Warden's Fury

by Tony James Slater

“Yes,” replied the box, an electronic monotone filtering from a speaker somewhere.

  “Wow! You can talk?”

  “Yes,” replied the box.

  “Oh! Cool…”

  Tris couldn’t think of anything else to say after that. He looked back at Kyra. “Well, ah, we should celebrate?”

  She nodded slowly. He had a feeling she was struggling not to laugh. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

  Tris stood. “I’ll go see what I can find,” he said, fleeing through the door to the galley.

  He didn’t know why he was embarrassed — it was Kreon who’d gone all theatrical after spending three whole days building a lunchbox. How was he meant to react? He wandered around the galley, pushing buttons at random, causing cupboards to open and lights to flicker on appliances he couldn’t name. Then he caught his reflection in one of the units and had to laugh.

  Bloody idiot!

  “Hey, what’s this?” The glass-fronted unit was about the size of a dishwasher, and held the unmistakable forms of wine bottles.

  “Ah yes!” Kreon exclaimed, limping into the galley behind him. “In my youth I was rather fond of Champagne. I collected several bottles every time I made a trip to Earth. I’d completely forgotten these were here.”

  Tris couldn’t help himself — he opened the glass door and slid one of the bottles from its rack. “So this is, like, hundred-and-odd-year-old French bubbly?”

  Kreon shrugged. “I can’t recall the exact vintage, but it has been here at least as long as the ship.”

  “Woah…” Turning the bottle to read the label, Tris confirmed his discovery. “1892 Pol Roger. This is old.”

  “Perhaps we should throw it out,” Kreon mused.

  Tris narrowed his eyes at the Warden to see if he was joking. “Kreon man, you can’t be serious! This would be worth a fortune back on Earth! The least we can do is try a glass.”

  Kreon shrugged again, then waved a hand at a rack of steel tumblers. “Be my guest.”

  Tris had been aching to drown his sorrows ever since Ella left, but as he watched Kreon expertly uncork the century-old bottle he made a decision.

  Time to stop moping like a teenager.

  Whilst he hadn’t had his heart broken before, he’d seen enough TV to recognise the symptoms. But Ella still loved him — at least he hoped so — and that gave a more noble, tragic note to his loss. In any case, they’d barely been together for a week; he could either spend the next year lamenting it, or pull his shit together and get on with life.

  Now that was something worth drinking to.

  He thought it best not to mention it to the others, though.

  So instead, they drank to Loader — not that the talos gave any indication of being impressed by it — and passed the bottle around until it was empty.

  Then Tris volunteered to grab another one.

  “Grab a cushion while you’re in there,” Kyra instructed him, before levelling a sarcastic look at Kreon. “Oh, that’s right — there aren’t any. Wardens are too tough to be comfortable.”

  Tris left the two of them sparring like an old married couple and wandered back into the galley. When he returned, Kyra was discussing Kreon’s retirement home.

  “Seriously, that planet? I can’t believe you kept that up your sleeve this whole time! It must be worth trillions of credits. The possibilities…” she shook her head. “Once you’ve kicked Sera out you could start your own civilization there! Forget all the bullshit rules the rest of the galaxy goes by and make it a good place to live. No politics… just us, looking after the place. Invite only.”

  Kreon paused to fix her with a stare. “And make the population exactly as we would have it? Spread our version of civilization to other places, perhaps? Take over? That is precisely what Sera had planned for Earth.”

  Kyra looked a little taken aback. “Woah man, I didn’t mean…”

  “It’s okay,” the Warden told her. “You weren’t there. But such ideas can have dangerous consequences. No matter how genuine and honest they start out, no idea is too pure to be corrupted. And you must think not only of us, but of those who would come after us. I have no wish to have the galaxy ruled by dictatorship in my name.”

  Tris took the opportunity to lighten the mood. “Well, whatever you do, you’re going to have to work on the name. I mean, Kreon’s World? Ouch! It sounds like a kids’ TV show with puppets.”

