Warden's Fury

by Tony James Slater

  She shuddered involuntarily. If there was someone here strong enough to do that, she was really going to have to watch her step. They all were…

  Kreon. She reached out to him, but got nothing. He couldn’t possibly be that far away — not and still be in prison — so either he was dead, or she was being blocked.

  By someone so much more powerful than she was that she couldn’t even tell they were doing it…

  Either way, not good.

  The clanking of the bars jarred her back to the present. She stood, letting her arms hang by her sides. The twin hilts of her Arranozapar swords were in easy reach; that reassured her. Knowing she could disembowel everyone in front of her in the blink of an eye always made her feel better.

  She’d expected both guards to cover her with their rifles, but they merely stood there, waiting. The grey man — his hair matched his jumpsuit — stepped back, inviting her out.

  This is weird.

  She tensed as she left the cell, half expecting a surprise attack.

  Shot whilst trying to escape…

  But no. The uniformed man led the way and the guards fell in behind her, retracing their steps to the security post. There, an efficient-looking young man in the same grey outfit approved Kyra’s release with no more concern than he’d devote to cleaning his boots.

  Kyra followed her entourage out of the prison section and back into the main part of the station. Looking around, she couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. A few twists and one short elevator ride later, they guided her into a small crew lounge and left her there.

  She was considering trying the door to see if it was locked when it slid open — and Kreon strode in, bristling with indignation. His trench coat was gone, revealing the battered jumpsuit he wore beneath it. The outlines of his mechanical components were clearly visible; notably absent was his Kharash pendant, though the Aegis gem still glinted dully against the pallid skin of his neck.

  “You survived,” the Warden grunted.

  “Likewise,” Kyra told him. “Though it looks like you got strip searched!”

  Kreon made a sound of disgust. “They have confiscated everything they could remove. My bloodlines are not pure enough for these people, so they treat me like a dog.”

  Kyra made a show of glancing around at the walls and ceiling. “I slept very well,” she said for the benefit of whoever might be listening.

  Kreon, as usual, was more brusque. “I care nothing for their monitoring devices! They forced me into a tiny box no bigger than I am, and rendered me unconscious. If the bastards choose to listen in whilst I bad-mouth them, they are more than welcome.”

  “Oh?” Unconscious? Kyra was alarmed to hear Kreon openly admit such a thing. Part of the old man’s mystique lay in keeping his abilities deliberately vague. He was telling her, she realised — warning her, more like — that their captors had unexpected tricks of their own.

  “Sounds idyllic,” she said, nodding that she’d got the message. “I was drugged. Wonder how Tris got on?”

  The question was no sooner out of her mouth than the door slid open again and Tris walked in. The set of his shoulders told of tension and stress, but that was understandable. When you’d been locked up as often as Kyra had, it started to lose its novelty value. But Tris was beautifully attired in a deep blue jumpsuit, with silver trim at the ports and articulation points. Kyra didn’t recognise the brand, but it was clearly a designer suit, worlds away from the utilitarian garb he’d found in the Folly’s equipment locker.

  “Wow. You scrub up nice,” she said.

  Tris looked vaguely embarrassed. “My other suit is… they’re cleaning it.”

  “Oh.” She arced an eyebrow at Kreon. “I’d say they’ve established our pecking order.”

  “They’ve established themselves as racist bastards,” Kreon muttered. He obviously wasn’t too happy about the way things had worked out. It made sense; Kyra’s people had fled the endless war between Lantians and Lemurians, traveling far out into the galaxy before choosing a place to settle. They’d deliberately distanced themselves from both factions, as their group comprised refugees from both. The highest-ranking amongst them had been chosen to lead, and Kyra was descended from those first rulers in direct lineage. The Lemurians prized purity of bloodlines above all else; Kyra’s royal blood was comparatively undiluted.

  Kreon’s, on the other hand, was positively mongrel.

  Which just left Tristan. And there was a clue there, too, in what Mikelatz’s hologram had told them. Apparently he’d been a Lemurian sleeper agent all along — she shook her head, still having a hard time believing that — but as a Lemurian of presumably high status, his bloodline would be purest of all.

