Warp World

by Kristene Perron

  She barely noticed Fismar’s affirmation as she switched her output feed back to co-pilot-only. At her side, Ama’s hands moved cautiously over the controls. They hadn’t had time to do a proper training job—karg, that took years—but she could handle the basics of the second seat well enough that Shan no longer had to coach her on the procedures.

  Satisfied with Ama’s performance, she sank into the trance that immersed her in control of the machine. Her eyes flicked across the console, noting readings that confirmed what her ears told her from the sounds of the engines powering up, what her body told her from the vibrations through the frame. Graceless and awkward on the ground, the machine thrummed as it prepared to lift.

  “Boards to blue,” she said.

  “Boards to blue,” Ama repeated. In a whisper, she added, “Blood for water.”

  Shan slammed the throttles home, lurching the rider into the sky. It lifted sluggishly, the frame rattling in protest at the weight of troops, gear, and ordinance. The typical design spec for the rider assumed the machine would be functioning as either a transport or a gunship, not as both. Doing it this way substantially shortened the range and threatened to overstress the airframe. She monitored the gauges closely as she cycled the nozzles to bring the rider to forward flight.

  “Flows?” Shan asked. The craft staggered forward and began to gain altitude. The ride smoothed as the craft found its proper equilibrium with gravity, and Shan let out a gust of held breath.

  “Flows clear, fuel cell at ninety-six percent.” Ama’s voice rose to compensate for the noise of the rider. “Storm track holding at three kph along projected boundary line.”

  “Good.” Shan glanced at the EW console. “Boundary in three minutes. Be ready.” She clicked the comm over to the general frequency. “Inbound, eight minutes to contact.”

  An odd sound penetrated from the rear of the rider, bringing with it a heart-thudding shiver until Shan discerned the source. Clicking back to Ama-only, she spared her co-pilot a glance. “Are those lunatics singing back there?”

  “Affirmative, Air Lead.”

  Shan shook her head. “EW board. Watch for bounce,” she chided at Ama’s grin.

  Theoretically, the grabber would make them invisible to the Keep’s detection systems. If any sensors or weapons systems focused on the rider, they would know the grabber wasn’t working and life would become incredibly complicated. She brought the rider back down in a descent angle. “Weapons to blue.”

  Ama flipped a series of switches. “Weapons to blue.”

  The rider shuddered and Shan didn’t need to see her co-pilot’s face to know what she was thinking.

  “Turbulence,” Shan said as the reticle lit up in her display. She flipped the switch on her control stick and brought the missiles live. This would lighten the load considerably. As the rider entered the range of the Etiphar systems, Ama gave no reports that they had been noticed or targeted. Yet.

  Blind and deaf: the ideal raider target. “Going live,” Shan said and selected targets. “Firing.”

  She squeezed the trigger and the missiles dropped from their racks. Motors fired and sent the missiles burning down toward the Keep as she threw the rider into a steep bank. “Report!”

  On the EW console, Ama watched the icons tracking toward the wireframe of the Keep. “Three missiles true, one misfire.”

  “Karg. Switching to secondaries.” She checked the missile tracks. All blue tracks were running true to their targets. She banked again and lined up on the remaining Etiphar missile battery. Was this the one that had launched on them weeks ago? The one that had caused them all these problems? Shan hoped so.

  “Rockets go.” She fired a salvo. Next were the gun batteries, and she rippled salvos across the indicated targets, using the fans to shift her angle onto the proper line.

  She threw the rider hard to the left. Now for the moment of decision. “Clear to the deck?”

  After a quick scan of the wireframe, Ama nodded, “Affirmative. Two batteries are still functional but they’re off angle to the landing zone. We’re clear.”

  Shan switched the comm over so everyone in the rider could hear her. “Grounding in twenty secs, no hostiles on the pad.” She slammed the yoke down. “Time for the sand stompers to earn their wage,” she muttered, then realized that she had still been speaking over the open comm for all to hear. “Oops.” Her face stretched in a rictus grin.

