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

  The security lobby known as the narthex sent a fresh shiver down his spine. Evenly-spaced black columns concealed potent weapons, of which only the nozzles were visible. They hadn’t stopped Erekasten from being murdered, though; the assassin had slipped in through the ductwork, leaving no trace… and framing Tris and his companions for the killing.

  The lift car ascended smoothly, recognising its passengers and taking them to the right floor. Tris was led across another lobby — where he had once shot two men, and watched several others die a variety of violent deaths. He studied the floor, looking for any traces of that fight, but nothing obvious remained.

  The cleaners on Atalia must be experts at getting blood out of flagstones.

  The High Warden’s suite had changed since Erekasten’s time. The study with the fireplace held none of the cosiness it once had; leather armchairs had been replaced by minimalist, space-age furniture. The holographic fire wasn’t turned on, and Tris wondered if the shaft hidden in the wall above it had been sealed.

  Lord Oktavius, High Warden of Atalia, sat behind a smooth white desk studying the displays built into it. Skinny as a rail, with wisps of white hair and a beard so thin you could count the strands in it, Oktavius looked ancient. Even now, with the worst of his troubles behind him, he wore an air of concern. His brown robe was unadorned; he could have gone to a Halloween party as a creepy old monk without changing a thing.

  The aide bowed and left, closing the door behind him.

  Tristan clasped his hands behind his back and waited. He was in no rush; if he was here to receive special praise, or be sent off on a secret mission, he might as well enjoy the anticipation.

  Oktavius looked up at last. “Ah, young Tristan.”

  “My Lord.” Tris inclined his head.

  “Yes… I called you here to discuss your future.”

  Tris said nothing. His excitement was building.

  “It has been brought to my attention by a number of invigilators that you are not according them the proper respect they are due. Nor are you respecting the institutions and traditions of our Order. Your attitude is considered extremely poor, and you are widely regarded to hold the studies and examinations you are undertaking in contempt.” Oktavius fixed him with an icy stare. “This cannot be allowed to continue.”

  Tris felt like he’d been punched in the gut. His jaw sagged, as he realised that he wasn’t in line for some commendation or special duty at all. He’d been dragged here for a bollocking… from the High Warden himself.

  “I understand your frustration,” Oktavius continued. “The first part of your apprenticeship was rather unorthodox.”

  “Unorthodox?” Tris blurted. “Abducted from Earth by Kreon, you mean? Then fighting non-stop against aliens and clones and monsters from another dimension?”

  “Precisely.” Oktavius waved all that away. “Lord Anakreon… Kreon… was a controversial operator. A loose cannon. He had a tendency to flout the rules whenever it suited him. His methods veered from questionable to downright illegal. He was tolerated by the council, but only because his rank and experience gave them no choice. As role models go, he was about the worst I can imagine.”

  Sudden anger flushed Tris’ cheeks. Kreon had been a difficult master; stern, infuriating… at times, a complete bastard. But in the short while Tris had known him, the wily old Warden had become something much more important than the sum of his flaws. And standing here, listening to Oktavius demean him, Tris went from pissed off to furious in the space between heartbeats.

  “He saved your life,” he reminded the High Warden. “While you sat here in your tower, dressed like a frikkin’ monk. He fought for you, and he gave his life to save you — and everyone else in this damn galaxy! If you say one more bad word about him, you’ll be the second High Warden I watch bleed to death in this room.” The words came out in a snarl. Even as he said them, he knew it was a mistake; the threat was transparent and empty, the kind of over-the-top declaration a stroppy child would make.

  To his credit, Oktavius didn’t even bat an eyelid. A warrior himself, though probably not for many years, he must have seen his fair share of unpleasantness on his way up the ranks.

  “Listen to me carefully, Tristan,” he said, his voice low and even. “This kind of behaviour is precisely what the Council are concerned about. They tolerated it from Lord Anakreon because, after three-hundred years of distinguished service, he’d earned the right to his idiosyncrasies. But that is not how this Order operates. We hold ourselves to the highest standards of professionalism. There is no place in our ranks for those who cannot control their emotions. Our work is too important, too serious, to be jeopardised by temper tantrums!”

  He was studying Tris now, leaning back in his chair and making a steeple with his fingers. “If you wish to be invested as a Warden, you will have to take an oath. Not just to protect Earth, but to respect the regulations and traditions of our Order. Those other apprentices, whom you seem to think so little of, have devoted their entire lives to this path. Every one of them has spent years in study, in training and in meditation. That is their sacrifice, and it is a worthy one. The Wardens must be wise as well as strong, and must display an exceptional degree of integrity and discipline. I know you did not choose this life, and you are welcome to walk away from it if that is your desire. But I will not allow you to join our ranks if you do not demonstrate the appropriate level of dedication, respect, decorum and obedience!” Oktavius’ eyes flashed as he hit his stride. “There will be no more threats from you, and no more discourtesy. I expect you to take this warning to heart; there will not be another. You will live by our rules, or you will leave Atalia and discover whatever fate awaits you alone. Your father was one of the greatest Wardens ever to walk these halls; you would do well to pattern yourself after his example, rather than Kreon’s. This genetic legacy is a boon, and should be treated as such; it is neither a reason to look down on your colleagues, nor a guarantor of your place amongst us.” He paused for breath, and moistened his lips before continuing. “I advise you to think wisely about the next words out of your mouth.”

