“I see,” said Edwards.
“And you?” asked Nimoux.
“They came to me at my home. Broke in, dragged me off in my sleep. Gagged me when I woke up. Confined me when I kicked and screamed. They threw me into the back of a black car in the middle of the night. In the garage of my domicile. I don’t know what happened to my guards—probably paid off. I woke up in the ass-end of some cell and they shipped me here. Been here ever since.”
“Just before they came for you,” said Nimoux, “did you uncover something?” Nimoux asked because he wondered if they’d all seen things they shouldn’t have, and they were each taken to protect some kind of larger secret. It fit perfectly with Calvin’s claims, which seemed less wild and more plausible all the time.
“No I don’t think so,” said Edwards. “I was giving orders to have some financial accounts tracked. I was building a case to go after some corporate connections that were tied a little too closely to some members of the Assembly.”
Of course Edwards didn’t have to see something he shouldn’t have in order for the conspirators to have motive to replace him. Planting a puppet in Edward’s position, one of the most influential in the Empire, would grant them access to lots of power and information. “Which corporations and which Assembly members?” asked Nimoux.
“A few different ones. The biggest link I found was MXR and Caerwyn Martel. Nothing too shocking, his family does own the company and Caerwyn is one of the shareholders. But it seemed like there were a lot of gifts and bribes and that sort of thing flowing through the Assembly, all loosely and distantly connected to MXR. But I doubt that’s why they dragged me off to this hellhole.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Nimoux. “What about you, Admiral?”
“My ship had just escaped an action in Abia system. There had been a battle and during it several of the ships in my own flotilla fired on the Andromeda and the lead ships. I still can’t make sense of it. There was a fight and the Andromeda escaped damaged. We were en route to Capital System, and making repeated attempts to contact the Fleet and warn them. We suffered systems failures though and our alteredspace engines couldn’t take us very deep. Thanks to battle damage. Supposedly our communication troubles were caused by battle damage too but… I can’t help but wonder if it was sabotage.”
Nimoux found Harkov’s suspicion intriguing.
“Anyway,” Harkov continued, “we were tracked by a Polarian warship. It eventually overtook us and forced us out of alteredspace. There was a battle and it was a very even match. The Andromeda is a far more powerful ship than the Polarian vessel, but we were badly injured from our earlier engagement and many of our weapons were inoperable. As were our shields. And much of our armor had been destroyed. Eventually, when it looked like both vessels would be lost, the commander of the other ship, a Polarian by the name of Kaisar—I’ll never forget that name—offered to meet to discuss terms of a cease fire. Both ships stopped firing and I went to meet him on the flight deck with an escort of soldiers. He came aboard on a shuttle. It was a trap though. In the blink of an eye, a small army of Polarians stormed out of the shuttle and there was a standoff between them and my small escort. I still thought we had the better position, my men had come prepared to defend me and there were hundreds of other marines that could have stormed the flight deck in time. But one of my own people came up behind me, and pressed a gun to my head. And forced the rest of my marines to drop their weapons under threat that she’d kill me.” Harkov stared off into space, reliving the terrifying moment.
“They dragged me aboard the shuttle and locked me up,” she continued. “And took me with them. I watched from the window as the Andromeda jumped away. I still don’t know why. Or what would cause them to abandon me, when they knew I was a prisoner on the Polarian ship. Yet they jumped anyway. Disappearing into alteredspace. And I never saw my ship again. The Polarians handed me off to some humans—they seemed like a military crew and wore military uniforms but they didn’t give a care that I was a navy Admiral. No one would talk to me. No one offered any explanation. They just passed me along, from ship to ship, from cell to cell, until eventually taking me here.”
“I see,” said Nimoux. “I remember Abia. Intel Wing sent me there to eliminate the evidence. It’s been puzzling me ever since I saw the debris, but maybe you can tell me. Why was there Rotham debris if the action was human ships firing on human ships? And why were you pursued by a Polarian ship?”
