Warden's Fury

by Tony James Slater

  He was still coming up with far-fetched scenarios when they reached the entrance to the tower and were taken inside.

  The gleaming white exterior continued inside, albeit muted and less shimmery. It was immediately evident they were in a maximum security corridor; the walls and ceiling were studded at regular intervals with nozzles that screamed ‘weapon’. Otherwise featureless, it ran long and straight — an escapee’s worst nightmare. Tris was guessing it would lead directly to the cells, so he was surprised when their guards led them through heavy blast doors and into an office. The furnishings were minimal; just a smooth white desk raised on a dais, behind which sat a wiry old man with a beard tied into long grey tails. The man’s robes matched his desk, giving him a venerable, almost saintly appearance. No badge of office was obvious, but Gerian deferred to him politely.

  “Your excellency! I hope we didn’t interrupt anything?”

  “For my Assessor General, nothing is an interruption,” came the reply. The old man’s voice was like the rasp of sticks rubbed together, yet he managed to convey a note of dry humour. Tris could guess why; it was pretty clear that no-one ignored a request from Gerian, no matter what they were doing.

  “I’ve brought you a gift, Your Excellency. Three Lantian spies, masquerading as ambassadors… and the leader of those accursed Ingumend.

  The old man raised a whiskery eyebrow. “Their leader, you say? You have proof of this, I take it?”

  Gerian ’s smile was smug. “I have all the evidence I need,” he said, tapping his temple. “And after a day or so of interrogation, I’ll have every piece of information she ever dreamed of. Names, locations, numbers, passcodes… this pathetic little uprising will be over before it begins.”

  The eyebrow came up again. “One day, you say?”

  “I’ll put my best officers on the job,” Gerian confirmed, “and I’ll oversee them personally.”

  “Hmm. One day, eh? Very well. I’ll give you two. The Keepers will need the time to make their preparations. After that shall we say, trial at midday? And execution right after.”

  “I bow to your wisdom in this matter,” said Gerian.

  The old man tapped a note into the top of his desk. “Very well then. I’ll schedule it in. Next?”

  Kreon took a step forwards. “Your Excellency, there has been a mistake. My people have been unjustly incarcerated, and this girl is no more than one of my assistants. Your Assessor General has been tormenting us from the moment we arrived in Lemurian space, despite the treaty between our nations. In lieu of any real results, he has clearly fabricated this conspiracy to incriminate my people for his own agenda. I have audio recordings of him attempting to entrap us, of him offering to take us to the planet where he arrested us, and of his subordinate making a plea for Lantian aid on his behalf. I would like to insert them into evidence.”

  The old man behind the desk squinted down at Kreon. “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  Gerian stepped in front of him. “You forget, Lord Anakreon, that I can see inside her head. And inside yours. I sense you feel a certain… responsibility towards her. I can appreciate that to you she must appear a tragic figure, a noble and heroic freedom fighter. Unfortunately, to us she is merely a terrorist — a particularly rabid one, that must be put down with extreme prejudice. But don’t be concerned, My Lord. I’m no expert in legal matters, but I feel certain that you’ll be joining her soon enough.”

  Kreon surged forward again. “This is a travesty! I—”

  One of the guards put a hand on Kreon’s chest to push him back into line. Without even looking at the man, Kreon reached up — his cuffs dropping away as though they’d never existed — and took hold of the offending forearm, snapping it with a flick of his wrist.

  The guard screamed once and fell back, landing on his ass in front of Kreon. The others reacted instantly, a dozen rifles springing up to target Kreon’s head. The guard on the floor was rolling around clutching his arm, trying not to scream again.

  “I will not be intimidated,” Kreon snarled, “and I will not be imprisoned without due process.”

  “Yet you’d commit assault inside the Tower of Justice! In His Excellency’s very chambers!” Gerian actually sounded shocked.

