Before Kreon could reply, a soft chime came from the medical console.
“What now?” She glanced at the talos, tucked back into its charging station. “Trouble?”
“Not this time.” The Warden ran a finger along the display. “It’s Tristan. I do believe he’s waking up.”
On the bed, Tris gasped for breath suddenly. His eyes flicked open and he lunged up — then fell back with a groan. “Uhhh…”
Kyra moved closer. “Tris! It’s okay. Don’t try to move. We’re all here.”
His eyes flicked to hers, then travelled down over her outfit.
“Holy shit!” His voice was strained and hoarse. “Kyra… are you alright?”
“Me?” she almost laughed. “You’re the dumbass that got shot.”
“But… you’ve… redefined the word… bloodbath,” he rasped.
She followed his gaze, taking in the still-glistening stains that caked her from shoulder to midriff. “Oh, that? Don’t worry, it’s not mine.”
“Oh.” Tris was silent for a second. “Is it… mine?”
She gave him a smile. “Nah, no way!” She looked down at the mess on her arms. “Okay, maybe some of it. But it’s mostly from Enneas.”
“Wow. That bastard.” There was no emotion in the words; Tris was still too weak for that. He struggled to lift his head, casting an eye over her jumpsuit again. “Thanks for killing him… and all that… but you didn’t have to roll around in it.”
This time Kyra allowed herself a chuckle.
Kreon stepped forward, beaming triumphantly. “You see Kyra? Tristan’s sense of humour is inversely proportional to his wellbeing. I predict a full recovery.”
She shook her head. “Sydon help us.”
* * *
With visiting hours over, Kyra finally allowed herself the luxury of a long shower and a change of clothes. She decided not to question why there were women’s jumpsuits in the closet of the captain’s cabin. Either Kreon had a girlfriend a hundred years ago, or he’d been cross-dressing. She felt a sudden prickle of gooseflesh; how long had the Warden been married? There was at least a decent chance the outfit she was wearing once belonged to Sera.
Mine now, she thought — then wondered idly if there were any boots to match.
Kreon looked up as she entered the cockpit. If he recognised the jumpsuit, he made no comment about it.
Ingumen was there as well, his armour still liberally splattered with gore. She wrinkled her nose; it was probably getting pretty ripe inside that suit by now. Tough guys never seemed to worry about personal hygiene; yet another reason she steered clear of them.
She turned her attention to the nav display. Their next course correction would be their last; it was time for the resistance leader to come clean about their final destination.
“I understand the importance of secrecy,” Kreon was saying, “but like it or not, we are all now implicated in this uprising of yours. From here on, I expect complete transparency — starting with the coordinates of our rendezvous.”
“Very well.” Ingumen still refused to remove his mask, though with the strange holographic distortion effects turned off he seemed much smaller and less threatening.
Kyra strapped into the pilot’s chair as Kreon took the nav seat next to her. “Dropping into real space,” she announced, “…now.”
Wayfinder gave that same telltale vibration, and stars winked into view outside the canopy.
“Okay.” Kyra cracked her knuckles just to see Kreon wince. She turned in her chair to face Ingumen, seated behind her. “We’ll be needing those coordinates now.”
Ingumen nodded. “But first I would like to express my sincere gratitude to you both for aiding our escape.”
Kyra exchanged a glance with Kreon. “You are welcome,” the Warden said.
“And for this, you have my apologies,” Ingumen added.
Kyra’s eyes went wide as she realised what he was holding — the little golden cone-thing, its spines glinting wickedly in the cockpit lights.
“Hey! Don’t—”
And that was the last thing she remembered.
* * *
Kyra woke up in a cell.
She was lying on a narrow cot, the thin pad of a mattress doing nothing to disguise its iron-hardness. Glancing around at the bare stone walls and ceiling, and the row of sturdy bars opposite her, she didn’t bother getting up. A recessed strip light was the only source of illumination; the air felt damp and smelled vaguely of mildew.
