Warp World (30 page)

A chill ran from Ama’s heels to the base of her skull; the skin on her scalp tightened. The Kenda called this feeling
tasting the wind
, a reference to experienced sailors who could predict a storm long before its arrival—a premonition not to be ignored. Ama had tasted the wind and knew a squall was coming. She could not wait for rescue; every instinct she had screamed at her to run. She spun around and lunged for the control device in Gressam’s hand.

As if anticipating the move, his hand came down on the back of her neck and drove her to the floor. His knee landed on her back and pushed the air from her lungs as he pressed down.

“You see, this is why I cannot go home early.” A sincere tone of sadness dripped from his voice. “Are you familiar with the sensations associated with the pain amp collar you are wearing, Amadahy?”

She gasped for breath. Her “Yes” came out in an angry wheeze.

“When I get off you, if you do anything,
anything
other than sit in your seat, you will be subjected to the collar until such time as I choose to release you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she huffed. “Yes,” she repeated, with less vitriol. She had no desire to feel the sting of that collar again. Ever.

He rose carefully and stepped back from her. Ama picked herself off the floor and stumbled back into the seat, eyes burning at Gressam.

“Do you know what your problems are, Amadahy?”

“Besides you and all your
People
?”

He took another wedge of fruit and chewed it before he spoke again. “You have two problems, and they are essentially the same two problems every caj who has ever entered this room had. Fortunately, they are both solvable and, truly, the solution does not have to be difficult. First, you still believe your desires are relevant in this new World. You will have to abandon that concept. You will have to give yourself to the service of the greater whole. I don’t ask for joyous obedience, I don’t expect you to happily embrace the prospect any more than I would. But it is necessary. The second problem is that you believe there are things you would not do in order to provide service. You believe you have a worth beyond your service, and that inhibits you. You will learn otherwise.”

“I’m not like those people on your wall. You won’t break me.”

He shook his head sadly. “Yes, I will. Because it has to be done. Because the World

needs the service of its People, and the People need the service of their caj. I may never make you recognize the ultimate nobility of your servitude, but I will make you into a worthy instrument of your owner. Flurianne …” At his gesture, the caj rose gracefully, crossed to Ama, and knelt before her.

“Throughout our discussion, Flurianne has demonstrated the proper manners and etiquette of a serving caj. She has done no wrongs today, made no mistakes, and committed no errors.”

He lifted another controller from his desk. His thumb slid across the buttons dimpled on its surface. “So I would not punish her. She is entirely innocent at this moment.”

The woman looked at Ama, her face set in that placid expression, betrayed only by her trembling bottom lip.

“They never get used to the pain amp,” Gressam said. “No matter how many times it’s applied, each time is like starting anew. I’ve tested that theory, you see.”

Ama’s full attention was on Flurianne. There was fear in her eyes now. As if she had been in this position before, as if she knew what was about to happen. Ama raised a hand to the collar around her own neck, though she knew from experience it was useless to try and pry it off.

“Flurianne is an exemplary caj, a prize. Were I able to sell her on the open market, I could likely retire. Unfortunately, she is the property of this facility. She is as near-perfect as a human organism can be, you see.”

He toyed with the controller again. “So when she suffers, it is not from an error on her part.” He pressed one of the buttons, then another. Flurianne’s mouth flew open as the first spasm hit her system, then she dropped to the floor. “It is service, however unpleasant that may be.”

“Stop it!’ Ama dropped to her knees to try and help the woman. “STOP IT! I’ll do what you want! Leave her alone!”

Gressam watched them both impassively.

“The first lesson is that you never presume to give an order or attempt to negotiate with a Person.” He pressed a finger to the controller for Ama’s collar, then winced as she screamed in sync with Flurianne’s silent convulsions.

“A collar,” she heard him say, as he gazed on the tableaux before him. “Crude.”

Seg was aware that he was speaking, aware of his hand waving theatrically, and of the stares of the Questioners. This was all happening, and he knew it, but he could focus only on his heart. A drum beat inside his chest; its pounding spread outward, up to his shoulders and arms, down to his legs and feet. He wanted to slap his hands over his ears to shut out the noise but the noise was inside of him. And it was picking up speed.

Compose, Eraranat.

“What did you say?” one of the Questioners asked.

Sweat was forming on Seg’s upper lip. His palms, he now realized, were drenched with it.

“I—” He snapped his head up to the images flashing on the monitor. More scenes from the devastation at the Alisir Temple. Bodies, blood, smoke, rubble. For a moment he swore he saw an outline of Ama, holding her seft, and his throat threatened to close shut.

“Speak up, Theorist Eraranat,” Maryel said.

“I said that even with closer scrutiny the explosive stockpile under the temple might have gone undetected. None of the Welf interrogated from among those captured had any idea that it was there.”

Why did they keep hammering on this subject?

They want to destroy me.

A cramp seized him, deep in his ribs. Seg grasped the fabric of his trousers, beneath the table, digging his fingers into his thighs while he waited for the pain to subside.