  Kreon turned to glare at him. “I will commit far worse if I am provoked again. I demand you contact the High Warden on Atalia. He will—”

  “Lord Anakreon!” The old man had risen from behind his desk, his voice and bearing both becoming far more imposing. “As identified by DNA scan. You are being held here on charges of espionage. As you were discovered trespassing on sacred ground with neither guide nor permission, in the company of the most wanted individual in the Empire, I’d say that was cause enough. But this is not a trial. That will occur in due course. Be under no illusions; your political status will not protect you here. By all accounts, your High Warden has his hands well and truly full. If you step out of line or speak up again, I will have you executed on the spot!” His voice rose on this last, and Tris noticed gun barrels extending from a decorative cornice on all corners of the ceiling.

  Kreon muttered something foul under his breath, and Tris made a silent plea to him to stop. The Warden never reacted well to authority, but Tris had no desire to see him blown to bits right there.

  After a few seconds’ silence, the grey-haired old man resumed his seat. He looked at Tris and Kyra as though noticing them for the first time. “And these others?”

  “The same, Your Excellency,” Gerian supplied.

  The old man didn’t even blink. “Very well. I’ll inform Supreme Magistrate Otonus, but his schedule is very busy at the moment. I’m sure he will have some thoughts on this matter. Till then, do what you want with them.”

  Kreon looked like he was about to burst a vein. Tris knew he was about to attack. He tensed, ready to do what he could — hopefully Kreon had managed the same trick with all their cuffs that he’d done with his own — and sized up the guard nearest to him.

  But then he felt a familiar rubbery feeling in his legs. Kreon staggered and fell to his knees, then slumped forward on the floor. Gerian had activated that damn pine cone again. As Tris sagged backward he saw that Kyra was also prone. The guards made room for them as they sprawled on the floor, then picked them up, one man to a limb — two each on Kreon — and carried them out of there.

  The cell Tris was taken to was deep within the tower. They’d ridden an elevator, though whether up or down he couldn’t say. All the corridors and passageways were the same uniform white, with no markings he could see to make sense of them. His escort twisted and turned seemingly at random, and after a while he noticed that the guards carrying Kreon and Kyra had split off in another direction. Alone with his captors, he suddenly felt cold. This was real, and wherever he was being taken he was being deliberately separated from his friends. Anything could happen in here, to any of them. He had a sudden flash of fear that the guards would take out their frustrations on him as he lay there immobile, but they didn’t — they simply tossed him into his cell and left him lying where he fell. The bars slid shut and a growing hum told him there was power running through them.

  The stresses of the day combined again with the strange paralysis, turning his eyelids to lead. He succumbed briefly to the urge to close them, and within minutes he was asleep.

  He woke to pain.

  He must have been drugged, as he had no recollection of being brought from his cell into this stark white box. He was naked, though that wasn’t too much of a mystery; his jumpsuit lay in ribbons on the floor next to him. He was fastened into a plastic chair, with straps around his arms, legs and forehead. He discovered another encircling his chest when he tried to take a deep breath. The pain had been fleeting; something had stabbed into the side of his neck. Now the area felt warm and numb… Tris wondered what they’d put into him. A locater most likely, to keep track of him while he was in there. At least this wasn’t a full-on torture session; he saw no trays of scary tools, no evid
ence of previous victims bleeding out. The only other person in the room, beside a pair of guards at the door, was a gaunt man in a white-gown.

  Doctor, Tris identified immediately.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” he said to Tris. “That will make this easier. I’m going to release the restraints, and then I’d like you to get dressed.”

  A second later the band around Tristan’s forehead loosened. Carefully he twisted his head from side to side, feeling for the foreign presence in his neck. His chest released, and he took a breath reflexively. Then his wrists came free, giving him the chance to rub his neck.

  The doctor stepped away and gestured to a small table that had been out of Tris’ line of sight. On it lay a neatly folded jumpsuit in bright yellow.

  Ugh! Not really my colour, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  He slid from the chair, testing his legs before putting weight on them.

