Warp World

by Kristene Perron

  Her legs gave out. She dropped to her knees, running her fingertips over and over the newly freed skin.

  Then Fismar was crouched in front of her, speaking in a voice that was low but firm. “They can tell you you’re worthless, they can change your name, they can change your skin, they can—” He held up the piece of false skin. “They can cover up everything that makes you who you are, but they only win if you let them.”

  He threw the limp piece of fake flesh to one side.

  “Go on,” he said.

  She pulled at the loose flaps that remained until one side of her dathe was completely free.

  Trembling, Ama moved her fingers to the other side of her neck. With both hands, she used the new, long nails to carve and saw into the thick, false skin, prying it up until she had enough of a grip to tear. In a swift, hard motion, she tore away the other patch, remaining silent as the pain seared her. She sucked air in through her teeth but it was already fading. Just as quickly, she tugged off the remaining, ragged pieces.

  Free. Her dathe were free. She tilted her head back, sucking in air as her bottom lip quivered. She knelt, blinking at the ceiling, unable to believe what had just happened.

  Around her, she heard the murmurs of the men. Now they whispered Kiera Nen, as they had done at the temple.

  “What’s your name?” Fismar whispered.

  “Ama.” She wiped her face; her jaw was set.

  “You ready to fight now, Ama?”

  She lowered her eyes to his and, in the motion, felt something fall away from her. Something else moved into its place, something ice cold and vengeful.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Prove it.”

  In this new state, Ama’s body moved of its own will. As if from a distance, she watched herself turn, stride to where Fismar had tossed the knife, and scoop up the weapon. Her fingers shifted to find a comfortable grip on the hilt that was at once unfamiliar and second nature. She didn’t step into the fighting stance; her knife hand hung at her side, loosely, the way she had once held her seft.

  “Good,” Fismar said. “Come at me.”

  Ama lunged; Fismar deflected the blow and then called her forward again. She repeated the motion several times and each time he easily avoided her, redirecting her strikes.

  “Out of practice, but not bad. Now I’ll show you how to do it properly.” He raised his chin and spoke for the benefit of the ogling troops. “First lesson: let your opponent do the work for you. Energy, what do we do with it?”

  “Take theirs, make it ours!” the men shouted.

  “Exactly. We don’t fight harder, we fight smarter. We direct our enemy’s momentum and use it as our weapon.”

  At his words, Ama realized that Fismar wasn’t breathing hard, hadn’t even broken a sweat. She had attacked in earnest, but he had moved her around as easily as she might have directed the skins of her boat to catch the wind. Harnessing energy.

  At the thought of her boat, she raised a hand to the side of her neck where her dathe breathed freely once more.

  “One more thing about all this,” Fismar continued. “I’m not teaching you how to take somebody’s knife away here. I’m teaching you how to stick people with knives. Out in the World and beyond, you see somebody coming at you with a knife, you shoot the parentless karger. I see any of you trying to hand-disarm a bastard with a knife, I’ll chop up whatever bits they leave of you. That clear?”

  The Kenda shouted back their reply.

  It surprised Ama to see how far the men had come since she had last seen them. She shifted her hand to her collar and this time she didn’t lower it. She ran her fingers along the edge, the unyielding material that marked her as property, and felt her brows cinch together and her molars clamp down.

  “Alright, quit standing around and get back to work!” Fismar yelled. “Kalder, over here.” He pointed to the spot in front of him as the others fell into pairs behind them.

  “Gonna have to tell the boss about that.” He jerked his chin to indicate Ama’s freed dathe. “Blame’s all mine, so are the consequences, understood?”

  Ama nodded.

  He pointed to the knife in her hand.

  “That’s a Voyagen combat blade, fiber-weave with eversharp edge. Or so they claim. It has characteristic huchack-fiber toxicity, which means if you even nick ’em the flesh will start to rot away around the wound periphery. Put it in the innards and, unless they get quick medical, they’re done. Got it when I graduated from the academy.”

