Epilogue
Sharki strode along the worn flagstones lining one of Atalia’s great hallways. The place was needlessly big, he thought — as though the Wardens were putting a vast amount of effort into impressing their guests.
Impressing them, or intimidating them. Not that it mattered; they hadn’t been receiving visitors for decades as far as he knew. And they’d be even less inclined to do so now, with everything that was going on. The defence of Earth was falling apart under the pressure, with no one strong leader capable of uniting the disparate elements that had been forced to work together.
That’s the only reason he was allowed in the fortress; he was reporting to the Council, at least what was left of it, on the options they had for improving the situation.
There weren’t very many, and the few they had were pretty damn obvious.
More men.
More ships.
More supplies.
And a decent leader, if they had one knocking about.
Part of him toyed with the idea of asking for the job himself. He’d always liked a challenge. But there were challenges, and then there was that: full responsibility for protecting the one planet they held sacred above all others. A planet which, consequently, was the single biggest target for thieves, smugglers and doped-up adrenaline-junkies in the entire galaxy.
Meh. They wouldn’t hire me anyways.
Wardens only trusted Wardens in positions of power. Which was ironic, considering how well that had worked out lately.
Still, the astronomical retainer he’d been able to talk Oktavius into proved how highly they regarded his services. And it wasn’t like he was ripping them off. Not by much. No-one could accuse him of being a slacker. He’d pulled out all the stops for this one, importing his semi-mobile asteroid base Outcrop to give Earth’s defence force a place to park while they took a shower.
He had his entire flight crew, four-hundred men in over ninety ships, working double-shifts doing patrols of the outer solar system. He’d long since lost count of the number of unauthorised intruders they’d dusted. It was a bit like playing one of those children’s games where the Siszar kept popping out of holes and you had to smack them with a mallet.
He’d almost reached his door when a shadow detached itself from a nearby alcove, drifting towards him in a cloud of cheap perfume.
Coughing, he wafted the scent away. The light from the closest torch picked out the features of an old woman wrapped in a threadbare shawl. She shuffled closer, a straggle of greasy grey curls escaping the scarf around her head, and looked up at him expectantly. “Can you see me now?” she asked, her voice cracking on the words.
He recognised her, of course.
She’d cornered him earlier, begging him to try and get a message through to Kyra. He’d been on his way to a meeting with High Warden Oktavius himself, so he’d apologised politely and fobbed her off. He was pretty sure Kyra didn’t have any family; at least, any she did have, she wasn’t keen on contacting.
He’d put it out of his mind temporarily, and the meeting had dragged on as it always did. He was only just returning now, and he cringed inwardly at the thought of tomorrow’s meeting, planned to be in front of the whole Council.
He returned the old woman’s gaze, seeing the pinched face, the stooped body, the ragged clothes and dirt-streaked skin of a destitute. Normally such a sight would be unthinkable in these hallowed halls, but refugees from several planets destroyed by the Black Ships had been given temporary living quarters in the basement of the ancient fortress.
Come to think of it, a few months ago they’d have shot me if they’d have found me in here.
Another of life’s little ironies.
He debated what to do with the woman for a second. She was harmless, if a bit annoying, and he had a feeling she’d keep coming back until she got to say her piece.
Probably just trying to scam me.
He permitted himself a tiny grin at that. If so, she’s picked the wrong door to knock on! Can’t scam a scammer. Odd though; I don’t remember telling her my room number.
He pressed his palm to the room’s locking plate, and the door swung inward. Shaking his head at his own gullibility, he stood back and gestured her to enter.
She took him up on the offer, limping over to his door and into his room. He followed, pushing the door shut behind them. It was a basic room; one bed, one desk, one chair, with a tiny cubicle for ablutions opening off it. No meal preps facilities, forcing him to eat with the servitors in one of the lesser mess-halls, but he didn’t mind that. The Wardens were all high and mighty, full of waffle about Tradition and Causes, but they had good hearts.
Most of them.
He still wasn’t sure about the one that Kyra was off with.
“So,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Mrs…? I’m sorry, I never caught your name.”
