Warden's Fury

by Tony James Slater

  Where are they taking me?

  Not to visit the office of some decision-making superior, Tris realised — Augustus had made it clear that he was the one in charge here. So where then?

  His mind shied away from the only option that presented itself.

  Gas chamber.

  “Stop!” The guard’s rifle gave him a sharp tap on the side of the head for emphasis.

  The Proconsul stepped forward and operated a control pad set into a heavy door in front of them. The door had a tiny glass window, but all inside was darkness.

  “Put him inside,” Augustus snapped. The guard jabbed Tris again, hard enough to make him stagger forward. The door opened — swinging inwards, rather than sliding — and Tris followed it, into a small, mostly featureless room. A second, much larger door dominated the opposite wall. Various hooks and eyelets were set into the floor and ceiling…

  Torture chamber?

  Then Tris noticed something deeply unsettling.

  The darkness through the window in the opposite door was speckled with stars.

  Oh… shit! It’s an airlock!

  And that could only mean one thing. His time was up.

  “Kneel.” The Proconsul’s tone brooked no argument. Tris hesitated, brain still churning overtime trying to come up with a way out.

  It found nothing.

  Other than the obvious…

  His suit was designed to protect against vacuum, he knew, but it was useless without a mask.

  The guard struck him in the lower back and he staggered, but stayed on his feet. He spun to face Augustus, putting every ounce of arrogance he could summon into his face. “You won’t get away with this! They’ll tear you apart!”

  The Proconsul sounded unperturbed. “Oh, I’m sure they will do much, much worse than that. Still, there are some laws which are incontrovertible. Kneel.”

  This time the guard stepped sideways and swung the rifle at Tristan’s legs. Tris buckled, his knees slamming into the deck. “Don’t do this,” he tried, pleading with them both. “You don’t know who I am!”

  “Clearly.” Augustus held a hand out to the guard. “Rifle.”

  The guard snapped to attention, before handing over the weapon stock first.

  “You may only blame yourself for this,” the Proconsul said, checking the rifle’s power-pack. “I certainly do.”

  Tris stared in horror, and wondered what Kyra would think of him dying like this.

  It seemed fitting that his last thought would be of her.

  Augustus took aim at Tristan’s forehead, driving the last remaining activity from the brain behind it. His finger tightened on the firing stud.

  Then he twisted suddenly, the rifle swinging in a tight arc.

  The guard barely had time to register the change before the barrel came to rest facing him, and a blast of red energy lanced out of it, burning a fist-sized hole straight through his chest.

  As the guard slumped to the deck, the Proconsul lowered his weapon and tutted. “You see?” he addressed Tristan, flapping a hand at the body lying next to him. “Look what you made me do!”

  11

  Tris climbed to his feet to find he was shaking all over.

  Near-death experiences will do that, he surmised.

  But what the hell just happened?

  Cautiously, he followed Augustus back into the prison corridor. At least here there was a chance of escape, however miniscule. With the guard dead he felt he could overpower the skinny Proconsul easily. But did he need to?

  Caught between the urge to collapse in relief, and the urge to snatch the rifle and beat Augustus to death with it, he chose the middle path.

  Some kind of game is afoot, he realised. Might as well play along for now.

  “He won’t be missed?” Tris struggled to keep his voice level, as though he’d been expecting this all along.

  The Proconsul swung the door shut, then met his gaze with a furrowed brow. “Unfortunately, he will. My choices are now limited. This is the danger you’ve brought on all of us.”

  Tris groped for another question. “Why… did you have to drag me into the airlock?”

  “One of the few places on the station with no Shrine to monitor us.” The side of the Augustus’ mouth twisted upwards in a wry grin. “Plus, easy clean-up.”

  And he stabbed a button on the console.

  With a slight tremor the outer doors opened. Tris stared through the tiny window as the guard’s body pinwheeled out into space. He looked back to find the Proconsul’s head bowed, lips moving in silent prayer. It made him feel a little awkward. “Ah… you knew him?”

