Warp World

by Kristene Perron

  Soumer and the debt were just the first matter. Now he would have to persuade the Guild of his loyalty and continued allegiance, or else he and his people would be left without that organization’s protection. Lacking that shield, he and all of his troops and employees would be fair game for any House or larger organization that decided to pursue a claim against the Keep, by force of arms if necessary.

  This had to work. As he paced, he mentally reviewed the points he wished to state.

  Akbas watched the grainy image, transmitted from high above the Cathind. The rider would go easily unnoticed—just another part of the routine air traffic that orbited any city of the World when the Storm permitted

  “We have the trans in sight.” The collection agent patched the feed from the sniper’s scope through to Akbas’s channel. “Cleared?”

  Eraranat couldn’t have picked a larger target. Why Jarin Svestil placed so much faith in this impulsive glory-seeker baffled her.

  “Alive,” Akbas said into the comm, “I want him alive.” She clicked her forefinger against the screen. “Clear.”

  Next to the image of the trans was a map of the surrounding area, with her designated agents represented by glowing icons. The icons surrounded the trans in a wide semi-circle. A net for her prey.

  She heard the agent’s voice again, this time speaking to the sniper. “Cleared. Driver and vehicle. Live capture on Eraranat.”

  The sniper didn’t respond with words. Instead, he adjusted his rifle a fraction and fired. One shot, a pause for a few seconds, then a second shot snapped out.

  A violent lurch sent Seg stumbling into the padded wall of the trans. Black smoke poured from the drive compartment and he looked up to see the driver rock back, then forward. Blood gushed from a fist-sized exit wound in the man’s back. Despite the loss of the driver, the trans sped forward. Seg tugged at the door release but it refused to unseal.

  “Karging thing!” He kicking at the latch—a safety mechanism designed to prevent departures while the vehicle was in motion.

  A moment after he heard the familiar sound of a rider passing overhead, he was catapulted forward as the trans collided with a pile of debris. He bowled over the serving caj and slammed into the divider behind the cab. He pulled himself up and glanced through the smashed windowscreen of the trans. Raiders were rappelling down from the rider.

  This time he knew his attackers: CWA. He shoved off the divider and passed the caj. “Stay here,” he ordered. “Someone will be along to collect you. Stay low if there’s shooting.” He tugged the latch again, the door sprang open. Drawing his pistol, he dove out onto the pavement. Trans traffic had halted and, all around the street, people moved away from the raiders and the hovering rider. Seg risked a glance over the debris pile and saw the CWA team moving forward. The formation was sloppy, imprecise. These weren’t veteran raiders but they were armed and armored beyond anything he could cope with.

  He weaved through the narrow lane reserved for trans traffic, then stepped up to one of the broad pedestrian walkways that ran alongside the trans lane. He did his best to blend with the other Citizens, though his height spoiled the advantage that his camouflage might have provided. With a deep breath, he darted toward a side street. Behind him, there were shouts as the CWA troops spotted him. He heard the change in fan pitch as the rider lifted in pursuit.

  Jarin ignored the flash of an incoming comm on his desk as he listened to Gelad’s report. “A rider? Weapons fire? He’s there. Converge.”

  “On the way,” Gelad said.

  The line flashed dead. Jarin stabbed a finger down onto the incoming comm. “Yes?”

  “The Council meeting commences in three minutes, Senior Theorist,” the Guild Accountancy said, his face the picture of bland composure.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll be there,” Jarin said. He snatched his portable comm from the desk and dropped it in the pocket of his robe. Segkel was fighting for his life out in the streets, just a scant distance away, while the meeting Marsetto had convened to determine his fate was about to begin.

  Jarin pulled out his comm and cued it as he barged out the door.

  “Maryel, priority,” he said.

  “I don’t like this,” Wyan told Cerd over the comm as the squads pressed forward in the dark. “Going too smooth. Open door, pop a grenade, shoot ’em,”

  Cerd grunted. “Better than if they were coming at us, Wyan. Now keep moving.”

