“No. I won’t.”
“He will and you will obey. Must obey.”
Against the hold of Flurianne’s fingers, Ama tried to clench her fists. “I hate him.”
“Bury your hatred. Let him believe he has beaten you.”
“But you—”
“Serve the Light. My soul cannot be harmed.”
“Someday I’ll come back and kill him for what he’s done.”
Flurianne pulled her in for a tight embrace as once more Ama broke down and the tears took over.
“He is already dead. They all are,” Flurianne stroked Ama’s hair. “Long has the Light been absent from this world.”
Mikon Gelad frowned at the signal capture function on the digifilm strapped to his wrist. Whatever Eraranat’s men were up to in the warehouse, they weren’t leaking anything on the comm channels. Nothing was coming from the warehouse but a carrier signal and it was obvious, from prior monitoring, that all communications of any import were being conducted face to face.
Jarin would not be pleased at yet another empty report. Neither was he, for that matter. At least he could be sure that if he was unable to pry out Eraranat’s secrets here the CWA would be equally uninformed.
From the hidden vantage of the material storage facility next door, where the floor was littered with the remnants of the former supervisory office, he glared at the building across the street.
Comm discipline was laudable, unless one sought to learn what somebody else was up to. Gelad recorded the comm frequency, then blanked the screen and took another look at the building. The man Eraranat had tapped for the job, Fismar Korth, had put together a nice, tight security perimeter. It wasn’t impenetrable, but to get in and actually see what was going on would likely involve damaging one or more sentries, which would quickly alert the residents to an intrusion.
Only the crawling sensation on his neck gave it away. Gelad pivoted, sliding his pistol clear of its holster as he moved. Fismar Korth stood less than a meter behind him, empty hands spread away from his side as his eyes tracked the barrel of Gelad’s weapon.
They stared at each other, a probing moment of assessment, then Gelad holstered his weapon and rose to his feet. Behind Fismar were at least four signaling devices ranging from primitive to the best technology available to the Guild. Any one of them should have alerted Gelad to the intrusive presence in his space. None of them had.
“Sergeant Gelad,” Fismar said. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Gelad grunted as he shifted his coat around. “Yours hasn’t preceded you enough, looks like.”
“Probably just been asking in the wrong places,” Fismar offered, with a smile that faded quickly. “I get that you’re on the job, and this is, technically, Cathind, and the Guild Intelligence can go where it pleases and watch who it wants. For all I know, the GID has already moved to acquire this building for your listening post.”
Gelad said nothing.
“That’s all fine,” Fismar continued. “But. My side of the line, over there—” He gestured at the warehouse Eraranat’s people occupied. “—is sovereign territory of a Citizen. So.” He paused and his eyes moved to the weapon on Gelad’s hip. “Any intrusions will not end well. Any attempted intrusions. Anything that happens to my troops will be answered.”
“I hear you,” Gelad said, after a significant pause.
“I know,” Fismar said, the cheer suddenly returning. “So, this was a social call, a welcome to the habs sort of thing. Anything you need, feel free to come to the front door and ask for me. I’m always watching for visitors.”
Gelad nodded, his smile hatched from the irony of the moment—the watcher watched.
“Oh, something upchain might be interested in …” Fismar pulled two mini-films out of his pocket and tossed them to Gelad. On the films were images of a man and a woman.
“Friends of yours?”
“They set up down the street not long after we moved in. Running CWA equipment, in case you don’t have them in your files yet.”
“Obliged.”
Fismar offered him a lopsided grin. “It’s a shame we never went out on a raid together, Sergeant. I always wanted somebody who could keep up with me out there.”
Message delivered, Fismar stuffed his hands into his pockets and sauntered out of the abandoned office, whistling an immortal raider tune that dated back at least six centuries. The lyrics were no less bawdy in modern times than when the song had been created. As he left, he boldly strode through the motion detector lattice Gelad had emplaced near the door; the alert node implanted behind Gelad’s ear emitted a small vibrating pulse in response.
Gelad snorted, then brought up his digifilm again to make a note. Some portions of Fismar Korth’s file had been locked away, making them difficult to penetrate. He was determined to find out why.
Seg pressed his finger down on top of the harka fruit and then flicked his thumb at it, sending it into a slow spin on the polished marble of the tabletop. As the fruit slowed, he flicked it with his thumb again. The communal meal room that served the Question chamber and other Guild departments was largely empty due to the odd hour, attended by a trio of serving caj in drab uniforms. His own meal sat largely untouched.
He glanced at an approaching shadow. “I told you, I don’t need anything else.”
“Well, that’s a relief, as I didn’t bring anything.”
Seg looked up to see Theorist Shyl Vana.
“May I?” she asked.
“Another visit, Theorist Vana? Or have you come to gawk at the Guild’s resident rebel?”
“This is a progress report, actually.”
Seg gave her a quizzical look and a small, uncomprehending shake of his head.
She dug into her pocket, withdrew a small metallic object, and tossed it onto the table in front of Seg. “Remember that?”
