by S. Cushaway
“Yes. Leigh Enderi.”
Karraetu smirked, the expression as predatory as a hungry coyote’s. “I want you to realize what’s happening right now isn’t personal. In fact, I’m going to give you three a chance because I like to be fair.”
Despite the heat of the sun beating down on her shoulders and through her yalei, cold tingled through Leigh’s limbs. The rifle barrel traced along her scalp, then trailed down to her nose, pushing against the tip before brushing her mouth. The metallic taste made her want to gag, but she gulped down the bile in her throat and did not look away.
“How about this?” Karraetu asked suddenly, swinging the rifle back to his shoulder again with nonchalant ease. “You can have your canteens back. And your knives. I bet your scout could catch you a snake to eat. Think of it as training, or a challenge. You’ll either make it or you’ll die, but it won’t be my call. If you live, that’s because you’re smart enough to live. If you don’t, it’s because you shouldn’t be here anyway.”
“That’s a very cruel outlook,” Kaitar said. The dazed look in his eyes dulled as he spoke, but did not fade entirely. “A Sulari I knew used to enjoy putting people through games like that. Used to say we should prove our worthiness for his honor.”
“Kaitar!” Leigh hissed. “Keep quiet. That is an order!”
The scout’s lips peeled back in a grin every bit as menacing as the Estarian’s. “In the end, that Sulari died. I’m still here.”
Karraetu cracked him across the face with the rifle butt. Kaitar doubled over, blood spurting from his nose onto the sand.
Leigh’s heart skipped a beat. “Karraetu, he’s unarmed!”
Romano's groan twisted into a pathetic sob; he hunched there, crying under his breath like a scared little boy. Kaitar righted himself, silent, his eyes half-closed and his face impassive as he turned his attention to Toros again.
Karraetu nodded, watching the blood drip onto the scout’s lip. “Well, it is a dog-eat-dog world, and if you want to think of it as cruelty, that’s your prerogative. But next time you talk and I don’t like what you say, I’m going to blow all your fucking brains out.” He turned on his heels and waved an arm, barking toward the men at the rover. “Panezii, Mal-eyio! Bring over those yatreg and canteens. Make sure they’re full first. These three are going on a walk.”
He’s sending us out to die.
Leigh squared her shoulders, stomaching that realization. What remained of her courage drifted over her like a dust storm.
The hazel-eyed man stomped near, brandishing Kaitar’s knives. “Bet you can’t even use those pig stickers, can you? They should be mine. They’re too nice for Toros-filth like you.”
“Panezii, cut it out,” Mal-eyio muttered. He opened his mouth to say more, but stopped short when Karraetu raised a hand. The ruthless glint in the commander’s eyes sent a fresh, nauseating fear coursing through Leigh.
“Don’t,” she said hoarsely. “Kaitar, don’t. That’s just what they want.”
Romano wiped his flushed face. “Listen to her, damn you! I’ve got a kid at home. Don’t get us killed over your stupid Shyiine ego!”
A heavy silence descended, broken only by the soft thump of Mal-eyio tossing canteens down on the sand. The hush stretched on, thick as molasses, dripping slowly through the minutes.
Panezii leered, kicked sand at Kaitar, and prodded the scout with a yatreg. Snorting his contempt, the Scrapper tossed the knives in the dust. Kaitar’s fingers slid toward the weapons, brushing against the bloodied sand. He did not turn away from the sneering face as he picked up the yatreg.
“Kaitar . . .” Leigh whispered, knowing he wasn’t listening. “Don’t . . .”
Panezii crooned, “Pussy-whipped. Going to let that bitch tell you what to do, coward?”
In a blur, the blades flashed under the Scrapper’s nose. Panezii jumped back, cringing, pistol held at arm’s length, ready to fire. He looked at Karraetu, waiting for the order to shoot. The commander leaned against his long rifle, watching.
“Sir, should I—”
“Put the gun down. I told you these three were going on a walk.” The hungry, keen look faded from Karraetu’s eyes as his men applauded their companion with jeers and laughter.
Kaitar breathed out through his nose, sending another dribble of blood to the ground. He slid the yatreg into their scabbards. “I’m not a murderer. I don’t kill people for insults. But maybe one day I’ll meet you in the desert.”
