His words were damning. And, as Calvin glanced throughout the room, he knew the Assembly had decided. Nimoux’s reputation was legendary and his word would be interpreted as the unimpeachable truth. It sickened him that the greatest Intel Wing agent would speak out against him like this. And deceive the Assembly. Calvin stared at Nimoux, recognizing him from the many thousands of times his image had appeared in Intel Wing files. Everything was there, every flaw, it was exactly him. And yet… Calvin wondered if the Nimoux before him was a replicant. He already had his suspicions about the Admiral. It was a chilling thought, that such high-profile and powerful people could be replaced seemingly on a whim—if that was indeed what had happened. “I would add, however,” Nimoux continued, “that I believe Mister Cross is operating with the best of intentions, and I believe he is sincerely convinced of his version of events—but perceiving something and having it be reality do not always align. I believe that undue hardship, stress, and other factors are affecting Mister Cross’s mental capacity.”
It was cold, vicious character assassination. As Calvin looked once more throughout the room, keenly attentive to the whispers and murmur of voices, he could tell that their confidence in him was shaken. His colorful claims, his conspiracy theories, his witch hunt… clearly, to them, he must have seemed at least a little out of touch and paranoid.
Calvin had to know if Nimoux was a replicant. And so he thought of the only way he could test him. He leaned into his mic and asked, “Captain, tell us about Remus System. About how you tracked the Nighthawk there and what happened.”
“The Desert Eagle tracked the Nighthawk and attempted to ambush it,” said Nimoux. “However, the Nighthawk gave us the slip. We never caught up with the ship again. Nor did we enter the Remus System at any point for any reason.” His words were spoken plainly, coldly, and as a matter of fact.
“What about the Rotham fleet that swarmed Remus System just minutes after the Nighthawk escaped?” asked Calvin. “Tell them about the Rotham fleet!” He knew that the real Nimoux must have detected the Rotham fleet as it was inbound for Remus System. He also knew that the real Nimoux would never endanger the Empire by lying about such a matter. He would want the Assembly, and the military, and everyone else to know if a threat as serious as a Rotham fleet inside Imperial space existed.
“There is no Rotham Fleet in Imperial space and there never was,” said Nimoux, slowly and clearly. “Not at Remus. Not at Abia. Not at all.”
Calvin stared at him and Nimoux stared back. This convinced Calvin that Nimoux was indeed a replicant. Which made him wonder what had happened to the real Nimoux. Most likely he’d made himself a threat to the powers that be—probably he’d tried to warn the military and intelligence community about the Rotham Fleet he saw—which transformed him into a liability. Just like Calvin. And like Calvin, they’d tried to make him go away. Apparently succeeding. Calvin wondered if Nimoux was now space dust, floating somewhere in the greatest, blackest ocean. If so… then it was indeed a tragedy, and the Empire had lost one of its most valuable citizens. Certainly whatever fate had befallen the real Nimoux had befallen the Vice Admiral as well.
Representative Tate took a moment to confer with Lekovic and O’Neil at her sides, and then spoke into the mic in front of her. “This committee has no further questions. I thank the witnesses for their testimonies and hereby dismiss them.”
As Calvin left, eager to return to work and unravel the highest echelon of the conspiracy, he noted a worried look from Kalila. Her face was placid and calm but in her eyes he could see the anxiety and the desperation. She would do all she could here, but her influence was swiftly evaporating. Probably she could no longer block a motion for a vote to challenge the King. Now it was up to Calvin to get results. And soon. If he didn’t…
Calvin was afraid to imagine what it would mean if he didn’t. I’ll succeed, his eyes promised her. I have to.
Chapter 29
“Move along,” said a marine, giving Nimoux a shove forward. He stumbled but managed to keep his balance. He walked through a long corridor surrounded by a dozen or more armed guards until they reached the flight deck. He didn’t know where he was being taken, but welcomed the chance to be free of the brig.
