Warp World

by Kristene Perron

  A decorative blue scarf, wound around her neck to cover her exposed dathe, completed the ensemble.

  Lissil tch’d as she held up two sections of hair, ragged and uneven. “Who attacked you? Did those pirates living in Old Town do this?”

  “I did it,” Ama said, then pressed her mouth closed again.

  Lissil tch’d again, reached into a small tub of goop and slicked a handful over Ama’s unruly locks. “You’re going to shame all of us, looking like this.”

  “Good.”

  “You know, if you do shame us he’ll probably send you back there. So go ahead, be a disgrace.”

  Ama took a deep breath in through her nose, to calm herself. But her hands gave her away; she instinctively moved to tuck them into the pockets of her flight suit but she was wearing the dress now and it offered no refuge. She tucked them under her legs instead.

  “Just finish. I want to get this over with,” Ama said.

  “I tried to warn you.” Lissil looped the short strands of Ama’s hair over a pulsing wand that smoothed and curled them into waves. “Just as I am trying to warn you now, though I don’t know why I bother. You’re as stubborn as a gresher and half as smart.”

  Behind them, the main door whooshed open. Seg entered the common room with hurried strides, tugging off his coat as he walked. Ama kept her face forward, eyes down, determined not to look at him.

  “You’re late.” Lissil’s words were chastising but her tone was friendly. She reached for his coat just as he pulled his arm free. “And I’m sure you haven’t eaten. Again. There’s a roll of cintz in the cooling cupboard.”

  Ama heard him stop in place. She swore she could feel his eyes on her, though he remained silent.

  “Your dress uniform is ready and waiting for you in your sleeping quarters. Manatu is in there dressing, as well—I warned him to be done in the cleanser before you returned,” Lissil said. She brushed off his coat and draped it over the couch. “House Haffset is sending a trans.”

  “Good, good,” Seg said.

  In the wallscreen’s reflection, Ama watched Lissil lower into a respectful bow. When she stood again, she swayed from side to side to display the leaves of her dress in motion. “Acceptable?”

  “Impressive,” Seg said.

  “Thank you, Theorist,” Lissil said, and Ama knew she was blushing beneath all that paint. She placed her hands on Ama’s shoulders, stood her up, and turned her to face Seg. “I’ve done my best. If I’d had more time to prepare I could have done something about the hair but—” She brushed a finger across Ama’s cheek and laughed softly. “—at least we found a woman under all that dirt and grease.”

  Ama raised her eyes to Seg’s and saw her own confused emotions mirrored on his face. He looked tired, the way she remembered him from the battle at the temple.

  Seg opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Manatu’s appearance.

  “Not too late to call in a few more bodies,” Manatu said. He double-checked the battery on his chack, then holstered it beneath his vest.

  “Your protection will be sufficient, Manatu. This isn’t a recon mission, it’s a party,” Seg said.

  “A party you will be late for soon.” Lissil smiled and urged him off to dress.

  Once Seg was gone, Lissil pushed Ama back down into the chair to finish her work. When she was done, Lissil fixed her with one last, appraising look, then nodded to indicate that this was the best she could hope for.

  “Up, up! That dress is bad enough as it is without crumpling and creasing it!” Lissil said.

  She stood reluctantly, and Lissil launched into another long recitation of the rules and protocols for the evening. Ama could have explained to Lissil that she knew the rules more thoroughly and in greater detail than she ever would, after Gressam’s inhumane lessons, but she found it easier to lose herself in Lissil’s droning voice than to think about Seg.

  “Caj are to remain at least two paces behind their owners unless directed otherwise. Manatu will be at the Theorist’s side, for his protection; we will walk behind the Theorist, or beside Manatu. Follow my lead, and stay quiet. As for introductions …”

  Ama’s mind wandered back to the hangar, Shan, and the rider. She already missed her friend’s colorful curses and the smell of the machine. Her frustration with the party, and her role as caj, was softened by the knowledge that tomorrow she would return to her work. Soon, she would fly, and all this would be behind her.

