Warden's Fate

by Tony James Slater

  “We’ve got to go back there! We’ve got to warn everyone!”

  Kreon allowed his apprentice to rant on for a moment, making similarly absurd suggestions. Experience had taught him that arguing with a young man in this state yielded exceptionally poor results. Better to let the boy calm himself, before engaging in a more rational debate.

  The opportunity came more quickly than he’d expected.

  “But we’re not going to do any of that, are we?” Tris asked. There was frustration in his tone, accusation even, but also a degree of resignation. That was good; the last thing Kreon needed was for his apprentice to do something rash, like take off for Earth on some self-appointed rescue mission. Particularly as Tristan was in full command of the Folly, and could quite conceivably convince Askarra to take them all along for the ride. No; he had already lost Kyra, a vastly more experienced operative, to such a crusade. His crew was dwindling by the day, just as he arrived at the culmination of his life’s work.

  Because he would defeat this enemy, he’d decided. The clues he sought lay within the vast wealth of information they had obtained, he was sure of it. Loader had helped to parse much of the data before Kreon had been forced to leave him behind on Helicon Prime. It was a choice he bitterly regretted, but which he would make again without hesitation. His granddaughter Ana must be protected at all costs; it was for her, more than for anyone else in the galaxy, that he would bring an end to the Black Ships’ reign of terror.

  He looked at Tristan. The boy was still awaiting an answer, even to what had clearly been a rhetorical question. Very well, then. “No. We are not going to Earth.”

  Tristan seemed to sag in on himself, selecting one of the Folly’s navigation consoles to slump against.

  A light touch, Kreon reminded himself. His apprentice, whilst physically quite capable, was still emotionally fragile. It wasn’t the boy’s fault; he had only nineteen years of experience to draw upon, practically all of it spent on Earth. He’d been living a dream of peace and security, not that he appreciated it as such. Fortunately, the hardships and losses of the last few months had begun the process of toughening him up on the inside. Sera’s voice came to him, the memory so clear it was like she was standing behind him; ‘Congratulations. Soon she’ll be as cold and remote as you.’

  It was an uncomfortable thought. She’d been referring to their daughter of course, during the part of her apprenticeship she’d spent with him. He’d gone to great pains not to show favouritism to Àurea, had made sure she got to experience the full nature of their profession. What good would it do her to insulate her from reality?

  And yet his greatest fear had been realised — not once, but twice. First she’d gone to the Council to request reassignment, wielding the emotional distance he’d given her like a weapon to wound him; then, whilst dangerously unprepared on an ill-conceived mission, she’d been overrun by the enemy and presumed killed in action.

  It had nearly broken him. Only the resilience he’d developed throughout countless military campaigns had kept him in the fight.

  It had broken Sera.

  Her strength had turned to tyranny, her iron control dissolved by madness. He hadn’t seen it at the time; he’d only recognised her need for distance, and had granted it unquestioningly. His judgement would always be impaired when it came to her; even enduring torture under her blades, he’d forgiven her in a heartbeat. Because he’d known the pain she felt, and understood that inflicting it on him was only an extension of what the loss of their daughter did to her daily. For a creature as passionate and as powerful as his wife, such a chink in her armour grew wider and more painful with time. Whereas he had let crisis after crisis pile up around him, wading through the bodies of his enemies to drown his grief, she had been forced to sit there in her ivory tower, raging quietly, her pent-up grief becoming all the more destructive for its lack of expression.

  A tale of woe, if ever there was one.

  But Àurea lived. She had given them both a gift, one even more unanticipated than her own survival. A granddaughter… Ana.

  And she will live, even if I must burn the galaxy to ashes.

  Still. That was a most un-Wardenly sentiment to convey to his current apprentice.

