Warpworld: Ghost World: Warpworld, #3

Recon Mission YX-843740H

World: Undesignated

The sky was blue, still wondrous even if he had been prepared for it.

Through all the years of his career, nothing else could match that first sense of discovery, that moment when he arrived under an alien sky.

The ground was hot beneath his skin, seared by a sun that had baked the land dry. For the last time in his life, Theorist Akeld Forsta felt the warm comfort of the Bliss battling against the angry tide of stimulants and aggression drugs with which he had been injected minutes earlier.

There were hostiles out there. There were always hostiles out there. A gloved hand grasped his arm and pulled him to a standing position. Visored faces fanned out to establish security in their immediate environment. Orders rang across the comms and his bodyguard directed him to a thick boulder for shelter. Tactical reports snapped out while the effects of the Bliss washed from his body, followed by the bitter dregs of the chemicals.

His last extrans. Forsta’s eyes scanned the horizon. What’s out there? he murmured.

No idea, Theorist, Corporal Manshin Fi Corvallis said, his weapon up and over the top of the boulder. Picked a karg of a dirtball for your retirement run. Place almost reminds me of home.

Not very promising, Forsta agreed. Doesn’t look like the sort of terrain to provide fauna sizable enough to give me a good specimen, either.

Fi Corvallis lifted his visor to study the land with unaided eyes. They were mismatched, the Corporal’s eyes, one brown, one blue, one natural, one vat-grown. The replacement eye had been implanted fifteen years ago, for a wound to which Forsta had personally applied the field dressing. Another time and another world, literally. 

Don’t worry, we’ll find you a good trophy if we have to stay here a year. Fi Corvallis gave his long time recon partner a sidelong glance and a smile. Last extrans should be memorable.

Forsta grunted a laugh as the first recon drone lofted skyward. Forgettable but lucrative I could live with. He watched the drone as it hummed through the air. I’m no Eraranat.

After a further study of the landscape, Forsta lowered his visor to zoom in on a distant escarpment. A strange chill passed through his body, a sense of foreboding, as he examined the windswept crevices. You’re right, Mansh, this does look like home.

We’ve detected no inhabitants, Forsta said. Would every report on his final extrans begin this way?  Drone surveys have located what appears to be the entrance to an underground structure forty kilometers to the southeast of our current position. This could be the source of the vita readings from the pre-mission report. We will proceed along that line for the initial survey.

He stared down at his digifilm and watched the lights play over its surface as he considered his next statement. 

As of this recording, vita readings are nonexistent, outside of minor traces where the minimal vegetation creates local pooling. If I didn’t know better ... He hesitated, tapped the screen to pause the recording. His job was to record facts, observations, and theories, based on tangible evidence. What he had felt since arriving on this world was, if he were honest, no more than a hunch. No matter how unsettling, hunches had no place in field reports. 

He tapped the screen to resume.

 Never mind. Tell Theorist Vana that I’m looking forward to the lab and that she is more than welcome to come out here and trade places if she’s still inclined. I can’t imagine a more mundane world has yet been surveyed.

An alert chimed on his comm. He paused the recording again and opened the channel.

Theorist, the drone picked up activity. We may need to abort the comm window to follow up.

Do it, he said, without hesitation. They would have another comm window in twelve hours, and the first signs of actual life bigger than lizards the size of a thumb was far more of a priority than a routine status report. He switched the film to standby and slid it into his sleeve before accepting Fi Corvallis’ hand up.

Activity at last. Outers or wildlife? What’s your wager, Mansh? 

No bets this time, Theorist. Something about this place… The corporal’s mismatched eyes squinted toward the horizon.

He senses it too. 

Forsta’s scalp tightened and, despite the dry air, sweat coated his palms. With anyone else, he would have made a quip about superstition and primitives, but Corporal Fi Corvallis’ instincts had saved his life on more than one world. 

Thirty-first Virtue, Forsta said and, given his companion’s nature, immediately regretted the words. 

But the corporal nodded gravely and, before lowering his visor, affirmed the reminder: Vigilance.

For the first time in his life, Akeld Forsta wished he had a god to pray to.

Julewa Keep

The open-faced lift stalled with a grinding squeal and an abrupt jerk that sent most of its passengers staggering to brace against the walls and each other. Segkel Eraranat swore softly. He offered a grateful nod to Fismar Korth, the only passenger who had maintained a steady footing during the mishap and who had held Seg’s shoulder to steady him. Seg thumbed his comm as he and Fismar clambered up out of the metal lift onto the newly christened Commerce Deck. 

Maintenance to lift four, stalled on the CD, Seg said, into the comm. 

Arel Trant followed Seg and Fismar out, then paused to assist another passenger. His metallic arms whirred quietly as they took the weight. Lift One’s still down, too Arel said.

Seg bit back another curse. 

Ladder? Fismar said.

Ladder, Seg said, in grudging agreement.

 The trio wove through the crowded deck, toward the ladderway. The three men did not look at each other as they continued their conversation. Instead, their eyes swept across the bustle of vendors and customers.

The last Haffset salvage rider is departing at any moment. Hopefully this inbound Cransk Corporate rider has our lift parts, Arel said. 

When he finished speaking, Seg listened to the tempo of Arel’s chewing. Brakka gum, a mild stimulant, was a habit among financiaries, one Arel had not quit after he had left that life to become a raider. At this moment, Arel masticated at an even pace, which told Seg he was concerned about the delivery but not panicked. 

Around them, murmurs rippled through the crowd. Not long after he and his Guard had taken the Keep, Seg had put out a call to the World for settlers. Response had been slow—at first. Life outside the shielded cities was unfathomable to most Citizens, horrifying. But a combination of growing political unrest and Nallin Sastor’s broadcasts from this new frontier had eventually set off a wave of immigration that had yet to subside.

With so many newcomers arriving on a weekly basis, the celebrity of Cultural Theorist Segkel Eraranat, and of his top subordinate, Force Commander Fismar Korth, made their appearance on the Commerce Deck noteworthy. Some even recognized Arel, the third of the three most powerful Citizens of Julewa Keep. Arel was the Civil Administrator, while Fismar oversaw the newly-official Eraranat House Guard.

