The Fifth Season (9 page)

Then he surprises her. She’s expecting more stammering and protests. Instead his hand clenches at his side. He looks away, a muscle working in his jaw. He still looks ridiculous in that robe with his hair askew, but the look on his face… he might as well have been ordered to submit himself to torture. She knows she’s no looker, at least not by Equatorial standards. Too much midlatter mongrel in her. But then, he’s obviously not well-bred, either: that hair, and skin so black it’s almost blue, and he’s small. Her height, that is, which is tall for either women or men—but he’s lean, not at all broad or intimidating. If his ancestors include any Sanzeds, they’re far back, and they gave him nothing of their physical superiority.

“Over with,” he mutters. “Right.” The muscle in his jaw is practically jumping up and down, he’s grinding his teeth so hard. And—whoa. He’s not looking at her, and suddenly she’s
glad. Because
that’s hate,
in his face. She’s seen it before in other orogenes—rust, she’s felt it herself, when she has the luxury of solitude and unfettered honesty—but she’s never let it
show
like that. Then he looks up at her, and she tries not to flinch.

“You weren’t born here,” he says, cold now. Belatedly she realizes it’s a question.

“No.” She doesn’t like being the one on the receiving end of the questions. “Were you?”

“Oh, yes. I was bred to order.” He smiles, and it’s strange seeing a smile layered over all that hate. “Not even as haphazardly as our child will be. I’m the product of two of the Fulcrum’s oldest and most promising lineages, or so I’m told. I had a Guardian practically from birth.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his rumpled robe. “You’re a feral.”

This comes out of nowhere. Syen actually spends a second wondering if this is some new way of saying rogga and then realizing what he really means. Oh, that is just the limit. “Look, I don’t care how many rings you wear—”

“That’s what
they
call you, I mean.” He smiles again, and his bitterness so resonates with her own that she falls silent in confusion. “If you didn’t know. Ferals—the ones from outside—often don’t know, or care. But when an orogene is born from parents who weren’t, from a family line that’s never shown the curse before, that’s how they think of you. A wild mutt to my domesticated purebred. An accident, to my plan.” He shakes his head; it makes his voice shake. “What it actually means is that they couldn’t
predict
you. You’re the proof that they’ll never understand orogeny; it’s not science, it’s something else. And they’ll never control us, not really. Not completely.”

Syen isn’t sure what to say. She didn’t know about the feral thing, about being different somehow—though now that she thinks about it, most of the other orogenes she knows were Fulcrum-bred. And yeah, she’s noticed how they look at her. She just thought that was because they were Equatorials and she was from the Nomidlats, or because she got her first ring before they did. And yet, now that he’s said this… is being feral a bad thing?

It must be. If the problem is that ferals are not predictable… well, orogenes have to prove themselves reliable. The Fulcrum has a reputation to maintain; that’s part of this. So’s the training, and the uniform, and the endless rules they must follow, but the breeding
is
part of it, too, or why is she here?

It’s somewhat flattering to think that despite her feral status, they actually want something of her infused into their breeding lines. Then she wonders why a part of her is trying to find value in degradation.

She’s so lost in thought that he surprises her when he makes a weary sound of capitulation.

“You’re right,” he says tersely, all business now because, well, there was really only one way this could end. And staying businesslike will allow both of them to maintain some semblance of dignity. “Sorry. You’re… rusting Earth. Yeah. Let’s just get this done.”

So they go into his bedroom and he strips and lies down and tries for a while to work himself up to it, which doesn’t go well. The hazard of having to do this with an older man, Syen decides—though really, it’s probably more the fact that sex doesn’t usually go well when you don’t feel like having it. She
keeps her expression neutral as she sits beside him and brushes his hands out of the way. He looks embarrassed, and she curses because if he gets self-conscious about it, this will take all day.

He comes around once she takes over, though, perhaps because he can shut his eyes and imagine that her hands belong to whoever he wants. So then she grits her teeth and straddles him and rides until her thighs ache and her breasts grow sore from bouncing. The lube only helps a little. He doesn’t feel as good as a dildo or her fingers. Still, his fantasies must be sufficient, because after a while he makes a strained sort of whimper and then it’s done.