  “We have a task ahead of us which we cannot shirk,” he said instead. “A request for audience from the Siszar Elders cannot be refused, whatever the personal inconvenience. War between our two species has claimed more lives by far than every conflict on Earth combined, and it is yet young; their ferocity and prowess in combat is unequalled. Were it not for the sudden devastation of the Empress’s homeworld, I have no doubt that the Siszar would be a more immediate threat to our continued existence than the Black Ships.”

  “Why haven’t you been fighting them, then?” Tris asked.

  “Easy. As the Empress would no-doubt inform you, to fight them, as a human, is to lose. I believed my talents were better spent elsewhere, rather than needlessly squandered on the altar of battlefield pride.”

  “You were afraid,” Tris challenged him.

  “Indeed. And with good reason.”

  Tris appeared to consider that admission. “Fair enough. So you think we’ve got a chance of pulling this off? Of convincing the Siszar that we can help — and then actually doing something to help?”

  Kreon spread his hands. “The probability of our success is not high. But nor is it ever, on the missions I undertake. I have staked my life, and my reputation, on tasks with equally poor odds before now. However, this mission is greater than us all. Whatever victory may cost us, we must be prepared to pay it.”

  The look Tristan directed at him was a carbon copy of Kyra’s long-suffering expression. Clearly, the boy had been spending too much time with her. “Don’t ever go into motivational speaking, Kreon. You suck at it.”

  Kreon bared his teeth in what passed for a grin. “We will save the Earth, the galaxy, and everyone in it from utter annihilation at the hands of not one, but two enemies. Forfeiting our lives is a small price to pay. Does this phrasing make our position more palatable?”

  Tris blew out a breath, but he straightened up noticeably, more serious and alert.

  Looking at him, Kreon felt a faint stirring of pride. He would have made an excellent Warden, he lamented. If only this situation was survivable.

  At least Kyra, should she manage to overcome her own nemesis, could stay clear of this. Taking her down with them would have been regrettable; she had her own destiny, and he sensed that her time as his lieutenant was drawing to a close. Such a pity. She too would make an exemplary Warden, if only she could be convinced to take matters a little more seriously. Between her and Tristan, he would have had an invincible team. To say nothing of Loader, who would be able to rejoin them as soon as stability was re-established in the Lemurian Empire…

  Creating such a team had been his primary goal for as long as he could remember. That, and discovering the precise nature of the dimension beyond the Portals, and the shadowy entities that inhabited it.

  It was perhaps ironic that he was about to achieve both aims simultaneously, only to have one of them responsible for eradicating the other.

  Tristan had moved towards the command chair and taken up residence. It was his right, as commander of the vessel, but Kreon was still concerned that if such a thought occurred to him, he might order the ship turned around and a course laid in for Earth.

  “I will contact Oktavius,” he promised, hoping to forestall such an action. “Once we re-enter normal space, I will explain my findings to him and insist that he prepare a fleet for the defence of Earth. By keeping our assigned rendezvous with the Siszar, we are freeing up large parts of our Lantian military forces to combat the Black Ships when they emerge.”

  Tris brightened, his naive optimism renewed. “We’ve never known where they’ll show up before,” he said. “So we’ve never really tried to fight them, have we? Maybe it won’t be as hard as all that. Maybe we’ll win?”

  “Indeed.” Kr
eon privately thought the concept laughable; far older races, with substantially more esoteric technology at their behest, had tried and failed to confront this menace. But elaborating on that point would serve only to undermine the boy’s morale.

  How did it come to this? he wondered. On the bridge of a derelict starship, bartering truth for service with my only ally; an untrained boy less than half the age permitted for an apprentice?

  It beggared belief.

  Yet here he was, playing the hand that Fate had dealt him.

  There was one ace up his sleeve, however.

