Warp World

by Kristene Perron

  Their eyes met as the crowd roared around them, the off-duty raiders in their hodge-podge medley of utility overalls and mixed uniforms roaring all the louder. Seg heard nothing as he reached out his hands. The raider reciprocated the gesture, his metallic limbs extending slowly between the bodies around him. Cold metal fingers wrapped around Seg’s palms as the crowd exploded into an even higher frenzy.

  “Whatever you need, Theorist,” the raider said, shouting to be heard. “Anytime. Just say the word.”

  “What’s your name?” Seg asked.

  A soft-gloved hand grasped him from behind, immaculately-tailored arms gently, insistently, pulled him back toward the party, toward the world of Haffset.

  “Arel!” the raider called. “Arel Trant.”

  Seg smiled as the Haffset security led him away from the crowd and toward the entrance. “I know you, Arel Trant!” he yelled over the din of the crowd, then disappeared behind his protectors.

  Haven’t we met before? Segkel asked the woman thrusting the voice amp at his face.

  Jarin repressed a flinch at his protégé’s abysmal public relations skills, as he watched the Victory Commemoration entrance proceedings on Haffset’s obscenely large wallscreen.

  The wallscreen was new, a reflection of the post-raid wealth raining down upon the Haffsets. It was positioned only for the benefit of those high-ranking guests allowed access to the upper level of the main house. Most enjoyed the privilege of the second floor for the luxury of space provided. Jarin, however, chose this location because the long balcony was a perfect monitoring point for those coming and going below, and the wallscreen let him track the proceedings outside.

  “Our very same Theorist,” the House Master, Soumer Haffset, said. He reached the top of the stairs, followed by three serving caj. “Another drink, Theorist Svestil? We procured some interesting vintages during the raid.”

  Jarin glanced away from the screen and nodded. He took a small sip, then wrinkled his nose.

  “I know, ghastly sweet stuff.” Haffset made a face. “Praffa wine, the Outers called it. My children are completely enamored of it, though. Along with a certain ambitious young woman of the Theorist’s acquaintance.”

  “Oh, so, she is attending this evening?” Jarin peered down to the swarming crowd of guests below.

  “Of course.”

  “Well, Segkel has handled her in the past, I am sure he will fare equally well this evening.”

  The image on the screen shifted focus, following Segkel as he abandoned Psalit Finsh, the vis-entertainer who had been posing with him. Jarin stepped toward the rail that separated him from the display. He watched as Segkel approached a section of the crowd, off-duty raiders judging by their mismatched, well-worn military apparel.

  Jarin glanced away from the screen again, drawn by a motion to his left. A herd of immaculately dressed functionaries was heading his way. Clean-cut, stiff uniforms of black and silver—he knew who they were affiliated with before they parted in front of Jarin to reveal the man standing in their center.

  “Jarin,” Director Adirante Fi Costk said, with the icy expression Jarin knew so well. “A pleasure, as always.” Just as Jarin did, Fi Costk kept his eyes focused on the action on the wallscreen. The cries of Er-ar-a-nat! echoed both from the speakers and, more faintly, from outside the walls.

  “Adi.” Jarin lifted his glass slightly. “Have you tried the wine?”

  “I don’t partake these days. As well you know. You realize there is no other living Person who calls me Adi now.”

  “Does it bother you?” Jarin asked.

  “If it did, you would simply use it more often. I regard it as the affectation of a man who, much like his Guild, is an artifact of times past, scrabbling to retain some scrap of relevance in a modern World.”

  On the screen, Segkel clasped hands with one of the raiders. A shocking gesture among the People, with their rigid social rules regarding acceptable physical contact between classes.

  Jarin took another sip. “You should know that these things run in cycles.”

  Fi Costk turned toward the screen just as Haffset security pried Segkel away from the crowd. “The light of the Guild is fading, Jarin, and its leading lights will soon be snuffed out.”

  The roar from the crowd had increased again and the image on the screen vibrated as the viscam operator attempted to keep up with the evening’s star.