I swear we just got out of prison.
She’d been in so many cells lately she was starting to lose count. This one looked to be no better, or worse, than most of the others. She briefly entertained the idea of questing out with the Gift to find Kreon, but all of a sudden that seemed a lot like hard work.
Whatever was going to happen would happen; and she’d be there as always, trying to stop it.
It was exhausting.
Bollocks to it, she thought.
And went back to sleep.
When she woke again, something had changed. Kyra lay very still, trying to figure out what it was. Her mind was still foggy with the last vestiges of sleep; her internal time-sense told her she’d been out for hours.
When she finally noticed what was wrong, she couldn’t quite believe it. Sitting up slowly, in case some nasty trick was in store, she looked around for clues. But there was nothing — only the lead-grey stone of the walls, glistening wetly in the harsh overhead light, and the thick steel of the bars.
Which were open.
Half expecting them to slam shut at any moment, she slid off the cot. Reaching out with the Gift told her nothing; the weight of stone around her seemed to absorb her thoughts rather than letting them pass through. She could tell that no-one was right outside her cell, but that was about it.
Weird.
Her limbs were stiff and heavy from being still for so long. Yet she felt oddly calm and rested.
Best night’s sleep I’ve had in… she honestly couldn’t remember how long.
Stretching produced a succession of pops and clicks from her joints, culminating in a mighty crack from her spine that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
Woah! Should have saved that one for Kreon.
She approached the gap in the bars and poked her head out. Nothing remarkable — just a narrow, drab corridor disappearing off in both directions. Feeling naked without her swords, she resolved to find them first. After that, it didn’t matter what anyone else did; she could take her time finding the others. Double-crossing seemed to be a way of life for these motherfuckers. That didn’t offend her as such, but sure as shit she wouldn’t hesitate if she had to decapitate a few of them.
Stalking down the dank corridor, she stretched ahead with her mind. Musty stone gleamed back at her, revealing nothing. Was it just her imagination, or was that crap acting like a barrier to her?
The Lemurian Empire must be a shitty place to live for a psychic.
She passed other cells, all with their doors open. Some might have been inhabited recently, but they were so sparsely furnished it was hard to tell.
The Gift warned her of people up ahead around the same time she heard their voices. She crept closer, rolling her shoulders to loosen them. The sounds grew louder; many voices rather than a few, all blending and overlapping. Shouting and jeering, even! The odd clinking sounds underlaying it became cups or glasses. If it was a guard room, it was a rowdy one.
She moved closer, trusting their noise to cover the occasional squeak of her boots. A doorway opened off the corridor and she approached it cautiously. All the noise was coming from inside — it sounded more like a crowded bar than anything. Smelled like one too, she noted; sweat laced with alcohol, smokes sweet and acrid, and a dozen other pungent aromas intermingled. The door was open, propped that way with an old wooden wedge. The doorway glowed with light, at once enticing and frustrating. She would have to pass it to move on; the chance of her swords being stored in a room full of drun
ks was minimal. But being spotted roaming free by her captors was bad news. From the sound of it there was at least a dozen of them in there. It didn’t matter how drunk they were; if even half of them were armed, she’d be in trouble.
She edged closer, right up to the doorjamb. Whatever was going on in there, she had to know. She still hadn’t ruled out torture; plenty of guards liked to drink and laugh while they watched a prisoner beg for mercy. Flattening herself against the wall, she cast her mind into the room beyond.
Drunken games… wagers… drinking and hilarity. Nothing overtly hostile — at least not yet — but there was an undercurrent of anger to the room, a harshness that came when men who’d fought and killed came together to celebrate it. She caught an image, fixed on by several of the minds: Kreon! The Warden looked furious — which by itself was not unusual — but a good deal of the laughter and derision seemed to be directed at him.
Oh Kreon! What the hell is going on here?
