“Of course.” Ama nodded and, at the looks from the others, she added, “One of the rare victories of the old Kenda resistance against the Shasir.”
“The Kenda gave the Shasir a boat, a big one. A token of peace and good faith.” Cerd inclined his head. “Guess you can figure what was hidden aboard. Sounds like the same kind of plan, Theorist.”
Seg’s face broke into a tight smile. “Exactly! That’s how we’re going to take Julewa.”
“So, we sneak in a surprise or two, assuming they take the bait, and assuming they don’t de-pop whoever brings it to ’em without waiting for the sales pitch,” Shan said. “Then what?”
“Theorist is thinking we can take control of their systems,” Fismar said. “Julewa’s got an old-style system of architecture, and if it’s at all maintained, we’ll be able to control doors, sensors, ventilation—” Fismar gave the group a predatory grin. “We can own their home.”
“And after that?” Ama asked. “What happens once we’ve taken their home?”
Seg’s enthusiasm abruptly dimmed, his face became grave—a striking contrast to his previous optimism. “After the recon concludes, I’ll be going back to Cathind.”
He held up his hand as voices shot up in protest.
“Yes, we could take Julewa and survive out here as a bandit freehold. But survival is not enough.”
“Don’t they want to stick a graft on you for the debts you owe?” Fismar asked.
“There’s still a week and a half until that’s due,” Seg said. “Until then, I retain freedom of movement and I can negotiate to retain leverage for the successful conquest of Julewa and the recovery of materials therefrom.”
Ama didn’t speak but her eyes were locked on Seg’s. The CWA had killed tens of thousands to exact revenge on him; she had been in the RQ when their soldiers had attacked Seg, unprovoked. He could downplay this to the others, but she had been there; he was as good as dead if he crossed back into Cathind.
“Don’t see why we need those kargers,” Shan said. “Etis have had Julewa for over a century. They did it by themselves, so can we.”
“And we’ll end up like them, too—paranoid, superstitious, and alone.” Seg said. “What kind of life will we have in the Keep, hiding as hunted renegades and criminals? Taking Julewa was meant to change this World, but we can’t do that without help, we can’t build a new society on our own. We need the Guild. I need their support to make this work. I have to go back, I have to convince them.”
“You think they’ll listen after the trouble you stirred up?” Fismar asked.
Seg looked at Ama. “Sometimes you have to have faith.”
“Very noble,” Fismar said, though his tone conveyed a much different sentiment. “I can’t spare a squad to cover you in Cathind without compromising our mission, Theorist. But—”
“I will be going alone.” Seg gave them another tight smile. “I grew up in Cathind. I know it. I know the undercity. I know my home, and I’ve been in worse places.”
“Cathind’s not like you remember it, Boss,” Shan said. “Since the riots, they got the streets locked up. Not to mention the Wellie agents who’ll be roaming every dark corner looking for you.” She turned to Ama. “You gonna at least try and talk him out of this?”
Ama looked at Seg. “When do you need the Defiant ready to transport you and Tirnich’s squad to the Keep?”
“How soon can they be ready?” Seg asked.
In his office, Jarin scrolled through the list again—a seemingly random and nonsensical mix of topics his former pupil had recently researched. Stacked on his desk were any number of important documents requiring his attention—the new Consolidated Effort Review Maryel had implemented had led to three sleepless nights in a row—but this mystery consumed him.
What was the boy looking for?
Jarin shook his head at a knock. Why would anyone knock on the door? Ah, yes, he had disabled the chime. Whoever waited outside was determined to see him.
“Theorist Vana,” he said as Shyl entered.
“I pressed the chime three times; I was about to call a med,” Shyl said, then took a moment to appraise the state of Jarin’s office. “Storm take me, how long have you been in here?”
Jarin glanced at the crono icon on his desk. “No more than forty hours. I had a meeting prior to that. The Consolidated Effort Review, you understand. Is there something you need?”
