Seg turned toward the sound, raising an instinctive arm to shelter Lissil from the commotion as he deciphered the meaning.
Poliz smiled at the protective gesture she mistakenly assumed was meant for her. “It’s alright, Theorist. I think there’s some entertainment going on at the big display, that’s all. Come on.” She pulled Seg by his sleeve and led him toward the noise.
“Oh look! It’s Surran!” Poliz said.
On the stage, in the middle of the model of Alisir, Surran stood next to Soumer Haffset, who held a small voice amp. Between both of them, Ama knelt. Naked.
“… a real sea creature, and a princess! I had no idea Theorist Eraranat was hiding this treasure from everyone,” Soumer said.
Seg’s eyes widened. He shook off Poliz and started forward, but a new hand grabbed his arm, and a thumb dug in on the nerve at the notch of his elbow.
“Stay put,” Jarin hissed in his ear. As Seg halted, Jarin spoke again. Loudly, this time. “Impressive celebration. Haffset has outdone himself, don’t you agree?” His tone was breezy, in direct contrast to the steel in his fingers. Jarin looked toward Poliz. “If you will excuse us, Mer Brennan, I need to speak to my colleague.”
Poliz opened her mouth to protest until her eyes fell on the Guild insignia on Jarin’s uniform. “Of course, Theorist.” She left with an unhappy swish.
“Let me go, Jarin, I’m—”
“Smiling and enjoying the festivities.” This time, the lightness of Jarin’s words was underlined with warning. “And now, I’ve said something very witty and we’re both amused by it.” At that, he let loose a laugh just big enough to be noticed and pressed his thumb once more against Seg’s elbow.
Seg opened his mouth as if he would follow suit but just then the crowd parted well enough for him to see what was happening.
Surran pointed to the water tank.
“Ama …” Seg tried to break free but Jarin had obviously anticipated the move and clung even tighter.
“Ama is caj.” Jarin’s voice came in a harsh whisper. He continued, a sharp pinch accompanying each phrase. “You’ll enjoy the show, just like every other Citizen. Laugh when they laugh, applaud when they applaud. It is bad enough that the CWA’s prosthetics were tampered with, but you may be able to salvage the situation if you act appropriately. You’re proud of your trophy and you’ll show that pride. And nothing else.”
There was a collective gasp from the crowd as Ama climbed into the tank. Miniature boats bobbed in the waves she created. The House Master stepped back to the edge of the platform, as if he were afraid he might be pulled into the foul liquid.
“I’m going to end this.” Seg tugged against Jarin’s hold.
“Interrupt this and you bring disaster down upon both of you, and all you care for,” Jarin said. “The House Master will join those who are aligned against you. The Council would denounce you rather than agitate one of our few remaining allies. You, and all you value, will be destroyed.”
“Jarin,” Seg said, an edge of desperation in his voice.
“I despise this as much as you do, but we are trapped in the moment. Show no weakness, Segkel.”
Seg’s breath snorted audibly in and out through his nose as he fought to collect himself.
As he watched Ama on the stage, he saw none of the joy and confidence she had displayed in the waters of her own world. This wasn’t the woman who had dived from the top of her mast into an untamed river. The tank was barely big enough to fit her and she sunk into it slowly, with the reluctance of a wild animal being herded into a pen.
“This is too much.” Seg kept his voice low but he wasn’t about to put on the false joviality Jarin insisted on.
“You would rather see her dead? Because that is exactly what will happen if you give them the slightest reason to question your behavior toward property.” Jarin smiled benignly as he spoke, and joined the crowd in another gasp of wonder as Ama’s head lowered beneath the water.
She was spread out in an awkward crouch, hands pressed to the glass. At that moment, a serving caj, directed by Surran, stepped onto the platform. As big as Manatu, the caj lowered one leg into the tank and found a foothold to one side of Ama. The other foot came down onto her back, not with any great force but with enough weight to pin her in place.