As for Seg, by virtue of a bloody and near-run battle, he was the uncontested ruler and owner of Julewa Keep and all common properties within. He had been confirmed as the House Master of a new House Minor: House Eraranat. Extremely minor, as he was currently the only blood member on record.

Status on the dome retraction? Seg asked.

Arel began to answer the question when Fismar cut hard to the left, crossed in front of the two men, and neatly directed Seg behind Arel in a maneuver so smoothly executed that it almost seemed unintentional.

Fismar never made unintentional moves. 

Seg cocked his head; Arel caught the cue and slid further in front of him. The difference in their respective heights would have rendered Arel’s attempt to shield Seg comical if the business at hand were not so serious.

Fismar shoved through the crowd, snatched the arm of a scar-faced woman, and lifted it high. She held a huchack-fiber blade in a reverse grip; her body shook with the effort to free herself from Fismar’s grasp. The man she had been intent on putting the blade into had turned at the commotion and yelled savagely. He reached for his own weapon, but Fismar darted a hand across the man’s body and seized his collar. A twist of the wrist clamped Fismar’s forearm under his chin and elevated the man to his toes. As Seg and Arel approached, Fismar’s sharp, authoritative tone cut above the noise of the crowd.

The proper place for challenges is the dome at the fourteenth to sixteenth hours, Fismar said. Any other time and I might have to get involved. He looked from one to the other, then released his holds with a push. 

The thwarted combatants glared at each other as Arel leaned in close to Seg. This is getting worse.

I know. Seg frowned as he caught the eyes of the scarred woman. She scowled, cast her eyes to the floor, and slid the blade back into its hidden sheath. 

We’ll discuss civic authority this afternoon, Seg said.

Fismar stepped through a path that appeared before him like a bow wake. He nodded at Arel and Seg as they holstered the pistols they had drawn in case he had required assistance. Thank you, Citizens. He offered them a half smile as he gestured toward the ladderway that would take them to the hangar deck.

The ladderway was not for the claustrophobic. During the long interregnum when Julewa had been held by the Black House Etiphar, the lift systems had eventually failed and had been allowed to languish. Since the day Fismar had led the Guard into the Keep and wrested it away from its inhabitants, the top priorities had been assimilation of the surrendered Etiphars and the restoration of the Keep to a fully functional facility, one that could actually house the population for which it had been originally intended.

The results of the Etiphar integration had been mixed, and the temperamental lifts meant a lot of ladder climbing for the growing number of occupants. A crimson light fixture flickered as Seg climbed by. He reached out and rapped it. The light sputtered once more, then died.

Karging thing. Seg resumed his climb in near darkness.

Hit it again, Fismar said.

Shut up or I’ll put you in charge, Seg called back.

That’s all you’re going to hear from me for the day, Fismar said.

After the darkness of the ladder shaft, Seg was forced to squint in the well-illuminated hangar. He reached down to help pull Arel up, then Fismar. Behind them, a rider bearing the emblem of House Haffset, their strongest ally—as strong as any ally could possibly be on the World—lifted away from the flight deck in a roar of screaming fans. The immaculately clean and well-trimmed craft cut a stark contrast to the newest and sole rider in Seg’s possession, which sat idle, as it had since shortly after its recent arrival. Parts were strewn everywhere. A flung wrench preceded the pilot mechanic, who crawled out of the maintenance hatch with a look of uncensored disgust. Her face and short dark hair were smeared with grease and hydraulic fluid from the vitals of the rider. She grabbed a rail to pull herself upright as the trio approached.

Prognosis, Welkin? Seg asked.

Send it back and get one that kargin’ works, she said. 

Shan Welkin displayed none of the awe and obeisance Seg was becoming accustomed to from the Keep’s population. Seg tolerated the same lack of respect for authority that had once prevented Shan from ascending the ranks back in Cathind because of her loyalty. In his service, she had sacrificed her old life to help achieve his goals. He understood sacrifice. Even so, there were lines, and Shan usually knew when she was too close to crossing one. Usually.

Yeah, yeah, I know, finances, priorities, blah, blah, blah, she said. "Coming up on seven months and the best you can do is this piece of rigla shit? Some Brighter Tomorrow." Shan snorted at the last line—a reference to one of Nallin Sastor’s glowing reports about the Keep—and horked a wad of gray spit to one side. 

Compose, Welkin, Fismar ordered.

Shan grumbled but toned down her ire. She pulled a filthy rag from the pocket of her overalls and mopped futilely at her hands. The number two engine is going to need a full overhaul and I’m going to need a real tech for that. I can’t get the pressure down and, honestly?  I’m a pilot. I can do maintenance and some repairs, but this is over my head.

You got the other one flying, Seg said. Well enough to do the job.

"The Defiant was different," Shan said. 

Seg felt his face sting at the mention of the downed rider’s name, as if he had been slapped, a reaction he had yet to tame. Shan caught her mistake and hurried on.

 We didn’t have a choice there, and we ended up not having to rely on it for long, Shan said, avoiding everyone’s eyes.

Find a technician, Seg said. Arel, find the funding and see to it. 

At once, Theorist.

A fresh roar announced the arrival of the supply rider. Seg looked to Fismar. Take care of this, Force Commander.

Fismar nodded, stuck his fingers in the corners of his mouth, and let out an ear-piercing whistle. A bearded man at the opposite end of the hangar waved. Seconds later, more men appeared from the ready room, with carriage equipment to unload the rider. Seg stepped away and—as the light at the landing pad turned blue for safe conditions—out into the open.

Overhead, wind whipped sand through the air in swirling clouds. Seg pulled goggles from his pocket, slid them on, and looked up at the brassy sky. A dark line on the horizon heralded the approach of the Storm, though without the ability to put riders in the air for Stormwatch they would be unable to determine the velocity until it was much closer.

