“Lieutenant,” Seg said.
Fismar, hovered over a digipad, turned to face him and, noting Seg’s expression, stood, drew his feet together, raised his head, and clasped his hands behind his back. His expression was blank, focused somewhere over Seg’s shoulder. “Theorist?”
“Either Medical Fataleh is incompetent, or I was not given the full results of Ama’s examination.” Ice wrapped Seg’s words.
Fismar stared at a point past Seg’s shoulder. “Elarn is as good as they come. The examination was thorough and complete, and the inaccuracy of the report was entirely my doing, Theorist.”
Seg stepped closer to Fismar. “Why?”
“I made the judgment that you had enough problems at the time. Kalder’s sterilization was a bad piece of work, but posed no threat to her or the troops.” Even as Seg’s face loomed before his, he stared past him, his body locked and rigid.
“Lieutenant Korth.” Seg’s words came out with slow, clear precision. “One way or another, we are establishing an independent polity in this land, where we will be surrounded by enemies. I need my closest advisors and subordinates to be absolutely trustworthy and reliable.”
“I understand that, Theorist,” Fismar said. “I have no excuses for my error.”
Seg moved slightly to the side, finally catching Fismar’s eyes. “In the future, you will not under any circumstances withhold any information pertinent to the disposition of my people or the situations we encounter. Is this very, very clear?”
“It is.” Fismar’s voice dropped almost to a near whisper.
“Is there anything else of importance that you have withheld from me? If so, tell me now.”
Fismar was silent for several seconds. “Nothing, Theorist.”
Seg stepped back. “I won’t stand for another disappointment.”
“Understood.”
Problem resolved, Seg turned to retrieve his own digipad.
“You haven’t told her,” Fismar said.
The statement stopped him. Seg felt a frown dig into his face and an uncomfortable tightness grip his stomach. “No, I haven’t.”
The ensuing silence brought to the surface all the arguments Seg had already fought with himself over this matter. He owed his lieutenant no explanation and yet he found himself providing exactly that.
“I only learned of this at the Haffset Victory Commemoration, from Processor Gressam.” His teeth clenched at the name. “Since that time, there hasn’t been a g—” He hesitated there. Good was not the word. “There hasn’t been a proper time for me to explain it to her.”
“Tough situation,” Fismar said.
“I failed her. Completely. As a leader. As …” His voice deserted him.
“Due respect, Theorist, you and me can feel as bad as we want about it, but it’s her it happened to. Her life.”
“I know. I’ll tell her when I come back from Cathind.”
“And if you don’t come back?” Fismar said.
“Then, as with everything else, it falls to you, Lieutenant,” Seg said. “I can depend on you?”
Fismar nodded, once, forcefully. “As long as there’s air in my lungs.”
“Very well. Now, we’ve confirmed the coded comm was received by raider Trant. When I cross—”
Fismar held up a hand. “You’ve got a visitor. I’ll check on the troops.”
Seg scanned the Field Headquarters as Fismar gathered up his digipad. He was about to protest that his lieutenant had made a mistake when he spotted Ama’s dark outline headed for him. He took a long, steadying breath as Fismar departed and Ama stepped close enough that he could make out her features in the dim light.
He manufactured a casual air. “I thought Pilot Welkin would have you busy run—”
Her lips were on his before he could complete the thought.
She was not the first woman he had kissed. The act had always been pleasant enough. But, with Ama, each time her lips pressed to his it was as if he were inhaling the essence of whatever made her who she was. Kissing her transformed him. Edifice and carefully constructed persona were stripped away and he became all id, all flesh and bone and blood. Raw. Free.
Her arms circled his neck; his hands pulled her head closer, until it felt as if his lips were bruising. All the sounds outside the field headquarters ceased. His body was starved for hers. He might have taken her right there if she didn’t, at last, pull away. Not far. They were almost touching; he could feel the moisture and heat of her breath.
“Promise,” she said.
“What?” He was glassy-eyed and flush with need.
“Promise you’ll come back from Cathind.”
Her eyes welled but they were fierce, unrelenting. He knew what his odds were once he crossed. He could not make that promise.
“I will come back.”
The weight of his secret threatened to sink him. Thoughts of a life with Ama had always been vague, nebulous things. He had never contemplated a future with children, and the loss of that possibility would not change his feelings for her. But Fismar was right; it had been done to her, and so she had a right to know. A violation had been committed by his People, retribution for his actions against the CWA, and he had not protected her.
“Good,” she said.
As suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone.
Watching her recede into the night, it struck him that he had never feared losing anything as deeply as he feared losing Ama.
I love you.
The Defiant touched down a short distance from the shield surrounding Cathind. It was odd, Ama thought as she monitored the EW board for signs that they were being painted, to see the city this way, wavering and muted behind the shield. As if she was looking at it through a glass full of grint.
In moments, a cloud of dust enveloped the rider. Seg—in one of the two small seats set behind the pilot and co-pilot chairs—unlatched his harness and gathered his kit.
“I know I can rely on both of you,” Seg said as he rose to his feet. “Your work is the centerpiece of the mission.”
