“You’re planning a revolution.” Kyra made it a statement rather than a question. “But tomorrow? That seems awfully convenient.”
“Tomorrow’s operation is merely the first strike,” Gerian explained. “It is a raid on a secure facility operated by the Church.”
“What’s there?” Tris had stayed silent so far, but the kid had a lot riding on this.
Gerian gave Tris a grim look. “Who. The facility is a penitentiary, and its most recent inmates are Proconsul Augustus, his staff, and anyone else you met when you first arrived on this station.”
Tris gasped. Even Kyra was secretly horrified. “So it was true?” she asked. “All that fighting… I thought I’d dreamt it.”
Gerian nodded. “This station has been under suspicion for a long time. We’d gathered too many of our people here, believing it was remote enough to escape notice… But the Keepers always notice. Your arrival, and the manner in which it was handled, caused them to take action. The population was pacified, with all survivors Committed immediately. I was brought in to play host to you, to determine what level of threat you represented to the Church.”
“And what threat have you reported?” Kyra asked.
Gerian grinned, but there was no humour in it. “To them, almost none. But to us, you’ve already done as much damage as you could have. Proconsul Augustus was amongst our most highly-placed supporters. Losing him is more than just a serious blow to our organisational capabilities — he knows considerably more than any agent the Church has yet interrogated. Hence, it is vital that we recover him — or at very least, ensure his secrets die with him.”
“Such a noble sacrifice,” Kyra said. “With friends like you, who needs enemies?”
Gerian ignored her sarcasm. “He is also a close personal friend. If you do this for me — if you help me to free him — I will do what I can to arrange your… other requirements.”
“He means the Black Ships,” Tris chimed in. “And that, uh… religious person you want to visit.”
“Tristan is correct. You will find the Ingumend far more open-minded when it comes to discussing forbidden topics. The trip you want so desperately can be arranged through their contacts — but only if you can aid them in their cause.”
“Join us or else, in other words,” Kyra summed up.
Gerian spread his hands. “Given your feelings about the injustice in our society, I believe it is inevitable. For example you, Kyra, have a history of championing the oppressed. You can help my people. Make a difference here.”
“Commit treason, you mean.”
He smiled at her. “Something else you have a history of.”
Touché.
Kreon seemed to be letting her handle this for now — perhaps because of the way Gerian had treated him at their last meeting — so she pressed ahead. “What precisely do you need us to do?”
“I have officially impounded this ship and arranged for its transport to the prison. Some of the transfer crew will be my operatives. I leave it up to you how you sneak onboard, but on arrival at Petraeus Confessional Institution you will escape from this vessel, locate the prisoners, liberate them where possible, then join up with the Ingumend forces for extraction.”
“Sounds like we’re conducting most of this mission single-handedly.”
“Few amongst the Ingumend have your combat training or experience. Yet their part will be the hardest; conducting a frontal assault on the prison, diverting the command staff’s attention away from what is happening inside. I anticipate significant casualties from their ranks, but such sacrifice has always been a part of our operations. They are idealists and freedom fighters, survivors of persecution and escapees from all walks of life. What they lack in military expertise, they make up for in sheer determination — and in their willingness to lay down their lives for our cause.”
Kyra ran a hand through her hair, careful to keep it a neutral dark brown. Not that it mattered; Gerian had ferreted out more of her secrets than anyone else alive. The plan was one giant mess of complications waiting to happen — but then, it was a smash-and-grab raid on an unknown and probably heavily-defended compound. The list of things that could go wrong was so long it wasn’t worth mentioning.
“And what’s your role in all this? Shadowy puppet-master, pulling strings from afar?”
Gerian glared at her, close to losing his cool for the first time since they’d entered the loading bay. “I will be conducting an inspection of the Confessional Institution prior to your arrival,” he snapped. “I must ensure that the previous residents of this station are housed in accordance with their status.” The frank gaze he directed around the room left no doubt as to the double meaning in his words. A fresh chill ran through Kyra.
