Warden's Fury

by Tony James Slater

  To find that Kyra had chopped the entire side off both her crate and Kreon’s. She stood with her hands on her hips, watching him as he wriggled his legs free. “Small hole,” she noted.

  “Small knife,” he said, waving it for emphasis.

  “Never mind,” she said, gripping his hand to help him up. “It’s what you do with it that counts.”

  “Quiet.” Kreon had gone tense. “Someone approaches.”

  Tris pulled himself into cover behind his crate, while Kyra crossed the deck to stand beside the cargo bay’s entrance. Kreon mirrored her on the other side; Tris, peeping out around the edge of his crate, felt a little embarrassed that he’d been the only one who thought of hiding first.

  The door cranked open and a wiry bloke in baggy coveralls slipped through. His movements were furtive, and he clutched a long slim weapon of some kind.

  Kyra sprang to his side, one of her sword blades coming to rest millimetres from the man’s throat. He yelped, dropping his weapon with a clatter.

  “You move, you die,” Kyra told him.

  “Easy, Kyra,” Kreon cautioned. “I believe this may be our contact.”

  Kyra stepped back, but kept both blades very obviously at the ready.

  “Y-yes!” stammered the man. “I’m Enneas. I was coming to c-cut you out!” He glanced around taking in the dismembered crates, then stooped to pick up the tool he’d dropped.

  Plasma torch, Tris realised. He left the cover of the crate and came over to join the others. “So this was all part of the plan?”

  “Yes!” Enneas nodded vigourously. “We got scanned on the way out and we’ll be scanned on the way in again. It’s standard.”

  “Wait,” Kyra said. “You mean we’ve got to be inside those things when we arrive?”

  “Yes,” the man confirmed. “Fully sealed, or they won’t defeat the scanners.”

  Kyra glanced back at the huge chunk of metal she’d carved from the side of her crate. “Crap. Those loaders still aboard? The ones that weld?”

  He nodded again.

  “Better get ‘em back here then.”

  “Least you won’t need me to let you out when we get there,” the man pointed out.

  “Indeed,” said Kreon stepping towards him with a scowl on his face. “However, I dislike being kept in the dark. Perhaps you would care to inform us of the next phase of this ‘plan’?”

  The wiry bloke didn’t seem daunted by Kreon. He hung the plasma torch from his belt and reached around his back, pulling out a small handgun. He grinned back at the Warden. “Now we take over the ship.”

  As fights go, it barely qualified. There were two other members of the crew; both were in the cockpit. Their new friend — Gerian’s personal shuttle pilot as it turned out — went in first, drawing their attention to a control panel on the side wall. As soon as their backs faced the doorway, Tris and Kreon stepped through. One sharp blow with the haft of the glaive was all it took Tris to incapacitate his opponent; Kreon’s grav-staff, the alien orb atop it unactivated, produced a similar result.

  Kyra had volunteered to stay out of it, on the grounds that her fighting style produced rather more mess.

  Enneas produced a small metal cylinder from his tool belt and pressed a button on it. An evil-looking needle shot out from the top end. He bent over the unconscious pilots and gave them each a shot in the back of the neck. “Tranqs will last till long after we’re done,” he explained, “but keep their vitals up so they scan well.” He wrapped his arms around one of the limp bodies. “Help me strap ‘em in.”

  Tris grabbed the prone guy by the boots and helped wrestle him into the navigator’s chair.

  Kreon demonstrated his prodigious strength, fastening his metal hand in the other pilot’s uniform and lifting him into the gunner’s seat single-handed. “And the next phase of the plan?” he demanded, as Enneas busied himself fastening safety harnesses around both men.

  Enneas looked up at the Warden’s glowering expression. “Now we wait. Know any good stories?”

  The next few hours passed anxiously.

  Enneas furnished them with a communication chip locked to a frequency prearranged with the Ingumend. He also provided a holographic plan of their target, animated to show the route and frequency of guard patrols, the location of key structures and the internal security systems they’d have to overcome.

