Warden's Fury

by Tony James Slater

  Not that he fancied sharing that piece of philosophy with Kyra. He caught her looking at him now and then. She’d look away before he could meet her eyes, but there was no mistaking that haunted expression. She was blaming herself — which was ridiculous, unless you considered her part in abducting him from Earth in the first place. Kyra’s endless training had helped keep him alive in every fight he’d been in, which was quite a few by this point. Funny — back on Earth, he’d never considered himself a fighter. The martial arts moves his dad taught him had been more of a game, a shared hobby they’d practiced together for so long it seemed as normal as breathing. Now here he was, stuck on some airless rock at the ass-end of space, his latest souvenir a gigantic hole burned right through him.

  Hell, I need more than just new armour. He pushed the sleeves of his borrowed jumpsuit up, but they fell right back to cover his hands. I need new underwear!

  “Hey, Kyra?” She was sitting in one of the lobby chairs looking bored, long legs splayed out in front of her. She looked up at him. “When we’re done here… you fancy taking me shopping?”

  The grin she gave him was worth the wait. “Tris, we are gonna shop till we drop, I promise you that.”

  “Did you really win some money then?”

  She cracked her knuckles. “I won some. But if we head to Earth, we won’t need money. I can crack those machines down there with my wristwatch.”

  Earth… Tris caught himself lusting for the place. For home. He’d fallen into the habit of assuming he’d never go back, but the way things were…

  One last chore to do here, then we’ll be headed back to Atalia. To save the entire galaxy from the Black Ships! I’ll pencil that in for Monday. And from there…

  There was only Sera to deal with.

  And that scared him more than anything ever had.

  By the time Kreon emerged, Tris and Kyra had wandered out into the Atrium. It really was an incredible place. He’d seen it first from a floating gurney, as two of Ingumen’s soldiers pushed him towards the medical bay. The enclosed space had reminded him of a cathedral, only instead of stained glass windows and organ music, it was filled with trees and chatter. It was a place he wouldn’t mind spending some time in — but the look on Kreon’s face when he found them suggested otherwise.

  “Àurea has agreed to help us,” he announced. “But our window is tight. She has a major operation planned two weeks from now, but was forced to divert significant resources to the raid on the prison. She now requires our assistance to ensure her objectives are met, but I have impressed upon her the importance of our task. We will leave immediately to visit the Oracle, and will return here as soon as we have the information we need.”

  Kyra’s expression mirrored Tristan’s; she could also read the shock beneath Kreon’s verbal diarrhoea. She placed a hand on his arm. “How’d it go?”

  A shadow of pain crossed Kreon’s face. “Àurea is… It’s complicated. She always was headstrong. Seeing her alive, I… I just…”

  “It’s okay,” Kyra said quickly. “We don’t need to talk about it now.”

  “I…” Kreon lapsed into silence.

  Tris was positively burning with curiosity. Kyra had to be feeling the same — but even she was approaching this delicately. And if they were about to go into space again, there’d be plenty of time for long-winded explanations.

  He was going to miss the medical bay; being fussed over by the two nurses had almost made it worth getting shot. He had only one real concern about leaving. He pushed the baggy sleeves up on his jumpsuit, and they fell straight down again. “Hey, ah, any chance I can get some clothes before we go?”

  * * *

  Àurea Herensuge, aka Ingumen, lounged on a couch in Wayfinder’s crew room. Her feet were bare, her ankles crossed. The posture was almost girlish, though the powerfully-muscled body was anything but. Tris was making an effort not to stare at the sculpted black mask that covered half her face, but it intrigued him. Was it an affectation? Part of her identity as this near-mythical hero? Or did it cover something more sinister, the way Kyra’s tattoos covered… whatever they covered. He’d never managed to get a straight answer out of her.

  “So, you genuinely thought we could have been a plant?” he asked her.

  A frown creased her brow. “Vegetation?”

  “No, I mean, you thought we could be Gerian’s agents, and that whole capture thing had been staged to get you to take us with you? That’s pretty convoluted.”