Ever since his forcible capture on the ISS Wolverine, where he—an Imperial officer—was taken into custody by fellow Imperial officers, he’d been left to rot in the Wolverine’s brig with no explanation whatsoever. No charges had been preferred against him, and no senior officers had come to speak with him or answer any of the many questions that were swirling in his head by the hundreds. For that matter, no one had shown any interest in him. No explanation. No interrogation. Nothing. Just an empty cell, a force field, plenty of silent guards, and a little bit of food and water from time to time.
Nimoux had tried to make the best of it. He knew his XO would never abandon him, not after Nimoux had given him clear and specific orders to await his return. So Nimoux had waited patiently. Taking the time to meditate and reflect. Trying to organize his thoughts and push through the chaos—ever chasing his center. But minutes had turned to hours. And hours had turned to days. Nimoux lost hope that the Desert Eagle was still there waiting for him. And it made him wonder what exactly was going on. He’d asked the guards, trying to get even the most remote sense of recent events, but the guards wouldn’t so much as utter a peep to him.
And now they took him. Without explanation or warning. Dragged him from his sleep out of the brig, down the elevator, through the corridors and to the flight deck. Where apparently a shuttle was waiting. There was no one to greet him. No senior staff to explain what was going on or give him any clue. Just soldiers and pilots—all of whom must have been ordered to remain silent.
Nimoux took a deep breath as they forced him to board the shuttle and strap in. A part of him was afraid; he felt the tiniest waves of anxiety rise and fall inside him. Was he in danger? What did it mean that he, a high-profile Intelligence Captain, could be taken into custody like this? What did they plan to do with him? What did this mean for the Empire? He thought of the Rotham fleet, warships inside Imperial space. And thought of Calvin’s warnings about conspiracy and corruption.
With practiced calm he closed his eyes and quieted his mind with one of his meditation exercises. Here—in this confusing, confining, hostile environment—it was far more difficult than usual. And a distracting blend of anxiety and curiosity challenged his focus. Keeping him from finding his center. But the practice did help him soothe his nerves and collect his thoughts. He recognized that he didn’t have control of his current situation—something he could not blame himself for, nor expect himself to change at this time—and he accepted that, at least for now, what was happening was out of his hands. It would be as fate and destiny demanded. He was only a pebble floating on a tide. Riding the waves wherever they took him.
The flight deck depressurized and the massive jaws of the shuttlebay opened into space. Nimoux looked out the window and watched as the blackness enveloped them. The shuttle pulled away from the Wolverine and as it distanced itself from the great ship’s many lights, tiny stars began to appear. Nimoux looked at them, thinking they were a lot like people. So many, many of them. And yet, compared to the vast black ocean surrounding them, they were nothing. Burning with so much passion and concern, glowing furiously, and yet, in the grand scheme of things… barely even noticeable. Blinking out, one at a time, as their days came to an end, and yet the galaxy moved forward unflinching. Unaffected.
Despite all we do, despite all we feel, he thought, in the end we are but meager stars. We live, we die. Change remains the universal constant. What mattered so much yesterday means less today and is forgotten tomorrow. We are but flies in a whirlwind. Products of our environment. Taken by forces far mightier than ourselves to places we rarely dream of, and scarcely plan.
It helped a little. He was able to partially let go. Partially accept his situation. But, though he valued the Polarian philosophy, he was still
human, and could never quite manage to separate himself from his concerns. His actions during the Altair Mission haunted him. The faces of the fellow officers he’d slain haunted his thoughts and dreams—whether he was asleep or awake—and though Nimoux did not believe in such things, he felt as if their ghosts walked beside him. Their spirits eternally tied to his. Waiting for his moment to come and then, once he passed away, they would be there before him. Wanting answers for what he’d done. Explanations for his betrayal. And Nimoux would have nothing to offer them. Only his unyielding, unweakening, undying regret.
If I die here, he thought, looking at the guards next to him—large stocky soldiers toting firearms, knives, and grenades—if their plan is to take me to some obscure place and kill me… I would deserve it.
