Warp World (16 page)

“Better get back to it.” Prow jogged away.

Out of the corner of his eye, Viren saw Fismar turn smartly and proceed directly toward Swinson, who had been on guard duty at the door. Viren’s jaw muscles tightened at the sight of the man walking at Swinson’s side like a human rain cloud.

“Came to the door, Training Lieutenant.” Swinson indicated Elarn, the healer. “Wyan …er, Squad Leader Wyan sent me back with him.”

Fismar nodded. “C’mon med, let’s talk about some things.”

Fismar led Elarn around the corner of a large stack of crates; Viren nodded at his squad to carry on as he followed silently. Across the room, he could see Cerd glaring a warning out of one eye. The other eye was still swollen from the game of Yoth, which Viren considered at least some consolation for his current misery.

Positioned at the corner of the crates, Viren was out of sight but could hear the two men perfectly. He heard the sound of a bucket being overturned and a scrape as it was dragged across the floor. An improvised seat, no doubt.

Elarn spoke first but it was in the language of this new world. Ama had explained that they would all get something called a
chatterer
soon, and then they would be able to understand Seg’s language instantly. For now, it was only discordant gibberish.

The first half of Fismar’s reply was the same sharp, unintelligible language but then Viren heard, “… need to make sure it’s tuned correctly. Now what were you saying?”

“I said
lieutenant
’s a b
it of a step down for you, isn’t it? Last I saw, you were running a charter force third.”

“Worlds ago,” Fismar said, and there was the scrape of another bucket being overturned. “Now, I’m going to need the usual service. Busts and sprains and some deeper cuts, stuff the auto-meds don’t do or do too slow.”

“Got it,” Elarn said.

“So what’s this I hear, you broke bits on some House stunter?” Fismar asked.

“Stupid mistake, got it cleaned up. But, House types—” He paused for a rattling cough. “—you know how they are.”

“Unforgiving bunch. Brings me to my point, actually. See, I know you’re on the down for this work here, because you’re blacked and don’t have any other ways of getting your pay. And I know you skimped on these guys. No blocks for the pain, used a burner to seal the wounds. They’re moving right, you did that, but you made it hurt,” Fismar said.

“Sure. Not going to waste it on Outers.”

“These aren’t just Outers, Elarn. These are
my
Outers. Given to me by a digi who actually has something resembling testicular development. He wants them turned into troops.”

“I knew this was something crazy. He’s paying money for all this?”

“He is,” Fismar said. “Storm take him, he’s crazy like that. But, like I said,
my
Outers. So you’re here today and you’re going to do what you’re paid for. And that means you treat ’em like proper raiders.”

“What?”

“Proper raiders, proper blocks, proper treatment. You fix ’em right. You can leave the scars, they like those. But you fix ’em good this time.”

“What is this? You’re defending these kargs?” Elarn asked.

“I am,” Fismar said. “And so are you now. Or else I’ll have a word with the boss and he’ll find new medical assistance.”

“These are animals.”

“What’s the meat difference between a Person and an Outer, Elarn?” Fismar asked. “And don’t give me
genetic drifts and deviations in the human phenotype
, what’s the functional difference? We all karg, we all breed, we all eat and drink and shit and sleep. So what’s different between us?”

“It’s … it’s—this is our world!
The
World!” Elarn’s voice rose.

“Quiet, you want everyone to share the conversation? I’m serious, and you hit it exact. We’re different because we come from here and they come from there, and we sneak out and crack ’em on the head and bring ’em back. Different? Sure. Better? Not where it matters. We spent a good number of years on the line, you and me. We both know Outers fight as good as People. Better’n most digis, for sure. How would we handle it if somebody snuck in and took us in the dark?”

“This is crazy,” Elarn said.

“Just do your job.”

At the sound of the conversation’s end, Viren crept away a safe distance, then jogged back to his squad.

Predictably, Prow was at his side almost as soon as he arrived. He crouched down and shifted the large metal pipe that was his rifle to his left hand.

“Any news?” Prow asked.

“A harem of flaxen haired doxies will be delivered to us by day’s end.” Viren cinched up the ties of his kit bag.

“Any talk about what we’re training for?”

Viren shook his head.

“Nen’s death. Dry? Nothing?”

“Not completely.” Viren turned to face his long-time co-conspirator. “It seems as if we are not the only targets of the Lieutenant’s scathing lectures.”

“Good.”

“You’re determined to cause trouble here, aren’t you?” Cerd said.

“Trouble? Me? I think you’re seeing things, Cerd. Or—” Viren pointed a finger at his eye and squinted to mimic the other man’s injury. “—
not
seeing, I should say.”

“Squad Leader Cerd. That’s how you address me now. Unless you’ve forgotten orders already. You’re going to—”

“We having a squad leader meeting?” Fismar asked, from behind Cerd.

“No, Training Lieutenant,” Cerd said.

“Just comparing notes on proper kit packing techniques with Squad Leader Cerd.” Viren enunciated Cerd’s title with a jovial smile.

“Good.” Fismar pulled Viren’s bag from his hand, loosened the tie, and dumped the contents on the ground. “You worms need more practice. Now get back to your squads.”

Prow and Cerd hurried away. Fismar paused and regarded Viren. He pointed to the pile of goods on the floor. “I see you got everything. I guess someone’s been listening to me.” He smiled, but not with his eyes.

