Embers of Esper: A Sci Fi Adventure (Warden's Legacy Book 1)

by Tony James Slater

  That had to be Jen’s doing. The old woman was bent over Alek’s comm-chip, one hand pressed against her ear as she yelled at the tiny device. Alek was sheltering her as best he could, using his tablet to shield his face from flying debris.

  Tris racked his brain for an answer to their problem. The Folly? No. The giant battle station was hours away; by the time it arrived, Kyra’s city and all its residents would be turned to ashes.

  “Ella!” he shouted. She’d moved away from him, readying herself for battle with a sword in her hand. “Your ship — where is it?”

  “Hidden in the forest on the far side of the city.”

  “Damn it!”

  “It’s the best we’ve got,” Kyra said, touching her mother’s arm. “Get these people to safety. And get yourself there, too.” She beckoned to Ella and Lukas, and turned to go.

  But one of the Ring-dwellers, his rainbow wig askew and flapping, dropped to his knees in front of her. Head bowed, he raised a hand as though asking her permission for something.

  Kyra made to walk around him, but he shuffled sideways on his knees, blocking her path.

  “Goddamnit, I don’t have time for this!” she slapped his hand away.

  The Ring-dweller looked up. “Chosen One, you must lead us in this time of trial.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do,” she snarled. “Get out of my way!”

  Instead, he clutched her legs. “Then you must come with us. We will launch the vessel that has been prepared by my people.”

  She was about to slap him again, when she froze mid-swing. “What? What vessel? Are you telling me you guys have a ship?”

  “A mighty and glorious vessel, oh Chosen One! You must command it in our hour of need.”

  Tris caught her gaze. “Are these guys for real? They helped us up on the Ring, but…”

  “We live to serve the Chosen One,” the Ring-dweller crooned.

  Kyra growled at him. “For Sydon’s sake, knock it off!”

  “Your ship has guns?” Tris asked. He stabbed a finger at the sky. “Guns that can tackle that?”

  “Many weapons systems have been brought online.” The man’s voice, skinny like the rest of him, had a sing-song quality.

  “He’s telling the truth,” Tris said, using the Gift to confirm it.

  “I know that!” Kyra was studying the man’s face. She glanced up at Ella, then at the terrified mob of people milling around outside the city. “Ah, screw it. Let’s go.”

  A loud explosion made them all flinch, and a flaming fighter streaked past right above them, slamming into the ground with deafening force.

  “Which way?” Tris shouted, his ears ringing.

  But Kyra was still looking up at the sky. “We’ve got other problems.”

  He followed her gaze, and saw several rectangular objects detaching from the barge. Shit! Are those bombs? Or… Jets flared on the mysterious objects, turning them about and slowing their descent. They grew bigger as they approached, heading directly towards the frantic crowd. A cold knot formed in his stomach, as the answer dawned on him. Robots…

  And judging by the number of containers heading their way, a lot of them.

  “That changes things.” He groped for his knife and staff, pulling them free.

  Lukas had barely said anything since leaving Laugarren, but now he clomped forward and put a hand out to stop Tris. “Go,” he said. “We got this.” He pounded a steel-clad fist against his chest armour, then reached for his rifle. “I haven’t had a proper chance to test this out yet.”

  Ella moved to stand next to him, the short sword still in her grasp. It would have been a laughable weapon, except Tris knew how lethal she was. “They’re robots,” he warned her, unable to keep the dread from his voice.

  “I know, sweetie.” She ducked in close, planting a kiss on his cheek before he could react. Then she backed away, the sword dangling casually from her hand, and gave him a mischievous wink. “Don’t wait up.”

  Without another word, Lukas strode off, the whine of his armour lost amidst the screams of the dying. Ella sauntered along after him — less than half his size, but worth a hundred times her weight in sheer carnage.

  Tris wanted desperately to go with them. “I should stay and fight,” he said, noticing that his knife and staff were still in his hands.

  “Please don’t,” Kyra said.