  Augustus looked up, a flash of anger in his eyes, and nodded. “Jorge. He wasn’t a cruel man. But you gave me no choice. No-one who hears that phrase can be allowed to live. Not if they are not one of us.”

  “I… I assumed he knew,” Tris said. It was a clumsy lie for a supposed spy, but things were moving too fast for him to keep up. “I’m sorry.”

  Augustus nodded again, less angry this time. “And I’m sorry for your team. I hope you weren’t close to them.”

  Tris’ stomach lurched. “What? My team are… what’s happening to them?”

  “You must survive,” the Proconsul explained. “I may still be able to stage this as an escape. For one of you it is believable — not so for three.”

  “Then let me go for them!”

  “Impossible. They have been placed in maximum security, at the opposite end of the station. You must leave directly from this level, immediately! I’ll sound the alarm when I reach my office, if it hasn’t been raised by then. You have a few minutes before the entire station is locked down.”

  “But Kreon and Kyra! What’s going to happen to them?”

  The Proconsul glanced around nervously, but the corridor was empty. “Lord Anakreon mentioned a profane place. The Keepers of the Faith have been informed and their team will already be en route. Their interrogation will be short and brutal — unless your pet Warden can convince our superiors he has something they need.”

  Tris rubbed the side of his head where Jorge had whacked him earlier. “Maybe… damn, I dunno! Maybe…” he cast about for options.

  Leave? And go where?

  Climb around the outside of the station… without a mask?

  Find a mask… break into max security, and out again… and go where?

  All our answers were meant to be here.

  Augustus had been pushing him away and making shooing gestures, but Tris grabbed the man’s arm. The decision had come to him, and it was the only logical choice.

  “Put me back in my cell.”

  The Proconsul looked at him like he was an idiot. “What? No! Didn’t you hear me? The Keepers will have sent a group of Assessors. They could be here in a few hours!”

  Tris fell back on his Kreon impersonation. “Then it would be best if I return to my cell immediately, and leave you time to arrange a cover story.”

  “But…?” Augustus stammered. “But… what if you fall under interrogation? Think of all the information they could extract from you! It’s too great a risk. Ingumen would never allow it.”

  The decision made, Tris smiled inwardly. “They’ll learn nothing from me, I promise.”

  The Proconsul was shaking his head, clearly not sold on the idea.

  “We’ve got no other option,” Tris told him. “My identity will keep me safe. If you wouldn’t mind telling them who I am?”

  “It’s… it’s already in my report,” he replied. “But why risk it? Are these Lantians so important to you?”

  “These Lantians are vital,” Tris told him, “to all of us.” He figured the extra cryptic hint couldn’t hurt.

  Augustus nodded reluctantly. “Very well. But I won’t be able to help you. You might manage to avoid the Assessors’ attention, but they will not be lenient with your Lantian friends. Their only chance is to find a compelling reason for the Keepers of the Faith to want them alive. And it had better not hinge on fair
y tales.”

  * * *

  Kyra lay back on the bunk in her cell and studied the ceiling. No matter how many times she got locked up, she never grew to like it.

  This cell was pretty typical; a circular unit in the far corner for bodily functions and a narrow cot fastened to bare steel walls. The plain metal bars were a nice touch; at least she could lean against them without getting energy burns. No, what bothered her most about the situation was not the accomodation — she’d seen far worse, after all — it was the feeling of unease that had been growing in the back of her mind. Being ambushed and imprisoned by their Lemurian hosts had been a surprise, but she had no doubt Kreon could talk his way out of it. If it came to a fight, she was quietly confident too; the Lemurians had overlooked her Arranozapar swords, taking them for a decorative belt as so many did. Eventually she supposed they’d come for them. Notoriously few personal effects were allowed to long-term prisoners. But something would happen before then. Either negotiations would start, or the fighting would. She was fine either way.