A mixture of laughter and applause rippled through the crowd.
The longer Ama remained beneath the water, breathing through her dathe, the louder the exclamations of the crowd. They seemed oblivious to the fact that the girl in the tank was in no danger from the man above her. She could stay submerged for hours. On her world, she would have been perfectly content in the element his People feared. But Surran had played to the People’s vanity and their desire to see the savage conquered. The People above all.
“Tell me something, brother,” Surran called out to Seg, gesturing to Ama. “With such a fine catch, do you plan to stuff and mount it?”
“Laugh and nod,” Jarin whispered to Seg. “Do it.”
Seg forced a smile, but couldn’t bring himself to fake a laugh. He nodded instead, inwardly wishing death on all those taking pleasure in Ama’s ridicule. It was not until he envisioned turning the heavy needler loose on this crowd of applauding animals that a laugh finally emerged.
A serving caj held out a tray to Surran and she plucked off a glass, raising it high. “To Theorist Eraranat, hero of the People!”
As the toast was made, Ama climbed out of the tank. An attending caj passed her cloths to dry herself. No privacy was offered, though no one was paying much attention to her anymore. The show was over. Her hair, which Lissil had so artfully fixed, was plastered to her head. The paint on her face ran down in streaks. Ama dressed quickly and cleaned her face but, when she was done, there was a slump to her shoulders.
In the years since Seg had left the family home, Surran, it seemed, had perfected the art of humiliation.
Seg handed his empty glass to a serving caj and moved toward his sister. Jarin followed at his side, watching.
“The controller.” Seg stuck out his hand as he arrived at the water display’s back side.
“Of course.” Despite the little laugh, there was an edge to Surran’s voice. “Your property is intact, as promised.” She put a heavy emphasis on property.
A loud chime sounded and the evening meal was announced.
“Perfect timing.” Surran beckoned Seg away from the scene.
He didn’t move, even with both Surran and Jarin waiting and staring expectantly. Lissil stepped up to him and spoke quietly.
“Go. Please. I’ll look after her.”
Seg let his eyes thank Lissil, then swallowed down another swell of anger as he carried on with his duty.
The Haffset dinner was as filled with protocol as any other facet of the People’s lives. Separated by status, Seg was surrounded by the uppermost social tier, about forty guests. The long, circular tables were arranged much as they had been in the raid planning room, with an inner and outer ring. In the center of it all, was a small stage. On one wall, a screen now displayed a glowing blue template awaiting auction bids—from both those in the room and those watching, via viscam feed, in the smaller dining chambers on the lower level.
Nearly two hundred People, well-fed and drunk on both liquor and luxury, waited for another tradition to unfold, for the raid’s Theorist to open the auction.
Seg stepped up to the voice amp with his digifilm clutched in his hand. Behind him shuffled an emaciated example of the Shasir priesthood. Likely the man had once stood tall in his robes and colored lights; now he sagged beneath their weight. Angry, inflamed skin encircled the newly-implanted control graft on the back of his head.
As Seg stared at the digifilm in his hand, the characters danced and refused to form coherent words. The silence of the room pressed on him. “Having acco
unted for and presented my own claims,” he said at last, with a half-hearted gesture toward Ama and Lissil, “I now present to you the spoils of Eraranat 001. The vita has been tabulated, the acquisitions accounted for, and now the—” His voice faltered. “Now the fine, hearty caj stock of the Shasir, Damiar, and Welf are yours for the buying.”
A titter ran through the audience at his hesitant speech. Apparently, they thought he had overindulged in the liquid spoils of the raid before the ceremonial first sale. If only his senses were that dulled.
“For sale now, one of the self-proclaimed overlords of this degenerate world. The Shasir …” He paused again as he recognized his own words, written under the shelter of a tree, his initial notes on the alien society he had been studying. “… a depraved class of techno-shamans, fraudulent tricksters who used primitive technology to impress their fellow barbarians.”