  Wyan muttered in the distance, his comm now deactivated. Undoubtedly something sarcastic, but Cerd could live with it. The priority now was what Tirnich and his squad were seeing up ahead.

  “Tirnich, is the L clear?”

  “Affirmative, Mascom,” Tirnich said.

  Some good news, at last. Tirnich’s squad was on point, scouting the L-shaped corridor forty meters ahead. This route was not only narrow but littered with side corridors, doors, alcoves and small rooms. Every space had to be cleared as they went or they risked getting circled by their enemies.

  Cerd watched as one of the sub-teams from Wyan’s squad cleared out another room. So far, aside from three wounded when they had stormed the landing platform, they hadn’t lost anyone. Unlike Wyan, Cerd did not have a problem with the state of affairs. He glanced at the digifilm and wondered if he should pull Tirnich’s squad back in—they were getting strung out ahead of the rest of the group.

  He reached a finger to enlarge the map area but before he touched the screen all the icons representing Etiphars inside the Keep winked out. Vanished. The blue icons representing the Kenda troops remained, but the amber icons, generated through the Keep’s surveillance system, were gone.

  “Lieutenant?” he said.

  “Eti’s just killed power,” Fismar came back. “All raid elements, we’re working blind. We planned it, we’ll handle it. Ready torches for the doors.”

  Cerd prepared to deliver the order when one of Wyan’s squad members called in. “Contact, contact. Multiple hostiles!”

  In the dark, a chack sparked a faint blue as it fired. At the cross-corridor, where Wyan’s man was posted, a continuous stream of blue sparks flickered as the chack wheezed out on full auto. Cerd saw the rest of Wyan’s squad moving up to support when the indicator light for the man changed from square to circle, first bright and then dark.

  “Wyan!” Cerd lunged toward the action. “How many are coming through?”

  “Too damned many,” Wyan shouted.

  Cerd saw sparks as more chacks fired in the darkness. His visor-enhanced vision came into range and picked up the full image as Wyan’s team laid down fire.

  Wyan’s team scattered as grenades flew into their midst. Two more icons changed shape, indicating two wounded. Cerd fanned his squad out to support Wyan’s squad as the Etiphars poured out of tunnels on either side. Screams and howls echoed down the hallway.

  The Etiphars were fighting back, and now Tirnich and his squad were cut off.

  The CWA wanted him alive. That was the only reason Seg could find to explain why the sniper in the rider had not shot him. Unfortunately, as long as the rider remained overhead, it could guide pursuers on the ground right to his position. Around him, crowds stared up at the unusual sight and watched the low-flying rider with a wariness borne of the recent uprising. Those nearest could obviously discern, from his brisk flight, that Seg was the rider’s target. They parted away from him, eager to avoid being caught in his consequences.

  Ahead, the upward gazes shifted. Heads began to turn in a new direction. His suspicions roused, Seg lifted his pistol. A pair of armored forms emerged, weapons aimed in his direction. One agent carried a simple projectile gun, used for live capture; the other held a hand stunner. The stunner was only good at arms-length but the projectile gun was already in range. Seg dove to the side as the gun thumped and the non-lethal projectile struck a Citizen behind him in the face. The
man went down in a spray of blood and shattered teeth, too stunned to cry out.

  Penned in the middle of the crowd, Seg didn’t have a clear shot at his attackers. To the side, a warden called out as she entered the scene, weapon drawn. The CWA troops ignored her and, seconds later, a shot from the rider removed her from the equation. The warden fell with a gurgling scream. Blood streamed from a shot to the stomach that cleanly punctured her armor. The crowd scattered now, panicked, as the trooper with the projectile gun pumped another round into the chamber and tried to track his target.