She was straining to reach him when she realised too late that one of the minds inside the room was nearing the door. Out of options, she tensed for a fight—
When a burly older man in a shirt and breeches strolled casually out of the doorway.
And froze.
“Oh! Uh… hey. You okay?” he asked Kyra.
“Fine,” she said. “You?”
“Oh, uh, good, good. You, uh, coming in?”
Inwardly, Kyra facepalmed. Oh, why the hell not.
“Yup,” she said, stepping smartly around him. Her first glimpse of the room told her exactly what she’d suspected. It was a bar of sorts. Had to be thirty people crammed in there, filling the place with noise and chatter. Men and women, young to old… some smoked; most drank. Tokens of some kind lay strewn on tables made of packing crates, along with a good deal of old-fashioned plastic currency.
Gambling den?
Her sudden appearance in the doorway caused all heads to turn her way. Those with their backs to her were slower, but soon all traces of conversation had died; every pair of eyes was fixed on Kyra. There was a large viewscreen on one wall, which someone quickly killed with a remote — but they couldn’t hide it. She’d seen the image on that screen in their minds.
Security feed from Kreon’s cell. It’s got to be.
The man from outside was hovering in the doorway, within easy reach.
Kyra spun, snatching a heavy hilt from his belt and whirling back to face her audience. “Okay,” she said, raising her voice to reach the back. “Now that I’ve got your attention, I’m going to hurt some people. And I’m going to keep on hurting people until one of you vacuum-breathers tells me exactly what is going on here.”
The whole room was silent for a pair of heartbeats.
On the far side of the room, someone sniggered. Someone else joined them, and was quickly hushed. Then a whole bench on the opposite side began to chortle. Kyra looked down at the weapon she was brandishing. It was a hairbrush.
You have got to be kidding me.
“Hey, hey, look!” A well-built man in stained tech’s coveralls stood up with his hands in the air. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said to Kyra. He glanced around the crowd. “We’re all sorry, right?”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.
“Then you can start with where the hell I am, what the fuck I’m doing here, and why I woke up in a Gods-damned cell.”
“You’re in The Pit. That’s what they calls it, anyways. Them cells is all we got for sleeping.”
“So… what? You’re prisoners here too?”
“Oh no ma’am! We ain’t prisoners. And you ain’t neither. We was just having a laugh, that’s all.”
Face to face with the man, Kyra could sense he was in earnest. His guilt was eating at him, and he was about to come clean. “A laugh at what?” she said, putting ice into her tone.
“It’s just a stupid game,” the tech admitted. “It don’t mean nothing. It were my fault. I started it. We just wondered, like… if the old man — you know, the one what brought us here?” He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a remote. He pointed it at the viewscreen, which flickered to life. Kreon’s image appeared, a view from above of the Warden’s scarred head as he paced in and out of shot. She’d been right; it had to be from a security camera in the roof of his cell.
“That’s him,” the tech explained. “We was just wondering, like, how long it’s gonna take him to figure out his door is unlocked.”
23
As she approached his cell, Kyra could already tell that Kreon was furious. This close, his rage poured off him — she visualised it as the fiery corona radiating from a white-hot star.
This is gonna be great.
Struggling to keep a straight face, she stretched both arms up and affected a yawn as she reached him. “Hey Kreon. Sleep well?”
The Warden spun to face her. “Kyra? You got out!”
She hung her head — mostly to hide a smirk that wouldn’t quit. “Oh, Kreon. They made me do horrible things.”
His eyes narrowed, and a vein pulsed on his pallid temple. “We’re getting out of here,” he promised her. “Right now. You hear me, Ingumen?” he stared up at the camera — a very obvious one, Kyra thought. If there was one in her cell, it had been much better hidden. “I’m giving you one last chance to get in here and explain yourself. Otherwise I will take this place apart stone by stone.”
