“It’s your duty to report any suspicious activity to the Jireni,” the elder intoned, wagging an ethereal finger. “Dissension is a threat to every Cheng in Daqin Guojin. Any information that leads to the culling of dissenters will be rewarded—and rewarded well.”
Daoren glanced at Heqet. “More edicts of the Cognos Populi?”
She didn’t respond. Her gaze fixed on something in the distance. He followed it to a smaller group, forty feet past the elder.
A Jiren restrained a prospect by her hair braids, sneering face inches from hers. A second Jiren gripped a glass phallus. A slight boy in a white pienfu stood between him and the girl, hands raised as if in mid-plea. The boy’s eyes radiated fear, his words lost beneath the plasmonic elder’s relentless blather. Both Asianoid prospects looked around eighteen years old.
“They’re not going to test her here, are they?” Heqet asked.
“They’ve been cracking down on pre-denizenship coitus,” Daoren said. “Who knows what the brutes will—”
The Jiren with the glass phallus backhanded the pleading prospect. The boy sprawled against a stand of crystal urns and crumpled to his knees. The other Jiren hip-tossed the girl, slamming her to the ground.
Daoren surged forward on instinct. Heqet caught his forearm and dug in her nails. “Don’t! If you interfere they’ll send you to the Rig!”
She was right. At best, challenges to Jireni authority led to immediate detainment. At worst, they ended in summary execution. He held back, rising gorge searing his throat.
The Jiren hiked up the girl’s skirt and pried her legs apart. The other Jiren kneeled and thrust the phallus between her legs. The girl’s pathetic squeals mixed with the grumblings from several brooding denizens among the stalls. They, too, held back.
The brutal violation lasted no more than five seconds. The Jiren slotted the phallus into a handheld quantum tile. Both men studied its screen, then resumed their foot patrol. Three other Jireni joined them, cacklebracking. The spectacle must have amused them.
Daoren stared at the aggrieved prospects. The boy wiped his bloodied lips, whimpering. The girl tugged her skirt back down, sobbing.
A harmony of hopelessness.
“She must have tested negative for penetration,” Heqet said.
“We should go.” Daoren took her arm. “They may be trolling for—”
An Indonoid man jostled between them. The inconsiderate fid strode through the elder’s projection and angled toward the Jireni, quickening his pace.
Daoren primed his lungs to shout his annoyance. A spark of recognition stilled his voice.
The man’s sand-tone shenyi . . . its gold, corkscrew-shaped columns. . . .
It was the father who’d held his dead daughter on the steps of the Center, the day of Mako’s S.A.T. The man’s rapid, rigid gait had a feverish quality. The back of his tunic appeared misshapen.
Daoren squinted.
Triangular lumps distended the tunic’s fabric, deforming the golden columns. The lumps were the same size and shape as—
A bolt of recognition culled Daoren’s breath.
Sonic charges.
The Indonoid father broke into a run. He didn’t stop until he inserted himself in the midst of the Jireni. He wrapped his arms around one of them. “In the name of free denizens, I pass judgment on your crimes!”
Daoren grabbed Heqet’s arm and yanked. Her head snapped to the side, prompting a squeal. He pulled her behind the transway’s supporting column.
A deafening sound pulse walloped his ears. Instantaneous overpressure condensed the air’s water vapor to white mist. The supersonic wavefront streaked past the column, dragging with it the oxygen from his lungs.
Shards of bone and glass battered the opposite side of the column, their furious peals a thousand jangling bells. Hissing shrapnel shredded glass stalls and onlookers without distinction.
Daoren gripped Heqet, squeezing her to his chest, keeping her out of the lethal slipstream. A blood-smeared chunk of blue crystal clattered to a stop near the column’s base.
The bust purchased by the emaciated woman.
Beyond the bust, the plasmonic elder held court atop his glass disk, addressing no one. His audience had been swept away by the blast. Dismembered denizens and prospects sprawled amid demolished stalls. Others lurched through the debris, faces blank with shock. They clutched gashed limbs and grisly wounds, bloody patches leaching through their splendid shenyi.
