WARP world (50 page)

The air in the room was dry. Had the air here always been this dry or was this some side effect of the medical treatment for his shoulder? Seg scooped his glass off the table, turned as if to go fill it, then stopped as one of the serving caj rushed to his side with a pitcher of water. He had forgotten about them during his time extrans, the faceless, nameless Outers that waited, against the wall, to serve the People.

The service of caj was a fact of life on the World. To question this was to question the innate superiority of the People. But Seg’s time on Ama’s world had often demanded his self-reliance in matters that, on his world, were relegated to the lower orders. He had not just grown accustomed to such tasks as fetching his own water, he had grown to enjoy them. Petty as they were, the chores imbued him with a feeling of independence and, oddly enough, strength.

Seg looked at the man, as he poured the water. Had he ever ‘looked’ at a caj before?

The man, if he were to stand fully upright, would barely reach Seg’s chest. He was very small and thin. His hair, grey and sparse, showed the brown age spots on his head. The backs of his hands were covered in red markings that ran up under the sleeve of his uniform.

Xlny’xt
. Seg remembered the name of that race of Outers from his studies. A civilization carved in stone, literally. They had built their cities into the sides of mountains, painstakingly chiseled over thousands of years.

From his position Seg could see the control graft, on the back of the caj’s neck, which delivered instant correction and kept him temporarily mute.

Just as Seg’s glass was nearly full, the caj teetered, slightly off balance, then knocked the pitcher into the glass and sent it crashing to the floor. Immediately the man moved to clean the mess but, before he could, he dropped to his knees, back curved in a painful arch, mouth stretched wide in a silent scream.

Seg tensed, ready to move torward the man, before he realized what was happening. He glanced up and spotted the Handler, his thumb on the button that administered correction via the control graft as he approached. “Apologies,” the Handler said, and Seg watched him press his thumb down again, sending the old caj into a round of convulsions that spilled the contents of the pitcher on himself and the floor. Air hissed from the man’s open mouth and tears ran from the corner of his eyes. “Third warning. One more and this one’s off to the recycler,” the Handler muttered, as three other caj arrived to clean the mess and haul their comrade away.

Marshal Rethelt flicked his eyes over the scene impatiently then turned back to the holographic display that stretched out in front of them, nearly half as wide as the room. “Theorist?” He cleared his throat, “Theorist?”

When Seg looked back at him and nodded, Rethelt continued. “I understand targets Malvid, Alisir and T’ueve, but these other primaries of yours–Ol’cania, L’albor, and Myan’as? They’re strictly military targets, with no vita worth recovering. Even assuming they’re diversionary or disorganizational strikes, they exceed necessary mission parameters.”

Every raid came down to this, the balance of the cost of force commitment against the return of vita, tech, and caj. The vita paid out directly in exchange with the CWA, the Central Well Authority, that directly oversaw the mitigation of the warp and minimization of the effects of the Storm. Tech, caj and materials were property of the sponsoring House or corporation, and sold or dispersed as those entities saw fit.

Like all Theorists, Seg had taken his own swing at deciphering the complex algorithms by which the CWA assessed the relative value of vita in the current market. However, he was frustrated, as others were, by the classified portions of the calculations, namely the variant hunger of the warps and, closely linked, the strength of the Storm. He had a gut suspicion that the CWA’s algorithm was deliberately made to be obtuse and impenetrable, to underpin an unsustainable situation.

He had a feeling that was the situation in general. He lacked hard proof, but he felt that no matter how much vita they fed to the Storm, sooner or later it would consume them all.

But then death came for everyone, and that didn’t mean that one simply accepted it and lay down. That was not the way of the People. They had withstood the Storm for generations, it was likely they would withstand it for generations to come.

“There are additional targets that I am commissioning personal strikes on,” Seg said, “the purpose of which is my own business.”

Rethelt studied him. “Personal? Are you carrying a vendetta into this, Theorist?”

Seg’s head snapped up, “Are you accusing me of compromising my bond with your House to satisfy my personal grudges, Commander Rethelt? Because I assure you the targets that you have been given for collection are the best available targets to maximize the return for your investment. As with all assignments, my assessment will be subject to a thorough professional review, both by the Guild and by the CWA.”

Rethelt raised a placating hand, “I don’t doubt your target assignments but there’s something deeper here, Theorist. You have your own agenda, by your own admission.”

“An agenda I am also paying for.”

“From your potential profit share,” Rethelt pointed out.

“Which means that I have as much at stake in this as the House does. Failure of this raid will lead to both our ruins. In the event of failure, at best we’ll be sent to the Storm. At worst, we’ll both be working for my father in the recycler.”

“You have a point,” Commander Rethelt agreed. His brows drew together at the mention of the recycler. “But this will be the subject of much discussion during the planning sessions. This proposed raid is ambitious to the point of megalomania.”

“I respect your opinion,” Seg said. He kept his hands tucked behind his back, to conceal their twitching. For a moment, he stared down at his legs and willed his hands to steady before departing. Before him, the caj parted from his path. “And of course I respect your rights of oversight over all mission priorities. With that in mind, I need to dress and get to work.”

“Of course,” the House Master said, then stepped forward and grasped Seg’s elbow–a gesture of shocking intimacy. The mere contact sent a jolt through Seg’s body. It was everything he could do not to recoil away from the touch. The House Master gave him a warm smile, reading the discomfort in Seg’s eyes plainly.

These were dangerous men. As dangerous as any he had encountered on Ama’s world. He was in just as much danger among his allies, his People, as he had been during the entire mission.

One battlefield to another.