“The Rotham were there. A whole squadron,” said Harkov. “I don’t know how… or why. But they were there. And so was one Polarian ship. I have no idea what they were up to, but I think we caught them with their trousers down. I’d given my ships the order to form up and engage the aliens. And I’d sent them a general message to stand down and surrender, or be destroyed. Before our flotillas could engage one another, however, my own rearguard opened fire on the rest of us. We defended ourselves and, ultimately, did the work for the Rotham. I don’t think we fired on a single Rotham ship. So, if you found Rotham debris, I have no explanation for you. But there were Rotham ships there,” said Harkov. “I’ll never forget that.”
Very interesting, thought Nimoux. So if it hadn’t been Harkov and the other Imperial ships that had destroyed the Rotham craft, then who had done it? He wondered. Had they, like the Imperial flotilla, fired upon themselves? That seemed unlikely. It made more sense that the Nighthawk, or the Harbinger, or both working in concert had done the damage.
“But now that you’re here,” said Edwards, looking eagerly at Nimoux, “you can help us.”
“Help you how?”
“You’re the most brilliant mind in Intel Wing. Tell us what to do. What’s the plan?” he asked.
Nimoux thought about it for a moment. And while it was true that there was nothing any of them could do for now, he also felt the urge to get off this rock and find a way back to Capital World. If, somehow, they could warn the Empire. Perhaps by appearing before the Assembly. Maybe they could do something to protect the civilization they held most dear. However, despite the feeling of urgency, and the strong desire to act, Nimoux knew that being rash would be counter-productive. Once they had a plan, and decided to act on it, it needed to be a complete success. No half-measures. That meant they had to be patient and collect more information before they could do anything.
“We keep our heads down and try not to draw attention to ourselves,” said Nimoux. Both Harkov and Edwards looked unhappy with this response. “For now,” Nimoux added. This seemed to cheer them some.
“And then what?” asked Edwards.
“Escape, of course,” said Nimoux.
There was a loud noise and, over a speaker system set up on poles throughout the courtyard, a general message was spoken to all prisoners.
“All prisoners will fall into line immediately. Take your places or suffer extreme consequences. All new arrivals will report to the southeast corner. Any new arrival who fails to report immediately to the southeast corner will not eat today.”
The message repeated once and Nimoux watched as the prisoners, quite automatically, went their different ways and then bunched up into orderly rows and columns.
“We’d better go,” said Edwards, glancing nervously at Harkov. They shuffled off toward their respective places. Nimoux didn’t know which direction was southeast, but he saw where the other new arrivals were gathering and headed that way. He wasn’t certain how he was going to escape this place, or get a message out, but he clung to the hope. Certain that, with enough focus, and enough cleverness, and enough planning, he would find a way. No prison can hold a truly desperate soul who burns an eternal candle of hope and never stops searching for that one way out.
He was sorted into a line, along with the others. As they endured the dry heat of the yellow sun on their unprotected faces, a high-ranking prison guard inspected them. Nimoux had to squint as he looked around, trying to learn all he could about his environment and his captors. Eventually one of the guards spoke
to him.
“Hero of the Empire,” he said, clicking his tongue. His eyes met Nimoux’s, challenging him. “Welcome to hell.”
***
“Look at them go,” said Micah, almost lustfully.
Ryker watched through his binoculars as shuttles and gunships filled the air over the capital city. On the ground, countless people scrambled to get aboard whatever transports remained, while a thin line of soldiers bravely held back the mob of rebels who were quickly taking the city.
“They say it’s like this across all of Renora,” said Vulture.
Ryker watched as a column of soldiers disappeared in the light of a makeshift explosive. One moment standing there, holding their line, the next… blood and gore sprayed everywhere. He had to hand it to the citizens of Renora, once properly provoked they went all in.