“What happened?” Heqet shouted.
The ringing in his ears all but muted her voice. “An attack on the Jireni!” He opened his mouth and stretched his jaw, trying to restore his hearing. “There may be another! We have to go!”
They dashed beneath the transway, hurdling bodies and collapsed stalls. The dying howled, crawling on their bellies, begging for help. Daoren ignored their pleas. Even if he could risk stopping, they were beyond saving.
In less than a minute they reached the multi-level structures lining the market’s west end. Daoren sprinted into a laneway, dragging Heqet in his wake. Halfway down the laneway, a hand tugged on the back of his tunic.
“Stop! Stop!”
He stopped and scanned her body for wounds. “Are you hurt?”
Heqet massaged the back of her neck. “Just my neck from you yanking me.”
The comment rekindled his ire. “Should I let you catch the full force of the sonic blasts next time?”
“You asked if I was hurt. I answered.”
“So you did. My sorrow for your pain,” he said with the utmost insincerity.
“My thanks for your sorrow,” she said, the words slick with sarcasm. “Are you hurt?”
Daoren took inventory. His pienfu was free of blood. So were his arms and legs. He turned his hands, looking for cuts. They trembled—that was a wound of sorts.
“Trembling hands,” she said. “So you’re human after all.”
He made fists. “It’s adrenaline. I’ve seen death before.”
“It’s no sin to feel fear, Daoren.”
“It’s adrenaline!”
“So you said.”
He shook his head. What was the use in arguing? “Come on.”
After another two hundred feet, the laneway opened into a courtyard. Prospects filled it, seated cross-legged on cobbled sandstone before a dour Librarian on a bench.
Compared to the carnage in the market, the serenity was jarring. The concussive blasts of the sonic charges and cries of the wounded mustn’t have penetrated the space. Either that or the Librarian had told his pupils to ignore the sounds.
The prospects were young, seven or eight years old at most. Pedagogical trips outside the Librarium’s grounds were a rare occurrence. The children must have earned the reward through good behavior—if it could be called a reward. They labored over quantum tiles, screens laden with advanced integral-calculus equations.
Daoren grunted at the memories it dredged up. “The Libraria don’t take long to indoctrinate them.”
“They have to be ready to take on the responsibilities of denizenship,” Heqet said.
“Has anyone stopped to weigh the price of denizenship?”
“The price? What do you—”
Two prospects squealed and scrambled to their feet. A Caucasoid girl chased after an Africoid boy. The pair charted an erratic circle around their cohorts.
“I’m going to get you, slag!”
“You’re too slow to catch me, Jiren!” the boy replied, gigglesnicking.
The gigglesnicking spread to the seated audience. Prospects lowered their tiles and shouted encouragement, urging the slag to stay ahead of the Jiren.
The Librarian scowled from his bench-top perch. He rolled his own tile into a tube, then stretched the tube into a two-foot rod. He rapped the end of the rod into the firm sandstone.
Daoren’s hands curled into fists. Shock-fusing the glass rod foreshadowed sinister repercussions. His suspicion was confirmed when the two prospects darted past the bench.
/> The Librarian jumped to his feet and seized the pursuer by the hair, jerking the girl to a stop. He thrashed her back with the rod. “I’ll teach you to disrupt my class!”
Heqet gasped. “That’s a bit harsh.”
Daoren waded through the seated prospects and stole up behind the Librarian. He grabbed his arm, mid-beating. “That’s enough!”
The Librarian whirled, eyes bulging. “How dare you lay your hand on me!”
Daoren twisted the man’s arm. “Keep beating her and I’ll lay more than my hand on you.”
The Librarian winced. Pain dissolved his fury. He released the whimpering girl.
Daoren snatched the makeshift rod and rapped its end against the bench. The impact shock-separated the glass, transforming its crystalline atomic structure back to a malleable state. He bent the rod in half and tossed it to the Librarian. “Continue your indoctrination if you must, but don’t abuse your pupils.”
