He reached down, carefully drew his pistol, then turned it in his hand and offered it to her butt-first.
“—if you feel the need to do something nasty to me, you’ll do better with a pistol than with whatever little sticker you’re hiding.”
“I …” Ama’s face grew hot; she shook her head.
“Go on.” Elarn pushed the gun into her hand. “Consider it an order.”
He set a large metal box on a crate. A display screen on the front of the box showed an outline of a human body. Elarn touched his fingers to the screen and glowing text and numbers flashed. He pulled a cuff from his kit and wrapped the sleeve around Ama’s free arm, with a glance to the pistol she held.
“If you’re going to be a raider, learn your weapons. Blue indicator on the grip means you have good charge,” he said as he tightened the sleeve. “Window on the back of the grip shows that you have a full cassette of spines in there. The abler is on the side, that long lever there. Click the abler down and that makes it ready to fire. Once all that’s in order, you’re ready to kill somebody.” He tapped on the digipad attached to his system,
Eyes moving to each component of the weapon, Ama filed the details in her memory. A lesson—she was used to this. “How many spines are in there? In the cassette?”
“Nearly a thousand, near enough to not matter. We’ll always have plenty of huchack spines, it’s the one thing we don’t run out of. Batteries, you try to collect those after you use ’em up. Bit more expensive.” Even as he rattled off the details, his voice was calm, measured, and low. It was hard to believe this was the same man who had handled her and her fellow Kenda so roughly on their first meeting.
He studied the results on the machine, then removed the cuff from her arm. “Okay, stand up please. I’ll need to see you undressed.”
Ama swallowed hard, then stood, unzipped, and pulled down on the flight suit. She clutched the pistol and trained her eyes on the floor as she slid out of her ersatz uniform.
“Okay.” Elarn reached for a wand-shaped device. “Now the thing to remember is that when you point that pistol, you may kill somebody. So you never point it anywhere that you’re not ready to put spines down.” He indicated the nearby wall. “And you always treat your weapon like it’s got spines in it.” He lifted the wand and mimed as though he were holding a pistol in a two-handed grip. “Aim it at that wall there, like this, and get a feel for it while I scan you.”
Ama raised the pistol, gripping it as he had shown her. On the wall, she pictured Gressam’s face. “Have you ever killed anyone with this?”
His head snapped up from his study. “Never ask a raider about their de-pops. Shows you’re a shieldie who’s never been extrans. But since you’re new to all this, no, I haven’t killed anyone with that particular weapon. I have with others.” He ran the scanner across the back of her body, then pointed to her hand. “Relax your grip. You’re not strangling the weapon, and when you clench down like that you make it wobble.”
He resumed his scan. It didn’t hurt; in fact the sensation was pleasant, like a warm wind. But Elarn was a Person, as he had made sure everyone understood on his first visit, and People were not to be trusted.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, quietly. “I know what I am to you.”
“Tactics.” He scanned along her bare arms. “When somebody greets you with a weapon, it means they’re thinking about using it. So you give them something else to think about. In this case, a newer and more unfamiliar weapon that you’ll want to learn to use correctly. If you’re hiding a pistol next time we meet …” He swept the scanner down her leg. “Well, I’m not going to train you how to use a rifle, so don’t even think about it.”
Finished, he tossed the scanner back with the rest of his kit and offered her the ragged flight suit.
She dressed quickly, her back to him. “They took my scars.” She tugged the zipper up the last few inches. They took my dathe, she could not say.
“Want ’em back?” he said, followed by a prolonged cough. He packed his kit, then pointed to the pistol. “Or do you want to shoot this to see how it feels?”
Ama swung around and looked up at Elarn with a dark stare. “I want to shoot.”
He took the pistol from her hand to show her its sights. “Line this up with this. Put what you want to hit on top of this. Lot more to it than that, but it’s where you start. That wall there is an exterior wall and it’s too thick for spines to penetrate, something you always have to keep in mind. What are you aiming at? What’s around what you’re aiming at?” He handed her the weapon, then stood behind her as she raised the pistol and flipped the abler down.
“My name is Ama,” she whispered, then fired. The pistol purred in her hand and vibrated with the discharge of huchack spines. A small puff of dust erupted from the wall in front of her. A smile, the first one since she had arrived at the processing facility, lit up her face.
“Ama,” Elarn said, as the spines dappled the wall. “Okay.”
“You’re not going to put those down for expenses.” Fismar skirted the potential field of fire as he entered the scene.
“Couple of spines.” Elarn shrugged, and held his hand out to Ama.
She stared at the wall for a moment before returning the weapon.
“Well?” Fismar asked Elarn.
“She’s in great shape. Better than before she went to—” He stopped, took a breath, and started over. “Better than when she first got here.”
“Fine. Kalder, you’re in hand-to-hand with Wyan and Tirnich’s squads. Report to one of them,” Fismar ordered.
After Ama had departed, Fismar waited and listened for a few seconds, then nodded when he was sure she was out of earshot. The check-up wasn’t critical. Aside from the after effects of sleep deprivation, he was certain the processor had sent her back in prime physical health. What concerned him were any potential surprises the CWA might have ordered hidden inside her. “Okay, and—?”
