by Gregg Vann
“We may share the same rank, sir, but we are far from equals.”
“We are Wardens, Sergeant Dura. We are equals.”
“On that, I agree. But still…you are the Great Betrayer, and I—”
Barent chuckled, interrupting Dura and prompting a curious look from the man.
“Did I say something funny, sir?”
Sergeant Dura wore a pained expression on his face, as if fearing he’d committed some offense.
“No, no. Not at all. Forgive me, Sergeant. It’s just that, being here now…among Wardens, and hearing that title again. Well, it reminded me of how I’d gotten it in the first place.”
“I assumed the people gave it to you,” Dura replied.
“Actually, Sergeant Dura, it was quite the opposite. That name was given to me by my enemies. They believed the prisoners worshiped me as some kind of savior—for betraying my station, and siding with them—so the loyal guards thought calling me the Great Betrayer might prove an effective insult, a way to cheapen me in the eyes of the people.”
Barent smiled as recollections from those days drifted into his mind. The memories were still fresh, although the events contained in them had happened ages ago. “They’d meant for the title to be derogatory, Sergeant Dura. Like some kind of a joke.”
“And how did that insult work out for them?” Dura asked, already knowing the answer.
“We won the war,” Barent replied smartly. “So I’d like to think I got the last laugh.”
“Indeed, sir.”
Sergeant Dura looked out at the Wardens gathered on the factory floor, and he met their gazes head-on, watching as their attention shifted back and forth between Barent and himself. Their eyes lingered on Barent, however, bordering on outright stares, and it was obvious that there was only one question on their minds.
Only one question that mattered, anyway.
“It is really him,” Dura announced loudly, trying to stifle his own excitement as he spoke to his troops. “The Great Betrayer has returned.” Then Dura took a few steps back, leaving Barent alone at the railing. “Tell us what your plans are to defeat the Collective, Sergeant Barent. I promise you that the Wardens will see them carried out.”
Barent observed unchecked adoration on the face of every Warden present; it was as if history itself had come alive and granted them their most fervent wish. But as uncomfortable as it made him feel personally, Sergeant Barent understood the power of it all.
And it was a power he intended to wield.
As he pondered his words, Barent also considered their delivery. He knew that often one needed to speak like a scholar to get a point across, and his treatises were proof he possessed that skill, but there were other occasions where the no-nonsense language of a soldier served you best.
Like today.
“Fellow Wardens. I can’t pretend that my return is part of some grand scheme—a plan set in motion years ago to help Le’sant—because it’s not. It was an accident, plain and simple. But I am here now, and the city is in a desperate state. I assure you, each and every one of you, that with your help, I will do something about that.”
Barent saw smiles blossom on the faces of many of the Wardens. And on others, he noted the lust for action.
“The Collective has twisted the freedoms we won five centuries ago to serve their own needs—without any care or compassion for the people of Le’sant. Since my return, I’ve witnessed first-hand the abject poverty that exists in the city. And I’ve spent enough time in the Outland to understand just how badly things have become. The rich exploit the poor. The powerful prey on the weak. People…children, die from lack of resources. And in every segment of society—without exception—the Collective plots behind the scenes to keep this corrupt system in place.
“As Wardens, I don’t doubt your courage and strength. I know full well that you will help me defeat the Collective and rescue the city from this madness. Nor do I doubt your loyalty or commitment to the people of Le’sant. Major Kline demonstrated that determination by freeing me from my tomb beneath the city. And I witnessed the Collective murder him for his efforts.”
Barent clenched the railing hard and glanced down, drawing a deep breath in an attempt to calm his anger. When he looked back up again, he scanned the faces in the crowd. He saw pain there, to be sure. But it was pushed down deep, hidden behind thousand-yard stares that were crying out for vengeance.
“They lied to us about his death,” Sergeant Dura said. “And then sent commandos to kill us as we slept. What you see here is all that is left of the Wardens.”
“Then it will be enough,” Barent stated boldly, raising his voice louder so the Wardens could hear the confidence in it.
“And let me tell you the truth about Major Kline’s death: those cowards slaughtered him in the street. I was able to kill his assassins, but I was too late…”
Barent’s eyes narrowed as his voice trailed off; his expression turned severe. He never knew the man personally, but the memory of Kline’s murder infuriated him. Barent felt responsible somehow, because it had happened during a mission to free him. He slammed his fists down hard on the railing and glared out at the Wardens. They saw Barent’s fury, but understood that it wasn’t directed at them.
“I was too late to save Major Kline,” he said. “But it’s not too late to save the people of Le’sant. We will deliver them from the Collective, I promise you that. And I’ve come here today to confer with Sergeant Dura about the best way to get it done.” Then Barent leaned out over the rail slightly, heightening the expectation of the crowd. “And let me make you another promise,” he said. “As Wardens, we will have our revenge. For Major Kline’s murder; for the betrayal of ideals the First Ones fought and died for during the Pardon War; and for the deaths of your own brethren, struck down in their beds. The Collective will pay for each of these atrocities in full measure, until they are the ones left dying in the streets. I swear it.”