The Librarian caught the rod without making eye contact. He unrolled the tube and molded it back into a rectangular shape, hands trembling. “I . . . I won’t.”
Daoren picked his way over to Heqet. He ignored the stunned faces gawking up at him.
She greeted him with a smile that smacked of shock and admiration. “If it isn’t Daoren, the Protector of Prospects. So tell me, oh wise one, what’s the price of denizenship?”
He gaped at her. For the love of Sha, wasn’t it obvious? “Our humanity, of course.”
His blunt tone crushed her smile. For the second time today, he wished he’d softened it.
8
Blood Spilled
PYROS STARED AT his quantum tile while he tarried for the briefing to resume. If he angled its screen just right, he could see the chamber’s decorative ceiling panels and still read the update displayed below the screen’s glass. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t devote a dot of attention to a trivial demonstration of light’s simultaneous reflection and transmission—especially not in the shadow of such a serious incident—but he had little else to do.
Behind his desk, the Unum continued to fiddle with the Newton’s Cradle like a child with a new toy. The rare device was a gift from an ally at the Librarium, he’d boasted when Pyros first arrived, and worth at least one thousand pounds of grooll.
Its six crystal orbs hung by gleamglass filaments beneath a ten-inch frame made from silver-infused crystalline. As the Unum had demonstrated eight times, drawing one orb back and releasing it set the cradle in motion. Its irksome clacking had filled the chamber for five of the six minutes Pyros had been here. He’d so far resisted the urge to hurl the device off the chamber’s balcony.
He’d also resisted the urge to ask why a Librarian would give the Unum such an extravagant gift—or how the person could afford to do so. Libraria weren’t known for their lavish grooll rations or for showering the Cognos Populi in largesse. He had his suspicions, but kept them to himself. He was here to discuss a more important issue.
His tile displayed the latest update from the on-scene commander at the glass market. Though details of the hour-old incident were still obscure, enough evidence had been gathered from survivors to piece together a preliminary conclusion.
“So you mentioned you had new information,” the Unum said, at last muting his toy.
Pyros praised Sha for the silence. “It was a targeted attack. Three survivors saw the denizen approach the Jireni. They say he spoke before detonating the sonic charges.”
The Unum lowered his hand from the cradle. “He spoke?”
“He made a statement about judging their crimes.”
“Who was he?”
“It will take time to identify the body. There wasn’t much left of him or the five Jireni he culled.”
The Unum lifted his gaze to the ceiling—as was his habit when contemplating.
Or giving the appearance of contemplating, Pyros reminded himself. The Unum’s moods defied rational analysis. They swung between warm regard and cold calculation so often, it was a wonder his mind didn’t succumb to the temperature fluctuation.
“The attack serves to underscore my earlier point,” the Unum said, staring at the ceiling. “How many more Jireni will die if word of Lucien’s suspicion gets out? It must be done.” He lowered his gaze. “And it must be done today.”
Pyros studied the face on the other side of the desk, the finality in its deep-set eyes in particular. He’d seen it many times before. No words would sway the Unum from this path. One action might, however, delay the inevitable for an indefinite period.
“What if I intern Lucien at the Rig?” Pyros asked. “He may disclose information on who sent him Julinian’s prep-tests. There could be considerable intelligence value in—”
“If you don’t want to perform the task, then say so.” The Unum shrugged. “I’m sure I can find another Jiren whose child risks failing the S.A.T. to carry it out. Of course, your daughter might pay a heavy price for your decision, but it’s your decision.”
Pyros tensed his eyelids and peered through the semi-veiled threat. The Unum may be capricious and manipulative, but he knew more about survival than any man in Daqin Guojin. He’d have no issue with revoking his promise to secure a passing S.A.T. score for Pyros’ daughter. If he didn’t cull Lucien, another Jiren would do the deed at the Unum’s behest before the swollen sun set.
He let the rationalization seep into his heart, hardening it. Twenty-five years of service in the Jireni and twenty-four years of union had proven one truth. When it came to kin, a person sometimes had to choose the lower path to gain the higher ground.
