Can you help me?
I can bitch slap your stupid clone face, if that helps?
He felt the ghost of a laugh rising through his ruined chest. How did that happen?
Duuuh! You got shot, dickhead! But you’re all better now. At least, I hope so.
Karra? Are you… are you okay?
You mean, am I real? I am. And whilst I know you’re fond of your mother, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mix the two of us up. I mean, urgh! I kissed you, for crying out loud!
The memory of that event accompanied the message — and suddenly he was sitting on the steel deck inside a spherical battle station, sobbing his heart out. Because…? The details escaped him, but he knew it was important. Something fundamental had changed. He knew more about himself than he had before. And the kiss had helped him to understand… something. To feel some new sense of… appreciation? Of belonging. To a team. To something greater than himself. Certainly something prettier…
And with that, he remembered not just Kyra, but an unbelievably fragile girl, a tiny slip of a thing with pale skin and freckles, a halo of auburn curls framing her face. A surge of feeling rose within him, a pang of shame followed by a burst of ferocious protectiveness. This girl, he knew, he would defend until his last breath. He would die for her.
Hahahahahaha! The laugh was musical. Protect her? I’d love to see you try! But hey, that’s good. That thing you’re feeling? That anger? You can use it.
Tris realised the voice was right. Without even noticing it, he’d climbed to his feet. His fists were tensed, his right foot back, his weight centred and low in a fighting stance. That he could move at all was a surprise; part of him had thought his limbs had been torn off at some point. His body was whole, at least as far as he could tell. There was no bleeding. He extended his senses, probing his whole body a piece at a time. There was nothing wrong; nothing felt out of place. Amazingly, nothing hurt; the intense pain he’d been feeling was all in his mind. Even the memory of it made him wince, his shoulders tensing to ward off some imaginary blow.
No! Come on Tris, he told himself. He was mildly surprised that he remembered his own name — and with that notion came a flood of other images, memories and sensations swirling around him like a sandstorm. “Kyra! And Kreon…”
He realised he was speaking aloud. His throat did still hurt, as though someone had taken a cheese grater to it.
Oh no! Your beautiful singing voice! Kyra was mocking him. Suddenly he remembered the feeling of her mocking him — it felt warm, a flush of heat that travelled up from the pit of his stomach all the way to his face.
Okay, you’re embarrassing me now, she told him. Get your shit together, Tris! You’re about to have visitors.
And that’s when he felt the other presences approaching him. Two men; one full of rage and frustration, one quiet and calm. The calmness masked hidden depths; he was by far the more dangerous of the two.
I’ll kill him first, Tris decided.
No! The voice warned. Be careful, Tris. Save your anger. You’re going to need it. They’re coming for all of us. I don’t know what’s happening, because they don’t. But it’s nothing good. Be ready.
And at that exact moment, the angry man arrived outside Tristan’s cell. “Get up,” the man spat, ignoring the fact that Tris was already on his feet. “You’re coming with us.” Derision coloured every word. Tris heard him, but it took him a second to process the man’s meaning. He looked around; he was in a cell, he realised, and these people were his jailers. They were the enemy — but not the ones who had inflicted the pain. Even the memory of the pain made him shrink, made him want to fold in on himself, to curl up in a ball. He felt his legs start to shake as the bars slid open with a noise like thunder. But he stayed upright, swaying slightly, as the two guards took him by the arms and dragged him out of the cell.
He found it easy not to fight.
Wherever he was going, he would get there. The two men were doing all the work, after all; Tris just relaxed and let them take the burden.
It’s what they get paid for.
And with that thought, he started to laugh.
“This one’s properly gone,” one of the guards said to the other.
“Yeah, no shit! His head’s so full o’ holes you could piss through it.”
Tris caught the ugly sentiment that accompanied that; this guard, the more obviously brutal one, really enjoyed causing pain. He’d done it recently; the smell of fear still clung to him, along with the scent of blood.