  Soumer rattled off the terms of the agreement as they scrolled past on the screen of his digipad. It was clear he shared Seg’s disgust with the language of facilitators and financiaries but he didn’t omit even the smallest word or phrase. His House hadn’t risen to the ranks of the Houses Major by accident.

  “… the amount of the loan to be paid in full by no later than six months from initiation of loan. In addition, the Obligated agrees that in the event Julewa Keep falls into his control, House Haffset will be considered a full partner in the distribution of all goods, both salvaged and produced within the property.” Soumer paused there and slipped into a more natural voice. “All legal and binding agreements aside, I’d consider it a gesture of goodwill if any of House Marshal Bendure’s possessions, should they be located, fell into my hands.”

  He winked and then his eyes moved back to the digipad.

  “Now, in the event of default …” He let the words hang, thick and ominous.

  Seg waited for the terms. His offer had sufficiently stunned Haffset as to allow the dialogue to continue. As forward-thinking as Haffset was proving to be, he was still a man cultivated in an environment of minimized risk. “Go on,” Seg said.

  “In the event of default, the Obligated agrees to surrender his person to the Obligator and will be considered the property of such for the rest of his natural life.”

  Soumer lowered the digipad, his eyes bored into Seg’s, though it was impossible to tell if the sentiment behind them was threat or warning.

  “My boy, I want to make this unmistakably clear. I owe you that much for sticking your neck out the way you did on my raid, and in spite of the mess you instigated at our Victory Commemoration. If you default, and given the circumstances this seems highly likely, I will follow through on these terms. I have no interest in keeping you around the estate as trophy caj. My only concern is financial. I am, above all, a man of business.”

  The sharp gleam in his eyes hinted that his business was not always above board, and that he preferred it that way.

  “I will sell you. Immediately and to the highest bidder. We both know who that will be. Director Fi Costk will pay any price to own you; he will ensure you know the highest level of suffering and humiliation a Person can know. And he’ll make it last. You understand this?”

  “My profession involves traveling to foreign worlds with no fundamental understanding of the peoples to be encountered, integrating myself among them, and learning their secrets, so I can pilfer their most sacred and holy objects,” Seg said. “I comprehend risk. And I’m working on a tight schedule, so if we could dispense with the trivialities I can see to ensuring you’ll see no graft on my head, ever.”

  Soumer’s face narrowed, his eyebrows cinching until a row of fleshy gullies covered his forehead, his lips pressed together and pushed outward. And then, at once, his expression opened into the smile only Seg seemed capable of coaxing out of him. “Same arrogant young snot, I see. Good, good. I hope that you make me an even richer man than I am now. As much as I think this plan of yours is madness, I’d hate to give Fi Costk the satisfaction of using you as his footstool.” He picked up the digipad and handed it to Seg. “Since you’re in such a hurry, give me your impression and I’ll call for the trans and my financiary.”

  Seg skimmed the digipad to ensure the terms were the same as agreed upon, then pressed his thumb down. “Partners, then.” He extended his hand out, palm upward in the tradit
ional manner.

  Soumer pressed his palm to Seg’s and held it there firmly for a moment before he brought his other hand down on Seg’s shoulder and squeezed. “Partners.” With the hand on Seg’s shoulder, he turned him toward the door. “The World awaits, my boy.”

  Seg nodded and started for the door, his long legs scissoring to make short work of the distance. As it cycled open, he stopped and looked back at Soumer with a calculating glint in his eye. “There is one more very minor matter.”

  Soumer raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “I need to contact my bodyguard, through a secure channel, and deliver a coded message.”

  “Easily arranged,” Soumer said.

  “I also need to set up a meeting with Processor Gressam. Today.”

  “Oh? You have caj in need of training?”

  “We have some unfinished business.”

  Outside the rider, Ama crouched and swept a large chack across the Keep’s landing pad. Behind her, Shan stared at a mess of tangled metal, wire, and hoses, swearing loudly as she grabbed the tool kit.

