All four of them leaned in close to view the contents.
“Urgh!” Miren was the first to recoil. “Are those… body parts?”
Kreon gingerly withdrew a strange bubble of clear plas which appeared to contain a severed hand. Not just any hand though; even in its severely decomposed state, it was quite obviously alien. Three fingers, mutually opposable, ending in what must once have been claws.
Àurea gasped. “That… thing! I recognise it. From scripture. It’s one of the Church’s most holy artefacts. The Hand of the Gods, they call it.”
Kreon examined the macabre treasure. “So it would appear. And here we have the answer to one of my most pertinent questions, irrelevant though it may appear. Gerian has the mummified remains of a Kharash body. This is how he is able to activate the Portals — either contact, or close proximity to the Kharash DNA must still be a requirement.”
“This, however, is not irrelevant,” Serra said.
Kreon glanced up at her — to find her handling a small cone-shaped device bristling with tiny golden fins. He recognised it immediately.
As did Àurea. “That’s mine,” she snarled.
It hadn’t occurred to Kreon to list the items they’d lost following their capture on Oracle. Chief amongst them was Loader, obviously, but several pieces of their gear had not been present when he broke open the evidence case at their trial. The miniature Erresonador was one of them.
“This changes things,” Àurea said. “With that device we can knock out large groups of people. There is even a setting which kills, but in a manner so horrendous I have never brought myself to use it.”
“So we can hold our position here?” Kreon asked her. “Is your mastery of this device sufficient to overcome opposition from Gerian’s household guards?”
She nodded. “And more. We can go through that Portal and find Gerian. Even if he is surrounded by Assessors, we can render them unconscious instantaneously. This smaller device doesn’t have the range or power of the one Gerian possesses, but that won’t matter if we give him no chance to use it.”
Kreon rose while he considered their options. “Sera?” he asked. “Your opinion?”
Her eyes darted suspiciously; was she surprised that he would ask her for advice?
“We control this room,” she said finally. “Logic dictates that trading this advantage for an uncertain situation beyond the mirror is folly. Now that we’ve assured our escape route, we’d do well to avoid whatever lies on the other side. I say we wait here, and ambush Gerian when he returns.”
Kreon chewed this over. “I agree.”
Àurea looked from him to her mother, clearly not impressed by their decision. Then she snatched the Erresonador from Sera, fiddled with the controls on its underside for a few seconds, and tossed it to Miren. “Just point the cone at your target and press the central button,” she said,
Miren stared down at the golden device in her hands. “Ohhhkay?”
The look Àurea shot Kreon took her mother’s cold fury and wrapped it in an ironclad determination she could only have learned as leader of the Ingumend. “Very well. Stay and rest, old-timers! But Gerian will die today. I’ll see to it myself.”
And she turned, unfurling her weapons as she went, took two strides over to the Portal, and threw herself into it.
A stunned silence prevailed for a few seconds, as they all stared after her.
Sera sighed theatrically. “Children! You do your best to raise them with some semblance of common sense…”
“Àurea is not a child,” Kreon reminded her. “She is reckless, arrogant and dangerously overconfident.”
Sera eyed him critically. “Then why are you complaining? Those are the parts of her that take after you.”
Kreon made to retort — then noticed there was a wry smile on Sera’s face. “Our daughter is in mortal danger,” he said instead, making an exaggerated gesture towards the Portal. “After you, My Lady?”
And one behind the other, they followed her through.
9
Tris had thoroughly enjoyed Mark’s reaction to the secret underground base.
After a few minutes of gawking at everything from the walls to the holographic consoles, he’d abandoned any thoughts of keeping his job (which Tris did feel a tiny bit guilty about), and dedicated himself exclusively to taking care of the refugees.
