Warp World

by Kristene Perron

  “Theorist!” Lissil said. “You’re alive. I was so worried.” She added a respectful bow and, when she looked up again, her wide brown eyes were brimming with tears.

  Seg grasped her hand and squeezed once. “It’s good to see you alive, as well. I should warn you, where we’re going—”

  “Rocky soil,” she said.

  “Yes. But once we’re there, no one will ever threaten you or hurt you.” He glanced at her leg, where she had been shot the night of the Haffset party.

  She stepped up and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  Manatu cleared his throat and looked away; Nallin watched the scene with growing interest.

  Seg glanced back at the rider and called out to the gathered raiders. “I have six more seats! Who’s with me?”

  Raiders answered over top of each other.

  “I’m in.” The largest of the twenty men and women pushed past a cluster of his fellow raiders as he climbed into the rider.

  Others followed in his wake and the remaining five spots filled quickly.

  “For a smart mouthed, unortho little karg, you have a lot of friends,” Nallin said.

  “Friends? These are family, born in blood, Nallin Sastor.” He turned back to the remaining raiders. “I’ll be back for you! The future is waiting for us!”

  “Damn.” Nallin raised the viscam a moment too late. “Warn me the next time you plan on uttering something ridiculously inspirational.”

  The passengers filed in quickly and strapped themselves into their seats. The machine came to life with an unhealthy rumble; moments later, it was airborne. On the way home.

  “And so the charter commander says, How did this karging Outer get in my rider?” Shan looked over at Ama’s blank expression. “See, because they were six thousand and climbing, so nobody could figure out how—”

  “Son of a whore!”

  “Just now getting it?” She glanced at Ama again and saw her staring intently at the EW board. “What is it?”

  “The Storm’s switched direction. It’s headed right at us.”

  “Karg!” Shan flipped the comm switch. “Ground Lead, this is Air Lead. Speak.”

  “Air Lead, I was just about to check in with you. What’s the situation?” Fismar asked.

  “We have Storm track inbound in—” She checked the board. “—three-five minutes, repeat thirty-five minutes.”

  “Noted. We’ll get the wounded downlevel and you can put up the rider’s Storm cell to ride it out if it comes to it,” Fismar said.

  “Understood, hold and use cell,” Shan said.

  “Got a situation of my own down here. Have a few eyes on it, uploading visor imagery, now. Need your opinion on what we’re looking at.”

  Shan switched a display over to the incoming feed. Grainy images with flares of light showed Etiphar troops moving around equipment, apparently attaching explosives to banks of machinery.

  “What are they doing?” Ama leaned forward and squinted at the monitor.

  Shan stared at the display. “Uh, I think those are capacitor banks, Fis, er, I mean, Ground Lead. I’m not a tech, or anything but—”

  “Capacitors make a bad boom, don’t they?” Fismar asked.

  “Yeah. Maybe enough to blow the top off the mountain, if they’re big enough, I dunno. Even if it’s not that bad, capacitors are toxic as all karg and that’ll dump straight downlevel.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll just go in and make them stop. Ground Lead, clear.”

  “Air Lead, clear.” Shan leaned forward in her seat and looked down at the landing deck nervously. “Well,” she said. “Well.”

  “Shan?” Ama said.

  “Uh huh?”

  “I thought the grabber was supposed to stop the Etiphars from destroying the Keep.”

  “Guess they had a back-up plan. Or they’re improvising.”

  Shan reclined in her chair, eyes darting between the monitors and the board. Unconsciously, her hand stroked the power lever next to her seat.

  “Fis’ll take care of it. Just keep your eyes on that Storm and be ready to deploy the Storm cells.”

  “What about Seg?”

  Shan turned her face away from Ama. She wouldn’t say it, but she knew he wasn’t crazy enough to risk flight when there was Storm sign, no matter who was hunting him down in Cathind.

  “Boss knows what he’s doing,” Shan said. I hope.