  “Are we still good out there? I need some time,” Shan called out to Ama.

  “I think so,” Ama said between coughs. The air was thick with smoke, thanks to Shan’s successful missile hits. Even with her helmet visor down, Ama could barely see the skirmish taking place less than a hundred meters from the Defiant’s landing area, but she could hear the thudding report of weapons. And screams.

  She inched closer to Shan, her chack raised. The less distance between them, the better. If anyone attacked, she wouldn’t see them until the last second.

  Shan used a piece of frame to tug herself around the buckled landing strut. Over her head, the rider creaked ominously. “Don’t come down on me, you karging piece of junk!” She pulled out a clamp and seized the ruptured hose. The port landing strut had partially collapsed when they brought the rider in, threatening to capsize the craft and strand it on the deck.

  Shan’s hand slipped in the slimy hydraulic fluid as she fought to affix the clip. “KARG!” She forced the clip into place and began clamping it down. The rider lurched once more, then settled as a piece of the strut punctured the skin and lodged against a structural brace. “Okay, one down.”

  Ama flinched as something exploded inside the nearby hangar. Grenade, probably; she had learned that sound well at the Alisir Temple battle.

  Shan reached up and secured a wire bundle as she finished her inspection of the damage, then pulled herself out from under the craft.

  “Gotta check our hydraulics, see how much we have left.”

  Just then, a slight breeze redirected some of the smoke. Ama could see Viren leading his team across the deck as they bellowed threats in Kenda.

  “They’ve got the Etiphars on the run,” Ama said.

  “Just keep ’em off me,” Shan said. The wind shifted once more and obscured the fight. “I’m going to the front access port.” Slinging the tool bag, she drew her pistol and dashed around the craft.

  Ama allowed herself a brief glance to the rider—a puddle of dark liquid pooled around one of its feet. The first wound of the battle. She didn’t let her gaze linger; she and Shan might be on the edge of the fighting but that didn’t make them safe.

  Ahead, she could see the squads dividing. There were two main entrances into the Keep. Fismar would lead Viren and Prow’s squads into one. Cerd would lead the rest of the men into the other. From there, they would descend. She and Shan would be left to wait. Part of her wished she could be in there, in the fight. Waiting had never been one of her strengths.

  Moments later, Shan reappeared, the knees of her flight suit were chewed open and fringed with blood. No surprise. The landing pad was strewn with debris from their brief bombing pass.

  “Okay, we’re karged,” Shan said. “The strut’s beyond help. We lost hydraulic to the landing system so we can’t pull any of the struts in when we take off. We can lift, but we’ll be limping and when we put it back down the whole damn thing’s liable to come to pieces.” She looked around and then nodded toward the craft. “Let’s get buttoned up and hope these sand stompers can pull this off.”

  Ama swept her chack across the landing pad one last time, eyes searching through the dust and smoke for any sign of movement.

  “They’ll pull it off.” She backed her way to the ramp. She thought of Seg, then, fighting his own battle, alone. I never fail, he always said. For his sake, she hoped Fismar could say the same.

  At Lieutenant Korth’s side, Tirnich scanned the hangar deck. Wyan’s people were flushing the last topside Etiphar guards out from behind a pile of debris that had obviously been sitting in place for decades. Through the smoke, their enemies looked like featureless shadows but the wide shoulder epaulets and long coats made them easy to identify.

  “We’re going with pattern Arkis,” Fismar informed the squad leaders over their ear-comms. “Check your films for the concentrations we’re looking at. Fast and hard, people, no prisoners and no trophies on this, not ’til we’re past the bastards running this place.”

  As if to punctuate the statement, one of Wyan’s troops sprayed his chack at a fleeing Etiphar defender. The man pitched over on his face as the rest of Wyan’s squad maneuvered into position.

  Tirnich snuck a look at Hephier Bendure, who stood at Fismar’s other elbow. The poor kid was ghostly white and shivering, as though the heat radiating through the air had turned to frost. It must have been strange for him, this homecoming.

