WARP world (72 page)

“One more word, Outer,” Shan said, firing each word at him as if it were its own weapon. “One more and I fill you full of spines.”

Viren offered Shan the kind of look a boy might give the Lesson House instructor after being caught truant. The moment her shoulders relaxed, his eyes roamed to her chest, which was only covered by a thin undershirt, then caught her gaze again and directed it downward, between his legs.

“You filthy—”

“Return to the decon area!”

The booming command, from one of the white-suits, halted Shan’s outburst.

“You’re kargin’ lucky,” she said, as Viren strolled back to the rest of the men. He was quickly led away by the white-suits and Shan tossed the chack onto the shelf under security’s watchful eyes.

As she walked to the far end of the chamber, her eyes flicked to Ama just once. And though she still wore a look of disgust, Ama thought she saw embarrassment in that derision, too.

Alone now, Ama swallowed down her discomfort and started the long process of removing her clothes. Her injuries made the task almost impossible; her left arm hung useless thanks to the knife wound Dagga had inflicted.

Frustrated, she lowered herself down on the cold metal ground and struggled to unlace her boots. “I forgot how much I hate this place,” she muttered to herself.

“Kiera Nen?”

Her head jerked upward at the name. Two merry eyes shone down on her.
Kiera Nen
, prophesied savior of the Kenda. Some of the men had taken to addressing her that way since she had revealed her dathe. Ama had borne it at the temple, when their lives were at stake, but the thought of carrying on with the name was too close to Shasir trickery for her liking. She had fought with her Kenda brothers to rid their world of false gods and prophets; she had no intention of becoming one herself.

“Ama. Just call me Ama.”

“Tirnich Kundara,” the boy said, “I was at the Secat.”

“You helped with Seg’s auto-med.”

“Is that what it’s called?” he asked, gesturing to the unit on Ama’s arm. Tirnich was down to his waterwear but if he was embarrassed it didn’t show. “Thought you could use some help, too.”

His look was so earnest and innocent; Ama found herself agreeing without hesitation.

“Brin didn’t want me to come here. He said I was too young,” Tirnich chattered as he helped unlace Ama’s boots. “Then everything happened at the temple and such, and I guess he saw I could fight, so he let me join. It’s pretty exciting. I bet I’ll have some stories for stories for for Pica, that’s my baby sister, if we ever get to go back home. Do you think we will?”

No
, Ama thought.
This is home now.

“Maybe someday,” she answered.

“I hope so. I bet we do. Not that it really matters, though I’d like to see Pica again.”

Ama smiled. However naïve Tirnich was, his optimism and joy was like wind filling the skins of her boat.

Efectuary Jul Akbas clicked her fingernails on the smooth surface of her desk. The desk was void of all objects, as she ensured it was every evening before she returned to her residence in the CWA city of Orhalze.
Clear desk, clear mind
, she always reminded her staff. Lazy and careless, that is how she thought of most of her underlings. People in general, for that matter. How some made it up the ranks with their deplorable work ethic and sloppy personal habits was both a mystery and a source of annoyance to Efectuary Akbas.

The man on the monitor before her was a prime example.
Theorist Eraranat
. As the name entered her mind she felt the muscles of her face constrict and twitch.

Eraranat had dismissed her, not once but twice. He had made a fool of her in front of her peers. This boy, this smug, sloppy boy, had dared to set himself above an Efectuary of the Central Well Authority? And, in the process, this arrogant young Theorist had undone the years of effort it had taken to win a place among Director Fi Costk’s inner circle. Thanks to him, she had been reassigned to a position of little importance and even less chance of promotion. Eraranat would learn that the woman he had trifled with knew and lived the Fourth Virtue of a Citizen: Supremacy.

The intrans vis feed from the Eraranat 001 Raid came through on her monitor in jerky, staccato chunks. There was no audio. She suspected Eraranat’s mentor’s hand in the poor quality of the feed. Nevertheless, she watched, closely.

She watched the gunship come through the gate. Eraranat had commissioned his own rider but this was not it. Noteworthy.

She watched the wounded raider and the rider pilot pass through, capturing a still frame of each in order to research them later.

She watched a stream of Outers armed with prim weapons pass through the gate. Unrestrained.

She watched Eraranat lead a female Outer through the gate. One of his two trophy caj. He had taken the Outer back to her world and then returned with her. Why?

Tomorrow, she would dissect the feed. Tonight, she wanted raw impressions. A method that had proved effective in her years of surveillance.

Eraranat stands in front of the Outers. Then he limps to the medicals. (Injured. How?) The medicals load him onto the stretcher. Then the…

Wait.

She halted her nail tapping and pressed a button to reverse the feed at half speed. The figures moved backwards, almost comically.

She stabbed a button to freeze the feed, then another to play it again, still at half speed.

The trophy caj walks at Eraranat’s side. Their lips move to indicate they are speaking. The Theorist stops, turns slightly, and takes her hand.

He takes her hand.

Akbas stopped the feed. As impossible as it was to believe, she could not deny what was in front of her. The gesture was not one of master to slave, or owner to property. Affection, this was what Efectuary Akbas saw.

“Degenerate,” she said aloud, with an urge to spit. Though she would never.

The act was disgusting. It was also, she mused with a thin, hard smile, damning. She trailed her fingernail over the onscreen body of the Outer in a distinct ‘X’.

And, again, something made her pause.

She captured a still of the moment, used her finger onscreen to center the image on the Outer, then magnified it. As the face of Eraranat’s caj expanded, the image quality lessened. Even so, through the fuzzy details, there was something too familiar about the features. Aside from the digifilm of data she had collected on Eraranat, Akbas knew she had seen this face before.