  Jarin’s hand clenched his glass, his knuckles whitening. He leaned toward Fi Costk’s ear, dropping his voice to a whisper. “It is my intuition that that young man will outlive both of us, in body and name, Adi.”

  Down on the lower level, the voice of the House Accountancy echoed through the room. “Theorist Segkel Eraranat of the Cultural Theorist’s Guild!”

  Fi Costk turned toward Jarin, his eyes bearing down as he loomed over him. “We will see.”

  Director Fi Costk turned away abruptly and marched back to his entourage. Like a well-trained herd, they rearranged themselves around him as he stalked away.

  Jarin turned back to Haffset, who had remained close at hand during the exchange, “Thank you.”

  “I wouldn’t let anyone face that bastard alone,” Haffset said, his voice prudently low.

  “I shouldn’t think you would care to support me,” Jarin said.

  “After you extorted me into rescuing your student, you mean? That was a maneuver I can respect, and the legend of Eraranat has paid many dividends for my House, so it all worked out in the end. That one—” He nodded in the direction of the departing Fi Costk. “—will consume everything if he is not stopped. You and he are a similar kind of animal, Svestil, but he’s the one who tried to steal my House and make me into his virtual caj. For the moment, that makes us allies.”

  “Allies, then. It is my nature to see that allies are rewarded for their fidelity, House Master.”

  “It is also your nature to see your enemies destroyed.” Haffset smiled. “We understand each other perfectly, Theorist. If you’ll pardon me …” He gestured down to the entrance, where Segkel was being besieged by a pack of admirers. “I must rescue your student once more.”

  “Of course,” Jarin said. He deposited his glass on a waiting tray and headed for a quiet corner. Though he would keep an eye on the proceedings, this was Segkel’s evening. The best gift he could offer his protégé was his absence.

  Inside the grand entry hall of the Haffset main house, a shapely young woman had latched onto Seg and seemed determined to claim him exclusively. She was dressed in a clingy suit of the finest huchack fabric, which showed enough flesh to place it at the very edge of acceptable for this stratum of society.

  “I’m sure our House Marshal has already contacted you.” The woman pushed closer to him, as the circling crowd swelled. “But I told my father he’s never going to get the attention of Theorist Eraranat over the comm. When I’m House Master—and I am directly in line for the position—I will take a more unortho path. You’ve inspired me.”

  “I am sure you will be most successful.” Seg could not recall which House she was bragging about. Major or Minor? And what was her name? Polz? He was, however, very aware of her physical closeness.

  With the number of guests vying for his attention, Manatu had to fight to stay near Seg’s side. Ama and Lissil had been forced to back away. Seg craned his neck to spot Ama; thankfully Lissil’s extravagant costume made that simple.

  The woman at his side slipped a minifilm into Seg’s hand, letting her fingers linger longer than necessary. “That’s my personal comm. You must promise to come tour our estate.”

  He glanced at the film—Poliz Brennan. Major House, naturally, given her brashness. “I’ll do my best, but I can make no promises. We have a lot of procedural work, and then it’s on to the next raid. You know how it goes.”

  Of course she did
not know, and never would, but then very few of those present ever would. He let the crowd pull him away. The smells of liquor, food, and perfume overwhelmed his nostrils. Someone thrust a drink into his hand. His name and title were on dozens of lips. Hands beckoned, minifilms were offered, and suddenly he wanted a weapon. A chack or, better yet, the heavy needler he had carried at the Temple. Even a blade would do. Anything to clear this mob away.

  “BEHOLD, THE GODS HAVE RETURNED!” A voice boomed and all heads turned. The crowd parted at the sight of Haffset’s House Master and this unusual bluster. He stood on the top stair, looming over the crowd. Another wonder: a smile spread wide across the stern man’s face at his reenactment of Seg’s now-famous battle scene. “Honored guests,” Haffset said, and his voice returned to a normal tone, “I am afraid I must steal Theorist Eraranat away. Thirty-second Virtue of a Citizen: Guard your assets!”