“On stims, too, I see?” Shyl raised an eyebrow. She didn’t wait for an answer, just dropped a digifilm on the desk, its screen open to display a block of text—orders from the office of the Grand Selectee concerning the CER. “What are we going to do about this?”
He sighed and rolled his chair back from the desk, then stood up to the accompaniment of crackling bones. “What are we going to do about it?” He rolled his shoulders as he considered the question. “I dislike this as much as you, Shyl. More, perhaps, because I’m tending the affairs of two separate departments. But it is a necessity.”
“I understand the necessity, but my research has come to a standstill while I put together a full accounting of my department. Not to mention that all work must now receive approval from Maryel’s office?” She placed both hands on the desk and leaned forward, her ordinarily soft eyes sharpening to pinpoints. “Jarin, you must have some influence here. Use it.”
“There are elements of the process that can be refined, but we are all too used to running our own fiefdoms within the Guild. When do we cooperate on projects between divisions? You and I have coordinated a time or two in the past, because Technology and Intelligence have shared interests. But acquiring resources from Military Liaison is done as easily as defanging a lurkiya. Transport expects every form authorized over three weeks in advance and throws a tantrum if you put in emergency requests.” He waved his hands in the air. “While we’ve been busy bickering among ourselves, the CWA has steadily been accumulating power. We may not like these new measures, but they are necessary if we’re going to survive.”
“Are we?” Shyl asked, her tone heavy. “Going to survive, that is? I had some hope, when you formed the bloc. But now that we’re all but dissolved—” She raised a hand and sighed, then smoothed down her untamable hair. “Speaking of survival, have you had any word of Eraranat?”
Jarin hesitated a moment before he nodded. “Yes. He’s alive, he’s somewhere in the wastes, and he’s planning something.”
“Something? Are you being your usual obtuse self, or do you genuinely not know your protégé’s intentions?”
“I have no idea what he’s planning,” he said. “He accessed the Guild network this morning. Did not try to hide his presence at all, used his own passcodes, and an infovac routine to snatch information from fifty different areas, all library and archive information available with his regular access.”
Jarin held up the digifilm containing the contents of Segkel’s searches. “Some items are sensible given his current situation—geographical, topographical, and hydrological data for the wastelands around Cathind and further out. But then you have other items—Accumulated Culinary Data Treatises on Outer Subjects, Recollected Musical Compositions from Second Post-Storm Century.” He scrolled down the list. “Lost Faiths of the People. Huchack/Agrarian Conversion Dynamics. It seems to be nonsense, but—” Jarin offered her the film. “—if he were simply planning to establish himself as a wilderness warlord, he wouldn’t bother with the diversion. Something in that seeming pile of nonsense is relevant to his designs. But I cannot fathom what it would be.”
Shyl studied the film intently, then laughed. “You taught him well.” She took the seat across from Jarin and, even though the room was regularly swept for recording devices, she lowered her voice. “This young man is not finished with the Guild, with the World; I’d take that wager any day.”
“I don’t know. Independence i
s intoxicating to someone of his nature, and he experienced a great deal of it during his time extrans. As well, his position, socially speaking, seems to be nigh unrecoverable.”
“Socially, I believe he speaks to those the World has too long ignored. I may not know him as you do, Jarin, but I don’t think Seg would be content in the wastes. He wants his independence, yes, but he has devoted his life to his work, to the Guild; he’s not the type to throw that away. The boy has passion but he needs the World. And we need him.”
Jarin put his hand on his desk as he considered her words. “I hope you are correct.”
“As do I. For our sake.” She stood and reclaimed her digifilm. “Well, I suppose I have work to do, if you can be of no assistance.”
Jarin lifted a hand, palm up as if in surrender. “Maryel and I are not speaking often at the moment.”
“Dark days ahead.” She stared at Jarin a moment. “I know why Maryel accepted the Grand Selecteeship but I can’t think of a worse moment for us to fracture.”
“The Guild grew complacent while the CWA never stopped looking for means to expand. We allowed our own politics to supersede our external affairs.”
