It was time for the other business; Dorian having had enough time to completed his scans. She tapped her ear, confirming the bud that allowed her limited transceiver communication was working well enough. Extending his graphic field a finger length revealed enough of what she needed to find out. Figures danced on the display.
“Dorian,” she asked tentatively. “Show me what you’ve found?”
Fields re-adjusted, figures resolved – the numbers spoke for themselves.
“Oh–,” she was both disappointed and relieved.
It is a smaller percentage of implants than we have found elsewhere. A good chance for their survival
“It could still mean many–” she finally responded. If the people in the hall had been a true sample of the Makani Population, many were going to die when the Macro was destroyed.
“But yes,” she reassured Dorian that she read his analysis. “There should still be enough survivors.”
The door opened again. She quickly glanced up – it was Traejan, this time. Her actions earlier seemed to have put a touch of defiance in his posture, a scowl on his face.
“The outer room is full,” he told her tersely, glaring a challenge at her. Althea’s thoughts ran through options for leaving the man behind. Could Kyso keep him in line? Could she? After what happened earlier? Did she dare head south with only one ally?
The noise of the crowd behind him had increased in volume; she nodded to him, meeting his glare.
“That’s not a room of friends out there,” he told her.
She nodded again, stood up.
“Bring them in, then,” she told him. “It’s time to decide.”
Traejan hesitated a moment, scowl deepening. Exasperated, she motioned him to continue. Finally he turned, opened the door and stuck his head out.
“Kyso, send them in!”
Makani’s best slowly shuffled into the room. Althea recognized a couple of them from earlier in the main hall – mostly men, some women, rough, unclean, clothing patchy, bulky, recycled or re–used. Most gave her little more than a simple glance, murmured amongst themselves. She could identify suspicion, greed, lust, as well as the expected bleary drunkenness.
Traejan and Kyso found their way through the group, settled at either side of her. She glanced over to the older man, smiled briefly. He shrugged, raised his eyebrows. There were maybe thirty of them, mostly men and several from Goshram’s table. Following Suiova’s infiltration manual, she needed to trim the numbers, take six or seven at the most. Cut the risk of backstabbing – keep the individual award high. Althea checked back down at Dorian’s display, compared those moving about the room with his earlier scans. Fourteen had anomalous bioelectric readings. She turned to Traejan, took a breath in.
“Which ones haven’t been to the south? Kyso said you’d know,” she asked. He seemed surprised at the request, even pleased. His scowl softened a touch.
“I’ll point them out, give me a moment.” He began the surreptitious noting of those in the crowd.
Oneness be yours, she mouthed. The bulk of the crowd would have a chance at rebuilding their world. She waited until they had all sat down, then stood up on her chair. She needed to see them all.
“Thank you all for coming,” she began, smiling at the varied response. “Those who have been south stay,” she invited.
“Those who have not,” she looked around the room at the expectant faces, “please leave.”
There wasn’t much movement, and a number of the crowd muttered complaints. She decided to be generous.
“You will be given a half–gram of trilium for your trouble,” she continued. To a non–response, she began to point. “That’s you, you, you, you and you over there, and you two in the back.”
Unhappily, those marked made their way to the back and filed out the door, some looking back with envy, shaking their heads. She stepped down from the chair, faced the remaining fourteen.
“The rest of you,” she started. “I want to hear what you’ve done.”
She pointed to a heavily bearded man with metal and comopsite piecework peppering his bulky coat. Was it battered armor – or just a random collection of souvenir scrap?
“You on the left, you start.”
“I’ve been south of the Ice Line,” he said with a voice like sandpaper. “Five times.”
“Five times?” She raised her eyebrows. Was that a high number?
“In the last annum,” he boasted.
“You’re full of shit, Enos,” the man next to him sneered.
The bearded man turned, snarled, “And how many times have you been south, twice, in your life?”
Althea glanced down at Dorian’s display, back up. Enos had an implant. The other man did not.