  She yawned and stretched, her shoulders popping in protest. “It would not be his most elaborate strategy. Such is the nature of his position.”

  “Which position? Magistrate?”

  Àurea sat up slightly to stare at him. “You don’t know? The man you call Gerian reports directly to the Keepers of the Faith. He is the Assessor-General.”

  Tris opened his mouth, then shut it again. “Oh,” he said. He let that bit of news sink in for a moment. “I still don’t get why he’d bother. He could have just shot us anytime. What does he gain from all that mess?”

  Àurea sank back into the couch. “Propaganda. To maintain the public perception of us as terrorists. You can be sure that footage of yesterday’s battle will be broadcast all around the Empire — only it will be a mining colony we attacked, shamelessly murdering hundreds of innocent workers in our never-ending quest for mayhem. They get to put their own spin on things, use it as justification to enact even more draconian laws, clamp down on free movement, instigate more searches, more scans by roving Assessors… and best of all, they get a whole new batch of raw meat for their Transgressors.”

  Tris felt sick just thinking about it. “He’s a monster. And he knows everything about everyone. He even knew your secret pass-phrase.”

  “He did?” Her eyes filled with alarm. “Did he speak it to you?”

  Tris wanted to kick himself. “No, I spoke it to him,” he admitted. “But he definitely knew the response.”

  Àurea’s brow furrowed. “I’m afraid he was playing you. There is no response.”

  Tris closed his eyes. “He made it up on the spot. And I swallowed it. I’m such an idiot.”

  “Don’t worry,” Àurea said. “I decreed that pass-phrase compromised as soon as I discovered the Proconsul had been Committed. The Assessor-general is a highly-skilled manipulator. He’s tricked far more experienced operatives than you.”

  “He’s… just evil. And paranoid as all hell. He reckoned there were Lantians helping your people, supplying you with arms or whatever.”

  “At one time, there were. Berasko Station was our main point of contact. Over the years, we’d built up our presence until most of the station’s complement were with us to some degree. But about seven years ago, we lost contact with our agent across the border. No help has come to us from Lantian space since then. Until you.”

  Tris mulled that over. It was pretty obvious to him that his dad had been the Ingumend’s Lantian contact. It lifted a weight off him; all this time, he realised, he’d been afraid of discovering that his dad was a part of all that evil. Instead, he’d been a Lemurian sleeper agent that was working undercover in Lantian space, whilst secretly suppling Lantian aid to the Lemurian resistance.

  Circles within circles… It made his head spin.

  “You weren’t sure about Kreon though?” Tris asked. “Even though… y’know?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time clones have been used for entrapment. This environment breeds paranoia. I believe my true identity is known only to myself, but it’s impossible to know what the Assessors have ascertained. Therein lies much of their power.”

  Tris turned his head to study the ceiling. He was lying on the couch opposite Àurea, ‘recuperating from his injures’ whilst the others took care of flying the ship.

  Àurea laughed unexpectedly. “Plus, it was rather amusing to watch my father languishing in a cell, with no clue that I had put him there — or that the door was unlocked.”

  “And I thought my fa
mily had issues,” said Kyra, striding into the lounge. Kreon followed her, limping slightly on his mechanical leg. “Coordinates are set and the grav-drive is about to be engaged,” she added, sliding into a chair.

  “And… you don’t have to be in the cockpit for that?” Tris asked her.

  Kreon made a sour face. “Evidently, Wayfinder is now imbued with sufficient processing power to manage a five-thousand inmate Confessional Institution. Or so I am informed. ALI assures me that she requires no supervision.”

  The Warden slumped into a chair, and Kyra patted him on the knee sarcastically. “Poor Kreon! Tris, while you were busy getting shot, he lost control of his favourite spaceship. We’ve got an ambitious AI called ALI living in the computer now. She even tried to reconfigure the ship’s ident to ALI, but Loader stopped her.”

  Tris winced in sympathy. Kreon’s attachment to the name Wayfinder was a lot more poignant now he knew the story behind it. “So Loader’s keeping her in check?”

