Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Newsletter
Author's Note
WARDEN’S FURY
by Tony James Slater
Copyright © Tony James Slater 2019
This edition published 2019 by Various Things (ADT)
Tony James Slater has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, or licensed in any way except when specifically permitted in writing by the publishers. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
www.TonyJamesSlater.com
For all my readers,
Thank-you so much for taking a chance on me.
And thanks for sticking with me this far!
Every word I write is for you.
I literally owe you my career.
1
“Tris, pull up!”
The shriek from the cockpit comm jolted Tris out of his daydream. His heart skipped a beat as the vast steel sphere grew in front of him, dominating the view on his forward screens. Hauling on the control stems, struggling to keep the pressure even on both of them, he eased the fighter’s nose back to aim at space. His pass took him far closer than he’d intended to the wreckage of the Folly, and he winced as tiny fragments of debris pinged off his shields. Cold sweat prickled on his forehead and low-level collision alarms screeched their warnings. It was his own fault. Staring at the great holes torn in the battle station’s hull, at the contents of several docking bays tumbling around outside, had led to a serious lapse in concentration. He’d gone from calculating a safe fly-by vector to reliving the final moments of the battle from a week ago, when he’d come so close to losing everything.
Stay focussed! Kyra’s fighter streaked past overhead, her reprimand coming through the mental link they’d established. This was Tristan’s first time flying without the pendant that suppressed his psychic abilities, and he wasn’t entirely sure it was a good idea. He felt himself slipping into a haze of memories without warning, as though the increased sensitivity of his mind drew his attention away from his other senses. On the upside, it gave him a second direct line to Kyra in addition to the comm, allowing her to kick his ass twice for every mistake he made. Yeah… not much of an upside.
“Okay, bring her around smoothly, and this time we’ll try a pass beyond the debris field.” The electronic filtering of the comm system did nothing to hide Kyra’s sarcasm, but at least she wasn’t injecting it directly into his head. Tris shuddered. There’d been way too much of that happening lately.
Moving the control stems over to the right, he swung the fighter’s nose around in what he hoped was a graceful arc. He couldn’t help but grin; this would never not remind him of playing Elite: Dangerous on his stolen X-Box. Learning to fly had been high on his list of priorities, but it had still blown him away when Kyra had offered to teach him. She was an expert pilot, and not remotely afraid to admit it. Tris figured she had an ulterior motive; their lives had been a running battle ever since he’d met her, and this brief lull was making her bored. He was grateful and wary in equal measures; she’d been doubling down on his unarmed combat training too, and he usually couldn’t walk afterwards.
“That’s it,” the comm crackled, “ease up on the power and let the ship’s inertia do the work. Don’t fight the momentum, use it. Plan ahead.”
Tris snorted. Flying was definitely Kyra’s forte. Planning ahead, not so much.
You laughing at me, squirt?
He flinched. Having her respond to what he considered private thoughts was disturbing. Damn it Kyra, stay out of my head! Unless you want me to crash into something?
I’m sorry. Are my lessons distracting you?
I’m just not good at multi-tasking.
In his mind’s eye, he saw Kyra rolling her eyes. Men never are.
The next few runs went more smoothly. Tris was flying rings around the Folly’s blackened hull, alternating the direction of his turns and trying to wrap his head around spatial awareness in three dimensions. He reckoned he was doing okay; after all, this was only his third lesson.
“Normally I’d start you on a simulator,” Kyra had explained, “except what’s left of the Folly’s simulator room is currently orbiting Saturn. So we’ll do it the old fashioned way.”
“Which is?”
“Crash course.”
He’d taken that as one of her little jokes. Now, after the close call with the cloud of wreckage, he wasn’t entirely sure.
Are we heading home? He reached out to Kyra and inadvertently caught a flash of the pain she was still suffering.
She masked it instantly. Why, you had enough? Am I tiring you out?
Tris chuckled. No, but I think I shit my pants on that last pass, and you’re on laundry duty this week.
He felt her rolling her eyes again. She did that a lot. Can’t take you anywhere.
But her thrusters burned brightly with the added power as she slewed her ship around in a high-speed turn.
Show off.
Jealous? Her ship spun again, pulling a 360-degree rotation almost on the spot. Tris knew it was only possible because she’d shed speed in the turn whilst maintaining her centrifugal momentum — a graphic demonstration of the principle she was currently trying to teach him. Still, it looked awesome, and was probably a neat trick to pull in combat.
Very nice, he admitted.
Her ship had come to rest facing him, barely moving as he rocketed towards her.
Don’t worry, Tris. One day you’ll be able to fly like this.
Really? He couldn’t quite disguise his enthusiasm. You think?
