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

by Tony James Slater

  “All systems report ready,” one operator sang out, and a deep bass hum began to emanate from somewhere deep below.

  Maybe it can fly? Tris was fast running out of options. He had to make his choice now — either grab Kyra and convince her to get the hell out of here, or squeeze his eyes shut and pray they didn’t blow up on the launching pad. Do we even have a launching pad? Aren’t we underground?

  His reservations were piling up, and Kyra seemed frozen with indecision. On the upside, he’d visited several ancient structures that her ancestors had turned into flying machines; Atalia itself was of a similar vintage, and it had been built into a moon the first time he’d set foot there. Now it was drifting out near Jupiter, playing host to half the Earth Defence Force…

  Ah, screw it, he thought. That’s what Kyra would say. If she wasn’t having some kind of seizure. Great timing, by the way.

  He grabbed her shoulder, just as she seemed to snap out of it.

  “We’re buried beneath the palace,” she said, accosting Mac as he took his place at a console. “The entire Dome is up there. There’s no way out.”

  Mac’s reply was positively giddy. “The ancestors have provided! The buildings above will fall at the push of a button, clearing the path for our ascension.”

  Ascension? That word had a disturbing ring of finality to it. Tris hoped the journey he was referring to wasn’t a one-way trip.

  “But…” Kyra was aghast. “The royal palace…” Her voice went small. “My bedroom is in there. All my clothes…”

  Tris squeezed her shoulder, steering her around to face him. “You know what? I don’t think they’ll fit you anymore.”

  The trauma obviously ran deeper than he expected; the look she turned on him was distraught. “I always thought… I’d come back one day…”

  There was only one thing for it. Desperate times call for desperate measures. He looked her in the eye. “Kyra, if we live through this battle, I promise that I will take you shopping on Earth.”

  Her breath caught, and she searched his face. “You really mean that?”

  “I do. On one condition,” he wagged a finger at her. “You are not allowed to burn anything down.”

  “Awww!” she stuck her bottom lip out. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  It was only then that he realised she was playing him. Even now, with the world falling down around her ears… Unbelievable.

  Why thank-you. I’m taking that as a compliment. She turned to Mac, snapping her fingers to get his attention. “Alright then, you bunch of freaks. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Light flared on the ceiling, the eight triangular panels glowing bright white before fading to darkness. Viewscreens, Tris realised, as a narrow sliver of daylight stretched across them. Chunks of masonry began to rain down as the gap widened, a sound like distant thunder reaching down to set the ship’s hull trembling.

  “Ignition,” called someone on the far side of the room, and the tremor became more pronounced. Tris glanced around for somewhere to strap in, but he couldn’t spot a single spare seat. He caught Kyra doing the same, and traded shrugs with her. They both gripped the central railing and craned their necks to look up at the expanding patch of sky.

  A huge sculpture wobbled on the precipice above, daylight picking out features of a giant face before it toppled in. It struck the ship with a resounding clang, shattering into brightly-coloured fragments that clattered off down the sides.

  Clinging on for dear life, Tris still managed to raise an eyebrow at Kyra. “Was that a statue? Of you?”

  “No comment.”

  The hail of debris was mostly missing them now, great blocks of stone pinwheeling past into the depths as what must have been the palace grounds rolled inexorably back.

  And then they began to rise, the whole ship quaking with the effort. But no sparks flew, and the only sound was the roar of their engines. Blue sky now filled the viewscreens, though it was wreathed in smoke; tiny silhouettes zipped back and forth, the last of Laugarren’s pilots putting up a brave struggle.

  As the ship’s nose poked up through the hole, they got their first glimpse of the destruction it had caused. A huge mound of rubble formed a ring around their exit point, like the ripple in a titanic Zen garden. How many buildings had been wrecked was impossible to know, but it was a fair bet that someone would be pissed off about this.

  Kyra chuckled.

  “Thinking what your mother will say?” he asked her.

  “Nope. Thinking about the mercenaries who were hiding in the palace. They won’t do that again.”

