Schaffa says, “I hide nothing from her,” and Nassun’s surprise is swallowed up by love and pride. He glances at Nassun. “Historically, the Fulcrum has survived on the sufferance of its neighbors, depending on the walls and resources of comms nearby. And as with all who have no viable use during a Season, there is most certainly an expectation that Imperial Orogenes will remove themselves from the competition for resources—so that normal, healthy people have a better chance to survive.” He pauses. “And since orogenes are not permitted to exist outside the supervision of a Guardian or the Fulcrum…” He spreads his hands.
“We are the Fulcrum, Guardian,” says the third senior, whose name Nassun has forgotten. This is a man from some Western Coastal people; he is slender and straight-haired and has a high-cheekboned, nearly concave face. His skin is white, too, but his eyes are dark and cool. His orogeny feels light and many-layered, like mica. “And we are self-sufficient. Quite apart from being a drain on resources, we provide needed services to the nearby communities. We have even—unasked and uncompensated—worked to mitigate the aftershakes of the Rifting on the occasions when they reach this far south. It is because of us that few Antarctic comms have suffered serious harm since the start of this Season.”
“Admirable,” says Umber. “And clever, making yourselves invaluable. Not a thing your Guardians would have permitted, though. I imagine.”
All three of the seniors grow still for a moment. “This is Antarctic, Guardian,” says Serpentine. She smiles, though the expression does not reach her eyes. “We are a fraction of the size of the Fulcrum at Yumenes—barely twenty-five ringed orogenes, a handful of mostly grown grits. There were never many Guardians permanently stationed here. Most of what we got were visiting Guardians on circuit, or delivering us new grits. None at all since the Rifting.”
“Never many Guardians stationed here,” agrees Schaffa, “but there were three, as I recall. I knew one.” He pauses, and for a fleeting instant his expression goes distant and lost and a little confused. “I remember knowing one.” He blinks. Smiles again. “Yet now there are none.”
Serpentine is tense. They are all tense, these seniors, in a way that makes the itch at the back of Nassun’s mind grow. “We endured several raids by commless bands before we finally put up a wall,” Serpentine says. “They died bravely, protecting us.”
It’s so blatant a lie that Nassun stares at her, mouth open.
“Well,” Schaffa says, setting down his cup of safe and letting out a little sigh. “I suppose this went about as well as could be expected.”
And even though Nassun has guessed by now what is coming, even though she has seen Schaffa move with a speed that is not humanly possible before, even though the silver within him and Umber ignites like matchflame and blazes through them in the instant just before, she is still caught off guard when Schaffa lunges forward and puts his fist through Serpentine’s face.
Serpentine’s orogeny dies as she does. But the other two seniors are up and moving in the next instant, Lamprophyre falling backward over his chair to escape Umber’s blurring reach for him and the six-ringed woman drawing a blowgun from one sleeve. Schaffa’s eyes widen, but his hand is still stuck in Serpentine; he tries to lunge at her, but the corpse is deadweight on his arm. She lifts the gun to her lips.
Before she can get off a puff, Nassun is up and in the earth and beginning to spin a torus that will ice the woman in an instant. The woman jerks in surprise and flexes something that shatters Nassun’s torus before it can form completely; it is a thing her mother used to do during their practices, if Nassun did something she wasn’t supposed to. The shock of this realization causes Nassun to stagger and stumble back.
Her mother learned that trick here, in the Fulcrum, this is how people from the Fulcrum train young orogenes, everything Nassun has known of her mother is tainted by this place and has always been—
But the fleeting distraction is enough. Schaffa rips his hand free of the corpse at last and is across the room in another breath, grabbing the blowgun and snatching it away and stabbing it into the woman’s throat before she can recover. She falls to her knees, choking, reaching instinctively for the earth, but then something sweeps the room in a wave and Nassun gasps when suddenly she cannot sess a single thing. The woman gasps, too, then wheezes, scrabbling at her throat. Schaffa grabs her head and breaks her neck with a swift jerk.
Lamprophyre is scrambling backward as Umber stalks him, fumbling at his clothing where some kind of small, heavy object has gotten lodged in cloth. “Evil Earth,” he blurts, jerking at the buttons of his jacket. “You’re contaminated! Both of you!”
He gets no further, though, because Umber blurs and Nassun flinches as something splatters her cheek. Umber has stomped the man’s head in.
“Nassun,” Schaffa says, releasing the six-ringed woman’s body and staring down at it, “go to the terrace and wait for us there.”
“Y-yes, Schaffa,” Nassun says. She swallows. She’s shaking. She makes herself turn despite this, and walk out of the room. There are approximately twenty-two other ringed orogenes around somewhere, after all, Serpentine said.
The Antarctic Fulcrum isn’t much bigger than the town of Jekity. Nassun is leaving the big two-story house that serves as the administrative building. There’s also a cluster of tiny cottages that apparently the older orogenes live in, and several long barracks near the big glass-walled greenhouse. Lots of people are around, moving in and out of the barracks and cottages. Few of them wear black, even though some of the civilian-dressed ones feel like orogenes. Beyond the greenhouse is a sloping terrace that hosts a number of small garden plots—too many, altogether, to really qualify as gardens. This is a farm. Most of the plots are planted heavily with grains and vegetables, and there are a number of people out working on them, since it’s a nice day and no one knows the Guardians are busily killing everyone in the admin building.
Nassun walks the cobbled path above the terrace briskly, with her head down so that she can concentrate on not stumbling, since she can’t sess anything after whatever Schaffa did to the six-ringed woman. She’s always known that Guardians can shut down orogeny, but never felt it before. It’s hard to walk when she can only perceive the ground with her eyes and feet, and also when she’s shaking so hard. Carefully she puts one foot in front of the other and suddenly someone else’s feet are just there and Nassun pulls up short, her whole body going rigid with shock.
“Watch where you’re going,” the girl says reflexively. She’s thin and white, though with a shock of slate-gray ashblow hair, and she’s maybe Nassun’s age. She stops, though, when she gets a good look at Nassun. “Hey, there’s something on your face. It looks like a dead bug or something. Gross.” She reaches up and flicks it off with one finger.
Nassun jerks a little in surprise, then remembers her manners. “Thanks. Uh, sorry for getting in your way.”
“It’s all right.” The girl blinks. “They said some Guardians had come and brought a new grit. Are you the new one?”
Nassun stares in confusion. “G-grit?”
The other girl’s eyebrows rise. “Yeah. Trainee? Imperial-Orogene-to-be?” She’s carrying a bucket of gardening supplies, which doesn’t fit the conversation at all. “The Guardians used to bring kids here before the Season started. That’s how I got here.”
Technically that’s how Nassun got here, too. “The Guardians brought me,” she echoes. She is hollow inside.
“Me, too.” The girl sobers, then looks away. “Did they break your hand yet?”
Nassun’s breath stops in her throat.
At her silence, the girl’s expression turns bitter. “Yeah. They do it to every grit at some point. Hand bones or fingers.” She shakes her head, then takes a quick, gulping breath. “We’re not supposed to talk about it. But it’s not you, whatever they say. It’s not your fault.” Another quick breath. “I’ll see you around. I’m Ajae. I don’t have an orogene name yet. What’s your name?”
Nassun can’t think. The sound of Schaffa’s fist crushing bone echoes in her head. “Nassun.”
“Nice to meet you, Nassun.” Ajae nods politely, then moves on, walking down the steps toward a terrace. She hums, swinging her bucket. Nassun stares after her, trying to understand.
Orogene name?
Trying not to understand.