Warden: A Novel

by Gregg Vann

  Tana had already taken another mouthful of apple so she smiled a reply, and then they started making their way through the wild growth again.

  They noticed the plant life beginning to thin out as they moved deeper into the ship, and the landscape started to take on the appearance of a proper forest. Barent and Tana glanced at each other in mild surprise when they happened upon a clearing in the woods, and their expressions shifted to astonishment when they spotted the small house at the center of it. Barent signaled for them to stop at the tree line so they could examine the wood-framed structure from concealment.

  They watched the animals corralled in a pen next to the simple dwelling as they ambled around inside their enclosure, and observed four cultivated fields at the back of the clearing, each sown with a different crop.

  “Barent…” Tana whispered.

  But before he could reach for his guns two people stepped out from behind the trees on either side of them—a man and a woman. Their faces were rigid, set hard and emotionless, and each was armed with a drawn bow.

  Barent and Tana froze when they noticed the metal tips of the arrows pointed right at their hearts.

  “Don’t move,” the man said to them, drawing his bow taut.

  “Don’t even twitch.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Hard to Kill

  An unfamiliar sound drifted into Dura’s dreamless sleep.

  It hovered just outside the edges of his consciousness, pushing hard to find a way in. To most people it would have simply gone unnoticed, never stirring any interest or acknowledgment. But Sergeant Dura wasn’t most people; he was a Warden. His trained mind immediately identified the faint wisps of sound as boots—lightly brushing across the micro-fiber flooring as their wearer crept forward.

  Dura sat up sharply in his bed, fully alert.

  Someone is in here.

  He slid down to the floor and crouched low, just as the door to his bedroom burst open. Dura peeked around the foot of the bed and saw three commandos storm into the room, sweeping their gun barrels in all directions looking for their target.

  Looking for him.

  A hit team?

  Who would dare?

  He reached underneath the bed and felt for his spare pistol, quietly unfastening the holster and sliding the weapon out. Dura traced the movements of the commandos through the gap between the bed and the floor, watching their boots. And when he saw one of them coming toward his position he pulled the trigger twice, striking the man in both ankles. The impact from the powerful rounds sent Dura’s would-be assassin straight to the ground.

  As the soldier fell his gun went off, firing harmlessly into the ceiling, and the other two commandos guessed at Dura’s location and began shooting down into the bed. But by that time, he’d already leapt away and was kneeling next to the injured man on the floor. The shooters were avoiding the small area so they didn’t hit their comrade, and that hesitation gave Sergeant Dura the only three seconds he needed.

  He crushed the commando’s face with the butt of his pistol and snatched the rifle from his hands, and before the other two soldiers realized what was happening Dura popped up and shot them both in the neck—right between where the body armor met their helmets.

  He ignored them as they collapsed, instead dashing over to the bedroom door so he could peer out into the main living area of the apartment. But there was no one else out there. Dura stood up straight and strolled back over to the lone survivor, stomping down hard on the man’s stomach and sticking the rifle barrel into his left eye.

  “Who sent you?” Dura said.

  The commando mumbled through broken teeth. “Malves…it was General Malves.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Dura jabbed the rifle in a little harder and the man screamed, pushing his arms out defensively.

  “I swear! All I know is that they plan to kill the Wardens…all of you. It’s the only thing I know. I swear!”

  “All of the Ward—” Dura stared down at the man’s face. His anger was gone, replaced by something far more frightening. “You tried to kill me,” Dura said calmly. “In my sleep…like a fucking coward. What do you think I should do with you?”

  “Let me live?”

  Sergeant Dura pulled the trigger.

  “Wrong answer.”

  He ran over to his comm unit and tried to contact the other members of his squad, but no one answered. Then Dura attempted a few other Wardens he knew and met with the same result. It was obvious to him that all of their communications were being blocked.

  It’s really true then, Dura thought. The Collective are finally making their move against the Wardens. I wonder if it has anything to do with the crazy rumors we’ve been hearing about the Great Betrayer.

  Dura went to his closet and pulled out a civilian outfit to wear so he wouldn’t draw attention to himself, and then he grabbed a combat uniform and his weapons, and stuffed them into a backpack. When he was finished getting dressed, Dura went to the bedroom window and crawled out onto the ledge, planning to make his way into another apartment before sneaking out of the building—just in case there were more commandos waiting nearby.

  But Sergeant Dura wasn’t running.

  And he sure as hell wasn’t scared.

  He was on a mission, and the tightly controlled anger and indignation gave his thoughts perfect clarity. Dura intended to get to the rest of his squad before the assassins did—to gather up every Warden he could find, and then make the Collective answer for this treachery.

  He found an unlocked window two apartments over and quietly snuck inside, making his way out of it and into the corridor before taking a service lift at the back of the building. Five minutes later, he was on the street. Sergeant Dura darted a look around the corner and spotted two APCs parked out front, and then he doubled back behind the building again and ran off into the night.

  The Collective will pay for this, Dura thought to himself, his anger propelling him swiftly through the back alleys of Le’sant.

  We’ll show them exactly what happens when you fuck with the Wardens.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A Different World

  It took a great deal of effort to suppress years of combat training, screaming for him to act, but Sergeant Barent remained absolutely still.

