“On my ship,” corrected Calvin. “And we need soldiers. Soldiers who will be loyal to us.”
“Loyal to us or loyal to the Roscos?”
Calvin leaned forward. “That shows how little you know about the Roscos. When they owe you a debt, or make a promise to you, you can take that to the bank every single time. Roscos are loyal to a fault. Yes, they operate in the black market, and yes they exchange business with outlaws, fugitives, and criminals—including us not that long ago—but they are not Khans. They are not thugs or mercenaries. They are better than anything Raidan gave us and a damn sight more loyal than half our crew.”
Summers fumed. She would not concede this point. “You don’t voluntarily fill your Intel Wing ship—loaded with classified information—with a bunch of gangsters. You just don’t. Under no circumstances does that make any kind of sense!”
“Then, Commander, you haven’t been paying attention,” said Calvin. “Because that was our best choice. It was either that or bring aboard more mercenaries, which worked out so well for us in the past, or else accept soldiers who are first, last, and always loyal to their political cabal. Forgive me, Commander, if, as the CO of this ship, and exercising my prerogative, I chose instead to bring soldiers aboard that I could personally trust. Soldiers who are not affected by the raging political war.”
“That political war has ended,” said Summers.
“Well, it hadn’t at the time I made my decision. But, notwithstanding that, I remain convinced that I made the right choice.”
“It was an absurd choice,” argued Summers. “But even setting that aside for a moment, you have since taken our ship vaguely in the direction of our mission, diverted us off mission to Gemini System, and then, when we got here, you surrendered our best pilot and Ops officer to Raidan! A man who has proven time and again that we cannot trust him!” She honestly wondered when Calvin would finally get it.
“First of all, investigating the movement of the Dread Fleet at Gemini only took us off-course by a few hours, and investigating what happened here is perfectly on mission. If we are to venture into Polarian Forbidden Space, possibly with the goal of convincing or coercing the Polarian Prelains to withdraw their Dread Fleet, then it is helpful to know what that fleet is, and what it is capable of.”
“Be that as it may,” interjected Summers. “That still does not explain—”
“I’m not finished,” snapped Calvin. “Secondly, although I am the commander of this ship, and must sometimes give an officer an order which he may not voluntarily disobey, that power does not extend to all aspects of my officers’ lives! Were I to command you to reverse your political sympathies, or to move your home to a new world, or any such thing, I would have no power to give you such an order!”
“But that isn’t what happened,” said Summers. “What happened was that two confused, mutinous officers, two of the best we have, were tricked by Raidan into leaving the Nighthawk and you simply let it happen!”
“I find it strange, Commander, that you can refer to Shen and Sarah as ‘mutinous’ and ‘two of the best officers’ in a single sentence,” said Calvin.
“Very clever,” said Summers. “Now try addressing my actual point.”
“The point is simple. Shen is not the same as he was. He may be in real, actual danger. Shen certainly seemed to believe he was. Who am I to stand in his way if he should choose to pursue a course of action that might well save his life and restore to him the missing parts of his humanity?”
“And Sarah?”
“Shen and Sarah have become romantically involved,” said Calvin. “I don’t know how, I don’t know when—I honestly never saw it coming. But that isn’t any of my business, neither is it my choice to make. The fact is they have fallen for one another; love is strange like that, and Shen—despite knowing he should go with Tristan for his own good—would have refused to go if it meant leaving Sarah behind. Sarah knew, as Shen did, what was best for Shen, and so she self-sacrificially volunteered to go with him to make him go, so that Shen has some hope of recovering whatever portion of humanity he is missing, not to mention, if Tristan is correct, their decision might well be what saves Shen’s life.”
Summers stared at Calvin open-mouthed. She just could not believe how someone so skeptical and well-reasoned could be so naïve and gullible. “Raidan wanted Shen; that is what all of this is about. Why can’t you see it? And instead of telling him to get stuffed, you not only give him what he wants, you offer him Sarah as a bonus.”