  Kreon glowered at him, but there was no venom in the look.

  Opening the dusty bottle he’d brought from the galley, Tris committed sacrilege by pouring probably priceless French wine into a battered metal beaker. “So, Kreon,” he said. “Tell me a bit about what you’re getting me into. These Lemurians don’t sound like the friendliest bunch.”

  The Warden nodded gravely. “You are correct in that assumption. The Lemurians have been our most despised adversaries since before the Sundering. Back on Earth, they claimed seniority over my people — they believe that their race was created first by the Gods. They claimed that interbreeding with other peoples on Earth had contaminated our bloodlines, whereas they took great pains to remain pure. They relegated us to little more than slaves; eventually my ancestors rose up and threw off their shackles, starting a society of their own on a fortified island. They brought with them all the skills and technology of the time, which they had employed as the servants of the Lemurians. Within a few generations, our civilization had grown to rival theirs. An arms race developed between our two nations, with each side perfecting increasingly more destructive weaponry. Harmonics, a science now mostly lost to us, was in favour back then. We used it to terrible effect, striking at the very land they lived in, causing it to tear and buckle. They responded in kind; eventually, both our territories were utterly destroyed. It was widely acknowledged that any escalation of the conflict would cause irreparable damage to the planet. So as our island sank into the ocean my people left Earth, having made a pact with the Lemurians that they would do the same. We established Homeguard to protect our ancestral home-world, which the Lemurians claimed was a violation of our agreement. War blossomed between us again, and has continued on and off ever since. This is why the current cease-fire, negotiated by Sera, your father and myself, granted us such high standing amongst our people. War is all either side had known for centuries, but we managed to convince them to leave the guardianship of Earth in our grasp. In return we promised to brook no interference with the planet or its people, tightening our policy on interlopers to one of zero tolerance.”

  Kreon broke off, swigging from his cup and making a face. “It gets sweeter!” he exclaimed, sounding disgusted.

  Tris was quite enjoying the wine’s nuttiness, but he didn’t want to interrupt Kreon’s line of thought. It was rare to find the Warden so talkative, and he wanted to take advantage of it. “So what are they like? The Lemurians, I mean?”

  Kreon looked into his cup thoughtfully, then placed it on the crate next to him. “Evil. I… perhaps that is my personal prejudices speaking. Their society is very different to ours. Where we value freedom and individual merit, their hierarchy is entirely structured around racial purity. Sera took the lead in our negotiations because her bloodline can be traced in unbroken lineage back to our ancestors that fled Earth. They valued this more than my greater age and experience, or your father’s impressive reputation and formidable skills as a warrior. Which is not to say that Sera lacked either…” he trailed off.

  Tris felt like another nudge was needed. “So they won’t have much use for me at all!”

  Kreon looked up at him. “No, I’m afraid that is correct. They regard the current inhabitants of Earth as savages — unruly children perhaps, ones that have been left alone too long and have ruined the place in their parent’s absence.”

  “Pets more like,” Kyra said disdainfully. Tris raised an eyebrow; as with all things Kyra, he had no idea what her experience of the Lemurians was. Hell, she could be one of them for all he knew! A sudden thought occurred to h
im.

  “Hey, Kyra? You’re not… Lemurian, are you? I mean, you’re clearly on the run from someone, and there’s that whole princess thing…” he broke off as Kyra glared at him.

  “I am not Lemurian,” she declared. Swilling the liquid in her cup, she tossed the rest back in one gulp and reached for the new bottle. “If you must know, I am a very minor relation to a very minor royal line, on a planet so distant from here that even Kreon hasn’t heard of it.” She poured herself a full cup, then gulped down a good measure of it in one go. Talking about her past wasn’t easy for her, that much was obvious. Even prying this much information out of her had taken close to a month and a hefty dose of century-old booze.

  “So why did you leave?” Tris prompted.

  “I got bored.” Kyra ran a hand through her hair, now back to being a brilliant rainbow. “Ain’t much to do when you’re as minor as all that. Bit of hand waving, you know. I’m not a big fan of hand waving.”