  “So, looks like you’re the boss from now on,” she told Tris.

  To his credit, the kid didn’t protest. “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” he promised.

  Something about the way he said it gave Kyra pause. Something else had happened to Tris, she was sure of it. She reached for his thoughts to ask him — only to meet with nothingness.

  Damn that blocking! It was really starting to cramp her style.

  Then again, whereas Kreon had been relieved of his Gift-augmenting gem, the identical one that blocked Tristan’s talent was still around his neck. Maybe that was the issue?

  I guess high-status prisoners don’t get frisked.

  A polite chime from the door announced the arrival of visitors. A stocky brunette, her soft grey uniform hugging the contours of her body, entered and addressed them. “My apologies for the delay, ambassadors. The Magistrate will see you now. Please follow me.”

  Kyra obliged, letting Kreon precede her from the room. No point in ruffling the old man’s feathers any more than necessary. As they moved along the corridors she found herself examining the walls more closely. Was it her imagination, or did some of them seem less grimy? Impossible to tell of course, and almost certainly a paranoia-like side effect from the drug they’d used on her. Had Kreon been drugged too? The Warden was almost impossible to incapacitate in such a fashion. Tris, on the other hand probably wouldn’t even realise it if he had been.

  She scuffed her boot on the deck, where a black mark stained the metal. Was it a blaster burn? Or something more innocent and possibly disgusting?

  Get a grip! Gotta keep my imagination under control.

  Especially if there was a super-powerful telepath aboard. Her mental defences were pretty good, but it had been a long time since they’d really been tested.

  They turned down another corridor and the surface underfoot changed. Kyra glanced down to see a stripe of carpet, or something similar, lining the deck. A deep crimson, it looked so garish and out of place that she knew it was a recent addition.

  So! Whoever they sent for has arrived. Could he be this telepath?

  Assessors… She shuddered. Using the Gift for enhanced interrogations was outlawed in Lantian space, as well as amongst her own people. It left psychological scars that were much harder to heal than physical ones. The Lemurians, however, were not nearly as squeamish about such things.

  The narrow ribbon of material underfoot came to an abrupt end at a set of heavy double doors. Their guide stepped to the side and pressed a call button. Kyra imagined the door becoming transparent from the inside, like the ones on the Folly.

  Nice tech, if you can get it.

  They’d been waiting just a few seconds when the doors slid open. Inside was an office of sorts; a hybrid of private workspace and personal command centre, with consoles and viewscreens set discretely into the furniture. One wall housed a golden panel with elaborate carvings of what she guessed were deities; personal shrines must be all the rage amongst the religious nutcases of the galaxy.

  A huge plaswood desk dominated the space, and before it stood a tall, muscular man. The tailoring of his jumpsuit was immaculate; the grey fabric screamed comfort before utility, with silver accents similar to Tristan’s.

  But it wasn’t the man’s sui
t that froze all three of them in their tracks. Nor was it his admittedly impressive physique.

  No — what elicited the strangled gasp from Kreon was the face of the man in front of them.

  Kyra was shocked too, but she recovered quickly.

  Poor Tris however, was completely floored.

  Because the man standing before them was more than a little familiar. She’d known him as Lord Andoss, Warden Protector and the last true Custodian of Atalia.

  Tristan knew him as Dad.

  12

  Kreon sat on an ornate chair in the overly-plush office, quietly fuming.

  There was a reason that cloning was banned by every civilised society. Obvious ones, like human rights issues and psychological problems for the clones themselves — and then more personal ones, the ones people didn’t talk about. Like being confronted by your long-dead best friend at the ass-end of a Lemurian research base.

  It wasn’t Mikelatz, of course.

  Mikelatz was dead.

  The person smiling so congenially around the group, like some insipid gameshow host, was a clone.