  He snapped his head around to look at her. There’d been no trace of sarcasm in her plea, and that scared him.

  “Much as I hate to admit it, I can’t do this alone.” She gave him a rueful grin. “You’re my new demolitions expert. So get your ass in gear.”

  The Ring-dweller was back on his feet, beckoning them towards the makeshift tent. Tris took one last glance at Ella’s departing back — admiring the fluid grace she moved with — then turned and sprinted after Kyra.

  The tent was empty.

  Tris ducked through the stained-sheet entrance flap expecting to see rows of beds with casualties of the earlier violence writhing on them. Instead, there was only a wide patch of grass, heavily trodden, stained red in places and scattered with scraps of bandage and shredded clothing.

  The rest of the Ring-dwellers, eight in total, scurried in behind them and let the flap fall closed.

  The scrawny guy who’d pleaded with Kyra stood in the middle of the tent, pulled a small device from his belt and pressed a button… and the ground beneath Tris began to tilt. He staggered back — only to realise that the grass was splitting open along a perfectly straight line right in front of him. Kyra swayed with the motion, but her poise said she’d been ready for it. She’d probably picked the details of what to expect right out of the Ring-dweller’s head. Tris still felt uncomfortable with peering into someone else’s thoughts, particularly an ally’s. It was easy to see the benefits though, and he wondered how long it would take to erode that particular bastion of morality. It’s all for a good cause, he reminded himself. Which is the same justification Kreon used to murder, manipulate, and pretty much do whatever the hell he wanted.

  The patch of grass shuddered to a halt. It had now become a ramp, leading down into a steel-lined tunnel. Dim lighting revealed a mess of muddy footprints vanishing off in the direction of the city.

  “Nice.” Kyra stalked down the ramp and into the tunnel. “You guys have been busy.”

  Tris followed, as the rest of the Ring-dwellers swarmed past him. They made for a row of sleek black shapes, like futuristic canoes, that sat just inside the tunnel mouth. The whine of systems firing up filled the space, and Kyra flung a leg over one to straddle it behind its rider. Tris did the same, and grabbed for a built-in handle as the vehicle rose smoothly into the air. His feet dangled, before finding pegs jutting from the underside, and that extra touch of security freed him to look back. The grass ramp was returning to its previous position, and it occurred to him that the tent had been erected to conceal this feature. Not the most impenetrable disguise, but with the chaos going on outside it would probably do its job. The sounds of the bombardment grew muffled as the entrance closed, leaving them in a completely different world; one of cool air and clean, shiny metal walls.

  And they were astride what could only be described as hover-bikes.

  Kyra shot him a grin as her pilot leaned forward — and a second later they were racing down the tunnel side by side, lights flashing past above them as Tris kept a white-knuckled grip on the handle he’d found.

  She shouted something at him, but her words were lost to the rush of air between them. From her mind, he felt a hint of recognition… almost like she was coming home.

  You’ve been here before?

  Not this bit, she replied, I think this is new. But they’re taking us beneath the city, to a… an area that I used to spend some time in.

  Is this where you tell me you spent your childhood in a sewer?

  She laughed, a far more musical sound in his head than it was out loud. Not quite. It was my secret base of operations for the war aga
inst Viktor’s mercenaries.

  See, I knew you were a spoiled brat. I didn’t even have a back garden.

  It was a thrilling ride, if somewhat trouser-staining, and he felt a fresh stirring of hope. Wherever they were headed, they were getting there fast. Ella and Lukas just needed to hold off Viktor’s robots for a bit longer. These ground-based Ring-dwellers had decent tech, so hopefully their ship was well-armed. If nothing else, he was still wearing his grav-belt; given enough height, he was reasonably sure he could drop onto that barge and cut his way in. Of course, that meant he was back to destroying the thing while he was still inside it…

  A few details to iron out. No big deal.

