Warden's Fury

by Tony James Slater

  “Also, if you’re going to get drunk, please consider wearing it when you sleep. You dream way too loud. I’ve got a lot of respect for Ella, and I really don’t need to see her in that kind of situation.”

  She walked back out of the bridge.

  Tris had a horrible feeling he was blushing.

  As the hours ticked by and they drew closer to Lemurian space, the atmosphere on the Folly grew tense. Tris had a sense of nervous expectation, due in no small amount to his dad’s cryptic message. Not for the first time, he silently cursed the ghost of Mikelatz. Damnit, Dad! You had to go all Kreon on me? Why couldn’t you just spell it out?

  The only conclusion he came to was that his dad was either too pressed for time at the moment of recording — it was essentially a last will and testament, the kind of thing he probably made before an urgent mission he thought he might not survive — or that, quite simply, he was embarrassed. Admitting that he’d been a double agent must have been difficult, and would have gone against every ounce of his training. If Kreon or anyone else had somehow stumbled across the message whilst Mikelatz was still alive, he could have been in big trouble. And what if that wasn’t the worst of it? From the tone of the message, Tris had gathered his father was more on the side of Kreon and his people, working together with both factions towards a brighter future, rather than a snake in the Lantian grass waiting to strike. But was that true? Was anything the hologram had said true? And as all those considerations churned away in the back of Tristan’s mind, they assembled into one reoccurring theme: could he even trust his dad at all?

  With all this on his mind, Tris probably wasn’t the best company. Having begged off training with Kyra, he decided to seek out Loader. He felt quite guilty he hadn’t done this before the talos had been blown to pieces, but then Loader had never been the talkative type. Usually he’d been off fixing things, but for the time being he was the definition of a captive audience.

  Tris found him in the lab, his steel case connected to a computer terminal by a pair of wires. Presumably this allowed him some access to the ship’s systems, so at least he could monitor the external camera feeds and sensors if he got bored. The ones that still worked, anyway.

  “Hey man,” Tris said, sitting in Kreon’s chair and putting his feet up on the console. “I’m sorry Sera blew you to bits.”

  “There is no need for regret,” Loader replied. His voice was flat and electronic, even more so than it had been before. Kreon had been working with whatever bits he could find; Tris couldn’t help thinking it sounded like the Warden had cannibalised a Speak n’ Spell.

  “Still, I wish I’d been able to help you,” he admitted.

  “The fault is my own,” Loader insisted. “I believed I could prevent her from harming you without committing to the use of lethal force. I have known Sera for nearly as long as I have known Kreon. I could not bring myself to kill her. Although I am aware that she does not reciprocate this sentiment, for a very long time I have considered her… family.”

  Tris chewed that over for a bit. It made his head hurt even worse. No-one was what they seemed around here; not Kyra, and certainly not Kreon. Even Loader, who currently looked no more threatening than a briefcase, had been a weapon of mass destruction not long ago. And before that…

  “Do you remember anything about your people?” Tris asked him.

  “The sum-total of my data on that topic is close to zero,” Loader said.

  “Close to zero?” Tris took his feet off the console and leaned closer to the steel case. “So you know something then?”

  “I do. At Kreon’s request I have attempted to reconstruct some sections of my database from fragments. Though the data is not complete, he deemed it sufficiently interesting.”

  Tris perked up at that. Kreon hadn’t mentioned anything about it — but that was hardly surprising. “What did you tell him?”

  A light blinked atop Loader’s case. The talos was thinking, Tris realised, perhaps spinning up whatever passed for hard drives inside him. The jar full of fireflies was so far beyond recognisable technology that Tris wondered how the hell Kreon had known where to start. Not with a USB stick and a bootleg copy of Windows XP, that was for sure.

  “The information I have recovered concerns the far-distant past. Unfortunately, the gaps in my database span the entirety of human civilization. What I have uncovered relates to the demise of my own race. I now believe that their attempt to exchange their biological forms for mechanical ones came about in response to an invasion of the same enemies we face today.”

