The Phoenix Rising

by Richard L. Sanders

  Sarah jumped up also, ready to charge to the front of the bridge and let Patrick have it. Summers stopped her. “Stay at your post, lieutenant,” she said. “You need to keep this ship as far away from them as possible, for as long as possible.”

  Sarah’s eyes narrowed, obviously wanting to teach Patrick a lesson, but she accepted Summers’ logic and put her headset back on. “Aye sir. Sixty seconds until weapons range.”

  Cassidy threw a punch at Patrick, which he blocked. He caught her arm and twisted it around her back, causing her to scream in pain.

  “I don’t want to hurt you either,” said Patrick. “But you give me no choice.”

  Summers felt a flush of rage pour through her, but she controlled it. Knowing it would do no good to lash out in wild, unbridled anger. Instead she kept her wits about her, and approached Patrick carefully, in a defensive stance. Her limited martial arts training took command of her instincts.

  Patrick tossed Cassidy aside and turned to face Summers. His eyes locked with hers, showing stern defiance. He raised his fists into a boxer’s pose. Summers had no doubt that he would strike her if she went any closer.

  “Thirty-five seconds” said Sarah.

  Obviously there wasn’t time to wait for special forces to arrive. Summers had to act now. She looked Patrick up and down for a moment, noting how he balanced his weight –feet a little too closely together. He was fit and certainly stronger than Summers, and he’d been through a similar martial arts program during his training—she had no doubt—but she was faster and smarter. Those advantages had to count for something.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  “Give it up, Commander,” said Patrick smugly. “It’s over.”

  Summers moved instantly. She closed the distance and threw all her weight and momentum into Patrick. He caught her but tumbled backwards. His back struck the defense console with a loud crack. He grunted and seemed to shrug off the pain as he grappled to control Summers’ arms.

  She broke free from him and sent a fast jab toward his nose. Followed by a left hook to the side of his head. He blocked both and threw a swipe of his own at Summers. Predictable and heavy-handed, his fist swung at her and she easily ducked it. On her way back up she threw another punch, one he wasn’t expecting, and struck him hard in the throat.

  Patrick slumped to the ground, choking and wheezing. Struggling to breath. Summers ignored him and went immediately to the defense console.

  “Weapons lock in eight seconds.”

  She was grateful she’d taken the time to familiarize herself with the Nighthawk’s systems. The layout of the defense console was not drastically different than those she’d used before, but she’d never had access to a stealth system in the past.

  “Got it,” said Summers. “Stealth system re-engaged.”

  “Changing course now,” said Sarah. “Hopefully they don’t see us.”

  Summers prepped herself to raise the shields if the worst should happen, at least then they’d have a fighting chance.

  “The Desert Eagle is firing its guns,” said Cassidy. “Now the Rhea too.”

  Summers closed her eyes and braced herself.

  Nothing happened.

  “They fired on our previous position. Both ships have answered full stop. We are no longer being pursued.”

  Sarah let out a cheer. “Yes! They don’t see us!”

  Summers sighed with relief. She swiveled the defense chair to look at Patrick who was still on the ground, and not looking so good. He seemed barely conscious. She knelt down next to him, trying to think of what first aid to give.

  The elevator door opened and Summers looked up to see two special forces soldiers enter the bridge, stunners raised. Spotting her and Patrick, they raced over.

  “Take him away and keep him under guard,” said Summers, standing up once more.

  “Yes, sir,” one of the soldiers said. They hoisted Patrick up and began carrying him toward the elevator.

  “And see that he gets immediate medical assistance.”

  Chapter 25

  “Wrong answer,” said the voice over the earpiece.

  An awful deep bellow sounded. It not only came through the earpiece, it came through the walls. Calvin felt it in his bones. He reacted in pain, trying to plug his ears. So did the others. Even the Polarians seemed disturbed by it. And Tristan’s eyes flashed bright red.

  “What is that?” asked Alex.

  “I’m afraid that neither of us is leaving this place alive...” said the voice.

