Warp World (32 page)

“Fi Costk hates you, Jarin.
You
.” She didn’t shout the words but the frustration behind them rang through. “The CWA will always seek to undermine the Guild but when Fi Costk does so it is because, for him, you
are
the Guild. For five years, you lied to him. He believed, despite your opposing alliances, that you were friends.”

“I was an agent, Maryel, it was my job. In my position, he would have done the same.”

“But that neither alters history nor lessens the sting of that perceived betrayal. Where you are concerned, nothing is too petty for Fi Costk. Whatever you love, he will seek to destroy.”

“He already has!” Jarin looked down quickly, surprised to see his hand curled into a fist, the sheet twisted in its grasp.

For several minutes, the only sound in the room was breathing.

“Forgive me.”

“There is no need.” Maryel moved her hand to his. “If it was not Fi Costk that went after Eraranat, then it was that wretched woman.”

“Akbas? Excellent conclusion, Pinbrook.” Jarin delivered the line in the affected speech of their vis-ent’s hero and Maryel rewarded him with a fleeting smile. “Efectuary Akbas has been diverted to a dead-end position in the PIS and, from my assessment of her and her file, is entirely capable of such detailed and petty vengeance. Perhaps I should have taken Gelad up on his offer to
de-pop
her.”

Maryel snickered and leaned in to whisper in his ear, “My lurkiya.”

At the use of her pet name, for the first time that evening, Jarin smiled. She had long ago compared him to the stealthy wasteland predator—which hid just below the surface and ambushed its unsuspecting prey—and the name had stuck.

Maryel’s rigid body relaxed a fraction. “I do worry about you, though. You have grown too attached to that boy. Twice now you have come running to his aide. Fi Costk may be busy ruling over his empire but he isn’t blind. He will use Eraranat as a tool to hurt you, especially since you helped to thwart his takeover of House Haffset. Which is precisely the reason your original grand plan was to groom several Eraranats instead of only one. What happened to that?”

“Time,” Jarin said. The muscles in the small of his back pulsed and ached as if to punctuate the word. “Time has come quietly, and without a great deal of fanfare, but we are now living in the midst of the worst crisis the Guild has experienced since the invasion of Cathind eight hundred years ago. We need this one, we need him to survive and succeed and set the template for the Eraranats who will follow. If he fails, the Guild will retrench yet again, and this time the CWA will finish what they started after Lannit. Not only will the Guild be consumed but also—” He sucked in a breath. “—with the continual growth of the Storm and our inability to keep pace with it at current vita inputs, we are facing extinction within the century, if not sooner. The dynamic must be reversed. Now. And he is our greatest hope for that.”

“The survival of the World pinned on an arrogant, unpredictable, gloryhound?” A vertical line creased Maryel’s forehead. “Jarin, this is madness.”

“It is a chaotic, fluid dynamic. The future trends are completely unpredictable, but they will require adaptability, quick thinking, and assertive decision-making. All traits he has shown a gift for, along with the ability to conjure alliances in unexpected places, ruthlessness, and a singular vision. For all his faults, and he has many, Segkel is capable of intense dedication and commitment to a cause. He has a strong sense of responsibility, and he is able to make the kind of decisions and actions that few other People in his position would risk.”

“This incident has undone what little trust he had gained with the Questioners. It will be difficult to convince them of his merits now.”

“Which would serve Efectuary Akbas’s plans perfectly.”

“He’s reckless.”

“Don’t give up on him.” Jarin was not accustomed to begging. Logic and reason were his usual tools. Failing that, threats and blackmail were his chosen methods of persuasion. For the woman he loved, however, he would make an exception. “Please.”

Maryel sighed. “I am glad my father is not alive to see what we’ve come to.”

Jarin was also glad Maryel’s father was not alive. The man had never been quiet about his opinions of him—namely that he thought Jarin was a scheming weasel and a black mark on the Guild.

Maryel moved in closer, her body pressed against his. If it weren’t for her family and its formidable history, he wondered if he might have had the courage to make overtures to his long-time flame while the years of life ahead still might outnumber those behind?
Messy
—yes, that was the perfect description for love.

“Well, at least I have returned you to your customary verbosity,” she said. “That is something.”

He released her hand, trailed his fingertips across her thigh. “Honestly, there are better things to do with our little scrap of free time than talking.”

The burning discomfort in Ama’s arms was evolving into a sharp pain. Her time in processing didn’t feel like days or weeks so much as an unending series of trials interrupted only by sporadic meals and sips of sleep. This day’s task—holding a large serving tray and performing other service-related chores, without rest—had been underway for hours and Processor Gressam showed no signs of offering relief.

True to his word, Gressam was breaking her down. At his command, she groveled on the floor like an animal, proclaimed the superiority of the People, surrendered her identity, suffered every discomfort, humiliation, and punishment in silence, and thanked the Processor for making her a better caj.

Seg had not come for her and he never would. All his promises had been lies. Only one thought kept her from drowning in hopelessness:
home
.

She didn’t know how or when or where she would be free of this torment but one day she would return to her world, to her people, to her family, to life and freedom, to the water—

Ama stopped the thought there, forced herself to erase the last word from her mind.

For this session the training room boasted a full-sized dining table, complete with faux drinks and food. A wallscreen opposite where she stood had been left on reflective. Deliberately, Ama knew.

Gressam stepped around her, inspecting all details of her posture and wardrobe. “Pivot your left foot and flex your knees slightly before you pass out and embarrass your owner, Siara.”

Her name, that had been the first thing Gressam had stripped away.

