Project Dystopia (The Directorate Book 8) Read online

  "And what are the qualifications for this certificate?"

  "We've batted it around a bit. Level five Speed, preferably greater."

  "There isn't greater . . . That I've seen . . . "

  "Ra'd and I'll have to give a demo. Or you could check our graduation sorting match."

  "You won, according to your records, and Ra'd was second. I'll have to find a vid."

  "And of course, the Warriors will all have been trained in magic, martial arts, and weaponry. With experience that demonstrates a willingness to kill or die for the Empire." Ebsa shrugged. "Mind you, Isakson wasn't there to give his opinion, but Ra'd was quite certain about the experience being necessary."

  "Experience . . . " The Director looked appalled. "I think I'll find a nice field assignment for both of you."

  "Thank you sir."

  "And I suppose any recommendations from you would involve your highly placed girlfriend's location?"

  "Yes sir. Ra'd, by-the-way, has a pretty good 'in' with Wolfson. I'll bet he could pick up a lot of the Fallen magical techniques if he was assigned to Embassy. Or Disco, for that matter."

  Ajki sighed. "Because he kissed Wolfson's daughter? Sometimes that isn't a plus in a father's opinion. Well . . . it'll get you out from underfoot while I try to modernize the Action Teams."

  Ebsa tried to avoid grinning. Modernize? Nice way to say, retrain bullying rapists into efficient guards and hunters for science projects. "Watch your back, Director . . . maybe I should stay here."

  "Ha! I know more about dealing with backstabbers than you, youngster. No matter what unofficial certifications you may or may not have." He walked out.

  As far as Ebsa could tell, no one else had noticed him come or go. I guess you can't kill a man you don't see.

  Chapter Two

  19 Emre 1408

  Gate City, One World

  To say that interest in the Conclave had risen was an understatement. Speculation about just how many Prophets were still living were everywhere, running neck and neck with speculations about the Warriors of the One.

  Ebsa, Ra'd, and Paer kicked back in Warehouse Fifty and watched the spectacle. They'd been assigned this warehouse while they'd been raiding NeoHelios. With that assignment over—no more Oners to be found anywhere, dammit—they'd all been reassigned, but the warehouse had, so far, not been yanked out from under them. It beat the heck out of living in the barracks.

  And I don't have nerve enough to ask Paer to marry me. Yet. But . . . the election was two years ago. Her father is solidly into his third term. I should pop the question and get the public scandal over with before the next election. Not to mention, before Paer gets sent back across. She only got three days off. And this is the last one.

  "Here it goes." Paer sat up and stared at the screen. Her father's press conference was going to be interesting . . .

  A babble of questions, as the president walked out.

  "Did you know there was a living Prophet?"

  "Why didn't anyone know about the Warriors?"

  "Where's Qayg?"

  "Who is the old man with the beard?"

  The President held up his hand for silence, and got it.

  "The Bags of the Prophets are nearly mythical and . . . a standard trope of some types of movies. Based on reality. I am reliably informed that in the heat of battle it was not unheard of for warriors with one of the few precious bags to shelter any soldiers and civilians in danger of being overrun and killed. They'd wait inside a few minutes . . . and emerge a few weeks later outside. At the Battle of Rangpur, the Prophet Nicholas ordered Isakson and Ra'd, his last Warriors, into Isakson's bag, inherited from his father, along with the civilians trapped there. The prophet said he'd take shelter himself after he'd checked for other survivors.

  "They do not know what happened after that. But after a few minutes Isakson opened his bag and they found themselves inside another. Nicholas had enclosed one bag inside another. The time dilation is multiplicative. They opened the second bag and stepped out into the Rangpur Historical site nine years ago. They have had some difficulties adjusting to the future, and to protect the privacy of the children involved, the matter was classified." The President cleared his throat. "The Prophet Emre apparently disagrees with our reticence."

  "Isak ibn Isak ibn Hugo, usually called Isakson is currently a part of the Presidential Directorate, training the guards. Ra'd ibn Nicholas ibn Emre was a teenage trainee Warrior, he attended the Directorate School and is currently with the External Relations Directorate. The other Rangpur survivors were civilians and have asked to not be specifically named.