He put them there! This slippery bastard is a double agent.
Concise and flattering, as I expected, Gerian’s thought intruded. But the situation is infinitely more complex than you can appreciate.
She didn’t bother replying — or repressing the shudder at having her mind so casually invaded.
Gerian didn’t bat an eyelid. “I will activate a sonic device which will disable the guards inside the prison,” he explained. “It will also disable me, allowing my cover to remain intact. From that point on, the Ingumend will be in control of the mission. I expect your skills will be put to good use in rescuing the prisoners. Any that cannot be extracted must be silenced; we cannot risk their knowledge falling into the hands of the Church.”
Kreon spoke for the first time in several minutes. “You intend to enter this facility, alone and unarmed? And remain in place during the attack. This is a hazardous undertaking for one in such a prized position.”
Gerian shrugged. “I do what I can. I’m not really a combat operative.”
“Then it was indeed brave of you to enter our domicile.” Kreon flicked his eyes. “Kyra.”
It was a pre-arranged signal, and she knew exactly what to do. Uncoiling the Arranozapar from her waist she launched a powerful side-kick into the dummy she’d been leaning on. As the heavy figure sailed through the air she cut it in half with a smooth swing of one sword. With balletic precision she spun, slicing with the second sword, then spun again to bring the first sword around for another pass.
The dummy crashed to the deck a good ten metres away, chopped neatly into four even quarters.
“We are combat operatives,” Kreon explained. “All of us. And we will fight your war — not for your cause, as we have that to spare back home. We will do this to rescue those who are suffering — but primarily, we do it to uphold our end of the bargain. Your end will be organising a visit to the Oracle, with time enough to ask questions and study her records. Understand; this is essential to us. It is non-negotiable. We will brook no argument or delay. Double-cross us, and the torments of your Assessors will be as nothing compared to the pain we can inflict. You know me as this ’Beast of the Border’, a figure of comedy and ridicule, but I have killed far more powerful people than you. Betrayal is a crime I find particularly abhorrent; I have tortured men to death for less.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Gerian said, a slight smile playing across his lips. “Your reputation proceeds you.”
“And that’s another thing,” Kyra snapped. “Stay out of our heads!”
Gerian turned the smile on her. “That, alas, is a thing I cannot promise. Ever since my arrival I have been doing my best to dampen the Gift around you. The Keepers of the Faith trust no-one; it’s virtually guaranteed that they have a spy amongst my staff. It’s not impossible that an Assessor, or more than one, has been embedded here to report on my activities. Whatever else you may know, you are now fully aware of my own position with the Ingumend. I cannot allow that information to get out under any circumstances. If I must know your minds in order to protect them, that is a small sacrifice. And allow me to respond to your warning in kind; should you fall under suspicion, be captured, or come into close contact with agents of the Church, my first duty is to ensure that yo
u do not survive long enough to be interrogated.”
16
Tris slid open the door to his quarters, and looked both ways along the corridor before stepping out.
He couldn’t sleep. That was his excuse to be roaming the halls of the research station in the small hours of the morning. Perhaps he was having nightmares about his near-death experience in Gerian’s fighter? Whatever the case, he longed for the comfort and familiarity of his room on the ancient Lantian ship berthed in docking bay ninety-four.
If anyone stopped him, he wouldn’t need to lie; everything so far was the truth.
He was well aware of what a difficult predicament he’d landed himself and the others in, but he couldn’t see how it could have worked out differently. No matter what he’d said to Gerian, this plan was already in the works. Whether it was Tristan’s fault that Kreon and Kyra had been dragged into it was open for debate — at least, it was as far as he was concerned.
