Warden's Fury

by Tony James Slater

  Just as the enemy fighter exploded in a brilliant fireball.

  The Empress blasted past, the tips of her ship’s arms glowing with the power of her engines. At full speed, the Siszar craft had just about made it, taking full advantage of the insane g-forces it could withstand.

  You have made your first kill! the Empress purred at him, her thoughts radiating pride.

  Tris gasped, suddenly remembering to breathe. Sweat drenched him, pouring down his forehead and soaking the front of his jumpsuit.

  I… I don’t know how…

  The Empress was exultant. You knew their intentions and matched your movements to theirs. There is no finer joy than to fight in this way!

  Tris wasn’t entirely sure about that, but it felt damn good to be alive. Caught between triumph and tears, he slumped back in his seat and let his head hang.

  He was more than happy to let the Empress take care of business.

  A pair of beams stabbed out from the nestship’s arms, tearing into the top side of the freighter as it wheeled away. Splitting focus in a way Tris never could (no doubt due to him having only one brain), she used a different pair of lasers to vaporise the fighter that he’d damaged, whilst keeping pressure on the freighter. A second later, a combined fusillade from all her weapons caused the fleeing ship to detonate in a spectacular display of pyrotechnics.

  Yet again Tris was staggered by the potency of the Siszar spacecraft.

  No wonder humans were losing the war.

  How’s Kyra? he asked, suddenly remembering how this fight had started.

  The Empress was also having thoughts in that direction, her nestship arcing around to trace a path back the way she had come. It took Tris a few seconds to re-tune his mental radio, searching for Kyra like he was scanning for stations on a car stereo. He found her quickly — and he found pain.

  And he found fear.

  Kyra was badly outnumbered. She’d taken out three of the opposing fighters, but the two that remained were lightning-fast and super manoeuvrable. It was taking every ounce of Kyra’s skill to stay out of their crosshairs, and while she was concentrating on that she’d taken heavy fire from concealed turrets on the freighter. Now, venting atmosphere and a handful of other vital gasses, her fighter was in trouble. She’d lost some of the finer attitude controls and one of her main guns. She was struggling for breath and fighting to stay focused. Her legs felt like they were on fire — no, scratch that, her legs were on fire! Something down there had short-circuited and the smell of burning filled her cockpit.

  Tris’ mind recoiled from that. Kyra had only just recovered from her last bout of injuries. The thought of even worse things happening to her made his stomach clench. Leaning on his control stems he veered around onto an attack vector. Through his canopy he could barely see the ships — only the telltale flashes of laser-light told him he was heading the right way. Kyra’s senses overlaid his own though, and that told him all he needed to know.

  Specifically, it told him that he was too late.

  Kyra was also reading the minds of her opponents, though someone on the freighter seemed to be hampering her efforts somewhat. She could tell when the opposing fighters would fire, and it was this skill alone which had kept her in one piece for so long. But her strength was being sapped by pain. There were too many minds to keep track of, all moving too quickly, and even Kyra’s finely-honed Gift didn’t allow her to separate and pinpoint each thought — not as she dodged and twisted through space at insane speed, wrenching her ship through violent turns that threatened to black her out. She’d given up looking for a target and was clinging to the forlorn hope that the Empress would reach her in time — but as Tris pushed his engines to maximum, a stray laser blast found the rear section of her fighter. Something blew, a plume of fire jetting out, shoving her ship violently off course. A follow-up blast streaked past to one side, the gunner thrown by her unexpected motion, but Kyra had begun to spin. The extra momentum had transformed itself into a lateral thrust, and she was rotating out of control.

  One of the Shard fighters moved in for the kill. Tris could sense the same surge of triumph he’d felt from his last opponent, although much fainter with the distance; this man knew he was on the verge of making a kill.

  “NOOOOooo!” Tris shrieked, the sound deafeningly loud in the confined cockpit.