Viren forced a smile in return and stifled a witty comeback. With a slow nod, Fismar turned and walked to where Elarn was setting up.

“Dangerous man,” Viren whispered, when Fismar was out of earshot, though he had the strangest sensation that the lieutenant heard, and saw, everything.

In the privacy of his office, Jarin watched as the three members of his secret bloc discussed the first day of the Question with a frankness that was not heard outside of this room. They sat around the small meeting table, intermittently replaying moments of the proceedings on the monitor.

Ansin scooted his chair in toward the table as the image on the screen froze on Segkel’s face, locked in grim determination. Ansin was more animated today than Jarin had seen his conservative peer in a long while, his stick-like body moving in quick, jerky bursts of energy. “You were in complete control of today’s discussion. Well done,” Ansin told Maryel.

“Jarin was correct. This Question serves both the Guild and Theorist Eraranat.” Maryel leaned back in her chair, her Questioner’s robe hung open over her regular uniform. “He will aggressively defend his ideas and push the Council toward implementation of the viable ones, and he certainly needed a reminder that a single success does not mean he is suddenly above the rules.”

Jarin nodded, but did not speak. Ansin looked at him questioningly before speaking again. “Yes. We may be breaking some of the old orthodoxy loose. It pains me to admit it, but we live in extraordinary times and change has become a necessity. But he cannot think that the basic, underlying procedures that have carried us so long can be simply discarded. He would have us simply accept his success without any analysis? Gall!”

“Perhaps we could dig into his family life next,” Shyl said, the gently curved features of her face rising in question. “Insult his lineage?”

The pair looked at her. Maryel arched an eyebrow. “You feel I was too harsh?”

Shyl shook her head. “Harsh is necessary. The young man does require some pulling back in, reminders that he is not above the Guild or the People. A demonstration that his success was as much luck as skill is useful. However, exulting in the demoralization of our young colleague, the one who is a key figure in the very future of our society, is crass.” She looked to Jarin. “I’m surprised you haven’t said as much.”

Jarin leaned forward and placed his palms flat on the table. “I was the one who raised the necessity for Segkel’s harsher handling in the Question. Were I to express an issue at this juncture I would appear hypocritical. Some would think I was going soft.”

Ansin laughed quietly. “That will never happen.”

Jarin turned to Maryel. “I do think your actions were dangerously close to the line.” The cold set of her features told him this discussion would be continued in private. “Yes, Segkel must be pressured and pushed, but it is a delicate matter to prod him in the right way. Segkel, handled well and properly stoked, is a brilliant fire. Improperly pushed, he will react unpredictably.”

“Is he so fragile? Is he unable to meet criticism?” Maryel asked. “Is he still a child?”

“No. He is a genius. Children have more growth potential.”

“A compromise, if it pleases everyone,” Shyl said. “We have shown Eraranat the harsh hand, we should also offer him the shield. One of us should step forward to counsel him.”

Ansin looked to her. “Jarin’s function.”

Now Jarin laughed. “No. Our relationship is entirely too thorny for me to suddenly become his, ah … his friend.”

“Then Shyl.” Ansin gestured toward her.

“Essentially what I had in mind,” Shyl said.

“Be wary of manipulating him,” Jarin said.

Shyl tilted her head. “You must be joking.
You
give that advice?”

“Life is irony, I’ve found.”

Seg stopped at the curb and stared at the caj standing by the door to his residence, as the trans behind him whirred quietly. Even in the dark, he could see the man was dressed in a simple utility uniform, tailored to fit his sparse frame, and he clutched a digipad in his left hand. A quick glance, followed by averted eyes, indicated that he was waiting for Seg to approach. With a deep shuddering breath, Seg relaxed his hands from the fists they had been locked in during the ride back from the Question Chamber, then stepped forward.

The caj lowered into an elaborate bow, arms extended, head curved to the side to expose his neck.

“Stand up,” Seg said, his voice ragged from the strain of the day.

Protocol broken, the caj flinched, then rose. Head lowered, he held out the digipad. After a moment’s hesitation, Seg pressed his thumb to the indicated square and accepted the offering. The caj jerked a quick bow at him and darted away.

As the words materialized on the screen—an extended summary, followed by endless lengths of legal text—Seg scanned quickly, taking in the key phrases:
Arbitration, “Battle at the Alisir Temple”, monetary reparations to the families of deceased due to professional negligence.

He wanted to throw the pad to the ground and stomp on it. Instead, he clutched it until his fingers whitened.

“Theorist?” Manatu asked.

Seg ignored him and stepped across the threshold into his home. His quarters seemed overcrowded now, as if the residence had shrunk in the hours he had been away.

The table in the common area had been left up, obstructing the available open space. He reached for the latch to collapse the table back into the floor when a scrap of woven paper caught his eye.

In the background, he could feel the others. Manatu had followed him in, but stood by the door. Lissil turned from the food preparatory. Ama was exiting the sleeping quarters. Too many people.

He lifted the note and read, first silently, then aloud. “The striver accepts not acclaim, but further challenges. This is the reward to those who seek to make true difference.”

Jarin. Jarin who had known exactly what was coming. He had hinted at it, of course, in his usual obtuse fashion, but had never warned him outright that this Question was going to be a ruthless inquisition.

“Karg you.” He crushed the paper and threw it across the room.

No sooner was the offensive item out of his hands than Lissil pounced upon him, cloying and eager, the ever-present cup of greshk at the ready.