  Seg hung onto the grab-bar in the middle of the rider bay, knees bumping the passengers on either side of him, as Manatu helped him into his gear. Turbulence was kicking up and through the small window he could see the black line of the Storm racing in. It ran perpendicular to their path and threatened to cut them off before they could land at Julewa. He released the bar long enough to pull the clamshell of his armor over his head. He fumbled to latch one side as Manatu latched the other. A gust sent them both rocking toward the wall. Seg caught the cargo bin over Nallin’s head and muttered an apology before he pushed himself back upright.

  “Theorist.” Nallin raised her voice over the noise of the shuttle and the approaching Storm. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  Seg wedged a leg in between her and a neighbor and slid the straps of his harness around his thigh. “It might be your last chance, so go ahead.”

  She raised her viscam and cocked her head questioningly.

  “We’re going to a fight,” he said by way of explanation. Manatu passed him a pair of battery cases, which he stuffed into his vest harness. He shifted legs and finished fastening the harness down. Turbulence threw him backwards. Manatu grabbed the rail with one hand and Seg’s shirt with the other, and stopped him before he landed on the seated raiders.

  “That’s if we even land!” a raider yelled, which set off a wave of cackles among the volunteer troops.

  “Theorist Erarant.” Nallin enunciated her words in an exaggerated manner now that she was recording. “There has been no end of speculation about you and your behavior. Some call you a rebel, some compare you to Lannit, some view you as a hero of the common Citizen.” She panned across the rider to show the raiders. “But I think the World deserves to hear from you: Why? Why the fifty Outers? Why the multi-strike? Why the words that sparked a riot? Why Julewa?”

  Seg pulled himself upright and accepted a small case of ammo cassettes, which he attached to the cassette clip on his vest. He looked down at the viscam with a shrug.

  “I was considering the World …”

  As the last of the Kenda troops arrived, summoned by Fismar’s emergency comm, Cerd did a quick count and weapons check.

  The area, like so many of those they had passed through, was a moldering storage space, stacked with crates, pieces of machinery, or objects of indecipherable purpose. Whatever the Keep had once been, it was clear that it was stagnating, production neglected in favor of whatever strange gods the Etiphars worshipped, and the lunacy of their leaders.

  He was taken back, suddenly, to his first introduction to the Rift pirates and their shrines to gods so ancient and dark-hearted that even the Kenda had forgotten their names. The air in his lungs turned cold. This was an evil place, full of bad omens.

  He shook off the premonition and nodded to Fismar to let him know the Squad Leaders were ready.

  “We’re going to infiltrate right at the edge of their perimeter, then we’re going to converge quickly,” Fismar said. “We don’t know what the Etis are rigging in there or how it detonates, but we don’t want to risk touching it off. So it’s up close and knives, shots only from each squad’s designated shooter and only in the designated zones. Forget everything I said before about not stabbing people—now’s a good time for it. Prow, Tirnich, your squads are peeling to the left here, then you’ll pivot and catch ’em on the flank. Cerd, you and Wyan are going to take the mi
ddle. I’ll be accompanying Viren up the right and clearing the banks.”

  A glance at his digifilm told Cerd that Fismar had chosen the most dangerous path for himself. The lieutenant would never say the words aloud, but Cerd suspected his choice was not some heroic gesture. One wrong move here would end everything. For all their bravado, the Kenda were still learning this business of war. A business Fismar had long ago mastered.

  “This is the whole fight, right here,” Fismar continued. “Most of the defenders still standing are in this room, we’ve got the numbers and we’re going to surprise them. But all it takes is one karg-up and it’s over for everyone in this damned mountain. So don’t karg-up.”

  Cerd latched his chack into place on his back and drew the black blade he had been issued in training. Knife training had been minimal—Fismar’s statement on the matter was that knives were best for opening cans; guns and grenades were for killing. Fortunately, when the time came for knife work he couldn’t have picked a better bunch. Kenda were indeed born with blades in their hands. And what a blade this was! It barely registered, even with his enhanced vision from the visor. They were also razor sharp, and Cerd had yet to see one break no matter how roughly used. These People knew how to make weapons.