  It wasn’t pretty.

  Built within a sprawling mining complex, the main part of the Petraeus Confessional Institution lined the inside of a sheer vertical shaft over a mile deep. Suspended in the centre of the shaft by a network of cables and catwalks was a hundred-foot-tall structure not unlike a bowling pin, which contained all the power plants and technical gubbins that kept the place running. The neck of this structure extended up out of the shaft, becoming an observation tower that commanded a three-hundred and sixty degree view over the surrounding area. Scanning gear and heavy weaponry bristled from the tower like spines on a cactus. If there’s a picture in the dictionary under the word ‘impregnable,’ this is it, thought Tris.

  “We are fortunate,” Kreon began. Tris had to study the Warden’s face to make sure he wasn’t joking. “According to Enneas, the prisoners from Berasko Station should still be in processing. This takes place on the levels closest to the surface, obviating the need to go deeper.”

  Kyra nudged Tris. “Wow. I feel lucky already.”

  “Unfortunately,” Kreon continued, “that is where our luck runs out. Even assuming the Magistrate is able to incapacitate all the guards — which I doubt — we have substantial ground to cover.”

  Tris couldn’t read the scale on the hologram, but the route between the landing bays and the flashing red processing area looked complicated. Every inch of the prison’s interior would be monitored, and nothing screamed ‘send more guards!’ like live footage of the existing guards lying draped all over the place.

  “Their reserves will be deployed quickly,” Kreon surmised, “and we must ensure we are past these choke points before that occurs.” His finger stabbed the holo, distorting an area where the corridors from the docking bay narrowed between thick columns. “There are blast doors all along this section. We must assume that Gerian has taken that into consideration, and has a way of defeating them.”

  “I can get us through,” Kyra reminded him. “But it’ll take time. If they all close…”

  “Speed is key,” Kreon agreed. “Enneas assures me that Gerian will neutralise the guards as soon as we land. That will be our window; find the prisoners and rendezvous with the Ingumend before sufficient strength can be brought to bear against us.”

  Tris squinted at the hologram. “And our exit is…?”

  “Here.” Kreon flicked the holo, spinning it to show a small surface entrance.

  “Wow. Those are gun emplacements, right? Looks hard as nails.”

  “Indeed it is, from the outside. From the inside… that will depend on how well Gerian performs his parlour tricks.”

  The rest of the trip they made sealed in their crates.

  Being welded in was a lot less nerve-racking now he knew it was part of the plan. It also didn’t hurt that he was armed to the teeth, and wearing sections of tough but flexible body armour from Wayfinder’s inventory.

  Not that it would help him much if the next time the crate opened it was surrounded by a firing squad.

  Gerian’s got to be on the level. He’s the same as Dad. Same as me; it’s in our genes.

  Tris found himself wondering what horrendous things his father’s twin must have done to maintain his cover as a faithful servant of the Church — and whether they were worse than the things he’d done himself.

  Atmospheric buffeting was his first clue that they were nearing their destination. Everything was muted from inside the crate, and he lifted the Kharash pendant over his head to reach out with the Gift. Kreon and Kyra were occupied with their own thoughts about the mission ahead, so he left them to it. Both the pilots Enneas had anaesthetise
d were sleeping soundly, no dreams escaping their drug-induced torpor. Enneas himself was wrapped in a wall of static, obviously a trained precaution against psychic eavesdropping. Every now and then Tris caught a flash of anger or a surge of satisfaction from him, as though piloting Wayfinder was taking so much concentration that odd emotions were slipping out.

  The landing was fairly smooth — though Kyra would have been able to pull it off without him knowing they’d landed. He reached around for the glaive, twisting it free of the handle and reassembling the two pieces with the blade out.

  Showtime!

  He made four quick cuts, this time taking out most of the side panel. It fell outwards when he pushed it, crashing to the deck with a deafening clang. He winced, then stepped through to see Kyra sliding through a narrow slot she’d cut at the base of her crate.

  “Stealth,” she told him, rolling her eyes, “is a concept completely lost on you.”

