Warp World

by Kristene Perron

  The machine beeped, and Ama felt another round of burning pain move through her.

  “Antibiotic. It might work.” Elarn shrugged, leaned back, and swiped a small wand over his hands. “You’re done. Send me the next one.”

  Ama examined her shoulder. A jagged red line marked where the wound was sealed. She was aware of the pain but it was dull now. Numbed.

  “That’s it?” She dared a small smile. “I didn’t feel anything.”

  “I wasted good drugs on you.” Elarn tossed the wand back into his kit. “Next.”

  The next man limped to the table, eyeing Elarn warily. Ama helped remove the bandage from the man’s leg. “Thank you,” she said. “For the painless healing, and the news of Seg. I’m grateful—we’re all grateful.”

  He grunted as he stared at the next patient’s wound—a long gash across the thigh. “It’s a miracle you don’t all die young, as filthy as you keep yourselves.”

  Ama bit back a retort. If she hadn’t known how necessary this man was, she would have let Viren have his way. “I’ll check on my friend, then return.”

  Viren had wandered to a chair a safe distance away from the healer and watched him carefully.

  “How’s your head?” Ama asked in a low voice as she approached.

  “Still on my body.”

  “And if you want it to stay there, try to lash that tongue next time.” She slipped her hand onto his shoulder and offered a quick squeeze. “Thanks.”

  “It was my pleasure, for as long as it lasted. I can’t promise what I might say or do once the good healer’s work is done here.”

  “You’ll hold your damn tongue,” Cerd said. He positioned himself to block Viren’s view of Elarn. “You’re lucky he just scratched you this time; we don’t need the problems he could bring us.”

  Viren stared at Cerd for a long moment. “I take no orders from you, Cerd.”

  Cerd glared back, nodded, and cracked his knuckles. “We have problems, you and me. Maybe it’s time we settle them.”

  “This isn’t—” A piercing cry interrupted Ama’s warning. She whipped her head toward the table and saw the man there struggling to get away from Elarn and the three men holding him in place.

  “What are you doing to him?” Ama ran to the table.

  “I’m treating him.” Elarn wrestled with his patient. “Hold him still!”

  “Hold him!” Ama repeated to the Kenda.

  Cerd took hold of one of the man’s arms and directed others to help.

  “What about those drugs you used on me?” Ama asked. “The ones that get rid of the pain?”

  “I used my stock on you. Get his leg stabilized or he’s going to lose it!” Elarn ordered.

  “Hold his leg steady!” Ama yelled to the men. Her face was burning when she turned back to Elarn. “You came to treat fifty men and you only brought enough medicine to kill pain for one?” she asked, in his language.

  Once the others had the leg immobilized Elarn adjusted his jacket, then resumed his work, oblivious to the whimpers and moans. “I came to treat fifty Outers, not men.”

  She cursed in Kenda, damning the healer and his ancestors to eternity in Secat, then collected herself and calmed her breathing. At least he’d had the sense not to share that sentiment in S’ora. “Finish your work, then get out of here before I tell these men what kind of snake you really are.”

  “I’ll be done sooner if you shut up and help me work.” Smoke sizzled away from the skin as he closed the wound.

  Ama swallowed the bile that rose to her throat. Five men held down the one on the table, and still he bucked against the healer’s touch. Tirnich stood near the man’s head, talking, trying to soothe him. Viren, she noticed, had retrieved his seft and was lingering out of the healer’s eyeshot.

  If they could make it through this without anyone dying, it would be a miracle.

  The last of the men slid off the table; Ama let out a breath and wiped the sweat from her forehead. As the severity of the injuries and illnesses had decreased, so had the screams and cries, and the tension in the room subsided.

  Elarn was starting to gather up his instruments when Viren hopped up on the table in front of him, a grin spread across his face.

  “Not done quite yet.” Viren held out his left arm, revealing a small nick in his bicep. “And let’s not forget this.” He pointed to the gash on his scalp.