An eruption of sound followed Barent’s final words as the Wardens began cheering loudly, raising their rifles high above their heads in celebration. His speech had struck home, and they were ready for action now…eager for it.
Barent’s promise of revenge brought the raid on the armory to the forefront of Sergeant Dura’s mind—the memory of his own pledge to avenge Kina’s death. The emotions from that tragic night wouldn’t be denied, and Dura abandoned all pretense of detachment, joining in with the other Wardens to yell just as loudly.
Sergeant Barent felt the power of the moment, and it reminded him of camaraderie shared between other soldiers, now long dead. These were good troops, he knew. And though they’d suffered through much, they were ready to fight. Any doubts they may have harbored about taking on a much stronger enemy were now gone, despite what the Collective had done to their ranks. And the specter of futility dogging them ever since the purge first began—the feeling that death was an unwavering and inevitable outcome to all of this—had disappeared entirely.
The Wardens actually believed they could win.
And so did Sergeant Barent.
Dura let his troops celebrate for a few moments longer, and then he stepped up to the railing and ordered them back to work—returning them to the weapons checks and explosive calibrations required to meet the enemy fully prepared. As the Wardens spread out around the facility with renewed hope and purpose in their eyes, he turned to face Sergeant Barent.
“It’s been more than five centuries,” Dura remarked, “but your words reminded me of what you said before the attack on the Citadel. When you spoke about the guards and colonists paying for their atrocities against our ancestors. I read your speech in the treatises.”
“For me,” Barent replied, “that attack took place little more than a week ago—not five hundred years in the past. But we do seem to be in a similar situation.”
“That we do,” Dura agreed.
Barent caught the man staring at him as they descended the last few steps to the floor of the factory. “Is there someth
ing wrong, Sergeant?”
“No, sir. It’s just that… Well, you were only a legend—stories really, and a few grainy video records. For centuries, the Great Betrayer was just words on a page. But now you’re here.”
“It’s even stranger for me, Sergeant Dura. If you can believe it.”
“I can,” he replied. “Though I can’t possibly imagine what it’s like for you to see Le’sant now, after so much has changed.”
“No. Probably not.”
Sergeant Dura led them to a plastic fold-up table, sitting next to a collection of dusty machinery of indiscernible purpose. And they each took a seat on one of the cargo boxes that had been placed around it as chairs.
Corporal Vane had tagged along as well, but he remained standing, watching out over the factory floor as the other Wardens continued their preparations for war. Barent caught a few of them glancing over at him as they went about their work. Unsurprisingly, his return from the dead had been hard for them to believe.
And they weren’t alone in that difficulty.
“Just a few days ago I was fighting a war,” he told Dura. “And now, everyone I knew on both sides of that conflict is dead—replaced by different groups of people in a similar struggle. The sad part is that both fights were brought on by the same problems.”
“That’s true,” Dura said. “And I’m afraid that’s not the only parallel, Sergeant Barent. The Collective are just as cunning as any of the First Ones you faced in the past. They’ve been telling everyone that you’re a fake—an imposter created by the Wardens to overthrow the government.”
“Well, they got the part about overthrowing the government right.” Barent smiled.
“And we’re here to help you do it,” Dura assured him. “The reports say you were with a woman when you fought your way through the Outland.”
“I was. Her name is Tana Neng.”
“Tana Neng?” Dura repeated. “The Collective has been searching for a thief by that name—and expending a great deal of effort in the process. We knew something odd was going on, but didn’t realize she was connected to you. Who is she?”
“She was hired by Major Kline to break into the tomb and free me. It was her apartment in the Common Ring where the two Wardens were killed, on the same night that Kline died.”
“That explains quite a few things,” Dura said. “Major Kline kept a close circle during the operation to free you, so we didn’t have any of the details—any clue at all, actually. And everyone involved in that mission is now dead, so getting answers has been extremely difficult. What it doesn’t explain, though, is how you are still alive.”
“The night before they took the Citadel, a close friend—another Warden, actually—faked my death. Then he placed my body inside a cryo-chamber. He was trying to keep me safe while he sought out the culprits behind an attempt on my life and brought them to justice.”
“The Collective…” Dura said.
“As it turns out, yes. Corporal Ennis meant to revive me afterward—when the danger had passed. But he wasn’t able to stop them.”
“If only he’d succeeded,” Sergeant Dura said. “Maybe things would have been different.”
He subconsciously rubbed his injured arm, and then Dura rested it on the table in front of him, adjusting the sling across the back of his neck.
“So…if this thief was able to break into your tomb, right in the middle of the Central District, she must be very formidable.”
“Oh, that she is,” Barent replied. “I’ve fought beside her on several occasions now, and Tana can hold her own.”
Dura noticed the admiration in Sergeant Barent’s voice. But there was something else there as well, and he suspected that the Great Betrayer and this thief were much closer than he was sharing.
Dura also knew that was none of his concern.
“Where is she now?” he asked.
“At one of our old hideouts beyond the city wall—almost due south of the gate we escaped through when we fought our way out of Le’sant. She’s waiting there for our reinforcements to arrive.”
“Reinforcements?” Dura said. He scrunched his brow in confusion. “From where?”
