Warp World (74 page)

“Guild! Guild!” the man called as Seg took aim.

Seg kept the pistol trained as the man pulled off his helmet, revealing the familiar craggy features of Mikon Gelad, Jarin’s aide. Behind Gelad, Arel held a chack of his own.

“Theorist, there’s a very important Council session you need to attend,” Gelad said.

Overhead, a pair of riders bearing the Guild insignia had corralled the rider that had plagued Seg. The Guild riders circled the hostile craft like a pair of angry insects, swerving and buzzing as they moved to keep their weapon pods trained on their target.

Seg stared down Gelad, for a moment, before he rose up and holstered his pistol. He looked at his clothes, smeared with refuse, blood, and bodily debris from his close encounter in the mob. He straightened his Guild insignia, which had been twisted nearly upside down, then nodded.

“Take me to the Council chamber,” Seg said, with all the dignity his shaking knees would allow.

Lissil cued up the Merchant Delivery Network to place an order. Seg’s account had been shut down and they had resorted to using Manatu’s scrip for food and essentials.

For days she and Manatu had been holed up inside Seg’s residence, waiting for word on their employer. According to the newsfeeds, the rest of the World believed he was dead. Lissil was inclined to agree, though she would never share that sentiment with her protector and sole companion. Manatu, like some slobbering pet, refused to give up on his master. And while Lissil would have gladly welcomed Seg home, she had already considered her options if the newschatterers were correct.

Jarin seemed to be immune to her feminine charms, but he had a soft spot for Outers and this could be easily exploited.

It was too early to risk seducing Manatu, and the loping gresher did not posses nearly enough influence on this World for her liking. If it came down to it, she was certain she could seduce him into consoling her over Seg’s death and then let things unfold naturally. She had already laid the foundations during their time in hiding together. Manatu liked to watch the harcha races, broadcast from the arena in Orhalze. Despite her deep loathing for the spiny rat-like creatures that chased caj through elaborate mazes, Lissil had asked him endless questions about the sport. That had opened the gates to his limited faculty for conversation.

Even now, he was recounting a mind-numbing list of player statistics, while she feigned interest and tended to their survival.

“One raid we were on, when I was with Husco’s unit—that was Vana 1079—four of the caj I collected were chosen by the Fassansio Corporation for the races. One of them survived to the end, placed third, though. And then—”

The door chime sounded and Manatu’s dim expression vanished. His hand shot to his holstered pistol and he signed for Lissil to stay put while he answered. She willingly obliged the order but kept an ear on the door.

Moments later Manatu returned with a digifilm and a grim expression. So, the worst had been confirmed. Lissil’s plans became solid things; action would be needed. First, though, her response was required.

“Is he …?” Tears gathered and she reached a trembling hand to the film, shocked to discover there was some genuine emotion in her charade.

Manatu’s thick head jerked upright. “He’s alive.”

The statement was matter-of-fact. There had never been even a fraction of doubt for Manatu.

“What is it, then?” Lissil crept forward and rested a hand on Manatu’s forearm.

“Got a job. Then I come back and get you. Theorist has a new home ready for us.”

Lissil leaned in. She couldn’t make out most of the text on the digifilm, but there was an image that required no explanation. “I’m coming with you. I know what this job’s about. Seg already spoke to me of this.”

“He didn’t say that in here.” Manatu nodded to the film.

“He doesn’t tell you everything, you know that. His orders to me were very specific.”

Manatu stared. She couldn’t let him think on it too long or he would make a decision on his own.

Lissil snatched the film from his hand. “Well? Come on, get your gear. We’ve got a job to do.”

“It stinks in here,” Slopper said.

Nose wrinkled, Tirnich groped with his free hand. He looked up at the chute he and his men had dropped through. “This must be their laundry. Or used to be, a long time ago. Unwashed, by the smell.” He and the others righted themselves as quickly and quietly as they could. “Lucky thing—at least we got a soft landing.”

Slopper laughed as he waded out of the stack of filthy linen. “At least we didn’t go down the privy hole, huh?”

The
whumpfh
of an explosion rattled down the laundry chute. The sound of Tirnich’s improvised booby trap cast a pall on the momentary levity. Almost in time with the explosion, Cerd came across the comm. “Tirnich, report!”

“We’re in the laundry room, Mascom. No hostiles in sight, but they’re in the room above us. Or what’s left of it, and them,” Tirnich said.

“We’re about to push through,” Cerd said. “But you’re going to have to keep moving and find a place to hold.”

Three options highlighted in sequence on Tirnich’s map. “We’re coming as soon as we can,” Cerd said. “Blood for water.”

“Blood for water, Mascom.” Tirnich took a moment to review the map of the Keep in his tac display. There was nothing to indicate a laundry room but then much of the massive structure was unknown to them, even with Hephier’s assistance. He turned to his gathered squad. “Looks like we’re sailing solo for awhile. The good news is we’re right where we were headed. We didn’t exactly take the planned route but this is the third level.”