  No shit. Tris fervently hoped that no-one else had been killed. But if they didn’t stop Viktor, that wouldn’t matter; the rest of the city would soon end up the same way. “Hey, are the weapons ready?” he called out.

  Before Mac could respond, there was a chime from the elevator. All heads swivelled to look as the doors slid open, but Tris could already tell who was in there. Oh man… really? The blanket of stress and anxiety in the command centre was so suffocating that he hadn’t even clocked the three irate fanatics coming up in the lift.

  Kyra’s growl of annoyance told him she’d made the same mistake. “Why can’t these idiots take a hint?”

  The priest from the cargo bay stalked from the lift, the pallor of his bald head accentuated by the light from the overhead screens. The shaking of the deck made his purple robes sway, but he braced himself with the long, gear-threaded staff he carried. “You dare to launch the Ark!” he bawled. “You seek to force our hand? The prophecy will not be twisted by this wretched woman!” He stomped his staff on the deck in Kyra’s direction.

  Tris glanced up. They didn’t have time for this — the ship’s nose was now clear of the ground, though presumably the rest of it was still emerging. They had only seconds before they became a target; the last thing he wanted to do with that time was engage in theological debate.

  Kyra had an answer, and she let go of the railing to free up her hands. Tris knew bloodshed was imminent, but he had a horrible feeling that three violent murders might freak their crew out at the worst possible moment. Don’t do it, he pleaded with her. I’ll talk to them. You help Mac get us in the air, and watch out for Viktor.

  They’ve got two options, she replied, spinning on her heel. Gone or dead, in the next ten seconds.

  Fair enough. Keeping one hand on the railing to steady himself, he turned to face the priest. “Deal with me,” he said, “Because she’ll kill you just for looking at her funny. Now we can have a long chat about all this later, but right now I need you to leave.”

  “You seek to repress the truth,” the priest accused him, spittle flying. “You will burn too, when the Conflagration takes us!”

  “Yes, but until then, how about you go back to your nice little church and curse me from there? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re in the middle of a battle.”

  “You claim to be the Chosen One, but you are an imposter!” the priest shrieked.

  Tris risked a peek up at the viewscreens, seeing nothing but smoke and sky above them. We’re up! Which means the shooting’s about to start… and I’m out of time.

  The priest was still ranting about penalties for blasphemy, and Tris looked back at him — to see that he’d lowered the tip of his staff, and was cradling it like a rifle. What the…? Tris caught a flash of intent from the man’s mind, and flinched back as a brilliant green blast stabbed out from the staff. It slammed into the Aegis with a flash, deflecting off—

  And behind Tris, someone screamed.

  He turned towards the sound reflexively, just as one of the wig-wearing Ring-dwellers collapsed to the deck. Shit! Oh no! Oh god! His brain froze as he stared in horror at the scene before him. The world seemed to slow down around him, and everything took on a razor-edged clarity. Kyra bending over to catch the injured man, her rainbow hair swirling out to eclipse his; the other console operators twisting in their seats, shock hitting each face as they realised what had jus
t happened. And the grimace of the man who had taken the blast meant for Tris.

  It was Mac.

  The world sprang back to normal speed, and Tris leapt towards his assailant. But the priest had already slipped behind his bodyguards; Tris crashed into them, knocking them backwards.

  Down! Kyra sent to him, with such force that he was driven to his knees just by the message. Her blade lashed out above his head, sinking into the cultists and tearing the life from both men in one savage stroke. But as their bodies slumped to the deck, blood gushing from their wounds, the elevator doors slid shut on their boss.

  Tris raced to Mac’s side, while Kyra went in the opposite direction. She reached the lift doors and pounded on them, venting her frustration — but there was nothing else she could do. Tris could still sense the priest, descending unscathed, his mind ablaze with righteous fury.

  “Help me,” he called, “Mac’s bleeding out! I’m no good with this stuff.”