  “Oh, one more thing.” The doctor came forward brandishing a scalpel. Tris shrank back, his ass colliding with the chair, but the doc leaned over bringing the blade to his throat. Tris froze — then a second later, with a sound like a wave breaking, he felt the world around him come rushing in.

  The doctor stood back, holding the Kharash pendant on its severed thong.

  Tris screwed his eyes shut tight as thoughts bombarded him with deafening volume. Frantically he reached for a speck of darkness, dragging it towards him as Kyra had shown him. He stretched the square of black, bringing it down over his brain like a bonnet, slowly squeezing out the thoughts around him. He put more mental energy into the construct, making it thicker, more solid, until at last he felt he could open his eyes. Though it had felt like an hour of spikes stabbing into his brain, it had only taken a second; the doctor regarded him curiously, then shrugged and turned away, dropping the pendant into a clear box.

  Tris took deep breaths, his mind recovering with each one. Soon he could function again, though his hands shook as he lifted the yellow jumpsuit from the table.

  He took his time dressing, and cast his mind out through tightly-controlled gaps in the protective shroud. To begin with, he targeted the people in the room. He could tell straight away that the doctor was cruel, but bored, and didn’t consider Tris a threat.

  The guards at the door were also bored, and they considered themselves to be the threat. The doctor was thinking about his wife, that she was angry but that he’d put her in her place; one guard was reminiscing about a beating he’d recently delivered, while the other was in debt unfairly, and was pissed off about it.

  It was Tris’ first time being able to properly read minds since they’d entered Lemurian space. It occurred to him that of all people, the thugs working directly for the Keepers of the Faith would have nothing to hide. Walking around with a permanent mental barrier raised was probably not encouraged this deep in the spider-web.

  He finished dressing, the loose-fitting jumpsuit as flimsy as it was garish. The doctor looked him over and nodded curtly; the guards came forward, humming batons raised. Tris could only guess what would happen if one if them touched him, and he decided not to give them a reason to try. The doc gave the box with the pendant in it to one of the guards, then the pair of them ushered Tris toward the door. Two more guards waited outside; if he’d had his glaive, Tris was confident he could have taken out the lot of them. As it was, he had little choice but to fall in between them as they marched him off to who knows where. Back to his cell, hopefully…

  Or not. A few more twists of the stark white labyrinth brought them to the first distinctive door Tris had seen. Its rich wood paneling looked so out of place set into the featureless corridor that he knew straight away what was on the other side of it. Of course Gerian would maintain an office here — and of course it would be as ostentatious as possible. At times, Tris honestly doubted they shared a genetic code.

  As before, two guards waited outside whilst the other pair escorted him in. The room they entered was even more extravagant than its equivalent on Berasko Station. A faithful recreation of some prep-school headmaster’s study, rich wooden bookcases lined the walls, every shelf crammed with dusty tomes. The floor was a thick cream carpet and the vast oak desk looked at least a hundred years old.

  Gerian sat behind it, lounging at ease in a padded leather office chair. One of the guards came forward and placed the box containing Tris’ pendant in front of him. Gerian cast only a cursory glance at it, as the guard and his friend took up positions either side of the door. Tristan’s mind was still reeling from the psychic noise as he approached the desk.

  “Ah, young Tristan,” Gerian began. “This must all be a bit of a shock to you. I gather you appreciate my collection? All genuine artefacts from Earth, of course.”

  Tris said nothing. The clone wasn’t worth his time, and probably knew all the answers anyway. As if on cue, Gerian smiled.

  “There’s something different about you…? Ah, yes! It was this trinket then? Those Kharash, eh! They really knew how to make a thing or two.”

  Again, Tris said nothing. The casual ease with which Gerian was pulling facts from his mind disturbed him, but there was nothing he could do about it. Briefly, he thought of the Empress of the River of Silver Flashes, and the multi-coloured thread-work she’d used to screen her thoughts. It was far beyond his ability to replicate, but Kyra had briefly taught him about hardening a shroud around his mind to keep an enemy out.

