WARP world (18 page)

With Ama busy at the wheel, he spoke to Manatu in the tongue of the People and not the local language.

“Your liver is punctured,” Seg said.

“I don’t want to die here,” Manatu said. “Not here.”

“You won’t.” He snapped the medical system shut. “The auto-med has you stabilized. You’ll live long enough to make the next warp window.” It wasn’t a complete lie; he might make it.

“But,” Manatu said, “who will protect you? I have bond-mission.”

“You can’t protect me if you die, can you?” Seg said curtly. “Don’t think. Obey. You’ll go back. Your portion comes from the derived intel of the mission. If I die tomorrow, this raid will still pay out enough to let you live comfortably for a good while, even taking out the cost of a new liver.”

“This is unortho,” Manatu protested.

“If you haven’t noticed,” Seg said, with a trace of mirth, “that seems to have become my signature style.”

The auto-med readout of his own wound matched his initial assessment–unpleasant, but nothing serious or life threatening. He debated whether to retain the scar, but decided his stupidly impulsive act of charging into the fray first didn’t merit such a keepsake. The sealer tacked the skin together with a faint hiss as he clenched his teeth against the burning sensation, ignoring the thin stream of wafting smoke and the smell of burnt flesh.

Why hadn’t he let Manatu precede him? Simple mathematics dictated that the life of a trooper was infinitely less valuable than that of a Theorist. There were plenty of Manatus in the World, and only one Segkel of the Guild.

Ama had called his name.

He had, somehow, come to see her as his responsibility. A person under his charge had been at risk, and he had acted rashly. It wasn’t emotional; Seg refused to allow such petty things to override his judgment. A man protected those under his charge or else he had no claim to manhood. Much the same, he would see to it that the simpleton trooper was provided for.

He looked at the bodies on the deck, his lips and nose crinkling as he did. The dead men were already reeking of offal and gore, and it was only going to get worse. He opened his mouth to order Manatu to dispose of them, then remembered that the trooper should be laid up.

“Get back to your bunk,” he ordered Manatu. “I’ll handle this.”

Seg cut a portion of his sleeve free and tied it around his face to protect his nose, then dragged the first body to the rail to toss it over the side. Let the local carrion-eaters handle this lot.

After four splashes, he had a new appreciation for the term ‘dead weight’ and just how difficult it was to handle lifeless bodies. Even though he had been the smallest of the bunch, the Damiar that he had let Ama kill was annoyingly limp and heavy. With a grunt of exertion, he heaved the last carcass over the side. He considered cleaning up, but it was her boat; she could clean the damn thing. Besides, she had made the biggest mess of her kill.

Belatedly, he realized that the one he had stunned hadn’t even been dead when he tossed him over the side but dismissed that with a shrug. The water would finish his work.

Ama was at the wheel; he stepped up beside her and she turned her face to his. Both of them were coated with the gore of the evening, her eyes were wide with—he didn’t know what. He realized he still had the piece of sleeve he had used as an improvised mask tied on his face and reached back with trembling fingers to undo it. Balling up the rag, he threw it over the side.

Her eyes returned to the river, as did his. This was no time for words.

J
arin Svestil sat back, monitoring the reactions of his fellow Theorists as they discussed the news of his student’s plan for a multi-target strike. In the confines of his office, where he diligently performed regular security sweeps, they were safe to speak of such matters openly.

“He’s overreaching,” Ansin said, unsurprisingly.

Jarin shook his head, “I beg to differ, honored peers.”

On the other side of his desk, the three others, Ansin Sael, Maryel Aimaz and Shyl Vana, waited for him to finish his thought. The Theorist’s Guild had a loose management structure, given that it was organized around independent action by its individualistic and brilliant members, but he and these other three constituted a powerful bloc on the Advisory Council that ran the day-to-day affairs of the Guild. “Segkel Eraranat is ambitious, but he has always been completely aware of the limitations of extrans operations. If he is planning a multi-strike—”

“With six targets, at least,” Maryel, pointed out. She ran a hand through her iron-grey hair. “Six. Nothing like that’s been attempted in fifty years.”

“And we know well how that came out,” Ansin added dryly. Slight of build, he was the conservative member of the group, the risk-assessor, which, to Jarin’s way of thinking, was why Ansin sat here instead of seeking plunder in the field.

“Lannit’s strike was too ambitious,” Jarin said, weighing his words carefully. Whenever talk turned to multi-strikes, Theorist Lannit’s monumental mission failure was always the first to be discussed. “The Storvids were a class eight developed society. To try to infiltrate the strike forces prior to the raid was an unconscionable risk.” Lannit claimed that his plan would have worked brilliantly, but for one stroke of bad luck, overlooking all the other potential strokes of bad luck that could have derailed the mission. Lannit did overreach. Jarin was confident that Segkel, for all his inexperience, would not.

He hoped.

“I’ll remind you that much of the same was said about Lannit, once upon a time,” Ansin said. “A brilliant assessor. A brilliant Theorist. In the same way, much has been said about Eraranat, that he is a prodigy—”

“He is,” Jarin confirmed.

“He is,” Shyl chimed in, surprising Jarin. Her soft features were a contrast to her sharp mind and keen understanding of the politics of the Guild and the World. He never quite knew which way she would jump. She was enigmatic and played her games far below a measurable level. “I’ve observed his results. Inexperienced, brash, arrogant but a prodigy. He and that other young one, Mastel, they were the only ones in the past five years to correctly answer the current permutation of the Enginal Test.”