  Tris’ anger had ebbed away during the rant. It was easy to get riled up when Kreon was the target. Too easy, in fact; the wound of that loss was still raw, and pressing on it gave rise to emotions too powerful to control.

  Man, Kreon would be so pissed at me! Or worse — disappointed.

  His shoulders sagged as the fight went out of him. There was no point trying to resist. Oktavius was right — the Wardens offered Tris the one thing he wanted more than anything right now. Freedom to roam the galaxy, challenging the enemies of mankind wherever he found them. The chance to make a difference. It was a pretty cool job description… and one he didn’t want to lose over having a bad attitude.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, letting his head hang. “It’s just… I miss Kreon, you know? I’m so used to him telling me what to do. I’m used to having a goal, a mission, something important to do. All this…” he waved a hand in the air, “…studying… it’s making me go stir-crazy.”

  “Well then.” Oktavius’ manner had shifted once more, and he was back to being the understanding, if somewhat distant, commander. “Apology accepted. You have immense potential, my boy, and I would hate to see it go to waste. You have the impetuousness of youth, something we all had to deal with at one point. But now it must be tempered with patience, and eventually with wisdom.” He cleared his throat and reached into a niche in his desk. “That is why I have decided to issue you with your orders now. This little hiccup aside, your graduation is assured. I feel it will be in all of our best interests to make you aware of your assignment before it is officially presented to you.”

  His eyes bored into Tristan’s, as he offered him a flimsy sheet of plas. On it, two simple paragraphs laid out the mission to which Tris would be devoting his first period of active duty.

  As he read the lines, he felt his jaw loosen.

  Oktavius scrutinised him the whole time
, alert for the slightest hint of rebellion.

  Tris revealed nothing, even as his spirit sank to its lowest level since being summoned for this meeting.

  Seriously? Cataloguing asteroids? This has to be a joke… or a test?

  Understanding dawned on him.

  A test. Of course it was. But not the kind where Oktavius studied his reaction to the news and made a decision based on it. No, this was the kind of test that would take years — the kind of grinding, soul-destroying task that would be given to a troublesome young Warden to let him prove his devotion to the cause…

  By dying of boredom.

  Tris wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this. According to the document, he would be placed under the watchful eye of a certain Lord Florentz, heading out to assist with an investigation that was already in progress. Tris would be identifying and counting asteroids to determine the value of some remote region’s mineral rights, while the more experienced Warden mediated a dispute between rival governors who both claimed ownership.

  He was gobsmacked. After what he’d been through since being kidnapped from Earth — space combat, hand-to-hand combat, and more near-death experiences than he could count at this point — this was a far worse punishment than being sent to the nearest war zone.

  Still, he made no overt response. He passed the sheet of plas back to Oktavius, not daring to meet his eyes, and nodded.

  “Very well, Tristan. I see you are starting to understand how this process works. Lord Anakreon’s first mission would have been something very similar… and he probably raged over it, the same way you are raging over this. But he also did it. And the next assignment, and the next. He worked within the system, at least in the beginning, and developed a reputation for producing results that earned him the swift promotion he desired. This is the model of behaviour which you must emulate, Tristan — not the other kind.”

  Another curt nod was all Tris permitted himself.

  “I will recommend to the Council that they take no further action to prevent your Investiture. And though this assignment may seem trivial compared to your recent exploits, it is precisely this kind of work which will teach you the meaning of your true power. Your calculations, your reports, will directly affect the lives of many people. You will be changing the galaxy for the better, one issue at a time. Lord Florentz is a fine example of the steadfast, diligent Warden that I hope you will one day become.”

  Tris could sense that the meeting was over. Oktavius looked down at the displays in his desk, frowning.

  “My Lord,” Tris said, not daring anything more. He backed off a few steps, then turned and left the room. By the time he reached the door, Oktavius was muttering to himself about whatever he was reading.

  * * *

  Tris fumed all the way down in the elevator, and all the way through the maze of passageways back to his soulless quarters. This was worse than an insult — that at least he was prepared for, and could give as good as he got. This wasn’t even a punishment, though it felt remarkably like one. This was a lesson; the first of many, he could foresee, as the High Warden sought to impose his own stamp on Tris’ character.

  That feeble old man is still trying to prove that his way is best. He’s a talker, not a fighter; he wants the Wardens to be negotiators and advocates, not warriors and executioners.

  Honestly, Tris didn’t know which version was officially the right one. His experience had been limited to being part of Kreon’s crew; violence had been their primary tool.

  What if that’s not what the Wardens are? What if everything Kreon told me was skewed to his point of view, and the truth is closer to what Oktavius wants? I’m not sure I can spend the rest of my life being a microscopic cog in the Wardens’ bureaucracy. Hell, I’m not sure I can spend a week that way!