Laughter welled out of Tris now, uncontrollably. The idea that this guard could cause him pain — when he, Tris, had sliced his blade through more bodies than he cared to count — was hilarious.
“Shut up,” the quieter guard said. There was no threat it in — only boredom.
Tris ignored him and chuckled on. The joke was too funny — that after all he’d been through, either of these too try-hards could do anything to hurt him.
“I’m going to kill you,” Tris said suddenly.
The guards didn’t pause. “Oh yeah? Which one of us?” the loud one asked, as they dragged him down the corridor.
That depends, Tris fired a barb into the man’s mind. On which one of you moves the fastest.
The violent intrusion caused the loud man to jump. The quiet man freed up one of his hands and delivered a vicious punch to Tristan’s ribs. “Stay out of our heads, or you won’t make it to the rec room,” he threatened.
Rec room?
I’m already there, replied the voice.
Kyra?
Glad you remember me at last. You know, I’m not the kind of girl people usually forget.
Sorry! It’s been… I’ve had a rough week.
You and me both. The tone of her thoughts turned sour, and Tris shrank back from it. His pain was already too big to address; he didn’t dare approach hers.
I’m okay, she replied. But I’m stronger than you.
Her mocking tone had returned, and he embraced it. They must have taken your boots though. I bet you’re still sore about it.
I’m not gonna lie. I’ve killed people for less.
You fancy killing some now? I’ve got two coming right your way.
Not yet. We’ll see how this thing plays out first.
Kyra? If they take me back for… more. I can’t… I just can’t. Will you kill me? Please?
A wave of exasperation flowed from her. How’s about I make you a cup of shut the fuck up? We’re in this together — you, me, Kreon and the scrawny chick. Together, we’re stronger than all of them. But I need you to get your shit together. You got that? Cope with torture on your own time. We’ve got shit to do here.
Sorry, he replied reflexively.
Don’t be sorry! Just be ready to kick some fucking ass!
Kyra, I was born ready.
And carried on a wave of her laughter, he felt his spirit rise. The two men dragging him down the blank white corridor had no idea. He was floating above them, a being of pure power, and at the first opportunity he would rain down destruction upon them.
Because kicking ass was what he did.
The rec room was exactly like it sounded. After a hosing down with ice-cold water and the donning of a fresh yellow jumpsuit, Tristan’s escorts dragged him into a big white room with tables and couches scattered about at random. A single large viewscreen dominated the longest wall, with most of the chairs arranged to face it. The guards dumped him in one of the chairs and joined a handful of their colleagues at a table near the only entrance.
Clean and shivering, and reasonably sure he was both awake and alive, Tris took stock of his surroundings. In two more chairs across from him sat Kreon and Kyra. Tris raised a hand to wave to them, then noticed that both of them were staring fixedly at the screen.
What is it?
Not now, Kyra responded.
Tris shook himself, determined to shed the last vestiges of unreality. His mind had been his own again for such a short time, and he was still e
xploring the edges. He looked up at the screen more out of mild curiosity than anything else — but what he saw there hit his addled brain like a bucket of ice-water in the face.
Ingumen.
No — it was Àurea. She was someone special, he knew, and someone deeply significant. It was no wonder she was on TV… but she didn’t look good.
An action replay was showing the monstrous helmet being lifted off her head. Inside was something even more terrifying; a scar that was hideous to look at, ravaging the left side of a strong, proud face. The camera zoomed out slightly, showing the woman’s partially-armoured torso. Every bit of exposed flesh showed signs of damage — cuts and bruises, the evidence of a serious beating. Perhaps several, it was hard to tell. Clearly, she’d been through the wringer. As the inset picture of her unmasking disappeared, Tris’ attention was drawn back to the main picture. On it, the same girl wore a baggy yellow jumpsuit. She stood defiant in a pale stone room, her arms chained to the floor either side of her. She was trembling, though with pain or rage Tris couldn’t tell. A row of important-looking people sat facing her on a raised dais. The one in the centre wore striking white robes that picked him out of the background. It was an older man, with grey hair and beard, though both were immaculately groomed. He was speaking, and Tris tried to focus his attention on the signals coming in through his ears.