Kyra’s opinion had been made clear by the extremely exaggerated eye-roll she’d directed at him as she left their little meeting. Kreon had spoken precisely one word to him: ’tonight’. Tris had taken that as an instruction to engineer his own escape from the research station, and so far it was going remarkably well. It helped that they weren’t actually prisoners here; no-one locked them in at night, and they’d even been permitted to carry their weapons on board. As captivity went, it was pretty cushy. Only their agenda held them hostage, though Tris wasn’t sure what would happen if they actually declared their intention to leave.
Which is why they were doing it cloak-and-dagger style.
He strolled down the corridor, stopping at each junction to deliver colossal yawns for the hidden cameras.
No-one stopped him.
No-one tried.
In fact on the whole journey, he saw not a single soul. Either he was being extraordinarily lucky, or Gerian had been working some organisational magic behind the scenes.
The docking bay was open and brightly lit. A number of Loader-sized metal crates sat on the deck near the Wayfinder’s main cargo hatch, obviously waiting to be taken on board. Tris paid no attention to them, stumbling up the ramp as though half-asleep.
Both Kreon and Kyra were waiting for him in the crew lounge. Neither looked particularly happy, but that wasn’t surprising. They weren’t off on holiday. He could hardly blame them for being stressed — he was privately shitting bricks about the mission ahead of them. And he didn’t even have a clue what they were up against. Kreon and Kyra had far more experience with this sort of gig; they must have known exactly how much trouble they were in.
No point in worrying about it now, he told himself. There’ll be plenty of time for them to give me grief about it later.
The lounge still bore an exotic fruity scent, the result of Kyra’s attempt to freshen the place up after a century of disuse. The mismatched cushions she’d robbed from various locations around the Folly did add a more homely touch, though there wasn’t much to be done for the rest of the ship.
“Are we alone?” he asked, keeping his voice casual.
“For the time being.” Kreon’s tone indicated displeasure. “It will not last, however. Pilots from amongst this station’s complement will have been assigned to fly the ship.” He looked bleak. “I have disabled the countermeasures, so they may do so without endangering themselves.”
“Kreon is having a moment,” Kyra explained.
“No-one other than me has touched the controls of this ship since my Father was alive. I find it… upsetting.”
Kyra draped a comradely arm around his shoulders. “Hey, look on the bright side. Now that’s been dealt with, anyone can fly her. Right Tris?”
Tris caught the lightness in her tone and began to relax. “Sure, I’ll have a go!”
The glare Kreon delivered was mercifully free of malice. “Over my cold and unyielding corpse.”
“You see! That’s the spirit.” Kyra gave the Warden a squeeze before letting him go. “Of course, he’s cold and unyielding now,” she said to Tris, “so it might be hard to tell if he’s dead or not.”
And just like that, Tris knew he’d been forgiven. Or, not forgiven exactly; more like they’d decided to let it go. To back his play regardless, because they were a team. And hopefully they’d figured out how little choice he’d had in the matter.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked Kyra.
“Not sure,” she fired back. “You’re the one trying to get us all killed. Maybe you should make some plans?”
“Meh. You’re better at it.”
She shook her head in mock despair. “Okay. Correct me if I’m wrong. We’re about to steal a spacecraft we already own, and use it to break into a maximum security prison run by an evil regime that already knows everything about us. We’ll arrive in a war zone to rescue a bunch of stiffs, most of whom we’ve never met, and rely on this army of untrained peasants to somehow open an escape route for us.” She glanced around the room, then shrugged. “I’m thinking, after that we go get Mexican food?”
“Not bad,” Tris admitted. “But isn’t this right up your street? Aren’t you meant to be a champion of the oppressed?”
She snorted. “Oh please! Gerian made up all that crap. I grew up dirt-poor in a mining colony, eating rats and bare-knuckle boxing for coins. I’m about as far from a champion as you can get. If you’re looking for heroic sacrifice, Kreon’s your man.”
Kreon, unsurprisingly, said nothing.