  As if reading Tirnich’s thoughts, Fismar nudged Hephier. “It’ll be okay. I’m watching out for you.” He repeated the sentiment in the Etiphar tongue.

  “Lieutenant’s the best,” Tirnich said. “You’ll be safe.”

  Hephier mumbled something in his own language. Fismar looked to Tirnich and jerked his head. “Cerd’s waiting.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  Tirnich signaled his squad and they fell in with Wyan and Cerd’s squads, the latter leading the entire group. Ahead, a set of tall, wide metal doors stood between them and whatever waited inside. The entrance was big enough to pass a rider through. According to the lieutenant, that’s exactly what it had once been used for, but the inhabitants of the Keep had no need for riders and no means to maintain the few with which they had arrived. From what Hephier had told them, the space was used for storage now.

  They moved forward swiftly but silently. The absence of sound, in the wake of the explosions and shooting of their landing, charged the air with expectation.

  Cerd crouched down behind the skull of an animal that had once been large enough to swallow a man whole, and pulled out a digifilm. Tirnich glanced over Cerd’s shoulder at the screen and the glowing square icons—blue for Kenda, amber for Etiphars.

  After a quick assessment of the film, Cerd nodded. “Three hostiles in the room over the main access. Lead with grenades, clear, then move down to the second level. Tirnich, send the signal and bring up forward surveillance like the lieutenant showed us.”

  Tirnich sent a brief pulse over the comm—the signal for Fismar to open the access door. Next he tapped an icon representing the room they were about to pass through. A second later, a dark image appeared, footage from an Eti viscam, which they now controlled, thanks to the grabber. The equipment may not have been magic, but it was still strange. In the darkened room, the Etiphars could barely be seen on his film, but they were doing something—

  Light flared.

  “Lieutenant—” Tirnich started.

  “I see it,” Fismar’s voice assured him over the comm. “They’re fusing the accessway door shut. Perimeter door opening in five.”

  “Grenades!” Cerd said.

  Ahead of Cerd, the lead men on the squads primed their grenades and waited. As the first door ground open, the men rolled in the grenades, then paused long
enough for detonation before launching themselves into the room. In the wake of the blast, the Kenda moved quickly to their corners. There was a brief burst of fire before Wyan’s squad called clear. Cerd jogged into the room and moved straight for the access door. It glowed cherry red from whatever incendiary the defenders had used to fuse it shut.

  Cerd turned to Tirnich and Wyan, his expression unreadable beneath his visor.

  “We’re blocked,” Cerd reported, both to his squad leaders and to Fismar.

  “Alternate pathing,” Fismar said.

  Tirnich produced the digifilm again; the alternate route was already cued up when he activated the display.

  “Keep moving.” Cerd gestured the squads ahead. “We have to get down there.”

  “What happened?” Slopper whispered to Tirnich as they pressed forward.

  “They blocked our entrance,” Tirnich said. “It’s okay, there’s another way in, it’s just going to be a bit tighter.”

  Tighter was an understatement. The tac display in his visor showed Tirnich their new path—a narrow corridor leading to a set of ladders. They were being herded into a tunnel.

  As they picked their way through the storage bay, they passed crates of strange goods, stacked randomly. Icons, like the ones Theorist Eraranat had shown them, were painted and etched on the walls. In the shadows, Tirnich swore he saw bones, which looked disturbingly human, dangling and painted with the Etiphars’ symbols.

  They’re just people, like us, he told himself, but a chill had settled into his blood.

  The Haffset luxury trans was a special specimen of decadence. The passenger compartment was spacious enough for at least two citizens to reside in full-time, and of course it came tended. Seg had already declined the drink offer from the serving caj as the enormous vehicle whirred its way to the Guild compound without so much as a mild shudder. Soumer had explained the changes wrought by the night of the riot and Seg could now see some of the quicker thoroughfares blocked by debris. He stood, a hand pressed to one side of the compartment, as he felt the seconds ticking by in the pit of his stomach.