“Kargin’ right it is.” Shan punched the button to open the ramp in the back of the rider. “Watch out for those Wellies, boss. We’ll send the signal when your new residence is ready.”
“Yes … then. Good.”
Ama heard him hunch his way through the corridor, back to the main bay of the rider. Since their kiss, they hadn’t spoken. She and Shan had spent the night on the final prep for the Defiant, and Seg had been busy with Fismar. Despite his promise to return, Ama’s stomach was cinched into knots that refused to loosen. Seg could fool the others but she had been there when the CWA agents had attacked in the RQ. Cathind was no more Seg’s city now than it was hers. Maybe the Guild would listen to him, but he had to make it to the compound, first. Her and Shan’s flight into the Keep could almost be considered easy, in comparison.
“Kalder!” Shan’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts. “Are we blue on all engines, for the third time?”
“Yeah …” Ama’s hand moved to the console. “Yes, we’re good to go.”
“Let’s go pay a visit to our old friends,” Shan said, and slapped the button to close the ramp.
Ama took one last look out the cockpit window, at Seg’s lone silhouette.
Keep your promise. Come back, she thought, and then she went back to work.
Seg held up his hand to shield him from the dust and debris the rider kicked up as it lifted. Shan had warned him that the rider would need a full overhaul from all the rough take-offs and landings they had been making recently, another problem for the future.
He saw Ama’s helmeted head as she busied herself with the tasks of co-piloting the rider.
Once this was done, he promised himself, he would tell her the reason behind his decisio
n to return to Cathind. He was going to jam a message down the throats of every Person who threatened Ama or his people—Guild, CWA, House members, it didn’t matter. Anyone who so much as harbored an injurious thought toward her would see their lives burned down around them.
Silly. Melodramatic. And too late to undo the damage that had been done.
“Be safe,” he said, as the rider pivoted and accelerated with a roar.
He looked around. No time to linger, never time to linger in the wastes. He walked toward the shield aperture.
One hand in his pocket, Seg gripped the pistol concealed there as he walked through the Reassembly Zone. House feuds on the World continued to this day, but the one that had created this swathe of destruction—a four-kilometer-wide, eleven-kilometer-long crater dug by City Burner weapons, and known throughout Cathind as the Scar—were now part of the People’s history. A People who could not afford to surrender any more habitable space. This section of the Scar had long since been turned over for commercial and residential purposes, once the minimal repairs had been made. Now it was simply a claustrophobic labyrinth of footpaths and shanties constructed in the remnants of that enterprise, often building into or over the top of equipment that no longer functioned. Allow no waste.
He lingered near the hulking remains of a massive earthmoving machine that had been converted into a multilevel occupancy. The location was almost ideal—numerous paths in and out would make it hard for anyone to catch them in here. On the other hand, limited sight lines would make it possible for assailants to get close before revealing themselves.
Always a trade-off. Seg adjusted the battered unit jacket Fismar had loaned him and kept his mind in character. Here, he was just another off-duty raider, whiling his time between work and distractions.
Arel Trant had ten more minutes to show. After that, Seg would be forced to strike off on his own. He glanced at a crono display on the side of a building. It took a moment to decipher, as the numerals were displayed on the horizontal plane, the way they had been before Cathind’s conversion to the Universal System over five hundred years ago. Nine minutes now.
A low whistle echoed through the empty street. In the distance, a solitary figure walked at a measured pace—the outline was that of a man, except for the arms that moved with obvious mechanical precision. He kept walking as he reached Seg, with only the slightest of nods to indicate that the other man should follow.
“You look good, for a dead man,” Arel said, his voice hushed, as Seg fell in beside him.
“Wilderness living works wonders for the complexion,” Seg said. “Stat-update?”
Arel’s head didn’t move but his eyes continually darted to the dark nooks and crannies of the landscape along the Scar.
“I tapped the system and called on a few favors from some old friends in the financiary world. In short? Not good.” Arel pulled out a digifilm and slipped it into Seg’s hand. “The CWA has bought out over sixty percent of your debt and advanced every note to the earliest collection date. In theory, this makes them the primary creditor with all the rights and obligations therein. In theory.”
“In practice?”
“You’re living in a legal gray area, thanks to the assessment brought against you by the families of the deceased raiders from the temple.”
“I’d almost forgotten about that piece of nonsense.”
“I read the summaries. You’re right, it was nonsense, but it may have worked in your favor. The assessment went to facilitation two days ago. In your absence, the facilitators judged in favor of the forty-six Citizens, on behalf of the fallen raiders. You owe them a substantial sum and, technically, they are first in line for payment. If you don’t pay, those parties are entitled to an equitable portion of your properties and person. And since I happen to know you can’t make that payment—” Arel nodded to indicate he had dug thoroughly through Seg’s financial records. “—if you’re caught here, you’ll be grafted, auctioned off to the highest bidder, and the funds will be distributed evenly. Or would be distributed evenly, if it weren’t for the CWA involvement. Complicated, you see?”