From anyone else it would be an idle threat, but Kreon had more than tricks up his sleeve. To prove his point, he fastened a gloved hand around one of the bars in his cell and slowly, deliberately twisted it. The bar groaned as it stretched and bent around his fist, finally reaching its limit and snapping free. He tossed the bar aside with a clang and took hold of the next one. His eyes remained fixed on the camera the entire time, as though daring whoever was watching to test him further.
Kyra took advantage of the distraction to open the door a crack, and slipped inside. Pitching her voice as deep as she could, she bellowed at him. “You’ll pay for that!”
Quick as a blade Kreon whirled on her, fists clenched — and stopped when he saw her inside. “Kyra? What the…? How did you…?”
“Yeah, they’ll make you fix that. That’s wilful damage right there. Someone’s gotta sleep in here you know.”
Kreon’s mouth opened and shut a few times before he spoke. “We are not prisoners?”
“I guess that depends on your point of view,” Kyra said, opening the cell door all the way. “Who amongst us can say they’re truly free, these days?”
She lost the battle with the smirk, but managed to keep from sniggering as Kreon stomped up to the door, and through it.
Freedom didn’t seem to have improved his mood overly much.
Probably best I don’t mention the betting.
She followed him out, and back down the corridor in the direction of the bar. It was wide enough to walk two abreast so she jogged a few steps to catch up, stumbling slightly on the rough paving stones. “Woah!” she put a hand out to the wall to steady herself. “It’s frikkin’ dangerous down here.”
“Kyra?” Kreon sniffed. “Are you drunk?”
She raised one shoulder. “A little.”
“Horrible things?” he reminded her, accusation in his tone.
“The booze in here is beyond horrible, believe me. You’ve got to use one kind just to hide the taste of the other kind. And these people cheat something chronic—”
“Cheating? You were gambling with them?“
“Ah… that’s not really important. But the good news is, I made a few credits, so when we get off this rock you’re taking me shoe shopping!”
Kreon’s muttered reply came in a language her implant couldn’t translate.
When they reached the bar it was suspiciously empty.
Only one person was there; surrounded by the detritus of a celebration hastily abandoned stood a middle-aged woman wearing an old but serviceable jumpsuit. Her blonde hair was tied up out of the way and she had the l
ean build and loose poise of a warrior. Kyra felt no immediate hostility from her, but sensed a constant threat of violence lurking beneath the surface.
“Good. You’re up,” she said as they walked in. “I trust you slept well? I’m sorry if the standard of accommodation isn’t what you’re used to. Pentali Prime this is not.”
“It was perfectly adequate thank-you,” Kyra replied before Kreon could start ranting.
“Good. I assume you’d like to check on the boy? After that I have orders to take you to Ingumen for debriefing.”
Kyra saluted her — she wasn’t sure why — and stood aside so the woman could lead them from the bar.
The route they took wound deeper into the dungeon-like labyrinth. Kyra was reminded of the catacombs beneath Atalia, only where the air was dry and cold there, here it was laden with moisture that seemed to ooze from the rock itself. The woman marched them briskly along, staying far enough ahead as to discourage conversation. Kreon was still in a foul mood, so Kyra kept quiet and studied her surroundings. Everywhere she looked she saw signs of damage; streaks of black carbon, holes from solid projectiles, chunks of wall partially melted, or shattered by energy blasts. It was impossible to tell how recent the damage was, but no attempt had been made to hide or repair it.
After a few long minutes they reached a pair of sturdy metal doors set into the stone. Nothing on the door gave a clue as to its contents, but Kyra was relieved to sense two calm, caring female presences inside. Medical professionals always felt this way to her, as though their compassion swelled up to eclipse all other characteristics. She couldn’t sense Tris at all, which in a way was good news; it meant he was still wearing his pendant, so it was unlikely he was being held against his will.
Their guide stood aside, gesturing for Kyra to enter. She hauled on the heavy door and held it open for Kreon to go first.
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