  Kyra’s rage burned hot within her, and he sensed the effort it took to rein it in. For long seconds he thought that she would give in to her first urge, and go chopping her way down through the decks until she reached the cargo bay.

  We’ll punish him later, he pleaded, if we live. But Mac won’t, unless we help him.

  Argh! Damn these frikkin’ idiots and their bullshit prophecies. She grabbed the railing, giving herself a moment to cool off before striding over. “Put pressure on the wound,” she snapped, crouching beside Mac. “And someone please tell me he’s not the only one that can fly this thing.”

  The ship had gained significant altitude in those few lost seconds, and Tris glanced up to see the shadow of Viktor’s barge encroaching on the viewscreens. Those monstrous gun barrels looked like drinking straws at this range, but already they were moving, swivelling around to track this new target. “Weapons?” he yelled. “Fire everything we’ve got at that barge!”

  He wasn’t sure if he was being obeyed or not — all his attention was fixed on Mac, using the Gift to monitor his life-signs while his hands tried to stem the blood flow.

  Kyra barked a similar command, and a report came back from one of the console operators.

  “Charging lasers. Fifty percent capacity.”

  She didn’t sound impressed with that. “What else have we got? Missiles! Send missiles!”

  A white box clunked down next to Tris, and he glanced up to see one of the Ring-dwellers crouching beside him. A slender young woman with a bald head and patterns of cogwheels embedded in her cheeks, she opened her case and pushed Tris aside to reach Mac’s injury. Tris stood, grateful to be relieved of the task, but clutched the railing as the ship shook violently.

  “Viktor’s firing,” Kyra told him, as they shook again. “Where the hell are those missiles?”

  “In the air,” came the reply. “Impacting…”

  Tris craned his neck to look over the speaker’s shoulder. His display showed fireballs blooming along the barge’s leading edge, but even at this range the damage looked minimal.

  “Laser’s charged,” someone on the far side of the room reported.

  “Then fire!” Kyra yelled at him.

  On the screen, great orange lines blazed out, striking the barge’s superstructure and vaporising small sections of its hull. The beams didn’t compare to the magnitude of the ones striking the city though, each one turning an entire block into a raging inferno.

  “Target those guns,” Kyra said, hunching over the display.

  “No, get above him,” Tris said, as the thought occurred to him. “The guns are only on the bottom.”

  She shot him a questioning glance, but repeated his order — with a curse word thrown in for good measure. They took another hit, and Tris wondered how much punishment this old relic could handle.

  “CLIMB!” Kyra screamed, obviously having the same thought, and the ship lurched and listed as its engines struggled against gravity and inertia.

  And inexplicably, the display they were staring at flared and went blank.

  When it sprang back to life, it showed an image of the shrine in the cargo bay, with robed cultists chanting on their knees. Tris did a double-take. “What the…?”

  Then the camera moved — it was a security feed, or something similar — and the smug face of the priest swam into view.

  “Bastard!” Kyra slammed her fist against the console, but it made no difference to the image on the screen; if the surprise in the room was anything to go by, this scene had taken over all the monitors.

  With the passion of a true fanatic, the priest glared into the camera. “I speak now to the followers of the False Prophet — that cruel temptress who has led so many of us astray. Join me now in the shrine, and forsake all blasphemy. Her presence is our sign that the prophecy will be fulfilled — the instrument of Conflagration has been unleashed upon us all! The hour has arrived, my brethren, whether you believe it or not. May your souls cry out to the void for forgiveness, because the salvation of the Faithful is at hand!”

  Tris wanted to reach through the monitor and slap some sense into the man. Talk about bad timing! Philosophical rants? Now? Are you frikkin’ kidding me?

  Luckily, the screen flicked back to its previous content — a view of Viktor’s barge, as flight after flight of missiles streaked towards it. Tris held his breath as point-defence guns sprang into action, a storm of bullets shredding the missiles before they got close. A couple slipped through, slamming into the fuselage, but their detonations barely registered against the colossal scale of the barge.

  “At least we’re splitting his fire,” Tris pointed out. He hated being so helpless, but nothing he could think of would make any difference.