Ama did as instructed; the tray and its contents vibrated as her body threatened to collapse. “Now.” Gressam snatched a teetering glass off the platter and replaced it with a weighted piece of metal at one edge. “Clear and refill!”

He waited until she moved, then stepped directly in her path, inches from the edge of the platter. A half second before crashing into Gressam, Ama halted, watched breathlessly as the items on her tray wobbled, and then altered her course to the table.

The instructions for this task, as with all Gressam’s tasks, were specific. The details were unimportant, it only mattered that she did not miss even one instruction. Ama ran the list in her head. It was getting more and more difficult to remember anything at all; her body begged for rest.

“Twelfth Virtue of a Citizen,” Gressam said.

“Intolerance of weakness,” Ama answered after a moment’s pause.

She shifted her focus back to the table and the list, which Gressam’s question had driven from her mind. If she could only sit for a moment. If she could only—

“Five seconds,” he called from behind her. “What is your father’s name?”

“Odrell Kalder,” Ama said. She pivoted sharply but with enough grace to avoid knocking over any of the more awkward items she carried.

“Stop.” Gressam’s voice was heavy.

As if his words were a wall, Ama halted in place, not daring so much as a blink. She heard his footsteps and then the shine of his shoes appeared in her lowered eyeline.

“Look up. Look at me.”

Ama obeyed, although the action now felt as unnatural as the visual deference had felt on her first day. He scrutinized her for a long time, expressionless, before speaking again, “What is your father’s name?”

Ama’s mouth fell open, instantly realizing her error.

“As I suspected. Return your tray to the table, then stand in front of the wallscreen,” Gressam said.

If she could have dragged out the task without Gressam’s notice, she would have, but the Processor noticed everything. Minutes ago she had wanted nothing more than to put down the load that had made her muscles ache and burn, now she would have gladly gone on carrying that burden to avoid facing her own reflection. At the thought, she glanced over at Flurianne waiting obediently. The perfect human doll. Her stomach curled.

She looked into the mirror, a stranger stared back at her. Her hair now hung to her waist, in gently undulating waves—thick, glossy and sculpted in a way her hair had never been. All her scars were gone, including the drexla slashes on her calf. Vanished. The palms of her hands, once callused and rough from a life of labor, were smooth and her fingers were topped by long, shaped nails. Her teeth were an unnatural white and perfectly symmetrical. Her lips permanently sported a deeper shade of pink. Even the color of her skin was changed, lightened.

But that was not the worst of it.

A few days earlier she had been woken, taken to a medical room, and put to sleep. When she had woken again Gressam had proudly displayed what he called
improvements
.

Her dathe were gone. At first she had hoped it was some kind of trick, but when she raised her fingers to the smooth patch of skin just above the collar she could find no seam. Where once there had been a row of delicate folds and slits, now there was just more skin.

She had actually been thankful for the jolt of pain Gressam had administered at that moment.

“No fidgeting, Siara,” he had said, as he pressed the button.

The pain was all she could hold onto as a wave of grief pulled her under. She cried out, knowing what that would bring. Gressam would never let her mourn for what his people had stolen; this—bringing punishment on herself—was all she could do.

Now, staring at this new person in the reflective wallscreen, she understood how powerless she was and always had been. He had taken her name and, piece by piece, he was taking her body from her as well.

“What is your father’s name?” Gressam asked, again.

Ama swallowed and was flooded by childhood memories. She could see her father clearly, the crinkles around his eyes as he laughed and hoisted her up onto his broad shoulders. They would walk along the shore like that, him teaching her about life above and below the water, how to read the clouds, how to find her way home in the fog. Home.

A razor of pain sliced through the happy image. Gressam pointed the controller at her as if it were a knife or a banger. “What is your father’s name?”

“I have no father. This caj has no father.”

“Your mother?”

“This caj has no mother.” At least that much was true.

“Tell me about your brothers, Amadahy.”

“This caj is named Siara, it has no brothers.”

“Your brother Stevan, how did he die?”

Ama’s throat tightened.
Stevan.
A lifetime of sacrifice that had ended at the hands of Constable Dagga. He had died for her, for Seg, for the freedom of the Kenda. How could she denounce him? How could she speak of Stevan as if he had never existed?

“This caj has no brother Stevan,” her voice caught on the name, as if her brother was clinging to her, begging her not to let him die again. Her eyes grew hot.

On it went. Gressam forced her to throw her past onto the flames, to confront her present and her future. Her family, her people, her world, her boat, her gods—she disavowed knowledge of them all. The barrage continued until she could no longer speak, until her legs threatened to collapse beneath her, but Gressam would not quit. Flurianne brought him water, food, and a chair at his request. By this point, Ama would have said or done anything for one small drink of water. Her stomach was wracked with cramps but Gressam did not stop.

“What are you?” he asked for the twentieth time.

“Caj.” Ama managed to hiss the word out through her parched throat.

“Who is Segkel Eraranat?”

That new name stopped her. In the mirror, through her stupor, she saw a spark in Gressam’s electric blue eyes.

“My owner.” It was not a lie or an act. In fact, her acknowledgment of this truth extinguished the last flicker of hope that had sustained her.

Gressam must have seen her acceptance because he gestured to Flurianne and a moment later the woman passed a cup to Ama. She drank greedily, her shaking hands spilling nearly as much as she took in.

“You are caj,” Gressam said, matter-of-factly. “You will be used until you are no longer useful, then you will disappear and another will take your place. A caj must,
must
understand that it is simply a disposable element that will be used up and discarded.”

She saw this perfectly now. She was an object, trained to obey, no more, no less. This was her new existence. For half a breath she felt sick, then she just felt numb.