  "Isakson, through his training duties, has designated several people as Warriors. We're thinking about making this an official certification, as with Medic or Electronics Certifications, and enlarging the pool of candidates beyond the Presidential Directorate and the Black Horse Guards.

  "There is no cadre of Warriors, and four days ago you saw all but two of the people who would be immediately certified. Once we get the requirements pinned down, we'll publicize them." He gave a wry smile. "Questions?"

  A flood of them.

  Ebsa glanced at Ra'd. "He used your name."

  "Yes. He called to ask." Ra'd snorted. "We are not ashamed of what we are. We were just being quiet. Wary, in this strange place. But even the twins are ten years old now, and old enough to either keep silent or deal with the consequences."

  Paer sighed and snuggled up. "I'm fast enough to be a Warrior, but Isakson said I'm too hesitant to kill. That I had the heart of a healer. I wonder if that's changed, now?"

  Ra'd snickered. "Next time you spar, just visualize him as that Helaos with the three slave girls he was training to be whores."

  Paer's eyes narrowed with a nasty glint.

  On screen, the president was taking questions.

  "No. I was unaware that the Prophet Emre was still alive. If it had occurred to me to wonder, I would have asked Isakson. I did ask him yesterday, and he informed me that to the best of his knowledge Emre was the only Prophet still living."

  "What about this Warrior Trainee? You said he was in the External Directorate? What does he do?"

  "Ra'd has been on teams, and was one of Ajha's team members when he was rescuing students from the Helaos. He is currently based here, well, in Gate City. But not going across, at the moment."

  "Who are the other two Warriors, who did not escort the Prophet? We recognized a few of the others, can we have all of their names?"

  "Once we set up the standards and so forth for Warrior Certification, the people qualifying can either downplay it or brag. But that's up to them."

  Then the questions switched back to the Prophet, to the Conclave, to the outrageous suggestion that Servaone should be changed to Worker of the One . . .

  "Do you know, not a single question about the Bioattack or reclassification criteria." Ebsa stretched out his legs. "I guess all the tests, and Wolfson's willingness to replace the genes is starting to take the edge off people's . . . fury."

  Paer snorted. "Ra'd's not the only man who's happy to be rid of those genes. And I've gotten better at so many things . . . that could just be age and experience, no way to tell. Ebsa, I think you're one of the few people who didn't change."

  "Yep. Still the same count. Still not a mean bone in my body."

  Ra'd snickered. "Yeah. Just ask the Helaos."

  Ebsa made a rude gesture . . . and walked Paer to the transport hub to catch a ride back to her project. Kissed her goodbye without getting up the nerve to ask.

  ***

  So the next day it seemed like everyone had large scale still pix from the Conclave, computer enhanced, altered to remove the keffiyeh and substitute hair . . .

  "That is you!" Ydda stalked into Ebsa's office. "How did a Closey get to be a Warrior! What are the qualifications?"

  "It's not official. The idea's barely had time to be batted about." Ebsa eyed the man . . . and the cluster behind him. "But it'll probably be a combination
of at least level five Speed . . ."

  "Five! That's not fair!" A yelp from the back of the pack.

  ". . . proficiency in martial arts and weaponry, and the mindset of being willing to kill, and having risked one's own life for the Empire. " Ebsa looked behind Yadda and spotted Iccu. "I-see-you, it's not a matter of 'fair.' It's a matter of being able to do what may be required. How they are going to determine any of that, I have no idea. But the Speed is easily tested. If that is one of the deciding factors—and I don't see how it could be otherwise—Ra'd and I can get together with a couple of the fastest instructors at the gym here and set up sessions to check off that part of the cert, or save you the bother of trying to figure out how to satisfy the rest of the requirements."

  That got him a lot of dirty looks.

  "And why were there women there?" Wnge—Wing—just had to go there.

  "Go watch the vids of the assassination attempt, and tell me there weren't any women putting their lives on the line for the Empire."