  Tris could tell she’d closed up again; the window of opportunity was gone. He made a mental note to wait until they’d cracked another bottle before asking again.

  “I think it’s cool,” he said, hoping to lighten her mood. “You’re totally like Princess Leia from Star Wars.”

  “Eh?” Kyra gave him a measuring glance. “You messing with me?”

  “No way! She’s, like, this awesome space princess. From a movie. Probably the greatest movie of all time. She basically goes around being a bad-ass, shooting stormtroopers and giving people attitude. Plus I think she can float through space now, but I’m not really sold on that bit.”

  “Huh. She does sound pretty cool.” Kyra tossed back the second half of her drink and reached for the bottle again. She was putting the stuff away twice as fast as Tris and Kreon combined. “Whadda you reckon, Kreon? Do I look like a Princess Layer to you?”

  Kreon merely gazed at her speculatively.

  It took another full bottle doing the rounds before Kreon opened up. Tris had been poking around for hints about the Warden’s past with little success; then he mentioned the spaceship they were sitting in, and found that was a topic Kreon was more enthusiastic about.

  “She was a gift from my father,” he explained. “He worked as a trader at first, always in the employ of others. Over many years of diligent work he accumulated enough credits to invest in a ship of his own. He was thorough in his research, as he was in all things. Though already old-fashioned at the time, the Phoenix Mark II was solidly-built, famously simple in its control pathways and reliable as a result. He found this one at auction; one of the mining conglomerates that controlled our world had seized it from its previous owners for non-payment of debt.”

  Kreon frowned at the memory. “He struck what appeared to be a fantastic deal with them, in exchange for working their contracts exclusively. He never failed at his word, moving ever more hazardous cargo, and had almost cleared himself of his obligation when he fell ill. He couldn’t work; payments stopped and the debt spiralled out of control. The mining company had designed it that way of course. Their system made it all-but impossible to escape. I would have inherited the debt along with the ship, had my father willed it to me. He did not.”

  Kreon took a slow sip of his wine. “He was a humble, yet exceptionally clever man. I believe he was aware of the financial trap from the outset. As he lay dying, he freed me of all obligation. “Take the Phoenix,” he told me, “and make your life with her. Your future need not be bound to this corrupt place. Go out amidst the stars and seek your calling. A great destiny awaits you, I am sure of it. The ship will help you find the way.”

  Kreon glanced down, then took another swig of his wine, finishing it. “It was the last thing he ever said to me. He died that night; the following morning I broke the impound locks placed on the ship during his illness. He had shared with me the master command codes that allowed me to control the ship, so I took it and made my escape — the first in a long line of escapes, you might say.”

  The Warden’s voice turned dry on this last, and Tris knew the conversation was nearing its end.

  “So what happened next? How did you end up like…this?” he waved a hand at Kreon.

  “Simple. I let the ship find our way. And after a number of misadventures, that way led to Erekasten. I was extremely fortunate that his apprentice had just been killed.”

  “Ha! And he hired you on the spot?”

  “Not quite. He caught me attempting to steal the drive actuators from his ship, and convinced me to serve out my time in his employ rather than at the nearest penal colony.”

  Tris chuckled, but Kreon lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

  “So, this ship is how old?” Tris prompted him. “Three hundred years at least! Four hundred? Five? I can’t believe it’s still working.”

  Kreon looked vaguely hurt. “This ship has seen more action than you can imagine. Her appearance is deceptive, much like your own. I assure you, she is more than capable of replacing our previous mode of transport.”

  Tris nodded — then found he couldn’t quite remember what ship they’d been using last. They’d been shot down in a shuttle from the Folly, the same shuttle they’d been using since the Battle of Homeguard. Before that… it all started to blend in. Tris looked at his glass and found it empty. A refill? He lurched to his feet and nearly didn’t make it. Kyra was already snoring on a long bench, the lack of cushions obviously not enough to stop her dozing off. Tris had only stayed up on the off-chance he could crowbar a bit more information out of Kreon. With that over… “I think I’ll get an early night,” he said. He wasn’t lying; it was early in the morning.