Jarin couldn’t repress a grin at that. Mastel had intuited the answer, and Segkel, in his own meticulous way, had laboriously sifted the data until it came to him. That was the difference. Mastel would not be going for the multi-strike. If that hothead had this assignment, he would have already called down a raid on the ‘Welf’ gathering place. Those readings alone would have guaranteed a tidy and certain return for a successful strike. It was the sort of assignment a Theorist loved, one in which the vita simply overflowed and could be easily pruned.

Segkel being Segkel, he was going for all of it. He wouldn’t succeed, but the harvest he was planning to reap from a single raid would exceed an entire decade’s income from most Major Houses. The House he had contracted to was understandably nervous, but these were the sorts of gambles that separated the lessers from the greaters. House Haffset was determined to fall into the latter category and, based on the limited information that had already been sent through, they were busy borrowing and outfitting troops, awaiting the go from their Theorist.

“Perhaps we could send Eraranat an advisor,” Maryel said, leaning back in her chair. “If the fields are so rich, and according to the preliminary data they are
very
rich, a reinforcing presence, a senior presence, would be best for the situation. I know we don’t work that way—”

“Because the Theorist is the senior authority in the field,” Ansin pointed out. Regardless of his misgivings about Segkel, he could be counted on to uphold the sacred tradition of field control. Ansin seldom let the unortho actions of another taint or influence his own decision-making.

“Therefore, we have two options,” Jarin said, “we let him continue, or we call the abort and make the raid on the data we have now.”

The others looked among themselves.

“Let him go,” Shyl said. “He will either succeed or die trying.”

“Agreed,” Jarin said.

“We have no overriding cause to pull him out,” Ansin said. “Though he will have to answer to critique when he returns, regardless of the outcome. We should not wait for the Question. His actions have been highly unortho.”

Jarin muted his surprise.

Maryel took a deep breath through her nose. “The defender of orthodoxy would dispense with orthodoxy here? No, his critique will come as it always has for us, with the Question. As Lead Questioner, however, I can ensure that his breaks with protocol are scrutinized rigorously. He may be a brilliant young man, but we have orthodoxy for a reason. It has allowed us to survive and thrive for centuries.”

What they had done, Jarin mused, was slowly slide downward for centuries. A stagnant culture, living on the backs of unsuspecting neighbors, and succumbing inevitably to the forces of entropy. Segkel had not quite articulated that for himself, but at a fundamental level he knew it. Jarin had never told him as much, but he had planted the seeds in the young hellion. For the world to survive, ‘good enough’ would no longer suffice. They had to excel.

And they had to start looking at other ways to do so.

“I believe we are agreed, then. And as we go on this, so will the Council,” Jarin said.

“The Council…” Maryel said, tapping a finger on the table. “You realize, of course,” she spoke to the group but Jarin knew her words were directed to him, “that once news of a multi-strike is shared with the Advisory Council, we will attract the attention of the CWA?”

“You may rest assured their attention has already been attracted,” Jarin answered.

“And you are confident this will present no complications?” Maryel’s eyes moved left to right, only once but rapidly, betraying to Jarin a significant degree of concern.

“Confidence is the province of fools and politicians. The CWA has recently engaged in a new acquisition cycle, where they will look to move on a failing House or raider unit for absorption. During these cycles, they tend to move quietly and avoid provocation, which could create extra complication and cost. At this point in time, I believe the CWA will take care in acting in ways that would upset the delicate balance between our organizations.”

“On the contrary, I would argue the CWA would seize on any chance to upset the ‘delicate balance between our organizations’ in their favor. Prior to Lannit, we were in charge of revenue distribution from raids, and the loss of that function cost us fifteen percent of our revenue stream. The Guild has never fully recovered from that loss but, far worse, Lannit’s raid provided the CWA with the necessary grounds for equal authority over raid planning and execution. And they wasted no time seizing the opportunity to undermine the Guild’s one remaining political advantage,” Maryel countered.

“
Quick to seize opportunity
…the Eleventh Virtue of a Citizen,” Shyl added wryly.

Jarin did not leap to defend his position. Maryel had not been appointed Head Questioner by accident. “Lannit…” he sighed. “We have allowed one man, one mistake, to cripple us through fear and superstition. Theorists should study myth, not propagate it.” He placed his palms flat on the table, “I cannot speak for the rest of you, but I believe it is time for the Guild to look forward, not back. The CWA will do what the CWA will do. As House liaison, I can keep a close eye on the mission and be in a position to counter them.”

The bloc murmured, then nodded their agreement.

“Let us carry on to the next matter of business.” Jarin said, glad to be done with this latest topic. The carefully maintained veneer of caution and orthodoxy slid back into place.

Who are you?

The question swirled around and around, as Ama dumped another bucket of water on the blood-soaked deck, then scrubbed the hard bristles of the brush against the wood.

They had made it to the mouth of the Gwai River at the top of the flood tide. Not ideal conditions but passable, and the timing worked in their favour. The Sokolo Islands were close by and on the slack tide she was able to sneak through Ripple Narrows and anchor just off a sheltered beach, in the lee of the wind. On the slim chance they were being followed, no one would be able to pass though the channel once the tide turned, and that would happen shortly.