Behind him, the troops ferried vital equipment from the supply rider. There were no stockpiles here. Nearly everything coming off the rider was going directly into use, as would the next shipment, and the shipment after that. The pace of sale of salvage material was barely keeping up with the costs of the Keep’s refurbishment, but he had to stay afloat long enough to return the automated manufacturing systems to functionality. From there, Julewa Keep could quickly become an integral manufacturing center for the entire World, and a symbol to the People that retreat from the Storm and reliance on caj labor was not their only means of survival.

He stepped to the edge of the flight deck, some three hundred meters over the surrounding desert, and gave the Storm one more hard look. In his short time as a Cultural Theorist, he had already faced a slew of enemies, but this black wall, this faceless predator, was the foe he most reviled.

His comm chirped. He tapped the plug in his ear. Eraranat, he said.

Theorist, we have a problem inbound. A damaged refugee rider from House Tisandis’s staging facility in the flats, claiming to be civilians, asking for refuge under MRRC Article 17, the flight control officer reported.

The cords in Seg’s neck snapped tight. 

For months, the Guild and the Central Well Authority had been fighting a shadowy war through their proxy Houses, Tisandis and Golonst. Since House feuds only got bloody outside the shielded cities, Seg had predicted it was only a matter of time before one, or both, of the combatants turned their sights on Julewa Keep—the only neutral outpost within a thousand kilometers of Cathind or Orhalze.

Now, here it was. Tisandis, the Guild’s proxy House, was using Mercenary Raider and Review Commission rules to drag him into the middle of their conflict. 

Tell the Tisandis rider they have forty-eight hours from touchdown to be airborne once more, Seg said.

They’re eight minutes out and six minutes from intercept by a pair of Golonst riders moving in pursuit, Flight Control said. 

Are they in our airspace? Seg asked.

The Tisandis rider has just crossed the outer boundary, the Golonst riders are two minutes behind them.

Inform both parties that they are not allowed to carry on their war in our airspace, he said. I’ll stay on the line.

He turned back toward the hangar. The flight deck operations took on a new, hurried tenor as the ground crews prepared for the arrival of a damaged craft. One of the crew waved Seg toward a crash bunker.

House Golonst is claiming the kill and ordering us to stand down, Flight Control said. Three minutes to intercept.

Seg stood by the doorway of the crash bunker, looking back into the sky, scanning for some sign of the desperate air race. Light up all air defense targeting sensors and put me on the line with the Golonst riders.

A voice crackled into Seg’s comm.

...if Tisandis lands we’ll blow them off the deck and stuff some rockets into your karging mountain.

This is Theorist Segkel Eraranat to Golonst riders, Seg broke in. Per Article 17, we are providing haven for civilian refugees from the conflict.

Karg Article 17! the voice spat back at him.

Golonst rider, you will depart my airspace at once, Seg said, calmly, shaking off an attempt by one of the flight crew members to drag him into the crash bunker, or I will not only shoot down both your craft, I will also determine the identities of your crew, put markers on all of your families, have them brought to Julewa, and will personally see them thrown from my flight deck to the sands below. Am. I. Clear?

He could see the Tisandis rider now, trailing gray smoke as it staggered through the air. In the distance, he thought he could detect the specks of motion, the faster-moving Golonst riders closing in. To his right, the Keep’s sole functional and loaded air defense missile battery elevated on track.

Two missiles. Thanks to the House War and punitive sales practices that had raised the price of munitions beyond his limited means, he had just two missiles to defend against state-of-the-art riders.

He would be lucky to hit even one of the two riders. The surviving rider could then bombard his home as it pleased. Hopefully the pilots were unaware of the paucity of munitions available to him. He squinted—the Golonst riders were definitely closing in. At least the pilots’ warning boards would be glowing with the reports of target illumination from the other half-dozen missile batteries he possessed, even though those were all empty.

The Golonst riders accelerated, with a cracking sonic boom that swept over the desert as they blew past the damaged Tisandis rider without firing. The two riders arced across the face of the mountain into which the Keep had been constructed—one final show of defiant bravado before they peeled off and turned away. Seg let out a long-held breath as the damaged Tisandis rider limped toward their flight deck. Situation secured, he entered the crash bunker, the door slammed closed behind him, and the flight control officer cleared the comm. 

 The Wellies aren’t going to be happy that we waved off their proxy House. Might call it taking sides, Fismar said. 

We’ll deal with that when it happens, Seg said. 

The Central Well Authority would undoubtedly think he was supporting the Guild’s chosen faction, House Tisandis, in this fight. Likewise, the Guild would expect, perhaps demand, he protect their proxy House. No matter his choice, Seg knew neither side would reward his loyalty but, if he stood against them, both would seek retribution.

It seemed there was nowhere on the World far enough away to escape a feud between giants.

From her seat inside the Guild shuttle, Shyl Vana craned her neck as the craft touched down on Julewa’s landing pad. To one side, a group of Citizens worked to clear debris from a damaged rider. Through the small shuttle window, she could barely make out the colors and emblem, but the rider seemed to belong to House Tisandis.

What in the name of the Storm are they doing here?

The shuttle pilot was droning the usual landing niceties, in which Shyl had no interest. No matter how political and formal her visit was intended to be, her burning curiosity about Julewa Keep and its new occupants was finally about to be satisfied.  And now it seemed she had arrived just in time for some form of drama. 

She bounded out the moment the shuttle door opened, slinging her small travel pack across her shoulder. There was a lot of activity on the pad, what was absent was her host, Theorist Eraranat.

Ansin would be horrified at this lack of manners, she thought, with a small smirk.

A squad of armed troops, visors down for all but their leader, trotted up to the shuttle and formed a passable double column outside the ramp, chacks presented skyward. As formations went, it was barely respectable, but they had the rugged look of hardened raiders. The leader, a tall, broad shouldered man, with a thick, blonde beard and an insouciant grin, stepped forward and looked up the ramp. Theorist Shyl Vana? he asked

Am I being taken into custody? Shyl asked, eyes skimming the rows of armed troops.

"The term Force Commander Korth used is Honor Guard, your eminence, the man said. He removed his helmet and bowed with a flourish that told Shyl she was dealing with one of Eraranat’s infamous Outers.  Force Third Viren Hult at your service. Julewa Keep is honored by your arrival, as is Theorist Eraranat, who has been unfortunately waylaid."