His response was yet another eye-roll. Hell no! She fired her engines full-throttle, ducking beneath his approaching fighter with what had to be inches to spare. See you on the deck, slowpoke.
Tris shook his head. He should have learned by now — messing with him was Kyra’s second-favourite hobby. Right after kicking ass on a semi-galactic scale.
Be careful, she added, there’s a bunch of threaded metal fasteners floating around out here. I’d hate to see you get screwed.
He was hunting for an appropriate retort when the comm squawked.
Kreon’s voice boomed out, gravely and terse. “Kyra!” Broadcasting from the Folly’s bridge, he was sending a full holographic signal. His bald, scarred head popped
up on the screen by Tristan’s right knee, the bright lights of the battle station’s interior reflecting off the metal studs in his scalp. The Warden looked grim — but there was nothing new about that. “I’m reading a new arrival in your sector. Mid-range target, the data is just coming in… Not a friendly. No ident.”
“Smugglers? Making a run for Earth?”
“It would appear so.”
Kyra’s faced joined Kreon’s on the knee-screen, her flamboyant rainbow tresses forcing the Warden’s image to shrink down. “Tris,” she said, none of their previous banter in her tone, “get back to the Folly. I’ll have to leave you to it, so let Askarra handle the docking.”
On the screen, Kreon’s forehead creased. “No. Keep the boy out there. It’s a medium freighter, lightly armed. It shouldn’t be a severe threat.”
Tris felt his stomach lurch. Kreon had a ‘throw him in the deep end’ policy when it came to training, but it had always worked out okay. So far…
That didn’t make it any less terrifying.
And ship-to-ship combat in a fighter he could barely steer was a long way from handing him a gun for his first firefight. Out here, there was nothing to hide behind.
Have no fear! I will protect the spawn.
In a greenish-grey blur, a Siszar nestship streaked past. The Empress of the River of Silver Flashes had been observing Tristan’s lesson, though she’d agreed not to confuse matters by taking part. Now her thoughts lapped against his mind, calm as a pond yet deep and powerful as the ocean. Even Kreon would be able to sense the giant alien’s thoughts, despite his reliance on the psychic equivalent of a Wifi signal booster.
Less of the ‘spawn’ please, Tris reminded her. I have a name.
My apologies, Tristan! I forget that in terms of development, you are closer to a larva.
Tris decided to let it go. It was enough to know that the hulking Siszar and her lethal ship would be watching out for him. He’d seen her in action enough times lately to have complete faith in her ability.
On Tristan’s screen, Kyra’s image was suppressing laughter. “Alrighty, let’s do this,” she managed, before cutting the video link.
Tris checked the position of his thumbs on the control stems before easing them upwards, increasing the power to the twin drives that formed the back of his ship. Even this tentative gesture caused a surge of speed, pressing him back into the seat for a second. On his tactical scope he saw Kyra’s blip swing back around, her drive tails flaring like miniature suns as she accelerated past him. He nudged his nose down, settling in behind her, then gingerly increased his speed again. His heart was hammering inside his chest, his pulse racing as it always did before combat.
Truth told, it still melted his mind that he’d seen enough combat to have a ’typical reaction’.
Two months ago he’d been squatting in his dad’s house in Bristol, playing drinking games to old sci-fi movies with his best mate Mark.
If only he could see me now…
Then again, Mark would be in his element. He was already three ranks higher on Elite: Dangerous.
Ahead of them, Tris’ tactical scope showed their target vessel. Accompanied by lines of weird text he still couldn’t read, a 3D rendition of the ship appeared. He could clearly see the barrels of weapons sticking out from the top and bottom, and he reflexively eased off the throttle. No point getting there too early…
In contrast, the other ship seemed to be speeding up. It was heading directly away from Kyra’s approach vector—
“He’s running!” she crowed, obviously reaching the same conclusion. “Ha! People risking a raid on Earth have normally got bigger balls.”
“Maybe they know who they’re up against,” Tris suggested. “So if they keep running, do we let them go?”
“Not a chance,” Kyra replied, her voice darker. “They’ll only come back. The penalty for entering Earth-space without authorisation has always been the same.”
Tris nodded soberly. He was finding the galaxy to be a harsh place. “You reckon you can catch ‘em?”
“Just watch me!”
Kyra’s fighter was already a dot in his canopy, only visible by the glare of her engines. He checked his scope to see that she was gaining on her target — the other ship was invisible to him at this range.
Then Kyra swore.
“What?” Tris felt the wave of apprehension over their mental link. Kyra didn’t get afraid — at least as far as he knew — but something had just turned her mood deadly serious.
“They’ve launched fighters! The whole ship must have been packed with them. I’ve got five on my scanners; three old Banshees and two Shards.”