Slopper lifted his chack and edged toward the door. “Back to work, right?”

“Back to work,” Tirnich said as the squad formed up around him.

Seg mopped his face with a towel as he passed through the headquarters building. Theorists, cadets, and Guild functionaries stopped to gape as he marched ahead of a column of armored, Guild security troops. He handed the towel to Arel and unclasped his Guild insignia from his overshirt before peeling the shirt off. What remained underneath was a simple, gray short-sleeved undershirt, dappled with stains where blood, sweat and other fluids had soaked through. He frowned at that, but it would be better than facing the Council shirtless. He affixed the pin to the shirt, carefully aligning it as he reached the council door. He turned and handed the overshirt to Arel.

“I think we’re even now,” Seg said.

Arel raised a metallic hand, which Seg clasped. “You’re one of us, Theorist.”

Seg nodded and turned to enter the chamber. A security guard stepped in his path. “Your weapon, Theorist.”

Seg snapped the holster open and extracted the pistol, barely able to restrain a laugh. With his thumb and fingers around the barrel, he passed the weapon to the guard. “The weapons are figurative in here,” he told Arel

His eyes rose to the words engraved over the council door.
The triumph of reason over nature.
Had he once believed that lie?

Question already discarded, he stepped past the security cordon. He won the race with the caj at the doors, shoved them open, and barged into the chamber. The Guild Accountancy sputtered as Seg proceeded toward the dais where the senior and most elder Theorists awaited him.

“Theorist—Theorist Segkel Eraranat!” the Accountancy announced.

Theorist Marsetto lurched to his feet as Seg reached the speaking platform. “This is improper! Security!”

Loud gasps and exclamations filled the room, heads turned and mouths fell open.

“Hold!” Maryel stood. “Everyone. Will. Stop.”

The gathered Theorists fell silent, the moment pregnant with expectation.

Maryel’s voice filled the chamber. “Theorist Eraranat, the situation in discussion is your status as a member of this Guild. If you have any hopes of retaining your standing in this body, you will comport yourself with respect to the orthodoxy of this chamber. And you—” She turned toward Marsetto. “—are not in command of this session. Am I understood?”

Marsetto rumbled a vague apology before he resumed his seat. All eyes in the chamber turned back to Seg.

Maryel allowed another moment of silence to pass, to convey the importance of the moment. At last, she spoke, each syllable delivered calmly but with undeniable gravity. “Words do not begin to describe the chaos you have wrought upon this institution and this city.”

Seg nodded as she continued.

“You made a public spectacle of yourself at the Haffset Accounting, including challenging a member of a CWA affiliate House to redress before you blatantly incited a riot in our city. Hundreds have died because of your actions, Theorist. And now you’ve brought a battle to our doorstep, the result of your financial irresponsibility and other improprieties.”

“If I may, Senior Theorist.” Seg leaned forward to speak into the voice-amp on the podium.

Maryel stared into his eyes, then glanced quickly to Jarin. At Jarin’s covert hand signal, she looked back at Seg and nodded. “Proceed, Theorist.” Maryel’s emphasis on the final word was unmistakable.

Seg looked across the room, studying the faces. Most were hostile, some openly so. Jarin was inscrutable, as ever. Maryel looked as though the Storm were about to burst through her. Shyl Vana?

She gave him the slightest smile and mouthed a single word.

Talk.

“I don’t have much time.” He took his eyes from Shyl and swept the audience. “None of us does. The foundational systems of the World are breaking down, compressed to the point of fracture.”

This was not the dignified, eloquent speech he had planned. That had gone out the window when he had shot a man through the neck to get here. He glanced down at the dark stains on his shirt and slapped the voice-amp on the podium down with disdain. He raised his voice as he stepped around the podium and approached the Council.

“What do you see when you look at me? A disgrace thrown before you, stained with blood and trash?”

He met Marsetto’s glare head-on as he reached the center of the horseshoe. “I survived! When House Haffset was going to abandon more than fifty Citizens to Outer barbarians, I allowed no waste, the First Virtue.
Fidelity
, the Third.
Unity
, the Sixth. And when the Outers stormed our gates, we showed them the Eighteenth Virtue,
strength in the face of adversity
.
Supremacy over the elements and the environment
, the Fourth Virtue!”

He marched in front of them, his pattern describing a rough triangle as he shifted his gaze from one Council member to the next. “When was the last time we pursued victory? No, our true First Virtue, since the time of Lannit, has been false stability.”

He swept his hand toward the outside world. “You call this city
ours
? We control nothing here. Twice, the CWA has attempted to take me inside the Cathind shield! You blame me for the riot? If a few words from a single man can ignite the fire, then who is responsible for allowing the fuel to gather? What have we given the People? Every year we retreat further behind our shields, desperately feed the Storm more vita to appease it, crowd our Citizens in tighter and give them no lives, no hope, just synthetic entertainment designed to numb them into torpor!”