13'Sao-La
He yielded his sprint in still another crowd of Voiceless. The Kata-for-Messenger crystalled
parks, backpaths, and shortcuts — except where they did not support the destination. To join with
the general population, to avoid their heed, a messenger slowed and wended.
So many crowds like this today! 13'Sao-La scooted through gaps, intent on his destination. Still
he noticed excitement. Words, odors, gestures, all shaped by contained excitement. Why? And why
can't they just stay out of my way?
Detour cooled focus. His rouse from running wisped away, and 13'Sao-La remembered his news:
Governor Sigma lay dead in his office! He remembered his goal: alert Ready Rooms for Tuol Sleng
and Sand Creek to the fact and in its wake, convert their Kata-for-Delivery to ... he didn't know.
The kata did not include such a possibility. The Rollkeepers must ponder the news, torque the
kata. He ran because the Em-Deh would carry no messages or meetings. He ran as did 3'Pisote and
2'Kouprey — just three left from the bodyguard. The other three lay dead alongside their
Governor.
13'Sao-La surged against the crowd. Jostle ignited his vex. Squushy Voiceless stoked it. Pallid
scents, fake and natural, fueled it. He pushed back. He elbowed. He tapped a shoulder and slid
behind the distract. He broke free and into a backpath.
Rouse rushed back. Goal — Tuol Sleng first — took over, and he vanished within the mission and
its tactics: see, choose the hardest way, do. Time fell aside. Route per se did not exist,
except as he drew its segments from memory. Only he/body and direct zhuhndí existed.
Wind licked sweat, its caresses quick and cool. The beaten earth slapped his feet, pushing him
on. His heart single-mindedly pumped blood. His lungs single-mindedly sucked and pushed air. His
left arm single-mindedly set the pace, back and forth. His right arm, the same. His left thigh
single-mindedly swung its leg forward in turn. His right thigh, the same.
13'Sao-La cruised a narrow backpath. To one side, a fence row of bandi-corn rocked its leaves in
the same wind. Its pollen toyed with his nose lining. On the other side, a rambling children's
home started their mid-day meal buffet-style, a little early. Its aromas teased him: grilled hot
dogs, dill pickles, potato salad. A few of the kids followed his progress across the back of their
daytime domain.
After that, a curve brought sight of a larger path. Tuol Sleng lay at the end of a straight dash
down that path. A woman lingered at the intersection. 13'Sao-La heeded her.
"Enemy" came the verdict. Stunned, he looked again while his legs kept up their smooth cadence. A
'stick actually, alert, dreamstick-as-baton in hand, on watch.
He stabbed about for exits. A stile humped over a low grape arbor. He dropped a shoulder, planted
a foot, and crossed the stile in two leaps. He saw daylight between two parts of a House for a
Small Family and arrowed toward it. He rushed alongside children, stalled by surprise. He heard
an authoritative shout behind him. He reached his new goal and without pausing, chose another.
See, choose the quickest way, do, this time with escape as his mission. He never gandered pursuit,
but did not relent until his escape grew its own heed. So he angled from the crowd's gander and
hid his sweat and gasps until they too passed. He composed his tunic, tucked his pachcab inside
it. Then he sought a public entrance, found the Em-Deh useless, sought another crowd of Voiceless
saturated with rumor, and mingled.