“Let’s make something clear,” said Calvin. “Tristan was the one who suggested that Shen go and it was into Tristan’s hands that Shen and Sarah voluntarily chose to go. Not Raidan’s.”
“Oh, like there’s any difference,” snapped Summers.
“There is a difference,” said Calvin. “And if you were not so blinded by your hate for Raidan, for his betrayal—”
“Betrayals, as in multiple betrayals, Calvin!”
“Be that as it may, Tristan is not Raidan. They may work together, they may share many common goals, but they are, in fact, different people.”
“For Shen and Sarah’s sakes, I hope you’re right,” said Summers, still incredulous that this had just happened, and that Calvin had failed to put a proper stop to it. “But that still leaves you with two enormous vacancies on the White Shift, including our best pilot and Ops chief.”
“Cassidy Dupont can handle the Ops position,” said Calvin. “She has my every confidence in the world.” That was probably the first reasonable thing he had said in the last ten minutes. “As for the vacant pilot post, we have options: there’s Tully—”
“A fat, sniveling coward,” said Summers with disdain. “Who else?”
“There’s Jay.”
“Mr. Cox?” asked Summers with some doubt. The man was a talented pilot, and by rights, would have been the head pilot if Sarah hadn’t been aboard the ship, eclipsing him. “That would create a vacancy in the Red Shift,” said Summers.
“Well then I’ll take the helm myself during the White Shift,” said Calvin.
“You would command the ship from the helm?” asked Summers skeptically.
“Why not?” asked Calvin. “I don’t have to literally be in the command position to give commands. And really all that chair does is connect a bunch of PA systems together and keep the CO comfortable. I can manage just fine from the helm.”
“If you say so…” said Summers. “What about the vacancy Cassidy will leave behind during Red Shift?”
“I’ll give command of Red Shift to Rafael; he can command from the Ops station.”
“And Vargas?”
“Obviously we transfer him to command of the Green Shift. Come on, work with me here a little,” demanded Calvin. “Managing the shifts is your job, not mine.”
Summers hated to admit it, but Calvin’s proposed solution—despite how improvised it was—would work.
“Fine,” said Summers. “If that’s the way you want to run things as we traverse into Polarian Forbidden Space, Lieutenant, then that is what we shall do.”
“Good, I’m glad we were able to see eye to eye on the matter,” said Calvin.
Summers nodded and made to leave, but Calvin stopped her. “One more thing, Summers.”
“Yes?” she asked.
“I know I gave you permission to speak freely, especially here—and you’re doing a bang-up job of it, truly,” he said.
“Yes?”
“But for God’s sake, Summers, don’t call me Lieutenant anymore.”
“But you’re a Lieutenant Commander,” she said, realizing she’d been caught. Lieutenant had been her way to condescend to him when she disagreed with what he was doing.
“Exactly,” said Calvin. “I am a Lieutenant Commander, I haven’t been a mere lieutenant in years. So, please, if you don’t mind, I would prefer to be called Calvin, Commander, or Sir. I believe I’ve earned it.”
“Yes, sir,” she said in a deliberately flat, neutral tone.
“There, that’s better,” said Calvin. “Dismissed.”
***
After they’d settled in—about as well as could be expected, considering they were crammed into the corner of a starship’s cargo bay filled with hundreds of lycans—Tristan returned.
I wonder what he wants, thought Sarah, questioning her idea to volunteer for this adventure, especially when it meant possibly leaving Calvin and the Nighthawk high and dry. True, she had feelings for Shen, deep ones, ones she couldn’t explain, and those things Tristan had said—about how Shen wouldn’t survive unless he went with Tristan—that had frightened her, and because of that now she was here. She had come because she had known it was the right place for Shen to be. She wasn’t sure why, not yet, but that much she did know. What she didn’t know was why she was here. I don’t belong here, she thought, for the millionth time. She wanted to stay by Shen’s side, if only to figure out exactly what the two of them were, and she knew that her volunteering to go was the only way she could have gotten Shen to go along with it, but now that they were here…she just felt so incredibly lost.
