.

“Enjoy med-leave, sand slogger,” Shan called to him.

“Stop by the RQ and we’ll drown the dead,” Fismar answered, with a look back over his shoulder.

“Long as you’re paying,” Shan said.

He gave Shan a wink, then shifted his eyes to the Kenda and gave them one last thoughtful look.

Shan unzipped her flight suit, sighed and muttered, “Kargin’ decon.”

Ama looked left and right. The white-suits were already at work, hosing and spraying and brushing.

“Shan…” Ama began, shifting her weight from side to side.

“Are you still here?” Shan spat. “Go get scrubbed with the other caj. Go on.” She made a shooing motion with her hand.

Ama backed up a few steps, turned her head toward the mass of naked men, then turned back to Shan. “I’m not caj and I don’t wan—”

“Listen up,” Shan’s eyes burned, the upper half of her flight suit hung around her waist, “because the next time you talk to me, or even look at me, like you’re a Person, I’m gonna put you on the ground. I’ve played nice because you belong to the Theorist but the raid’s over. Get it?” She scowled as she eyed Ama from toe to head, then her eyes cooled faintly. “Besides, you ain’t got any equipment those worms over there haven’t seen before. Well, except for the—” she gestured to the dathe on Ama’s neck. “Quicker you get it done the quic—”

“Less talking, more unveiling!” Viren shouted. He stood about fifteen feet away, fully undressed, hands on his hips. Some of the Kenda laughed, some turned away, some turned to watch, more than a few exchanged whistles.

Shan’s eyes fired up again but, Ama noticed, the pilot’s cheeks flushed pink.

“Shut your kargin’ hole, Outer!” Shan shouted, then turned to Ama. “That one has a big mouth.”

Ama considered a reply but Viren beat her to it.

“Goddess of the Sky! I beg your forgiveness.” Viren spread his arms wide, “Come let me shower you with repentance!”

“That’s it,” Shan growled under her breath.

She stomped away. Ama thought she might leave the decon chamber but Shan stopped at a rack and pulled a large chack off a shelf. As she marched toward Viren, all the other Kenda, and a few of the white-suits, backed away. Viren’s smile never faltered, even when Shan jammed the muzzle of the gun into his naked chest.