The old woman straightened a little at this, and unpinned her shawl. As it fell away it took swathes of material with it, revealing not the stocky, bent figure he’d been expecting but a smaller, slender body wrapped in layers of perfume-doused cloth.
“My name is Evelyn,” the woman said, her voice now cold and strong. She peeled back the headscarf and a wig came with it, the grey hair another part of the disguise. She wiped her face on one long sleeve, removing all signs of old age at a single stroke. “Evelyn Fitzgerald.”
Sharki was taken aback. The transformation was impressively slick, even for an experienced con artist. He’d known plenty in his time; he counted some of the greatest amongst his friends and mentors, and he felt embarrassment rise to burnish his cheeks at how easily he’d been taken in.
“Well Ms… Fitzgerald? There was no need to play games. I can’t get my own messages through to Kyra, let alone yours.”
“Not taking your calls? Awww, that’s too bad.” The woman — little more than a girl, he now realised, though age was often quite deceptive around here — moved closer. She continued to unburden herself of her costume, until she was clad only in a figure-hugging bodysuit that left little to the imagination. Long, flowing sleeves were her only concession to decency, along with the lacy black gloves she wore. She showed them off to him now, crooking a little finger to beckon him.
He raised his hands in the universal gesture of no, thanks.
“Such a pity,” she continued, striking a pose that accentuated every curve. She’d adopted a sultry stare, looking at him through lowered lashes, and she moved with the confidence of a pro.
A pro at what?
He had a feeling he knew.
“It’s such a shame,” the girl continued. Her hair, now freed of the wig, was a vibrant cascade of red curls that floated around her shoulders. The face without its make-up was smooth and delicate; the eyes were a startling green, though with a hint of cruelty about them he found unsettling.
She stalked towards him, her body in the sheer suit quite mesmerising.
He cleared his throat, stepping back to put some distance between them. “I’m sorry, I’m spoken for.” The words came out automatically, but then he stopped to think about the woman he’d always called Streaks. Were they even together? He honestly wasn’t sure. They’d always had a volatile relationship, breaking up and getting back together more times than he could count. He’d certainly had a few flings in their years apart — he knew she had. None of them had ever lasted though, because no-one could ever compare to his Kyra…
This chick couldn’t hold a candle to her.
“I’m sorry, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He tried to put stern disapproval into his voice. “I have no intention of using your… services. If you don’t go, I’m afraid I’ll be forced to report you.”
She ignored him, moving closer with the agile grace of a hunting cat. Now within arm’s reach, she stroked his cheek suggestively, then twined her gloved fingers into his rapidly silvering hair.
They felt cold.
So tiny she was, a slip of a thing, yet suddenly, inexplicabl
y, he felt threatened.
Pah! Big strong mercenary. Captain of the Marauders. Scared of a scrawny little hooker? What the hell is wrong with me?
He pushed her away, making sure his hands contacted her shoulders rather than anything below them. “Look miss, I’m not interested. If you really did know Kyra, you’d run like hell before trying it on with me. Go ply your trade elsewhere.”
The young woman fixed him with a gaze at first playful, then descending into scorn. “Oh no, dearie, you're dead wrong. On two counts. Firstly, your Kyra is not someone I’d be running from. And secondly, I'm not here to seduce you.”
With one gloved hand she slid back her sleeve. The tip of a blade protruded, extending slowly and starting to sizzle.
Sharki’s eyes went wide at the sight, and he tried to back away — only to find himself already up against the wall.
She smiled at him, and the cruelty in her eyes swam to the fore. “Oh no, dearie,” she said. “I’m here for everything but.”
The End
To Be Continued in ‘Warden’s Fate’ — due out early in 2020!
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About the Author
Tony James Slater is an unusual combination of science-fiction author and travel-memoir writer.
He is very, very strange man. He believes himself to be indestructible, despite considerable evidence to the contrary. He is often to be found making strange faces whilst pretending to be attacked by inanimate objects. But perhaps his biggest problem is this: he has a mouth so big he is at risk of swallowing his own head.
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