A larger number, however, would need more time and care to heal. These were former prisoners of the Secat, who had been freed from a life of horror and neglect only that morning. Their dull gray prison uniforms hung loose on their frames, giving them the appearance of children playing dress-up, but their hollow eyes and sunken cheeks made it clear that once those same uniforms must have fit well, even snugly. They scratched at parasites that crawled in their hair and on their skin. Fresh wounds and old scars stood out, silent testament to the brutality the prisoners had endured at the hands of their Damiar guards.
Scattered among the fifty were a few who were not yet bearded and some others with a noticeable portion of white or gray in their chin whiskers. Too young and too old.
A Westie crew, Ama’s father would have called these Kenda. Boat captains in the Western Islands of her world were known for hiring bedraggled and sea-worn crewmen, in the name of saving a coin or two.
“We’ve arrived,” Seg said when the men had quieted. “As I have explained, these processors must cleanse you before we move you into your new home. That will require—” He paused for the slightest moment. “—removing your clothes.”
As Seg spoke, the auto-med hooked to his arm chimed, its pulsing tone ringing out across the silent room. The men muttered again at this bit of magic. With a look to the sleeve, Seg waved a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing, pay it no mind.”
As if answering him, the sleeve chimed again, a sequenced, continuous beeping. An orange alert flashed on its screen, synchronous with the beeps.
He was overdoing it. His body needed more medical attention than the auto-med could provide.
He stabbed his fingers at the sleeve. Red, blue, then amber lights flashed in protest as the machine keened at him, and the screen finally went dark.
Ama frowned but he avoided her gaze.
“You will unclothe and let these people … cleanse you,” Seg continued. He paused, looked to the white-suits then back to the Kenda. Ama could see he was drawing on some memory.
“No hurt white clothes people,” he said to the men, in his broken Kenda.
“Unless I authorize it,” he added, in the common tongue.
He looked from man to man, let them feel the weight of the moment. “White clothes people hurt Kenda,” he said and pointed at the group, “yes, hurt back.”
The white-suits looked to each other as Seg spoke a language their chatterers had not been programmed to translate.
“Ama is in charge of you for now, until I return. She speaks with my voice. Understood?” Seg said, using the common tongue once more.
Under normal circumstances, the Kenda would never submit to a female leader, even temporarily. But any resentment was quickly dispelled as men pointed to her newly revealed dathe—the slits of skin on her neck that marked her as unique among her kind. Kiera Nen, they murmured and nodded, some with obvious reverence.
“White clothes people say question,” Seg went on, in Kenda, his voice strained, “you answer no.” He shook his head to demonstrate. “Say you: Talk Ama.”
Ama understood this to mean she would be the lone voice here. The men were not to answer any questions Seg’s people might ask them. Clever man.
The white-suits looked disdainfully on the unortho spectacle: a Theorist of the Guild speaking the strange, lilting language of barbarous Outers. They murmured among themselves, their thoughts clear in any tongue.
“When you are done here, you will be taken to your new home in a…in a type of cartul called a ‘mass-trans’. The driver will not speak to you and there are no windows to see outside. This is for your safety.” He paused, struggled for breath. “I will come for you.” That was all he could muster.
He’s lucky to be alive, never mind making speeches. At the thought, Ama’s shoulder throbbed where she had taken Dagga’s blade. She adjusted the auto-med that circled her arm, pulsing medicine and speeding healing. A chastising beep warned her not to fuss with it further.
“Crazy drexla,” she whispered to Seg as he turned. She offered her good arm, but he waved it off as he limped toward two white-suits—medicals who waited with a slim table on wheels, braced with shiny metal. A stretcher, Ama guessed. As with everything on Seg’s world, it resembled no stretcher she had ever seen.
“I didn’t have it so easy the first time I came through.” She glanced back to the Kenda.
“You weren’t armed,” Seg wheezed, and she knew he was making a joke despite the deep folds of his brow and the sweat that rose on his skin.
Perhaps it was the drugs washing through Seg’s system or perhaps he had ceased to care what his people thought, but he grasped Ama’s hand even as the medicals urged him to lie down on the stretcher. “Watch over them.” He forced the words out now; his forehead was shiny with perspiration, his face a deathly white.
One of the medicals stepped forward. Behind his mask, his eyebrow arched as he regarded Ama. “Theorist, I have to insist—”
“You’ll have to stay with them until…” Seg grit his teeth, winced, took a breath.
“Until you know we’re safe. I know, I understand.” Ama raised a finger to her lips to silence him, for all the good it would do. “Enough. You need to go now.”
“I will c—” His hand went limp in hers.
She gasped and reached an alarmed hand toward him. At the same time, the second medical pulled a silver, tube-shaped instrument away from the back of Seg’s neck and nodded to his partner as he caught his patient mid-slump. Whatever the instrument was, the medical had used it to knock Seg out. Tricky, but Ama was glad. Seg would have gone on making speeches and directing everyone present until he collapsed.
The medicals maneuvered him onto the stretcher. She leaned in to place a kiss on his burning forehead but they yanked the stretcher, and Seg, out of her reach.
