13'Sao-La
He sought celebration. After this day of glory, he strutted among the Voiceless. Negligent of
their woes, convinced that the New Order would soon relieve them, he decided to sample their ways
for his celebration.
For he had killed Authority. A long ambition, now slightly quenched. Not his father, the
Patriarch of the Rengasdengklok Clan, but another aloof fount of orders, fickle dispenser of
favor. The one he had named Casualty some days before. Director Derkinit, Governor Sigma had
called the fat, old man. Shock, Control, and after a Governor's while, Destroy. A beginning, at
least, first of many other chances ... or so the Governor had promised.
A laughing triad brushed by him. Natives, not ollomani, but cocky and fit, masters of the
evening. Probably fresh from their own mischief on the paths. So many of the Native Voiceless —
and Alien Voiceless — had risen to violence, hammering on the chains loosened by Le Coeur de la
Patrie.
Potential Allies, the threesome trooped into a tavern's entrance room. 13'Sao-La trooped after
them. They shook hands with the agent-for-trade jovially and passed into the comradely dark. But
the device raspberried him and brightened its small foilscreen to explain its noise: "No
admittance: underage. Please try our ethanol-free patio."
Rank and dungy Patterns! 13'Sao-La flung himself out of the entrance room. Too aware of his youth
according to the gray and rigid rules that governed this world. Too careful of drawing the
attention of his True Enemies, the anshin. Vex burned in his jaws, tightening them like rawhide.
The New Order could not come soon enough.
When he and the others in the First of the New Order would cleanse Ganj Dareh of the rest of its
Authorities and release the Voiceless from their bondage and go where they pleased and do what they
pleased. No longer would Father control his life, even from the grave. The Governor had promised
that time would come soon.
Then, someone else would rubbish the bodies. Then, stealth and seclusion would no longer apply.
The sneaking around had vexed 13'Sao-La, not the butchering of Derkinit's carcass, rather the
posting of the body parts to distant parts of the continent, with the anshin's Central Station as
return address. Though, the Governor heeded, with the delivery contract open to competition, not
much moved anywhere. In the New Order, the First would not handle debris, much less with guile.
That looming future soothed 13'Sao-La. He converted stomp into stroll. He sought celebration once
again, in the open air of the elevated patio. He checked its entrances. From the square: Natives
straggled in — Casualties this time, more and more as quiet moments, after the day's usual
violence, piled on each other. The south path: empty. From the east path: empty.
Recce-assured, 13'Sao-La chose a corner between railing and tavern wall, where he could duck away
quickly. He centered the table between him and the bulk of the patio. He settled into a chair and
tilted it back. His head rested against the plastered wall. His shoulders traced the hard rim of
the chairback. His legs dangled over the upraised edge of the seat. He ordered an egg creme.
Nearby, a wide window, standing open, traded the tavern's scents with the cool night, the sparkle
of grog, stout, and ale and the piquancy of beer-boiled shrimp and jambalaya exchanged with the
softness of jasmine and júzi and the bite of durian. 13'Sao-La posted a future, a new ambition,
when he would sit inside and never look out.
Vex resolved, cold glass installed in his rigid pachcab hand, he smugged over the Voiceless around
him. He gandered their edgy looks, hunched against mob explosions. Though he no longer sortied
from a Ready Room to ignite them. He rejoiced in their unease despite their façade of coming out
into public like nothing was wrong. Instead, one of a select few — First of the First? — he
guarded the Governor in his present guise of legitimacy as a combine strategist. A boon for his
work on the paths, heeded by the Governor himself. He smugged over that, too.
"Ges Lugar Sailie," the Governor called himself in this guise. Soon, when elected to be the most
powerful Authority in Ganj Dareh, he would beget freedom, to the ollomani, to the Voiceless.
What name would the Governor adopt then? 13'Sao-La wondered and checked the entrances again. From
the square: two Natives staggered out. From the south path: five more streamed in. From the
east path: Enemy.
Not just Enemy: Harlan, missioning past the patio, his stride long. His heels struck hard,
provocative, challenging. His recce quartered the horizon, head pivoting, eyes working near and
far.
13'Sao-La pushed his head against the wall; the chair came slowly upright. At the balance point,
he reached out with the glass, then caught himself with his toes. He centered behind the table and
grounded quietly.
Harlan eyed the patio, caught on 13'Sao-La. He checked his stalk, then mounted the wide, wooden
steps and wound among the other tables.
13'Sao-La longed to honor his prayer from the last time he'd faced Harlan. May the rules be
different. May the Authorities allow. Next time, when our disputes meet, may we fight in their
honor. Next time. But the Authorities did not allow — yet. Soon, the dead and the new
will allow. So he waited, with alert calm.
"Hola!" Harlan called. His wary eyes belied the cheer. "Rendezvous finally give you some time
off?" He stopped across the table with his feet spread, ready for combat. Qahwah tainted his
breath, as before, but it mixed with adrenalin satisfied with action and progress. Did ollomani or
Voiceless pay for that boon?
In answer, 13'Sao-La added his own faux. "Join me," he said and lifted his glass, his stiff
fingers splaying tangent to its curve. Hidden by the table, he spread his own feet and settled his
weight on their balls.
Harlan parried with a terse shake of his head. "Behaving yourself?"
What kind of question was that? Father stopping by, his own dark brow furled, his hand open as if
to help. Father, asking the same question, as though concerned. Father, having just exiled my
mother because she could not conceive again. After all, he had ten other wives, but I had ... just
one ... mother.
"Yes." 13'Sao-La slid his right hand off the table, brought it up under the wooden top, explored
for a balance point.
"How's the hand?"
Not like Father at all. In fact, only Harlan — and the Governor — focused on his abilities, not
his age, on his scars as proof of experience. And only Harlan granted him equality by the way he
faced him with challenge and readiness.
13'Sao-La stoicked, a small shrug that told of suffering endured, of fate accepted. At the same
time, he pressed up on the table; it tilted slightly, two of four legs floating just off the
floor.
Harlan stepped straight back. Regret over priorties torqued his face. "I have to see a man about
an intersection. Another time."
13'Sao-La broke his alert, locked down his muscles just as they surged toward combat. "Another
time," he promised without taking his eyes off Harlan.
Harlan side-stepped, set a pivot with his hand on the railing, and vaulted over it. He trotted
toward the square, resuming his mission.
Their time together would come soon. The Governor had promised. On the way to killing
Authorities, 13'Sao-La would face Harlan and kill him too. Everyone else would be aftermath.
13'Sao-La released the table and called for a refill. In the meantime, tomorrow would bring new
glories. He could hardly wait.