  But still… Kyra shivered. Something is wrong here.

  She just couldn’t figure out what.

  It was rare, in her experience, to encounter an entire research station whose population had been trained to resist telepaths. Then again, she’d heard plenty of stories out of Lemurian space which went a ways toward explaining it. The Gift was treasured and cultivated here, as it was amongst all sentient races, but the Lemurians had imbued it with a sinister twist. Their best psychics were recruited into a much-despised branch of the Church and tasked with spying on the rest of the population. Freedom of speech wasn’t big around here; freedom of thought was rapidly heading the same way.

  Must be a horrible way to live.

  She’d made the odd foray into Lemurian space whilst working for Sharki, but she’d never stayed long enough to learn much about their politics. Other than knowing she wanted no part of them.

  Huh. Not much choice now…

  Sharki was right: Kreon was getting her into more trouble than usual lately. Sooner or later, it was going to bite him on the ass.

  Not that he’d feel it, being mostly metal.

  Bloody Wardens! If it weren’t for their galaxy-saving crusades, she could be tucked up in bed right now, dreaming of the shoes Sharki would buy for her. He had awful taste but a hefty credit balance, and she wasn’t beyond a spot of emotional blackmail.

  Hell, he might as well spend it on something decent. I’ll be doing him a favour.

  Assuming she ever got out of here.

  The first few hours passed uneventfully. Only a visit from the anally-retentive Proconsul broke the monotony. The idiot actually had the grace to look embarrassed at her situation, blabbering about the Keepers of the Faith and their impending Assessors like he felt sorry for calling them. What did he want? A gold star for empathy?

  Assessors had to be a fancy name for interrogators, and she’d dealt with plenty of those in her time, too. The truly weird thing was that, this time she had literally no idea what they hoped to discover. She knew plenty about the Wardens, but not much that wasn’t public record. Certainly not as much as Lemurian spies would have figured out. She could hardly believe that Mikelatz had been one of them. If the rest were half as good…

  She shook her head in wonder. He’d been a good man, of that she was sure.

  But beyond that, she knew nothing much.

  This was going to be the most one-sided interrogation in history.

  ‘Tell us everything you know!’

  ’Sure! Got a postcard?’

  She laughed. It was warm in here, and cosy. Not like outside. And there was air in here too, she remembered, although it smelled a bit funny. Like a spice she’d seen somewhere… on an island, where she’d been swimming. It was warm, and the water was warm too. She was swimming now, floating on her back, and the sun on her skin felt luxurious…

  Krya sprinted down the corridor, the smell changing to acrid smoke in her nostrils. She wasn’t alone; everyone was running, some that way, some this. The rifle was heavy on her shoulder; she should have trained more with it, she knew. But she’d always thought it wouldn’t go this far…

  Kyra spun, the room around her changing. This time there were noises ahead, noises and flashes of laser-fire. She held her pistols in both hands, their familiar grips fitting comfortably into the palms of her hands. Not the best weapons for this kind of fight, but it wouldn’t matter either way. She grinned. She was going to die today, and she’d rather do it with her father’s pistols in her hands than some standard-issue carbine.

  She spun again, fleeing one fleshy prison for another. She felt a sudden burning sensation in her abdomen. She looked down at the wound, feeling blood leak out around the fused flesh. Her legs buckled and she slumped to the deck. Her suit had caught some of the blast, but she was bleeding out. A promising career, cut short — all because of the Ingumend resistance. She was a doctor, damnit! Didn’t they know how precious that was? Yet here she was, useless rifle still dangling from a string around her neck, dying of a wound she’d be able to treat in a heartbeat — were it not for the torrent of laser blasts frying the air above her. It wouldn’t be long before one of them would catch her and finish the job…