  Seg had already forced himself back into the fleeing crowd. As he shouldered his way through, he came face to face with one of the troopers closing in from the opposite direction. Face mostly hidden behind the visor of his scuffed helmet, the man blasted foul, liquor-laden breath at Seg as he pawed for a grip on his prey. Smashed together in the frantic press of the crowd, both men struggled to bring their weapons into play. If the trooper had a stunner all he needed was flesh contact to put Seg down. Desperate, Seg twisted his arm, swung his pistol into line with the man’s thigh, and unleashed a shot. The trooper howled in Seg’s face, an ear-punishing cry of pain as he sagged. The force of the surrounding bodies kept the wounded trooper upright as Seg wiggled his arm free and pressed the barrel to the side of the man’s neck. The howl cut off abruptly as blood, flesh, and bits of bone sprayed nearby bystanders. A circle quickly cleared around Seg and he pressed onward.

  He looked up at the buildings around him to get his bearings. The damned crowd had swept him away from the Guild Compound and safety. He fought to get his breathing under control as he jogged back toward his only hope for salvation.

  Tirnich took one look at the surge of Etiphars coming toward him and his squad and snapped off a burst before yelling for a retreat. The squad fled, pausing occasionally to fire behind them as they ran.

  According to the tac display in Tirnich’s visor, they were going to run out of corridor soon.

  “Through here!” Tirnich led his men down a side corridor.

  They piled through a door. Slopper slammed it shut and locked it. Men looked around wildly.

  “Great,” Handlo said. “We’re trapped.”

  “But this shows as a third-floor access.” Tirnich pulled up the map on the digifilm as they paced in the darkness.

  “It’s just an empty room.” Slopper poked at stacked bins with the barrel of his chack.

  They spun at a loud hammering on the door. Outside, the Etiphars shouted and howled their ululating war cries.

  “Karg!” Tirnich kicked over a cart. “Handlo, Slopper, cover the door. Everyone else, take this place apart. There’s got to be something here. Those air-blowing tunnels or something.”

  The hammering stopped but it was replaced by a hissing sound all the men recognized from their practice sessions back at the warehouse.

  “Torches,” Slopper said.

  The latching mechanism was already starting to glow in Tirnich’s visor-reading, a sign of elevated temperature.

  “Here!” a trooper called. He had pulled aside a stack of bins and found the entryway to a large chute.

  “Where does it go?” Slopper said, looking back over his shoulder.

  “Somewhere that’s not here,” Tirnich said. The trooper slung his chack and lowered himself into the chute.

  “Go, go, go!” Tirnich shouted. The latch began to sizzle and pop. He ushered all the men into the chute, one hand on the cart he had kicked over, prepared to move it in front of the hidden entry.

  “It won’t make a difference, they’re going to know where we went,” Slopper said. He climbed into the chute.

  “That’s not what I’m doing,” Tirnich said. “Now get down there.”

  Tirnich primed a grenade as Slopper disappeared, then slid himself partially in the chute. He tugged the cart behind him and pinned the grenade behind one of the wheels so it wouldn’t arm until the cart was moved.

  Hopefully, in the dark and confusion the Etiphars wouldn’t notice it, or else they were apt to just kick it right down the chute.

  As he let himself slide backward and down, one of Fismar’s lectures came to him.

  Anybody ever tell you that you were gonna get out of this alive?

  Cerd yanked the depleted battery pack from his chack and popped in a fresh one. His squad and Wyan’s had pulled back to a position where they could hold back the wailing Etiphar attackers. They had learned the hard way that the ventilation ducts could double as passageways after one of the grills had erupted and a screaming berserker had dropped out with a live grenade. Three down and one dead. In the wake of that oversight, Cerd ordered the men to cover all the ducts while he monitored the movement of Tirnich’s squad on his visor.

  “What in the name of …?” Cerd blinked. The nine blue icons representing Tirnich’s squad disappeared from his tac display.

  Elarn looked up from where he was tending wounds. “Steady, Cerd,” he said on the private channel.

  “Third level access secured,” Fismar reported over the comm. “Cerd, Tirnich’s people took an alternate path down. Here.” A carat appeared on the map to indicate the location of Tirnich’s squad. “He’s deep in, you need to push that bottleneck and link up.”