How could he return to his abode and tell his wife he didn’t choose the path that guaranteed their daughter’s survival? What kind of husband could make such a decision? What kind of father?
He relaxed his eyes. His path was set.
The Unum set the cradle in motion again. Its loathsome clacking resumed.
Pyros raised his voice. “Where is he?”
* * *
TEN MINUTES LATER, Pyros plodded down a glass-lined hallway six levels below the Unum’s chamber. Purple-tinted shadows flitted from chamber to chamber, scurrying from meeting to meeting. The Assembly members scarcely registered in his mind.
The task at hand devoured his focus. He’d culled many men at close quarters—prospects, dissenters, mongrels—but this one would be different. This man was a respected colleague, a denizen with whom he’d taken grooll and grown to admire.
This culling would be intimate.
He rounded a corner, gaze downcast. He’d have to get behind him. Only from behind could he strike and make it look like ritual suicide. Any defensive wounds would cry out against that conclusion. Any calls for help would bring a rush of witnesses who’d see the truth in all its horrid—
“Tarry a moment, sire?”
Pyros halted, steps before plowing into two Jireni.
Commander Cang’s creased forehead and pursed lips hinted at concern. A young Asianoid Jiren shadowed her—an aide whose name Pyros could never remember.
The display of emotion surprised Pyros. He’d known Cang alum Aridian for twenty years. They’d served together for three years on the Great Northern Border and executed countless reconnaissance missions in the mongrel colonies. Her ascent through the ranks owed as much to decisive leadership as incisive intellect, but her greatest pride was her Asianoid reticence. Emotions usually found no welcome on her visage. As district commander for Zhongguo Cheng, she and her reticence must have been disturbed by the day’s events.
“What is it, commander?”
“The attack at the glass market,” Cang said, selecting her words with typical care. “Its brashness worries me. The willingness to carry it out in daylight in such a public forum, to inflict so many casualties regardless of their social status.”
“It marks a new trend among the dissenters.”
“A dangerous trend. I wonder whether the edict to raise the S.A.T.’s passing score was adopted in haste.”
“The ed
ict came from the Unum himself.”
“Be that as it may, the Unum isn’t . . . infallible.”
Pyros scowled at her aide. “Take five paces backward, Jiren.”
The young Asianoid blinked, brow crumpled.
“Move, shadow.”
The aide followed the order without hesitation.
“Radan isn’t a threat,” Cang said. “He’s heard me question the Unum’s edicts before.”
Pyros inspected the hallway, gauging their isolation. Hearing his own thoughts echoed by Cang brought some relief, but the remark couldn’t be overheard or go unchallenged. “We serve the ruling caste. The Unum represents the pinnacle of their interests.”
“Without question, but he’s temporary. Daqin Guojin isn’t. A view that takes its stability into consideration may be needed.”
Pyros didn’t respond. He didn’t trust what he might say.
“There’s another issue that troubles me,” Cang said. “I’ve received reports concerning the questionable activities of a prominent Librarian. I need to—”
“Can we discuss this later?”
The gruff interruption compelled her to step back. “Um . . . certainly. I’ll forward you my preliminary and supplementary reports on the subject. Contact me to discuss it in depth whenever you have the time.”
“Fine, fine.”
Cang bowed her head. When she raised it again, puzzlement crimped her eyes. “Are you all right, sire? Is there another matter that weighs your mind?”
“Only today’s attack,” Pyros said. “Keep me informed of any findings.”
He swept past her and her aide, eager to be done with the task at hand and dreading its completion at the same time.
* * *
PYROS ARRIVED AT the chamber’s outer door fifty minutes later. It should have taken less than five minutes from the time he left Cang, but he’d come by a more indirect route. He’d diverted as far as the lower levels of the Assembly, hoping the delay would free enough mind-space to determine a plan of attack.
It hadn’t. He could wander the hallways for the rest of the day and come no closer to an answer. He needed to see the chamber, get the lay of the land, and discover its ground truth. Once inside, a plan would present itself—with any luck.
Survival Aptitude Test: Sound (The Extinction Odyssey Book 1) Page 9