  Kyra didn’t bother replying, instead devoting her attention to the read-outs on the next console over. “Cease fire with lasers,” she called out, “All power to thrust.”

  It was the only play they had left; if the barge’s upper side was vulnerable, and they could survive long enough to get above it, then maybe they could do some damage.

  The ship leapt like a scalded cat, the power diversion working to jump-start their acceleration. Another giant blast pummelled them, and alarms warbled as damage reports flicked across the monitors.

  “Shit! We can’t take much more of this.”

  A groan caught Tris’ attention, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Mac hauling himself upright on the railings. “Uhhh… heretics,” he said, and took a lurched step towards Tris. The medic who’d been working on him tried to grab him, but he thrust her away and fell in the direction of the console.

  Tris caught him, putting an arm around his ribs to keep him upright. “You’ve got to rest,” he said, “your people are doing a great job.”

  “No. Heretics,” Mac wheezed, his fingers reaching for the console. “The… Conflagration.” Reaching past the operator, he tapped a few keys.

  The display flickered again, and Viktor’s barge was replaced by the cargo bay. The cultists were still on their knees, bobbing up and down in worship. And before them, the object of their attentions gleamed in the flickering torchlight.

  The cylindrical altar had shed its drapes. No more fairy lights graced its surface; it stood proud and unadorned before its congregation.

  Kyra drew a sharp breath. “Holy shit! Is that what I think it is?”

  “Lau… garren,” Mac rasped.

  Tris read the thought straight from the man’s head. It’s a bomb! The one they got from Jen’s people. And that crazy bastard has turned it on…

  A doomsday cult, with a doomsday weapon, Kyra replied. I probably should have seen that coming.

  “What can we do?” Tris asked Mac. “How do we stop it?”

  But Mac’s eyes were glazing, and he slumped to the deck. The medic knelt beside him, a fatalistic look on her face.

  Appropriate enough. Tris studied the image on the screen, wondering if he could get down there in time to stop it. We could wipe out those nut-jobs in next to no time, but I can’t diffu
se a nuclear bomb! If that’s even what it is. Kyra? Any chance you’ve done a bit of bomb disposal?

  She didn’t dignify that with an answer. “How long?” she asked, directing her question at the Ring-dweller manning the console. “Can we at least deal with Viktor first?”

  The operator tapped a few keys, and a series of glyphs appeared in the corner of the display, changing rapidly. Thanks to his dad’s implanted memory chip, the strange squiggles gained meaning as they entered his brain; 14… 13… 12… 11…

  Ohhh… crap.

  The numbers continued to change, as the ship shuddered violently. It was a toss-up as to whether Viktor shot them down first, or the surprise bomb went off.

  The display flicked back to the exterior view, and he saw sunlight winking off the smooth upper surface of the barge’s hull. They were finally where they wanted to be… for all the good it would do them.

  And inspiration born of desperation flooded his cortex.

  “Kyra?”

  “I know!”

  It was like that, sometimes — the Gift connected them both so strongly during a crisis that it was hard to know who had the thought and who received it.

  “Roll the ship!” she yelled, “Put the cargo bay down! Helm, get us over the middle of that thing.”

  8… 7… 6…

  “Confirmed,” came the reply, and their view twisted up so that only the bottom edge of the screen still showed the barge.

  “BLOW THAT AIRLOCK!”

  It didn’t matter that she’d picked the wrong words; her meaning came across loud and clear. Another siren wailed — presumably a decompression warning, not that it mattered while they were still inside Esper’s atmosphere.

  The console operator flicked images…

  Just in time to see the entire contents of the cargo bay go spinning out into fresh air. The crates smashed into the doorframe, tearing great chunks out of it on their way to oblivion. The great steel cylinder flashed past like a javelin, carrying several toga-clad bodies with it, and it vanished off-camera in the direction of Viktor’s barge.

  Tris counted down silently, and knew that Kyra was doing exactly the same thing. 3… 2… 1…