They didn’t kill him. At least not yet. The shuttle changed course and descended upon a brilliant, white-and-blue planet. Like most habitable worlds, it was filled with seemingly endless stretches of ocean, but there was land too. He couldn’t recognize what world it was, not from this limited vantage point, but most of the land appeared undisturbed and undeveloped. No cities or mines or extraction colonies jumped out at him. Just nature in its untouched, unspoiled, unrefined state. He looked down on it from the heavens, enjoying the view out the window, gazing down on the trees, and the rocks, and the tiny dots of wildlife as if he were looking through the eyes of a god.
The shuttle landed at a small facility that—as far as Nimoux could tell—was the only settlement on the entire planet. He was forcibly escorted off the shuttle and into a large courtyard. The dirt was soft under his boots, almost like sand, and he had to squint to keep out the overwhelming brightness of the local sun. It was hot too, probably about forty degrees centigrade, and dry. He felt himself sweating profusely under the scorching heat of his black uniform.
“This way,” someone said, and he was poked in the back with a baton. He complied and allowed himself to be led across the courtyard away from the shuttle and to a small set of buildings. They were portable structures, he could tell. The mining industry used them extensively, they could be transported easily and deployed and set up, or taken down and packed, in less than a day. It was hard to tell how many there were, but he counted over twenty. The largest of which looked like it could house thirty people.
In the distance, all around, there was a massive fence. It climbed high into the air, at least ten meters, and—undoubtedly—reached down deep into the earth as well. Nimoux noted several of its features and concluded that it was electrically charged.
Am I in a prison camp? He wondered.
The guards led him out into the open, where Nimoux could see a lot of other people. Most wore blue one-piece jumpsuits, like prisoners, and a few guards patrolled in black-and-white. He imagined that he’d be getting his own blue jumpsuit and his first thought was that he’d welcome the chance for some fresh clothes. He’d been stuck in his same uniform for days, and now it stuck to him with sweat and grime.
The prisoners were distributed sparsely across the massive courtyard space. A few were in small groups, talking or playing a crude game with a cheap rubber ball and a wall surface, but most were alone.
There was a loud roar and Nimoux turned to see the shuttle lifting off. Headed back toward the sky above. Leaving him here abandoned. Marooned. He felt like an old-fashioned sailor stranded on a desert island. But he was not alone. As he looked around and tried to count the guards and the prisoners, he realized there were far too many to keep track of. And yet, despite their numbers, he felt alone.
After a few minutes there was another roar as another shuttle circled the compound and then landed on the far side. Nimoux squinted and watched as several people were escorted out of it. Many of them wore navy uniforms, one of them wore the black-and-silver of Intel Wing, like Nimoux, and others wore civilian clothes. After that shuttle departed, another landed. It too disbursing prisoners. And then came two more. Nimoux watched them all, and counted the new arrivals. Including himself there were thirty new prisoners. He wondered if they’d been held in mass and then transported to this prison site all at once, or if new prisoners arrived every day.
“Lafayette Nimoux,” he heard a familiar voice behind him. “I spotted your black-and-silver uniform from a mile away but I didn’t believe it ‘til just now. Damned if they got you too.”
He turned to see a creased, sweaty, sun-tanned version of Director Jack Edwards. He stood next to a familiar looking woman. It took Nimoux a second to piece together who she was. Her hair had been chopped short and her skin—like Edwards’—had been darkened by the sun. But her facial features were unmistakable. She was Vice Admiral Harkov, Commander of the Fifth Fleet.
“You were the last person I expected to find here,” said Edwards. “At first I was sure I was seeing a mirage.”
“Director,” said Nimoux, confused to see both him and the Admiral. “You’re prisoners?” he asked.
Harkov nodded.
“And so are you,” said Edwards. “I don’t know why. I don’t know how. But whoever’s in charge seems able to take whoever they want and throw them in here, and—so far as I can tell—no one has cared enough to come and find us.”
Nimoux found the whole situation strange and inexplicable. He searched his mind, trying to make sense of it while doing his best to ignore the scorching heat and the sensation of burning on his pale skin. Under his thinning hair he could feel the hot kiss of the sun.