Leigh let out her breath and a wave of dizzying relief swept over her.
“I hope we do meet in the desert. I like shooting snakes,” Panezii said. He lowered his pistol.
“He could have cut your balls off in the time it took you to hop away,” J. T. yelled from the gate.
“They’re too small to bother with!” Tinn called back. “Just dried up little dates!”
“Fuck you,” Panezii said, trying to regain his dignity. “Your sister liked sucking on them well enough.”
The banter went on, and all the Scrappers joined in, with the exception of Mal-eyio. The Pihranese man only watched, grim-faced and silent.
Leigh spoke above the combined laughter. “Can we go now?”
“Can you?” Karraetu shrugged. “That’s up to you. Your lives are in your own hands now, but I will say this. If any of my men see you out there, don’t expect them to show you the fairness I just did.” He grinned, hoisted his rifle, and turned on his heels. “Mal-eyio, cover me. The rest of you, c’mon.”
The Scrappers strode toward the gates, whistling and yelling more insults as they marched. Panezii lingered long enough to spit into Kaitar’s face before jogging off to join the others. J. T. saluted Karraetu and hit the lever on the terminal. The gate shrieked as it swung closed. The mercenaries vanished behind the walls of Os’tizal, their laughter fading to a deep stillness.
From its perch atop Toros, the crow cawed again. Leigh wished it would go away. Its calls reminded her too much of the Scrappers’ mockery, and the way the crow watched was the same as how Karraetu had watched, waiting for someone to die.
Mal-eyio lifted his gun. “Don’t go back to the Old Tree Well. Do any of you know where the Harpers’ Well is?”
“Where we go and what we do is not your concern.” Leigh replied, pushing herself to her feet, hands still locked on her head. “We cooperated with your leader. Let us go.”
“Don’t go to the Old Tree Well.”
“Can we go?” Romano asked shakily as he rose. “Please, can we just go now?”
“Yes,” the Scrapper replied. “And do it quickly before Karraetu changes his mind or sees you hanging around here. Go.” He jerked the barrel of his rifle, pointing the weapon south. “Go, before I have to shoot you.”
“I don’t see a collar around your neck,” Kaitar said, his broken nose making his voice oddly nasal. “I don’t see anyone forcing you to do anything. But we’ll go. Heh.” He tottered to his feet, the lower half of his face a mask of blood. “I wasn’t keen on working with Scrappers anyway.”
Mal-eyio lowered his weapon. “Go. But not to the Old Tree Well.”
Leigh stooped, plucking the canteens from the sand. She paused in front of Mal-eyio. “You’ve helped to doom our friend, the man who saved my life once. And now, you’ve helped doom us by sending us out on foot into the Shy’war-Anquai. Is this what N’jian Printz wanted? Is this what the new Pihranese empire will be like?”
“I’m sorry. I’m following orders.”
“Screw the orders.” Romano’s eyes filled with tears. “The Foundry is going to come down on you assholes like a ton of bricks! And if I never get home to see my son again, that’s on your shoulders, too. Bastard Scrappers.” He spat at Mal-eyio’s feet before following Kaitar, already a dozen yards away.
“I’m sorry,” Mal-eyio said, more quietly this time. “I’m following the orders of my high commander.”
“Yes, you’ve said that already.” Leigh turned from him, feeling more tired and sad than afra
id. She trudged south after the scout and the Junker, leaving Mal-eyio standing in the shadow of Toros.
The Namesake
“You’ll have a scout ready by next year to send out in the Sand Belt?”
Nyia Precaius’s voice wavered as her image rippled briefly. Neiro hoped the neuro-transmission would drop out entirely. He glanced at the Mechinae, who hadn’t moved from the stool. Viyr’s eyes flashed and the Neuro-Cyth responded; his sister’s image came back, sharper than ever.
He sighed and cleared his throat. “Yes, I’ll have three scouts ready to map the Sand Belt by then, along with enough provisions for the job.”
“How are you going to manage to send that many provisions, Neiro?” A hard edge of steel clipped Nyia’s voice, the same steel that often crept into his own. Admittedly, she was well suited to her position as head chairwoman of the Veraleid Corporation, no matter how loathsome a beast she might be.