For Shen’s part, although he seemed a damn sight more comfortable with the environment than Sarah did, he too looked lost and confused. He would smile at her and make idle conversation, appearing to be comfortable, but Sarah could almost hear the voice behind his thoughts asking, wondering, why the hell am I here?
“I hope you two have made yourselves comfortable,” said Tristan, obviously there to check on them. Their bedrolls were laid out and their bags set neatly to the side. They had claimed enough space to be comfortable, but not so much to feel they had any notion of privacy.
“Comfortable enough,” said Shen. He looked eager, like he expected Tristan to give them more information, to answer questions and clarify the situation. But Sarah knew better. Tristan was an enigma, a man who thrived on riddles and mystique and he would never reveal the cards in his hand; he would only show a card if it meant he had two more hidden behind his back. Sarah didn’t expect to get any meaningful answers out of him. But she wasn’t going to stop Shen from trying.
“I’m glad to see that,” said Tristan, inspecting their arrangements with a smile. “I just thought I’d let you know that things are moving along well on the bridge and the entire battlegroup is underway. Now there will be no further stops between here and our destination.”
Sarah hadn’t forgotten what that destination was. And how perfectly insane it had sounded when Tristan had fessed up to it; it still sounded equally insane as she turned it over in her head.
“What is your plan?” she asked Tristan, point blank.
“I have many plans, my dear,” said Tristan. “But I suppose the fondest of which is to grow very, very old and die well.”
“I mean, you obviously have a plan for yourself,” said Sarah, “and for all of them,” she glanced out at the hundreds of other lycans. “And I suspect you even have a plan for Shen,” she nodded toward her friend. “But I doubt I am part of this plan,” she said. “I’m a human. I’m a fish out of water. I shouldn’t be here.”
“Don’t say that,” said Shen, looking immediately concerned.
Sarah put her hands on her hips. “Don’t sugarcoat it; I don’t belong here. And everybody knows it.”
“Au contraire,” said Tristan with that sly grin of his. “You do have a role in all of this, Little Dove,” he said. “And it’s as important as mine or anyone’s—perhaps more so.”
“Oh?” asked Sarah skeptically. “And what would that be?”
“Why, you’re going to fly us in, of course,” said Tristan, sounding almost surprised that she hadn’t magically guessed that answer. “We’ll need the galaxy’s best pilot for what we are doing. And, quite truthfully, we all know that is you.”
Sarah felt flattered, but that didn’t make her any more comfortable. Especially since she hadn’t been told in detail what the hell they planned on doing. “All right,” she said, “I’ll be your pilot. But don’t call me Little Dove.”
***
Although it felt like hell every day, Nimoux knew his situation could be a whole lot worse. The bullet that had penetrated him had been a .380 full metal jacket, not exactly what one would describe as a barrel of fun, but also not as damaging or lethal as a higher caliber bullet would have been, or a fragmenting hollow-point round. The bullet had penetrated him and, rather cleanly, exited his body. He had no object trapped inside him, poisoning him, and, aside from nicking his liver—which had caused copious bleeding—no major complications had occurred. He had needed a blood transfusion, and surgery to fix his liver and close the wounds, but now he managed to get by using caution not to overexert himself and a combination of meditation and painkillers to manage the pain. He had suffered no broken bones, wound infections, or paralysis—all of which had been possible if the bullet had struck him only a few inches over—so, in all, he considered himself lucky.
Lucky didn’t mean happy, though. And hardly an hour went by when he didn’t replay the events in his head and try to imagine some scenario where he could have avoided getting shot by Jason Pellew at all.
I suppose I should thank him, thought Nimoux. Even though he tried to kill me, in an ironic way, he saved me. He saved us all. If Pellew hadn’t shot Nimoux when he did, Nimoux would have succeeded in undoing all of the Nighthawk’s safety protocols, and by now, the ship would have been destroyed, taking every soul with it. Nimoux had tried to do that in order to destroy the isotome weapon, to prevent it from falling into dangerous hands. That had been a complete failure, as a solo operator had boarded the ship and somehow taken the weapon, despite whatever resistance Pellew and his men had tried to offer. That solo operator could only have been Lucious “the Moth” Black. A man that Nimoux and the rest of Intel Wing had long suspected dead, though they had never confirmed it. But who else could have done what this lone operator had done? No one Nimoux could think of. And, when he had described Lucious to Shen, the only living eye witness to the crime, Shen had agreed with Nimoux’s description.