Jarin guided Ama through the streets, into a narrow pathway, then stopped before a plain building front. He pressed his palm against a glowing panel on the wall. A door opened soundlessly, he stepped through and pulled her in with him.

The quarters were claustrophobic. If Jarin were wealthy, he was not one for ostentatious displays of it. What he obviously did enjoy was visual imagery. His walls were festooned with likenesses of a hundred different worlds, some of which featured Jarin at various stages of his life, dressed in native clothing, or in the sort of battle gear Kerbin and her squad wore.

He led Ama into the common area and gestured toward four old, heavy and well-padded chairs, each wide enough to seat two people. “Be seated,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Ama sat but her gaze drifted, as it always did. When Jarin’s back was turned, she walked to the likenesses on the wall. Here was a world made of sand, another with skies of purple; in one, a likeness of Jarin stood up to his thighs in cloud. So many worlds, who could have ever imagined?

Jarin returned with two steaming cups. He held one out for her and smiled wistfully at the likenesses. “Most of those were from a lifetime ago. A different time, that was. So, tell me of your world, Amadahy,” Jarin said, taking a sip. “
Oceans
, I understand? Oceans and mountains and forests. A seagoer you are,” he nodded toward her neck and exposed dathe, “with a most interesting adaptation.”

Unconsciously, she raised a hand to cover her dathe, then lowered it. There was nothing to fear about showing her dathe on this world, after all.

“My world…” she pointed to a likeness, “is much like this, but with more mountains. Water is what I know, what my people know. We came from beneath the Big Water; we all had dathe then.” She touched her neck, tilting for Jarin to have a better look. “When the Kenda moved permanently to land, they lost their dathe. I’ve only known of one other of my kind that had them but she’s dead now. Not that it matters; even on land, our hearts remained in the Big Water. It’s sacred to us.”

Jarin smiled slightly and his eyes were warm and welcoming; she felt an instant kinship with him.

“Your people don’t swim, do they?” she asked. Jarin shook his head. “That’s a shame. Water humbles you. There’s no more demanding and benevolent master. Nen will feed you, carry you on his back, cool you in the heat, but if you fail to respect him…” she raised her open palm and snapped it into a closed fist.

Jarin imitated the gesture, “Yes, the powerful can be like that. Those of us who travel through the warp often make the acquaintance of water. Few get used to it.”

“Have you been to all these worlds?” Ama asked as she gestured to the likenesses on the wall.

“Most of them, not all. We do not revisit worlds we have already plundered. Cruel math dictates our operations, as Segkel will soon be reminded.” He took another sip of his drink, then looked at her dathe again. “We all came from the water, as well as we can figure. Children, in the womb, have vestigial gills like these. They are soon lost. There are aquatic mammals with fully developed bones for digits they no longer use. The evolutionary process is a wonder.”

Ama took another sip. She raised her fingers to a likeness of a wide, marshy valley where thousands of brightly colored birds filled the ground and the sky. “Beautiful,” she whispered, then swept her gaze over the small space Jarin called home. “Why do your people stay here? You can travel to any of these places but you stay on this dead world, I don’t understand.”

He tapped his fingers against the side of his mug and forced a smile, “That question marks you as more of an outsider than your gills.” For a long moment he stared into the liquid in his cup, in contemplation. When he raised his head, once more Ama was reminded of Stevan in those final moments she had spent with him. “The reasons are many. Foremost, of course, is simple mathematics. We do not possess the vita needed to extrans even a third of our population.”

“But some of you could leave?”

“Some, yes. Though the act would drain the vita stocks and leave the rest to be devoured by the Storm. I cannot imagine any who would choose to relocate under those conditions.”

“I understand, I wouldn’t leave my people that way either,” Ama said and winced as she thought of Brin’s men, waiting for word from her.

“Not all of our reasons for staying put are so…noble, however,” Jarin continued. “The People are clever, but our cleverness has also bred arrogance, and with it a kind of willful ignorance. A lie told often enough, and with sufficient conviction, becomes truth. For centuries we have held off the Storm, and we have convinced ourselves that this act makes us great. Greater than all others. The People find comfort in this, as they also do in permanence and orthodoxy. To suggest we leave our World is to suggest we are imperfect; the People will not have that.

And it is important to understand that the world you see now has been shaped over millennia, not weeks. Across the dimensions, humanoid populations share several common traits, the greatest of which is our adaptability. And the slower changes occur, the more easily we adapt. To the People, our world, our way of life is, well, normal.”

“But there must be others that think like you?”

Jarin’s eyes flicked away from her for a moment, “Very few. And none that will speak aloud.” He opened his mouth to speak then shook his head.

“What is it?”

“Only that I have spoken on this subject to a mere handful of people in my lifetime, and to only one person have my thoughts on the matter been unguarded. I do not know what possessed me to speak so frankly with you.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Ama said, laying a hand on his arm. “Not that they’d listen to me if I did. Well, Seg would but…” her hand fell from his arm.

She dropped the cup on a side table, with a heavy thump. The liquid sloshed over the side.

“How long is this going to take?” she asked, pacing across the small room. “I need to see Seg. Why can’t I see him?”

Jarin sighed and retrieved a cleaning rag to wipe up the liquid. “You cannot see him because he is no doubt embroiled in the massive controversy he has created with his highly unorthodox actions on your world. In order to assist him, and therefore you, I would be best served by knowing more about what occurred over there.” He lifted a hand, “I am not asking you to compromise any confidences. But Segkel is brilliant, ambitious, and under the youthful assumption that being supremely intelligent and competent will allow him to reorder the world to his own vision. He is going to learn very soon that this is not so.”