Elarn pulled up the display. “Close scan shows clean. No hidden implants, no markers for gene-karging, no biological modifications beyond superficial cosmetics. We’re safe, she’s safe.”
“But?” Fismar asked, as Elarn’s eyes darkened.
The medical handed him the digipad.
“Not an uncommon procedure for caj but—” Elarn’s voice fell away.
“You didn’t tell her.”
Elarn coughed and shook his head. “She’s been through enough. But I don’t get it, sterilization is always at the owner’s request. Did he order this?”
“No way.” Fismar raked a hand through his cropped hair. “Karg.”
“Even so, I mean, he couldn’t have possibly have expected to, you know, have a family with her?”
“I’ve given up trying to guess his mind. I wouldn’t put it past the unortho son of a rigla. Reversible?”
“No, they made sure of that.”
“Of course.”
“You said this was all about the CWA sticking it to him, so why wouldn’t they tell him they’d sterilized her?”
“Dunno. Wellies are sneaky bastards. Who knows what they’re thinking?”
“So?”
Fismar passed the digipad back to Elarn. “Leave it with me to tell him. Not now, though. Whatever she went through in there, he’s feeling it just as hard. Anything else I should know?”
“If he wants the cosmetic work regressed, he’ll need a specialist. I can put the scars back, got imagery to do it, but—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Fismar dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “She’ll get dirty and scratched up with what’s coming soon enough. Seems you’re getting better at getting ’em out of their clothes, at least.”
Elarn coughed out a laugh. “Legit medical work usually does. Helps if you’re not interested in the landsc
ape, either.”
“About that …” Fismar looked over his shoulder to assure no one was listening. “Been meaning to mention, these Outer boys got a thing with flips. Definitely don’t approve. Do me a favor, watch what you say around them.” He winked. “And don’t climb on any of ’em.”
Elarn rolled his eyes, his prominent ridge brow exaggerating the gesture. “Whatever. Not my types.” He looked down at the digipad, his mouth moving uncertainly. “There is one other thing.”
“Yeah?”
Elarn took a deep breath. “They didn’t remove those gills of hers. They couldn’t. I ran through the specs after my first exam here—those gills are for more than just gathering oxygen under water; they’re tied into her nervous system, among other things. Cover them? Sure. Remove them? She’d die.”
“So you’re telling me that’s fake, that skin?” Fismar asked, pointing at the site of Ama’s dathe on his own neck.
“Synthetic. Top of the line but, yeah, fake. Everything’s intact underneath.”
“You said she’d die if they were removed, so why doesn’t she know that?” Fismar said.
“She’s a primitive. Not an insult, just stating the facts. These Kenda don’t understand concepts as simple as bacteria and antibiotics. Advanced physiology?” Elarn shook his head.
“Point taken. But the skin’s fake, so it can come off?”
“Surgically? Sure. I could do it easily enough, but that’s not my call.”
“And without surgery?”
“It would sting, no doubt about that. The dermal polymer adhesive connecting the prosthetics to her own skin is designed to hold under every condition. It would be like ripping off a fresh scab, except there wouldn’t be any real damage beyond some tenderness around the connection site. Anyway, whoever did this went to a lot of trouble to make it look real, and I didn’t think I should tell her, just in case the boss has orders to leave it.”
“Good thinking.”
Elarn stuffed the digipad into his med kit. “Anything else you need before I go?”
“Yeah. You, me, we need to talk,” Fismar said, punctuating his words with finger gestures.
Elarn set his kit down. “About?”
“We need a medical here. Full-time. This weekly thing and contingencies works right now, but soon enough we’ll need dedicated support.”
Elarn leaned against the crate. “Rates?”
“Standard going, plus meals and a roof.”
“This isn’t exactly upscale fac-housing,” Elarn said with a nod toward the warehouse.
Fismar shrugged and spread his arms. “It’s got a lot of room to grow. And we’ll be moving out soon enough.”
“Can I ask where?” Elarn asked but Fismar was shaking his head before the question was out. “Okay, one of those things,” Elarn said. “Standard terms, kit replacement, meals, and roof. I’m guessing you have the forms ready.”
“Just need your thumb on the film.”
“Comes to this.” Elarn looked around the battered building once more.
“It’ll get better. Trust me on that.” Fismar whipped his head around to the entryway.
A muscular trooper approached, blood oozing from a cut over a freshly swollen eye.
“Okay, Helfas, what happened?” Fismar asked reprovingly. Helfas straightened up, dropping his arms to his side.
“Trooper Dibeld told me to report myself for unsafe procedures on the firing line leading to a field reprimand,” he said.
“Firing line procedures are set stone-hard for a reason, Helfas. Be glad you’re bleeding from a punch instead of one of your squad mates leaking out from the guts. Next time it damn well could be. Clear?”
“Clear, Training Lieutenant!” He swayed, exhausted even by the exertion of his reply.
Fismar looked back at Elarn. “I’ve got work to do, and now so do you.”
The two squads were mixed together and paired off. Ama stood to one side, watching from the shadows. The men were going through sets of moves with fake knives. Each lunge and stab took Ama back to the training room, the smell of her own sweat and the feel of Flurianne’s blood on her hands.
