The Phoenix Crisis

by Richard L. Sanders

  The Phoenix Crisis

  Book Three of The Phoenix Conspiracy Series

  by Richard L. Sanders

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012 Richard L. Sanders

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. It may not be re-sold for profit, however I (the author) don’t really care if you share it with others. In fact I do not support DRM and refuse to include it on any platform that gives me the option. Just keep in mind that at the time of publication I am an indebted student and every purchase is greatly appreciated. Thank you for your support and understanding.

  Note to the reader: this is Book Three in an ongoing series. If you have not read the first book The Phoenix Conspiracy it may be found on itunes, nook, kindle, and other platforms.

  Chapter 1

  There wasn’t much to the apartment. Its dull brown carpet was about as noticeable as a black dog in a dark room, and the cheaply assembled furniture did nothing to give life to the place. Even the monotony of the blank white walls was only broken up by the even more boring replica artwork that hung on the vacant surfaces. There was nothing special about this place, nothing that separated it from the countless other rental flats that filled so many of the massive buildings scraping the skies of Capital World. But, Blackmoth supposed, it was a fitting enough place for a man to die.

  He’d tracked his prey to this location and had watched the man’s routine over the past several days. For such a wealthy man, he’d spent almost nothing on security. Other than altering his appearance and making a crass effort to blend in with the planet’s lower classes, he’d taken no measures to protect himself. No doubt he believed he’d disappeared. Fallen off the grid. Vanished into the ether.

  Not that it mattered in the least. Even if he’d put all his billions of q into saving his life and built himself an impregnable fortress constantly guarded by thousands of soldiers, it would have made no difference. Yanal Kemmer’s number was up. The false masters wanted him dead. And God had agreed. Blackmoth was merely a weapon. And a weapon in the hands of the One True God never dulled, could never be blocked, and—most importantly—never failed to reach its target. So, in truth, Yanal had been doomed from the beginning. The events of this night were merely the fulfillment of an eternal contract—the consequences of which had always been inevitable. Written in the stars before any world ever came to be.

  Just over six minutes, he thought. He was sure that was right, even though he had no time piece to check. Instead he relied on his well-honed internal clock. A gift from the One True God. He had no need for anything else. The mechanical tools of men, be they gears, crystals, or electronics, it made little difference; none could hope to be truer than the whispers of the One True God.

  As he waited he brushed his sleeve. Thinking of the gruesome scar hidden behind the cloth. It was large and the old wound had been cut deep. It was the kind of scar that people took notice of, the kind that drew unwanted attention. Blackmoth would be a poor servant of the One True God if he couldn’t be invisible when he needed to be. His life’s work had ever been about achieving results, not about getting noticed. Or getting caught. Certainly the One True God could deliver him from such a situation, but the One True God would never accept the services and offerings of one so careless, Blackmoth was sure. So he always wore something to cover the self-inflicted scar. To hide the unworthy from the symbol of his pure devotion.

  Blackmoth took up a position in the hallway, just out of sight of the door. He breathed silently and slowly, but remained ever alert. Ever vigilant. Taking note of every creak and moan, the rumble of air through the vents, even the faint scratching of something going on in the apartment directly above. None of it was the Truth. He waited, his mind filtering through the different noises like air currents shifting away the fog. And then the Truth was before him. He could hear Yanal’s footsteps approach the door.

  Blackmoth tensed and readied himself.

  The sound of an electronic key sliding through a lock. A beep of approval.

  Blackmoth put his left hand into his pocket and felt his fingers curl around the Gift of God.

  The door opened and someone entered. Blackmoth listened to the sounds, almost able to see the events in his purified mind’s eye. The newcomer closed and locked the door, put away his jacket, and activated the apartment’s dim lamp. Blackmoth could tell by the weight of the footsteps that it was Yanal. Once he heard Yanal approach, Blackmoth came out from around the corner.

  He knew he was a terrifying sight, especially to one not expecting him. He was tall and his well-developed muscles, perfectly toned, were easy to make out through his tight shirt and exposed arms. Yanal’s eyes widened when he saw him and his mouth opened, ready to shriek. But not fast enough.

  Like a blur, Blackmoth closed the distance and in a single motion grabbed hold of Yanal so he couldn’t flee and clamped a large, iron-like hand over the man’s mouth and nose while pressing the man’s chest firmly against the wall with his other hand. Yanal struggled as violently and desperately as he could, arms flailing, pounding against Blackmoth, legs trying to kick and break free. But it was like a fish flapping against the jaws of a bear. Its efforts fruitless, its fate sealed. The One True God had decided Yanal’s fate long ago; there was nothing he could do to escape it.

  Blackmoth kept Yanal pinned to the wall with his right hand while his left withdrew the Gift of God from his pocket. He raised it so Yanal could see—the very large hypodermic needle gleamed in the faint lamplight.

  Yanal tried to bite Blackmoth’s fingers but he ignored the pain and only held his victim steadier. He made a hushing noise, as if he were trying to soothe a frightened animal, while he opened Yanal’s clothes and found the appropriate artery.

  “The One True God welcomes your lost soul to his bosom,” Blackmoth said peacefully just before stabbing the needle into Yanal’s artery and injecting the fluid.

