Warp World

by Kristene Perron

  “Lissil, if you can’t read, I can help you. If there’s not something on this machine, I can use Seg’s paper books to teach you.”

  Lissil whipped her head around to face Ama. “I don’t need you to teach me anything. Who says I can’t read? Leave me alone! Can’t you see I have important work to do? I don’t need you sitting around ridiculing me.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Leave me alone!”

  Ama raised her hands and started to back out of the room. She stopped only long enough to deposit Jarin’s note on the table, where Seg wouldn’t miss it. On her way out of the common room, she heard Lissil mutter, “Stupid water rat,” before issuing another shrill command to the screen.

  Viren searched in vain for a witty comment as he jogged around the warehouse perimeter.

  Probably back in my bunk, sleeping, where I should be right now, he thought.

  His pack—filled with cans and pipes and whatever other Nenforsaken items the Lieutenant could find around the old building—grew heavier with each lap. The uniforms each man had been issued were either too small or too large—Viren’s was the former and now chafed painfully under his arms and between his legs. The chafing was only worsened by rivers of sweat. In his hands he carried a large metal pipe. According to the Lieutenant, this was meant to represent the bangers known as chacks, which they would one day wield in battle. If the chacks were as heavy as these pipes, Viren reckoned he would rather die quickly than fight.

  “Arms up!” Lieutenant Fismar Korth shouted.

  The men hoisted the pipes over their heads with huffs and groans that were audible even over the noise of ninety-six boots. Viren felt a burning envy for the two men assigned to guard duty as, behind him, Kype gasped out a litany of Westie curses.

  The men were divided into squads now. Kype, Prow, Wyan, Cerd, and to his immense dismay, Viren, had each been designated as squad leaders. Bad enough that he had to endure being woken at all hours, shaving off his hair and his beard, and running around an empty building with an eight hundred pound pack strapped to his back (or so it felt), but he was also now supposed to provide leadership and inspiration, as well? Maybe his choice to join this crew had been hasty, after all.

  “What does a raider need?” Fismar shouted.

  “A chack, a pack, an enemy to attack!” the men called out in unison.

  “I don’t hear you!”

  The volume of the chant and the pace of the jog increased; Viren thought his lungs might explode. He was on the verge of actually offering silent prayer to Nen when Fismar called everyone to a halt.

  “INSPECTION!” Fismar bellowed. “Dump ’em out, worms!”

  Grateful for the temporary reprieve, Viren slung the heavy load off his back and pulled loose the ties with a feeble effort. Along with the rest of the Kenda, he emptied the contents of his pack on the ground in front of him, stretching out the moment in order to catch his breath.

  “Move it, move it, move it!” Fismar shouted, and every man responded instantly, finishing their task and standing at attention, or as close to attention as they could muster.

  Fismar paced slowly through the room, inspecting the piles of dislodged goods, randomly shouting out insults and orders whenever he came across something that made him unhappy. But when he got to Slopper, whose pack nearly weighed as much as the boy, a squall passed over his face.

  “Palk, where’s your spare cassette for Handlo’s needler?” Fismar said.

  The boy’s face—with his jutting teeth and oddly tilted eyebrows—always looked a bit comical to Viren, but now Slopper’s features only magnified his real panic.

  “Uh …” Slopper’s eyes darted over the mess of items and Viren could tell he was trying to remember which one was meant to represent the spare cassette and then figure out where it was. “Uh … I don’t know, sir.”

  “I don’t know, Training Lieutenant!” Fismar said.

  “Um, uh … I don’t know, Training Lieutenant,” Slopper said.

  Viren waited for Fismar to launch into one of his fiery rants. Obviously, Slopper was also waiting, by the way he seemed to shrink even further inside his over-sized uniform. Instead, the Lieutenant spun to face Kype.

  “Squad Leader Kype, why isn’t Palk’s kit correct?” Fismar asked.

  “You heard the boy, he forgot it,” Kype said, salt in his tone.

  “Is that an excuse, Squad Leader Kype?”

  “My reason, Training Lieutenant.”