  Which meant that, logically, Mikelatz had been a clone too. Still a person, with all the thoughts, feelings, dreams and fears as the rest of the population — only, manufactured. Grown from a skin sample, or hair or blood sample. Taken from an individual who could have lived long ago…

  And suddenly, it all came together in his mind. Tristan’s preferential treatment. The revelation of Mikelatz’s allegiance. This newcomer’s easy assumption of authority…

  All three of them had identical DNA — aside from a bit of creative editing Mikelatz had undergone with Kharash genes.

  It was obviously a very old, very pure bloodline. The original person who possessed that DNA may well have lived on Earth before the Sundering…

  No wonder the clone was ignoring him.

  It was, however, spectacularly irritating.

  “My name is Gerian,” the clone began. “I am the Magistrate of this region, and I’d like to welcome you to the Lemurian Empire.”

  Tristan was still frozen in shock. Kreon watched the boy’s mouth work soundlessly, while he struggled to process what he was looking at. Kyra, fortunately, was harder to faze.

  “Why thank-you,” she said, her sarcasm impossible to miss. “I must say, I’ve been made to feel a tiny bit more welcome than this. I’m not sure if it was the cell, the interrogation, or maybe the drugs? Either way, you have got to work on your hospitality.”

  Gerian smiled expansively. “You’re right, of course! My sincere apologies. Your treatment at the hands of Proconsul Augustus was nothing short of scandalous. Rest assured, he has been transferred away from here, and he will be severely reprimanded for his error of judgement.”

  Kreon grunted. This clone was smooth, an experienced operator. Politics had never been Kreon’s forte, and he’d never found much use for tact. To see it applied so effortlessly was an object lesson — and a warning.

  He’s too glib, Kreon thought to Kyra — before remembering that the Lemurian scum who’d frisked him had stolen his pendant.

  Bastards!

  “Nevertheless,” he said out loud, “our status here is that of Ambassadors for the First Circle of Atalia. I care nothing for your opinion of our bloodlines — we are here to discuss a grave threat to both our peoples.”

  “Ah yes.” The clone’s voice took on a note of distaste as he turned his attention to Kreon. “This matter of… Black Ships, I think it was? The Proconsul included that in his report. I’m afraid, if you came all this way chasing bedtime stories, you can expect to encounter a measure of… skepticism.”

  “What?” Kreon demanded. “You expect me to believe that your people have had no encounters with this phenomenon? That the devastation is confined to our own portion of the galaxy? Ridiculous! I have it on good authority that your superiors have made careful study of this matter, and have linked it back to ancient prophecies known to your Oracle.”

  Kreon had the satisfaction of seeing the clone’s eyes flash with anger. He controlled it quickly, but Kreon stored the snippet of information away for future use. This Magistrate, confident as he appeared, had buttons that could be pushed.

  “I’ll advise you to be extremely cautious in your use of that word, Lord Anakreon. Even I do not mention it lightly. The Oracle is for discussion only by the most pious and enlightened individuals; anything else is considered blasphemy, and the penalties are severe. But I’m sure the information you seek can be discovered eventually — perhaps in a children’s book?”

  Kreon bristled. “This is no laughing matter, Magistrate. People are dying. Whole planets are being destroyed, their biological matter assimilated by these… entities. I feel certain you are aware of this, and I see no need for political posturing. I have one aim here; to identify this race of aggressors, and to search for a weakness that we can exploit. It is a mission which will benefit your people as well as ours.”

  The clone merely smiled at him. “My people thank you for your kind consideration, Lord Anakreon, but they are quite content with their lives. Likewise, should my government find themselves a dragon to slay, I’m sure they will be in touch.” He pointedly turned back to the others, leaving Kreon to seethe in silence.

  “But as of this moment, you are all here as my guests! Certainly, there will be weighty matters to discuss, and I will request that my government send a team qualified to conduct negotiations with you. Meanwhile, I would like to take this opportunity to make amends for the appalling treatment you received on arrival. There is a party being thrown this very evening on Pentali Prime, to celebrate the anniversary of their consecration. I would be honoured if you would attend with me.”