  A snicker from one of the women.

  A growl from behind the mob. "So no one has any work to do?"

  The group scattered, and Ebsa's boss walked in and scowled.

  Ebsa sighed. "Are you sure that Lost Civ World doesn't need a cook?"

  "A cook. You have got to be shitting me." Glare. "The president said, One help us, that the worst troublemaker in the directorate was an actual Warrior trainee. A thousand years ago. And that he was one of Ajha's team. Were you there too?"

  "Yes. Err, Ajha's team, not Fort Rangpur. But . . . there's no war, no reason for old-fashioned Warriors of the One to lead the troops and so forth. We're just scattered about, and expected to jump in, in a crisis. Most of the time we just work. I was a cook at the camp that was spying on the Helaos, when it all blew up. In the right spot to jump in and help. But mostly we just work. Like I should be, right now." Ebsa grinned. "And I promise to not wear that . . . headgear to the office." He hesitated. "Although Ra'd may, just to prove he's the worst troublemaker in the Directorate, which I rather doubt, by-the-way."

  "He attacked his own teammates."

  "I seem to recall several rape accusations against various Action Teamers."

  "Oh, that's to be expected. To spread the genes of the One." Glower.

  "It's unsavory enough across on a Target. Here? No, sorry, that's flat out criminal—and in the larger sense, an attack on their own team—citizens of the Empire."

  "That's . . . not what I'd expect of a Warrior."

  Ebsa nodded. "It's been over a millennia since there have been Warriors. We've somehow lost the rigid honor and lawfulness. Of course, as Ra'd has said, they generally only passed laws they wanted to obey. It'll be interesting, combing through the old laws still on the books, involving the Warriors of the One. I understand that when one of Ra'd teammates threatened to rape his sister—the daughter of the Prophet Nicholas—Ra'd ought to have killed the man on the spot. Merely beating him up enough to require surgery and hospitalization is a mark of how well Ra'd has adjusted to modern society."

  The administrator opened his mouth, paused. Shut it and turned away.

  Ebsa caught a mutter, something like ". . . check all the bloody silly laws . . . " as he walked away.

  Chapter Three

  20 Emre 1408yp

  Gate City, One World

  And in the morning, a new assignment. Facilities. Project Dystopia. Mess Chief.

  He crowed happily, and called Paer. "Who says notoriety is a bad thing? I am out of here!"

  She laughed. "I hope you realize you'll be cooking for over a hundred people, half of them civilians with no common sense at all! Bring weapons, there are some nasty predators. In fact, bring the Junkyard, if you can."

  "Will do!" He called up the vehicles department and checked. Poor Junkyard. Still surplused. With luck they hadn’t stripped the interior. He sent in a request for status adding, Can it cross a gate, to be used for living quarters? Thought about it, and sent another message to the Project Dystopia admin. Is there a current Mess Chief I am replacing, or am I setting up from the start? What equipment, comestibles, mess staff, and buildings are already on site? What budget do I have for ordering food? Is there the usual lack of bunk space?

  The return message from Vehicles was brief. It hasn't been touched since you returned it. Please stop bringing it back.

  A snort from Ra'd, reading over his shoulder. "Are they still complaining about Nighthawk's customizations? It runs better than it ever did, even if nothing is to spec."

  "I think it's the single piece steel body, myself. Or maybe the way she molded parts together, instead of bolting them. They can't even use it for spare parts. Well, maybe the tires . . . I don't think she did anything to the tires."

  Ra'd snorted. "That we've noticed. Personally I suspect they're horrified by the dents you put into it, rolling it. Again. And again. And again."

  Ebsa sniffed. "The first one doesn't count. Dan was driving. And Nighthawk hadn't fancied it up yet. And even Ajha admits that there are situations where that sort of . . . vehicular mayhem is a useful tactic."

  "And you revel in them. So, you're getting out of here, you lucky dog."

  "I think Ajki decided to dodge questions about his Warriors. Check your comp." Ebsa's mail flashed.