Only their eyes were visible behind the masks, but there was no mistaking the looks of disgust as they hauled Seg away from the filthy Outer.
So, Seg had made arrangements for her and the men. To keep them safe. After all, she and her fellow Kenda were considered caj, slaves in the eyes of his people. Unprocessed and unregistered slaves. And even if she didn’t fully grasp the meaning of those two words, she knew that Seg had made a powerful enemy in CWA Director Fi Costk. That man would hurt the young Theorist any way he could. If he could take Ama away, or any of Seg’s new Westie crew, he would do it.
Ama shook her head to clear the thoughts.
Seg made you a promise; he keeps his promises.
There were more important things to deal with now. Including the fight threatening to break out between the Kenda and the white-suits.
Jarin Svestil, Senior Theorist of the Cultural Theorist’s Guild, Selectee of Education and council member, rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. His fellow Theorist, and clandestine companion, Maryel Aimaz, stood beside him where he sat.
“Despite your stance on the use of chemical enhancements, if you insist on forgoing sleep any longer I highly recommend you consider a dose of stimulants,” Maryel said.
He didn’t have to look up at her to know the corners of her mouth were turned down, or that her eyes were as fixed on the monitor in front of them as were his own.
“Nothing a cup of greshk cannot remedy.” Jarin lifted a steaming cup to his lips.
He had chosen to view the intrans of his former student, Theorist Segkel Eraranat, from the privacy of his office—one of the very few places where he knew he would not be observed, where he could speak freely.
On the screen, a rowdy group of Outers clustered together in the decon chamber. He glanced up at Maryel and offered her a wry smile.
“I don’t know why you’re smiling. Everyone with any bit of influence in the World is likely monitoring this feed right now. Your prized pupil is showing, yet again, that he is the very defin
ition of unortho. The CWA will make use of this,” she said.
The smile faded as he nodded in assent to her words. Maryel was not only a Senior Theorist and member of the council that led the Guild, she was also one of the Lead Questioners in post-raid analysis. Normally, for completed raids, the Question was little more than a formality, a superficial study of the successful areas of the raid and how the process could be improved.
As with all things Segkel, however, nothing about his Question would be normal.
Unortho was a word Jarin had known would haunt Segkel’s career. Nevertheless, he had cultivated that very trait in the boy because the survival of the People and the World would require new and unorthodox ideas and methods.
“The vis feed is being trapped,” Jarin assured his companion. “As best we can, we will contain this. At present, Segkel’s image can survive a certain amount of unortho.”
“At present, yes, but we both know the CWA thinks in the long term. They will use moments such as these to chip away at his image.” She gestured to the screen and pursed her lips.
Jarin sighed, all traces of good humor evaporating. “He has complicated matters, agreed. But I knew, we all knew, allowing him the freedom to act on his instincts and intelligence would complicate everything. Genius burns like fire, Maryel.”
“You could have chosen a less alarming metaphor.” She crossed her arms and let out a sharp gust of air through her nose.
He shook his head as he turned back to the screen. “It would serve us to remain alarmed, I believe. In the interest of staying ahead of these matters.”
“Fifty Outers. Fifty! With weapons, no less. And an order specifying they not be processed, grafted, or even registered. Forgive my language, but what in the name of the Storm is Eraranat thinking?”
Revolution. Jarin pushed the word to the far corners of his mind. No, not Segkel. Even the headstrong protégé had his limits. For all his unorthodoxy, Segkel was a true Citizen of the World.
“I believe we will have answers soon enough,” Jarin said.
“Indeed.” Maryel lifted a digifilm from the desk and crossed to her seat to make notes. “Theorist Eraranat may dazzle the primitives with his speeches but they won’t get him far in the Question.”
Jarin watched her for a moment, out of the corner of his eye, then returned his full attention to the monitor once more.
He leaned forward and squinted. Amadahy. The girl was unmistakable, even if her gills weren’t visible on the screen. By the auto-med sleeve on her arm, the state of her attire, and the tangle of her long, blonde hair, it was obvious she had taken part in the battle at the temple. Segkel, battle-worn himself, held her hand and they spoke conspiratorially. As young lovers often do. Jarin’s mouth twitched at the sight and he felt a surge of anger. Segkel, I warned you not to bring her back.
This would not end well.
“Hold.”
Ama stopped at the sound, turned to find the source, and was shocked to see raider Fismar Korth heading toward her. Rolling toward her, that was, in a chair with large wheels on each side.
“Why are you still here? What—” Ama gawked at the chair, mouth hanging open, unable to finish her question.
Fismar had taken a beating in the various battles on her world. When she had last seen him, less than an hour ago, he had been unable to move from the waist down.
“Medicals will get their claws in me soon enough,” Fismar said in a tone that suggested he considered treating his multiple injuries nothing more than annoying interruption. “Had worse, anyway. I want to watch these boys a moment.”
The boys were a group of about ten Kenda, most from the ex-prisoner contingent, who had their sefts raised and pointed at the decon crew. The Westie with the missing finger was leading the gang.
“Fools,” Ama sighed. “Seg told them to unclothe and let the workers clean them. I have to stop th—”
“Hold, I said.” Fismar clamped his hand around her wrist. His other hand held the wheel of his chair to prevent it from rolling forward.