  Tris drew a sharp breath. “The Black Ships…”

  “Correct. Though certain data-points do not tally. The invasions my people suffered comprised of many such vessels, of considerably smaller size. There is also information to suggest that these were not in fact vessels, but were the bodies of the aliens themselves. That they came from beyond our galaxy, and that their biology was governed by physical laws unknown to us, is in no doubt. Their methods and motivation match the entities known as Black Ships perfectly; absorption of organic compounds on the target world, causing violent geological repercussions and the rapid extinction of all life. However, their purpose appeared to be nothing more sinister than sustenance.”

  “So… they’re eating us?” Tris felt an icicle of dread slide down his spine. Sera was a terrifying opponent, but the Black Ships were the adversary Kreon was aiming to tackle. As far as the Warden was concerned, this whole trip to the Lemurian Empire had only one goal; find out what their Oracle knew about the Black Ships, and scour that information in the hope of finding a weakness.

  It was a long shot, even by Kreon’s standards.

  But Wardens probably didn’t make their reputations by knitting.

  “Do you have any ideas about how to fight those things?” Tris asked.

  “My dataset only pertains to a period many hundreds of millennia before the present,” the talos answered, “but my people believed they had discovered the only plausible method to resist the Dark Tide’s onslaught.”

  “Oh really?” Tris’ ears pricked up. “What did they do?”

  Loader’s speakers emitted a burst of static — Tris decided the talos was using it to represent laughter. “They died.”

  With more dark thoughts gnawing at his mind, Tris was glad when the waiting finally came to an end.

  The Folly dropped back into normal space in a featureless, star-speckled void that Kreon confirmed was part of the fabled Lemurian Frontier.

  “We will proceed aboard the Wayfinder,” he said. “Given the condition of the Folly, I don’t believe it sensible to take her into enemy space. Particularly when there is a strong possibility that the vessel in question actually belongs to that enemy.”

  “Yeah… good point,” Tris said.

  Kyra moved some fresh supplies over to the old freighter, and Kreon recorded a message to be dispatched to High Warden Oktavius back on Atalia.

  “Letting him know you got here safely?” Tris quipped.

  “Indeed. It seemed only polite.” The Warden’s tone turned brusque. “I received a message from him this morning. Oktavius has rescinded his banishment, and demanded we return forthwith. Apparently Demios is regrouping his fleet, and Oktavius believes they will be targeting Atalia. He is convinced that Sera intends to take his position by force.”

  Tris didn’t know how to react to that news. “So… did you tell him where she is?”

  The Warden straightened what was left of his trench coat. “Certainly not. Kreon’s World may not be the most creatively-named planet in the galaxy, but it is one of the prettiest. I would prefer to keep it that way.”

  As Wayfinder lifted off from the docking bay, Tris found himself lamenting the loss of his picture frame. The strange device had been reassuring to carry, allowing him a direct line of communication with Askarra at any time. It was more than a little frightening to leave the battle station, not knowing for sure he’d be able to find the place again. Kreon would be stori
ng deep-space co-ordinates on his transceiver, but what if they got separated? He took comfort in the thought that Kyra would also have taken careful note of where they left the Folly. He hadn’t been inside her cabin, but he’d seen her taking strips of coloured fabric from a supply locker. He had a suspicion she’d been decorating.

  They made a short grav-jump, arriving close to the location Tris’ dad had specified. Kreon sat in the pilot’s chair, switching to the control stems to guide them the rest of the way in using thrusters. “We dare not sneak in like thieves,” he explained. “By revealing ourselves to their sensors in this fashion, we are effectively announcing that we come in peace.”

  “Great,” Tris said. “And what if they don’t come in peace?”

  “That,” the Warden raised a gnarly eyebrow at him, “is why I brought the railguns.”

  Kreon’s standard broadcast met with no reply, so they pressed on towards the Berasko Research Station. Kreon mentioned remembering the place from an inspection tour during his own negotiations, though an important planet much further in had been the scene of all the major action.