  The solitary nugget of good news the High Warden had conveyed in their more recent communication was the identity of the ambassador that they were speeding to meet. Lord Balentine was one of the few Wardens that Kreon still respected. He had a feeling that Oktavius had chosen the man for precisely that reason, and for the first time in a long time, he felt grateful to him. Traditionally the High Warden made few friends amongst the ranks, as his decisions were always taken from a more lofty point of view. The wishes of the individual were rarely a consideration when dictating policies that would protect and shape the course of human history. But Kreon had been spoiled in his relationship with the previous High Warden, having counted Lord Erekasten amongst his closest allies. More than that; they’d been friends. His murder was the first loss in a chain which seemed particularly difficult; Kreon had lost friends before, but never so many, and in such quick succession. Inevitably, he found himself questioning that most sacred of principles — his own judgement. How much of what had transpired was his fault? If he’d recognised Sera’s madness earlier, if he’d challenged his rival Demios, if he’d worked harder to discover the circumstances of Àurea’s disappearance…

  As always, he reminded himself that such post-battle analysis rarely resulted in any benefit. Self pity and doubt were as much the enemy as the Black Ships; if he were to function effectively, he had to quash them both with an iron resolve.

  As he always had.

  “Tristan,” he addressed his apprentice. “We are less than an hour out from our rendezvous. The ambassador, Lord Balentine, is a colleague of mine with an exceptional track record. That said, I would advise you to be prepared for any eventuality. Past experience has shown how volatile these situations can be. I recommend full body armour and sufficient weaponry for a protracted firefight.”

  Tristan looked down at himself, as though only now noticing that he was still attired in Earth clothing. Kreon sighed inwardly; not having Kyra here to kick the boy’s ass on a regular basis was already starting to show. And his infatuation with the assassin, whilst convenient for keeping her impressive skill-set accessible, was certainly having a detrimental effect on his alertness.

  “You think your friend might try to kill us?” The boy wasn’t joking; it had happened often enough recently.

  “I do not. However, he is accompanied by a large detachment of marines, most of whom have recently been engaged with Siszar forces. They should have been briefed on the nature of our mission, but may well harbour lingering hostilities towards our hosts. We need to present a unified and competent appearance in order to convince them that renegotiating our terms of engagement is not an option.”

  “You know, ‘get dressed, Tris’ would have done.”

  Kreon gave him a long look to convey that levity, whilst a useful tool in times of crisis, would not be appropriate in the coming confrontation. “Get dressed, Tris,” he added.

  “Yessir!”

  “And please inform Eleanor that we are approaching our destination. In the light of recent departures, any assistance she feels able to render us would be greatly appreciated.”

  Kreon took advantage of the opportunity to attire himself for combat. It did not serve a Warden of his station to find himself unprepared. Returning to his quarters, he removed his clothing and studied his body in the mirror.

  What he saw disgusted him.

  Great raw sinews stretched this way and that across his organic limbs, additional musculature grafted onto his frame to compensate for the weight of his artificial components. One full leg was metal, an intricate contraption featuring hundreds of moving parts; pistons, compressors, stabilisers, microswitches… Even standing still, like this, the mechanisms were never at rest. The minuscule vibrations travelled up his spine to become a constant buzz in the back of his head. The arm was even worse; where it attached, his chest had been torn apart in the original explosion. The alloy replacement was incredibly tough and unyielding, which conflicted with the soft, pulsing organs exposed behind it. The result was a constant weeping of fluid from inflammation around the edges; yet one more note in his daily song of pain. The rest of his organs — hideous, semi-decaying things kept functioning by a blasphemous science of noxious liquids and electro-stimulation, were the least pleasant of all. Fortunately, they remained hidden behind the morbid grey flesh of his abdomen. Nestled amongst them lay the transceiver he’d had implanted as an apprentice, under Lord Erekasten. Many times that fist-sized device had saved his life; the skin there still bore evidence of his recent wet-wiring experience.

  It was, he reflected, a body kept animated long past its expiration date. If there weren’t always so many matters of pressing concern, he would have given it up long ago. Instead he forged on, day after day, enduring the pain and tolerating the disgust. Because the only release from either was in death; and, however appealing that blissful cessation may be, it was not in his nature to surrender.

  Because he was a Warden of the First Circle.