  “It’s a good knife,” Ama said.

  “It is. And now it’s yours, so earn it.”

  Progress. Fismar crossed his arms and surveyed the warehouse. In one corner, Manatu was teaching Prow’s squad to use the weapons that had arrived just three nights earlier. In a little less than ten weeks he had done his best to rub out the primitive mumbo jumbo about technology and magic that these men had been drilled on all their lives. From what he saw now, his efforts had been mostly successful and the men were making a fair enough showing for their first time with a chack.

  Viren’s squad had already run through the weapons and Fismar was pleased to see they had at least one natural, Swinson, in their ranks.

  A loud crash drew his attention to the remaining two squads. Viren and Cerd were supposed to be running a combat exercise through today’s crate maze, one squad against the other, with the new electronic harnesses used to mark injuries and kills.

  As Fismar walked toward the commotion, his ears cocked. A faint smile traced itself on his face. He wasn’t surprised at what he found: another squabble between Viren and Cerd’s squads. Nor was he surprised that the troops, so caught up in their ongoing rivalry, failed to notice his approach.

  Two men hurled insults about sisters and mothers, questions of manhood and lineage. Cerd was first to intervene, stepping forward to put a hand on his man’s shoulder.

  “Step away, brother,” Cerd said. “Control your men, Viren. There’ll be another fight another day.”

  “Did we bruise your trooper’s feelings, Cerd?” Viren said. Around him, his men paced. All dressed in the new training harnesses, all with lights blinking orange to indicate they were dead. Keer kicked a heavy crate and sent it tumbling.

  “Take your failure like men,” Cerd said.

  Swinson appeared at Viren’s side. “Mother-rutting son of a whore! I’ll show you how I take my failure!”

  The rest of Viren’s squad shouted their encouragement.

  Cerd cocked his head. “Keep shouting, see how far it gets you. In a real fight, you and everyone in your unit would be dead after this, Swinson. And that’s what matters.”

  “Better to die with honor than live as a traitor,” Viren quipped.

  “You question my—”

  “Training Lieutenant!” one of Cerd’s troopers yelled, as they finally noticed Fismar. Swinson’s mouth slammed closed as everyone slid into presentation.

  Fismar appraised the men standing in formation in front of him. “Seems you troops have some aggression to work out. Viren, your squad rotates with Wyan’s for hand-to-hand. Cerd, your troops move to the firing line. Cerd, Viren, with me.”

  Inside the small, dusty room he called bunk and office, Fismar gestured to a pair of chairs. When Viren and Cerd took their seats, he began. “You heard the Theorist talk about our mission. Now, what he didn’t say is that the clock is set on this: thirty-three days, Storm allowing. So we’re going to finalize our command structure now and move forward with a hard training pace, get everyone acclimated with the gear and ready to operate.”

  Cerd glanced at Viren, then nodded at Fismar.

  “Thirty-three days?” Viren let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “And I was worried we wouldn’t have adequate time to prepare and make peace with Nen for our inevitable deaths.”
/>   “Bilge humor,” Cerd said. “Talk like that doesn’t help us.”

  “Humor?” Viren raised a hand to his heart. “I’m surprised you know that word, Cerd.”

  “Enough,” Fismar said. “I’ve given you two children a free ride with this feud of yours because I thought after your asses had been run into the ground hard enough you’d start using that energy more productively. Guess I gave you too much credit.”

  “Apologies, Training Lieutenant. I—”

  “I don’t want your kargin’ apologies, Cerd. Your little war with Viren is tearing this unit in two. It stops now. You take away unity you might as well shoot every one of your deckies in the head, right now. Understood?”

  At the men’s contrite replies, Fismar continued. “Cerd, as of this moment, you’re my second in command. Viren, you’re third.”

  Cerd nodded soberly and pressed his lips together.

  Viren dipped his head slightly in acquiescence, though there was a hard glint in his eyes. “Congratulations, Mascom,” he said to Cerd, with no goodwill in his tone.