The chair creaked beneath his weight as he leaned back. “Let me worry about it. I’m the one that knows what they’ll need, after all. I’m not without resources, backward as they might seem to you.”
“Kurt Gamelyin. . .” Nyia hammered emphasis on the last name. “Asked me to find out how long you think it will take for your scouts to locate the shard out there. Of course, he needs as much of the Kodrite around it as possible.”
Kodrite. Worm Glass. The only good thing that had come out of the whole Toros project. Kodrite was Firebrand, and more. Neiro’s gaze flicked to his sister’s namesake. The stuffed threk seemed to regard him with mild hostility. When he reached to touch the Worm Glass eyes, he found the amber-colored surface warm. Much warmer than his real sister’s gaze had ever been; her eyes were the same pale, icy gray as the winter rain that fell back in Avaeliis.
It was raining that day they came for Verand and I. Matched her eyes exactly.
“Neiro?”
“It’s hard to say how long. Hopefully not more than a few months. My best scout is in the field currently, so I can’t ask him for an estimate.” Thinking of Kaitar made Neiro’s head pound. Moad didn’t seem inclined to get his ass out of town and back to the Citadel, Ham Elgin wasn’t budging on any sort of deal to bring the Junkers to heel, and Nyia wanted her damned monthly report on how things were going. The worst of it, perhaps, was Evrik Niles refusing any sort of contact since he’d left Dogton. But Nyia didn’t need to know about that. Not yet.
“Neiro? Did we drop?” Her image faded, then came back to focus.
Neiro rubbed his face as she bitched about the connection for the space of a few more heartbeats. He could picture her sitting at the big desk in the Veraleid office, looking out the massive window at the city skyline where endless lights seared the heavens, so bright the sunrise would seem insignificant by comparison.
“Neiro? Are you there? Did the connection die? I can see you.”
“I’m here, yes.” He straightened. “What was that you were saying? Lost voice contact for a moment.”
“I said, they expect the Sand Belt to be ready for Kodrite mining in two summers. Three, at the very latest. The Shyiine are very resilient and very hostile, but it’s only a matter of time before they buckle. The first batch of Cynopsia has been discharged, but it hardly seemed to touch them. They’re working on a stronger strain to try, and the tests have been promising thus far. The Shyiine are fierce, I will say that for them.“
“If you think fighting them is difficult, you should try working with them. Twenty years into the job, and my far scout still gives me a hard time about orders. What can you expect from an Enetic? Stubborn things.”
“You have what, three. . . four? Enetics out there? No, wait. . . three Shyiine, a Shyiine half-breed, and that other Druen fellow. I suppose we should count that Drahgur, too. Six then. Oh, and the Shurin. We’ll be sending a transport in the spring for him, by the way.” Nyia brushed back a lock of dark hair, her pristine face emotionless. “Really, Neiro, I wouldn’t stand for an uncooperative Enetic. Nor would Kurt.”
“Kurt’s put up with worse, hasn’t he? How long have the two of you been married now? What, fifteen or sixteen years, is it?” He smirked. “You leave my Enetics alone, Nyia. You and the Syndicate have plenty of them to offer up on a platter to the Cynops already.”
A wrinkle appeared on Nyia’s smooth, colorless brow as her eyes fixed straight ahead, trying to lock onto him, half a world away. She’d never be able to just let the anger out; that was the part that really tickled him. The Syndicate did not approve of any such action; emotions, responses, even humor, must be kept well in hand for the sake of profit. Markets, graphs, charts, the “Collective Economy”—those were the true emotions of any high ranking Syndicate man or woman.
I’m free of that much, at least.
“May I interrupt?” Viyr asked.
“Of course, Viyr.” Neiro nodded. “What is it?”
What are you thinking right now? Strings of code, no doubt, but what does it add up to? A program line to follow. That’s all.
“I’ve been calculating what information we do have on the Sand Belt shard, as well as Kaitar’s average rate of travel. If he is to spearhead your scouting team next year into that region, the Cynops may be interested to know that the expected time of travel, by rover, is approximately three weeks and three days to our last beacon on the eastern edge of the Sand Belt. Notwithstanding any issues with the weather or equipment that may arise, of course.” Viyr’s lips curled into something that was almost a smile, but not quite. It was only the ghost, a glitch, moving those dead nerves in his face.