“—has been proved, beyond any shadow of a doubt. The woman facing us, though unknown to our genetic records, is none other than the self-styled leader of the Ingumend! That foul band of terrorists and murderers have long plagued our society, but no more! This… woman, and the group she leads, have sewn chaos throughout our Empire. Killing where they choose, taking what they want; they are nothing more than thieves and pirates preying on the very institutions that protect us all. Their mindless pursuit of power, their insatiable greed — these things differentiate them from the rest of us, honest citizens who work together to promote peace and equality. For we are all equal in the eyes of the Gods! And when the Gods return, their fiery judgement will rain down upon the unjust. Upon the trouble-makers and the greedy; on those that seek to place themselves above others for their own gain!”
He paused, clearly needing a few seconds to recover his breath after such an impassioned rant. The old man fussed with his robe, smoothing it a fraction, then cleared his throat. “As such, it is the judgement of this court that Ingumen — her true name never to be known — will face death at the hands of those she sought to supplant. Her execution will be carried out by troops of the common militia — those people whose lives she has taken, whose husbands and sons she has murdered in her eternal quest for power.”
The old man looked around, then seemed to find the camera, addressing the viewing audience directly. “Said execution to follow this broadcast.” He turned back to the defendant, who was visibly sagging with the news. “Does the condemned have any last words?”
Àurea’s head came up, defiant to the last. “I do,” she snarled. “The people will remember this injustice. There is no freedom until all are equal. And there is no fear in the darkness. All nightmares will come true.”
The grey-haired old man stared at her, his distaste evident even through the viewscreen. “Very well,” he said, “take her away.”
The camera zoomed in on the prisoner as guards came forward to release her chains. She was obviously in bad shape, swaying on her feet as they took her arms. She was dragged offscreen, through a small metal door which clanged shut behind her. The old man took centre-stage again, as footage continued from a camera facing him.
“Never before have we faced such a threat as is represented by these dissidents,” he said, his voice disdainful and strident. “They will tear apart the very fabric of our society, if we let them! Maiming and murdering whoever lies in their path, with no regard for the common people they claim to represent. Let us cry, enough! With one voice, let us denounce these terrorists, these Ingumend — nightmares indeed, for so they style themselves. Citizens of Glorious Lemuria, I call upon you now to turn in these traitors, to report their whereabouts and aid their capture in any way you can. For information leading to a conviction, the financial reward is substantial, and no burden of proof will be placed upon you. Strike now, at the heart of these evil-doers! Give up their sanctuaries, their leaders, their fanatical followers. Together we can show these murderers that we will not tolerate them!”
A row of characters appeared along the top edge of the picture: ‘Report any suspicious activity to your local Magistrate, or directly to the Chancel of Assessors on the frequency listed below. Vigilance Benefits All.’
He paused, looking down, then reconnecting with the camera, his expression radiating sincerity. “Your vigilance keeps all of us safe. For that, we thank you.”
The screen cut to an image of twelve spinning globes in a circle.
Tris was left with a hollow feeling within him. What the old man had said made sense — except, he knew the woman they were accusing was good. A memory of her flashed into his head. She’d fought well, and had killed people directly in front of them. Did that make her a bad person? The memory carried on playing, and he saw himself shoot a soldier that was poised to attack her. Was the soldier bad? Or was Tris in the wrong for shooting him? He’d felt an overwhelming certainty of righteousness as he fired the shot; at the time at least, he’d been sure he was doing the right thing. And he’d seen that old man before somewhere. The appeal to the public was a facade, he was sure, hiding a much more sinister motivation.
Whoever these people were that he was appealing to, Tris knew they should be more scared of the old man than of the battered girl he’d condemned.