Mostly, they would need food bringing in daily to supplement the military-style rations from the base’s emergency stores. Mark would look after the money Tris had withdrawn, and make shopping lists of all the items the miniature colony would require. Extra blankets, toiletries, occasional tools…
“There’s only one thing I can’t figure out,” he admitted, as Tris and Kyra sat with him in the room they’d designated as his office. “How am I going to understand what they want? I mean, miming is good as far as ‘get me some bog-roll’ goes, but anything more complicated than that… I heard you guys chatting with that beefy dude. It sounds like something out of Mars Attacks.”
“Oh yeah! I almost forgot.” Kyra stood up, pulling something from a pocket of her jeans. Suspiciously new-looking jeans, Tris noted. She walked around behind Mark’s chair and started running her hands through his hair.
“Sorry, I ain’t had time to comb it,” he joked.
Tris knew that beautiful women made Mark nervous — an unfortunate trait they both shared — and that having someone as hot as Kyra stroking his head would bring him out in cold sweats.
“I’ve got a pressie for you,” Kyra whispered in his ear.
“Oh! Okay.” Mark licked his lips and swallowed.
Tris smiled, wondering what was going through his friend’s mind. Well, he had a fair idea.
“Close your eyes,” Kyra purred. “This won’t take a minute.”
“Ha! Who’ve you been talking to?” Mark quipped.
Kyra continued to play with his hair, pressing her fingers into his scalp.
“Mmmm,” Mark murmured. “Nice massage… Ow!”
“All done,” Kyra said. “You were so brave!”
“What?” Mark reached around to the back of his head, fingers feeling for anything out of place. “What did you do?”
“I implanted a translation device that taps into the temporal lobe of your brain,” Kyra told him, taking a chair in front of him. “How does it feel?”
“Errr… I dunno. I can’t feel anything, really. I think you might have given me a dud.”
Tris grinned at him. “No, it’s all good mate.”
“How can you tell? You haven’t even looked at it.”
Kyra gave him one of her mocking smiles. “The language we’re speaking right now has been extinct on this planet for over ten-thousand years, so I’d say it’s working.”
“What? Really?” Mark didn’t look convinced. “You’re making this shit up!”
“Ask around.” Kyra waved a hand at the door. “The language they speak is an old Lemurian dialect that even I can’t understand without my implant.”
Twenty minutes later, Tris was sitting outside a trendy cafe in the High Street, sipping at a latte. Kyra sat beside him, demolishing an ice cream. She’d insisted on this pit stop because ‘that runny shit at McDonalds didn’t count,’ apparently.
Ah well.
Tris stretched his legs out, enjoying the feel of the summer sun on denim. Shopping hadn’t been even remotely on his agenda when he’d suggested a trip to Earth, but now he was here…
The jeans he was wearing, rediscovered in his old bedroom, were a little too snug for his liking. The last two months of non-stop combat training (interspersed with a generous amount of the real thing) had filled him out quite nicely. Not quite as much as Lukas of course… that guy must have a serious workout regime.
Tris idly wondered if he’d be able to pick up a few tips.
“So, if we must do this, I’m thinking I might pick up a new pair of jeans,” he said.
Kyra slurped at her ice cream in an encouraging fashion. �
�That’s the spirit!”
“I’m pretty much bursting out of these ones. Not quite Lukas-bursting, but close enough.”
Kyra scowled at the mere mention of the babysitter.
“He might not be that bad,” Tris protested. “He kept Ana safe, and he looks like he’d be good in a fight…”
“Okay, you know why he’s able to look like that?” Kyra snapped. “Because while every one else is out busting their asses to save people’s lives, he gets to spend his days making pancakes and working out.”
Tris made his eyes wide on purpose. “Ooooh! He makes pancakes too?”
She gave him a dangerous look. “Watch it kid. Or you’re going to bed without any supper.”
“I’m just sayin’. My babysitter was a chain-smoking granny from three doors down. She stank of whisky and medicated soap, and she watched crappy old game shows the whole time at like two-hundred decibels.”