Words from a lifetime ago, for an enemy he had barely known at the time.
“Now, broken, grafted, and processed by the famed Merz Gressam—” The film gave a cue for him to indicate Gressam in the audience, but he ignored it. “—this humbled savage awaits you to direct its fate. It is pliant and will perform any task as directed, with proper and heartfelt obedience. A trophy of the most profitable raid of several lifetimes. Who enters a bid to own this caj?”
This class of People did nothing so crass as to shout their bids. Instead, hasty entries onto the provided bidding films displayed on the screen behind him. Suddenly a gasp ran through the room and all the hands ceased tapping. Seg turned; the number displayed staggered him.
In a single bid, the almost certainly winning claimant had just paid out more currency than the fortune Seg had earned from his percentage of the raid. The number floated there, uncontested, as Seg waited for the orange icon on the side to stop flashing.
When that happened, Seg turned back toward the audience and read from the film once more. “This trained and docile caj, ideal trophy to the glories of the People, goes to the winning bidder.” He blinked and stared more closely. “Director Adirante Fi Costk.”
The room exploded in applause as a handler guided the Shasir from the stage.
The frail creature was led to Fi Costk, who waited for the Shasir to lower himself into the retyel. Once the old priest was prostrate, Fi Costk applied his boot so hard to the back of his head Seg feared the caj’s skull would split under the weight. The spongy crack of the Shasir’s nose breaking was audible clear to the stage. Fi Costk stood with his foot poised on the Shasir’s head.
“I seem to have broken it,” he said. “Is it too late to ask for a return?”
The crowd burst into laughter and applause as Fi Costk uttered the customary acceptance of service to his new caj and ordered him to rise. Seg handed the film to the regular announcer, his part in the morbid display done.
Now he would find some of that liquor.
Jarin made trivial conversation with a Charter Commander, seated on his right, but he missed nothing. His protégé’s struggle to maintain composure, Fi Costk’s calculated act of sadism, even Amadahy’s ill-concealed horror—no details escaped his notice.
Segkel collapsed into the seat next to him, swiped his full glass off the table and drank down the contents as if he had just found water in the desert. The sight made Jarin’s throat tighten.
Perhaps Maryel was correct, perhaps he had grown too fond of the boy. True or not, in this moment he did not care.
The next caj up for bid was a young Welf girl. A dizzying amount of bids flashed on the wallscreen, which Segkel did his best to ignore.
With so much attention, Jarin could offer his former student no counsel or comfort. To one who was invisible, however, his help could be freely given. He glanced past Segkel to where Amadahy knelt, one hand on the floor to steady herself, then pushed out his chair and extracted himself from conversation.
“Come along, Amadahy. There is no need for you to witness this,” Jarin whispered, and extended his hand as he approached.
Some would notice the gesture but the few present who knew him also knew of his attitude toward caj—a tolerated quirk among his peers. Those who did not know him would assume Segkel was loaning out his caj, likely for indecent purposes. This possibility did not concern him. He had information at his command, containing valuable and damaging secrets on almost every guest in the room, which would prevent undue comment beyond these walls.
As Ama let him guide her out of the chamber, her hand trembled. Away from the press of the crowd, he patted his free hand on her back. “I am sorry for all of this, child. This is the darkest side of our survival.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said.
He glanced back at the chamber, where the auction continued. “I will have you taken to a cleansing facility. Take your time and recover, but do not linger. I have to keep Segkel from getting into any more trouble.”
He raised a hand to summon one of the service caj, but she grabbed his sleeve and pulled it down. In a clandestine break with protocol, she raised her eyes to his. “Thank you, for your message. Flurianne passed it on to me.”
“It was the best I could do at the time.” Though this was true, he scarcely felt he deserved her gratitude.
“I wish I could get her out of there,” Ama whispered. Her eyes welled up and Jarin had to look away.