She’s pulling on her boots when he sighs and sits up and looks at her so bleakly that she feels vaguely ashamed of what she’s done to him.

“What did you say your name was?” he asks.

“Syenite.”

“That the name your parents gave you?” When she glares back at him, his lips twitch in something less than a smile. “Sorry. Just jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Fulcrum-bred, remember? I’ve only ever had the one name.”

Oh.

He hesitates. This is apparently hard for him. “You, uh, you can call me—”

She cuts him off, because she knows his name already and anyway she doesn’t intend to call him anything but
you,
which should be enough to distinguish him from their horses. “Feldspar says we’re to leave for Allia tomorrow.” She gets her second boot on and stands to kick the heel into place.

“Another mission? Already?” He sighs. “I should have known.”

Yes, he should have. “You’re mentoring me, and helping me clear some coral out of a harbor.”

“Right.” He knows it’s a bullshit mission, too. There’s only one reason they’d send him along for something like this. “They gave me a briefing dossier yesterday. Guess I’ll finally read it. Meet at the stableyard at noon?”

“You’re the ten-ringer.”

He rubs his face with both hands. She feels a little bad, but only a little.

“Fine,” he says, all business again. “Noon it is.”

So she heads out, sore and annoyed that she smells faintly like him, and tired. Probably it’s just stress that’s wearing her out—the idea of a month on the road with a man she cannot stand, doing things she doesn’t want to do, on behalf of people she increasingly despises.

But this is what it means to be
civilized
—doing what her betters say she should, for the ostensible good of all. And it’s not like she gains no benefit from this: a year or so of discomfort, a baby she doesn’t have to bother raising because it will be turned over to the lower creche as soon as it’s born, and a high-profile mission completed under the mentorship of a powerful senior. With the experience and boost to her reputation, she’ll be that much closer to her fifth ring. That means her own apartment; no more roommates. Better missions, longer leave, more say in her own life. That’s worth it.
Earthfire yes,
it’s worth it.

She tells herself this all the way back to her room. Then she packs to leave, tidies up so she’ll come home to order and
neatness, and takes a shower, methodically scrubbing every bit of flesh she can reach until her skin burns.

* * *

“Tell them they can be great someday, like us. Tell them they belong among us, no matter how we treat them. Tell them they must earn the respect which everyone else receives by default. Tell them there is a standard for acceptance; that standard is simply perfection. Kill those who scoff at these contradictions, and tell the rest that the dead deserved annihilation for their weakness and doubt. Then they’ll break themselves trying for what they’ll never achieve.”

—Erlsset, twenty-third emperor of the Sanzed Equatorial Affiliation, in the thirteenth year of the Season of Teeth. Comment recorded at a party, shortly before the founding of the Fulcrum.

5

you’re not alone

N
IGHT HAS FALLEN, AND YOU
sit in the lee of a hill in the dark.

You’re so tired. Takes a lot out of a you, killing so many people. Worse because you didn’t do nearly as much as you could have done, once you got all worked up. Orogeny is a strange equation. Take movement and warmth and life from your surroundings, amplify it by some indefinable process of concentration or catalysis or semi-predictable chance, push movement and warmth and death from the earth. Power in, power out. To keep the power in, though, to
not
turn the valley’s aquifer into a geyser or shatter the ground into rubble, takes an effort that makes your teeth and the backs of your eyes ache. You walked a long time to try to burn off some of what you took in, but it still brims under your skin even as your body grows weary and your feet hurt. You are a weapon meant to move mountains. A mere walk can’t take that out of you.