  “Give us a minute, Cerd,” Fismar said.

  Viren snapped off a jaunty salute as Cerd exited, then he turned his face to Fismar, his trademark grin in place. “This is where you tell me what a bad boy I am, I assume?”

  Fismar sat on the edge of the rickety desk, put together from scrap. “No. This is where I tell you that being third in line means you’re two lucky shots away from inheriting all this, and you damn well better step up your production to be worthy of it. You’re a natural, but you work your kargin’ mouth more than you work your brain.”

  He gestured toward the training area from which they had departed. “This whole unit could be yours very damn quickly. If that happens then you are going to be responsible for every life here, and more besides. You’ll have to answer to the boss, take the objectives he gives you and make them into functional targets that can be achieved. Or tell him that, in your very respectful opinion, it’s karging insane and you recommend against it. And then be ready to carry out his orders anyway, if that’s how he wants it. Right now, Cerd is more ready to handle that than you are, but you need to get it together and take responsibility for this entire unit and not just your cronies. Am I clear?”

  Viren rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin and nodded. “I’m a scoundrel, but I’m loyal to my deckies. Even that one.” He jerked a thumb to indicate Cerd. “Permission to speak freely, Lieutenant?”

  “Talk.”

  “Watch your stern with Cerd. I trust Brin. If he sent him along, he had his reasons. But the man has a past.”

  Fismar gave Viren a tight grin. “You’re all a bunch of killers and cutthroats. And that’s not an insult. That’s the war you were fighting. But from now on you back him and you back me. Same goes for Cerd with you. And if I see either of you karging that I will bounce you. Not just out of command, I will bounce you straight out of the Guard. And there ain’t a lot of other forms of employment around here.”

  “Understood.”

  Fismar grabbed Viren’s shoulder. “I put you in Third because I trust you to do the right thing.” He glowered as Viren opened his mouth. “Don’t say it. Don’t ruin the karging moment, you idiot. C’mon, let’s go meet your troops.”

  Shan nudged Elarn in the ribs as the Outers fell into formation beside them. “Hear you signed on full time?”

  Elarn’s face remained dark, blank, as Fismar called everyone to attention.

  “Alright, the squad leaders have been given the training timetable,” Fismar said. “We’re going to get a short period to acclimate to the new equipment, so we’re going to push hard. Our chain of command is finalized; Cerd will be my second in command, what you call Mascom, with Viren pulling third, or Subcom. Welkin handles air support in attachment; she’s an officer but not in the line of command. Elarn is now our full-time medical; he has authority over all med-related business.”

  “Welcome to Crazy Town, Med,” Shan whispered.

  Fismar looked at the Outers, eyes skimming from face to face. “I don’t care where you came from. There’s no more Secat, no more docks, no more of any of that. We’re going into a hard place, and every man in this unit backs every other man against any world we end up on. Clear?”

  “Yes, Training Lieutenant!” the crowd shouted back in unison.

  Shan looked over at Viren and whispered, “Only Third, huh? Shocking, you’re such a model leader, Big Mouth.”

  Viren offered her an expression of abject misery. “Shocking indeed. I am heartbroken, in need of consolation and the healing power of a woman’s touch.”

  “Shove your consolation up your—”

  “Welkin!” Fismar glared cold daggers at her.

  “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

  “Cerd, Viren, get the units back on their training rotations. Feed at the usual time, meet me then. Welkin, with me.” Fismar pivoted on his heel and walked away.

  Shan shot Viren one more glare before following Fismar. “Can’t believe you even made that joker a Third. You going soft, Fis?”

  Once they were far enough from the crowd, Fismar whirled around. “If you ever undercut leadership in this unit again, I will bounce you, Welkin. I expect these troops to learn this as they go, but you’re a raider and a professional. You go with the program or you bond out and find another job. Is that clear?”

  “Fis, that Outer’s been giving me the gears ever since we landed on that swamp world of his. I’m supposed to just roll over and take it?”