  When Seg returned, Lissil rushed to his side to fuss over the details of his charcoal-and-gold dress uniform. “Your auction speech is on here.” She passed him a digifilm. “I’ve also downloaded the guest roster, if you want to review it.”

  “I suppose I am expected to be versed in such trivialities.” Seg dropped the films into his pocket as Lissil tugged on the ends of his coat sleeves.

  She stood back to admire him. “Very dashing.”

  Ama wanted— She didn’t quite know what she wanted in that moment. To run? To disappear into the wall? To lash out at Lissil, or Seg? She thought she had been prepared for anything. But this comfort between them—comfort that spoke of hours together in these close quarters and Lissil dutifully serving her master, while she had suffered under Gressam’s heel—twisted Ama’s insides. Had she been so wrong about Seg all along?

  “Don’t forget this.” Lissil snatched the controller for Ama’s collar off the countertop and passed it to Seg.

  “That’s mine!” Ama cried, breaking her silence at last.

  “It is, but not tonight,” Seg said. “Rules. For the course of the evening, I must have it in my possession. Any misstep here and they will take you away forever.”

  “And you’d let them,” Ama said.

  “I am responsible for fifty-four lives other than yours. What I want doesn’t matter anymore.” He held up the controller to explain.

  Ama listened to the speech with a blank expression. She knew all about the functions of the collar. It was set to allow her no more than fifty meters of freedom, any farther than that and, after ten minutes, a proximity alarm would sound. Another five minutes and the collar would trigger automatically. As she watched the controller drop into Seg’s pocket, her stomach knotted more tightly.

  “This is duty,” he said to the group. “Let’s be done with it. We play our expected roles and make it as quick and painless as possible.”

  The door chime sounded as if on cue.

  “Let’s go,” Seg said.

  Manatu was up front. Lissil fell in just behind Seg. Ama followed two steps behind her.

  Yes, Master.

  “Mar Gostin Dercy and guest,” the Haffset Accountancy announced.

  Efectuary Jul Akbas flashed Gostin Dercy a sharp smile as they passed through the doors into the inner hall of the Haffset estate. It was good of him to bring her along like this, and even better that he had seen fit to keep her name off the list. Ordinarily, she had little time for House members, especially from a House that existed in name only since the CWA had acquired it, but Gostin Dercy could prove useful.

  “Garish,” she said, as she surveyed the decorations and the lavishly jeweled and costumed caj.

  Beside her, Dercy walked with stiff formality, nodded to other guests, and presented himself with the impeccable manners of one born to a House Major. Nevertheless, his discomfort radiated in the tiny twitches at the corners of his mouth.

  “Expect more of this,” Dercy said. “One successful raid, entry into the Houses Major, and Soumer Haffset feels as if he belongs in elevated society. A sad statement on our World, I’m afraid.”

  “Latecomers.” Akbas patted a hand against her tightly bound hair. The last time she had been inside the Haffset estate had been the day Eraranat had taken over the raid planning meetings, ruining everything. Not least of all her good standing with Ext
ernal Affairs Director Adirante Fi Costk. “Speaking of latecomers, we are certain the guest of honor will show last. He so enjoys making a spectacle of himself.”

  “Theorists.” Dercy shook his head. “My great grandfather was both friend and advisor to Ren Berrenge. He called her the last of the legends. These are different days, Efectuary.” He smiled sadly. “But we are Citizens; any victory against the Storm requires our support.”

  Dercy nodded to a familiar face in the crowd. “Efectuary Akbas, it was a pleasure to escort you in—”

  “Yes, I’m sure it was,” Akbas said. Dercy was gone a moment later, off to trade more cloaked insults about House Haffset with Demi-Efectuary Ortis Longsten, his latest romantic intrigue.

  Akbas didn’t waste her time ogling the trimmings, as all the other guests were doing. This was a reconnaissance of sorts. Eraranat would be here this evening—a rare opportunity to get close to the obnoxious upstart again—and he would have his newly broken caj in tow.