  They found Enneas in the cockpit, checking the harness on one of the sleeping pilots. “Welcome to Petraeus Confessional Institution,” he said.

  Tris was first in. “Where are we?”

  In reply, Enneas held up a pocket projector and the holo of the prison flickered to life. “We’re here — six levels below the surface and about halfway around the shaft.”

  “You brought us in through all that?” Kyra pointed at the web of walkways choking the central void. “Nice job.”

  He leered at her. “No. Straight drop down a parallel shaft — the rock here is riddled with ‘em. But coming from you, I’ll take the compliment.”

  Tris half expected her to slap him. “Are you coming with us?” he asked.

  Enneas shook his head and checked his wrist console. “End of the line for me. Picked up sonic feedback a few seconds ago, so I’m guessing your guards are dropping like flies. I got one more thing to do.” He pulled the handgun from the concealed back-holster and held it up in front of them. “No witnesses,” he said, with apparent relish. Then he spun on his heel and shot both pilots point-blank through the back of the head. Blood splattered the Wayfinder’s controls and viewscreens as Tris looked on in shock. Enneas turned back, casually holstering his gun, and produced the injector he’d used on the guards. “Do us a favour,” he said, as though nothing had happened. “Take this when you go.” Then he jabbed the needle into his neck. “Nite nite,” he added, winking at Kyra — and collapsed.

  Kyra looked down at him, disgust in every line of her face. “What the hell?”

  “A dangerous man,” Kreon concluded. “Extremists often are. But we should go. Our time is sorely lacking.”

  The landing bay differed from space-based docking bays in that the walls and most of the ceiling had been left as raw rock. It was a vast cavern, curving out of sight; Tris didn’t bother counting but there were at least twenty small to medium-sized ships parked in neat rows. The impound yard. “Maybe they chop them up for parts?” he guessed.

  Kreon directed a black look at him.

  “Not Wayfinder though,” Tris back-pedalled. “She’s far too, ah… pretty?”

  The Warden was armed with a substantial rifle, in addition to the grav-staff secured to his back. He also carried a rucksack he’d collected from his cabin, though Tris hadn’t had chance to ask him what was in it.

  “Let’s move,” Kyra hissed. She was already at the human-sized door that would allow them access to the rest of the prison. “Any last-minute changes of heart?” She uncoiled one of the swords from her waist and made to slice a hole in the door.

  “Be as inconspicuous as possible,” Kreon warned her. “They will be monitoring the security feeds carefully. The longer we can hide from them, the greater the odds of our success.”

  “Fair enough.” She shifted her stance a touch and swung, making a long vertical slice through the door’s locking mechanism. As her blade retracted, fat drops of blood fell from the edge.

  Kreon hauled on the door and an armoured torso fell through it, blood fountaining from the stump of an arm.

  Kyra stared down at the red puddle spreading towards her feet and put a hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she said, “my bad.”

  Kreon muttered something under his breath and set off, careful to avoid stepping in the blood.

  “At least he was unconscious,” Tris pointed out, as Kyra followed. “Maybe no-one will notice?”

  17

  The next guards they passed were also out cold, lying as though they’d fallen mid-stride. “This weapon of Gerian’s is crazy,” Kyra said, liberating a rifle from one of the unconscious bodies. She was already equipped from Wayfinder’s armoury, as they all were, but Kyra was starting to display Blas-like kleptomaniac tendencies lately.

  “I believe it is the same technology they used to incapacitate me,” Kreon admitted.

  They pressed on, coming to a service stairwell and climbing the six floors to the surface. Tris had been most worried about this section, as being pinned down in a confined stairwell left little chance of survival, but it passed without event.

  They made it out of the stairwell and down the next corridor as far as a security checkpoint before the alarms began to warble.

  “They’ve noticed something’s up,” Tris said unnecessarily.

  “Took them long enough,” Kyra muttered.

  “We’ve passed what, fifteen or twenty guards now? Wonder how many they’ve got?”