"Would the waylaying have anything to do with that?" Shyl jerked a thumb toward the damaged rider.

I have orders to escort you to the conference room to await Theorist Eraranat and—to quote Force Commander Korth—to keep my big mouth shut for once, Viren said.

If that rider belongs to House Tisandis, as I’m certain it does, and if Theorist Eraranat is conferring with its occupants, as I’m certain he is, I should be present, Shyl said.

Humble apologies, Theorist Vana, but orders are orders.

To the Storm with your orders. She pushed past the burly Outer, calling over her shoulder as she walked, And call me Shyl. I am here to escape the tyranny of protocol.

He was at her side in a blink and easily kept pace with her determined stride. While I see we are kindred spirits, Shyl, you have to understand the trouble this might mean. For me, that is. 

Shyl stopped so suddenly Viren had to spin around and double back to where she stood. From the twinkle in his eyes, she could tell this man was an insufferable cad and no doubt prone to mischief. She liked him instantly. 

Viren, is it? I am a Senior Theorist, the Selectee for Acquired Technology, a member of the Guild Council, and Eraranat’s superior in ways too numerous to mention. I also consider myself his friend. So, if you take me to him, I swear I will assume all responsibility for the contravention of your orders, and I will not use this moment to do any harm to Eraranat. Do we have a deal? 

Viren spread his hands in surrender. I am helpless in the face of your charm, 

Most are, Shyl said. 

He whistled twice and then twice more. The other troops dispersed with an abundance of haste and a lack of precision. Shyl followed as Viren led her away. 

The hangar was a flurry of activity, with pallets being moved back and forth in a pattern that Shyl supposed must make sense to someone. Cutting torches flashed, tools clanked, and oaths cluttered the air from a dozen different regional accents of the World. 

Away from the activity, three people stood close together. Shyl recognized Seg immediately—taller than the rest and just as thin as she remembered. There was nothing about his dress to mark him as either a Theorist or a House Master, and his hair hung down nearly to his shoulders now. Considering her own choice of dress for this official visit—civilian attire, with only a small Guild insignia pinned to her collar—the instinctive bond she had felt upon first meeting the rebellious Theorist resurfaced. 

She had studied her files well enough to understand the other two men must be Fismar Korth and Arel Trant. All three whipped around at her approach. 

Cold eyes locked on Viren, Seg strode forward to intercept their progress. Hult, you had orders to take Theorist Vana to—

I have no intention of sitting in a conference room and staring at the walls while matters of potential importance to the Guild are occurring here, Shyl said, then fixed Seg with an unflinching stare. I countermanded your order to Force Third Hult. You would have done the same, in my position.

She watched the short, subtle battle play out on Seg’s face. They didn’t know each other well but one of the young man’s strength’s was his ability to read a situation quickly. In this case, he had to see that she was going to be as stubborn as he was.

Observation only. You are not a part of this discussion.

Of course, Shyl said and smiled a peace offering. It is good to see you again, Theorist.

He returned none of her warmth, in tone or mannerism, as he quickly extended his palm in formal greeting, then just as quickly withdrew it. His order to Viren—to wait against the wall until called—bordered on hostile. 

This way, Seg said, and Shyl followed him back to the small gathering. He made quick introductions and then directed his attention to the two men. We are simply going to inform Tisandis of their choices. Arel, you will explain their conditions of residence. Fismar, look menacing.

That would not be difficult, Shyl mused. Fismar, in his armor carapace and helmet, visor lifted so his face could be seen, projected the kind of intimidation only found in a genuinely dangerous being. 

Seg strode onto the flight deck, Arel and Fismar flanked him, Shyl followed closely. A pair of Guards maintained a loose cordon around the Tisandis rider. As they reached the perimeter, Arel stepped forward and announced their presence.

House Master Segkel Eraranat, Theorist of the Cultural Theorist’s Guild, and staff. Who speaks for House Tisandis?

That’d be me, Windrol DeMollisir, Utility Supervisory, House Tisandis Deep Reach Holding Facility, said a large woman. She was almost half a head taller than Seg, and easily twice his girth. The features of her face were widely spread, as if each wanted its own territory. 

There are no House members among you? Arel asked. 

None. Just facility staff and some caj. But I can speak for Tisandis and, while the House Master would have my head if I didn’t thank you for the safe perch, she nodded once, sharply, to the hangar, what we need most is a patch-up.

Seg glanced at the rider. Per Article 17, we can allow you the use of tools for repairs on non-weapon systems of your craft for the next forty-seven hours and thirteen minutes. Pass your requests to the Guards on duty and if we have the material we will provide it. Likewise, we will provide communications, such as are allowed by atmospheric conditions, for contacting friends, family, and your House authorities. Do you have need of medical supplies?

Forty-seven hours? Theorist, you seen what we’re dealing with here? And what you got to offer? Windrol pointed to the rider and then to the ramshackle hangar. It’ll take at least a week to fix us up.

Article 17 provides for forty-eight hours of refuge, and Julewa Keep complies with the MRRC Articles, in all particulars, Seg said.

When it suited them, Shyl guessed.

Alternatively, House Tisandis may provide another rider for transportation. I am willing to permit the passage of a Tisandis rider for the purpose of evacuating your personnel to Cathind, or to another location. In this event, your rider would be held in bond for the duration of the conflict, to be returned to House Tisandis at the official cessation of hostilities.

Storm take me, I don’t have time for this! Windrol stepped forward, I want—

Fismar moved forward to intercept her. The House Master has offered the full measure of aid as permitted by the MRRC under the conventions that both our Houses are signatory to, he said, softly. I suggest you take advantage of that because, no, you don’t have time for this. His eyes swept past her, to the Citizens clustered around the rider. None of you have time to waste.

Windrol sized up Fismar, cracked her knuckles, and took a single step back. And if we’re not ready to fly in forty-seven hours? 

Fismar glanced back at Seg, who nodded. Then you march in the sand, Fismar said.

