WARP world (34 page)

Seg nodded as he received the weapon and examined it closely–a long curved blade with a handle that would enable the user to slice or jab with equal ease.

When Brin was gone, he put the primitive blade aside and studied what remained of his equipment. The stunner still worked. He had two pistols with full loads of ammo, three grenades, his VIU and his digifilm. The grenades would be crucial to getting away with this, especially if there were more Outers in the boat to deal with.

This was insanity. By all rights, he should make his way out on the next available boat. Even if he had some sort of revenge impetus, he could call Kerbin and the squad in to do the dirty work at a more opportune time. He didn’t want anyone else to do the dirty work, though. For one, it was his mess. For another, he didn’t want any dependencies, debts, or the embarrassment of having his botched reconnaissance spoken of.

Finally, these Outers had hurt Ama, and for that they would suffer. Them and their entire rotten primitive band. This wasn’t about sense or justice, it was about pride and revenge.

He wished he knew how to swim, the way Ama did. That would have made the entire business so much easier. Again, he wondered at how her kind lost the war when they had such an advantage.

Weak.

But she had saved his life in the heat of the action. She was not weak.

The day was waning. Seg pulled on the extra set of ragged clothes that Brin’s wife had provided him, tugging the hat down low over his face. He had smudged his face with soot and dirt, darkening his skin to blend with the lowest orders of the lowest class. It would work to his advantage that he would strike at night. The old drillmaster would approve of his preparation, if not what he was preparing for.

Once again, he re-checked his weaponry. Ready, as it had been five minutes before.

Everything was ready.

Seg had seen the scavengers moving about the docks late at night and, as with everything, he had filed away their patterns and their movements. No eye contact. Deferential. Wide personal spacing. Feet stayed close to the ground in dragging steps. Head swung side to side, looking for usable refuse.

Most human forms ignored such people, part of evolutionary winnowing. Easily understandable why people would shun failures, but also highly useful. Especially now.

As he moved along the dock, Seg towed a small cart behind him and used a stick to hobble. Ahead, the boat sat placidly on the water. The guards noted his presence with disdainful negligence.

Perfect. Surprise and speed.

His earpiece chimed. Eleventh hour, local time, and, of course, no explosion. Why had he even dreamed he could depend on these Outers? Should he abort? The incompetence of the Kenda aside, it was suicide to take the guards head-on.

Just then, a boat several slips over exploded in a spectacular ball of fire that lit the starless sky.

Seg brought up the pistol concealed in his sleeve. The three guards on the upper level had run for cover at the explosion. The guards on the dock had turned toward the conflagration, two of them standing in profile.

Seg’s thumb clicked over to ‘repeat fire’ and held the trigger down, emptying the entire cassette in one protracted burst.

The first man was virtually sawn in half, falling down with the same look of surprise he had worn when the boat had exploded. The other man took a load of huchack spines to the stomach and torso and stood there, shocked. The spines were low-impact weapons; they didn’t punch targets, they sliced through them.

Blood poured from the man’s chest and he looked over toward the others, opening his mouth to speak. Seg accelerated as the man made a gurgling cry before he slumped to the ground.

The guard at the end of the dock raised his gun as Seg lifted the other pistol. He fired a quick, silent burst, driving spines into the man’s shoulder. A hasty snapshot from the banger whizzed by Seg’s left side.

The guard on the boat raised his gun and took more deliberate aim, but Seg had reached the cover of a post as he slid a stunner grenade from his pocket. He dropped low and moved back instead of forward, gambling that the guard would aim ahead instead of behind. He won the bet long enough to throw the grenade, then tracked back into cover.

The grenade detonated–far more effective in the darkness as the strobing light flashed insistently and the deafening noise echoed through the hull.

Now was his best chance; Seg broke cover up the stairs.

The guard was nowhere to be seen. He had obviously gone to cover while shaking off the effect of the grenade. Dangerous man.

There were now two enemies on the boat that he knew of, with at least one projectile weapon between them. They also had the close quarters to make other weapons useful. Seg shifted the pistol to his off-hand, reached behind his back and drew the curved Kenda blade from its hidden sheath.

Time to make it personal.

As Seg gripped the seft, the drill instructor’s voice haunted him again.

Stabbing does not bring the quick kill. Stabbing makes them karging mad enough to stab you back. And they’re better with knives than you are, pup.

No time for subtlety. He tried the latch and then shoved open the hatch to the lower deck, leading with his last fragmentation grenade. He regretted the damage he was doing to the boat, but it would be past the point of recovery when he was done anyway.

He stepped from behind the shield of the hatchway after the grenade detonated, and dove into the belly of the boat. One down, permanently. The other? There was a blood trail leading further down.

Wounded animals are easier to kill than healthy ones. If you have a choice, let ’em bleed out.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have the time. He crouched low at the corner and stuck his head and hand out, ready to hose the area with huchack spines.

The waiting Welf kicked his hand, spines streamed off the wall with a muted clatter. Seg lost his grip on the pistol and scuttled backwards as the Welf came roaring around the corner, in time to meet Seg coming to his feet.

A strange, curved hammer crashed down on his shoulder as his blade flew upward. Seg fell backwards, his arm, shoulder, and back screaming with pain. The Kenda blade he had driven into the Outer tore free and left a gaping wound. A fatal wound.

Blood fountained from the man’s midsection and he slumped to his knees, his hands grasping at his stomach. Seg lay on his back, grimacing. He pressed his hand down on his injured shoulder as he watched the Outer topple.

Storm but that was it. If there was another one onboard, he was meat.

He waited a long moment for the next guard to come around and finish him. When none did, he began the painful process of righting himself. He felt the grind of broken bones. The nature of the injury he recognized from the time his instructors had demonstrated such a thing by snapping his forearm. His collarbone was surely broken but he could function and he had one good arm left.