  “Whine about every little cut, do you?” Elarn asked. He pulled the skin sealer from his kit and gripped Viren’s arm.

  “Humor!” Viren exclaimed. “You would have done well in the Port House; they were always looking for entertainment. No, no I—” Viren paused, concentrated on not wincing as the flesh began to smoke. “I figure you’re getting some coin for this work. Just want to make sure the boss gets the most for his money. He’s a big man on this world, from what I hear. I strive to keep him happy.”

  “I’d never heard of Eraranat until three days ago.” Elarn finished sealing the arm, then stepped around to the side and examined the scalp wound.

  “Well, I suppose you must be a man of note yourself. Where I come from, Healers command respect from every quarter. Sagio, we call the best of them. Mind you, they do tend to do more healing and less harming. Where I come from, that is.”

  Ama stood to one side, watching the exchange. A small crowd had joined her.

  “I was a raider med, six years,” Elarn said. “Cure or karg, pay is pay.” He slathered a foul-smelling astringent into Viren’s scalp wound. The raw acridness of the scent repelled even the hardened crowd nearby.

  Viren maintained his grin, though his eyes watered. “Yes, yes, coin!” He slapped a hand on the table for emphasis. “That’s what it comes down to, doesn’t it? It’s good to know there are still men who will sell their souls. Helps me sleep at night.” He cast an eye at Cerd, who had also joined the crowd.

  “Are you done?” Ama asked Elarn.

  “Just giving him his money’s worth.” Elarn jabbed a needle probe into Viren’s shoulder. He selected a symbol Ama couldn’t see and let the machine go to work.

  “YES!” Viren gritted his teeth into a forced smile. “Good work.”

  It was obvious neither man would back down from this small battle, but as much Ama wanted to stop this she didn’t want one of hers to lose face.

  Elarn watched the results as they scrolled by on the screen. “Bit of a drinker, I see.”

  “A nip here and there, good for the digestion.” Viren patted his stomach. “Nasty cough you have, by the way. Couldn’t help noticing.”

  “Also, you have one latent venereal disease that would eventually rot your brain. Literally.” He tapped the control. “Taking care of that now.”

  “The ladies, they’re always all over me. It’s a curse, I swear.”

  Ama rolled her eyes; several of the men chuckled.

  “How about you, Healer? Married? Must be, smooth talking fellow such as yourself. Can’t imagine you going home alone.”

  Elarn pulled out the needle. “I go home and put your mother to scrubbing my floor, same as every night.”

  He closed the kit and packed up once more. The men dispersed again but Ama stayed near.

  Viren leaned in, keeping a safe distance from Elarn but close enough that the others couldn’t hear. “I let you live for Eraranat. Remember that. You owe him.” He sat up, rubbed the sealed cut, and smiled for the crowd. “Good as new and handsome as ever! Let’s give the healer our thanks!”

  The men cheered. Ama did not join in.

  When the gray bag was packed, Elarn turned stiffly and marched to the door. Ama followed, mouthing to Viren to stay put.

  “Whatever you think of us, these men deserved better than that,” Ama told Elarn. “I will tell Seg what you did here. He won’t be pleased.”
>
  Elarn turned to look down at her and she thought she saw, for a second, a crack in the façade. Was he scared or … ?

  “I saved their lives. And yours. You’ve gotten better than any other Outers who just came across.”

  “The best of bad is still bad. I won’t risk having you near these men again.”

  Elarn stopped and glared. “The Outer with the big mouth attacked me. By rights, I could have this entire group sent to the ponds, including you. They don’t have medical at the ponds, and the dead feed the huchacks. Talk if you want.”

  Ama stood her ground but didn’t answer. She knew a little of the toxic huchack ponds, and she knew a lot about the lack of rights granted to Outers. She couldn’t be certain if this man could follow through on his threat or not, but she suspected he could. And would.

  “Viren’s wrong. You have no soul to sell.”