Arel stepped forward now, holding a digifilm before him. No members or affiliates of House Tisandis are to leave the designated perimeter in the hangar deck without prior permission of House Master Eraranat, Force Commander Korth, or Civil Administrator Trant. Violation of this will result in immediate removal from the Keep. Rations will be provided at three-quarter segment for the duration of the stay, tool and material requests will be appropriately logged and billed to House Tisandis. Do you have any questions?

Yeah, Windrol grumbled, you want me to turn around and bend over so you can karg me that way, too? These Citizens are as good as dead if you send them into the wastes and you all know that. 

Seg spoke up once more. Slim odds are better than no odds. I recommend you stop wasting your time and work on improving the prospects you have.

He turned away as Arel spoke once more. If you need to reach the administration, speak to the Guard members on duty. They will connect you.

Guess the rumors are true, Windrol said. She muttered curses under her breath and turned back to the rider. 

As they exited the hangar, Seg acknowledged Shyl at last. So? The question was calm, the tone curious.

She studied his face. This was not the young man to whom she had offered consolation during his Question following his first, and now legendary, raid. Your domain, your rules, she said, consciously clearing her voice of judgment, but she was already considering how the Guild would react to this incident. Rules are useful, at times.

When other people respect them, Seg said. We will see what the pressure of the situation produces.

Fismar cleared his throat. A moment, Theorist? 

Excuse me, Theorist Vana, Seg said, and followed Fismar to one side. 

The ensuing exchange happened in voices too low for Shyl to hear, but the intensity was clear. Whatever the outcome, Seg and Fismar were soon back at her side.

Once more, Shyl searched Seg’s face for a trace of the man she had met in her lab less than a year ago. A man who had spoken wistfully of his time aboard a creaky wooden boat during his first extrans mission. A man who had broken the strict barriers between Theorist and raider, Person and Outer. But all she found was an invisible, impenetrable wall.

What happened to you out here? she wondered.

Arel and Fismar were dismissed and Viren was summoned. He led them away from the hangar, through a door frozen in a half-open position, and around maintenance crews and equipment. 

Shyl’s gaze roamed everywhere. She longed to break free of this ridiculous procession and explore on her own. Time for that later, she supposed. Eraranat’s crew had done an impressive job, given the state of the Keep as broadcast by Nallin Sastor during their first days. There was an air of hope and expectation here that she had not witnessed inside the shielded cities since … Well, since never, she supposed.

Questions about the situation with the Tisandis refugees burned inside her. If she believed the Guild would actually support their proxy House in deed as fervently as they had in word, she would have sent a comm back to Cathind, requesting immediate assistance. But the Council’s inertia in this proxy war was all too predictable. She could only hope for a solution that did not involve driving Citizens into the wasteland to their inevitable death.

I am merely an observer, she reminded herself, and continued observing.

The Keep was bustling, to be sure, but it hadn’t taken her long to realize that it was also far from revitalized. Wherever she looked, something was in need of repair or in the process of being repaired. She wondered if Seg had known what he was getting into the day he touched down on this fortress.

The corridor had seen better days but, even as they passed through, laborers patched cracks and applied fresh paint to the walls. Remarkably, none of the workers bore the grafts of caj. 

Quite an operation, Shyl said, as they walked. How many residents do you have here?

Twenty-seven hundred and sixty-one, counting the temporary Tisandis refugees. Today, Seg said.

 The Council will be intrigued, Shyl said.

 "I’d much prefer they were moved to action than intrigued, but dilatory is the norm among the Guild. How long will you be visiting?" Seg said.

Not long. My own work is, as usual, behind schedule. And the current political situation is keeping all of us busy in our off hours. A shame—this feels a bit like extrans, coming here. Shyl’s smile returned and, with it, a memory of her younger self. Is it true you forbid any caj within these walls?

Part of our progression away from stagnation. Slave labor has made us weak and degenerate, hiding behind the Virtues we claim to adhere to, Seg said. 

Shyl was left momentarily speechless. She had always considered herself progressive, and knew Seg to be the same, but his speech, outside of these walls, would be considered traitorous.

I see, she said. Secretly, she admired his forthrightness. Publicly, she was here as a representative of the Guild—as Ansin had reminded her more than once, when she had been selected for this visit. Well, it appears to be working. Here.

The transition has been difficult for some. But, as you’ve seen, we do not take the enforcement of rules lightly.

 That puts to rest the rumors that this place is a hotbed of anarchy, Shyl said.

By the standards of the World, it might as well be. Disorganized, ad hoc, building as we go. Very little regard for protocol and an emphasis on effective action over proper appearance. The Council will likely find it disturbing.

The Council finds a change in the meal schedule disturbing, Shyl said and waited for some sign of their previous camaraderie. When it did not appear, she shifted tack. I’m looking forward to my promised tour. And I hope I’ll be able to meet your companion, at last.

Seg’s expression darkened, he stopped in place, his body went rigid. That won’t be possible. Viren will show you to your quarters and the tour will begin this afternoon. 

Shyl gaped as he turned on his heel and marched away in the opposite direction, rounding a corner without a backward glance. For an awkward minute, she continued to stare.

May I ask what just happened? she asked Viren.

He placed a hand on her shoulder, engulfing it entirely. Ah, well, you spoke The Forbidden aloud. His companion died in a rider crash at the end of the battle for the Keep, and her body was lost to the Storm. Inside these walls, we do not talk of the crash, and Ama has been erased from history.

I see. Shyl shook her head. I thought he seemed changed. I’d attributed his demeanor to the demands of running an empire and the challenges of this new free society you have here. Ama was it? I never did know her name.

Captain Amadahy Kalder. But you didn’t hear it from my lips. 

I am sorry. I think I liked him better when she was alive. Actually, I was becoming quite fond of him. The spirit of adventure has been one of the unfortunate casualties of our rigid culture. He gave me hope we could change that.

Oh, the good parts are still tucked away in there. Don’t give up on him just yet. Viren winked. Now, let me present you with a choice. I can follow the boss’s instructions, show you to your quarters, and then give you a thorough and absolutely riveting tour of our operation, complete with a stop in the waste recycling facility—the smell alone is worth the trip. Very educational.