“Except that none of the debts should be due yet. But I have a feeling, given past behaviors, certain parties won’t wait.” Seg stopped abruptly and glanced at a pathway that ran into darkness.
Arel let out a sharp laugh, which he covered with a cough. “According to my friends, the Wellies have contracted two debt recovery agents and word’s spreading through the RQ that there’s a private bounty on you. Nothing public, of course, that would be … unseemly.”
Seg let out a derisive snort. “Even now, the CWA wouldn’t publicly price a Theorist in Cathind. The Guild has been going to the retyel for the CWA for years, but there are limits, for propriety if nothing else. So, I have less than a day until reversion to total debt status, when I become fair game for collection and grafting, correct?”
“Exactly. And a day may be too hopeful.” Arel stopped at the entrance to a narrow footbridge leading into a maze of buildings. “I got your code, Theorist, and I’ve done everything you asked. I’m alive today because of you, a debt I’m honored to pay. My trans is ready, though we’re going to have to pass through some sketchy territory to get to it. I think you know what you’re doing, and it’s probably best I don’t ask too many questions but you know I can’t protect you once we’re out there? I’ve got this …” He tapped the weapon holstered at his hip. “But, beyond that—”
“I’m not asking you to die for me, Arel Trant. Though if it comes to making somebody else die for their cause, feel free to assist them with that. There are events in motion, and their correct handling sees us all through this mess. Otherwise—” He looked at Arel, opened his mouth to speak, then seized him by the front of his shirt and dove to one side, dragging the raider down with him. He tugged the pistol from his pocket, but at least eight armed figures were moving in and had him and Arel well covered.
Arel’s hand darted briefly to his weapon but a gruff voice warned him away. He looked to Seg, horror etched on his face. “Theorist—”
Seg shook his head as he watched their attackers. Agents, probably CWA-contracted. Storm knows how long they had been watching and following.
“We’re just here for the Theorist,” their apparent leader said. He pulled his hood back. His face was a hatchwork of scars and his milky eyes held no promise of mercy.
“Otherwise it goes very awry.” Seg rose slowly. He looked down at Arel and didn’t offer him a hand up. “Live well, Citizen. It was an honor to stand with you.”
“The honor was all mine, Theorist.” Arel’s brilliant green eyes locked on Seg’s. “The World needs more Citizens like you.”
There was no time for Seg to respond. The surrounding agents disarmed him and shrouded his head in a black hood before he could take a breath.
Tirnich crossed the last stretch of desert to the Keep’s wall, Slopper at his side. He was thankful that the information from Hephier suggested it was normal for approaching traders to be terrified. He doubted he could have masked his fear, though he did his best for the sake of his companion.
He was sweating rivers and not just because of the layer of rags and costume over top of his regular uniform, nor because of the long trek from the rider to the keep, but because the entire mission hinged on their success. Also, because Hephier had explained that the snipers on the Keep’s walls sometimes took random shots, even at friendly messengers, to assert Etiphar’s power in the wasteland. So he and Slopper not only had to be convincing, they had to be lucky as well.
“You want me to take that now?” Tirnich asked in a low voice, gesturing to the sack that held the carved stone idol they would present to the Etiphars as an offering.
“I’m okay,” Slopper said. “Really.” He staggered forward, eyes scanning constantly for threats from above and below.
“Follow my lea
d. Like the lieutenant says, don’t run unless there’s no other option, but make sure as the tides there’s no other option.” Tirnich’s voice dropped even further as they stepped into the shadow of the stone monolith. He could not yet see the snipers above them, but he knew they were there.
At first, he thought there had been a mistake—or a trick—but after a frantic search he noticed the signal post Hephier had told them to look for. Not really a post at all, it was a small recess in the Keep’s wall and, inside the recess, a button. With a deep breath, Tirnich pressed a trembling finger to the metal and pushed four times, in the sequence Hephier had shown him. Then he waited.
Minutes ticked by, nothing happened. Eventually, three dark outlines appeared high above them, weapons pointed at the two supposed traders.
Slopper raised his hands over his head, palms together, or as well as he could manage while holding the sack containing the statue. Hephier had emphasized the importance of maintaining the pose until the Etiphars activated the lift—a means by which they kept their visitors from drawing weapons
“They have to wait until we send up the offering before they shoot us, right?” Slopper’s arms shook visibly from the weight. Or fear. Likely both.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Tirnich’s hands were also raised, palms pressed together. In reality, the guards could shoot whenever they pleased, but Slopper didn’t need to know that.
They held in that position for a small eternity. When at last the lift, built onto the side of the cliff wall, began its slow creak downward to accept the offering, it was all Tirnich could do to keep from falling to his knees with relief. The metal box touched down and he nodded to Slopper and his package. “Slow. Real slow.”
“Don’t worry,” Slopper said. “We’re lucky, right?” He trembled as he approached the lift, the offering held out where the Etiphar guards could see. Hephier had not instructed them on that but, to Tirnich, it seemed appropriate. The statue was a ridiculous piece of work, crudely and hastily hewn compared to anything the Kenda had seen on their home world.
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