  In response he felt a strange wave of peace from Kyra — not quite a goodbye, but more of a release, a final letting-go of stress.

  Welcoming the inevitable. Embracing it.

  Then he felt a sharp spike of shock — and watched as a stream of tiny ships veered in from the glare of Saturn. Five, then ten — the newcomers threw themselves into the combat around Kyra without hesitation.

  The smug pilot never got his shot off.

  Mental echoes of the man’s scream reverberated around Tristan’s skull as his Shard became millions of tiny shards, his atoms blended with those of his ship and scattered across the stars.

  “Thought you could use a friend there, Streaks,” came a voice from the comm.

  A familiar voice — smooth and cocky, with more than a hint of sarcasm about it.

  “Sharki!” Tris blurted the name before he could think about things like correct comm-procedure. For the second time in minutes, relief flooded through him. Of all people to arrive right here, right now, Sharki was probably the least expected.

  And the most welcome.

  Kyra seemed to share his opinion.

  Or at least half of it.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded, not bothering to disguise the frustration in her voice.

  With his mind still focussed so tightly on hers, Tris could almost read between the lines. Had she wanted to die? Not intentionally… but at the end, when it was unavoidable…? When there was no more point in struggling further… had she been relieved? Had she welcomed it?

  It was not a thought he wanted to dwell on.

  Fortunately, Sharki wasn’t short of words to distract him. “Woah, sorry Streaks! If I’d have known you were busy, I’d have waited.”

  “Bloody idiot!” she retorted. “Five minutes earlier and you could have saved my jumpsuit. It’s ruined.”

  Sharki was suddenly all business again. “What? Why? Are you injured? Stay where you are, I’m coming in.”

  “You’re not coming anywhere,” Kyra corrected him. “Thanks for the assist, I appreciate the effort. Now bugger off and let me land this thing.”

  “Land it?” Sharki was bemused. “Where you gonna land it? Long way to Earth, and I hear Saturn’s not entirely nice this time of year.”

  “The Folly,” Tris chipped in, unable to avoid getting involved. “It’s less than a thousand k’s from here. Kyra, can you make it back? Your legs…”

  “Stay out of my head, kid,” she scowled. “My legs are fine.”

  “Damn right they are!” Sharki quipped. He still sounded worried, but obviously knew Kyra well enough not to push her.

  “Are you still here?” she bit back.

  “Of course I am!”

  “Why?”

  Sharki seemed to ponder this for a few seconds. “Well, for one thing I wanted to see you. It’s been a while, you know? Also, I wanted to see those people I sent with you. Thanks for not getting them all killed by the way.”

  “I didn’t?” Kyra sounded honestly surprised.

  “No, not quite. Even my dentist survived.” Tris felt a wave of amusement accompanying that, but it hadn’t come from Kyra. He was picking up on Sharki’s moods as well, he realised — but that was a mind he didn’t want to look into without permission. Not right now, anyway.

  “That’s lovely,” Kyra said, in a way that Tris could tell came through gritted teeth. Whatever injuries she’d suffered, she was trying hard not to cry out — and it was costing her.

  Sharki, of course, was oblivious to that fact.

  “And one other thing,” he continued, his tone more casual. “You owe me a battleship.”


  2

  By the time Tris hauled himself out of the cockpit, he was shaking like a leaf.

  The adrenaline of battle had drained from his system, leaving him cold and clammy, with a pounding headache and a desperate urge to pee.

  Kyra was in a considerably worse condition.

  Kreon was waiting in the docking bay as her fighter set down — dropping the last three feet with an uncharacteristic clang. Kyra popped the canopy and practically fell out in a cloud of smoke and sparks. She had her vac-mask on, which explained why she hadn’t been very communicative on the way back in, but through it Tris could see blood staining her face. The entire right side of her flight suit was black and crispy, shedding particles of soot and plastic as she dropped to the deck.