Or?

Or, I can take you to a filthy box of a room, filled with men and women who delight in bawdy language and liquor strong enough to remove paint from the walls. There may also be some recreational activities. Do you like card games, by any chance?

Shyl rubbed her hands together. Are your men familiar with Jissak? More importantly, is wagering allowed?

Have I mentioned how much I enjoy the company of clever women? Viren led Shyl out of the hallway, into an open concourse, and toward one of the lifts. 

She studied him as she walked, as much out of habit as curiosity. All she knew of the fifty Outers that had come over with Seg after his raid was that they had followed of their own free will, had been secretly trained for combat, and had neither been grafted nor processed. Extraordinary and unheard of. By appearance, it was obvious these men had been granted more leeway even than that. Viren’s hair was too long for a raider, nor would his beard be tolerated even in the lowest rental charter units. The bone ornament through his upper ear caught her attention—not an unusual piece of body decoration for a primitive culture but the spine itself looked familiar. 

Is that from a rigla? Shyl asked, pointing to the bit of jewellery. 

Nasty beast, Viren affirmed. 

May I ask the significance? 

An old custom on my world. A drexla spine through the ear was awarded for every great victory.

Drexla?

Another nasty beast. They live and hunt in the Big Water.

 Apex predator, an apt symbol for a warrior.

And they have been known to make women swoon. Viren wiggled the spine with a roguish smile. Sadly, the custom was forbidden under the rule of the Shasir. With the Theorist’s and the Force Commander’s permission, we resurrected the tradition after we took the Keep.  

Ah, you were of the lower caste, of course. But I thought the Welf— She stopped, understanding flooding in. You’re Kenda!

Blood for water, Viren said, and raised his fist to his heart. 

Pieces of an elusive puzzle began snapping into place. The Kenda were the only caste who had been spared during Seg’s raid, presumably because their places of worship did not contain sufficient amounts of vita and, as a people, they would not make worthy caj. An obvious falsehood, she now saw in the figure of the burly trooper.

No wonder Eraranat had suffered so greatly at his Question, she mused. The strain of hiding this illicit alliance must have been unbearable.

They were almost at the lift, Viren signaled for the waiting crowd to make room. A sharp whistle halted him.

Shyl turned to see a black-haired woman, clad in coveralls, coated with dirt and grease, charging in their direction. 

Not answering your comm, Hult? the woman asked Viren. 

He retrieved his comm from his belt and held it up to show her a blinking amber light. Yet another piece of malfunctioning equipment. In any case, I’m on official—

Whatever. I need a hand with some heavy parts in the hangar and of course the boss has all my crew helping with the wrecked Tisandis rider. Flight Ops moved to the bottom of the kargin’ list. Again. Send me a couple of your Outer boys, the woman said, arming grease from her face. By now, Shyl had guessed her name and rank. 

I’d be delighted. In fact, I’m on my way to the Port House, where I’m sure to find some suitable candidates, Viren said.

She jabbed a finger into Viren’s chest. I’d better see my help in the next thirty and they’d better be sober or I’ll rip that spine right out of your ear. And why the karg are you headed to the Port House in the middle of the—

Shyl cleared her throat. Pilot Shan Welkin, is it?

Shan blinked, as if just noticing her presence, and took a cautious step back. Yeah?

This is Shyl, Viren said. Theorist Shyl Vana, the boss’s guest.

Shan stammered out a greeting, cheeks burning red as her eyes finally fell on the innocuous Guild insignia. Theorist, I was just ... She took several deliberate steps away from Viren and offered a lopsided grin. We joke a lot in this shit ho— I mean, this isn’t...

Shyl patted Viren on the arm. I’ll ensure he sends your assistants.

I got work waiting, sorry, Shan said.

You’re welcome to— 

Shyl’s invitation hung in mid-air; Shan’s exit was as swift as her entrance. 

Charming, Shyl said.

The lift doors opened and Viren ushered her inside. The love of my life.

Shyl looked from Viren to the spot where Shan had berated him so loudly, then looked back to Viren again. Are you certain?

Well, she has yet to declare her affection publicly, but in the privacy of her quarters I have been assured that my physical prowess has made me noticeably less disgusting. I should also add that she no longer threatens to shoot me. We’ve made great strides in our relationship.

"She is spirited."

In the best possible ways.

I notice she also wears the ear decoration. She’s adapted to your Outer customs?

I wouldn’t say that to her face.

The lift was jammed to capacity in moments, and several people were left waiting as the door creaked closed. Dials were spun and the machine lumbered downward in jerky fits. 

 This is a Jollix model seven lift. I have one just like it where I live, Shyl said to Viren, over the grinding rumble. Tell your mechanic that the switchbrake tends to slip halfway out of its notch if it's not lubricated properly. When that happens it does, well, what this one is doing.

Viren raised an eyebrow. Is that part of your job as a Theorist? Repairing lifts? I always imagined it was a far more glamorous occupation.

My field is the technological arts, but I’ve been known to tinker with machines from time to time. And wherever did you get this notion of Cultural Theory as glamorous?

 Viren scratched his bearded chin. "I’ve only known one Theorist. Now that I think of it, perhaps glamorous isn’t the best description. Insane? Fraught with peril? Actually I’ve never had it explained to me what it is a Theorist does, exactly."

That would make two of us. Shyl winked. Did you have confidence men, con artists, hustlers, that sort of thing, on your world?

I myself would never associate with such disreputable types. At that, chuckles passed between two Guard members crammed in next to Viren. But, yes, we had such unsavory characters. 

Well, that is essentially a Theorist’s job. We study cultures, learn all we can about human behavior, and then use that knowledge to travel to other worlds, where we blend in with the locals and, eventually, pry out the secrets of their most treasured artifacts. Then we steal them. A glamorous profession indeed. She couldn’t stifle her own laugh as she imagined the reactions of her fellow bloc members to this speech. And then her laughter ceased. Jarin’s secret bloc was more of a relic now than Julewa Keep. 

The lift stopped at one of the mid-levels and Viren cleared a path through the press of bodies to accommodate Shyl’s exit. 

