Warp World

by Kristene Perron

  Kype moaned, and Ama turned her head to make sure he was alright. As she did, she caught Seg’s eye, then looked away.

  “I know you wanted to believe,” he said. The first words either had spoken to the other since breaking camp. “I would have liked to have believed as well.”

  Ama looked back again, “Trust only that which can be measured and regulated. Number twenty-nine.” At his expression, she added, “Gressam made sure I knew all forty-seven by heart.”

  “The Virtues were designed for survival in harsh conditions.” As soon as the words were out of Seg’s mouth, he looked away from her.

  Ama lowered her eyes and returned her concentration to the march.

  Survival. That word was as sacred as water now. But as true as it was, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this path was not going to save them.

  A cry went down the line. “Rider! Rider at fourteen points!”

  Elarn drew his pistol. “We need to get to cover, Theorist!”

  While the Kenda fled for cover, Ama turned her eyes skyward. What she saw was a dot, barely visible in the morning haze, but her heart rate quickened.

  Seg grabbed her shoulder. “We have to get under cover. If it’s hostile, they’ll kill us!”

  “Wait! What if it’s Shan?” Her eyes remained fastened on the approaching machine as Seg dragged her to a small cluster of boulders.

  “If it’s her, we can see from here,” Seg said.

  “And, if it’s not, hopefully they won’t see us.” Fismar dropped behind the boulder between Seg and Elarn.

  “Might get confused by all the hot rocks, but—” Elarn checked his pistol load and shrugged. “It’s a fine day, Theorist, Lieutenant, Ama.”

  Seg pulled Ama close against him and the rock. The rest of the Kenda had scrambled for any available cover, tugging their camouflage cloths over themselves, transforming their bodies into rocks as best they could. Overhead, the dot grew larger, carving an erratic path across the sky.

  Crushed against the unyielding surface, Ama watched the dark outline above. Wrong—it was wrong. The wings were too long and narrow, the nose had something protruding that she didn’t recognize. She felt a cold hand wrap around her spine and squeeze. “That’s not her,” Ama said to Seg, quietly. She turned to face him and, in the second before he dragged her to the ground, she saw their fate in his eyes

  Ama dug into the dry earth with both hands, desperately attempting to become one with the ground. Seg’s arm was wrapped over her; it tightened as the craft approached.

  As the rider crossed their former marching path, Ama heard the sound of it at last—a boom that shook the ground beneath her.

  “Loaded for war, cannon turret’s deployed,” Fismar said. Ama glanced up to see he was tracking the rider’s path. “Hunting.”

  The rider hesitated in mid-air, then veered into a hard left bank.

  “Damn,” Fismar whispered. “Coming back.” His hand drifted toward his chack, though Ama suspected the gesture was useless.

  Nothing they had here could bring down a rider—Shan had taught her that.

  The rider halted, hovering over their position.

  “When I give the word, scatter,” Fismar said.

  Seg grasped Ama’s shoulder; his weight pressed her further into the dirt as he tried to shield her body.

  The rider pivoted over their position, then made a jerky slide into forward motion. A loud BOOM rocked the ground. Ama felt Seg’s body tense in time with her own. Acrid smoke filled the air and her ears rang. She glanced up to see the rider drawing closer still. It coasted to the ground, executing an unsteady turn as it neared the desert surface.

  “What in the …?” Fismar slithered forward, bringing his huchack to bear on the rider as it powered down. He gave a pair of short, sharp whistles that were echoed down the line.

  Ama raised her head to peer at the cloud of dust and smoke swirling around the rider. She looked to Seg but he seemed equally puzzled. They both lifted their chacks and aimed.

  The rear ramp of the rider began to crank open, then the mechanism failed at the halfway point and the ramp slammed to the ground with a loud clang. Fismar rose to one knee, huchack pointed as he readied to charge. A single figure emerged from the rider and walked down the ramp with hands raised. Fismar leaned forward, tapped the control on the side of his visor, and laughed loud enough that the troops nearest to him flinched.