  Something from Project Dystopia's administrator. There are two cooks on site, so bad the vendos are running at max. Take a sleep sack, there will probably be floor space somewhere safe from the local predators. A list of what mess equipment and comestibles were available was appended. A full kitchen plus three vendos, three fabs, and two vats. The list of the last comestibles shipment.

  Looks a bit skimpy for more than a hundred people, apart from the frozen refills for the vendos, and the fab base.

  Ebsa sniffed, but it looked like they had a reasonable amount of food on hand. He made up a requisition for the few things that were most likely to be running low, frozen meats, fresh bread, coffee, a bunch of spices and sent it back with the "no cost" form for the Junkyard. Looked over at Ra'd's room. A duffle bag flew out, and the man appeared, toting a small arsenal.

  "Team Thirteen rides again! Or at least us two."

  Ra'd shook his head, a grin breaking through. "You're going solo. I'm headed for Embassy. Intel. I'm going to go spy the hell out of Nighthawk."

  Ebsa grinned back. "Hug Oak for me. What are you going to do if she isn't there?"

  "I will spy the hell out of her father. I want to get to know him."

  Ebsa's comp dinged, with returning approvals. "I'll grab the Junkyard, pick up the stuff I ordered and I'll be out of here by noon."

  "With. All. Of. These. Weapons." Ra'd leaned and glared. "And you will carry at least a pistol at all times."

  "Do I have to sleep with it?"

  "Yes."

  ***

  The trip involved three gates. They'd gotten wary of direct connections after the Helios war. The Directorate had set up several "hubs" on algae worlds, and worlds with any indication of habitation, or having been discovered by another polity were now routed through a third hub with an army camp keeping an eye on them. The soldiers on duty glanced at their screens and waved him through a style of gate ring he was unfamiliar with.

  Something of ours or something of Disco's?

  And on the far side, a wall around the gate area, with more troops keeping an eye on the egress that nearly closed on his back bumper.

  Dystopia was badly named. This was not a post-apocalypse civilization. This was an extinct civilization.

  Ebsa's training kept him driving, but at the first wide spot in the bulldozed road he swung out and parked. Climbed up the ladder and popped the hatch. A slow 360 had him shaking his head in disbelief. High, snow-topped mountains to the east. Lower hills to the west. In between, a mostly flat valley floor, covered with a pattern of square corners and straight lines, disrupted by piles of broken brick and concrete, a corner occasionally still standing tall as a testament to the building that had crumble
d around it.

  He shaded his eyes from the bright sun and tried to see the end of the ruins. To the north and south, the rubble of a mega city stretched to the horizon. How can a civilization climb so high . . . and have no protection, no resiliency? Who built this? Who destroyed it?

  Or what. It could have been a natural cause, like Comet Fall and their comet impacts.

  Of course, the people here are still arguing about who the Builders were. Assumed to be human until other evidence is found. He swept his gaze around the horizon-to-horizon remains of buildings. Builders. An appropriate name for them, whoever or whatever they were.

  The nearest ruins ranged from pits in the ground to a ragged stone corner that stood about three floors high. Tough looking brush with spiky oily green leaves grew in cracks in ancient pavement, assisting time and weather in reducing the remains to wilderness. Stringy grass tufts were anchored in sand and dirt accumulations, here and there, winter brown, just a touch of green at the base. More trees and brush with dead bare branches. Nothing animal in sight. No birds in the sky.

  "One damn me." Ebsa climbed down and drove on. The project camp here was reported to be thirty kilometers down this road. He eyed a couple of the curves. No particular reason for the curves that he could see—other than the gate side being able to overlook—and shoot at—anything coming behind them on the curve. Set up for a fighting retreat. Well, I shouldn't blame them for being paranoid, after that mess on the world we used to monitor the Helaos. They came close to taking us all.

  The camp had been placed on high ground that, from the look of it, had been swept clean of anything that had ever been built here. Two large slabs of concrete, one was roofed with a canvas tent, the other sported two long rows of single story buildings. The rest of the camp looked to be built on packed gravel. Some outbuildings, racks of pipes, construction equipment, a couple dozen parked utes, the rough country utility vehicles.