Now he was going to have to count on the Kenda to cover him out. He stumbled around the corner and gathered up his pistol.

A third of a cassette of ammo left and more in the storage locker. Half falling, he moved forward. He couldn’t haul everything. Even with two functional arms, it would have been impossible but now he would be restricted to one or two items only.

He reached the cargo locker and for a moment all he could do was stare blankly at the heavy lock Ama had used to keep his belongings safe. The key was somewhere at the bottom of the river. A moment later he remembered the pistol in his hand; pain numbed his thoughts but he needed to finish this.

One burst took care of the lock. He opened the door, opened his bags and Manatu’s and peered inside. Most of the extraneous cover items were gone, gifted to the unholy Shasir. His articles, those from the World, lay in plain view.

There was the auto-med, which was required to save Ama; the field warpgen, warp gate and warp comm unit, his emergency exit home and only means to communicate with the World; weapons and ammunition, it was a safe bet he would need those. Anything he couldn’t carry would have to be destroyed.

He tried to replenish his pistol one-handed, but it didn’t work. Finally he settled on yet another one of Manatu’s spare micro-chacks and shoved the depleted one into a bag.

No time for debate. Seg grabbed the auto-med, wrestling with the bag and the unit to stuff it inside. Next he dug through the remaining weapons in Manatu’s bag and tossed them in as well. Almost ready. He sorted through the surprises in Manatu’s luggage and punched up the sequence that would self-destruct the gear.

He gave himself two minutes to escape. The explosion wouldn’t be overly dramatic, but it would be enough to finish the gear and ignite the boat.

He slung the bag over his good shoulder; that effort alone nearly toppled him.

At the stairs, he paused, looked back at his quarters, then swung back and stepped inside as quickly as he could move. He couldn’t speak to what possessed him.

Ama’s leather nove hung on the wall, next to the image of her mother. He tore it from the wall and ran. Pain shot up his left leg, pain that corresponded to the damage to his shoulder and back. The auto-med was going to get a workout tonight.

He staggered down the street, blood-soaked and battered, until he reached the covered cartul. At the sight of the blue and yellow flag hanging from the side, he allowed himself a sigh of relief.

“I’m ready,” he panted, threw his bag inside the open door, and turned his face to the driver. “You!” he gasped, his suffering too great for a more elaborate response.

Viren Hult tipped his hat. “Lord Eraranat, what a welcome surprise.”

“You’re Brin’s most trusted man?” Seg panted.

“A scandalous rumor, I assure you. Now, toss yourself inside before our banger-toting friends show up to spoil our happy reunion.”

“This is a trick,” Seg swayed where he stood.

“Get in or I leave you for the authorities.”

“Again,” Seg grumbled. From behind, he could hear whistles and shouts as the commotion escalated around the burning boats. His broken collarbone delivered a fresh stab of pain. He jumped inside, rolled poorly and landed on the wounded shoulder. The subsequent jolt of agony was enough to put him out.

Unconsciousness
wasn’t always a nice, peaceful oblivion. Sometimes it was a painful, discordant business full of noises, bumps, and terrible pain. Seg enjoyed the latter. As the cartul rattled its way across the cobblestone streets, he moaned, slowly rousing. Across from him, Brin looked on. He reached for his bag and withdrew the auto-med, heedless of the Kenda’s prying eyes.

He wrapped the sleeve on his arm, then punched the button and waited for the diagnostic.

First matters first, the unit injected him with an anti-inflammatory and an analgesic; enough to stabilize him, then pumped him with stimulants.

As his mind sharpened, he assessed the pain. It was very, very painful.

Unfortunately, between Manatu’s injury, Ama’s drexla encounter, and his own previous wounds, the auto-med’s supply of anesthetic and painkillers was all but depleted. Ideally, he would save the scant remainder for Ama’s surgery but without some chemical assistance Seg knew he would be in danger of passing out again. He needed to stay awake and focused. A press of the button delivered the final dose of anesthetic to his shoulder; enough to take more edge off, but not enough to make him fuzzy. The bone was broken but thankfully not protruding. The auto-med recommended full immobilization, which was not possible at the moment, but at least he could numb the pain a bit.

As the cartul pulled up to Brin’s home, Seg shifted his body and pulled the auto-med sleeve loose. He re-packed the unit while Brin watched in silence. “I’ll tell you more about things once we’re inside,” he promised. At Brin’s nod, he added, “Your driver is an undesirable character.”

“Whose loyalty is without question,” Brin replied.

Seg stared at Brin, unblinking.
Loyalty–
there was that word again.

Distracted by larger concerns, Seg hadn’t paid much attention to the safe room below the cottage earlier. Now he could see it was big enough to hide several men in relative comfort for a short period of time. There were shelves stacked with books, maps, food supplies and, in the corner, a stash of weapons. Against one wall, was a small bed, where Ama laid, the light of the lantern painting her with a golden hue.

Geras met the two men as they entered, seft in hand. He stepped aside only far enough to allow Seg to pass by and shadowed him to his Ama’s side.

Seg sat down next to Ama and wrapped the sleeve on her arm before starting the auto-med unit.

Shock, naturally. The imager projected a 3-D depiction of the wound above her shoulder, as well as the suggested primitive implements and local tonics for treatment.

“I’ll need…genga root,” he read off, “slivee leaves, a sharp knife, alcohol, and heat. Your hands steady, Outer?” His cool mask dropped for the slightest moment as he looked down at Ama.

Brin stood and stared, then eventually forced himself to look away from Seg’s magic. When he spoke, it was as if he were in a trance. “I…yes,” he shook his head.