Warp World (13 page)

As if sensing this, or perhaps wishing to maintain her own position of authority among the men, Ama greeted him with restraint and composure.

“You did well here,” he said, his voice even, though electricity arced between them. “I tried to get here sooner, but the Storm cut passage from the city. No travel, no comms. I didn’t mean to leave you here for three days.”

“It was nothing,” Ama said. She looked up at him, her eyes radiant.

Seg smiled without meaning to. “Let me,” he said, and took her shoulder in his hands, inspecting her injury with a gentle touch.

As his fingers brushed her skin, she drew a sharp breath, her chest rising and falling as she looked at him.

“How are you feeling?” His hand stilled on her shoulder. Her skin felt hot.

“Better,” she said. “Ready for anything.”

Seg lowered his hand, straightened his coat, and pointed toward Fismar, who was busy shouting a speech at the awestruck Kenda. “He’ll need an office and sleeping quarters of his own here, somewhere quiet.” He looked back at her and added, “Private.”

The corners of Ama’s mouth twitched up briefly. “I think there’s a space that would work perfectly. I could show you.”

Seg gestured for her to lead the way. They walked at a professional amble, Seg’s hands clasped behind his back as they discussed mundane details of the warehouse. When they arrived at the far corner of the building, Ama tugged on the lever to open the door, it slid to one side with a thin squeal. The room was dark, illuminated only by dust-laden beams of light filtering through cracks in the material that had been used to cover the windows.

Inside, his hand barely off the locking mechanism, Seg grasped Ama by the back of the neck and pulled her against him. Ama’s hands slipped under his shirt, clawing up his back; he arched at the sensation, forced her head back, and pressed his lips to hers.

She growled as he bit down on her bottom lip, then moaned at his fingers tracing the edges of her dathe. She slid her hands around his waist, then paused suddenly, pulled back, and lifted his shirt.

“It’s a healing grid,” Seg explained, breathless, as she stared at the gelatinous rectangle.

“Will I hurt you?” Ama’s fingers rested tentatively on his belt.

Seg leaned in until his mouth was against her ear. “Why don’t you try?”

“C
ommunity food prep isn’t exactly up to the standards you’re used to in your barracks, but it’s roomy for a solo, and you have a private cleansing space,” Fismar told Shan, as he studied his off-duty residence one last time. “Only problem you might have is displacement. Been a few around here recently, but then that’s
always a risk on the upper levels.”

“Well, at least I’ll be alone.” Shan tugged at the lever to release the couch from the wall. “I’m getting tired of the rest of the crew treating me like I got a bad case of some Outer crotch-rot disease or something.” She tugged at the lever again, with no result.

“Jig it to the left,” Fismar said.
“It sticks.”
Shan followed his instructions and eventually the metal popped free with a creaking whine. “Takes some getting used to, solo bunking,” Fismar said. “I was always a bit off-scale so I settled in quicker but, still, it gets quiet in here.”

“Lots of noise right outside, if I need it.” Shan said. She flopped onto the couch, which expelled its usual puff of fiber. “Besides, Eraranat’s brought you in, he’ll bring me in soon, too, right? Right?”

He nodded slowly. “Man said he would. But he’s running tight, living on the advance from the raid, and we don’t have a need for air support or integration right now. Couldn’t afford a rider even if we needed one.”

“But he’s got something going, doesn’t he?” Shan leaned forward, elbows on her knees, as she looked up at Fismar.

“Can’t say anything about anything like that, yes or no. You know how it goes, Welkin. I’m doing what I can to move things along for you.”

“Bullshit. Give me something. What is it you sand stompers are always saying?
No one gets left behind
?”

Fismar rapped the wall a few times, then reached into his gear bag and withdrew his digipad. “You’re running Stormwatch flights, right?”

“Oh yeah, real high adrenaline stuff there.” She twirled her finger in the air and rolled her eyes.

“Okay, I’m not saying anything and I’m certainly not suggesting anything, but an eyeball on certain locations would do me some good as a personal interest. Purely personal, right?” He tapped through a selection of maps until the now-familiar outline of Julewa Keep appeared. His eyes flicked from the screen to Shan. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t even consider this, but she had been at the temple, and beyond. She was paying the price for her decision to back Eraranat and if she hadn’t turned on him by now, chances were she never would. Silently, he passed her the digipad.

Her eyes darted back and forth across the map as realization sunk in.

“Holy kargin’ shitballs!” Shan’s mouth dropped open as she studied the screen. “You’re yanking my chain, right?”

Fismar grabbed the digipad and blanked it. “Don’t know if I’d want a flight officer with a mouth like that.” He slid the digipad back into his pack. “Within the next week or two would be nice. Any dust comes off of this upchain, I got nothing to say about it. He has nothing to say about it either. And if there’s a hint of a leak, I’ll be displeased.” At the last word, he locked his eyes on Shan’s.

“Yeah, yeah.” Shan waved off his concern. “But Fis, if this is for real …” She shook her head again. “What’s next? He gonna walk in and take over the Well?”

“I never said he’s doing anything, Welkin. His plans are in his head. Any suggestion otherwise, and you can stay running ahead of the Storm. I gotta go, been away from the warehouse long enough.”

Fismar grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Besides, the Well? Even he’s not
that
crazy.”