Prior to her arrival, she had studied what she could of Julewa Keep’s history. It had once been a self-sustaining entity and, from what she could ascertain, Seg was working to make it so again. There were production facilities for textiles, weapons, and fusion plant components; hydroponicoms for growing food; a power generation center; a deep tap into one of the few remaining aquifers for clean water, three recyclers, and much more. At its peak, the Keep had housed a population of nine thousand, most of whom resided in the habitation levels, or habs as they were commonly known, which spanned from three hundred meters above ground to one thousand meters below. Shyl looked out over many of those habs now, from one of the wide concourses that ran around the residences in rings. Most of the habs were empty but, if the Keep’s ambitious young leader succeeded here, they wouldn’t be for long. 

Theorist Vana, welcome to the Julewa Port House, Viren said, and swept his arm toward a faux-wooden door, opened to reveal a bar unlike any on the World. 

Shyl smiled at the crunch of sand beneath her feet as she entered, and the sound of music, real music being played on real instruments, by free men and women. There were chairs and tables done up to look as much like wood as possible, the same for the bar and the small stage. Festive colored banners hung from the ceiling, and there was not a wallscreen or monitor in sight. 

Modeled after your own world? she asked Viren.

"As close as we could. No fishing nets on the walls, but the blood on the floor is genuine, and the liquor is about as close to our old blind-me as you’d want to risk."

Half your lifts are out of service but you’re already successfully producing alcohol? 

Man needs priorities, wouldn’t you agree? Viren spread his hands and cocked his head with the innocence of a child. 

Without question, Shyl said. 

The Port House was about half full, the clientele mixed, though still divided. There were several members of the Eraranat Guard, but the Outers among them—noticeable thanks to the distinctive ear piercings—were gathered in one corner and the former raiders clustered in the other half of the room. Regular civilians kept to themselves. In the furthest corner, two men sat close to each other, a wide gap stretching between them and all the rest. At the glint of metal near the base of the men’s skulls, Shyl understood why. There were rumors that some of the new settlers to Julewa had brought their caj, with full knowledge that they would be considered free Citizens the moment they set foot on the flight deck. Citizens these two men may be, but they had clearly not been embraced as such by the others.

Not surprising, Shyl mused. It was one matter to declare all people equal, quite another to convince them of it. Even so, the mere fact that these groups could share a space without bloodshed was a triumph. 

Do all the freed caj still bear their grafts? Shyl asked Viren. 

I have been told by highly unreliable sources that the removal procedure is ‘on the list’, Viren said. This is, of course, complicated by the fact that we only have two medicals, and only one who can count without the use of his fingers.

 Only two medicals for more than twenty-seven hundred inhabitants? They must never sleep.

Don’t worry. Sagio and Kype are happiest when they’re complaining, which makes this place paradise for them both.

Viren whistled to the bartender and held up two fingers, the man nodded, and in short order two mugs of an amber liquid appeared. As Shyl moved to retrieve one, a uniformed Guard, one of the raider contingency, stumbled toward her. Viren snatched the man by the collar and stopped his fall just inches from a collision with the much-smaller Shyl.

Getyerhandsoffme! the man slurred. He raised a fist, then caught the muted black insignia on Viren’s shoulders, and froze in place, wobbling from side to side. ’Pologies, Subcom.

Viren didn’t answer, just calmly reached down, removed the pistol from the Guard’s holster, and slid it over the bar. Missed this one, Walchek, he said. The bartender muttered an apology, while Viren helped the inebriated Guard to stand upright. Yoth court, Trooper Ekst, tomorrow, 1500 hours, if you want me to overlook this infraction. I need a new blocker and luckily you’re just big and ugly enough for the job.

Yes, Subcom, Ekst said, and stumbled away. 

They respect the authority of an Outer? Fascinating, Shyl said, as Viren handed her a drink. 

Force Commander Korth’s doing. Of course, in this instance, it doesn’t hurt that Ekst happens to know that I am the keeper of the rot-gut of which he is so fond. Viren lifted his glass to Shyl, To diplomacy.

Shyl joined in the toast, took a hearty sip, then coughed. With a good-natured laugh, Viren led her to the Outers’ corner, where a prominent-chinned man dealt cards to an unhappy-looking quartet. 

Shyl Vana, may I introduce Prow Jask, swindler, cheat, and all around scoundrel, Viren said.

You play? Prow asked, with a glance to the cards. 

Without a word, Shyl sat, grabbed the deck and banged it on the table. With one hand, she cut the deck in two, passed one half to her other hand, slapped the two halves together, and fanned out the cards. 

Are you familiar with Jissak, by any chance? she asked.

As always, Seg reached his peak with a cry that reminded Lissil of a wild animal that was wounded and cornered. He had been more aggressive than usual. She knew that sex with her was mostly a means by which he burned off his energy and frustrations but tonight he had come to her quarters and set to it with barely a word of exchange. At one point, he had driven into her with enough force to make her bite her lip. Not that his behavior had shocked her.

News of the damaged Tisandis rider, the Golonst attackers, and Seg’s predicament was spreading through every level of the Keep. For a mind already overloaded with thousands of day-to-day decisions, this had to be an unbearable weight.

He rolled to one side, chest heaving, skin covered with a thin sheen of sweat, and lay looking up at the ceiling. There wasn’t anything to see up there, or in the rest of her quarters for that matter, but this was always the moment when he transitioned from the escape her body offered, back into the chains of reality and duty.  

Have you contacted the Guild? she began, easing him into the topic. 

There is no point. The Guild won’t communicate anything on the matter.

You said they started the proxy war.

They did. The Guild’s convoluted attempt to strike at the CWA after the destruction of Old Town and the open attacks on one of their own inside the walls of Cathind.

She did not have to ask the meaning behind the derisive laugh that followed this statement. Seg had never hidden his frustrations with the Guild, their inability to act with any speed or decisiveness. Forty-eight hours might as well be a year to the Guild Council.

They still refuse to heed your advice or follow the examples you set, she said, with shared disgust. 

They’re old and scared of change.