  A flash. Kyra’s squad formed up around her. There weren’t many of them left. She’d taken a nasty shot to the upper arm herself, but there wasn’t time to worry about that now. Luckily, she was ambidextrous — ha! Luck? Luck was the one thing she didn’t have. The men and women behind her would fight to the end, but it was an end fast approaching. What remained of her small command may well be the last of the station’s defenders. It had all happened so fast! Not a shred of warning. Just like the stories she’d heard from survivors of Church Raids. Those faceless bastards rolled in like a tidal wave, mowing down everything in their path. She wasn’t even fully-armoured; hadn’t had time to get dressed. She squeezed the handgrip of her rifle, lowering herself to kneel behind a crate. At least their shoot-first policy meant there’d be relatively few survivors left to answer questions… She didn’t plan on being one of them.

  Kyra drifted the corridors, alone. It was all over; the shouting, the screaming, the dying. Here and there she encountered bodies, but not many. Most had already been identified and removed. She floated again, not on her back this time, but forwards, towards a junction. She turned the corner — and there ahead of her was a man without a mask. His face was vaguely familiar, from long ago perhaps…

  The man looked straight at her, a confused expression on his face. “What are you doing here?” he said.

  And it was gone, all of it. Kyra was surrounded darkness, but it was no longer warm. It was cold, and she was sinking. Drowning… she reached for the surface, gasping for air—

  And tumbled off her bunk onto the deck.

  “What the fu—” She scanned her surroundings, taking in the narrow cot, the bars and the waste disposal in the corner. “Where am…? W…?” Her mind was thick with fog, like sleep only stickier. She swore. She didn’t have Kreon’s facility with poisons, so she couldn’t identify the agent that had been used on her, but she recognised the effects of being drugged.

  How long was I out?

  There was no way of knowing.

  Why did they need to do that? What are they hiding?

  Everyone had secrets, but it’s not like she would be snooping on them from inside her cell. Unless it was something impossible to hide…

  That dream! Or was it? A sickly taste arose in the back of her throat — either an after-effect of the drug, or the memory of burning flesh…

  Something is very wrong here.

  A sound from the corridor snapped her into focus. She climbed back onto the bed, arranging herself into a sleeping posture. Through eyelids open a crack she watched as a pair of armed guards came to stand outside her cell. Both were big men; their breathing alone was so loud she gave up pretending to sleep. Sitting up and stretching, she looked them over. They stood impass
ive, rifles dangling from their slings. She quested towards them with the Gift and was startled to find their minds open and accessible. Both were bored. Both were hungry. And both had been sent here to collect her, though neither knew why. They were typical soldiers, thinking far more about creature comforts than the strategies of their superiors.

  Fair enough.

  “Hi fellas,” she said, waving. “Are you gonna let me out?”

  She felt a ripple of laughter from one of the men, and vague sexual interest from the other.

  Ugh!

  Then a third man stepped into view, wearing a grey command jumpsuit similar to the Proconsul that had locked her up.

  “Aha! Finally, the man in charge,” Kyra drawled. “So, what’s a girl gotta do to get out of a jam like this?”

  The man in grey gave her a thin smile. “You are to be released, actually,” he said.

  Kyra frowned. That seemed awfully convenient. She reached out for the man’s thoughts, but encountered the familiar resistance.

  Damn these Lemurians!

  Still, it was good to have the Gift back. She stretched a little further, hoping to connect with a mind beyond the prison level…

  What she got, was nothing.

  Literally nothing; no minds, no resistance, no anything. Even before, when they’d been pursued through the station, she’d been aware of the people following her. She couldn’t read them, but she’d known they were there. This was completely different — it was as though the entire station was suddenly uninhabited. But that couldn’t be! Just keeping the lights on in a place like this would take a few warm bodies. Unless they were all out of range…

  Or dead.

  Or… she felt a prickle of sweat along her back as the other alternative occurred to her.

  Unless I’m being shut down.

  It hadn’t happened to her since childhood, when she’d first been testing her strength, but theoretically someone with a talent significantly stronger than hers could sort of squelch the signal — block her so completely that it was the same as having no Gift at all.