Tris had just finished processing these thoughts when the screen flared back to life — this time showing a wide expanse of metal decking. He recognised it, actually — it was a landing pad, not too far from the one they’d arrived on. Àurea had been tied to a steel column in the centre of the space, her body sagging weakly against the metal. Beside her, a burly guard in full armour stood resting on a sword as tall as he was.
The camera switched angles, showing a row of soldiers facing Àurea. Each wore a plain black jumpsuit rather than armour; their faces were bare, revealing expressions taut with anger and hatred. Each carried a rifle, and at a command from the guard next to Àurea they raised their weapons in unison.
Tris heard Kreon give an inarticulate cry, but he couldn’t look away from the screen. They’ll save her, he thought, the Ingumend will save her! They must be watching, they’ll know, they have people everywhere…
Yet as he watched, nothing happened to stop the proceedings. The men with rifles took aim, the screen zooming in to show the concentration on their faces, before switching to a wider view.
“Fire!” came the command.
Nine rifles discharged. Dimly, Tris remembered there being some significance to the number nine. Àurea’s body jerked violently as the rounds hit home, great bloody welts blossoming against the bright yellow of her jumpsuit. She cried out wordlessly, sliding down the pole to her knees. The camera zoomed in on her as she sagged forwards against her bonds, head down, blood dripping from her mouth and nose. Her life was ebbing away, pulsing out of her body with the blood. The guard next to her took stock and decided his time was right. Standing briefly to attention, he swung the huge sword high over his head, letting it hang there for a second to reflect the light. Then he brought it down in one smooth motion, severing Àurea’s neck in a single blow. Her head hit the metal deck with a thud, rolling sideways until the swordsman stopped it with his boot. The camera zoomed in again, capturing her features full-screen; her face was frozen in a rictus of pain, her eyes half-closed, her mouth hanging open on a silent scream.
Tris felt himself falling, and realised Kyra’s mind was reeling with shock, translating the feeling to him. From Kreon he felt nothing but anguish — a single wave of pain so pure and heart-rending, Tris thought the Warden was dying too.
But he didn’t. He
fell off his chair, hitting the deck hard. He didn’t even put his hands up to save himself, just toppled like a felled tree. Kyra leapt up to help him, but went skidding sideways as her legs stopped working. Tris went to stand, but found he couldn’t.
And then he noticed Gerian, who had sneaked quietly into the room during the broadcast. The evil bastard was grinning ear to ear, lapping up their despair like it was nectar. And in his hand, that bloody pine cone had worked its magic again. Tris collapsed to the floor, unable to do anything but watch as Gerian strode over to stand amongst them.
“So, Lord Anakreon, our first execution seems to be a resounding success! We have the names and locations of most of her colleagues, and soon they’ll all face the same fate. Which brings me to you three. We’ve a few days yet, until your turn comes around. We have to give the public time to digest, you understand? To make sure they appreciate the message. But I’m afraid your feeble quest has come to nothing, as I predicted it would. You, and every member of your crew, will die. I will use your incursion as an excuse to punish your precious Order. Indeed, I already have! The wheels are in motion, so to speak. Your feeble fortress will fall, and every Warden in it will be killed. I will destroy the lot of you, and when that is done, I will take the Earth. Perhaps then you Lantians will finally understand who is the master in this relationship.”
29
Oktavius, High Warden and Grand Master of the Order, stared up at the night sky.
If he squinted, he convinced himself he could see the ships massing over Atalia. There was no atmosphere beyond the fragile bubble that covered the fortress, and his eyes had been cybernetically enhanced, so perhaps he wasn’t fooling himself?
Certainly, there were enough of the damn things.
The stalemate had held for days now. Every ship that remained loyal to the Wardens had been called in, hastily assembled into a hodgepodge fleet that hung just beyond orbit. Their message was simple: to reach Atalia, you have to go through us.
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