  They reached the station in short order, as-yet unmolested. No transmissions had been intercepted; no ships of any kind appeared on Wayfinder’s scopes.

  “Is this right?” Tris asked no-one in particular. He was feeling edgier than usual — partly because (though he’d never dare admit it) he hated leaving his mother behind on the Folly. Even though she was just a computer program, and even though the powerful battle station she controlled was now essentially a floating ruin, he couldn’t help but feel vulnerable out here without her.

  “Should it be this quiet?” he tried again.

  No-one answered him. Kyra was studying the tactical display whilst Kreon edged them closer to their destination. Over the last hour the research station had grown gradually from a speck in the distance to a weird hunk of metal that, to Tristan’s eyes, resembled an apple core. The top and bottom were smooth metal domes, not unlike the Folly — but connecting them was a thick stalk, studded with nobbles and protuberances. Tris was rather proud of this technical observation, though he had a feeling it would earn an eye-roll from Kyra if he said it aloud.

  “Running lights are hot,” Kyra murmured.

  “Indeed,” Kreon confirmed. “But nothing else. You’re reading activity in the reactor?”

  “Reactor’s fine,” she said, squinting at a secondary display. “I think that’s what I’m looking at, anyway. Kreon, seriously, you have got to update this software.”

  “Remind me,” the Warden told her, “when we’re not deep inside enemy territory and about to dock with a ghost station.”

  That got Tris’ attention. “What? Ghost station? Why?”

  “No lights on,” Kyra summarised. “They have plenty of power available, only they’re not using it.

  “Saving it up to shoot at us?” Tris suggested.

  “Unlikely,” Kreon said. “That station is only minimally-armed.”

  Kyra gave the Warden a wry grin. “Yeah — unless some asshole decided to make ‘substantial upgrades’.”

  Kreon frowned at his display. “I read no additional weapon systems. They could, of course, be shielded.”

  Tris thought suddenly of the Folly when they’d first seen her — a smooth black sphere, with dozens of panels sliding open to reveal weapon systems powerful enough to cut Demios’ crimson cruisers in half. “Are our shields up?” he asked. “Do we even have shields on this thing?”

  “Shields were amongst my most significant upgrades,” Kreon replied, his voice betraying more frustration than concern. “However, approaching with shields up could be construed as an act of hostility.” The Warden craned his neck to look back at him, and offered what Tris assumed was meant to be a comforting expression. “Do not fear. Wayfinder has that station substantially outgunned.”

  They moved closer, Kyra tutting at displays she considered inadequate, and soon Tris could see what they meant. The station was smaller than the Folly but shared some of the design notes. And like the giant battle station, it was presumably meant to be manned by hundreds of people. Lights, movements, something should have given away the activity inside. Shouldn’t it? There was definitely something wrong, Tris just couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  Then it dawned on him. He lifted the pendant from around his neck to test his theory. “There’s no thoughts! Well, I can’t hear any. I would, at this range, wouldn’t I?”

  Kyra’s answering nod was distracted, her attention focussed on the displays in front of her. “Someone’s in there,” she confirmed, “but I can’t read ‘em either.”

  Kreon said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes.

  “What are we doing?” Kyra asked him. “We going in there, or what?”

  Tris had the sudden urge to scream, ‘NO!’

  Chill out, he reminded himself. But the memory of what they’d found aboard the late Admiral Benin’s abandoned battleship rose unbidden. The circumstances were eerily similar…

  Tris tucked the pendant back under his collar. “Black Ships?” His throat tightened on the words.

  “Not getting that either,” Kyra said, and Tris heard wariness in her tone. “Kreon? What’re we doing?”

  The Warden took a long, slow breath, and studied the research station through the viewscreen for several long seconds. “I am heading for the northern hemisphere,” he said finally. “We’re going in.”