  Kyra batted her eyelashes. “Loader’s in lurrrve!”

  Kreon cleared his throat. “Very well! If we’ve completed the exchange of gossip?” He looked at Àurea and his expression softened. “Perhaps you could enlighten us with a few details about the Oracle.”

  Àurea wasn’t impressed. “Yes father. Your wish is my command.”

  Tris caught Kyra rolling her eyes and felt a pang of jealousy. She normally saved that look for him.

  “We have six hours until we arrive,” Kreon said, running a gloved hand over his scalp. “We need to know what kind of situation we are walking into.”

  Àurea sat up and swept her hair out of her face. “Okay. I don’t know a lot, because I’ve never been there. Few people have. But I had an agent there who fed me information from time to time. Unfortunately, that source dried up over six months ago; I haven’t heard a word from him since.”

  Kreon leaned forward in his chair. “This source. Was he close to the Oracle?”

  Àurea frowned. “Close? He lived there. Father, the Oracle is not a person. It’s a planet.”

  Kreon sat back, digesting this news.

  “It’s not just any planet, either,” Àurea continued. “It’s the centre of our Church; the repository of all religious wisdom and the storehouse for sacred texts dating back to before the Sundering.”

  “There’s stuff there from Earth?” Tris asked.

  “If so, the security will be commensurate.” Kreon sounded old all of a sudden, as though the constant struggle to stay alive was finally catching up with him.

  Àurea nodded. “The planet has little need for security, but it will be there in any case. For symbolic reasons. My hope is that we can evade their orbital defences and make contact with my agent soon after planetfall. We have one advantage; no-one in their right mind would attempt an assault on Oracle. Their security is generally focussed inwards, on people trying to leave.”

  “Lemurians,” Kreon said, making the word into a curse.

  “They are not all bad,” Àurea said, her voice turning cold. “That’s why I’m here. These are good, honest people who live their whole lives in fear. You taught me to help where help was needed; I have never found a place more in need.”

  Kreon was silent for a long moment, then he sighed. He sat up straighter, some of the old gleam coming back into his eyes. “Then they are fortunate indeed to have found such a champion.”

  * * *

  It was a short journey to the planet of Oracle, most of which Tris spent in the med-bay under close supervision of the talos there. Kyra popped in now and then — just to check he hadn’t been shot again, she joked. Every. Single. Time. He didn’t see much of the others. Presumably Kreon and his estranged daughter had a few family issues to work through… always a good idea before heading into a life and death struggle together.

  None of them knew exactly what to expect once they entered orbit; there was a decent chance they wouldn’t even survive to make it into orbit. Àurea had explained the Lemurian’s standard defence model for Prime Worlds, and Tris had been trying to forget it ever since. A pair of Sanctuary-class battle stations was the default baseline, to be supplemented as and when required by capital ships from the nearest sector fleet, or by smaller vessels from the ground. The Sanctuary stations themselves possessed a wide variety of support aircraft, which would include a healthy complement of fighters — and of course they had a few guns knocking about too, as Tris knew all too well.

  Kreon hadn’t seemed overly concerned. For him, this mission was of paramount importance and he wouldn’t let a little thing like overwhelming odds get in his way. Kyra had laughed it off as usual (‘A pair of big steel balls hanging in space outside every major planet? You’d almost think they were compensating for something!’). But after their impromptu briefing she’d disappeared to the cargo hold and could be heard taking out her frustration on the training dummies. Tris wasn’t allowed to join her of course; he wasn’t even sure he was meant to be walking. His injury seemed to be healing well though, and aside from some residual soreness he felt pretty good for a guy with a hole in his chest. But there was no point taking the piss.

  Overall it had been a pleasant enough trip — for Tris, at least — but the underlying tension on board made it hard to relax.

  He joined the others in the cockpit for their drop back into real space.

  “Did you figure out what to do when we reach the surface?” he asked.