  And he had a job to do.

  Donning the flexible environment suit he’d taken from a human trafficking ring he’d been forced to put down, he threw his battered trench coat over the top of it. Battered was no longer an appropriate term for the garment; as a consequence of recent adventures, shredded was more applicable.

  Àurea offered me a new one, he remembered, and smiled at the thought. Perhaps if he returned, she could source him one from Helicon Prime. She would be the de facto ruler there, after all.

  Taking leave of his daughter had been difficult, but not nearly so much as lying to her. ‘Promise me you’ll come back,’ she’d said. He hadn’t the heart to refuse.

  Checking the Aegis was firmly embedded in his neck was a final ritual. The potent forcefield projected by the alien gem was yet another reason he was still alive, and he took pains to keep it a secret wherever possible. The skin it was attached to was fully his own, alive and original, as was the heavily-scarred skin of his face and scalp. His eyes, though cybernetically augmented, were his too; the determination that blazed back at him from the mirror was all the confirmation he needed.

  Ready.

  Attaching the grav-staff to its magnetic clasps on his trench coat rounded out his cornucopia of exotic alien devices. Slinging a rifle over his shoulder to complement the myriad conventional weapons already stashed around his person, he headed for the bridge.

  It was the beginning of something, he could tell. The beginning of the end? That remained to be seen.

  Both Tristan and Eleanor were waiting for him on the bridge. Whereas the boy had taken his warning to heart, and was wearing the last of the captured environment suits, the Priestess wore only her figure-hugging one-piece, accessorised with comparatively few pieces of hardware. Though extremely well-trained, assassins weren’t shock troops, to be flung into the thickest melee on the battlefield. They were scalpels, striking from the shadows with impeccable timing, before vanishing without a trace. What his apprentice perhaps didn’t realise was that Ella was a master tactician, orchestrating her schemes from afar with the lightest of touches. Whether her attachment to Tris was part of such a scheme he’d been unable to discern thus far, but so long as their interests were aligned, he was content to play along.

  “Askarra, could you update our ETA?”

  “Certainly Anakreon. We will arrive at the rendezvous in four minutes.”

  Crossing his arms, Kreon studied the kaleidos
cope of colours on the main viewscreen. Transitioning to real space placed a vessel at its most vulnerable; blind, unshielded, emerging into unknown and potentially hostile territory. “Do we have any weapon systems operational yet?”

  “Six low-yield cannons have been brought back online,” the computer chimed. “Repairs are continuing, however the majority of the Folly’s main armaments were decommissioned during the installation of the Sanctuary Killer.”

  “And how long until that becomes available?”

  “At current rate of repair, approximately three months. That particular weapon was not designed with longevity in mind. I have been prioritising smaller weapons systems, as many of them sustained only minimal damage.”

  Kreon grunted his reply. Whilst not the best news, the Folly at least looked formidable. The only downside to that was the Siszar’s predilection for attacking anything they considered a challenge…

  “Countdown to re-entry,” Askarra announced.

  Kreon cast a glance at his crew; the boy looked tense, but controlled; the assassin appeared to be feigning polite interest, as though aware that the events here would have few ramifications for her.

  I have achieved more with far less, he reminded himself.

  And then a chime from the computer signalled their return to normal space.

  The Folly transitioned with barely a tremor.

  For several of the longest seconds in Kreon’s life, the viewscreens swirled with static, slowly clearing…

  To show a battle.

  Kreon’s eyes went wide. Every screen was alive with Siszar nestships, swooping and diving around a stricken cruiser. He stabbed a control, and the cruiser’s ident pinged up on his display: the Vanguard. Lord Balentine’s ship…

  It was under siege.

  And it was losing.

  “I count eighty-seven hostile vessels,” Askarra informed him. “Shields and weapons are online; however, I recommend defensive use only.”

  Kreon cursed. His friend was out there, practically in spitting distance, and quite possibly fighting for his life. “Can we get a signal through to them?”