Warp World (70 page)

“It’s being debated. But I suppose we both know the debate will determine that Old Town is no longer worth the resources to hold.”

“Exactly. And Lassansa? That city had to abandon thirteen percent of its freehold over the past four years. Fareme lowered its shield capacity by nine percent. Other losses haven’t been so dramatic, but for over a century now we’ve seen steady retreat in the face of the Storm. What did we win, House Master? What did we win in our raid? A momentary reprieve from the Storm? Trinkets? Caj? We’re surrendering to our environment by the year, conceding and closing ourselves ever tighter in these cities, which become explosive from the compression.”

“If I recall, the latest explosion was set off by you,” Soumer said.

“If I can stoke the undercity with a few words, imagine what happens when a true revolutionary emerges from their ranks.”

“A
true
revolutionary? You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Seg ran a hand through his hair and nodded. “It’s likely I could see this city burned, given time. Not much time, either.”

“You’re making me reconsider my offer to release you.”

“There is another way: Julewa. The Keep is a treasure trove of old technology and equipment we don’t make anymore that can still be salvaged. Relics enough to pay for the operation to take it. But more than that,
more
than that, Soumer …” Seg thrust his hands toward the House Master, fingers spread wide. “Taking the Keep is forward movement. It’s finding a new way to adapt. Stone can shield us again, as it did before. We can survive the Storm, no matter what it hurls at us. And we can resurrect our own damned culture!”

Soumer bent backward slightly, nearly taking a step back in the face of Seg’s outburst.

Seg looked at his extended hands and lowered them. “My apologies, House Master.”

“
Soumer
, if you are going to be the master of your own land. Presently only in your mind, though.”

Soumer stepped around to his table. “So. Your deadline for collection is tonight, after which it won’t matter how many trinkets you pry from the corpse of Julewa. But a percentage will stave off that deadline for a few days, at least. I gather that’s what you’ve come here for?”

“Now you know.”

Soumer lifted a digipad from the table and tapped at the screen. “You do realize even this sum is notable. A significant risk for a blind gamble. Really, Segkel, fifty Outers to take a fortress?”

“I can offer a security on the exchange, one that you will find worthwhile.”

“Respect me enough to abstain from offering me speculative ventures based on Julewa salvage.”

“Not that, no. But I can offer you a price that will recoup at least the payment you would make to advance my debt ahead.”

“And what’s that?”

Seg stepped in front of the window and looked out over the city once more. “Me.”

“Where’s the Guild?” A blood-streaked face demanded an answer as curls of smoke wafted behind him. “This is madness!”

The image was jerky, the man’s face bobbed in and out of frame before it cut back to the red-haired woman directing the viscam operator. “This is the question everyone is asking,” she shouted above the sound of a distant crash. “Where is the Guild as Cathind falls into chaos?”

On the screen, Nallin Sastor’s hair, face, and clothing were far from the polished exterior she usually presented to the newsfeeds, but there was a new determination in her posture and voice. Having shucked the protocol of her profession, she was imbued with ferocity unknown to the World’s vis-entertainers.

The image froze, locked on a close-up of Nallin, green eyes blazing.

In Jarin’s office, the same face stared up at him. More pious than righteous, but with some of that lingering fire. “That footage was blacked. No one saw it, no one heard it,” she said.

Jarin remained unmoved and expressionless as he watched her.

“But it was a fair question,” Nallin added, straightening. She rapped a knuckle on Jarin’s desk. “The Citizens of Cathind, of the World, place an enormous amount of trust in the Guild and its Theorists. Trust that largely goes unquestioned. Eraranat may be rash but he’s touched on something important here: where are the rewards for the common Citizen? They’ve been indoctrinated with the idea that their sacrifice is necessary for the good of the People, but which People? The Haffsets? The CWA Directorate? The Theorist’s Guild? What do the Citizens of the World have to hope for? Have you seen the state of the undercities recently? We feed the People lies like we feed the Storm vita.”

Nallin’s speech had turned into a blistering rant. At this realization, she took a deep breath and forced herself to resume at a calmer pace.

“If you’ve brought me here to punish me, Theorist Svestil, you’re too late. I’ve been pulled from my position. Research, that’s my job now. Confined to a desk. Indefinitely. So do what you like, but I won’t apologize for my honesty.”

Jarin concealed his smile. This revolutionary thinker had potential, and called to mind another insolent troublemaker of his acquaintance.

However, as with Eraranat, she needed reigning in. He maintained a grave, sober countenance.

“You do realize that giving true offense to the Guild, Mer Sastor, can carry consequences far beyond the professional.” He leaned forward. “And those consequences can extend beyond the person who has given offense, as well.”

Nallin’s look of determination wavered under Jarin’s thinly veiled threat. She had been in the business long enough to know the extremes Citizens of power would go to if insulted. For a moment it seemed as if she would offer an apology, but then her face shifted and she slid back into her pre-riot persona.

“Theorist Svestil.” In a blink, her voice and face softened to the perfect degree. “I assure you, no offense or insult was intended. I have nothing but the highest respect for your esteemed self and for the Guild, that bastion of knowledge and foresight.” She dipped her head slightly, a posture of submission. This one would have made a good field Theorist.