The screech of metal on metal startled Tris. He stepped out into the corridor to see a parade of loaders — shinier and more modern versions of their recently destroyed talos — process up the ramp and into the cargo bay. Suspended on each machine’s lifting forks was one of the large steel crates from outside.
Drawn by curiosity, Tris followed them. Kreon and Kyra came too, both needing to investigate this unexpected intrusion. Inside Wayfinder’s cargo bay, three loaders had deposited their crates in a row and parked themselves opposite.
“Are they full of weapons?” Tris asked, his voice hushed.
“Nah. They look like… shielded transfer cages?” Kyra hazarded.
“Cages? For what?”
“Clandestine prisoner transport,” said Kreon. He stepped over to the nearest crate and looked in. “Air-tight, with self-contained life-support units. They conceal their contents from long-range DNA scanners. Used to make people disappear — by human traffickers, hostage takers and murderous governments. I believe Gerian intended these for us.”
Tris peered over the edge of the crate. It was open and empty, but he could see where the heavy lid would slide into place. “Wow. Should we be concerned that he has this kind of thing just lying around?”
The look Kreon gave him in reply was a dark one. “Do not make the mistake of trusting him, Tristan. No-one survives long in a position such as his without burying bodies.”
“Yeah, I suppose so. Do we get in then?”
Kreon and Kyra exchanged a glance.
“Why the hell not?” she said. “But I’m getting cushions.”
The inside of the crate, once Tris had managed to clamber into it, was smooth, cold metal. He secretly envied Kyra her cushions, but seeing as how this was all his fault he decided not to complain.
Kreon was the last to enter. His mechanical leg gave him some difficulty, but with much cursing he eventually hauled himself over the lip. Within seconds Tris heard the clank of the loaders approaching. One to each crate, all three talos extended their manipulator arms in unison. They pressed keys on the side of the crates and the lids slid into place — Tris ducked his head inside just in time to avoid losing his scalp.
And then he was in darkness.
He sat against the rear wall of the crate and felt a familiar lump in his back. His dad’s glaive was still attached to the magnetic strip around his waist, clipped securely to the smart new jumpsuit he’d wrangled from Gerian’s quartermaster.
Gotta have some perks, he mused. Especially
as I get to spend God knows how long trapped in a box.
Then an ominous fizzing sound reached his ears. The top edge of his crate began to glow slightly, and a sharp smell of ozone. Kyra? he thought, before realising he still wore his pendant. Pulling the gem out from his collar he lifted it over his head.
Kyra? he tried again. Is that sound what I think it is?
Depends, came her strained reply. If you think it’s those loaders welding us into these cans, then you’re right.
But why would they do that?
Your guess is as good as mine, she fired back. Probably better, as my guess involves us being shipped like this straight to the nearest interrogation chamber.
Gerian wouldn’t do that. He needs us!
You might be projecting a bit there, she told him.
Tris sat in the darkness, listening to the creaks and bangs of the starship’s hull. He couldn’t identify half of them, but he definitely felt the lurch when they lifted off. It makes sense, he kept telling himself, Gerian would want to make sure we weren’t discovered. Who knows how many people are on board this thing? Any one of them could wander in here and start popping crates open for shits and giggles. He’d plan a way for us to get out.
Just then it occurred to Tris that he already had a way to get out. The shielded walls of the crates looked impressive, but he’d never met a substance his dad’s knife couldn’t carve through like butter. Kyra’s swords would probably do a similar job, and if Kreon couldn’t free himself with his mechanical hand, one of them could easily oblige him.
Kyra? He reached out.
Yeah, she responded. Should be away by now.
And there was a screech of tearing metal, followed by a clang.
Not to be outdone, Tris whipped the glaive from his back and pulled the knife from its recessed handle. The blade pierced the heavy steel easily, and the sound it made as he carefully drew it around in a circle was more akin to scissors slicing thick cloth. He made a discreet, doggy-door-sized hole, then squirmed out of it head first.
Warden's Fury Page 19