Still, you walked until darkness fell, and then you walked some more, and now you’re here, huddled and alone at the edge of an old fallow field. You’re afraid to start a fire, even though it’s
getting cool. Without a fire you can’t see much, but also nothing can see you: a woman alone, with a full pack and only a knife to defend herself. (You’re not helpless, but an attacker wouldn’t know that till it was too late, and you’d rather not kill anyone else today.) In the distance you can see the dark arc of a highroad, rising above the plains like a taunt. Highroads usually have electric lanterns, courtesy of Sanze, but you’re not surprised this one’s dark: Even if the shake from the north hadn’t occurred, Seasonal standard procedure is to shut down all nonessential hydro and geo. It’s too far to be worth the detour, anyway.

You’re wearing a jacket, and there’s nothing to fear in the field but mice. Sleeping without a fire won’t kill you. You can see relatively well anyway, despite the lack of fire or lanterns. Rippling bands of clouds, like hoed rows in the garden you once kept, have covered the sky above. They’re easy to see because something to the north has underlit the clouds in bands of redglow and shadow. When you stare that way, there’s an uneven line of mountains against the northern horizon, and the flicker of a distant bluish gray obelisk where its lower tip peeks through a knot of clouds, but these things tell you nothing. Closer by there’s a flitter of what might be a colony of bats out feeding. Late for bats, but
all things change during a Season,
the stonelore warns. All living things do what they must to prepare, and survive.

The source of the glow is beyond the mountains, as if the setting sun went the wrong way and got stuck there. You know what’s causing this glow. It must be an awesome thing to see up close, that great terrible rent spewing fire into the sky, except you don’t ever
want
to see it.

And you won’t, because you’re heading south. Even if Jija hadn’t started out going in that direction, he would surely have turned south after the shake from the north passed through. That’s the only sane way to go.

Of course, a man who would beat his own child to death might not still fit the label of
sane
. And a woman who found that child and stopped thinking for three days… hmm, not you, either. Nothing to do but follow your crazy, though.

You’ve eaten something from your pack: cachebread smeared with salty akaba paste from the jar you stuffed into it a lifetime and a family ago. Akaba keeps well after it’s opened, but not forever, and now that you’ve opened it you’ll have to eat it for the next few meals until it’s gone. That’s okay because you like it. You’ve drunk water from the canteen that you filled a few miles back, at a roadhouse’s well pump. There’d been people there, several dozen, some of them camping around the roadhouse and some of them just stopping there briefly. All of them had the look you’re starting to identify as slow-building panic. Because everyone’s finally begun to realize what the shake and the redglow and the clouded sky all mean, and to be outside of a community’s gates at a time like this is—in the long run—a death sentence, except for a handful who are willing to become brutal enough or depraved enough to do what they must. Even those only have a chance at survival.

None of the people at the roadhouse wanted to believe they had that in them, you saw as you looked around, assessing faces and clothes and bodies and threats. None of them looked like survival fetishists or would-be warlords. What you saw at that roadhouse were ordinary people, some still caked in filth after
digging themselves out of mudslides or collapsed buildings, some still bleeding from wounds haphazardly bandaged, or untreated entirely. Travelers, caught away from home; survivors, whose homes no longer existed. You saw an old man, still wearing a sleeping gown half ragged and dusty on one side, sitting with a youth clad in only a long shirt and smears of blood, both of them hollow-eyed with grief. You saw two women holding each other, rocking in an effort at comfort. You saw a man your own age with the look of a Strongback, who gazed steadily at his big, thick-fingered hands and perhaps wondered if he was hale enough, young enough, to earn a place somewhere.

These are the stories the stonelore prepared you for, tragic as they are. There is nothing in stonelore about husbands killing children.

You’re leaning on an old post that someone jammed up against the hill, maybe the remnants of a fence that ended here, drifting off with your hands tucked into your jacket pockets and your knees drawn up. And then, slowly, you become aware that something has changed. There’s no sound to alert you, other than the wind and the small prickles and rustles of the grass. No smell transcends the faint sulfur scent that you’ve already gotten used to. But there’s something. Something else. Out there.

Some
one
else.

Your eyes snap open, and half your mind falls into the earth, ready to kill. The rest of your mind freezes—because a few feet away, sitting crosslegged on the grass and looking at you, is a little boy.