Tris knew a moment of panic. “They drew her away!” he realised. “So they could gang up on her!”
Be calm, the Empress advised, as her nestship shot past in pursuit. The princess will not be harmed. Stay here, and stay safe!
A surge of aggression washed over him before she closed their link. The Siszar were a predatory species, he’d learned, with an innate bloodlust that had come to dominate their society. The Empress was evolved enough to feel somewhat shamed by it, but she was as susceptible to it as any of her race.
The poor buggers flying those fighters didn’t have a clue what was coming for them.
Then again, neither did Tris…
But his scope did. A loud ping informed him of an impending arrival, the grey haze of a gravity well ghosting across part of his display — and another freighter, identical in size and shape to the first, dropped into normal space less than a hundred kilometres away.
Behind him.
And in a flurry of pings from his scope, the new arrival released fighters of its own.
“Oh f…” Shock stole his breath, bands of dread tightening around his chest. He gulped for air, glancing around frantically as though he might spot something that could help him.
There was nothing.
Just empty space…
And a trio of starfighters blazing towards him.
Shaking his head to clear it, Tris leaned on the control stems to bring his ship around. He’d been steadily decreasing his speed to avoid rushing into the conflict ahead of him; by this point, he didn’t have enough velocity to outrun a determined pursuit.
He’d also never flown faster than what Kyra referred to as a ‘brisk walk’.
Attacking was his only chance — even if it was no chance at all.
Opening the throttles wide, he wiggled his fingers against the firing studs. They were conveniently placed exactly where they would be on a gaming joystick — a happy coincidence that had given him way too much confidence the first time he climbed into the cockpit.
Exactly three days ago…
Yeah. He was in deep shit.
“I’m, ah, engaging the enemy,” he reported, struggling to keep his voice from shaking.
“What?” Kyra yelled. “No! Tris, stay back!”
“Can’t. They’re back here too, and closing fast. Wish me luck.”
And then all he could do was focus on the wave of ships screaming towards him, Saturn’s orange glow painting the tips of their weapons. He had a flashback to the first time he’d watched Star Wars, and the wave of terror that had engulfed him when the Tie Fighters swarmed towards the Millennium Falcon. “Here they come!”
An anxious shriek pierced his mind. The alienness of it was unmistakable, but the emotion itself was all too human. The Empress was too far away, and going too fast in the wrong direction. She was already circling back to help Tris, but there was no way she’d make it in time; physics were against her.
But as Tris focused his mind on the ship leading the enemy formation, he caught a glimpse of its pilot. The man was confident, though not supremely so; triumphant that his trap had been sprung so perfectly, yet not cocky enough to assume there wouldn’t be complications. A steady, experienced pilot — the worst kind of opponent for Tris to face.
Nevertheless… it was an opponent who would break to the left as he f
lew past, bracketing his target wide with lasers to keep it in place whilst he dropped a micro-missile at close range.
Holy shit…
Tris felt his jaw drop as the realisation flooded over him.
I can read their minds!
He nudged the controls, jinking his ship to the left. A split second later the lead fighter opened fire, stitching beams of red ruin right through the space Tris had previously occupied. Another microscopic nudge brought his nose back onto a collision course with the enemy formation, the distance between them shrinking rapidly. The two pilots either side of the leader fired next, their beams sizzling low as Tris angled upwards. A fraction of a roll brought one of the trio into his firing line and he squeezed the triggers. The energy lanced out — missing, but not by much. The enemy pilot reacted with a hasty dodge — unnecessary, but Tris felt the man’s nervousness and marked him as a far greener pilot. Tris fired again, cutting speed to allow the lasers seeking him to overshoot. The other pilot reacted as Tris knew he would — with a jerk to the opposite side, more exaggerated this time as the man began to panic. The move took him into the middle of his formation, causing his comrades to break left and right to avoid him. For a pair of heartbeats there was no fire coming towards Tris. He had all three targets flat in front of him, his own weapons pointing directly at them.
He opened up with everything.
The leftmost fighter disintegrated in a flare of brilliance, whilst his wingman on the right took a glancing hit that sent him spinning out of the fight. Only the leader had recovered in time…
But his position was perfect.
The micro-missile he’d planned to drop was now poised to fire, the range ideal. Too late, Tris realised his mistake. Concentrating hard enough to read the other pilots had blinded him to what their leader was up to. This man was no raw cadet, he was a veteran with hours of combat flying under his belt — and that experience was about to cost Tris his life. Firing wildly in a desperate hope of distracting the man, Tris wrenched the control stems over for a hard dive. It was too little, too late, and he knew it instantly; the satisfaction his opponent felt could mean only one thing. Tris squeezed his eyes shut—
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