I’ll never be free if I can’t beat this.
With a steadying breath, she forced herself not to turn and run, but that was as far as she could push it. She kept her eyes on young Tirnich, as he practiced with his even younger partner, Slopper. Both were no more than boys, particularly Slopper, who had grown to his full height well ahead of his muscles.
The two attacked and defended earnestly but always finished with a laugh or a smile for each other. She envied them—and feared for them, too.
Tirnich called for a break, then looked over Slopper’s shoulder and caught Ama’s eye. “Captain, you want to—”
Ama felt blood pound in her ears. She turned abruptly in the direction of her bunk.
Two steps forward, Fismar appeared. She stopped in place, unable to move, waiting for the pain she had been conditioned to expect for disobedience.
“I’ll be working with Ama,” Fismar told Tirnich. He retrieved a practice knife from the floor and tossed it to her.
The weapon in her hand was for training, not designed for any real harm, but the shape and the weight of it brought bile to Ama’s throat.
“I don’t think …” She spoke with her eyes cast down, her voice barely reaching Fismar before fading entirely.
“Put that one away, then.” Fismar reached down and tugged a real blade from his boot. The wear on the handle indicated that it had seen significant use, but the matte black of the huchack-fiber blade looked as new as if it had just come from the manufactory. “Use this.” He offered the knife hilt-first.
The sick feeling washed over her and Ama had to look away. “I’m tired.”
“Take the weapon, Kalder. Now.”
With a trembling hand, she did as ordered. At the sensation of the hilt against her palm, she felt as if the blood were draining from her body. She held it out awkwardly, eyes on Fismar, body cemented in place. Waiting.
“I’ve seen you use a blade in a fight. You know how to do this.”
Ama nodded but the action was merely automatic. Fismar didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. She glanced quickly over her shoulders, searching. Where was Shan? She would know, Shan would tell Fismar she wasn’t ready and get her out of here. Get her somewhere safe.
But all Ama saw were other Kenda, training, fighting, a few sneaking glances in her direction.
To watch the shape-shifting demon.
She nodded again, and stepped back in imitation of the fighting stance she had seen Tirnich use. After a series of deep breaths she raised the knife. Then she froze in place. The blade tumbled from her fingers. There was a muted clatter and she turned to run.
Fismar darted around her and cut off her escape path. His face hovered inches from hers, moving as she moved, maintaining the intrusion on her space. “Running, Kalder? Is that what you’re going to do when the time comes? Abandon the unit? Abandon your family? Is that what you are now?”
“I’m not ready.”
“I’m your enemy right now,” Fismar said. “I don’t care if you’re ready. I don’t care if you had a bad day, or a bad week, or if you’re completely karged out of your head. You’re in my way and my job is to put you down. You gonna make that easy for me?”
“Let me go.”
Fismar grasped her left hand and leaned closer, their noses almost bumping.
“Make me, Outer.”
Ama tried to yank her hand away but Fismar held it fast.
“Let me go!”
Fismar’s grip was iron-hard and his face stayed a finger’s length from hers, his eyes glaring an accusation as he pressed closer. As much as she struggled, Ama couldn’t break free and Fismar’s fing
ers tightened until she could no longer feel her hand.
“GET OFF ME!” She pushed against his chest with her free hand.
Fismar sidestepped in a lightning-quick motion, twisted Ama’s arm and yanked it up between her shoulder blades. Using her trapped arm, he directed her back to the mat where she had dropped the knife. “Pick it up.” He forced her to bend forward.
She scooped up the knife but Fismar jerked her upright again, snatched it out of her hand, and pressed the blade to her throat.
Ama looked up to see all the men staring at the scene.
“What’s your name?” Fismar demanded, digging the blade against her flesh.
The question sent Ama back to the training room, to Gressam’s inquisitions. She knew what the wrong answer would mean. Her body stiffened.
“This caj is called Siara.”
“Wrong!” Fismar raised his knife hand and flicked, slicing across Ama’s throat.
Ama gasped, the watching Kenda were no longer silent.
“Back off, Squad Leader Wyan,” Fismar ordered.
The wiry Kenda appeared from behind Fismar and took a few steps back.
“You see any blood?” Fismar demanded, nodding to the spot where he had sliced Ama’s neck.
Wyan and the rest of the men shook their heads, tense but unsure. There were more whispers of O’scuri.
Fismar tossed the knife to the ground. He dug his fingers into Ama’s neck, working them around the sliced skin, as the watching crowd shifted uneasily.
“What are you doing?” Ama thrashed to free herself. “Stop!”
Fismar held her fast. His fore and middle fingers probed and clawed, and then he yanked his hand away in a quick snap.
“Nen’s death!” someone in the crowd shouted.
Ama felt a burning sting and cried out. Fismar released his hold and spun her to face him.
In his hand, he held a ragged flap of her skin. She raised her hands to her neck, shaking. She felt no blood, only—
Air. Her dathe. She felt the air on her dathe. Her jaw hung open as she touched the thin slits of skin that Gressam had taken from her.
Warp World Page 27