“As do I. Processor Gressam and his sickness, I know well.” He shook his head. In her quiet way, Arima Tas Diata—Flurianne to the uninitiated—exercised more bravery than all the raiders of the World combined. She was among Jarin’s most trusted agents, and several escaped caj owed her their freedom.
Ama let him call the serving caj. Jarin rattled off a quick explanation to the man and Ama was led away.
He watched her leave, pulled out his comm, then frowned at the screen. The signal had gone dead, a highly unusual occurrence for such a well-engineered and multiply redundant system.
Something strange was happening. In a World of consistency and predictability, that was never a good sign.
Ama didn’t want to lean on the caj, didn’t want to use the labor of a slave, but she needed the support. He guided her down two flights of stairs, then turned into a narrow corridor and walked her to the cleansing room at the end. He positioned himself at the door, as if to wait, but Ama waved him away.
“I’m fine, I can find my way back on my own.”
The caj nodded once and hurried back to his other duties.
The room was empty. Fortunate, as there were no doors or dividers for privacy—what did caj need with dignity? There were no washing basins either, only one hand cleanser and one dispenser for water. Ama placed her hands on either side of the tap, then pressed her thumb to the print scanner above. A quiet voice informed her that her owner would be charged for the water ration. She caught the dribble in her hand and splashed it on her face. It was cool and helped to calm her.
She pressed the button once more but nothing came out. It must have been on some kind of timer. Oh well, the sick feeling was passing, at least. Maybe this was all she needed—to be alone.
In an empty corner, she slid to the floor, back against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of her. There she stayed, until her breathing and heart rate returned to normal. She glanced down at the dress and, for no reason at all, she started to laugh. She laughed, her chest shook, tears rolled down her face. And then she was quiet again.
What was real anymore? She wasn’t sure she knew. That smile she and Seg had shared as she had sung, it had felt real. But then there had been the tank. She had seen him, through the glass, laughing along with the rest of them. Heels of her palms pressed to her eyes, she concentrated on the rider she and Shan had been sweating over for a week. It was nearly ready. Shan had said when she got back they would take it up for its first trial.
All she had to do was get through t
he rest of this night and then she could fly. Then she would be free.
At length, she pushed herself up, straightened her dress, and exited the room. She walked slowly down the narrow corridor, her soft shoes rendering her steps silent. As she approached the main foyer, she heard voices, men’s voices, People voices. It didn’t matter. Just keep walking, get back to Seg.
But then she heard something else, and stopped in her tracks.
Gostin Dercy paced in the empty corridor. His had once been a House with enough wealth to buy the Haffset’s three times over, and now he was reduced to this? Skulking around in the pits of a second rate estate, where only caj roamed?
“You’re wearing a hole in the floor,” his partner said. “Come here.”
“I’m not a child,” Gostin said. Despite his protest, he found himself at his lover’s side, allowing the larger man to stroke his hair and kiss him. Ortis Longsten was the single good thing that had come from House Dercy’s disastrous alliance with the CWA.
“Here, I have something to make the rest of the evening tolerable.” Ortis pulled an amba stick from his coat pocket, lit it, and held the smoking end outward.
Gostin leaned forward but Ortis pulled the stick out of his reach. At Gostin’s consternation, he laughed and offered the stick again. Only to pull it away, once more.
“Don’t tease me!” Gostin said.
“I’m sorry, I’m— Don’t run away.” Ortis grabbed his arm as Gostin turned to go. He directed his partner back to the smoldering amba stick, which he held steady, allowing Gostin long sniffs of the fragrant smoke.
“Poliz Brennan didn’t even acknowledge me tonight. She used to call me uncle, when she was a child. Her father and mine used to organize trophy competitions, you know.”
“You don’t need those People, Gos. You’re in better hands now.” Ortis smiled and trailed his free hand across Gostin’s stomach, continuing down until he cupped the bulge between his legs.
Warp World Page 34