  Except for his eyes.

  He gazed past the arrows and beyond the bows, examining the pair closely. And Barent saw them staring back at him with equal intensity—no doubt harboring similar questions. He noticed their size first, even before the remarkable skin tone, and after several days spent living among the people of Le’sant it was almost surreal to encounter normal humans again—and well-fed ones at that.

  They were both wearing the original sky blue clothing of the colonists, identical to what Barent remembered. But the sleeves had been removed from the shirts entirely, and the pant legs cut away just above the knees—likely to help them cope with the extreme heat inside the ship. The woman’s shirt was knotted at the bottom, exposing her midriff. And the top of it was unbuttoned almost halfway down to reveal some rather ample cleavage—something else Barent hadn’t seen in Le’sant.

  The man’s shirt was unbuttoned completely, and Barent noted they both appeared well-muscled and healthy. Their tanned skin stood in stark contrast to the pale citizens of Le’sant, and reminded Barent of people who frequented the beaches back on Earth. But the nearest beach was dozens of light years away from Torvus, and the mannerisms these two exhibited were far more militant than touristic.

  “They aren’t Exiles, Calif,” the woman said. “What are they?”

  Exiles? Barent wondered. What the hell are Exiles?

  “I don’t know, Draly. Look at their skin…and how small the female is. I think she might be ill.”

  “We didn’t mean to trespass,” Barent said. “We were just looking around. We didn’t realize people were living here.”

  “Who are you?” Calif said forcefully. He dre
w his string back a little further and the bow creaked.

  “My name is Barent. And this is Tana.”

  “Where did you come from?” Draly asked. “Have you climbed down from the spires, or are you from out on the plains?”

  “The spires?” Barent repeated, confused by the question.

  Draly pointed down the center of the ship at the partially extended buildings of the city—visible high above the trees. She indicated the few that had sheared in half as the Olin tried to deploy, pushing up against the mountainside to stand at only half their intended heights. The very tops of the buildings disappeared through large ruptures in the starship’s outer shell, exposing the uppermost floors to the planet outside.

  “No,” Barent said, shaking his head. “We’re not from the spires or the plains. We are from the Le’sant.”

  Calif loosed his arrow and it flew right past Barent’s head, lodging in a tree directly behind him. Then he nocked another in what seemed like only a fraction of a second.

  “The second ship? Lies! Tell us the truth, or the next one finds your heart.”

  But instead of responding to the threat with fear, Barent’s reaction truly confounded the man.

  He laughed.

  “What are you laughing at?” Calif snapped. “Maybe if I put an arrow in her you will take my question more seriously.”

  He pivoted his bow slightly and pointed it at Tana.

  “Stop!” Barent yelled. “I take this very seriously. I laughed because we call the Olin the second ship.”

  “Look at them, Calif,” Draly said. “What if he’s telling the truth? These two are clearly not Olin, or Exile.”

  “The Le’sant was lost,” Calif stated with confidence. “The colonists wrote about it in the books. You know that, Draly.”

  “But who knows what they wrote before that?” she said. “The generation that had power…back when the machines still worked.”

  “That is the ancient past,” Calif said dismissively. “Whatever these two are, they are not from the Le’sant.”

  “I can prove that I’m telling you the truth,” Barent offered, directing his comments toward Calif since he seemed the more skeptical of the two.

  “How?”

  “I have something in my pocket that will show you exactly who I am, and where I come from.”

  Calif looked unsure, and regarded Barent’s face closely for a moment before speaking. “Keep an eye on them both, Draly.”

  “What are you doing, Barent?” Tana asked under her breath.

  “On the way out of the tomb, I grabbed something that might convince them we’re telling the truth.”

  Calif relaxed his bow and slung it over his back, and then Draly compensated by waving the tip of her arrow back and forth between Barent and Tana—keeping them both in her sights.

  “It’s in my front pocket,” Barent said.

  Calif stepped forward and cautiously stuck two fingers down inside Barent’s jacket, withdrawing a small white rectangle. He stared in Barent’s eyes as he did so, watching for any hint of treachery, and then Calif took a step back and looked down at the plastic card.

  “SERGEANT BARENT,” he read aloud. “TORVUS SPECIAL SECURITY FORCES.”

  “And?” Barent prompted him. “What does the rest of that ID badge say?”

  “ASSIGNED…STARSHIP LE’SANT.”

  Calif held the card up to Barent’s face to compare the likenesses. “But that’s not possible. Even if the Le’sant did survive, you’d be long dead by now. You’re lying.”

  Barent knew he was losing him and decided to take a more direct approach.

  Forgive me, Tana.

  Just as Draly swung the tip of her arrow away from him Barent kicked Tana to the ground, spinning Calif around by his shoulder in the same move. Draly’s arrow sliced through the air—just missing Tana’s head as she hit the dirt. But by the time Draly knocked another, she heard Calif’s voice call out and held her draw.

  “Draly! No.”

  She looked over to find Barent holding a knife at Calif’s throat. “Drop the bow,” Barent instructed her. “Or I drop him.”