  He gestured for Seg to join him on the upper level as the crowd reluctantly backed away. Manatu nodded to indicate he would collect Ama and Lissil, and Seg climbed the stairs to meet his host.

  “Another minute and I would have had to send a gunship in to extract you. Again.” Haffset laughed.

  Seg glanced down at the mob. “There’s still time. I could herd them into the fire zone nicely.” He raised his palm in greeting.

  Haffset pressed his hand to Seg’s with a jovial laugh, then pulled a minifilm from his pocket and dropped it into Seg’s. “My private comm, before I forget. As valuable as any trinket you’ll see tonight and—unlike Poliz Brennan’s private comm—rarely shared.”

  “I’m honored, House Master.”

  “You should be. Svestil warned me this event would be challenging for you. I promised I would make the process as effortless as possible. But, Theorist, you couldn’t expect me to hold a Victory Commemoration without the man who single-handedly made me one of the richest Citizens on the World?”

  “Due respect, House Master, but the People who brought you this victory are outside the doors, not inside.”

  Haffset was silent for a moment, then actually placed a hand on Seg’s shoulder and squeezed. “Ah, I’d forgotten about your proclivity for speaking your mind. Yes, yes, you are so very correct, as always. Now …” He turned Seg away from the door, away from the course of the conversation, and led him over to the large wallscreen. “Come and see how frivolous I’ve been with my newly acquired wealth. I’m sure all the flapping tongues will have much to say on it when my back is turned.” He leaned in close and whispered, “Karg them. What is risk without reward?”

  Seg smiled as he accepted a drink from a caj. “Agreed, House Master.” With a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure Ama and Lissil had arrived safely, he turned his attention to the screen. It was an impressive unit, worth easily the yearly income of three working families.

  “That is just the beginning,” Haffset said. “And enough with titles. Tonight you call me Soumer.” At Seg’s nod, Haffset, who was now Soumer Haffset, turned to Seg’s small entourage, specifically to Lissil and Ama. “Speaking of rewards …” A wolfish grin lit up his face. “Two trophy caj? Well done, Theorist.”

  Seg forced a smile. “Only ambition and the attainment of ambition are worthy pursuits in life.”

  “Wait. Who said that?” Soumer Haffset’s face scrunched as he dug into his memory. “Aimaz? Cordray?” He threw his hands up as Seg shook his head. “The classics, bah, I did miserably in those classes. But you—” He dropped the thought as an approaching figure redirected his focus. “Ah, but here is someone you must meet!”

  Soumer placed a hand on Seg’s shoulder to guide him once more, this time toward a tall, well-dressed man with bright blue eyes and a thin smile.

  “Theorist Eraranat,” Soumer said, with a sweeping hand, “Processor Merz Gressam.”

  Seg froze in place. He knew the face; he had studied the dossier Jarin had provided him while Ama had been in processing. His hatred for the man had seemed a controllable phenomenon until this moment.

  “Processor Gressam,” he said. Though he did not return Gressam’s raised palm in greeting, merely acknowledging the man felt blasphemous.

  “Theorist Eraranat,” Gressam said, a smile creasing his features. “Has Siara performed to expectation?”

  “Who—” Seg stopped himself short, recalling at the last moment the new name Ama had been issued. “She … it has been satisfactory.”

  Lissil was closest to Seg, almost at his arm, and Manatu stood next to her. Ama was at the fringe of the procession, distant enough that she would not have been able to hear the conversation over the din of the party and the audio feed from the wallscreen.

  Gressam beamed. “Your caj was initially stubborn, but once the defenses were broken it became compliant. I trust it hasn’t embarrassed you in any way? Please remember, any corrective reeducation is free of charge.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Seg clasped his hands behind his back to hide them. They had instinctively clenched into fists.

  “I trust you’ve inspected it? Physically, that is. The induction documents specified all abnormalities and scars removed, specifically noting there were to be no marks from the sterilization procedure. I examined it thoroughly myself and found the skin flawless.”