  Fismar grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him aside a short distance. “Cerd, I need someone to watch the Eti kid. Put Tirnich on that.”

  Cerd was about to suggest another name. After all, Tirnich was a Squad Leader and one of their best men. But something in Fismar’s tone stopped him.

  “Quick as three, Lieutenant,” he said.

  Once the frightened young Etiphar was at his side, Cerd stepped down the short drop into the next room, where Prow and Tirnich’s people were getting ready.

  “Mascom,” Handlo stepped just in front of Tirnich. He shuffled slightly from foot to foot and held up his blade. “We’re ready.”

  “Tirnich?” Cerd craned to see the squad leader. He looked at Handlo, ghostly in his visor. “Step aside, trooper.”

  “He’s alright, Mascom, he’s just—” Handlo’s voice trailed off as Cerd pushed him to one side.

  Tirnich’s visor was up; he stared blankly at his knife, turning it over and over in his hand.

  “Kundara.” Cerd crouched down and flipped up his visor. “Tirnich, look at me.”

  “Hey, Cerd.” Tirnich’s mouth slipped into a smile that was not echoed in his eyes.

  “We’re going in two minutes,” Cerd said.

  “Are we going home?” At the last word, tears gathered, then slid down unchecked, as if Tirnich was unaware he was crying. “I want to take him home. He shouldn’t be so far from the Big Water.”

  Cerd reached down and squeezed his shoulder. “Tirnich, I need you to hold here. I need you to keep Hephier safe until we’re finished. Can you do that?”

  Tirnich looked up and a flicker returned to the dead eyes as he nodded. “Then we’re going back, right?”

  “We’ll talk about it.” Cerd motioned for Hephier to sit down next to Tirnich. He had to look away quickly from the two young men, no longer innocent, and no longer young, for that matter.

  Cerd grabbed Handlo’s harness and jerked him close to whisper in his ear.

  “Squad is yours now. Tirnich is watching the boy, that’s all you say about it. Now get your men into position.”

  He looked back at Tirnich one more time and clicked his comm as he trotted away. “Ground Lead, Handlo’s on the squad now.”

  “Acknowledged,” Fismar said.

  Cerd reached his position and crouched near a blocky machine. In his visor, the blue digits of the countdown continued.

  They were going to show these bastards the knife.

  Jarin paced along the edge of the roof of the Guild headquarters building. Above his head, the shield shimmered and cracked as the Storm pounded against Cathind’s defenses.

  How long? How long until the CWA attempted here what they had done scant kilometers away in Old Town? He stared up at the glowing shield.

  “I don’t think they’ll cut the shield here. Too much loss in a major industrial center, not to mention all the gate assets,” Ansin said.

  “Perceptive.” Jarin turned to see Ansin approaching. “Reading minds? That’s usually my forte.”

  “You’re getting poorer and poorer returns from that ability. Nevertheless, against all odds, your pupil came through again.”

  “I expected him to be condemned and expelled, even after his oration.”

  “He was going to be. I would have voted against it, of course. And you, and Maryel, and a few others. But for all the logic he offered, the tide was against him. Until—” Ansin laughed.

  “Shyl.”

  “Have you ever seen her so angry? No, have you ever seen her angry? I thought we were going to have to call a medical for Marsetto when she started screaming at him. The shock!”

  “Not simply the shock. The insults. I had forgotten they were students together.”

  “From the personal nature of it, I think they were perhaps more than simply students together, once upon a time,” Ansin said.

  “I should look into that.”

  “Always the same, Jarin. Your pupil wins his reprieve, and the game starts over.” He rubbed his hands together as the shield flared over their heads. “Your protégé proposes bold and radical change, and you? You carry on with more of the same.”

  “I should think you, of all our members, would find this open flaunting of orthodoxy the most disturbing.”