  With Draly distracted, Tana drew her pistol and pointed it at her. “Put the bow down,” she said. “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.”

  “Calif,” Draly pleaded. “What about Ilin? We can’t just let them…”

  Barent relaxed his knife and reached down to take the ID card. He held it up to Calif’s face and twisted it in the light, showing him the embedded three-dimensional photo. Then he slid his finger across one corner of it and the card spoke Barent’s name and ID number out loud, in his own voice.

  “Look at it,” Barent told them both. “This card is real—complete with voice-print identification. We are from the Le’sant.”

  Draly looked confused, and Barent saw some of the tension release on her bowstring. She stared over at Calif. “How could they produce something like that? The machines haven’t worked for generations. What’s going on, Calif? I don’t understand.”

  “Your machines don’t work?” Barent asked.

  “The Olin has been powerless for hundreds of years,” Calif answered.

  Barent released him and slid his knife back into its sheath. Calif jumped back and smoothly drew his bow again, pointing an arrow at Barent’s chest.

  “Are you insane, Barent?” Tana said.

  “You still have your gun,” he replied. “And besides, I think it would take more than a couple of arrows to put me down.”

  Calif raised his bow a little higher. “Not if I put one in your head.”

  “Let me show you one last thing,” Barent said. “I think it will finally prove to you that we’re telling the truth.” He reached over his shoulder to grab the plasma rifle.

  “Slowly!” Calif barked. His expression hardened, and he held his arrow pointed at Barent’s face.

  Barent carefully slid the rifle out to the side, keeping the barrel pointed down at the ground.

  “Easy…” he said. “Don’t be alarmed.”

  He pressed the active switch on the weapon and it sprang to life. Glowing blue lines ran up both sides of the barrel, accompanied by a low hum.

  “Calif…” Draly said.

  “I see it.”

  “We are from the Le’sant,” Barent told them. “And there is more power there than you can possibly imagine.”

  He shut the plasma rifle down and slung it over his shoulder again, and then Barent helped Tana up from the ground as the Olin lowered their weapons.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” she replied, rubbing her shoulder. “But somebody just kicked the shit outta me.”

  Barent grinned. “It was for your own good.”

  “But I still don’t understand,” Calif said softly.

  “How is any of this possible?” Draly added.

  “It’s a long story,” Barent said.

  And then he gave them both a reassuring smile.

  “Is there some place we can go and talk?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  An Important Call

  Sergeant Dura leaned out from the dark alleyway and motioned to his men across the street. Then he kept an eye on the perimeter as they pulled the door open and rushed inside the apartment building.

  The Middle District was quiet this evening—the streets more or less deserted—and the hourly police patrol had driven through the area just a few moments earlier, making the timing of the operation perfect. Dura looked up to see a light come on in an apartment on the fourth floor, and then it flashed off again just as quickly.

  Good, he thought, understanding the message behind the prearranged signal. He’s in there.

  Three minutes later, Dura’s two soldiers exited the building again, dragging a hooded, half-clothed man along with them. The pair shuffled back across the street with their burden to rejoin Sergeant Dura, and then all four moved deeper into the alley.

  “Take it off him,” Dura ordered.


  One of the Wardens nodded, and then reached over to snatch the covering from their captive’s head. There was fear in the man’s eyes as the hood came off, but when he saw who had abducted him it quickly turned to confusion.

  “Sergeant Dura?” he said, surprised at the identity of his captor. “What is this? What the hell’s going on?”

  “Hello, Greywin. I need to ask you for a favor.”

  Greywin looked at the three heavily armed Wardens and his fear came racing back. He knew something wasn’t right; he could feel it.

  No, Greywin thought to himself. Something is very, very wrong.

  “Couldn’t you just, ahhh, ask me tomorrow…at the barracks? Why all of this?”

  Dura studied the man’s face carefully. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what? I’m not a Warden, and I’m sure as hell not in the Intelligence Division. I’m just a communications officer. Remember? They don’t tell me anything. Can I go back to my apartment now?”

  “Actually,” Dura replied, “I think you can. I’ve changed my mind about killing you.”

  “Killing me?”

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” Dura assured him. “Just relax. I’ll let you go…I promise. Right after my favor.”

  Greywin looked at the dangerous trio again and made a quick decision.

  “Anything you need, Sergeant. Of course. Anything at all.”

  “Excellent.”

  Dura pulled a field transmitter from his pocket and handed it over to Greywin. “I need override access to all of the military communication channels.”

  Greywin pushed the transmitter away and his eyes went wide. “Are you insane, Sergeant? I can’t possibly—”

  Dura’s face hardened as he leaned forward—interrupting him. “Then maybe you’d like to return to my kill list?” he said menacingly. “I have a vacancy, right up top.”

  Greywin gulped. “I meant to say, of course. Of course, I’ll help you. I’ll do anything I can.”

  “That’s better.”

  Dura passed the transmitter over again and Greywin took it this time—without hesitation—logging on to the datanet with his secure credentials. As one of the chief communications officers for Le’sant’s military and police organizations, Greywin had complete access to everything—encrypted or not. Dura had worked with him in the past on a few operations, and knew exactly what he was capable of.