“From the Olin, Sergeant Dura. The second ship crashed into a mountainside about eighty kilometers away from here, just outside the crater. And I’ve convinced some of the crew’s descendants to help us take Le’sant.”
Dura and Vane looked at each other to confirm they’d heard him right, and not been betrayed by their senses. Both men were brimming with questions, but it was Dura who spoke first.
“The Olin survived? That’s incredible.”
“More than you know, Sergeant. But we can discuss that later. The important thing to know right now is that I have thirty-three thousand warriors on the way to help us fight the Collective.”
Dura smiled, and to Barent it looked like a huge weight had been lifted from the man’s shoulders.
“Thirty thousand troops?” Dura said. “We can actually do this…”
“We can,” Barent agreed. “But these soldiers come with limited weaponry, Sergeant. I have a few plasma rifles stored at the hideout I can equip them with, but they’ll mostly be armed with bows and knives.”
Dura’s smile quickly evaporated, replaced by the same somber expression he’d worn since Barent first encountered him on the stairwell.
“We raided the armory a couple of days ago, Sergeant Barent. But we already distributed the guns to the downtrodden. We have no way of arming your troops now.”
“I don’t know that it’s necessary,” Barent replied. “I think they’ll be more effective with the weapons they already know. I’ve seen them fight, Sergeant Dura, and they are lethal.”
“Against armored personal carriers?” Dura said. “And thousands of Collective troops carrying plasma rifles?”
“I’m hopeful,” Barent replied. “But we’ll just have to wait and see. How many of the city’s residents do you think will join our cause?”
“I wish I knew for certain, Sergeant Barent. I believe that everyone in the Outland, and a good number of the Common Ring’s populace, are sympathetic. But enough to fight against the Collective military? That I just can’t say. I think if we can show some real momentum—demonstrate to the people that this really can happen—then more of them will join us.”
“Then I suppose we need to start off with a bang, Sergeant Dura. Something that will get everyone’s attention.”
“I agree, sir. The downtrodden are just waiting for a signal to attack. But until I actually heard from you, I didn’t think I’d ever give it.”
“Well, get ready,” Barent told him. “Because my combined force of Olin and Exile warriors will reach the hideout soon. And shortly after that, the signal is going out.”
“Exiles?”
“Part of the same long story about what happened to the Olin. But it’ll have to wait until later, Sergeant, when we’re not so pressed for time. Tell me, what types of weapons were you were able to liberate from the armo—”
A loud blast sounded overhead, interrupting Barent and shaking the entire facility. Both men spun around to see sunlight and snow spilling in through a huge hole blown in the ceiling. And before either of them could react, black-clad commandos began dropping down into the factory, spraying the exposed Wardens with weapons fire.
Barent realized what was happening as the first warning cries went out across the floor.
“It’s the Collective!” he shouted.
“They’ve found us!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Deception
“Down!” Barent yelled.
He grabbed Sergeant Dura’s vest and pulled the Warden down with him as Barent dove to the floor—just as one of the commandos descending through the ceiling spun on his tether and began firing in their direction. Vane had the presence of mind to duck behind one of the large pieces of machinery as the bullets struck all around them.
Barent drew both pistols and returned fire, glancing o
ver to see Sergeant Dura struggling with his injured arm, working to yank the plasma rifle from his back. When the weapon finally came free, Dura leveled it at the Collective commandos, joining Vane and Barent in their effort to halt the enemy infiltration. But a quick look told all three of them that this was an all-out assault.
And they were grossly outnumbered.
The other Wardens had begun fighting back as well, and as plasma beams and bullets crisscrossed the factory, Barent sized up the effectiveness of the Collective troops. Despite his hopes that they would be ill-trained and over confident, it wasn’t the case. Their aim was deadly, and the commandos were sliding down to the floor at a high rate of speed, waiting until the very last moment to arrest their fall. That made them difficult targets, but Barent still managed to hit a few before they reached the ground and took cover. He shot one commando in the torso—almost dead center—and Barent watched as her limp body pivoted parallel to the floor in the rappel harness—just before slamming face-first into the ground.
Sergeant Dura was using the beam setting on his plasma rifle to sever the cables as soon as they dropped down through the roof, but he saw dozens more snaking through the ceiling before enemy fire pushed him back behind cover. He realized that the haphazard defense they’d been forced into wasn’t working.
“Vane!” Dura snapped. “Stay here with Barent and watch his back. I’m going to gather up our forces and coordinate a counter-attack. And don’t let anything happened to him. Do you read me?”
“Loud and clear, sir. I’ll keep him safe.”
“Good hunting,” Barent told him.
Dura nodded before moving out, ducking low to dart across an exposed path winding through the factory’s machinery. He dove behind one of the roof’s support pillars on the other side just as bullets began striking all around him. Barent’s first impulse was to follow Dura straight into the heart of the action, but he knew it was best to stay out of his way. This was Sergeant Dura’s team, and he understood all of their strengths, weaknesses, and capabilities. He’d trained with these people for years, and this was his show. But even if Dura was the best choice to lead these particular Wardens into battle, that didn’t mean Barent had to just sit by and watch.