  “There’s a chain now, it’s formal. If you find Subcom Viren’s behavior inappropriate, take it up to me and don’t kick him low in front of the troops he’s leading. I’m here, now. You got a complaint, deliver it.”

  “Sure. Formal complaints on Outers, what’s next? We gonna join hands and sing together?” Shan said.

  “You wanted in. If you want out, I’ll find somebody else to run the rider. If you’re in, do this professionally and quit whining. If you want out, do it now because if this problem comes up again I’ll make the decision for you.”

  “Alright, alright,” Shan said, then pulled a digifilm from her pocket. “Anyway, I think I’ve got our entrance figured. Julewa was built with nested anti-air, missiles back to guns, so they can cover every range from short to long. Now, with the right rider and the right loadout, I can get through that and maybe give you two to three close passes before I take you in through the front door. And I do mean the front door. Only way. Whatever hidden tunnels they’ve got, we didn’t pick them up on the scans. Etiphars have been ready for a rider fleet to come in for over a century now, so you got to figure the landing pad is zeroed from every angle, and the power plant is buried on the third level, so you can’t knock it offline without getting in deep.” She tapped the screen and held it up for Fis to inspect. “We put down on the old flight deck. Only two entry points as far as I can make out, so that limits what they can send out at you, at least.”

  Fismar studied the film briefly. “We’ve got gas and grabber loadouts in some of the ordinance we’re packing. Grabbers can seize the computer system, so we can lock out the doors and lights without taking the power down. Gas warheads are there to take the defenders down, a quick-clear neuro that’ll make ’em dive into their suits. If they got suits. If not?” He grinned. “Whole idea is to level it out so that our folks can do what they do best—get close and make a mess.”

  “Thank the Storm for advanced tech,” Shan said.

  “As for the rider—”

  Fismar produced a digifilm of his own and passed it over.

  “You’re kidding me?” Shan gaped at the image. The rider looked as if a strong wind would blow it apart. “That?”

  “This isn’t a charter unit in the MRRC,” Fismar said. “Theorist’s finances have limits, even off the percentage he just pu
lled. We only need to get a training cycle out of it, and then this raid, and that’s the best fit for our budget.”

  “Well, it’s not like I’ve got any options anymore, I guess. Part of the greatest raid in the history of raids and this is where I end up. I can fly it, if it runs, but it won’t be pretty.”

  “Boss ain’t paying for pretty, he’s paying for functional. Makes him better than most. You ship in two days to inspect the rider.”

  “It’s going to need work. I’ll need a spare set of hands. Okay if I take Kalder?”

  Fismar rocked back on his heels, hand against his chin as he considered the risks. “Boss has the Wellies watching him hard. She’s safest here—out of sight. Specially since I helped unwrap her.” He gestured to his neck, to indicate Ama’s revealed dathe.

  “Then give me one of the other Out— ah, troopers, I mean.”

  “Damn it, Welkin. I’m training them up to function as units. I can’t pull one out to play caj for you now. Alright, you can take her. With a warning.” He pointed a finger directly at Shan. “One problem, one, and—”

  “I know, I know … bounce.”

  “Yep. As for what the boss will do? I hope you’re not too attached to your limbs.”

  “Cute.” She placed both her palms on the small of her back and cocked her head at Fismar. “We’re really doing this, huh? Thirty-three days? You sure they’ll be ready?”

  “Training doesn’t make anybody ready. It just makes it less bad. Keep that one to yourself, but you, Elarn, and Manatu are the only raider veterans I have here and I need you to help me prep them for this. We’re going to win—believe that. How ugly we win? That’s the question.”

  The lights were out in the small sleeping quarters, but Ama was wide awake. For the first night since she had returned to the warehouse, Shan had left her alone to sleep. It should have made her feel better, knowing that Shan believed she was well enough not to need her company, but now she couldn’t sleep if she tried. Every noise was a threat. Every shadow was someone coming to haul her away to the processing training room.