“The project you were working on when we met previously. Accelerated biodegradation. You’ve figured it out?”
“No, not at all.” Shyl grinned widely. “Completely stymied. Something may yet be salvaged but I am not hopeful. Perhaps one of the greatest failures of my career.”
“That’s unfortunate. And I needed to know this because?”
Shyl’s smile fell away; she looked on him not with pity but with unmistakable compassion. “Because, mistakes and failure are as valuable as success. Not something we teach our cadets, sadly. And something I thought you might need to hear. I am not Jarin, my riddles are all in fun. I heard news about your struggles of late.”
“Medical anomaly,” he muttered.
“That is not the struggle to which I refer.”
He had to look away from her to collect himself. Part of his recovery had been a sincere effort not to dwell on Ama’s circumstances.
“Mistakes can be educational, so long as they come at your own expense. When one has a household that is—” He paused there, careful to frame his words in orthodoxy. “—deprived of service due to circumstances, it has greater consequences.”
“Mm, I do not disagree with you, Theorist.” She shook her head. “No. Seg. I have always loathed formality.” Her tone softened even further and she dropped her voice so that only he could hear. “There is a member of my own household that … how shall I say it? That was once ill-treated. That was a very difficult time for me, especially given the strict protocol and social mores governing the People.”
His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. “Oh?”
“Jarin’s schooled you well, hasn’t he?” She took a long moment and then, coming to a decision, met Seg’s rapt stare with her own, guileless and open. “His name is Choge. Scandalous enough for you? Will you report me now?”
“I believe that a citizen should be able to manage her own household without the interference of others, so long as she cl
eaves to the Virtues and is productive for society,” Seg said. “The sovereignty of a Citizen’s space is sacrosanct.”
“Choge would share that sentiment, as would his companion, Himmir. My household never lacks for interesting conversation,” Shyl said. “In any case, the damage was done. I won’t pretend I didn’t indulge in some unproductive emotions, but I can tell you that I found means by which to correct my errors.” She tapped the triangular piece of metal. “Failure, you see, is not always final.”
Seg placed his elbows on the table and laid one hand over the other as he stared at her. “I believe I take your meaning.” He stared for a moment longer before continuing. “Thank you.”
“Do you know, you are the first Person to whom I’ve spoken those names aloud?” she asked. “So, thank you. I look forward to the summation of your Question. Perhaps we can toast the occasion at my residence? It would mean venturing outside the Guild Compound, but I have a feeling you’re up for the journey.” She winked as she stood and retrieved the bit of metal off the table.
Seg collected his harka fruit. “I will take you up on the invitation. Shyl.” He began peeling away the husk.
Shyl nodded and departed the room with a canter that could have belonged to someone thirty years her junior. “I will hold you to that!”
Seg took a bite of the fruit, then looked at the rest of his plate of food and slid it forward on the table. “Here,” he said to the trio of serving caj as they hurried over to do his bidding. “Eat.”
When they hesitated, confused, he gestured again. “Eat.”
Two of the caj backed away, but a young boy grasped the plate and snuck the briefest glance up at Seg. He looked left and right, then popped a piece of cintz roll into his mouth and chewed, swallowing quickly before anyone might notice.
Seg smiled for what felt like the first time in years.
“Go on, all of you. Sit down and eat.”
As the other two overcame their trepidation and sat down with him, he leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table before taking another bite of his fruit.
He couldn’t fix everything, but he could fix this moment. They couldn’t take that away from him.
The screams were the sounds of bintas chasing down their prey. The object in her hand was a compass. It was evening on the Big Water and Ama was charting a course to Malvid. It was important to hold the compass tightly between her fingers, to ignore the flying predators above that wailed and cried. She would hold the compass like this, because this was her world, and not the training room. In the place where Flurianne had taken her, the place where her soul was hidden, she was safe.
This was not a graft control device. That was not an innocent woman being tortured under her hand. Those were not her cries. She could do this.
Hang on, don’t let go.
“Enough!” Gressam said. His eyes flitted between Ama and Flurianne, his hands gripped the back of a chair, the knuckles whitened with tension. “That is enough, Siara.”
Ama released her thumb from the device, surprised to see her hand slick with sweat. Flurianne was silent, at last. As much as she wanted to run to her side, to offer her the same comfort that she had received, Ama remained still. Flurianne’s warning looped over and over through her head. Make him believe he’s broken you.
She lowered her eyes and waited obediently for Gressam to finish with her.
“Flurianne, take a seat,” Gressam said as he stepped into Ama’s view. “Siara, you have adapted well to the training. You have learned the functions and positions of a service caj.”
“You do this caj great honor,” Ama said.
“And there is the problem. You say the words, but you still, still don’t feel the meaning.” He advanced toward her, hunching slightly to stare into her eyes. “You cannot deny it. I have risen to this position because I learn the caj I handle. I know the caj I handle. I feel what they are feeling. I see into them. I know that there remains, within you, a refusal to accept your place in our society, a flaw. A belief that you retain autonomy in your heart—” He placed his face before Ama’s, his eyes peered into hers. “—the belief that you follow because you choose to follow, not because you are an instrument, to be used and disposed of.”