  Kreon was there to support her, helping her first to sit, then to lie down on a floating gurney. He reached up and pulled the vac-mask off her face, working the straps gingerly over her hair — now raven-dark, with the crimson streaks that had given rise to her nickname. Kyra’s eyes were closed, her breathing laboured. Her skin was pale and waxy, and removing the mask caused a fresh line of blood to trickle from a nasty gash across her forehead.

  “Hm,” Kreon said, appraising her. “It could be worse. Not completely disfiguring.”

  “Bite me,” Kyra gasped, without opening her eyes.

  Sharki’s fighter was settling down a few metres away. As soon as it hit the deck the canopy was flung open from inside, and Sharki leapt from the cockpit.

  “Streaks! You okay?” There was genuine concern in his face. The two of them bickered and bantered like an old married couple, but it was plain to see that Sharki cared deeply for Kyra. What was harder to tell was whether or not the feelings were reciprocated.

  “I thought I told you,” Kyra started, then winced as pain clouded her face. “I told you,” she continued, “to go home.”

  “Can’t,” Sharki replied, and he was grinning this time. “Not till you make good on that deal. I’m not leaving here without at least a half-million tonnes of combat ship.”

  “You can… go outside… and pick up the pieces,” Kyra rasped.

  A warning glance from Kreon ended any further comment. The Warden pushed the gurney and left the docking bay, Sharki striding along next to it. Tris thought about following them, then decided not to. He’d spent way too much time standing around hospital beds recently, and Kyra always seemed to be in them.

  For someone so gung-ho about fighting, she seemed to get hurt a lot.

  Finding himself alone in the corridor, Tris leaned against a bulkhead and took several deep breaths. He still couldn’t stop his hands shaking.

  Are you unwell? The Empress’s concern reached him effortlessly, even through two spaceship hulls and the intervening space.

  Yeah, just… still nervous, I guess.

  I am envious! The after-fear of your first battle is only experienced by those who live through it! It is a joyous occasion amongst my people. The excrement produced in such a time is often worn by younger warriors to celebrate their survival.

  Tris wasn’t quite sure how to reply to that. Uhhh… I’ll remember that for the future, he promised.

  Very well. I must go now to commune with the new arrivals; others of my kind have followed me here to do battle alongside us.

  Oh? This was news to Tris. Reinforcements? They’ve come to defend Earth?

  A pungent whiff of her amusement-smell wafted through Tristan’s awareness. Not exactly. They have come to kill things. Most are too small to kill anyone back home, so I have offered them easier targets. Unfortunately I must stay with them at all times, to ensure they do not eat the wrong people.

  That’s… great? And also deeply unsettling.

  The smell came again. Children always are.

  Finally able to stand still without trembling, Tris headed back to his quarters. Figuring he’d get an update on Kyra as soon as she was stable, he suddenly realised he was exhausted mentally as well as physically. A shower would do him good, and then bed.

  Or perhaps even…

  “Mum?” he directed his question at the ceiling, as he always did when talking to the battle station’s computer. It was a habit he couldn’t shake. “Is Ella back yet?”

  Karra’s voice came back from concealed speakers in the corridor, keeping pace with him as he walked. “Welcome home, Tristan. Eleanor has not yet returned from Earth. Her last contact placed her in North America.”

  “Last contact? She’s okay though, right?”

  There was a brief pause — a unique tell that Tris had rightly interpreted as signs that the computer was thinking, instead of simply giving the most direct answer. It had been his first clue that there was more to her program than advertised.

  “I believe Eleanor can take care of herself,” came the response. Tris had been expecting something more snippy — it seemed that lately his mother had cooled towards Ella, almost as though having a fellow assassin on board was making her feel uneasy.

  In fairness, having an assassin sharing a bed with her son was bound to cause a bit of concern.