  “Move!” shouted Pellew. He bolted around the corner, firearm raised. The Polarians followed him closely. Calvin and Shen at their heels. They raced down the hall. Tristan quickly overtook the others. When they reached the room where the rendezvous was happening, Tristan ripped the door aside and charged in.

  “Hands on your heads,” shouted Pellew as he disappeared inside.

  Only after the Polarians got through did Calvin get his first glimpse of the rendezvous room. It was empty and blank, with only the one set of windows—as described by the blueprints they’d studied; there was no furniture. Surprisingly, there was only one Enclave agent. He was in human form with white hair, thin physique, and a crooked expression on his face. He wore normal civilian clothes and stood holding some kind of metallic device—no doubt the source of the awful sound they’d heard. Alex was only a few feet away.

  “I said hands on your head!” shouted Pellew as he approached the Enclave agent, weapon leveled at the man’s chest.

  “It’s too late,” the Enclave agent said, looking at Pellew with a strange smile that showed both pleasure and despair. “In a few seconds, nothing will matter.”

  Pellew knocked the metal device out of the man’s hands and he and one of the Polarians seized him. Tristan watched from nearby, his veins and muscles popping, ready to tear into their captive at the first sign of resistance.

  But the Enclave agent did not resist. “It’s too late,” he said. “For all of us.”

  “What is the fool talking about?” asked Rez’nac.

  “Who cares,” said Pellew, double-checking the restraints he’d just placed on the Enclave agent to make sure they were secure. “We need to get to that silo and plant the charges on those isotome weapons.”

  Calvin knew he was right.

  Rez’nac said something in Polarian and one of his men shot the window leading outside—causing it to shatter. He then carved the glass away with his knife. Letting in a gust of chilly air and the haunted sound of moaning wind.

  “Through the window is the fastest way to the silo,” said Rez’nac.

  “Agreed,” said Calvin, and he began organizing them. “Rez’nac, have one of your men take this thing back to the gunship,” Calvin nodded toward their captive.

  “Of course,” said Rez’nac. He then uttered something in Polarian and one of the large, muscular blue aliens walked up to their captive and hefted him over his shoulder. Then he jogged away, carrying the captive as if he weighed nothing, back the way they’d come. That left their numbers at sixteen—three humans, a Rotham, eleven Polarians, and one Tristan. Most of whom carried charges to destroy the isotome weapons.

  Calvin continued his orders. “The rest of us will go to the silo. Pellew, you lead the—”

  He stopped himself abruptly and listened. Over the moan of the wind he could hear something. “What is that?” he asked.

  “What is what?” asked Pellew.

  “I hear it too,” said Alex.

  The sound grew in volume. It was like a slow, steady thunder heading their way.

  “What the hell is that?” asked Pellew. “It sounds like... an army running toward us.”

  Tristan flashed his teeth and his eyes glowed red. He let out a hiss. “It’s the jaws of death!”

  Calvin listened. It was thousands and thousands of footsteps pounding their way, converging on their position from the outside. Calvin felt a chill trace his spine as he realized what the Enclave agent had meant. His strange
device had called out and attracted a horde of type one Remorii. And now that savage, starving horde was fast descending on them.

  “What do we do?” asked Alex. He looked at Calvin.

  “If we run, maybe we can make it back to the gunship,” said Tristan.

  “What about the isotome weapons?” asked Alex. “We can’t just leave them!”

  Calvin agreed. He hadn’t come this far, and gotten this close to the deadly stockpile, only to turn tail and run now. He’d sworn to himself that he’d give up anything, and pay any price, to rid the galaxy of them. But now that he was faced with that choice, he was more hesitant than he’d expected. And the fear that gripped him, seizing his throat, gave him the urge to run. Hide! Escape! Anything. But he resisted it.

  “No,” said Calvin sternly. “We have to take out those weapons. No. Matter. What.”

  The storm of footsteps grew even louder as the mass of Remorii approached. Calvin couldn’t even hear the wind and rain anymore.