  Gerian frowned. “Yet you do know some basic blocking techniques? Fascinating! They’re of no use of course.”

  This time Tris felt the probing fingers of Gerian’s mind as they roamed his protective shell, seeking out a weakness.

  “Very interesting…”

  Then Gerian attacked. Tris could think of no other word to describe it — suddenly the pressure in his head built to a crushing weight, and a spike of pure force drove into him like a dagger. He roared in pain, the sound a tsunami of white light in his brain, and flung the spike away from him.

  Gerian staggered back as though struck, slamming into the bookcase behind him. The pain in Tris’ head faded, and he saw the dazed expression on Gerian’s face. A trickle of blood was running from the clone’s nostril.

  I did that!

  He was shaping the power of his mind into a spike to push back at Gerian when he sensed a flash of intent. Too late he turned — just as the guard’s rifle butt connected with his head.

  The last thing he saw before darkness took him was Gerian wiping the blood from his nose. The Assessor General’s snarl followed him down into unconsciousness. “You’ll pay for that…”

  28

  Tris knew little of his next few days.

  He was never sure if he was awake or unconscious, inside or out, or which way was up.

  Only two things were constant: the pain — indescribable agony, as though every fibre of his being was torn apart over and over, from his toes to his teeth — and Gerian’s smiling presence, overseeing all of it.

  His mind had no respite. There was no corner he could hide in, no place that was safe from Gerian’s prying tendrils. The stab of the Assessor General’s thoughts were sometimes like needles, at others like knives. Tris felt flayed, from the inside out. Every secret he had was laid bare; he screamed his throat raw betraying his friend Mark, revealing the million pounds that lay untouched in a random bank in Bristol. Childhood fears were given away along with adolescent insecurities. With every shred of consciousness he fought to retain the memory of his mother aboard the Folly, and the feeling of Eleanor Fitzgerald’s lips on his — but to no avail. Gerian tore both from his mind, leaving ragged scars where Tris had fought to keep them.

  A team of shadowy faces swam behind him, either supporting his efforts or just casual bystanders — Tris was too shredded to tell the difference. If he slept, the torture carried on through his dreams, the pain resounding endlessly in a never-ending cycle of torment and echo. He felt his sanity slipping, like a frayed old sail on a boat flapping in the wind, tearing a little m
ore with every gust. He no longer knew if he was screaming or not; all he could hear was a thin wail, his mind so far from comprehending physical sensation that it could be coming from anywhere.

  And then, without warning, it stopped.

  Slowly, an inch at a time, he clawed himself up into the sudden silence. As knowledge of his surroundings returned to him, the stench hit him like a punch. He was filthy; his once-yellow jumpsuit was encrusted with bodily fluids. He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling; it was white, he realised, and smooth, curving down to meet the walls with no visible seams. The floor felt flat and hard below him; he imagined it being the same material, though he wasn’t quite able to move enough to check.

  When he did move, it began with the tiniest twitch of his fingers. When that produced no pain, no wave of nausea, he dared to move his hands. He worked his way up his body, finally managing to turn his head to the side. His cheek pressed against the smooth white surface — exactly like the roof, he noted.

  Time to get up, Tris!

  He froze. He didn’t remember thinking that thought. It had come from somewhere else, like the echo of something he’d said earlier rebounding from the pristine whiteness opposite him. Only he hadn’t spoken. His throat was dry, his breath rasping in and out. He didn’t think he could speak if he tried.

  Get up you flabby sack of shit!

  This time, Tris did sit up — the command was strong enough to take him over, like someone else had a remote control to his body.

  Who— who is this? he ventured.

  Ah, for Sydon’s sake! He felt a wave of exasperation, and the image came to him of a pretty girl rolling her eyes at him. He could almost put a name to the face… K... Kelly? No… Kara? Regardless, he knew in a wave of certainty that the voice was someone he trusted.