But what would Lucious want with an isotome weapon? Unless, the obvious, he was working on behalf of someone else, collecting the weapon for their use. But who, Nimoux wondered, could possibly control Lucious Black? The Moth had proven unreliable to Intel Wing not because of his skills—which were peerless—but rather because of his unpredictability. Most notably, his inability to be controlled. So if he was working on someone else’s behalf, and he had stolen the isotome missile for them, then that person or agency, who held the reins of Lucious Black, was more powerful than Intel Wing had ever been. It was a chilling thought, and one that caused Nimoux’s wound to flare up with pain and make him feel troubled in the depths of his very bones.
I hope to God that the weapon Lucious stole from us was NOT the one used in Thetican System, thought Nimoux darkly. If that were true, then he had a lot more blood on his hands than just the three operatives he had been forced to execute on Korrivan…
No, Nimoux shook his head, it wasn’t my fault. I did all I could to stop it.
But had he really? He tried to ignore the thought pressing down on him, crushing his strained optimism. Certainly, if he had been thinking straighter and hadn’t lost his mental edge—even for a minute—he could have seen Pellew’s mutiny coming, he could have taken prophylactic action and prevented it…
Having given his standing orders—including the newest arrivals, the Roscos—their barracks assignments, he had ordered his men to rest. But something happened along the way to his cabin. Instead of going to his quarters, Nimoux found himself pressing the elevator button for deck four, the deck where the hull had been breached. The deck where Lucious Black had invaded their ship and stolen the isotome weapon.
Nimoux was having trouble making peace with that series of events. And so he wandered the corridors for a time, searching for the spot where the hull breach had occurred. He must have been at this for twenty minutes before giving up. Credit where credit was
due, the Rosco shipwrights, under the guidance of the Nighthawk’s engineers, had managed to repair the breach so seamlessly that Nimoux himself could not find it.
He was about to wander off when he came upon the observation deck. He knew the Nighthawk had one—the Desert Eagle did too—and Nimoux would often go there to meditate in silence. Reflecting on whatever thing happened to be troubling him at the time, if anything, and sometimes he would allow himself to get lost gazing out into the stars or the blackness, whichever was visible out the window. There was something serene there. Something tranquil. And so he entered.
For some reason Nimoux assumed, at this hour, that he would be alone. But there was someone else there. The Polarian, Rez’nac was his name. The man was broad, tall, and thickly built, like most Polarians. But this one, whose skin seemed almost more grey than blue, had an even stronger build than any Polarian Nimoux had ever seen. The man was a walking, talking piece of steel, it seemed, tall enough to tower over most humans and physically dense enough that Nimoux would almost be more likely to describe him as the offspring of a wall and a mountain, rather than two Polarians.
“I apologize,” said Nimoux immediately, realizing that the Polarian was undergoing some sort of private ritual. He had never seen much value in the belief system of the Polarians—their superstitions seemed little different than anyone else’s—however Nimoux had always admired their dedication to the search for inner peace, finding their center, achieving and maintaining internal tranquility. They, more than any other culture in the galaxy, valued discipline and demanded it from themselves with a fierce, almost obsessive passion. “I did not mean to interrupt.”
The Polarian was standing still now, having stopped moving his body—surprisingly lithely, through the motions of his ritual. He had stopped chanting as well and now stood in place, silently, looking at Nimoux with a furrowed brow that was either confused or annoyed. Either way, Nimoux realized he had overstepped himself by entering. No doubt Calvin had promised Rez’nac certain hours to use the observation deck to observe his various rites and customs. Nimoux did not wish to intrude upon that.
The Phoenix Reckoning (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 6) Page 20