Pinpoints of light, like tiny starbursts, swarmed in front of his eyes. Through them, he saw himself. He was carrying a heavy needler, shooting flaming rounds skyward, as thousands of Welf gathered before him. He was their god.

“Theorist!” Maryel’s voice snapped him back to reality.

The image of himself was on the screen. The same image that bombarded him on the public vis-ent screens of Cathind, on the few occasions he had left the Guild compound.

Perhaps he should not have increased his stim dose so dramatically, but he had not slept since the day at the Facilitation Center. Since he had left Ama behind.

One of the secondary Questioners leaned forward and cleared his throat loudly. “Theorist Eraranat, your arguments are all very well, but the purpose of the Question is to learn from oversights such as the disaster at the Alisir Temple, oversights that get Citizens killed and could compromise mission success, which in turn imperils our survival.”

“I karged up!” Seg lunged to his feet, his chair toppled behind him with an echoing crash. “Is that what you want me to say? I did. I missed it, and men and women died there. I know because I was there afterward. I nearly died there!”

“Theorist Eraranat!” The shout, amplified by the voice-amp in front of Maryel, shook the room. “You will compose yourself.”

“I
am
composed! I know better than anyone here what happened on this raid. I know the names of every lost Citizen. I know because I was there. Were you there? Were any of you there?” He pointed an accusing finger at all of the Questioners. “You sit here and you judge me. What gives you that right? None of you have conducted an active mission in a decade. None of you have ever in your lives carried out a mission as successful as this one!”

“Sit down, Theorist, or I will have you restrained and escorted from this chamber,” Maryel said.

“I’m not finished!” Seg slapped his hand on the table, then swept it to one side. Stacks of digifilms, discs, and his glass of water crashed to the stone floor. “You want to destroy me? You want—”

The room moved, tilting. His vision turned black. He heard heartbeats again, and breathing. When he could see again, faces stared down at him.

“Call a medical!”

Was that Maryel’s voice?

His skin was wet. Was he drowning? No. Ama had taught him to swim. She had carried him down the river. He felt her lips against his, breathing for both of them beneath the water. Safe.

The pinpoints of lights returned. And then the blackness.

Inside her cell, Ama paced the longest axis. She could only take five steps before the wall forced her to turn again. If she stood in the center of the room and extended her arms, she could almost touch the walls on the narrowest side. Glaring light reflected off the bare, polished stone walls. Light that never dimmed or went out, night or day. Without the cue of darkness, she had already lost track of time.

So far, processing had consisted of nothing more than assuming a series of poses, keeping her eyes lowered at all times, and repeating the 47 Virtues of a Citizen as Gressam recited the list to her. Simple tasks, compared to what she could have expected in Correction on her world, but Ama found them demeaning. She tried to go along with it all, reminding herself constantly that Seg was probably busy trying to free her. This had worked well until Gressam had demanded more speed, more precision, more deference, and enforced his orders with jolts from the collar. Combined with a lack of sleep and gnawing hunger, the punishment increased her irritation at the same rate it decreased her patience. Each time she rebelled, however, retribution was instant, painful, and debilitating.

As long as Gressam was alert and ready, she didn’t stand a chance against him. And the longer he deprived her of sleep and food, the more weak and confused she would become. She had to make a decision now, while she still could. Trust Seg and wait this out
? O
r try to escape?

Absently, she fidgeted with the metal collar that sat just below her dathe, just as she once had fidgeted with her leather nove. The day she had cut off that symbol of Kenda repression she had experienced a surge of pride, and relief. Freedom. She had vowed never to hide her dathe again, never to bow down for tyrants. Seg loved her dathe and her independent nature. He had sworn she would never be registered, processed, or grafted on his world.

One out of three
, she thought, one corner of her mouth jerking up into an angry smirk.

Escape.

She traced her fingers along the wall of her cell, stared up at the ceiling and down at the thinly padded floor that was her bed. Her flight suit had been replaced by a clingy piece of fabric that fit her body like a second skin. No weapons here, not even a sheet or a belt.

Her only hope was surprise. She thought back to her capture on her world. Manacled and chained, escape had seemed impossible but she had feigned defeat and used that to throw her captors off guard long enough for a single charge. She could do the same here. In fact, it would be easy, now that she considered the circumstances.

Gressam conducted all of Ama’s training, but it was Flurianne who acted as her guard. Gressam’s docile and flawless assistant carried out the duty with devotion, if not outright enthusiasm. Despite the processor’s cruelty, Ama suspected the young woman enjoyed her position at his side, and the small degree of power he allowed her.

The flaw in this arrangement was that Flurianne’s only advantage over Ama was the controller for her collar. Take that away and the fragile beauty—unarmed and lacking Ama’s strength or fighting skill—would be helpless.

Each time Flurianne had come to escort Ama from this cell, she had been curled up on the floor, hands shielding her eyes, struggling for sleep. And that was how Flurianne would expect to find her this time.

Heart pounding at the prospect of liberty, Ama took two steps to the door and pressed her back against the wall directly to one side of it.

She waited there, blood surging in her ears, for what felt like hours. Her cell was sealed from the outside world; she would get no warning before the door slid open.