  Docking was handled by autopilot; their only warning was when Kreon found he’d lost control of the ship. “Looks like they’re taking it from here,” Kyra said, as the Warden relinquished his joysticks.

  Kreon grunted. Apparently he’d visited this station before, and probably had some knowledge of their docking procedure. He didn’t seem unduly surprised, which gave Tris a small measure of hope. Then again, Kyra pointedly resettled the twin swords wrapped around her waist as she abandoned the navigator’s chair. She’d left a slender but lethal-looking rifle propped up against the navigation console; she hefted it now, slinging the strap over her head. Her long hair was already tied back in a combat braid, but Tris caught the tiny ripple of movement as she turned it from a vibrant rainbow to the familiar black-with-crimson-streaks.

  Tris had seen a lot of the latter recently. Wonder which one she thinks of as ‘natural’?

  It probably wasn’t something he should ask right now.

  Gear up time, he thought instead. Kreon had long since stopped giving such obvious commands; evidently Tris was meant to figure out for himself whether he needed to pack an umbrella or an assault rifle for an outing. Being a Warden’s apprentice had a steep learning curve.

  The clang of Wayfinder settling to the deck rated halfway between a Kreon and a Kyra-based landing. Tris had spent the last few minutes visiting the old ship’s compact armoury, and he felt reasonably ready. There were issues, of course; the vast majority of the weapons available meant nothing to him. Various grenades, exotic stick-type thingumies and all manner of blasters would take hours to explain. And it wasn’t like he could easily practise with them; Kreon was mighty fond of his childhood spaceship, and Tris couldn’t see him giving permission to throw bombs around it just to see what happened.

  When he’d spotted the familiar shape of the rifle he’d used in his first firefight on Ukerdi, he immediately latched onto that one. It gave him chance for a smile; Blas would have been appalled at his choice. Had the big man been here, he would undoubtedly have grabbed the biggest piece of hardware he could find, then complained that Kreon didn’t stock anything more destructive.

  Ah, Blas… Tris shook his head before sadder memories took it over.

  No point digging up the past.

  But having Blas here would have made him feel a whole lot safer.

  Kreon and Kyra were waiting for him at the ramp.

  Loader, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  Even in his current incarnation, the talos was too big to be in Kreon’s pocket.

&nbs
p; There was a good chance that, having only just finished putting him back together, the Warden didn’t want to risk him on a mission like this…

  It wasn’t a thought that inspired much confidence.

  Then again, what could the talos really do? It was great that he was still alive, but having him reduced to a glorified answering machine left an indestructible robot-shaped hole in their little team.

  Tris dimly recalled Kreon mentioning that the Lemurians occasionally made use of artificial intelligence; he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if they came up against Loader’s evil twin…

  Whilst exploring a ghost ship.

  Yeah — the timing of it really sucked.

  Flashbacks to their time on Admiral Benin’s derelict battleship assailed him; crazed zombie-telepaths coming at them from all sides, while the monstrous cyborg Siszar beat down the door to get to them.

  Tris checked the charge on his rifle for the umpteenth time, feeling more vulnerable than ever.

  Man up, he told himself. He was well trained, well armed, and accompanied by two of the toughest individuals in the galaxy.

  Yeah… we got this. He just had to make himself believe it.

  Wayfinder’s ramp extended rather than lowering; Kreon opened the hatch first, giving them a chance to look outside before anything lurking out there was invited in.

  They saw nothing — just metal walls and deck plates with clear, diffuse lighting; a large, empty hanger bay.

  And not a soul there to greet them.

  Kreon raised his rifle. “Shall we?”

  10

  The docking bay Kreon led them into was quiet.

  Too quiet, to Tristan’s mind. Shouldn’t there be the hum of background machinery? Someone had to be moving around in a station this big, and they wouldn’t be doing it on tip-toes. He exchanged a suspicious look with Kyra, and took a firmer grip on his rifle. The glaive was fastened to the small of his back, blade already affixed; he was as ready for any surprises as he could be.