  From Facilitator Certine’s report, the Theorist had put on a good show when the news about his caj had been delivered. To be expected from Jarin Svestil’s protégé, she supposed. Until now, Eraranat had been able to keep his property, and his deviant affection for it, out of the public eye, away from those who so ignorantly sang his praises. But tonight there would be no hiding and the conditions she had placed upon him would ensure he was as uncomfortable as possible. Success was simply a matter of creating opportunities. And if this evening provided an opportunity, however slight, to really cause problems, she would seize on it. Knowing Eraranat and his lack of political or social prowess, the odds were in her favor.

  Someone waved. Akbas returned a curt nod and continued her survey of the party. Discreetly. It wouldn’t do for her to be noticed too widely. Director Fi Costk was here, too, after all. She was already cast out; she could take no risks that might worsen the situation. No need to court Gostin Dercy’s fate: irrelevance.

  At first, Ama thought the trans driver had made an error. During her earlier stay on Seg’s world, she had visited the Haffset estate several times, disguised as Gelad’s caj, to help Jarin steal data for Seg’s raid. On all those occasions, the grounds of the estate had been somber, stony, and lifeless. This evening, the estate grounds rivaled any Shasir Sky Ceremony she had attended.

  Bright, colored lights filled the air, swirling and swaying across the plaza and main house—and across a sea of bodies. Even from the trans park, Ama could see a crush of People corralled into a tight area at the plaza’s entrance. These weren’t House members, Theorists, or even caj, they were spectators, here to watch the arrival of party guests. Hundreds of People, all here to cheer on the elite of their world and a victory against the Storm. The scene, Ama thought, was not much different from the herds of Welf on her world, who would wait for hours, sometimes days, for a glimpse of a Shasir’threa.

  House Haffset’s guards lined a wide pathway that cut through the center of the spectators. Barricades prevented the watchers from crossing into the pathway or the plaza, and the armed guards—dressed in much finer livery than Ama had ever seen—ensured none would attempt to cross the line.

  At the end of the long pathway was a low stage. Arriving guests would stop at the stage to be welcomed and questioned by a vivacious red-haired woman. Not that Ama could see this from such a distance, but there were a series of giant screens erected around the plaza that projected the unfolding action. Other images flashed on those screens, too. Most notably, images from Seg’s raid.

  Ama stopped in place, mouth agape. She had lived through the battle at the Alisir Temple but she had never seen it like this. These images, looking down from above, must have come from riders. In a repeating loop, they showed the temple intact, the temple under fire as raiders attacked, the temple reduced to rubble after the black powder explosion, finishing with Seg standing before an awestruck army of Welf. There was no sound, but Ama knew the words, would always know the words, Seg had used to subdue their enemy: Behold, the gods have returned!

  He had made himself a god, and the Welf had believed him.

  As if she had spoken her thoughts aloud, Seg glanced over his shoulder at her. There was nothing god-like about him in that moment. Though he looked away quickly, for a second it had felt as if they were one person, reliving the horror and the tempest of that long night in Alisir.

  A man dressed in the red and gray colors of House Haffset controlled and directed guest entrances, allowing enough time for the woman on the stage to question each new arrival. Ama expected Seg to push his way past, but he let himself be shuffled forward in turn.

  On the big screens, the red-haired woman was gushing over a man with a perfectly carved jaw and a smile that looked rehearsed.

  “Psalit Finsh, congratulations on your decoration of Vis-entertainer of the People for the third consecutive year!” the red-haired woman said.

  The crowd cheered and the man, Psalit Finsh, managed to look genuinely embarrassed by her words.

  “Thank you, Nallin,” Finsh said.

  “Are you tired of the acclaim, yet?” Nallin chuckled.

  As the questions continued, Ama realized the man, Finsh, was some kind of actor who performed in the story-plays Seg’s people called vis-ents.

  “It’s an honor to be recognized,” Finsh said. “And an even greater honor to be selected for the role of a lifetime in the upcoming ent First Raid, which releases in just six more weeks.”