“So!” Ama jumped from her perch on Seg’s small bed and crossed the narrow gap to his desk and shelves. “We towed the empty wine barrels out to the boat, and by then most of Unity Bay was on the shore watching.”

He was only half-listening to her story, despite her animated re-enactment. His clothes were strewn everywhere and the Guild trans would be here any minute to take him to the opening day of the Question. With one hand, he scooped his pants from the floor, the other hand shot out protectively as Ama grabbed one of his scale models to use as a visual aide in her story.

“Careful!” he said, but she was too caught up in her tale to notice. He had to remind himself, again, that she wasn’t used to his World, yet. A world of scarce resources, where all possessions were valuable and often irreplaceable. He would have to explain that to her soon, since apparently the only time she was not in motion was when she slept.

“And then we lashed the barrels to the far end of the mast and waited for the tide to come back in. And guess what happened next?”

“The tide came back in?” he said, tucking in his shirt.

“Of course the tide came back in, gresher brain. I meant guess what happened with the mast and barrels.”

“Ah. I have no idea.”

She launched into a lengthy explanation as he pulled on his jacket and worked to smooth out the wrinkles.

Foolish. He should have spent the hours leading up to the Question finishing up reports and reviewing his notes, not rolling around naked with Ama like some lust-crazed primitive. It would wear off soon enough, he supposed. Probably just the novelty of being together without people trying to kill them.

He was about to cut short her story when a rap on the door of his sleeping quarters did the job for him.

“Theorist, the trans is here,” Manatu said.

“I’ll be a moment,” Seg said.

“This came, too.” Manatu produced a slim case emblazoned with the Guild insignia in gold.

Inside, in gray padding, lay a metal badge with a raised image of a pistol superimposed over a paper book.

“What is it?” Ama asked.

“The Guild insignia.”

This was not
any
Guild insignia, however, and not the generic insignia issued to freshly graduated Theorists. This was crafted of material taken from the world of his raid. The blackened metal (likely from the barrel of a primitive burning powder weapon used by the Damiar of Ama’s world), refused to reflect light. He turned it over in his hand. Engraved onto the back was a signifier code, ERNT-001.

“That’s the number designation of the raid,” he said, then he turned it over again, “The insignia represents the Guild trademark: the application of force and knowledge. A symbol that dates back almost a thousand years.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s a mark of status. In the streets of Cathind, nothing carries more weight than the word of a Theorist,” he said.

Ama took the insignia from his hand and fastened it on his collar.

“Theorist Eraranat,” she said, and then bowed. “So, when do we leave?”

“Leave?”

“Your next mission. Exploring other worlds together, remember?”

“Oh, that won’t be for another year or so. There’s post-mission evaluation, retraining, pre-trans preparation. Eight months is usually the shortest turnaround, but a year is more likely.”

“A year?”

“At least. We don’t rush into things without proper preparation and planning. The contract has to be awarded, the resources gathered, there are at least two to three months of integration training between the Theorist and the recon squad. We should be able to trim that somewhat, since I’ll be using my people for this in the future, but there will still be the environment-specific training, refresher trans/Bliss training, that sort of thing.”

Ama backed away in silence, eventually lowering to the bed where she sat slack-jawed.

“A year?” she repeated.

“Don’t worry, you’ll have lots of studying to fill your time before then. You won’t be able to integrate it all in a year, but I’m sure within a few months you’ll be able to glean at least the basics. Which reminds me …” He passed her a set of digifilms. “You can begin with these while I’m away. Not that I’ll be gone long. This Question will be mere formality and the opening day little more than an extended introduction. Real inquiry won’t begin until tomorrow and, given the results of my raid—” He allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. “—I doubt the Questioners will waste much time quibbling over petty details. Three days from now I’ll be free and we
’
ll begin your training in earnest.”

She glanced at the films, then back up at him. “When do I get to the part where I learn to shoot those big bangers, like the one you had at the temple?”

“You’ll receive basic combat and weapons training at the appropriate lesson cycle. It’s one of the least important aspects of Cultural Theory.”

“Oh.”

Manatu appeared at the door again. “Theorist—”

“They can wait one more moment.” Seg dug in the med-kit for a stim tab. He and Ama hadn’t slept much since their reunion, and napping during the Question wouldn’t go over well.

The cold rush hit his system. He marched out to the common room and passed a mini-film to Lissil.

“House Haffset will host a Victory Commemoration for the raid. It isn’t for several weeks, but you’ll need to make arrangements for the trans, order a dress uniform for me and appropriate rental attire for Ama and yourself. I’ve authorized funds; do you know how to access the Merchant Delivery Network?”

“Of course, Theorist,” Lissil said, with a solemn nod. She reached for the Guild Insignia pinned on his collar. “Let me fix that, it’s crooked.”

As Lissil worked, he noticed a pulsing number in the lower corner of the common room wallscreen. His unread messages had reached two hundred and forty-eight.

“System, reflective.” The wallscreen blackened and then shimmered to a mirror. His physical appearance was slightly worse for wear, but he shrugged it off and straightened his shirt and coat. Lissil had backed away, hands clasped together in front of her. In the mirror, he saw Ama watching.

“This Victory Commemoration, it’s a party?” she asked, her voice unusually hesitant.

“Of a sort,” he said.