  The wind buffeting his face slackened, as they passed through a massive pressure door and slowed to a stop inside a large cargo bay. The lighting was dim, as it seemed to be everywhere down here; the Ring-dwellers obviously preferred it that way. Giant steel crates were stacked against the walls, surrounded by tidy piles of smaller boxes. Mounted on the ceiling high above, a crane-and-rail system reminded Tris of the ones inside Viktor’s barge. Of course, that barge wasn’t his to start off with. Hopefully that meant these crates weren’t packed full of killer robots…

  They dismounted, and as the whine of the engines died, a new sound reached Tris’ ears; the drone of many voices, all raised together in a chant.

  What the hell is that? Oh man, please don’t tell me we’ve to go through more of that weird shit from up on the Ring! I don’t think I can stand it.

  He sensed a similar frustration colouring Kyra’s mood; she was even more desperate than he was to keep moving. It was her city that was being turned to dust, after all.

  “Did we catch you at a bad time?” she asked. The expression on their guide’s face was not a happy one.

  “Not at all, Chosen One.” He made a bow, inadvertently turning his wig into a veil. “I must apologise, but there are some amongst us who have fallen from the true faith. They refuse to believe that your Conflagration fulfilled the prophecy, so they seek other paths. They hold their ceremonies down here; I fear we must pass their shrine to reach the elevator.”

  “Look at my face,” Kyra pointed for emphasis. “I don’t give a shit. My friends are fighting for their lives out there. From this point on, anyone who stands in my way gets cut in half. Okay?”

  The Ring-dweller nodded emphatically.

  “Great. Lead on, Mac.”

  He bowed again, suddenly beaming at her. “You know my name! Truly, you are the Chosen One.”

  “Yeah.” Kyra waved the praise away. “Though to be honest, I’m sure I could have guessed.”

  As they made their way between aisles of crates, the chanting grew louder. Tris couldn’t make out the words, and found he didn’t want to; there was a creepy vibe to this place, with pungent smells drifting on the air and the flicker of firelight up ahead. Why do these cults always have to get medieval? Someone should tell them that naked flames and togas are a bad combination.

  The Gift told him there was a sizeable gathering up ahead, though most of the participants had entered a zombie-like trance state. Should make them easy to sneak past at least.

  But it was not to be. The wig-wearing Ring-dwellers had no compunction about upsetting their rivals. Rather than trying to skirt the edges of the crowd, they barged straight into the rear ranks, shoving them aside to clear the way. The scuffle drew enough attention that the chant faltered, and suddenly all eyes were on Tris and Kyra. They were in the middle of the pack, surrounded by their guides, and it didn’t take long for the mood to turn ugly. Angry muttering spread amongst the robed masses, as the wig-wearers tried to press on through. A cry went up, and Tris felt a flash of recognition run through the mob.

  “The false prophet!” someone shrieked. “How dare she desecrate our temple!”

  Shouts and jeers rang out, all directed at Kyra — “Liar! Blasphemer! Faithless! Murderer!”

  The tension ratcheted up a few notches, and the volume rose to match it. The cultists began to stomp their bare feet, drumming the deck with furious intensity.

  Tris could sense that Kyra was ready to snap. He shied back from the image that conjured up; her swords would make a real mess of this crowd, none of whom wore anything more protective than a bedspread. There had to be another way. Kyra’s emotional state was all over the map lately, but he knew she’d regret it if she massacred a roomful of unarmed nut-jobs.

  He sighed inwardly. Saving her from herself. She needs someone doing that full-time.

  “Hey!” he yelled, waving his hands for attention. “Forget about us. We’re just passing through.”

  The wig-wearers took that to heart, and redoubled their efforts. They forced their way through the crowd, and Kyra strode along between them. Tris backed up at the rear of the group, and the cultists closed in on him from all sides.

  “She cannot be allowed to enter!” someone bellowed.

  “She’s evil!” someone else spat.

  “She tore us from our home!” cried another.