  “Your reason is that your man forgot?” Fismar asked. “Just be clear about this. It’s Palk’s fault that he wasn’t carrying the spare cassettes for Handlo’s heavy needler? His job to remember it, correct?”

  As Kype considered the question, Slopper folded his lips inward.

  “Palk’s fault, that’s truth, Training Lieutenant,” Kype said, obviously satisfied.

  Fismar leaned close to Kype and Viren had to strain to hear. “Wrong.” He raised his voice once more. “If we’re engaged and Handlo runs out of ammo and we lose the fight, who gets the blame? Not Palk. Not Handlo. Not even you. I do. Let me explain this one more time, for everyone’s benefit. A trooper is responsible for his job and the jobs of those he has to replace!”

  Fismar stepped back from Kype and launched into one of his trademark lectures, delivered in explosive shouts.

  “A squad leader is responsible for every element of his squad. When the squad fails, the squad leader has failed! When the unit fails, I have failed! You do not stand in front of me and tell me that your squad cannot support your brothers in battle because your man forgot his ammo! You verify that your squad’s gear and loadout is in working order!”

  Kype’s face reddened as Fismar pointed out his failure to the entire unit. He was ornery at the best of times but never more so than when his pride was insulted—as Viren had quickly learned when Kype overheard one of his less-tactful Westie jokes.

  Fismar marched over to Handlo, seized the heavy pipe the man held ready, and waved it in front of Kype’s face. “This weapon does not have ammo! You’re all dead because you did not verify! Why are you in charge of this squad, Kype?”

  “On account of I’m the oldest. I’m experienced,” Kype said.

  “Just because you’ve been yanking your stalk longer’n some of these boys have been alive doesn’t make you leadership material,” Fismar said. “A leader takes responsibility for his people and their actions. He makes problems like this not happen because he fixes them before they become problems.”

  “And some boy barely off his mother’s teat could do better?” Kype’s face reddened even deeper; he stabbed one of the three remaining fingers on his left hand in Slopper’s direction.

  “If he can get me a squad ready to kill our enemies and take their wealth, I don’t care if he goes home and plays with his mama’s tits every night. You’re off,” Fismar said. “Trooper Tirnich!”

  Tirnich jogged forward, Slopper smiling broadly behind him. “Yes, Training Lieutenant.”

  Kype sputtered. “Nen’s blood! I’ll not give over to some fresh spawn such as him!”

  Fismar turned very slowly toward Kype and Viren felt a measure of pity for the crusty old Westie bastard.

  “Are you refusing an order, trooper Kype?” Fismar asked. His eyes widened slightly. His fingers curled into loose fists.

  Kype stood straighter, shoulders back to display his height. He raised his own fists, proudly displaying his missing finger, his badge of honor. “I’ve faced bigger than you. I’ll not be made the fool in front of my men.”

  “Squad Leader Tirnich,” Fismar said, “take trooper Kype into custody, to be held on the charge of mutiny.”

  Kype’s mouth dropped open. He looked to Tirnich, then to the surrounding men. “There’s no need for that. I was only—”

  “Is there another
word for flagrantly disobeying the orders of your superior that I am perhaps not aware of, Trooper Kype?” Fismar held up a hand to stall Tirnich.

  Kype looked worse than if the Lieutenant had actually struck him. Viren couldn’t blame him. Mutiny, enough to humble any man. He wondered if Lieutenant Korth had any idea of how seriously the Kenda took that word?

  “No. Plead your forgiveness, Training Lieutenant,” Kype said. “Suppose we do things differently where I come from is all.” He lowered his eyes; his hands were already at his sides.

  “We’re not where you’re from, Trooper Kype. Squad Leader Tirnich, reorder your squad, verify their kit, and run four circuits.”

  “Quick as three, Training Lieutenant!” Tirnich quickly rounded up the wide-eyed squad.

  Viren nodded at his own squad to double check their kits. Prow jogged close but kept his voice low as he spoke to his friend and fellow squad leader. “Thought the old croaker was going to lose another finger there.”

  “No,” Viren said, wiping sweat from his brow. “I think Lieutenant Dismal would have taken more than a finger.” He glanced down between his legs and Prow shuddered.

  “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 bit 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 hi
s 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.”