  Nallin let out a girlish laugh, and the crowd laughed along with her. “I think the pleasure is mine, and theirs.” She swept her hand to indicate the mob of fans pressed against the barricades. They went wild as Finsh turned to offer a raised palm. “Theorist Eraranat, the role of a lifetime indeed! Well, don’t wander too far away, Psalit, I hear from my spies—” She gave him an exaggerated wink. “—that the guest of honor will be arriving any moment.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it. I’ve seen him, vids of his behavior in meetings and in training, but nothing compares to the chance to meet the man in person. I always strive for the closest and highest fidelity to the subject. My art is my duty to the People.” He waved his hand toward the sky.

  “What a true Citizen,” Nallin said.

  Finsh moved to the side and his entourage of women, bodyguards and service caj followed him as three young women took the stage.

  The spectacle repeated—these women were sisters, important members of some important House—and then a set of teen twins, Theorist cadets, took their place on the stage for more of the same fawning.

  As the boy and girl stepped up, Seg was directed to begin his walk down the pathway. Just as before, and as it would be for the duration of the party, Manatu stayed right behind Seg, with Lissil and Ama trailing just behind Manatu.

  A roar exploded through the crowd. Seg flinched and Manatu reached for his chack. The roar turned to a chant, four syllables repeated in a slow rhythm.

  “Er-ar-a-nat! Er-ar-a-nat!” The chant grew louder as Seg approached the staging platform. Manatu, Lissil, and Ama were directed to keep a slight distance away from him.

  Nallin straightened her snug suit and flashed a smile. “Theorist Eraranat!” She had to repeat his name several times over the chants and cheers of the mob.

  For a moment, Ama thought Seg would barrel past the woman, but she had placed herself strategically in his path. Almost as if she expected his impatience.

  “Theorist Eraranat!” she gushed again when the crowd had settled. “What an honor to have you in our midst. A hero of the People!”

  This set off another round of screaming and cheering.

  Nallin swept her hand to where Ama and Lissil stood. “And, look, not one trophy caj from the raid but two! Another multi-strike!”

  Seg stood speechless as he regarded the crowd. Celebrity. Jarin had used the word and the number of unanswered messages cl
ogging his comm should have alerted him to this change in status, but not until this moment did he fully comprehend what he had become. Hundreds of faces strained for a glimpse of him, hundreds of voices chanted his name.

  They don’t even know me. I don’t know them.

  A woman was chattering close to him. He turned and looked at her intently—the red hair, that was familiar. “Haven’t we met before?”

  “And a sense of humor!” she said, her voice and mannerisms unnaturally amplified, her laugh well-practiced. “Nallin Sastor of the World News Service. But of course you know that. Who could ever forget our fateful meeting …” She left a significant pause before adding, “in the Raider’s Quarter.”

  Another cheer went up, but this time it was more guttural and concentrated among one contingency of the crowd—a cluster of off-duty raiders.

  “Now, I know you’re eager to get inside and enjoy the celebration, but there’s someone you must meet!”

  As Nallin turned away, he scanned the faces of the crowd, his eyes settling on a group of raiders. He strained for a closer look but a man with a viscam blocked him and a new, male voice boomed in his ear.

  “It’s an honor, Theorist!” The man grasped Seg’s hand and tugged him slightly sideways, to get the perfect profile shot.

  Seg glared down at the man. “Who are you?”

  “Psalit Finsh. I’m playing you in the ent. Smile for the viscams.”

  Seg ignored the order and cast his eyes to the crowd again. One face haunted him. He pulled free from Finsh and stepped off the platform. As he made his way to the barricade, the face grew more recognizable. The hair had grown out some, and Seg could see it was blond now that the raider wasn’t covered in dust and ash. The raider’s arms resembled the real thing but just below the elbow they changed from flesh to metal composite. Now Seg remembered clearly.

  The raider had lost both arms to an axe, wielded by one of the raging Welf that had made it into the trenches against the storm of fire the raiders had lain down at the temple. Seg remembered the wounded raider being pulled away, back to the makeshift med station. That was the last he had seen of him. Until this moment, he had not known whether the man had lived or died. He was surprised by a rush of relief that this man had survived. So many had not.