13'Sao-La
Late morning, he threaded through Goree Bazaar in Pntrhydfendigaid, a Neighborhood in Oatsina, a
Community in Ganj Dareh. The target designated for his first mission during the first
Kata-for-Delivery. They had readied. They had taken assignments. They had heeded tactical
review. Now they sortied.
Voiceless swarmed as customers through the bazaar. 13'Sao-La likened them to prey-fish in fertile
shoals of a tropical island once described in an Em-Deh show. And he, 13'Sao-La, slipped through
the press of their flesh like a barracuda. He aped shopping. He paused. He listened. He even
talked, letting people know he came there as Gastarbeiter. He searched for a place and people to
attack.
He had never experienced so many Voiceless for so long. They pillowed him. They collided timidly,
softly, and only when they couldn't avoid it. Their squushy flesh creeped him. Ollomani bulged
with muscle, exchanged strikes and strokes eagerly.
The Voiceless even smelled soft, of flowers and spices and timid wafts of sex juices.
Yet, 13'Sao-La strove to remember the Governors' image of the Voiceless, their innocence and misery
and future redemption. He redrew the image in his mind time and again because it contradicted
history. His history before the League and as ollomani. Other history as told by Ally, Enemy, or
Unknown — even the muddiest olloman merited respect, for skill, for loyalty, for escape from
Voiceless. The Voiceless, though, slaved themselves to consortium ways, saddled, yoked, coated
with self-allowed dross. They deserved anything — humiliation, injury, even untimely death —
delivered unto them.
Yet, the Governor required him to overthrow history and pursue Le Coeur's new and immediate
mission: shock, destroy, and control the Voiceless ... for their own good.
13'Sao-La paused outside a particular shop for the third time. Wide, shallow, brightly lit, its
tall windows shelved with wares, it wheedled him about today's mission. It matched the criteria
well. Crowded, for one: browsers mingled; buyers queued at the agent-for-trade. For two, most
patrons were dark, like him. Of all sizes and shapes, true, but their skins were rich with color.
Mattering only because the shop's proprietor, mostly hidden now by the purchasing line, stood tall,
thin, fair of hair and skin. His quality of goods and services would count for nothing in the face
of the right kindle.
For three, the shop lay under a roof, therefore in Beobachtung shadow, and according to the
League's intelligence, the bazaar itself had not enrolled in the anshin's Common-Surveillance
Program, so they were blind as well as the world.
And four, the Kata-for-Delivery required action to be completed in time for a common return to the
Ready Room, for immediate assessment together.
A set of words sparkled in 13'Sao-La's mind. A ramp of actions leading up to those words
unfolded. A manner of approach occurred, friendly, easily liked, with 5'Khting-Vor — Ally no
more, alive no more — as performance model. A gist of timing pressed him toward action.
Wonder no longer. Practice rewarded, as usual.
Abruptly decided, stomach fluttering with stage fright — no crystal game of tlaxtli this —
13'Sao-La scanned the crowded promenade fronting the shop. He found his topador hanging back to
the right. He spotted his golpe ahead on the left. He signalled each with a quick forefinger
along his nose, then slipped through the narrow entrance into the shop.