  Kreon, seated at the navigation console, turned to face him. “It depends on the nature of the opposition we encounter. In the best-case scenario, the temples and religious structures are occupied entirely by priests. In which case, we simply march in and take what we require. Alternatively, there may be troops deployed on the surface to watch over the faithful.”

  Tris pinched the giant bandage underneath his jumpsuit, trying to stop it riding up. “And is there a worst-case scenario?”

  Kreon turned back to face the viewscreen, leaving one word in the air like a nasty smell; “Transgressors.”

  Tris felt the blood drain from his face. “What? Why would they be here?”

  “They are the perfect front-line troops,” Àurea said, her voice subdued. She was sitting in the gunner’s chair behind her father; even from across the cockpit Tris could feel her fear. “Many friends of mine have suffered this fate. Driven mad through torture and brain damage, their limbs removed and replaced with weapons; they are stored in suspended animation, hundreds or thousands to a facility, where they can be woken up and activated on demand.”

  A cold knot was forming in Tris’ stomach. He wished he’d never asked, but if there was a chance he’d have to fight these things he needed to know. “Can you kill them?”

  Kreon snorted. “With difficulty. They are not a subtle opponent. Their masters simply inject them full of combat drugs and throw them at the enemy. I was that enemy, on more than one occasion. Transgressors charge forwards like rabid animals, utterly heedless of casualties, feeling no pain, driven only by psychosis and bloodlust.” He stared down at his console, clearly sickened by the memory. “At first, fighting them is like mowing down crops. They have no instinct for self-preservation, no care for cover, no strategy. It quickly becomes something else entirely, as they refuse to die in the conventional manner. Targets you’d thought destroyed re-emerge, limbs missing, staggering forwards. Deprive them of their legs, and they crawl. I’ve seen one killed a dozen times over, yet still it kept coming — tearing into the squad that killed it with such mindless ferocity that it slaughtered them all before expiring. To encounter a group of them is an ordeal which few forget. To face an entire battlefield filled with them…” his tone stiff with disgust. “Men have committed suicide to escape it.”

  Kyra had been working her controls in silence while Kreon told his tale. Now she turned in her chair to offer her opinion. “I think what Kreon’s trying to say, Tris, is if one of these things is ordered to kill you, you probably shouldn’t try sleeping with it.”

 
; With a slight tremor from the hull, they dropped back into real space. Stars materialised beyond the canopy, different views of them speckling every viewscreen in the cockpit.

  All bar the front one, which was dominated by a huge grey wedge of rock.

  “We’re here,” Kyra announced, flicking the contents of her display onto the main viewscreen. It showed a diagram of the solar system, with their relative position glowing red. “Oracle is directly on the other side of this moon. We’ll be shielded from passive scanners here, but a direct sensor sweep of this region will light us up like a flarebug.”

  Kreon hunched forward over his console. “Are you picking up any activity?” he asked her.

  “Not yet. I…” Kyra shuddered.

  Tris caught the reaction. “You okay Kyra?”

  “Yeah…” she replied, not too convincingly. “I just… ah, it’s nothing.”

  Kreon swivelled to fix her with a stare. “Do you sense anyone? Are you being blocked?”

  “No, I just… I feel bad. I feel like… like there’s something wrong here.”

  “You have the Gift?” Àurea sounded awe-struck. “Perhaps you are picking up the psychic residue of all the evil that has been committed here.”

  “Could be.” Kyra shook herself. “Not picking up any ships though. Certainly nothing big enough to be Sanctuary-class. Maybe we got lucky? Maybe there’s a party on the far side of that rock and everyone but us got invited?”

  Kreon turned to his daughter. “Àurea, how good is the Chruch’s stealth-tech?”

  She spread her hands. “I don’t know, I’ve never seen it.”

  Tris chuckled at the unintentional joke, then felt both their eyes on him. “It’s a trap?” he suggested.

  Kreon ignored him. “Move closer,” he told Kyra.

  The wedge of moon receded as Kyra brought Wayfinder out from its shadow. The displays continued to show nothing remarkable — just an endless sea of stars, and the mottled brown marble of the planet ahead.