It would be their downfall, Lissil knew. While the Guild had dragged its feet with Tisandis, the CWA had openly bankrolled Golonst’s every need. Her knowledge of the conflict, which included the newsfeeds she watched in privacy as well as rumors from all levels of the Keep, was almost as extensive as Seg’s. Nevertheless, she pressed him for more details, listened attentively as he recited the facts she already possessed, and then paused as if to digest the information, as if it were new. She had already considered how she would direct Seg’s actions but with so much at stake she had to be cautious. He needed to believe any decisions were his own.

 Will you follow through with your ultimatum if the rider is not repaired in time? she asked and rolled to one side to run her hands through his hair. 

House Golonst acts with the might of the CWA behind them. If I do not either send Tisandis out or turn them over to their enemies, Golonst will smash us.

Are we so defenseless?

Beyond the House Guard, we’re in worse shape than Etiphar was before the liberation. The CWA has gone to great lengths to complicate our purchase of modern weaponry. Shan and— He stopped as if he had unexpectedly lost the power of speech, then choked down the name of Shan’s former co-pilot with a hard swallow. —and the others were a little too effective at neutralizing the mountain’s defense network.

Her fingers paused for the barest of seconds. He had not spoken Ama’s name since the futile search for her had ended, but her ghost lingered. Lissil dug her nails into his scalp and raked them in the way he always seemed to enjoy. 

An impossible position for you, she said. 

And at the worst time. We are so close to the turning point. When the custom control panels arrive for the manufactory, we’ll be able to produce our own goods—for ourselves as well as for sale or trade with the World. The Keep can at last be self-sustaining.

Sometimes you need to burn the barn, she said, voice carefully casual.

His exaggerated blink was just the reaction she had hoped for. 

Burn the barn? What do you mean?

Oh, it’s an old Damiar saying. Your situation reminded me of the story behind it, that’s all. She continued to play with his hair. 

How so?

She dipped her head and looked away from him. I should not have spoken. It’s just a silly story from a backwards world.

Your instincts have yet to fail me. Go on, he urged.

Well, there were two Damiar families, the Merrinhills and the Authmages, who had a long-standing feud with each other. The Merrinhills had wide tracks of fertile land; the Authmages had the finest estate north of M’eridia, with enough servants to care for a Sky Temple. And while the Merinhills had wealth enough, Lord Authmage was a mean-spirited tyrant, and paid well to keep the Judicia in his pocket. More than one of his enemies had finished their days in Correction, or cast out of society. Everyone believed this would eventually be the Merinhill’s fate. But then came the year of the flood.

The Merinhills benefited from the natural disaster somehow? Seg asked. 

Just the opposite.

I’ve yet to see the connection to my situation, Seg said. 

Patience, Lissil chided. You see, the flood washed out the Welf village and out-buildings that housed the servants for the Authmage estate. Those Welf that survived were homeless and desperate. They had lost their few possessions, their livestock, and even loved ones. They went to the Authmage’s and begged for land to settle on until the river subsided, but they were turned away. Then they crossed the single remaining bridge and begged the same of the Merinhills.

Refugees, Seg said. 

Yes. And the Merinhills knew if they took in the Welf the Authmages could accuse them of stealing. Meanwhile, the river continued to rise and the villagers had no shelter.

Seg closed his eyes as if he was envisioning the scenario, the rushing water, the bedlam of the flood. Continue.

The head of the Merinhill Line invited every last one of the villagers to shelter in his barn. He had his own servants clear out all the animals, set out food and blankets, and bid the refugees welcome. No one can say if his intentions were honorable, for he never spoke of the matter after it was done.  But, just as he had predicted, the authorities delivered a grievance, filed by Lord Authmage. That night, when the refugees were asleep, Master Merinhill ordered the doors to the barn barred and locked. He summoned Lord Authmage, explained what he had done, and, as his enemy watched, he had his servants set torches to the building. Merinhill burned his own barn to the ground, with every one of his rival’s servants inside.

He burned them alive. Innocent victims. Seg’s face tightened. His fingers drifted to a small, jagged scar on his left bicep. 

It was an extreme action, even for a Damiar.

And after? 

After that, no one crossed the Merinhills.

Who would dare? A man capable of that butchery, of destroying his own property—they would have to wonder what else he might do, Seg said.

His Line became the most powerful in the region.

And the other?

There are many stories but all tell of a broken man whose Line fell into scandal and ruin.

One extreme act of terror to ensure a stable future for generations to come.

Sometimes you have burn the barn, Lissil said.

 Monstrous but brilliant. 

Seg fell silent, his stare focused far beyond the walls of the room, beyond even the walls of the Keep. Eventually he slid from beneath the covers, eyes once more in the present moment. 

Have you heard anything in the commons? What do the residents think of the Tisandis situation? he asked.

Lissil rose from the small bed. They had spent enough of these evenings together for her to know Seg could not be persuaded to bed with her, nor would she be welcome in his quarters. It was best to help him dress and send him off with something to eat. 

Some are afraid. They think Golonst will attack and they know the Keep’s defenses are not yet ready. She brushed off his jacket and retrieved his boots, not bothering to dress herself. Most wish Tisandis had not brought this problem to our door. They would not be disappointed to see the refugees sent off into the wastes.  She swayed to the small cooling cupboard and pulled out a square metal container—a roll of cintz. All are curious to see how their leader handles this problem. This may be the most important decision you have made since you took this place. 

He pulled the jacket on, took the roll, and bit down on half. Before he had finished swallowing he said, Just the latest most important decision. Assuming we survive this one, there will be another. He ate the other half of the roll and sat on one of the two chairs in Lissil’s quarters. 

She was waiting with his boots, the left one held up for his foot. I am certain you will act wisely. You always do, she said. Oh, you will also want to send some of the Guard down to the lower hab levels. The black market trading is starting up again. 

Get me names and what they’re moving. Fismar isn’t happy with using the Guard for civil policing. We’re going to have to recruit wardens and it would be good to give them an easy win to build both their own institutional and public confidence. If the traders are moving salvage, they can go with Tisandis to the sand.

He