Kyra considered her ice cream, and took a big lick. “I only remember having one. More of an overseer than a babysitter. He wasn’t nice.”
“Oh? Really?”
“Yeah. He tried to take advantage of… of my trusting nature.”
Tris made a face. “Ugh! Man, that’s really not cool. Did you report him?”
“Ha!” Kyra nudged him with her shoulder. “Tris, you’re so quaint! No, I didn’t report him.” Her voice turned oddly wistful. “I let him think he could have his wicked way with me, and lured him into the bedroom. He was the first man I ever killed.”
Tris choked on his drink. “You’re shitting me!” he spluttered. “How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Woah! Okay… this conversation is all kinds of wrong. I’m going to change the subject now.”
She chuckled. “Why? Because I was young? You’re what, twenty-something? And you’ve killed a bunch of people.”
“Thanks for that. I’m still having nightmares about it. But I guess by your standards, I was a late bloomer.”
“You know what they say,” she said, patting his knee in a reassuring manner. “Better late than never.”
* * *
They’d been bouncing from shop to shop for what seemed like hours. Tris didn’t dare glance at his new watch for fear it had been hours. Kreon would be fuming when they got back — not that there was anything out of the ordinary about that. At least this time Kyra would take the blame; there was no way Kreon would believe an extended shopping trip was Tris’ fault.
In the first place they went to Tris had found a couple of pairs of jeans (one for now, and one for the inevitable moment when the first pair got burned or shot or melted). He’d thrown in a few new shirts as well, having to go baggy to find ones that fit his widening shoulders. Now, at least ten shops later, Kyra had dragged him into yet another large department store. He hadn’t even caught the name of this one.
Wandering the menswear aisles aimlessly, he’d given up looking for stuff to buy and decided to find her. Perhaps if he hung around like a bad smell, she’d get the hint and take him home. And from there… back to his real home.
Unfortunately, Kyra was now trying on underwear. That meant he got to hang around in the lingerie department, which for some reason made him feel profoundly uncomfortable. Weird. It wasn’t like he was here to stare at pictures of chicks in bras or anything; he had a bone fide girlfriend for once. Or he assumed he still did. There hadn’t been any word from Ella since she’d blasted off on her mysterious errand. For all he knew she could be cavorting with pirate chiefs or blown to smithereens by now. It helped to know that she was one of the most skilled assassins in a priesthood full of them… but only a bit.
What he wouldn’t give for a solid week alone with her. Just time for the two of them to spend really getting to know each other… to sit up late swapping stories, and… yeah. Doing that. Doing that most of all.
The first thing he was going to do when he got back to the Folly was check for messages from her.
Damn it, Kyra! What the hell was taking her so long?
Tris glanced around, the awkwardness returning. It didn’t help that a particularly beefy-looking security guard was giving him the eye. Tris put his head down and pretended to study the label on the nearest item. Which was a mistake, as it was an ‘ultimate boost’ push-up bra and panty set. For sixty pounds?! He was tempted to ask the security guard who was robbing who around here.
But the bloke was closer now, and staring at him again.
Tris eyed the pile of boxes and bags from other stores that he’d left stacked outside the changing rooms. In fairness, it did look pretty suspicious. Their contents had cost him over five grand, and here he was in battered skate shoes and a ten-year-old Star Wars t-shirt.
Every time he looked up, the guard was closer. His sharp black uniform was more GI Joe than Loss-Prevention Officer.
And his watch…
Tris realised that the guard’s watch was literally out of this world.
At the same time his mouth opened to demand an explanation, the guard attacked.
A big knife flashed towards Tris’ face, the blade fully as long as his forearm.
Tris sprang back, dropping into a fighting crouch, but the man was already leaping towards him.
Tris ducked away as the knife sliced through the air above him. What the hell? He’d been keeping a wary eye out now and then, but he honestly hadn’t expected to be attacked on Earth. Who even knew he was here?