  Even back on Earth, Tris had never been a patient man. The thrill of life as an outlaw had been the one thing keeping him sane in the years since his dad disappeared. He’d always craved adventure — in hindsight, that was why Kreon had found him so easy to manipulate…

  But Oktavius had a different kind of manipulation planned. And a very different agenda.

  The future wasn’t looking quite so bright after all.

  FOUR

  That night, Tris lay on his narrow cot unable to sleep.

  His conversation with the High Warden replayed over and over in his mind, as he searched for and found all the little warning signs, and catalogued all the mistakes he’d made.

  Idiot!

  Rather than blowing up at Oktavius, he should have stood there and taken the reprimand like a man. He should have apologised unreservedly for his behaviour and promised to do better. He should have explained his awkwardness, his inability to settle — not as an excuse, but in an attempt to explore solutions. The High Warden had been right about one thing — Kreon’s shadow still loomed large over everything Tris did. The old Warden’s attitude towards his superiors had been scathing and combative; Tris had inherited the belief that he was right, whilst the upper echelons of the Order were stuffed with self-interested politicians.

  In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the case. As Oktavius had pointed out, it took a long time to rise up through the Wardens’ hierarchy. To become a member of the First Circle, as Kreon had been, required many decades, if not centuries of experience. Combat was a way of life for Wardens; no-one could attain high office without seeing their fair share of it.

  I really do need to get my head on straight. I’m lucky they even let me in here. Every other apprentice on Atalia has years of service under their belt; Oktavius could quite easily have insisted that I start from scratch.

  Of course, he was probably clever enough to know that such a choice would drive Tris away for good. Even now, forcing him to accept such a tedious first mission was skating perilously close to that edge.

  But I need to do it. I need to buckle down and show that I can be dedicated and respectful and all that crap. If I want to progress to a point where I can make a real difference, I need Oktavius on my side. I need him to know that I’m prepared to work hard, and get results. I need to prove to him that I can cope. Not just with firefights and close combat, but with any task that comes my way. Even the mind-numbingly boring ones…

  As well as perhaps the biggest issue of all — authority.

  Ugh! I guess I’ll have to figure that out, too. Kreon, you miserable old bastard! When you told me how dangerous this job was, you never warned me that I could end up counting rocks!

  He smiled, imagining the old man’s sardonic response; Why would I risk putting you off? I honestly didn’t think you’d survive this long.

  Gods, he missed Kreon. They’d been through so much together. Now, bereft of the old Warden’s guidance, there was only one person he could turn to.

  Idly, he reached out with the Gift to see if Kyra was awake.

  Bizarrely, his Gift seemed stronger than hers these days; though she had far greater control, he had much more range. Along with a few more disturbing traits…

  He tried her room first, before remembering that he’d convinced her to visit the infirmary. She had a habit of down-playing her injuries to him; the medical staff had probably taken one look at her and booked her in for a week. But she wasn’t there, either. His brow creased. He’d only intended to search for a second. It was taking a lot of effort to reach out so far, but now he’d started he couldn’t stop. Where the hell is she? Training? Surely not!

  He checked all the areas he normally associated with Kyra — including the bar they’d visited earlier. But she was nowhere to be found.

  Unless…

  Atalia’s hangar bays were spaced around the edge of the ship, at the furthest possible point from his position. With sweat beading on his forehead, he pushed his Gift to the limits, stretching out to touch her fighter bay…

  And that’s where he found her.

  The flash of panic he felt from her was so strong that he recoiled from it, finding himself
sitting bolt upright on his bed.

  What the hell? That wasn’t like Kyra. She got scared on occasion — not that she’d ever admit it to him — but panic was not an emotion he readily associated with her.

  Something’s set her off… and she’s leaving.

  That last bit of logic fell into place as he sprang up and dashed towards the door. Skidding to a halt, he came back into his room to grab the only thing in there that he really cared about: the alien fighting staff he’d inherited from his father.

  Then, suitably armed, he bolted towards the fighter bay at full-tilt.

  She knew he was coming, of course.

  Kyra was impressively hard to sneak up on.

  As he raced through the doors into the bay, she came stomping down the ramp of a small cargo shuttle. A pile of bags and crates had been deposited at the foot of the ramp, presumably by a robotic loader.

  “Running out on me?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

  She paused, running a hand through her hair. Black with red stripes, he noticed; an indication of her mood. “You can cope without me for a few days,” she said, brushing him off. “You’re a big boy now. There’s something I’ve got to do, but I should be back in time to say goodbye.”

  Tris’ eyes went wide. “Goodbye? What the hell’s going on?”

  “You graduate in a couple of days, right? They’ll be sending you off on a mission after that.”

  “Oh! Yeah… I was kind of hoping you’d come with me.”

  She flashed him a grin, and a ghost of her usual mischief rose with it. “You can’t afford me.”

  Tris had to agree with that. He’d never figured out what Kyra’s arrangement with Kreon was, but he’d heard her moan a few times about never getting paid. “So, where are you going?” He glanced up at the cargo ship, which looked like it had seen a fair amount of action. Nearly every panel was scratched and dented, and long black scars down the side told of close encounters with a turbolaser battery. “Why are you taking this piece of crap?”