“And to think, only a few million casualties,” said Ryker, he lowered his binoculars and looked at his men. Civilians and soldiers alike had been butchered, but even the loss of a million soldiers was a mere dent in the numbers the King had sent. Of much greater concern to them was the loss of their supply lines, destruction of their safe havens, and the feverish hostility of the population in every city the troops tried to occupy. They didn’t have the infrastructure or the logistical resources to win a war of attrition. And suicide attacks and other violence against the King’s soldiers grew worse by the day. And harder to predict. Ryker and his CERKO operatives had to do very little now. The hive of bees had been whacked enough and now they were pouring out in droves, furious and thirsty for revenge.
“There he goes,” said Vulture, pointing. Ryker looked back through his binoculars in the direction Vulture indicated and instantly spotted a large craft taking to the sky, escorted by several gunships. Once it was airborne, the remaining soldiers—who were being overwhelmed—broke into full retreat as the rebels took the capital.
“Do you think he’ll be back?” asked Tank.
“Not bloody likely,” said Micah. “These people put the fear of god into him. He’ll shit his pants in his sleep for years to come.”
“Yes, the Prefect has fled,” said Ryker. “Exactly as planned. And I doubt very much that he will be back, but this isn’t over. You can bet the King won’t take this defeat lightly. The Empire will drop the hammer on Renora. The important thing is that the citizens of Renora have control of their planet long enough.”
“Long enough for what?” asked Vulture. Ryker hadn’t explained to them the totality of Martel’s plan. He preferred to keep things on a need to know basis. Now, though, it was obvious what was going to happen.
“Long enough to secede,” said Ryker. “They will secede and then immediately ask the Rotham Republic to annex them. It’s all been arranged. Just watch.”
Chapter 30
He tossed and turned in the night.
Despite feeling physically exhausted, his mind kept him up. Spinning circles, analyzing everything. He thought of his ship out somewhere in deep space—possibly in danger. He thought of Summers, and Rain, and Kalila and felt his heart quicken as a shot of adrenaline and mixed emotions surged through him. He thought of the Assembly, and how time was running out. How everything depended on him and how he needed to round up the Phoenix Ring leaders and expose the conspiracy—and soon. He thought of Kalila again, how she depended on him. He remembered how it’d felt, pretending to be her husband for that brief window of time, feeling like he belonged, that he was a part of a complete whole, rather than a lost and lonely soul. Was that the purpose of life? He wondered. Companionship? Or was it simply an attribute of being a mammal, his own DNA forcing him to crave the company of others, to only be satisfied when he belonged to social groups—of which the most rewarding was romantic companionship. An equal partnership. Someone else to rely on, and trust, and depend on, and gain support from…
He thought of Christine. Remembering her gaunt and dying face as the Remorii toxins savaged her. Calvin hurt to think of it, hating that in his mind’s eye he recalled every detail as clear as day. He tried to force it from his mind, tried to make himself believe that Christine was at peace, that there was no further need to mourn her. But the more he tried not to think of her, the more she stayed on his mind. He felt sick and as he flipped to his other side—making another vain attempt to fall asleep—he thought of Shen. And how the very thing that’d happened to Christine was happening to him. Rain had probably had to put the ops officer out of his misery by now. Shen, Monte, Rose, Major Jenkins, and seemingly countless others. Calvin’s dear friends and crew had paid in blood. And were still paying in blood. For all he knew the Nighthawk was space dust by now, and the Arcane Storm for that matter, making him the last one left of his crew. A terrifying, nauseating thought. But a legitimate possibility. When will it end? he wondered. When will we have paid enough?