  He staggered into the corridor, and suddenly wondered where the hell he was. He knew he had a cosy cabin with a big bed around here somewhere, he just couldn’t figure out how to get there.

  Then he remembered he was on Kreon’s ship, and suddenly making the long trek back through the hanger bay and up to his room on the Folly seemed like a lot of work. But the corridor here was kind of round-ish and not too uncomfy-looking. The walls were spinning around him; he lowered himself to the deck, and managed to lie there for a few seconds without holding on.

  Bloody French Champagne!

  Still, it had helped him forget… something?

  Someone.

  Ella!

  She was so beautiful. And she was gone.

  But she loved him.

  He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

  9

  Tris awoke in the Folly’s medical centre.

  He’d only been there a handful of times, though he’d spent a long week unconscious there following his first interaction with the Empress.

  He had no clue how he’d got there; presumably Askarra had sent a talos to scoop him up, after deciding his vitals signs were unsatisfactory.

  In the world of overbearing parents, having a giant, sentient battle station for his mother took the biscuit.

  Pulling the saline drip out of his arm — something he’d seen action heroes do a lot in movies — he swung himself out of bed, thankful to whatever God was listening that he was still dressed. If Kyra had come around long enough to watch him being stripped naked and dragged down the corridor by a robot, he’d never hear the end of it.

  The lighting in the medical wing was muted, further evidence of Askarra’s concern. On the upside, she was unlikely to scold him. But if she kept turning down the lights as he walked through the station, or sending medical talos looking for him with painkillers, it would almost be more embarrassing.

  But surely he wasn’t alone? Both Kreon and Kyra had drunk considerably more than him the night before. If there was any justice in the universe, they were all feeling like crap…

  It only took a few minutes on the bridge for Tris to establish that there was in fact no justice at all in the universe.

  Kreon was already lounging in the command chair, getting Askarra’s hologram to read him sections from the notes Mikelatz had locked away in his ‘Legacy’ file. H
e looked so serious and ‘focussed’ that Tris didn’t fancy disturbing him.

  Then Kyra strolled in with a pair of training swords in one hand, and levelled a finger at him. “You’re late.”

  “Oh God, no,” Tris pleaded. “Can I take the day off? I’m ill. I think I’ve caught space flu.”

  Kyra looked at him with a surprising amount of sympathy. “I keep forgetting how young you are. When you’ve caught Space Flu as often as I have, you start to develop a tolerance for it.”

  “What about him?” Tris jerked his thumb at Kreon. “He looks like he’s been at that for hours already.”

  “His blood filters out toxins,” Kyra explained. “It’s an anti-poisoning measure. But it means he can’t get drunk, no matter how much he drinks. One of the only reasons I pity the bastard.”

  “So he wasn’t even drunk last night?” Tris couldn’t remember everything that had happened, but he’d heard the Warden say more in a few hours than in their entire time together so far. “How come he was so talkative?”

  Kyra raised a palm. “Dunno. But he just got his favourite ship back, and bitch-slapped his ex-wife into the bargain. I think he’s happy.”

  “Huh.” It kind of made sense. Though it was glossing over a healthy ass-kicking they’d received themselves. “What about you then? Does your blood get filtered?”

  “Hell no!” she shot him a vicious grin. “But I can handle my drink.”

  Tris was struggling to think of a comeback when Kyra dangled something in front of his face.

  His pendant.

  “You left this in the cargo bay,” she said. “I think you’d better keep hold of it from now on. We’re less than a day from the Lemurian Frontier, and once we’re in their territory you should keep it on. There isn’t nearly enough time to train you to resist their psychics, and there’ll be plenty of them trying to poke around inside our heads.”

  “Oh. Crap.” Tris took the pendant from her. “Fair enough.”