  “He’s right,” said Alex. “You all know it.”

  Part of Calvin didn’t want to compel the others to stay. But if he released them, and some chose to escape, that lessened the odds that the mission would succeed. And this mission was far too important to jeopardize. Even though it would probably cost them everything. Ordering people to their deaths was a fact of command—but not something he’d ever been comfortable doing.

  Calvin silenced the rush of anxiety growing inside him, weakening his joints, and instead he grit his teeth. “Move!” he shouted, raising his weapon. He charged out the window into the storm.

  The others followed closely behind. Knowing, like he did, that their fates were sealed. And few of them, if any, would ever leave the planet alive.

  ***

  “Still no sign of the Nighthawk,” reported the ops officer.

  Nimoux frowned. He was disappointed but not surprised. “How much longer until we’ve swept the rest of the mine field?”

  “With only the Desert Eagle and the Rhea participating in the sweep... at least another twelve hours, sir,” said the ops officer.

  Nimoux was a patient man, he’d learned a long time ago the value of taking a deep breath and not rushing things. He’d gladly wait twelve more hours, even a hundred hours, if that meant completing his mission and recapturing the Nighthawk. But he knew twelve hours was being overly optimistic. Because, truthfully, the Nighthawk could evade them forever. By hiding in patches of mines that had already been searched. His strategy was flawed—he could admit that—which meant it was time to try something different.

  “We’ll have to do something else,” said Nimoux. “Something more severe.” He regretted the risks his new idea implied, but there was no alternative.

  “What do you recommend?” asked the XO.

  “We gave them a chance,” said Nimoux. He stood up and approached the window, folding his arms as he gazed out at the dark planet. “Now we’ll have to smoke them out. Begin detonating the mine clusters. One group at a time.”

  “We might destroy the Nighthawk,” said the defense officer.

  “Yes, I know.” Nimoux lamented that possibility. He didn’t want more loss of life on his hands—not to mention the loss of intel that could have been mined from the ship and crew post-capture. But he doubted it would come to that, believing the Nighthawk would surrender before risking destruction.

  “Destroy the mine clusters in a random pattern so the Nighthawk can’t predict which patches are safe. As more and more mines are destroyed, Mister Cross will be putting his crew in increasing danger as his safe haven shrinks away.”

  “Brilliant, sir,” said the XO.

  Nimoux shrugged off the compliment. It seemed more wasteful than brilliant to him. But these were old mines that were probably due for replacement anyway, and given the situation he could think of no other plan that was as likely to produce results. “Hopefully we don’t get too lucky with our first shot,” he said.

  “The computer estimates the probability of destroying the Nighthawk by detonating a random mine cluster is currently… barely more than one percent,” said the defense officer.

  “I can live with those odds,” said Nimoux.

  “Of course, the longer the Nighthawk hides, and the more clusters disappear, the odds will increase very rapidly,” said the ops officer.

  “Let’s hope they see reason then,” said Nimoux.

  “First cluster targeted,” said the defense officer.

  “Fire.”

  ***

  The rainstorm beat down hard, soaking them. Calvin removed one hand from his carbine to wipe water from his eyes.

  “I don’t see it!” he yelled over the pounding of feet, rain, and thunder.

  “He said it was this way,” Alex pointed.

  They sprinted through the fog. Hoping they were going the right way.

  “Look! There it is,” said Tristan, pointing. No doubt his superior Remorii eyes allowed him to see the silo before anyone else. As they neared, Calvin eventually caught sight of the large cylindrical frame hidden in the fog, like a ghostly silhouette.

  “I see it,” said Calvin.

  The pounding of feet stopped abruptly. And all that could be heard was the rain.

  “What’s going on?” asked Pellew.

  “They’re here,” said Tristan.

  Everyone raised their weapons and formed a tight defensive circle. No one could see more than a few meters away.

  “We can’t afford to stop,” said Calvin. “We have to keep going.”