  The gap in conversation, as he digested this new information, stretched uncomfortably. Fismar had given him a supposedly full medical report following Ama’s release but had not once mentioned this important detail. “I—yes. Flawless.”

  “I had hoped you would collect Siara in person, so that we could record an image together. I do this with all my clients.” Gressam produced a small recorder. “Would you mind?”

  Seg sucked in a breath. “I’ve had my image recorded enough this evening, Processor Gressam. Another time.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. Another time, then. Let me know if you have any further processing needs. I’m sure this caj was just the first of many.” His gaze wandered over Lissil speculatively.

  “Oh, come now, Theorist,” Soumer slapped a hand on Seg’s shoulder again. “One more recording won’t hurt. Perhaps if you agree to this, Processor Gressam may see fit to offer a discount on the property I’ve sent to him?” He spread his arms and gestured for Seg and Gressam to come together.

  Seg shifted his gaze to Soumer and felt the discs in his neck click as he nodded.

  “We’ll need your caj, too, Theorist,” Soumer said. “Come now, on your knees in front.”

  For a second Seg worried that Ama would pass out. She stood rigid, her face drained of all color. But with a deep breath, eyes lowered, she made her feet move, then dropped to her knees between Gressam and him. Somehow Seg kept himself in place, his eyes forward, and his thoughts clear of the blood rage that threatened to engulf him.

  He concentrated on those lives depending on his performance tonight—the Kenda, Fismar, Shan, Manatu, Lissil, Elarn. And, above all, Ama.

  “Perfect! Perfect!” Soumer said.

  He clicked several shots before walking off with Gressam. Seg waited until he was sure they were gone before turning his attention to Ama, who remained kneeling even after the men had departed.

  “He’s gone,” Seg whispered. “Get up.”

  He watched her rise, her body trembling, and cursed his own helplessness in this place. He couldn’t even offer a hand, couldn’t show the slightest kindness, without risking her life. After he took Julewa Keep, no one would hurt her, no one would demean any of his people, ever again.

  Lissil straightened the straps of Ama’s dress and slicked down her hair where it had popped out of place.

  The Welf’s eyes were directed to the disappearing figure of Processor Gressam. Seg heard Lissil whisper, “O’scuri.” Demon.

  She grasped Ama’s hand and squeezed once before she completed her grooming.

  Seg angled to face Ama and Lissil,
with his back to the other guests. “This will be over soon.”

  The promise was meaningless. This would not be over, for him, until he could be sure Gressam would never lay his hands on any of his people. And for Ama? What had been done to her? He opened his mouth to offer more empty words of comfort but stopped at the sound of a voice from his past.

  “Hero of the People? Is that how I am to address you now, brother?”

  Seg stiffened, his body reflexively arched into a defensive posture, as he had been trained in his combat classes. He corrected the motion before it became too blatant and turned slowly, sucking in a breath, for patience, as he went.

  “Surran,” he said quietly. “What are you doing here?”

  Surran raised one sculpted eyebrow. Like her brother, she was tall and lean, her face sharp and angular. She was clothed in the muted colors of the People, but her suit was impeccably tailored.

  “Segkel, honestly, I thought all that Guild schooling was supposed to make you smarter?” She turned her head slightly and tilted it to show the small band of metal fastened on the outside of her ear. “I am a member of House Haffset now, which you would know if you ever bothered to answer your comm or return your messages.”

  “I looked at a few of the messages I’ve received since coming back. None of them contained anything of interest,” he said. “I do recall you paired while I was in training, but I never … well, I didn’t recall the name.”

  “Yes, I noted your absence at the ceremony. Miln, Miln Haffset is my pairmate, though I am certain that is of no interest to you.” She offered a closed-mouthed smile that popped on and off her face almost too quickly to register.

  “It would seem you chose the right House to pair into.”

  “It would seem.” Surran let the jab slide off her as she strolled closer to Lissil and Ama. She glanced up, to survey Manatu hovering nearby, and then returned her scrutiny to the women. “Trophies?” she asked Seg.