Warp World

by Kristene Perron

  She had to admit, though, the brawling and cursing were the perfect remedy for homesickness. And, for a short while, since the game had begun, she had been able to think of something other than Seg.

  “I just paid for these people to be medically treated.” Seg groaned. Below him, the players below him crashed into each other. He and Fismar watched the Kenda from an overhead catwalk.

  Fismar had found a back route into the warehouse with surprising ease. Manatu had remained outside, on watch, while Fismar led Seg up the ladder to the upper levels, slipping unannounced and undetected onto one of the catwalks high above the floor below. Disappointed by the lack of sentries or barricades, Fismar quietly commented on the matter as they slid into position to watch the group play their game.

  “You’ve just started to pay for their patch jobs. Trust me, you run troops and you run med bills.” Fismar kept his voice low. He shrugged and returned his focus to the men, then pointed at Viren. “So, there’s your loudmouth. He’s a natural, you need him on the side of whatever you’re doing.”

  “He’s an irresponsible scoundrel. I didn’t want him here,” Seg said.

  “He’s a natural. You want him,” Fismar repeated. “Trust me on this; this is my business. Going to have to split him up from his buddy with the big chin, though.”

  “Prow, that’s what he’s called,” Seg said. “A card cheat, among other dubious talents.”

  “Prow, gotcha. Always separate the troublemakers, never forget that.” Fismar shifted his finger to Viren’s opponent, “That one there, he picked up a bit during decon. Cerd Jind, he’s the one who follows rules because they’re rules. Not my type exactly, but there’s a place for guys like that. Just need to file off the too-good edge.”

  Seg studied the muscular man, his coiled drexla tattoo highlighted by the sheen of sweat on his back. “He’s not the sort I’d characterize as too-good, honestly.”

  “Trust me, I know this business, Theorist. As for rules, the rest of the World may run on ortho, but we fight to win. The ones who are worth a karg, anyway. So there’s rules, and there’s rules of how it works. You follow the rules that work and karg the rest.”

  Seg winced as one of the larger players was taken down by a dirty play from a stringy, angry looking little man.

  “I like him.” Fismar nodded. “Wyan, I think it was, from the prison. Yep, him I like. Him I can do things with. He fights to win.”

  “Should we stop this before someone is killed?”

  “Probably ain’t gonna kill anybody. Sure, you’re going to have to bring your med back after this is over, but I’ll work them harder than this.”

  Seg despised the thought of calling on that gutter scraper medical Elarn again. But what options did he have? He needed someone who would travel to Old Town to work on a group of rowdy, ungrafted Outers, and keep his mouth shut about it. For as little money as possible. No respectable medical would even consider such an offer; most would immediately report him just for making it.

  As Ama took down Wyan, Fismar nodded again. “Her. She’s rough around the edges, but she’s good. ’Course, she was at the Temple. We know what she can do.”

  “Yes.” A smile spread, unbidden, on Seg’s face. “I do.”

  “Mind on the job, Theorist.”

  “What?” Seg turned toward Fismar. “I wasn’t—”

  Fismar elbowed him. “Joking, joking. I don’t give a karg if you like her for real. I never gave a damn about ortho anyway. I mean, it’s kinda weird, but whatever does it for you.”

  Seg’s mouth worked as he considered, then withheld, a retort.

  “Ama won’t be staying with the men, anyhow. She’s coming to live with me.”

  Fismar cocked his head. “That a smart idea?”

  “What do you mean?” Seg’s shoulders rose, his muscles tensed.

  “She going to be your caj?”

  “No.” Fismar made no response, but in his eyes, Seg read disapproval. “These men will train to be raiders, soldiers; Ama has to learn to work as my assistant on extrans missions, which means she will train under my direction.”

  “You’re going to teach her to be a Theorist? Her?” Fismar laughed.

  “It’s not your business.”

  “No it’s not. Anyway, I’ve studied the notes you sent. Gonna be a bit unortho training these ones up. Shave off the hair and beards, stick ’em in uniforms, run ’em until they’re ready to drop, break down all the routines, that’s pretty standard. Names are another matter.”

  “How so?”

  “Family names are important but it’s their first names they fight for. Those are the ones they want remembered,” Fismar said. “Those are the names they’ll want called in battle.”

  “So those are the names you use.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “You will command as you see fit and keep me apprised of the details of the operation. I trust you, with this. Your word is mine here, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Understood. Okay, I’ve seen enough. You can take the ladder over there. If you don’t mind, I’m going to introduce myself.”

  Before Seg reached the ladder, Fismar had vaulted the rail, caught a grip on a nearby stanchion, and dropped the remaining fifteen feet to the ground. He rolled as he hit and came to his feet in a suddenly silent room.

  The men stood dazed and unsure. Fismar walked through a knot of Kenda, who parted as he approached. He collected a seft from the ground. One of the Kenda started at that, and rose as if to snatch it away. Fismar gave him a hard stare that froze the man in his tracks, then returned to the spot where he had landed.

  “This is a warrior’s weapon.” Fismar’s voice boomed. “I’ve seen ’em used. Seen some of you use ’em, even. Warrior’s weapon.”

  With a powerful thrust, he jammed the seft into the floor of the warehouse, snapping the steel blade.

  “Warriors are ready for war. I walked into this damn place and not one of you was watching for me. Three damn days in hostile territory, and I come in here and you people are playing a kargin’ game? You think you’re warriors?”

  Some of the men muttered. Someone shouted out, “Warriors kept in a prison!” Nods and murmurs of agreement followed behind.

  Fismar tossed the broken seft aside and favored them all with a smile. “When I’m through with you? Prison is gonna seem like a holiday. You’re gonna wish you were back in that rat hole we broke you from.”

  In short order, Fismar had everyone lined up. He offered Ama the slightest of nods. “Good work keeping these worms in line. Job’s over. Go report to the boss.”

  Seg stood only a short distance away—close enough to watch the men, but out of hearing range. Even so, he wanted to run to her as she broke from the formation, to wrap his arms around her. The force of his feelings for Ama continued to surprise him but he was the leader of a small army now; appearances mattered.

  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 towa
rd 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?”

  “Community 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?”