  Elarn walked out without a word. Ama was glad to see the shadow disappear.

  Safely deposited at the door of his residence, Seg followed the lights of Jarin’s trans as it pulled away. The street was well lit, even at night.

  It never really gets dark here, he mused. Not as it does on Ama’s world. That enveloping blackness.

  When he looked back to his door, he saw Manatu standing there, clutching a small bag. He supposed he should have expected this when Manatu had climbed into the trans.

  He considered asking his bodyguard if he planned to stay here, in his residence, but he already knew the answer. Palm pressed to the plate on the door’s surface, Seg waited for the scan to finish and the door to open.

  “There is only one bed,” Seg said.

  “Floor is fine,” Manatu said, as if that fact should have been obvious.

  When the door cycled open, Manatu stepped in front of Seg and motioned with a splayed hand for him to wait. A moment later, he waved him in. Seg closed his eyes, took a deep breath, (which still pained him), and wondered how long he could tolerate this behavior.

  There was a sound of shuffling as Seg stepped inside, then Lissil appeared in the tiny entrance area. She didn’t look directly into Seg’s eyes, but her face was raised enough that he could see the beginnings of what might have been tears.

  Lissil lowered into the retyel without the production of their first meeting, as if she sensed his desire for quiet. Even so, her body did not drop to the floor so much as float, a leaf carried on a breeze.

  Seg peered down at her prostrate form, thankful Ama was not present.

  “Stand up,” he said. Lissil lifted her eyes to his, questioning, then slowly rose from the floor.

  “Lord Eraranat? Are you displeased? Have I …” Her voice broke and her eyes watered.

  “Did Jarin not explain the situation to you?” He sighed. “You are registered as caj but your position here is one of employment—household services in exchange for food, shelter, clothing, and other necessities. Understood?”

  Lissil bowed her head and lowered her eyes. “Yes, my Lord.”

  “And you can address me as Seg.”

  “But that is too informal! This caj would never dare to—”

  “Theorist if you like, then. But no retyel, at least not inside these walls when there is not company present.”

  Lissil’s eyes flicked to Manatu and Seg glanced over his shoulder.

  “Manatu will be living here.”

  “Theorist.” Lissil tried out the new title with some hesitation. “This caj has prepared your home as well as she knows how. She is here for your needs. Would you take your rest awhile?”

  “Yes,” Seg said. “Yes, I would. You can get Manatu a drink. Or food, if he wishes. And you can stop referring to yourself in the third person.” At Lissil’s puzzled expression he shook his head. “Never mind. Go on.”

  As eager as he had been to leave the medfac, his body was already demanding the comfort of a bed. The healing grid he wore across the lower half of his torso accelerated his recovery, but it would be at least another week before he would feel strong again.

  A few paces and he stood in the area that constituted his common room. The room was attached to the food preparatory, though there was no discernible boundary between the two spaces. The only other rooms in his residence were his sleeping quarters—which also functioned as a study—and the cleansing room.

  Seg made his way to the wall and pulled down a recessed lever. A rectangle on the wall fell open, revealing a bench, cushioned top and bottom. This was what functioned as a couch. Another lever unfolded a cushioned chair, in which he sat, heavily. He leaned back and ran his hands over his face, then exhaled.

  Manatu, who filled a good portion of the small room, walked slowly from wall to wall, surveying.

  “There’s nothing here to see.” Seg waved a tired hand. “This is a graduate residence. Luxuriously spacious but rather sparse.” To the wall across from him he said, “Activate Storm notice.” The wall lit up and a screen flickered to life. A map of Cathind and its outlying areas appeared, with red icons marking the Storm and orange icons marking its projected path.

  “Karg,” he swore under his breath.

  Not that he was surprised. While waiting to leave the medfac, he had checked the map every spare moment.