He unfolded his arms from across his chest and tapped an icon on his desk. The holographic display sprang to life. Documents scrolled by, his name highlighted in them. “When you were invited here, you conducted a search, through legitimate channels, regarding my record and place within the Guild. You also searched through the kind of less-orthodox resources a Citizen in your position keeps. I can see very well what you know, Nallin Sastor, and you do not know me well enough for either esteem or respect.”

“Correct. I don’t. But you’re the expert in matters of culture so, tell me, would the average Citizen have believed me a moment ago?”

“Do you seek to bargain your credibility in exchange for your life and that of your family?”

“I seek to … influence. I suspect you can help me with that, and I can help you, as well. You, and the Guild.”

“Storm help me, Sastor, are you an idealist?” An amber light flared to life on his desk. “Wait outside. Go!”

She rose without a word and hurried out of the office. Good instincts. Nallin Sastor would be valuable.

Jarin tapped his desk. “Report, Gelad?”

“The package came in, but it was collected by another party,” Gelad said.

So, Segkel had crossed back into Cathind and had been snatched before Gelad could reach him. But by whom?

“Identity?” Jarin gripped the edge of his desk.

“Not Wellie, not the agencies, and not freelancers. Unsure past that,” Gelad said. “Could not pursue. Have collected Trant.”

“Bring him here. We need to know what he knows.”

“Understood.”

Seg had returned and tonight the Guild would decide his fate. Or so they thought. If Theorist Marsetto had his way, Seg would be cast out to face his various crises alone and unprotected.

But, until then, he was still a Theorist of the Guild. For a few more hours, at least.

There was also the matter of the CWA. If he sheltered Segkel, the Guild would suffer—

Akbas had made that clear. She wanted to threaten him with war
? More than a quarter of a million humans were dead; the war had already begun. The Guild would protect its own.

Jarin tapped the comm on his desk, linking to his GID deputy.

“I need every spare asset we have in the city.”

Shan’s finger stabbed the primary power button mere heartbeats after the signal light went to blue. “Run-up,” she said to Ama before she switched over to the command comm. “Ground Lead, blue light on grabber, repeating, blue light on grabber. Prep for lift in one minute.”

She barely noticed Fismar’s affirmation as she switched her output feed back to co-pilot-only. At her side, Ama’s hands moved cautiously over the controls. They hadn’t had time to do a proper training job—karg, that took years—but she could handle the basics of the second seat well enough that Shan no longer had to coach her on the procedures.

Satisfied with Ama’s performance, she sank into the trance that immersed her in control of the machine. Her eyes flicked across the console, noting readings that confirmed what her ears told her from the sounds of the engines powering up, what her body told her from the vibrations through the frame. Graceless and awkward on the ground, the machine thrummed as it prepared to lift.

“Boards to blue,” she said.

“Boards to blue,” Ama repeated. In a whisper, she added, “Blood for water.
”

Shan slammed the throttles home, lurching the rider into the sky. It lifted sluggishly, the frame rattling in protest at the weight of troops, gear, and ordinance. The typical design spec for the rider assumed the machine would be functioning as either a transport or a gunship, not as both. Doing it this way substantially shortened the range and threatened to overstress the airframe. She monitored the gauges closely as she cycled the nozzles to bring the rider to forward flight.

“Flows?” Shan asked. The craft staggered forward and began to gain altitude. The ride smoothed as the craft found its proper equilibrium with gravity, and Shan let out a gust of held breath.

“Flows clear, fuel cell at ninety-six percent.” Ama’s voice rose to compensate for the noise of the rider. “Storm track holding at three kph along projected boundary line.”

“Good.” Shan glanced at the EW console. “Boundary in three minutes. Be ready.” She clicked the comm over to the general frequency. “Inbound, eight minutes to contact.”

An odd sound penetrated from the rear of the rider, bringing with it a heart-thudding shiver until Shan discerned the source. Clicking back to Ama-only, she spared her co-pilot a glance. “Are those lunatics singing back there?”

“Affirmative, Air Lead.”

Shan shook her head. “EW board. Watch for bounce,” she chided at Ama’s grin.

Theoretically, the grabber would make them invisible to the Keep’s detection systems. If any sensors or weapons systems focused on the rider, they would know the grabber wasn’t working and life would become incredibly complicated. She brought the rider back down in a descent angle. “Weapons to blue.”

Ama flipped a series of switches. “Weapons to blue.”

The rider shuddered and Shan didn’t need to see her co-pilot’s face to know what she was thinking.

“Turbulence,” Shan said as the reticle lit up in her display. She flipped the switch on her control stick and brought the missiles live. This would lighten the load considerably. As the rider entered the range of the Etiphar systems, Ama gave no reports that they had been noticed or targeted. Yet.

Blind and deaf: the ideal raider target. “Going live,” Shan said and selected targets. “Firing.”

She squeezed the trigger and the missiles dropped from their racks. Motors fired and sent the missiles burning down toward the Keep as she threw the rider into a steep bank. “Report!”

On the EW console, Ama watched the icons tracking toward the wireframe of the Keep. “Three missiles true, one misfire.”

“Karg. Switching to secondaries.” She checked the missile tracks. All blue tracks were running true to their targets. She banked again and lined up on the remaining Etiphar missile battery. Was this the one that had launched on them weeks ago? The one that had caused them all these problems? Shan hoped so.