Ama did not answer. Could not answer. Truth or lie, either would make things worse.
He nodded as if her silence confirmed his accusation. “I cannot return you to your owner, Siara. Not until I am certain. I would sooner see you dead than at the center of a tragedy, a flawed processing that disappointed your owner and led to your premature disposal. Allow no waste.” He tugged Flurianne’s controller from her hand.
“The pain amp in your collar and Flurianne’s graft was designed to sanitize the correction of improper behavior by caj. With this device, the People can deliver correction in a clean, efficient manner. They can then carry on with their own business while the caj, properly chastened, resumes its assigned functions.”
He circled around her, his pace quicker than usual. Every few moments, he glanced at her and then looked ahead again.
“Sensible. And an underappreciated portion of our society’s foundation.” He dropped the controller in his pocket. “Unfortunately, at times, the pain amp is insufficiently visceral.”
He stopped in front of her once more. “Siara, you must understand it is your resistance that makes what is about to happen necessary, and that if I still sense this stubbornness, we will go even further.”
He withdrew a black, oblong object from his pocket and pressed a button. A thick blade snapped out.
Ama’s training failed and she looked directly into Gressam’s eyes.
“There! There it is. Very good, we’ve brought it out to the surface. Flurianne, put your hand on the table.” He placed the knife on the table, next to Flurianne’s hand, and stepped back. “Siara, go to the table.”
Ama’s heart began to pound. She stepped slowly to the table, willing herself to run away or fight. At the edge, she stopped, arms pressed to her side.
“I’ve read the publicly accessible details of Theorist Eraranat’s extrans to the world of Amadahy Kalder,” Gressam said. “Of note was the punishment levied by the Damiar caste against the Kenda caste, specifically the severing of fingers. This was done to render the Kenda incapable of performing their original caste function.”
Her old name, her old world. Her old enemies. Ama’s knees threatened to buckle. She thought of Brin, of the night he had returned to the safe room where she and Seg had hidden. She could see the bandage wrapped around his hand, the blood that had turned from red to brown.
“But you are not Amadahy Kalder, and you are not of that world. You are Siara, caj of Cultural Theorist Segkel Eraranat, property of the World. What was before is no longer, and now you will cut the final ties to your previous life. Pick up the knife, Siara.”
Ama stared at the blade but didn’t move. Seconds passed by, an eternity in the exacting world of the processor. She looked to Flurianne, in the chair, still recovering from the extended amping but with eyes suddenly wide. This wasn’t usual. This wasn’t what she had expected.
“No,” Ama said, head bowed.
“Excellent,” Gressam said. “The spark has come out fully. Now we can extinguish it.”
Flurianne fell out of her chair in a screaming paroxysm. The controller for her graft was in Gressam’s hand.
“You are making this happen, Siara. You.”
“Stop it!” Ama whirled on him. “I won’t do it!”
“Then you will watch her die in agony, destroyed by your selfishness,” Gressam said. “It takes approximately five minutes for irreversible damage to occur in most subjects, but the suffering and final death take much longer. After she passes, I will bring in another, and we will repeat this process until you are willing to become what you must become.”
On the floor, Flurianne writhed and screamed. Ama looked away, then to the knife. She shook her head as hot tears gathered and fell. “No. No, no, no …” A sob choked her and she dropped to her knees in front of Gressam. “Please, please, no. Please …” She reached her hands out to his legs, grasping for some mercy.
He swallowed and composed himself; his spine stiffened as he looked down at her. “A caj does not negotiate. A caj does not question. A caj receives orders and executes them to its best abilities until it fails and is replaced. One minute has passed, Siara. Soon we reach the point where her nerves begin to die. She won’t be able to walk. Or speak clearly. Her usefulness will end and she will be disposed of. Because of you.” His voice took on a pleading note. “Do your duty.”
Her words came out in an unintelligible slur; she doubled over and clutched her stomach. The illusion of control was gone and all her rage, sorrow, and helplessness ripped out of her in a single cry.
She rose, one hand covering her mouth, and stumbled drunkenly to the table. She grasped the knife in a shaking hand, the other on the table for support. The sobs did not cease and she made no effort to stop them, but wiped her eyes with the arm of her knife hand and turned to the empty chair.
Gressam stepped back and released the button. Flurianne sagged as the spasms stopped. She lay on the floor, limp.
“There.” Gressam pointed to Flurianne. “Do it there. Right hand, first finger.”
Ama lunged; if she hesitated she would lose her nerve. On her knees, she grasped Flurianne’s hand—so perfect, so delicate—and splayed the fingers. With her free hand, she pinned the finger to the stone floor; with the other hand, she raised the knife. Her breath rushed in and out in loud bellows, saliva spraying. Her stomach twisted and heaved.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. She brought the knife down. It was a heavy blade and sliced the skin easily, but it still required considerable pressure to pass through the bone and cartilage. Flurianne howled. There was a loud crunch and blood geysered from the wound.
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