  Yanal lurched and made one final struggle, attempting to kick and break free, but Blackmoth held him firmly.

  “As the bringer of darkness I welcome you into the arms of the One True God. In His name—a name I am unworthy to speak—I usher you into the fires and ices of His judgment. May your broken soul find peace and absolution in the darkness. And know that when this universe passes away, along with the million more that follow it, we will meet again my brother.”

  He held Yanal until every last trace of fight had gone out of him. As Yanal’s body suffered the effects of a stroke and he slowly died of air embolism, Blackmoth held him. Only when Blackmoth was sure Yanal was dead did he allow the corpse to fall to the floor.

  “One-thousand four-hundred and ninety-seven,” he whispered as he bent down and inspected the corpse’s vital signs, verifying that the One True God’s work had been done. Blackmoth had killed that many people over the years, and in almost as many ways. He’d killed and murdered on almost every planet in the Empire. And still he’d never been caught. He’d mastered the deadly arts beyond anyone he’d ever heard of and knew how to kill as swiftly and as cleanly as he liked. He could contaminate and destroy the evidence if he wanted to, but sometimes left evidence behind deliberately, just for the sport of it.

  He reached into Yanal’s jacket and withdrew a small book of cigars. He lit one and then used its fiery end to burn the skin on Yanal’s body where he’d inserted the needle. He left the cigar there, still alight, as though Yanal had collapsed from his stroke while enjoying one of his outrageously expensive smokes.

  Blackmoth’s own clothes had been selected to keep back his own flakes of hair, skin, and other DNA traces. He wore long tight sleeves and gloves as well as net over his face and head. However it was an unnecessary
precaution, even if he had left traces of his DNA on the scene, as he sometimes did, the evidence would only be useful in proving to Intel Wing that someone else had been at the murder scene, not tell them who. They’d never in a thousand years connect the evidence to Blackmoth. He was off the grid. And had been for over a decade. Even he barely remembered his true name and the person he used to be.

  Ten years of faithful service to the One True God had not erased the sins of his past. Not even a hundred years would. Or even a hundred million slayings in the service of that God. He was a sinner and as unworthy as the next soulless, lifeless husk of a person that inhabited this part of the galaxy—or any part, really.

  He took a moment to pray for his sins, and to pray for Yanal’s soul, and then he left. It was time to report to his false masters that the deed had been done.

  ***

  Raidan sat in his office on the ISS Harbinger and slowly tapped his fingers on the cedar desk. The nearby bottle of whiskey was as empty as the black space around the ship and, though he tried to concentrate, he found himself preoccupied. There was a lot going on, more than most people could possibly know. And managing it all was proving to be a delicate balancing act. More than ever he needed his resources in position. And as he received regular updates from The Organization’s eyes on Renora—which was becoming more violent by the day, and was about to get a whole lot bloodier—the bleakness of the situation was almost overwhelming. And not for the first time he wished he was the sort of person who could turn his back to the whole thing and drink himself into a quick and happy grave.

  There was a beep on the nearby intercom. He tapped the button. “What is it?”

  “Message coming in, sir,” reported Mister Mason. “Highest priority.”

  “I’ll take it in here,” he replied.

  “Aye, sir.”

  He shot a forlorn glance at his empty whiskey bottle and thought the universe was quite an unfair place when liquor was allowed to run dry and the steady stream of bad news showed no sign of relenting.

  “Raidan,” said a new voice over the speaker. “Are you alone?”

  “I am,” he replied. He knew the voice transmitting to him over kataspace belonged to Mira Pellew, one of his most trusted lieutenants, and perhaps the most ruthless.

  “I have news from Capital World. It’s regarding Yanal…”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” asked Raidan.

  “Yes… how did you—?”

  “Rebecca Hewitt, Apu Malhotra, Bradley Porter, and now Yanal Kemmer… and all within the last three days.” This was the latest and most high profile case in the ever-growing list of Organization assets found dead on Capital World. Obviously they were being identified and eliminated by the Phoenix Ring. Someone was going to great efforts to curtail the Organization’s operation there. If these slayings continued, their resources there would evaporate. As it was, the loss of Yanal would be a devastating financial blow.

  “I’m sorry…” said Mira. “I know he was a friend of yours.”

  Raidan took in a cold, deep breath before replying. Yanal had been something of a friend. But this was war. And Yanal wasn’t the first friend Raidan had lost to it. “How did they do it this time?” he finally asked.

  “He was ambushed in his own apartment. Local authorities ruled the death was from natural causes. Apparently he had a stroke while smoking a cigar.”

  “Foolish Yanal…” said Raidan. He’d warned the man to at least keep a group of personal bodyguards around at all times. It wasn’t like Yanal couldn’t have afforded it.

  “Yanal is a lost cause, but I believe there are others in danger.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” said Raidan wondering who might be the Phoenix Ring’s next target. “How many other high priority assets remain on Capital World that have declined to evacuate the system?”

  “Fourteen. There are other people whose lives are in danger too, plenty of low level operators and the like, but as for high value civilian assets… there are fourteen left on Capital World, though none as high value as Yanal .”