“Seg put me in charge until he returns.” Ama tugged against his grip.
“Wait and watch.” Fismar held firm. “You’re dealing with troops. Or what’re going to be troops, unless I miss my guess. Your Theorist is a weird one, unortho as the Storm, but he’s got a plan here.”
“I don’t think his plan is to start a war in this room.”
The Kenda shouted and rattled their sefts. The decon crew took nervous steps backwards, as white-suited security personnel, scattered through the decon chamber, stepped forward.
Just as Ama was about to launch another protest, Fismar pointed to a solitary Kenda, pushing his way through the scrum with a purpose. “Him,” Fismar said, and released her wrist.
The man had dark hair, almost black, which made Ama suspect there must be some Welf or Damiar blood in his line. The hair was pulled back in a ponytail, the style of those who spent their days in the wind and spray. A cargo hauler perhaps? He wasn’t as brawny as some but carried himself as if he were twice his size. His eyes were two dark, unmovable stones.
As the crowd parted for this man, Ama felt a twinge of recognition. He wasn’t from the temple or the Secat, he didn’t wear a prisoner’s uniform, he wasn’t one of Brin’s workers (that she knew of), but he looked familiar nonetheless.
“What about him?” Ama asked Fismar, conscious that she had lowered her voice and that, somewhere inside, she was answering her own question.
The dark haired man grabbed one of the shouters by the collar, a newly freed prisoner from the Secat, catching his hand before his seft could curve back toward him.
“The man explained his purpose, brother,” the dark-haired man said. “Let these people do their work.”
The ex-prisoner with the blade turned to voice his objection but something in the dark-haired man’s face silenced him.
“They want to take our sefts! They defile the names of our ancestors!” another ex-prisoner shouted.
“I wouldn’t mind doing some defiling of my own.” Viren cast a lecherous glance toward Shan, who was still at the skyship.
“Our sefts are sacred!” the man continued to protest.
This outburst was met with a snorting laugh. Viren Hult stepped forward, chortling and clearly enjoying the spectacle. “You didn’t even have that seft until this morning, old salt. Hardly long enough to make anything sacred.”
“Show respect.” The dark-haired man tightened his grip on the first ex-prisoner’s collar to prevent him from lunging forward, then turned his stony glare on Viren. “This man suffered in the Secat for the freedom of his brothers, while you played cards and whored your way through T’ueve.”
He widened his focus and spoke to all the Kenda, his tone low but commanding.
“We are not animals! We gave our oath and our honor to this man, Segkel Eraranat. And, through him, to Brin Kalder. We are Kenda and we are on a far shore where our names and the names of our ancestors mean nothing.” He let go of the ex-prisoner. Then, his mouth twisted into a grin, as he glanced down between his legs and winked. “Let’s show them what the true weapons of men look like.”
Ama shook her head as the men cheered and hooted.
Viren turned to the man beside him. “Prow, I do believe that pirate tried to insult me.”
“Wouldn’t be the first,” Prow said, stroking his ample chin.
“You wound me.” Viren pressed his hand to his heart, then turned his attention back to the dark-haired man. He fixed the man with an overly large smile and held out his own seft for the white-suits to take away for cleaning. “Not animals, no. Civilized, we are.” One of the white-suits pulled the weapon from his hands. “From the mouth of Cerd Jind himself, Nen take me.”
“Jind,” Ama said.
“That mean something?” Fismar asked.<
br />
There was a low murmur among the Kenda. Some of the men raised their index fingers and touched their left eye. A few stepped away from the dark haired man.
“Cerd Jind was a criminal on our world.”
“And?” Fismar shrugged. “Seems like you have a few of those in this bunch.”
“This is different,” Ama said.
“Look lively, deckies!” Viren called out as he unlaced his trousers. “Let’s see who’s carrying the biggest weapon!”
Without another word, Cerd Jind, the dark haired man, picked up his seft and handed it to the decon crew, then pulled off his shirt. The scars and lean muscles could have belonged to any of the Kenda; the tattoo was a different story.
Spread across Jind’s back were swirls of black ink. Though it was highly stylized, any Kenda would have recognized the symbol as a drexla—the lethal, poisonous predator that hunted in the Big Water. Ama’s calf bore two scars left by drexlas; not many could say they had escaped such an encounter—twice. But the ink was more than a symbol of a water creature, it was the mark worn by those Kenda who betrayed their own and ran with the pirates of the Rift Tribu.
Why would Brin trust a man like Cerd Jind? A man who had murdered and stolen from his own kind?
“Well, no bloodshed. That’s a first from this crowd, I’ll wager.” Ama forced lightness into her tone. She turned her eyes from the Kenda men as they shed their clothes, just in time to mark Shan’s approach.
“Did I miss the animal show?” Shan stepped up beside Fismar’s chair. She spoke only to Fismar and was careful to keep her distance from the Outer.
“Think you would’ve learned something by now, skyrider.” Fismar engaged the wheels on the chair. “Fighters are fighters, wherever they come from. These boys ain’t troops, but they are fighters.”
Warp World Page 2