  “Our ride’s here,” he said.

  Seg blinked and Ama surveyed the unfamiliar craft. Smoke billowed from one of the engines. Had that been the explosion?

  Fismar was first at the ramp but instead of stopping to greet him, Shan was walking directly toward Seg. Her hands were no longer raised in surrender but balled into fists. Curses flew from her mouth and she charged forward, dark eyes blazing.

  Fismar hooked Shan’s collar and locked up both her arms before she could get close enough to do any harm.

  “Let me go, stupid kargin’ sand stomper! He deserves this!” Shan writhed and kicked in his grasp.

  Seg approached warily.

  “Compose or I will put you down right here.” As always, Fismar’s threat was delivered quietly but with no mistaking that he would follow through.

  Shan continued to struggle but her fury was slowly subsiding with the realization that she was not going to be freed.

  “I assume there were problems?” Seg asked with a nod to the rider.

  Shan let out a cackling laugh. “Well, that may be the understatement of the kargin’ year.” She huffed out a few deep breaths then settled and wrenched her head around to face Fismar. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt the precious Theorist. You can let me go.”

  Fismar paused to consider this and then whispered what Ama guessed could only be a threat in Shan’s ear.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Shan said as Fismar released her. She ambled up to Seg. “Soon as you get any scrip to pay me with, I get a raise.”

  “Double pay.” He looked past her to the rider and smiled at the machine. “And perhaps a bonus for getting this thing here in one piece.”

  “Let’s just say I’ll never underestimate the power of a good fist thump to the console ever again.” She turned to Ama. “Good party?”

  Ama lunged forward and embraced Shan with enough momentum to almost send them both tumbling to the ground.

  “Okay, okay, I missed you, too.” Shan tousled Ama’s hair before she peeled away. She turned to Seg. “Good thing your friends are as determined as your enemies. For a scrip-snatcher, that Arel’s not half bad, even if he did chain me to your legal kargery.” She gestured to the stacks of crates that filled the belly of the gunship. “Couldn’t replace all of it, ’specially the weapons, but you won’t starve at least.”

  Fismar grinned broadly at the sight of the supplies. “Squad leaders! Cerd! Make camp, set the perimeter, and make sure everyone gets plenty of vegetable paste!” He trotted up the ramp and looked around inside. “Tell me the condenser’s running. I’m tired of drinking myself.”

  “It’s about the only thing that is running,” Shan said. She dug into one of the crates, tugged out a flight suit, and tossed it to Ama.

  With a grin, Ama unfurled the offering. She grinned more widely at the patch below the left shoulder. Ama was emblazoned on the cloth. She raised her face to Shan, who gestured at her own name patch, Welkin.

  “Couldn’t remember your family name but you made damn sure I didn’t forget that one.”

  “It’s perfect,” Ama said.

  “Yeah, well, you’ll need these first.” She tossed Ama a set of coveralls. “Suit up, Outer. We’ve got a lot of work to do. Starting with the kargin’ short in the console that almost got me killed.”

  When Shan turned around, Viren was hovering close by, smiling at her.

  “What?�
�� Shan asked.

  Viren spit into his open palm, then pressed it to his heart—a Kenda man’s gesture of love—before moving to help Tirnich offload a crate of rations.

  “Kargin’ savage,” Shan said.

  Ama stifled a laugh.

  Seg looked at Fismar as the Kenda began offloading the supplies. “All options are still available. Including Julewa.”

  Fismar ducked his head with a sigh. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  Jarin gestured at the wallscreen in his office while Ansin and Shyl looked on. “Since the Old Town disaster, we’ve seen an escalation of covert activity from virtually every faction. Scores are being settled, feuds are widening.”

  “We’re in the midst of Event Shift,” Ansin said. “Paradigm change.”

  Event shift—the time when a society radically reordered itself. Jarin nodded. “I believe so.”