  “Use any local resources we can and try to secure them, in the meantime I will talk to White Rook about the option of securing and removing them by force, for their own good.”

  “They won’t like that.”

  “True,” said Raidan, pressing his hands together. “But disgruntled assets are still more useful than dead ones.”

  “What I’d like to know is how our people are being made. Somehow information is leaking out of the Org and into Phoenix Ring ears,” said Mira. “I can’t help but wonder if it’s my fault—perhaps I should have destroyed all of the shuttles. Instead of sparing one.”

  Raidan frowned. He understood what she was implying but he doubted her conclusion was correct. “You spared that one shuttle under my recommendation. You yourself showed me the surveillance footage that clearly indicated that Calvin had a secret meeting with Rafael Te Santos on board the Nighthawk when the Nighthawk was in Gemini. I am sure Calvin gave Te Santos an important assignment, if his shuttle had shared the fate of the others… that assignment would never have been completed.”

  “Frankly, sir, I don’t trust Cross. And I think you should be more cautious in your trust of him as well. For all we know he instructed Rafael to leak the extent of his investigation to the Intel Wing resources, perhaps to the Phoenix Ring itself.”

  “Now that’s just being paranoid.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. In any case, there were three other surviving Nighthawk deserters on that shuttle besides Rafael Te Santos, and any one of them could be leaking the Nighthawk’s findings to the Phoenix Ring. Knowingly or not.”

  Raidan supposed that was true. And perhaps Mira had a point. It would have been a tidier sweep if he’d allowed her to destroy all of the shuttles. But he couldn’t get past the nagging intuition that Calvin had been up to something, and killing Te Santos would have thrown a wrench into it. “For what it’s worth, Mira, I hope you’re right. If the information leak is coming from one of the Nighthawk’s former crew then that well will dry up soon. Calvin’s investigation into the Organization had to have been both short and limited. Anyone who took that lucky shuttle to Capital World won’t know much.”

  “With respect, if I’m right, we could have prevented the loss of Yanal and several others.”

  Raidan was through debating the issue. Perhaps Mira was right, perhaps not. There was no way to know for sure. All Raidan knew was that Calvin had seemed to trust Rafael and that meant Raidan didn’t want to obstruct him. Hopefully his trust in Calvin wasn’t misplaced. There were very important things left for Calvin to do, beginning with the chat they would have once the Nighthawk and Harbinger met for the scheduled rendezvous. Time was running out and important decisions had to be made. Until then Raidan had work to do and discussing the sunken past with Mira wasn’t worthy of his time. “I understand your dissent, Mira, now go follow my orders. Secure our remaining assets on Capital World as best you can.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Raidan cut the line. He then took out his stationary and began penning a note to White Rook—the only way he could communicate with her:

  “In light of recent events I formally request that permission be granted to forcibly remove our remaining assets on Capital World and impose maximum security measures until the situation is better understood. I believe that Yanal’s death, and the others before him, are just the beginning. A. R.”

  Chapter 2

  Calvin’s wrist throbbed and there were sharp moments of pain if he moved his hand at an angle or tried to lift anything heavy but Rain had assured him it was only a sprain. Of the away party that had landed on Remus, he’d been one of the luckiest survivors, no broken bones and only superficial cuts, bruises, and scratches. No lasting injuries. He was grateful for that but felt a sickness in his stomach when he thought of the others and how they’d faired, especially Shen who remained unconscious and confined in the infirmary under constant watch and guard.
Calvin doubted he’d ever see his friend conscious again, despite Rain’s stubborn belief that Shen could be saved. Calvin had seen Remorii toxins firsthand and if there was any one truth about them, it was that they were unstoppably lethal.

  The door opened and Calvin glanced up to see Summers enter the CO’s office. He waved her in and the door slid shut behind her. They were alone.

  “Good, I was hoping you’d get here soon,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He’d originally instructed her to come to his office right away but on second thought decided to allow her to finish her current duties first—mostly so he’d have enough time to organize his thoughts. He still wasn’t entirely sure how he should broach the subject at hand.

  “I got here as soon as I could,” she said, giving him a curious look. He hadn’t told her what this meeting was about—just that it was important and she should come see him as soon as her duties permitted. “Figuring out how all the shifts will be covered while loaning a good portion of our crew to the Arcane Storm has proven to be a difficult challenge.”

  The mysterious ship they’d found abandoned in dead space had been taken in tow. A handful of people had already boarded, just enough to fly the vessel. But Calvin had assigned Summers to select an adequate crew to leave the Nighthawk temporarily and help manage all of the Arcane Storm’s many systems. The inevitable result was that both the Nighthawk and the Arcane Storm would be understaffed.

  “I’m giving command of the Arcane Storm to Second Lieutenant Vargas while it is under our control,” said Calvin. Vargas had become the de facto second officer since Vincent Rose’s death, even though Calvin had never officially assigned him to fill the position.

  “Yes, I am aware,” said Summers. “And I approve. Vargas has been in command of Red Shift since Abia and all of Red Shift are among the officers I’ve assigned to transfer to the Arcane Storm. Was that what you wanted to see me about?”