  His Kenda had been safely installed in an abandoned warehouse in the Old Town, right up against the shield. The location had seemed ideal when he had chosen it. That portion of Cathind was a sub-city, cut off from the main shield by a barren swathe of wasteland, where a might river had once flowed. Portions of that area had taken a minor beating from the Storm back in the days when the shields occasionally failed, sparking a mass exodus. No one had bothered to rebuild and the Old Town had been cut from the main shield and left to rot. Debate about whether or not to cut shield coverage completely had been going on, half-heartedly, for over two decades. There were a couple of Raider units stationed in the Old Town and about two hundred and fifty thousand warehoused caj, which was the only genuine argument for keeping that wounded limb of Cathind from being amputated. The only other residents were squatters, cranks, crazies and those who kept the raiders in food, booze and whores. In other words, those who had no political voice. There were, of course, factions of traditionalists in Cathind who refused to surrender even an inch of their great city to the Storm. And while Seg might have once mocked them, he was now thankful for such a triumph of emotion over logic.

  Of course, the flaw in his plan, he now realized, was that the unshielded gap between Cathind and Old Town was vulnerable to the Storm. He had won his freedom from the medfac, only to discover that the Storm was rolling right through the gap that separated him from Ama and wasn’t predicted to move on until well into the next day. Even if he hadn’t planned on being a step away from death on intrans, he still berated himself for his lack of foresight at not arranging for an encrypted comm system.

  Trapped. He was trapped here. Unable to go to the one place on his World he wanted and needed to be.

  “Cancel Storm notice, activate media line,” he said.

  The image on the screen disappeared but was quickly replaced. The sound of a newsfeed filled the space.

  “… the tallies are still being counted, but the latest figures released by House Haffset have moved the raid from largest in a century to largest in the past century and a half, dwarfing the Genimer 032 raid of 849.”

  “Mute media feed.” Seg stared with glazed eyes as figures scrolled across the screen and the commentators discussed the fallout of his raid.

  Raid Eraranat 001. Already a legend.

  “Mar Gelad decanned your residence, but I have to inspect for breaches,” Manatu explained as he shuffled through the attached area that was the food preparatory.

  Seg bit back an angry retort. Before this mission, the notion that anyone would listen in on his quarters would have been ridiculous.

/>   “Carry on,” he said. Manatu inspected his way to the sleeping quarters.

  The icon on the corner of the wallscreen indicated sixty-seven messages awaited his attention. Unusual, given that he rarely received more than three or four home messages per week unless he was engaged in a discussion project.

  “Access message index,” he ordered the system. A list of messages appeared on half the screen, almost all with topic lines requesting interviews or discussions. Media nonsense.

  He sighed, bent over and grasped his boots, but before he could remove even one Lissil ghosted in and took hold of them.

  “Please allow your— allow me,” she said.

  He stared down at her, this human object in his space, doing what he could so readily do for himself. She stared up at him with dark, imploring eyes.

  “I can take off my own boots.”

  She cast her eyes to the floor and crawled backward. “Your humble caj apologizes for the offense. Does her Lor— Do you wish the greshk and refreshment she prepared?”

  It was the most familiar scene and yet the most foreign all at once.

  “Theorist Svestil provided me with a list of foods you enjoy and I am currently studying advanced cooking techniques of the People,” Lissil continued. “But if the meal is not to your taste …”

  “I am sure it will suffice.” He finished the job he had started, tugging off the boots, realizing as his body protested the sudden strain that her assistance would have been useful.

  She brought a cup and plate, offering the cup into his hand. When he accepted, she slid around him, artfully, never once obstructing his view of the screen. She bent, pulled a lever that raised a table in the center of the room, and set the plate down.

  He lifted the cup, took a sip, then looked at her with a surprised smile. “This is actually very good.” She had spiced it lightly with vintar mint, just as he liked.

  “This caj thanks you for your praise.” A blush rose to her cheeks. “Shall I return to my lessons or … if you like—”

  “Clear.” Manatu re-entered the common room.