  Cerd stepped away from the troops and spoke to Fismar in a low voice. “Etiphars have got the numbers on us.”

  “No, it only looks like they do because they caught you by surprise. I read the data off the troopers’ visors when they came in, and you’ve got numbers on them.”

  “You did what?” Cerd said. “You can do that?”

  “I see everything, Mascom. Now get your troops moving and on the attack. You can do this.”

  “I’ve got wounded,” Cerd said, his voice almost pleading.

  “Detail somebody to stay with Elarn and get them moved back to the landing zone. Elarn’s been at this for a long time. He knows what to do. Now get moving or put Wyan in the lead and go back up top with Elarn.”

  Cerd looked back down the hallway as the chacks sparked blue once more. He swallowed and nodded at the empty air. “Affirmative, Ground Lead.”

  The damned rider had spotted him again, as he approached the Guild Compound. From his vantage point, Seg could see the Compound walls in the distance.

  He could also see the CWA troops spreading out along the street. Seg checked the charge on his pistol out of habit. Eighty percent. Adequate charge for several more shots, and one in reserve if he was cornered. There were several byways to get through to the Compound from here, but with the rider on him and the CWA troops already moving his way?

  Stop thinking. Move.

  He turned and ran down an alley. It would be a footrace now. The street had largely cleared and the wail of klaxons announced the imminent arrival of reinforcing wardens coming to investigate and avenge their loss.

  If only he wasn’t certain they would turn him over, he could have sought refuge in the wardens’ ranks. He vaulted over a low pile of recycling containers, slipped on a patch of wet bio waste and bounced painfully to the ground. Scrambling up, he gathered his long legs and carried on, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  At least he’d had his time in the wilderness to harden him back into proper physical condition.

  As he rounded the alley, he emerged into a gauntlet. Another pair of troopers awaited him, both with projectile guns. He didn’t need to look behind him—he knew what waited there. He lifted the pistol in a two-handed grip and tried to steady his breathing as he lined up the shot.

  The moment was frozen. Seg twisted his body as his sights settled on the thigh of the CWA trooper aiming at him, the only place he could be reasonably sure of bypassing the armor. Both Seg and his target were moving; both their shots went awry. He heard the distinctive whine of chack fire as he hurried to the dubious cover of a recycling bin.
One of the two troopers fell to the ground. The other fell as another burst lashed out. More shots whined through the alleyway behind him. Seg saw an armored form approach, hand waving.

  “Guild! Guild!” the man called as Seg took aim.

  Seg kept the pistol trained as the man pulled off his helmet, revealing the familiar craggy features of Mikon Gelad, Jarin’s aide. Behind Gelad, Arel held a chack of his own.

  “Theorist, there’s a very important Council session you need to attend,” Gelad said.

  Overhead, a pair of riders bearing the Guild insignia had corralled the rider that had plagued Seg. The Guild riders circled the hostile craft like a pair of angry insects, swerving and buzzing as they moved to keep their weapon pods trained on their target.

  Seg stared down Gelad, for a moment, before he rose up and holstered his pistol. He looked at his clothes, smeared with refuse, blood, and bodily debris from his close encounter in the mob. He straightened his Guild insignia, which had been twisted nearly upside down, then nodded.

  “Take me to the Council chamber,” Seg said, with all the dignity his shaking knees would allow.

  Lissil cued up the Merchant Delivery Network to place an order. Seg’s account had been shut down and they had resorted to using Manatu’s scrip for food and essentials.

  For days she and Manatu had been holed up inside Seg’s residence, waiting for word on their employer. According to the newsfeeds, the rest of the World believed he was dead. Lissil was inclined to agree, though she would never share that sentiment with her protector and sole companion. Manatu, like some slobbering pet, refused to give up on his master. And while Lissil would have gladly welcomed Seg home, she had already considered her options if the newschatterers were correct.