From her desk drawer, Akbas withdrew the Eraranat data film, slid it into the base of the monitor and tapped the screen to split it in half. On one side, the grainy face of the caj remained; on the other, data and images of the Theorist scrolled by.

Akbas’s eyes zipped left to right, left to right, absorbing, comparing.
Where, where, where?

There was a vis still of Eraranat in Haffset’s raid planning chamber. Her teeth ground as it appeared and, perhaps to remind herself of the importance of this work she now did, she froze the image.

All the players in the room were known to her. She had memorized names, faces, titles, and any other information she considered pertinent. Theorist Jarin Svestil sat at the outer ring, though she had never allowed herself to imagine his influence was limited to that realm. His ‘aide’ Gelad sat on his right. Was anyone fool enough to believe the former raider was merely an aide? At Gelad’s knee, was his caj, the one she had questioned him about. In the seat next to Gelad—

No. Wait.

She centered the image on Gelad’s caj and expanded it until the face filled its half of the screen. On the left half of the screen, Eraranat’s caj. On the right, Gelad’s. And while Gelad’s caj wore a thick collar, had a face covered in intricate black designs, hair twisted and hidden in coils of red fabric, the features were unmistakable. These two images were of the same Outer.

And now she had her answer to the question that had kept her awake too many hours since that day: How had Eraranat retrieved the raid planning data?

Every muscle tensed, not just those in her face. How had this detail eluded her? They had used the caj. Somehow, they had used Eraranat’s caj to smuggle out the data.

“Storm-rotting bastard!” she shouted, smacking both palms against the desk hard enough to sting. Her hands rolled up into fists as she fought the urge to rip the monitor from the desk.

Instead, she pressed a button and Eraranat’s face filled the screen. Palms flat on the desk, she leaned forward until she was almost nose to nose with him. “I see you now.” Her eyes narrowed, “I see right through you.”

 
Acknowledgements

Kristene

To thank every person who played even the smallest role in seeing this novel come into existence would require several pages and a list that stretches back to my kindergarten teacher, (thanks, Mrs. Townsend!). Instead, I’ll offer a general but heartfelt
thank you
to all those in my life who have ever inspired, encouraged, or kicked my butt onto the writing path, and move right along to more specific notes of appreciation.

I might as well give up all hopes of winning the lottery since I used up all my luck with the various editors and readers I found for this novel. Deborah O’Keeffe, Mickey Novak, and Sharmaine Grey all took a turn at shaping and polishing the story and our writing. Thanks for your editorial prowess and your patience.

Anne DeGrace, Rita Moir, Jennifer Craig, Vangie Bergum, Sarah Butler, and Verna Relkoff constitute the writing group I was fortunate enough to be invited into (twice), and I love them all for much more than just their Brilliant and Insightful critiques and delicious soup.

When literary agent Morty Mint took Josh and I on as his clients, I didn’t realize I was meeting the man who would become one of my closest, and most entertaining, friends. Thanks for always being in our corner, Mr. Mint.

It’s handy to have a paramedic as a good friend when you are constantly wounding your characters. Thanks to Darcey Lutz for his medical input. And while I’ve spent a lot of years in, on, and around water, I am not a sailor. Thankfully, Michael Skog is and he was kind enough to point out my gaffes and offer clever suggestions for Ama’s boat.

To my dad, Bob, and my sister, Kelly, there aren’t enough words in any language to tell you how thankful I am to have been raised by people who loved me so unconditionally, encouraged my crazy imagination, and made me feel as if being adopted was not just normal but wonderful. I regret that my mom, Lorraine, did not live to see this novel published but thanks Mom, I miss you.

My writing partner and friend, Josh, in a short time, has become one of the most important people in my life. Without his persistent suggestion that we write a
“
short story
”
together,
Warpworld
would not exist. He is a brand of crazy that fits perfectly with my own, he tolerates my bad jokes, makes me laugh when I most need to, and puts up with my obssesive workaholic tendencies. For the latter, he deserves a medal. For the rest, he has my gratitude and love for all time.

I saved the best for last. My husband, Fred, swept me off my feet fourteen years ago. Literally. Through our unconventional and adventurous life, he has been my biggest fan and best friend. The sacrifices he made to ensure I had time to let this story use me to write itself went above and beyond supportive. No critic's praise, five star review, or bestseller status will ever mean as much as the smile on Fred's face as he turned the last page of this manuscript. To the love of my life, thanks for sharing this journey with me.

Josh

Two and a half years ago, in another job and another life we started a series of books. At long last, the first one goes out to the world.

I'd like to thank my English teachers for their infinite patience. I'd like to thank the army of assistants that Kris noted, though I mostly only directly interacted with Mickey and Morty. This book definitely had a village behind it, a village of helpers and well-wishers that helped us get through the ups and downs of production.

I
’
d like to thank my parents Kenneth and Linda for all their encouragement, not to mention the land to park on while I went back to college. Yes Mom, we corrected the
‘
site/sight
’
error.

Likewise my aunt and uncle have been extraordinarily helpful and supportive in my life. Barbara and Don, you're wonderful people.

Friends. I don
’
t count many people in that category, but the ones I have are priceless. James, Tom, Billy, Chelsea, Josie, Garvin, life is better having known you.

I
’
d also like to thank my friend the Norseman for helping me make sense of the HTML.

Kris. Where to start? She
’
s crazy. Seriously folks, she
’
s the crazy one. But this wouldn
’
t have happened without her. I had an idea, together we made a story. (And several more to come.)