  Scanning the sea of angry faces, Tris spotted their leader. A man in embroidered vestments stood before a cylindrical steel altar that towered up to the roof. Purple cloths hung down from it, adorned with symbols that matched the preacher’s robes. Candles were spaced evenly around its base, and the whole thing was dripping with fairy lights.

  But no dead bodies nailed to the walls, he noted. Not yet, anyway.

  Kyra’s group had reached the elevator, and when the doors opened they fled inside.

  She had her swords in hand, he noticed; if he was going to prevent a bloodbath, he had to hold these lunatics off for a few more seconds. Still backing away, he kept his hands outstretched and yelled the first thing that came to mind. “It’s not her you want, it’s me! I am the Chosen One!”

  His words had an immediate dampening effect on the crowd, and with the temporary respite he glanced back, gauging the distance. “I’m sorry,” he called out. “I visited your part of the Ring. There was a great battle, and your old homes were consumed by fire. There is nothing left for you to return to. Many of your brothers and sisters gave their lives. They fought bravely, and death was their only reward.”

  He reached the entrance to the lift, and confusion from the crowd lapped up against him.

  “What know you of the great Conflagration?” the priest at the back snarled.

  Tris lowered his hands, letting sincerity show on his face. “It was my fault,” he admitted. “I caused it.”

  Then he was inside, and the doors slid shut in front of him. A wave of relief so strong he could taste it rolled off his companions, and he leaned his forehead against the cold steel door while the tension drained out of him.

  “Funny,” Kyra said from behind him. “There was me thinking that I was the Chosen One.”

  He closed his eyes, and tried to get his breathing back under control. “It’s complicated,” he told her. “Some of them prefer boys.”

  They rode the rest of the way up in silence, and the lift doors opened onto an utterly different scene. All was calm and orderly, as white-robed figures sat before glowing consoles in an octagonal room. It would almost have looked normal, were it not for the long, rainbow-striped wigs adorning every head. The middle of the floor was missing, granting a view down to the level below, and a railing ran around the edge to guard against the drop. The quiet hum of computers doing their thing was the only sound.

  Kyra gasped. “The command centre?”

  Surprise radiated off her, though Tris didn’t know why; it seemed as good a name as any. Her voice had a strange effect, though. Whatever they called the place, it suddenly came alive. Pale-skinned operators sprang up from their consoles, shock and awe on their faces. They dropped to their knees all around the room, babbling excitedly under their breath.

  Kyra ignored it all. She was turning on the spot, gazing around the place open-mouthed. “You got all this crap to work?” Disbelief coloured her tone. “It’s got to be thousands of
years old.”

  “It is the craftsmanship of our ancestors,” Mac said proudly. “Long they must have laboured in its creation, and long have we laboured to restore it.”

  She gave herself a shake, coming back from wherever she’d gone. “Okay, forget about that crap. This is all very nice, but where’s the ship?”

  Confusion furrowed Mac’s brow. “Why, Chosen One… we are inside it.”

  This time, her jaw fell open for real. “What do you mean? This isn’t… this can’t be… wait. You’re telling me this is a ship?”

  Mac’s scrawny chest puffed out even further. “Not just any ship. It is the ship! The sacred vessel that carried our ancestors between the stars. For ten-thousand years it has lain dormant beneath your city, awaiting the call of the Faithful. Now you are here, Chosen One, and the ark of our people will ascend once more!”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Tris couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Ten-thousand years? Holy shit! This thing is never going to take off.

  His mind whirled, as the enormity of this disaster crashed down on him. Lukas and Ella were out there, fighting against possibly overwhelming odds. They were counting on him to come through — to take the fight to the enemy, stopping Viktor before he destroyed everything and everyone. And here I am, stuck with a bunch of whack-jobs inside a derelict spaceship. He ran the numbers; it had taken only minutes to get here, and they could get back outside just as quick. Assuming they didn’t have to stop and fight the mob downstairs…

  But the wig-wearers had recovered from their fit of piety, and were back at their consoles. Mac was shouting orders, and clunks and clanks echoed through the chamber.