“The price of hubris,” Shyl said.
“A cost the World cannot afford.”
From atop a rock bluff, Seg watched the Etiphars walk along the flight deck that dominated the visible portion of Julewa Keep. Towering three hundred meters above the landscape and projecting majestically from the cliff that housed the Keep, the flight deck had once been the primary avenue for entry and exodus from the structure. Built in the third century after the Storm appeared, Julewa had been part of a new style of architecture and design that accounted for the growing wastelands over-running the world, as the seas withered into toxic pools and the ancient forests, grasslands, and other more complex terrains had been sucked dry by the Storm.
Julewa had been built as a fortress against invaders, be they animal, plant, or human. A small, self-sustaining arcology left behind as the tattered survivors of the World crept back toward the megalopolis urban centers that could sustain the vast huchack breeding operations, which now underpinned the modern economy.
Huchacks and caj, the twin fuels of the modern World. The People had taken the path of least resistance.
He watched as the guard, bedecked in long overcoats with comically garish epaulets, changed above deck. Though disconnected and seemingly abandoned by the World, Julewa’s guard maintained vigilance, which would make things more problematic. However, theirs was a predictable, scheduled vigilance. Fismar could exploit that pattern. Seg had logged the times of the changes, and as many visual details as could be collected through the visamp at a range of five kilometers. The changing of the guard was highlighted by a series of hand gestures—toward the sky, the ground, and each other. His downloaded references to the Humble Heart had similar gestures, affirmations of belief among followers, especially notable as the faith was driven underground by the relentless secular drumbeat of progress.
Faith was also exploitable.
“Tirnich,” he whispered. The squad leader scuttled forward on knees and elbows. “I need to get another view. We won’t move the squad, but you and another trooper will accompany me.”
“Handlo’s fresh and he’s best on the chack,” Tirnich said. “You want someone to keep an eye out here?”
“Yes. Wake up the sleepers, stims authorized if necessary.”
“Quick as three, Theorist.” Tirnich saluted and hurried off to ready the rest of the squad before his departure.
In short order, Tirnich returned with trooper Handlo. Their kits packed, both men had weapons and visamps at the ready.
Seg slid his helmet on. Even two days in, with the rougher weave of field utilities chafing him in the familiar places and the weight of the helmet and visor prompting the usual aches in his neck, he felt more at home here than he had in the ridiculous finery he had worn to the Haffset party.
Even better, this recon involved his people, not an MRRC squad. There were no rules or protocols to slow or restrain him. Any order, no matter how unortho, was obeyed without question.
Home. He glanced once more at Julewa. Soon enough. On his digifilm, he highlighted the path they would follow. “Take us there, Squad Leader,” he ordered, as he piped the navigation to the squad band.
“Yes, Theorist,” Tirnich said. Despite the open terrain, the men moved cautiously. By now, every soul had learned of the wasteland’s many hidden dangers, heightened by the lack of the sonic repeller Fismar had liberated from Field Active Pegno.
Shan and Ama had dropped Seg and the squad almost thirty kilometers from their current camp outside the Keep—to ensure there was no chance they would be spotted. The hike in had taken a full day.
Handlo took the lead now, Seg in the middle. Tirnich, at the rear, kept a wary eye for any wasteland dwellers, human or animal, that might be following. They marched silently, for over an hour, only pausing to drink and survey the landscape. Seg’s destination required travel through a narrow gap in a wall of rock, and all three slowed as they approached. The natural corridor would be an ideal ambush site but would offer good cover, from both Etiphar eyes and predators.
Handlo glanced over his shoulder. Tirnich moved up beside him and signaled for Seg to stay close. They swept the terrain with their chacks, creeping silently in the shadow of the pinched defile.
“Map data puts us close,” Tirnich whispered.