  Kyra didn’t answer him.

  “Jeez, I wish Loader was here.”

  “He is.” Kreon lifted his backpack by a strap, then settled it back on his shoulder. “Sadly, his combat potential is somewhat diminished.”

  “Maybe the alarms are automatic?” Tris hazarded “Maybe everyone watching them is knocked out too.”

  Kreon shook his head. “The central tower must be shielded somehow. If this sonic weapon is in common use here, they would have designed safeguards.”

  “If they’re looking for the cause of all this, we should move faster,” Kyra pointed out.

  They picked up the pace, Kreon in the lead guided by a scaled-down version of the prison hologram on a wrist-mounted projector. The corridor curved gently, following the shape of the rock wall outside. Tris thought they might be in a ring running around the mouth of the enormous mine shaft, but without windows it was impossible to tell.

  Up ahead an obstacle came into view; a heavy steel blast door filled the corridor, cutting them off completely.

  “Shit!” said Kyra. “If they’ve lowered them all already…” She let her new rifle dangle next to the old one and laid her hands on her sword hilts.

  “A moment,” Kreon said, reaching the door. An armoured guard lay slumped below the control panel. “This individual may have remained conscious long enough to enact a security protocol.”

  “If he shut it, he can open it,” Kyra said, already rummaging around the guard’s uniform. “Got it!” She held a swipe card up triumphantly. Kreon took it and pressed it against a reader. The panel buzzed angrily, and a tiny hatch slid open at roughly head-height, a metal cylinder extending like a gun barrel.

  “Retinal scan,” Kreon confirmed.

  Kyra let out a dramatic sigh and went to work, stooping over the guard. A few seconds later she handed Kreon a knife, its point embedded in a fresh eyeball. Gelatinous goop fell away in long strands as he held the eyeball up to the scanner.

  “You know, just once,” Kyra said, “when this is all done, I’d like to do some girly stuff.”

  “In what way?” Kreon asked, as the blast door slid into the ceiling.

  “Shopping?” Kyra suggested. “For shoes. Or dinner out.” She wiped her hands vigorously on her jumpsuit. “Basically anything that doesn’t involve me being covered in mucus.”

  “Rules out what I had planned,” Tris quipped.

  The more unconscious guards they passed, the eerier it became.

  Finally, at an obvious security check-point, Kreon called a halt. “Processing should be a short distance ahead of us, but I’m con
cerned with our progress.”

  “I thought we were making great progress,” Tris muttered.

  “Precisely. And that concerns me. We’ll set up here. That console should provide access to their secure network. Let’s see if Loader can determine what we’re up against.”

  The check-point consisted of a fortified booth, narrowing the corridor to funnel foot traffic past it in singe-file.

  Tris sliced the door lock with his knife and took up position facing back the way they’d come, rifle at the ready. Kyra mirrored him facing forward, whilst Kreon squatted down to free Loader from his backpack. The lunchbox-sized casing dripped wires, looking more high school science project than millennia-old alien intelligence. Kreon propped the whole bundle on a semi-circular console and extracted two thick cables.

  “The terminal must be unlocked before I can gain access,” the lunchbox droned. The flat, electronic monotone did nothing to inspire confidence in the talos’ abilities as a hacker.

  Kreon swiped the guard’s keycard, causing the console to buzz at him. A retinal scanner extended from the wall above it.

  Tris pulled a face as the Warden dug in a pocket and pulled out the rather misshapen ball of slime.

  Kyra, craning her neck to watch, looked appalled. “What the hell did you do? It looks like you’ve sat on it!”

  Kreon squinted at the eyeball and held it up to the scanner. Red light played across it for a second, and the console unlocked with a beep. Satisfied, he flicked the disgusting blob onto the floor — then carefully licked the fingers of his glove clean.

  Kyra looked away quickly and made retching sounds.

  Tris caught the Warden’s sly grin. It wasn’t often someone got a reaction like that from Kyra; even in the middle of all this, Kreon was taking time to enjoy it.