  Arriving at the door to his suite, he pressed his palm to the doorplate. Amazing how actions like this had become so commonplace. A few weeks ago, the act of opening the sliding steel door would have been the coolest thing ever. Watching the same door turn transparent to show whoever was on the other side of it would have blown his mind. And yet he’d just spent the whole morning strapped into the cockpit of a starfighter, flying rings around a gigantic battle station that housed the memories of his dead mother. Blasting his first dog-fight opponent into smithereens was just the icing on the cake. No wonder he was knackered! Every time he though life couldn’t get any crazier, something else happened to prove him wrong. Giant aliens, telepathy… the talking robot Loader, who was currently floating around outside making repairs to the battle station…

  And Ella.

  Yup. Hands down the craziest thing of all was that he finally had a girlfriend.

  * * *

  Tristan stared into the face of his father and saw no recognition.

  The man was long dead; this holographic representation, though perfect in every way, was still a recording. Tris must have watched it fifty times at least, but he still wanted to fling himself at the hologram, to wrap his arms around the illusion and feel warm flesh hugging him back. His pulse was racing, loud in his ears; he was breathing heavily, leaning forward on the edge of his bed.

  Dad…

  The first time, standing around with Kreon and the others in a circle on the Folly’s bridge, he’d been moved to tears by the sight of his dad. Hearing his voice after all these years was so sweet and yet so painful that he’d barely paid any attention to the content of the message. Now, after so many repeated viewings… he was still no closer to understanding it.

  Mikelatz had left the recording carefully tucked away in the archives of the Folly, secured with an impossible-to-guess password — but as far as Tris could tell, he needn’t have bothered.

  It started the same way it always had. The hologram had cast its eyes around the room, as though expecting a wide audience. That first time, surrounded by Kreon, Kyra and Ella, Tris had sidled around the circle to make sure that once his dad’s eyes came to rest, he was looking firmly at him.

  “So Tris,” the hologram began, “I see you’ve discovered the family secret!” The hologram’s eyes roamed around the circle again, hunting for an elusive target. “Kreon! I know you’re there, you grumpy old bastard! What have you done to my son, eh? I told you — you promised me — that you’d keep him safe. I should have known… you have a unique way of interpreting things like that.”

  Tris had been too traumatised to laugh the first time. Now he could appreciate that his dad was doing the same thing he’d done the whole time Tris had known him — using humour to deflect, joking around to avoid dealing with more serious emotions.

  Remembering that brought Tris to the brink of tears once more. Damn it! Every time…


  Mikelatz returned his gaze to the front, obviously staring straight into whatever device had been used to record the hologram. Tris stared back, making eye contact with the man he’d loved and lost seven long years ago. “Dad,” he whispered, “why didn’t you tell me?”

  The hologram didn’t react, but its words were eerily appropriate. “Tris, I hope you understand why I kept this from you. I always knew there was a chance that my work would catch up with me — I only hoped it wouldn’t catch up with you, too. The truth is, I wanted to tell you. But there’s so much danger in you knowing… as I’m sure you’ve discovered.”

  Looking around again, Mikelatz addressed his old mentor once more. “Kreon, how much have you told him? Does he know about our history together? Have you recited the litany of our past glories? Ha! I bet you have. But listen in, old man, because there are some things that even you don’t know.”

  He took on a conspiratorial expression as he looked back at the space where Tris was sitting. The holo had been orientated this way since the first time Tris had played it — his mother, presumably, had set it up that way.

  Mikelatz winked at him. “You see, I’ve played my part in the great events of my lifetime, and I’m proud of what I achieved. But as I’m sure you’ve guessed, there is more than meets the eye. Kreon knows me — I suppose I should say, knew me — as his apprentice, eventually as a Warden and, I hope, as a friend. You knew me as a father, and you have to know Tris, that you mean the world to me. More than the world — you mean the universe! Which is why I left this message. Because like it or not, you are now involved with this.” He took a step back, shaking his head and holding his hands up. It was one of Tristan’s favourite parts of the tape.