A woman looked over and screamed, but neither of them paid her any attention. The security guard was relentless, pressing forward as Tris windmilled back through a rack of bras. He narrowly avoided being spitted on that blade as he regained his footing, but then he decided enough was enough. He side-stepped the next swing and stepped in, closing the distance. He drove a flurry of blows at the man’s face, landing a few even though the first couple were blocked, but before he could press the advantage the knife swung back, causing Tris to throw himself to the side.
He rolled to his feet, grabbing for his glaive — only to feel his fingers closing on the back of his t-shirt. Shit! He’d left the alien weapon in his backpack, afraid to wear it openly in public with Britain’s knife laws getting stricter by the day. Mark still had the backpack, which meant that Mark still had the glaive.
Which meant Tris was in a lot more trouble than he’d thought.
Okay then. The hard way…
Screams now sounded further off in the shop; a general stampede for the exits had cleared the area of bystanders.
Tris ducked behind a stand of lace-lined panties. Using obstacles in his favour had been one of Kyra’s best lessons, but he’d never envisaged hiding behind frilly knickers. The security guard came straight for him, but Tris was ready this time. As the knife slashed in he danced back a half-step, pivoting to follow the movement. As the blade swished past he struck out — not at the man, but at the arm. A spear-hand jab to the forearm radial nerve caused the man’s fingers to spasm, sending the blade clattering away across the floor tiles.
The man’s other hand slammed into Tris’ ribcage with the force of a baseball bat, making him gasp for breath.
Jeez this guy’s good!
But Tris was better.
Blocking the follow-up punch, he stomped down on the inside of the guard’s calf. As the man’s leg buckled Tris reversed direction, bringing his knee up sharply. He caught the man in the chest hard enough to hear the crack, then jumped back to recover his position.
The security guard had fallen to his knees, rubbing his chest with one hand whilst the other groped for…
His gun.
Tris cursed himself for not noticing.
Security guards in England don’t carry guns! Hell, most of the cops didn’t. He’d spent too much of his childhood watching pirated movies.
Throwing himself sideways he landed heavily, scrabbling to get his feet back under him. He lunged for a check-out counter; the lady who’d operated it having long since fled.
Bullets cracked ag
ainst the faux-marble, the roar of the handgun echoing back from the ceiling. Something whizzed by Tris’ shoulder at high velocity.
Shit! That thing can shoot right through this counter!
He thought fast. He had to end this, and he had to end it quick.
Kyra! he thought, finally remembering to use the Gift. He was instantly aware of her nearby, her anger blazing like a torch. Little help? he sent.
Not now, kid. Bit tied up. He caught a flash of bare flesh veined with tattoos.
Great.
Another pair of bullets blew holes in the far end of the counter, the attacker forced to guess where Tris was hiding.
Shit!
He screwed his face up, trying to focus his mind. He could feel the adrenaline pouring off the security guard, and knew instantly that this man was not born on Earth. He was a killer, pure and simple, and there was not a shred of doubt in his mind that this fight was as good as over.
Backing into the corner, Tris sent a mental image of himself straight to the man — pushed it at him, directing it at the opposite end of the counter.
The man spun to face that direction, unloading round after round into the cash register, blowing it to bits.
And Tris leapt up, running full-tilt into the corner. His feet hit the walls in a move called a tic-tac, taking him over the counter in one smooth motion. He landed behind his assailant and charged him.
The man was big and heavy, wearing armour way more impressive than the security guard’s outfit it resembled. Tris gasped in pain as his shoulder collided with the man’s back, but the force was enough to send both of them sprawling.
Tris rolled out of it, his shoulder screaming, and came to his feet.
His opponent was also scrambling to his feet, the gun in his hands.
But Tris had picked up something along the way. He darted in, swinging, and the guard turned to face him, bringing the gun up—
As Tris embedded the man’s own knife in his head.
Knife? Fucking machete is more like it! Tris thought, as the man sank to the floor.
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