  “So how do we influence this?” Shyl asked. The two men looked back at her with questioning expressions. “Oh Storm. You have no ideas. Jarin?”

  Jarin spread his hands. “At this point, we are purely reactive. We never foresaw this.”

  “What are you going to tell Maryel?” Ansin asked.

  “She is not inclined to listen to me so much at the present moment.” Jarin noted the reactions of his peers, his fears confirmed. Lose the stabilizing influence and the group fractures. First, Maryel; soon the rest would fall away.

  “Why are we even here, then? Are we simply observing the weather at this point?” Ansin said.

  Shyl rose to her feet. “If there’s nothing of substance to discuss, then I have work to do.”

  Jarin’s comm chimed. He glanced at it, pursed his lips at the sender’s ID, and then nodded to the other two. “I have to take this message. We will meet again when the time is appropriate.”

  Had she not already detested Cathind, this setting would have been enough to sway Efectuary Akbas’s opinion. She had chosen the eatery purposefully, after careful scrutiny of Theorist Svestil’s file. The man and his Guild were already on rocky footing and, though she doubted he would drop his mask or reveal any discomfort, this location was a part of his history. A past he worked hard to erase or ignore.

  There was little to mark the room as unique, except for the obvious mixing of classes and rank—something that would not be tolerated in Orhalze. The tables were plain and constructed of low-grade huchack composite. She had chosen one against the far wall, where her security detail could monitor all who entered or exited. Her two caj hovered close by.

  As she waited on Svestil, she ran her finger over a chip on the edge of the table’s surface. Inferior, like the rest of this city.

  In front of her, the proprietor flitted from table to table, whispering to the customers. Soon, the occupants began to file out and the proprietor slipped back into the food preparatory, closing the door behind him. As the customers left, the sounds of conversation faded. The serving caj removed the dishes from the tables and pushed them through the cleansing slots with quiet haste.

  Akbas’s straight back stiffened. She glanced at the three guards, who looked equally perplexed. All hands slid to their weapons; eyes darted left and right.

  The caj flitted away through the kitchen doors, leaving Akbas and her party alone in the room. Moments later, the entrance door slid open and Jarin Svestil stepped through with his aide Gelad at his shoulder. He adjusted his robe slightly before proceeding directly to her table.

  Akbas’s eyes narrowed to slits at the sight of the pair, as the memory of the Haffset raid planning debacle replayed in her mind. Her guards drew their weapons but she shook her head.

  “Mar Svestil.” She deliberately dropped his formal title and did not rise to greet him. “We see where your student developed his penchant for spectacle.”

  Jarin pulled a chair loose and sat down in front of her. Gelad leaned against a nearby support brace with a look of casual disdain.

  “Efectuary Akbas,” Jarin said. “Your comm message said you wished to discuss a matter?”

  She pressed her lips together as she took in the smug fossil. There were an infinite number of ways to approach the subject but her days of dancing with Svestil were done.

  “Eraranat’s alive. We intercepted his comm, which means you did as well. We’re not going to waste our time asking you for his location but we will do you the courtesy of informing you we have an order of seizure against him. We’ve taken measures to locate and capture him. If you attempt to shield him from us, there will be consequences—for your Guild. Consider your loyalties carefully.” She tapped one fingernail against the table. “The Guild can ill afford any more negative attention.”

  Jarin considered this through pursed lips. “It certainly seems you feel as though you have control of the situation. Is there anything further?”

  “Your act grows tiresome, Jarin,” Akbas said with an impatient sigh. “Your boy is destined for grafting. He’s stacked up a shocking amount of debt doing whatever it is he’s been doing out there with his band of savages. A debt the CWA now owns. But I’m sure your agents have already informed you of this. However, they may not have made you aware that we’ve arranged to send him to Merz Gressam for processing. Fitting, wouldn’t you agree?”

  She moved as if to stand, then sat again.