  “He’s right,” said Pellew.

  An unnatural, bone-chilling moan sounded on their left. It was joined by other agonized voices. A slowly approaching choir of tormented creatures shuffled toward them. The silhouetted figure of dozens of humanoids became partially visible.

  Tristan snarled.

  Shen panicked and opened fire. Draining all thirty rounds of his magazine in mere seconds. One or two of the approaching figures dropped. But others quickly took their place.

  “Oh shit,” said Pellew, getting a sense of how useless their firepower would be against this enemy.

  There was something almost mesmerizing about the gruesome humanoid horde as it approached—dozens and dozens of figures all together, fierceness in their sunken eyes, with a purely unified one-mindedness. Like zombies. Some now close enough to see clearly. Injuries and deformities covered their corpse-like bodies. If they weren’t moving, Calvin would have believed them dead.

  “Aim for the head; conserve ammo,” said Pellew. Red-laser dots appeared as everyone marked a target. “Fire at will.”

  Everyone opened fire. Calvin let one of the Remorii have it with a three round burst. The bullets cut into his target’s face, ripping through the head. The Remorii staggered a bit, stunned by the injury—but somehow didn’t die. Calvin couldn’t believe it! He squeezed the trigger again. This time his target dropped, its head completely destroyed.

  All around them the Remorii fell, but for each that went down it seemed like two more took its place. As they neared, the zombies accelerated—charging them. Calvin fired his clip dry. So did many of the others. He dropped the empty magazine and reached for another but, before he could grab it, a Remorii was upon him. The sunken, deadened eyes seemed to stare past him, not at him.

  “Bayonets!” yelled Calvin. He thrust the knifepoint of his barrel through the throat of his attacker repeatedly. The zombie still managed to take a swipe at him before falling dead. A blow that narrowly missed striking Calvin hard in the cheek with bone-shattering force.

  A melee broke out as a score of Remorii descended upon their defensive circle, swiping and clawing. Their line broke. In the chaos, Calvin and several others were forced to retreat back several meters.

  The Polarians showed their quality. Their thick skin sustained severe blows from the Remorii and their awesome strength shattered skulls and ripped arms from their sockets. Many pulled out their ceremonial knives and slashed through Remorii bodies while o
thers swung their rifles about madly. In one instance, a carbine was broken against a Remorii head.

  Perhaps fiercest of all was Tristan who managed to rip through two or three of their foes in mere seconds. His movements were swift and flowing, his muscles swollen, and his extended claws were a force to be reckoned with. But even he took a beating as powerful blows connected with his body and he was surrounded on all sides.

  It was a bloody, gory mess. The rain poured down, soaking their bloody clothes and making the pale naked bodies of the Remorii glisten. A terrible smell arose and the sounds of bones twisting and cracking, and flesh being ripped apart were almost more than Calvin could bear. But adrenaline made him focus and he managed not to think about it. Forcing himself to ignore the corpses piling up around them. After what felt like hours of fighting—but couldn’t have been more than minutes—they had a respite. The attacks stopped.

  Calvin was dying to catch his breath. He took the opportunity to reload his weapon, his carbine was more red than black now. Poor Shen leaned heavily on his knees, wheezing. Clearly not in any condition to keep up with such physical demands. Miraculously, he seemed uninjured.

  There were a lot of cuts and bruises, and everyone knew they couldn’t take many more attacks like that. But most of their group had survived. Only two hadn’t been so lucky. Both were Polarians. They lay on the ground, broken and savagely maimed. One had deep lacerations across his back and neck and was surrounded by a pool of his own blood. The other had been beaten senseless and had major bone fractures all over his body. He lay face up, expressionless, eyes still. Calvin leaned down to check his pulse.

  “Leave them,” said Rez’nac. Shrugging off a wound on his left arm.

  Calvin looked up at him. The steel in his eyes showed neither sorrow nor fear. Only single-minded determination.

  “There’s nothing we can do for them,” said Rez’nac. “They are with the Essences now.”