Handlo lifted a palm to signal for quiet and cocked his head to listen. Seg and Tirnich froze in place. At first there was only the relentless drone of wind, but in moments the afternoon silence was broken by a series of blood-curdling whoops. All heads jerked up as a body crashed over the edge of the defile, tumbling down toward them, accompanied by a babble of sheer terror. As the figure rose to his feet, Handlo aimed his chack, finger sliding to the trigger.
“Wait!” Tirnich darted forward.
Seg glanced at the man—no, the teenager—who held up his hands as he continued his terrified ranting. He was dressed in the distinctive longcoat of the Etiphars but obviously had no intention of attacking.
Another whoop sounded from above. Seg lifted his chack and aimed above the rock face. More figures appeared, dark outlines against the pale sky.
“Tirnich! On high!” Seg shouted, as the men above them wound up slings. He squeezed off a burst of spines as he shuffled sideways. Stones, fired from the slings, crashed around him. Handlo and Tirnich added their own fire. A stone cracked against Seg’s helmet and sent him reeling into the rock wall. Another flung stone whacked against his arm, punctured flesh, and bit into his bicep. In seconds he was swept by a cold, burning rush and numbness spread from the wound.
Poison.
His arm fell uselessly to his side; Tirnich grabbed his harness and started tugging Seg back the way they had come. Ahead of them, amid the thocks and crashes of hurled stones, the young Etiphar was already rounding the corner with a surprisingly fast hopping hobble. Handlo brought up the rear, shifting his sights from left to right as he tried to make their attackers flinch away. A body tumbled from the walls as one of Handlo’s shots struck home. Seg glanced at it before freeing himself from Tirnich’s grasp.
The body was squat and lean, the skin dark and head shaved—nothing unusual for desert dwellers. It was the distinct red arrow painted on the man’s face and skull that held Seg’s attention longer than he could afford. The formal name of the tribe of Outers eluded him but colloquially they were known as the Bloodarrows.
Couldn’t be.
Seg stumbled, the poison spreading swiftly through his system. Tirnich reached out to grab him. “Don’t worry about me! Shoot the bastards!” Seg shouted.
Releasing Seg’s arm, Tirnich aimed high. Spines tore through the air with an incessant whine. But for every attacker that fell back, it seemed anothe
r took his place. A stone caught Tirnich’s rifle and sent a stream of spines clattering against the rock walls.
“Too many!” Handlo said, firing off continuously.
Seg lifted his chack in front of him and forged ahead. “Keep moving!”
The barrage continued, rocks pelting down like vicious rain. Tirnich and Handlo kept tight to Seg, ducking the worst of the blows. “Almost there,” Tirnich said as they neared the end of the narrow rock corridor.
Above, one of the bolder attackers crisscrossed the defile and leapt to the ground. His face and chest were splattered with fresh blood but Seg could see no injury. He’s not wounded, that’s not his blood. Images from his training offered the explanation and, for a second, his stomach lurched. Studying cannibals was not the same as facing one whose meal you’ve just interrupted.
The lone attacker pulled a saw-toothed bone blade from a sheath and ran at the trio with a shrill scream. His scream was joined by another, but the second noise was not human. Everyone looked skyward at the sound. It came once more, a piercing avian cry. A leather-winged shadow descended in a swoop and snatched one of their attackers from the rock. The creature pulled the shrieking man into the sky. Blood poured down as razor talons sliced open flesh. With cries of terror the attackers fled from the rock face as the creature screeched another hunting call.
Down in the defile, the moment stretched as Seg, Tirnich, and Handlo looked back to their suddenly isolated attacker. He gave one more glance above and lifted his bone sword. Three streams of spines slashed into him and he howled wildly before collapsing to his knees, blood gushing from his mouth.
Tirnich, chest heaving, looked at the fallen man, then to the sky. “Nen’s death, what was that?”
“A perasav.” Seg panted as he stepped up to their fallen assailant, who was gurgling his final breath. “Supposedly extinct.” With his chack, he nudged the dead man’s hand to one side, to study his markings. “Much like this one.”
“Is it gone?” Handlo scanned their slim view of the sky.
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