“Well, Nyia, did you get that?” Neiro pushed at the Worm Glass eye, hard enough to bruise his thumb.
“Of course he would know,” Nyia said. “It’s surprising to all of us here that he’s still functioning so well without routine maintenance or any upgrades to his Shelfing. Really, one of the best pieces to come out of the Veraleid assembly, don’t you think?
Neiro traced the threk’s eye, leaving a smudge against the shining, amber surface as his mind sputtered a thousand hates. He wanted to smash the flat, fragile display against the door until Nyia broke into pieces.
“Neiro?” Nyia’s voice held a sweet note now. Triumphant. “Did we drop voice again?”
“No. I’m here. Just checking something over. Will that answer satisfy Gamelyin?”
“It should, yes. At least for some rough estimate. He’ll want more concrete calculations once it’s all over out there, though. You know how precise a schedule he prefers to keep.”
“Things don’t always go on schedule out here, Nyia. It’s a different world in the Shy’war-Anquai. You can’t count on anything but sand, wind, and sun. The rest you have to wrestle into place as best you can, and even that’s never a good fit.” Neiro’s hand fell away from the ugly taxidermy. “We’ve got a few other things to finalize before I send anyone out to the Sand Belt. I anticipate everything will be ready by next autumn, but that’s not a promise. Not yet. Give me this winter and I’ll be able to report for a certainty.”
“The Cynops aren’t inclined to wait very long once they’re ready to take action. You know that better than anyone, I would think.”
He shrugged, making sure she saw the gesture clearly. “Regardless, no one is ready to do anything now, anyway. A permanent Coalition should be set up by next spring, and then—”
“Ah, yes. About that Coalition. It’s no longer needed.”
“No longer needed?” Neiro flushed. The headache, his constant companion, shot through his skull, encircling it like a too-tight cap. “It’s too late to stop it now! I’ve got everything rolling here. I’ve brought the Harpers to tow, and I’m in contact with the Junkers as well. The Scrappers will work for whoever pays them, and I have the water to pay them. The other border mayors will—”
“I didn’t make the call, Neiro.” Nyia's expression grew bored as she tapped a slim finger against her desk. “You know the Syndicate only organizes and carries out what the Cynops want. Markets it. Ma
kes certain it gets done in the most efficient way possible. They decided it wouldn’t be efficient. They’ve not given the official order yet, but they will soon.”
“Are you fucking deaf?” Neiro gripped the thin, flexible display with both hands, distorting the image as his fingers jabbed into the smooth surface. “You can’t just waltz in and stop the entire thing! It’s already happened!”
“Oh, and they will want all your Enetics there after your scout—Keptar?—has mapped the Sand Belt.”
“You can’t just take the Enetics, either! They’ll never submit to—”
“Furthermore, I’ve got word that I’ll be sent there in the spring to oversee the final details of dissolving the Coalition. I suppose they’ll have me stay for the duration of your scout’s venture and return so I can make sure all the Enetics are rounded up properly.” Nyia’s tone dropped a notch, taking on a note of feigned petulance. “I’m trying to give you an early warning, Neiro.”
He swung the display upward. Viyr rose to his feet, struggling to keep the neuro-transmission from breaking, but Neiro didn’t care about the Mechinae’s strife. Instead, he focused on the fuzzy image of his sister, wanting to push through the screen and wrap his hands—
Still strong, even if I am getting old and fat.
—around Nyia’s slim throat and squeeze. Squeeze until her face turned red, then purple, then black. Until her tongue sprouted from her lips like a mushroom, swollen and dead.
“I can’t stop it! It’s already happening! You can’t just cut off a business deal out here Nyia! If the Cynops don't want to lose everything. . . each little foothold I’ve gotten for them out here. . . then tell them to stay out of this and let me handle it! Isn’t that why they sent me here?”
Her voice stabbed like a knife. “That’s part of the reason why they sent you there, yes. I don’t have to remind you of the other half, do I? Neiro, you can return now at any time. It’s been more than twenty years, you know. Your sentence is over. I don’t know why you insist on staying. You have funds in the bank, I’ve made sure of that, but—”