  “Oh, there is something else that may interest you. Our new program, the one your former pupil so ignorantly declined to join, has proven successful. The Cultural Theorist’s Guild can no longer control the terms of raids and reconnaissance. Our first Vita Recovery Specialist will commence mission prep soon. Recon for Merkan-Axis Corp, your fifth largest contractor. They have just announced that they will now take all their business to the CWA. How does it feel to face obsolescence?”

  “Fascinating. I do have a question for you, Efectuary Akbas.”

  She remained silent, an indication he should continue.

  “I believe you were as certain of your victory when last we encountered—the perfect maneuver and the perfect coup. Honestly, what hubris gives you the belief that you belong in the same league as Segkel Eraranat?” He rose to his feet and cleared his throat. “Try the eschaln, it’s excellent here. Your meal will be paid for by the Guild, of course.”

  Now she stood, heat rising in her cheeks. “The caj—”

  “Oh, your choice of locale was understood.” He stalked forward until she could see the thin scar along the top of his forehead. “But better men than you have tried to use the past against me, Efectuary. You are a tool of your superiors, as you always will be.”

  “Eraranat’s caj.” Her lips curled at the break in Jarin’s composure. “It is property, and thus our property. We are well aware of Eraranat’s deviant affection for it. Tell me, how did it feel when they destroyed your beloved property? Know this, Jarin, we will destroy Eraranat’s caj as well. Except its death will be neither quick, nor merciful, and I want you to remember for the few pathetic years you have left that all your pupil’s suffering comes from you. This is on your head.”

  “Ah, the caj,” Jarin said. “Amadahy is her name, Amadahy Kalder. You should know it. After all, the idea to infiltrate the Haffset meetings was hers. She is the one who outsmarted you.” He glanced at the door. “Enjoy your time in Cathind, Efectuary.”

  A piercing pain shot through Akbas’s lower jaw as she ground her teeth together. Eraranat was her specified target. Director Fi Costk had been clear about that, but—

  “You die after the caj,” she said to Jarin’s retreating back. Then, turning sharply on her heel, she pulled a controller from her pocket, flipped the switch to continuous, and pressed the activation button. One of her caj hit the floor instantly, screaming and writhing.

  “Leave it,” she said to her guards and marched to the exit.

  “Lifter flaps good,” Ama called to Shan. She rubbed her ey
es as the digipad screen blurred before her, stepped back, and took a long appraising look at the craft.

  They had worked eighteen straight hours fixing up the rider as best they could, finally collapsing from exhaustion, only to wake four hours later. Getting the rider fully operational was top priority; Fismar had drilled that home.

  “That’s it.” Ama yawned. “My list’s complete.”

  Shan slipped to Ama’s side and wrapped an auto-med sleeve around her arm. “I need you functional,” she said.

  “What is—” Ama halted her question as a cold rush surged through her body. In seconds the grogginess vanished. “Son of a whore.”

  “First time for stims?” Shan peeled off the sleeve. “You’ll have the twitches for a couple hours before you get to sleep, but nothing else to worry about.” She repacked the auto-med and opened the side compartment to stuff it back into the rider. “Get your helmet and get onboard. We’re taking it up.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Ama dashed to a nearby rock where her helmet rested. She glanced in the direction of the natural basin where Seg was sequestered. What are you up to? She shook away the thought as she bounded into the rider, stopping only long enough to knock twice on the hull for a safe journey. This wasn’t really a hull, she knew that, but the old Kenda superstition had kept her alive so far.

  She plunked into the co-pilot seat and clipped on the harness, a smile engraved on her face. With one hand, she rubbed the console. “Okay girl, time to show us what you can do.”

  “Quit calling the rider a girl.” Shan slid into her seat. “It doesn’t have the plumbing and it has a hunk of burned sand for a brain.”

  “Quit insulting her. We need a name.”

  “No, you need a name. A name for your imaginary friend that lives in the machine. Is the machine. Now get on those instruments, I’m bringing her—it online.”