  Kyra glanced Kreon’s way, arcing an eyebrow, but without his pendant he could do nothing more than scowl at her.

  “We accept, of course,” she interpreted. “It would be our pleasure to attend.” She glanced Kreon’s way again. “I trust we are all invited?”

  “Yes indeed!” Gerian replied. Then he addressed Tristan directly. “And might I ask your name, sir? Our records are extensive, yet you have managed to elude identification!” He said it lightly, as though such a thing amused him. But Kreon had a fair idea what fate awaited ID fraudsters in the Lemurian Empire — and that, too, was no laughing matter.

  Tris stared at the man, eyes wide as thruster nozzles. “I’m…” he stammered, “I’m… Tris. I mean, my name is Tristan. Andrews. From Earth.”

  This time the Magistrate definitely twitched. Again, he recovered his composure quickly, but Kreon was a quick study. There was more to this man than he was letting on.

  “Earth, you say?” Gerian’s voice was smooth and well-modulated, betraying none of the shock Kreon had diagnosed. “Well, well! That is a treat! You’ll be the talk of the party! That explains why you don’t appear in our records. It is a long time indeed since we have had a presence on the Homeworld.” Though said mildly, Kreon caught the magistrate’s eyes flicking in his direction. The entire Lemurian Empire held a grudge over the Lantians’ control of Earth, but that was nothing new.

  “Your bloodline is extremely pure however,” Gerian continued. “I am most interested to learn about your lineage, if you wouldn’t mind sharing?”

  Tris also glanced at Kreon, but the Warden knew straight away what his apprentice would say. The boy’s curiosity was his driving force; his thirst for answers had brought him clear across the galaxy and deep into enemy territory. It was highly unlikely he would pass up such an opportunity.

  Tris squared his shoulders, making a visible effort to stand up straighter. “My lineage is the same as yours, I’d guess,” he said, a slight tremor in his voice. “My father was a friend of yours: Mikelatz Andoss.”

  Gerian nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, I see! Yes, blood will tell. I never met the man unfortunately, but we do share a seed. Mikelatz was highly-regarded by the Keepers of the Faith, until his disappearance.”

  There was a question, delibera
tely left hanging; Tris couldn’t resist answering. “He’s dead.”

  “Ah.” The magistrate turned solemn and bowed his head. “Might I ask how?”

  “Indeed you may,” Tris replied — and Kreon felt a sudden surge of pride at his apprentice’s blatant impersonation of him. “My father was conducting the same line of enquiry as we are. He was killed by the Black Ships.”

  * * *

  Whilst the others dressed for the party, Kreon found himself with time to process. The clone (he could think of him in no other way) had escorted them onto his personal shuttle, a lavishly appointed craft with a full crew and service staff. They would be in transit for several hours; their destination planet was well beyond the frontier, deep inside Lemurian space. Kreon knew a fair bit about the hierarchy of both people and planets here. Such an event would be attended by the highest stratum in Lemurian society; those whose bloodlines were the purest, in the most part traceable back to their exodus from Earth. Some would undoubtably be clones, as part of their ongoing effort to resist dilution of their gene pool. Many would hold high office in the Empire; his crew would be walking into a veritable lion’s den of Lemurian power-brokers. Or perhaps a viper’s nest would be a more appropriate metaphor, given the insidious methods employed to keep the lower classes in their place.

  Assessors… Kreon tugged at the too-tight neck-hole of the poncho he’d been given to wear. Very few things in this galaxy gave him pause, but the infamous psychic interrogators were not to be taken lightly. He knew little of their techniques — only that those subjected to them rarely kept their sanity afterwards. Certainly, some would be present at this gathering; whether on the job or off, the effect would be the same.

  By the end of the ‘party’, the Lemurians would know everything.

  He made a mental note to warn Kyra, though he doubted it would make a difference. Practising resistance to psychics was a popular hobby amongst the population here, though not strictly legal. Anyone with anything to hide had to work hard to stay free. But the top level of Assessors would be like nothing they had ever encountered.