“How long have you been here?” asked Nimoux. He’d known that Harkov was missing. According to the files he’d read, the Andromeda ship and every hand aboard had gone missing. But Edwards… he wasn’t listed as missing. In fact, Nimoux had spoken with him over kataspace not a week before. That man hadn’t been sun-tanned and thinned by poor prison diet and malnutrition. The man standing before him was skin and bones and bronzed like a statue.
“Hard to count the time,” said Edwards. “Don’t have any proof but the days feel longer here. Much longer than a standard day. Maybe it’s the planet’s slow turn. Maybe it’s just because there is nothing to do and every moment is tedious, hot agony.”
“Please, make a guess,” said Nimoux.
“Months. Four? Maybe five? Damned if I can remember,” he squinted and looked away for a second. Perhaps checking to see if any guards were coming to break them up.
“Months?” asked Nimoux, wanting to be sure he’d heard the Director right.
“Yeah. At least,” said Edwards, looking back at Nimoux.
“For me it’s been only weeks,” said Admiral Harkov. “But like Jack said, it’s hard to tell. Time stands still here.”
As Nimoux looked around, soaking in the dull barren emptiness, he believed her. It was as if the universe all around them, filled with all manner of events and goings-on, aged and died, while this place was an unchanging timeless wasteland. A kind of peace existed here in the static constance, and yet it was also a unique kind of hell.
“At least they seem to want us alive,” said Nimoux. Clearly it would have been easier for their captors to dispose of them then send them here. Which meant each of them still had some sort of value. He wondered what it could be.
“I don’t know why no one has come looking for us,” said Harkov. “The Commander of the Fifth Fleet, the Director of Intel Wing, and we’re not the only ones… there are captains, and commanders, and governors, and all sorts of leaders here. Even a couple Representatives from the Assembly.”
“She’s right,” said Edwards. “And now the legendary Lafayette Nimoux is here… the whole Empire should be scrambling to find us, every fleet on high alert, checking underneath ever rock, inspecting every nook and cranny. They should have come for us by now. They should be here. And yet… no one has come.”
Nimoux still couldn’t get past the fact that he’d spoken with Edwards recently, over kataspace, and yet there was no possible way—that he could imagine—for that Edwards to be the same man that stood here before him. Which left him confused.
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br /> “I may have some idea why they haven’t come looking for you,” said Nimoux. Both Admiral Harkov and Director Edwards looked hungry for an explanation, even if it was just speculation. “Admiral, you are still considered missing,” said Nimoux looking at her, then his eyes shifted to Edwards. “But you, Director, are not. In fact, I have been corresponding with you over kataspace and you’ve been giving me orders and assignments up until about a week ago.”
“What?” the Director looked confused.
“I don’t know how, but someone has planted a very convincing look-alike in your office and, as far as the Empire knows, you’re not missing at all. But rather hard at work. Fulfilling the interests of…” Nimoux looked around at the compound. “Well… probably the people who built this place.”
“Unbelievable,” said Edwards. And yet he believed him, Nimoux could tell. Trusted his every word. But seemed at a loss for an explanation of how it was possible. Nimoux didn’t blame him. He could hardly speculate himself how it was possible. And yet it was the truth.
“And me?” asked Harkov, looking sick. “They haven’t… replaced me yet.”
“As far as I know,” said Nimoux. “It could be that they don’t have a convincing-enough look alike for you, or that that isn’t their plan for you—it’s anyone’s guess. But if no one has come looking for the people here… it’s probably because the Empire hasn’t heard that these people are missing.”
“This won’t stand,” said Harkov. “It can’t.”
Nimoux nodded. “I hope you’re right, Admiral.”
“So how did they get to you anyway?” asked Edwards raising a curious eyebrow. “The legendary Nimoux, how did they trap you and take you away?”
“My ship was ordered to dock with the ISS Wolverine,” he said. “I followed orders and went aboard. There they took me away from my escort and tossed me in their brig. I gave my XO orders to await my return but for all I know they replaced me with a copy of myself then and there. Sent a fake Lafayette Nimoux onto the Desert Eagle. Or maybe the Wolverine forced the Desert Eagle to withdraw by firing on it. Who knows…”
The Phoenix Crisis Page 30