  Ansin sobered and stepped to the edge of the roof. He rested his hands on the railing and gazed out over the sparse lights of the Guild compound. “Our orthodoxy was written in a time of victory. Once, we held the World in our hands. The CWA? What were they? Financiaries and functionaries, tenders of the Well and keepers of the gates. But when the Guild spoke, all the World listened. When Selectee Fanin Aimaz denounced House Thalur, they were broken from the ranks of the Houses Major. Broken by mere words. Storm! When House Etiphar was to be punished, the campaign was presented before the Council for its blessing! Now? Eraranat’s right, we don’t even control our own city, let alone the World. We’ve been running on the residue of past greatness.”

  “So he’s infected you as well?”

  Ansin shook his head as he pushed away from the rail. “No. It’s time to grow again, but Eraranat? He will set the World ablaze if we don’t keep a hand in his affairs. Even when we do, he has a demonstrable capacity for starting fires. Imagine what he would do as a rogue? No, he was right. We need him, and he needs us. But he was also right when he said he is not the one suited to lead this.”

  “Then who?”

  “I do not know. This—” Ansin waved his hand. “This new World is going to take time to become accustomed to.”

  “For all of us,” Jarin said.

  “Go,” Fismar said, softly, over the comm. Seven-tenths of a second after he spoke the word, he launched over a railing.

  Tactical surprise achieved. In his visor, he could see stunned faces staring up at the Kenda as they howled their war cries and burst into the large room.

  He estimated six seconds until the first responses. His first shot, fired on the move, took his target in the chest and throat. He pivoted, fired again, and struck one of the Etiphars planting a charge, with a precise shot in the middle of his back.

  Armor. Not a kill, but a spinal shot. Incapacitated.

  Three seconds remaining. He hurled the grenade in his left hand to the side, away from the capacitors. The Etiphars ducking behind the control panel would find out about the grenade in two seconds.

  Accelerating to a run, he fired one more snap shot that sent his target reeling.

  Wounded, not dead and not incapacitated. His mind filed the detail. As he neared collision distance, he diverted a chan
nel to the troops’ progress.

  Lagging behind him, as could be expected, but moving well for normal men.

  Something heavy and metallic, unseen in the muck and debris of the floor, clipped his ankle. As he flew forward, he released his chack and reached out to grasp the oncoming control panel. Squaring his palms, he used his momentum, pushed off the surface, and launched into the midst of the Etiphars.

  Six seconds elapsed. The enemy had weapons drawn. The grenade he had thrown two seconds earlier detonated to his left, with an accompanying scream.

  Weapons drawn, but not ready. He flicked his blade and opened a throat. The motion carried into a spin as the Etiphar behind him tried to cram a rifle barrel into his back.

  The desperate shot missed by a hair’s width. If the Etiphar had pulled the trigger a half-second earlier, the entire fight would have been over. Close. Fismar arced high with the knife before stabbing down. Armor and clothing parted under the fine edge of the huchack-fiber blade, penetrating to the depth that he calculated would reach the heart. With a wrench, he tore the blade free in a welter of gore.

  He spared a glance over his shoulder—the Etiphar’s single shot had not initiated any chain reactions.

  Fourteen seconds had passed; the surprise attack had become a melee. He registered shouts and screams from both sides as the Kenda pressed home against the outnumbered Etiphars.

  They were not the most well-trained troops he had ever led. He hadn’t had the time for that.

  They were the most spirited.

  Approaching another cluster of Etiphars, he dove as they leveled their weapons, and slid under the table in front of them. He emerged in a forest of legs. In one hand, his blade slashed an Achilles tendon. In the other hand, a pistol he had drawn during his dive slammed into an Etiphar’s groin. Fismar pulled the trigger. Around him, falling bodies complicated his motions, and there was still the third Etiphar, still the third, trying to line up the shot, firing prematurely in hopes of killing him, the invader.

  He might succeed. Fismar scissored his legs mechanically to kick the dead weight free. A chack butt flashed in and smashed the would-be shooter’s face. In the ghostly view of the visor, Fismar’s mind recorded the event in slow motion—the caving in of the cheekbone, the dislocation of the eye socket, small bright flares that could only be teeth flying free from the mouth as the jawbone shattered.