Perhaps the universe demanded his life too. An ongoing expense, demanding everything in exchange for a glimmer of hope that the Empire—the pride and security of humanity—might be saved. Calvin remembered from history how the alien civilizations—especially the Rotham—had preyed on the early, disunited human colonies. Enslaving them and slaughtering them. It had only been through the rise of the Empire, guided by the Akira family, that humanity had been able to unite into something strong and formidable, something able to defend itself and grow. Out of the many they had become one. And now that great, rich tradition that had kept humankind safe for over a hundred years was on the verge of collapse. And Calvin would have given anything in the universe to be someone else right now. To not feel as though the fate of humanity rested on his shoulders. Others looked to him with confidence and hope, trusting him to make the right decisions and follow the right leads—Kalila especially counted on him to get results. But Calvin wasn’t so trusting of himself. He knew his flaws. He would do his very best, but his very best hadn’t been enough to save Christine, or Monte, or Shen, or… so many others… how could he be sure it would be enough to save the Empire?
I’m not in this alone, he tried to remind himself. And he thought of the many who stood by his side. From the Akira House, to his friends, to those in the military who still remained loyal. Even Raidan and his dark Organization had an interest in protecting the King. Calvin knew it was important for him to have hope and not despair.
He silenced his mind, as best he could, and made another attempt at sleep. To no avail. He thought of rockets raining down on armored cars, eviscerating them and violently tearing apart every soul inside them. Those men had died for him…
He tossed his sheets from his bed and got up. Deciding that, if his mind was going to conspire against his body and keep him from getting the sleep he desperately needed, he might as well put his mind to work reviewing the intel he had.
He went to the large office in his estate and sat at the computer station. It was large and powerful with several more screens and features than Calvin needed—or knew how to use. He knew he should eat something but somehow the anxiety swirling inside him, collecting very uncomfortably at the pit of his stomach, removed his appetite. He hadn’t eaten anything in almost twenty-four hours. And over the last several days he’d noticed he’d lost almost five kilograms—and not in a good way.
Of course the desire for equarius seemed ever-present. It was a constant struggle, one that seemed to fade at times, enough to make him believe he’d broken free of his addiction, and then it would return with overwhelming force when it was most inconvenient. He knew if he had some still, he would almost certainly take it. Anything to numb the pain and the fear and the anxiety and everything else that made him want to simultaneously rip out all of his hair and curl into a fetal position somewhere and simply die.
Must… keep… fighting…
He made himself believe it was for the best that he’d disposed of the last of his equarius. Tried to take some pride in the decision to free himself. But at times like these such things as pride and dignity seemed worthless, and no freedom seemed sweeter than freedom from his
troubles and concerns. The freedom a few white pills would give him.
He fired up a game of chess against the computer and hoped to distract himself with the game. He played white, wanting to take the initiative and be bold, but was defeated in only twelve moves. He simply couldn’t focus on the game and, rather than take his mind from his occupations, the game seemed simply to be a part of the unimportant background. As he set up for a rematch, hoping to do better this time, his terminal received an alert.
It was a dispatch to him and several other high officials informing them that the operation on Renora had failed. The Prefect and his soldiers had fled the planet. Calvin wondered how that was possible. Even in the worst and most violently hostile circumstances. the millions and millions of troops that had landed should have been enough to stabilize the planet and pacify the population. But it hadn’t. Somehow violence and instability had increased, there were accusations of mismanagement, accounts of government troops slaughtering civilians and torching homes and even bombing civilian infrastructure from orbit. Calvin doubted this was the work of the King’s troops. No doubt the Phoenix Ring had a hand in this. The result of which had been a death toll that made Calvin white in the face to look at, and the perception that the King was a brute willing to slaughter his own citizens. This was more than a tragedy, it was also a major political defeat. Calvin was sure this news would be used to force a vote to oust the King—if a motion for such a vote hadn’t already succeeded. If the King lost his power, then Calvin would lose his, and so would the rest of the loyalists. And then the Phoenix Ring would takeover, alien forces would swoop in, and the Empire would be splintered into fragments. Probably collapse in the chaos. He imagined a dark future where Capital World and every other major human colony was occupied by Rotham. We would be slaves…as he thought about it, imagining what they would do, he knew they’d first slaughter huge sections of the population to make it more manageable. Then, those who were lucky enough to survive, would sweat and toil and die for Rotham gain. He shuddered thinking about it.
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