The Phoenix Darkness

by Richard L. Sanders

  “Jump depth of ninety-nine point nine remains stable,” said Sarah. She too had seemed to change, and not for the better. While the annoying, bubbly aspect of her personality seemed to have been grinded away by something, which Summers preferred, she didn't like to think her core officers were becoming so exhausted and worn out that sooner rather than later they would be unable to adequately perform their duties.

  “And comms?” asked Summers.

  “Right,” said Sarah. “All comms systems are functioning normally. I’m picking up chatter from the local station, but nothing out of the ordinary. If we’ve been seen, they haven’t mentioned it.”

  “Of course we haven’t been seen,” said Mr. Roy. “We’ve got the stealth system engaged.”

  “Watch your tone, mister,” said Summers, rebuking Mr. Roy. “You’re on the Bridge of a starship and you shall conduct yourself accordingly at all times.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “ETA?” asked Summers.

  “We’ll be in range to drop into the system in fifteen minutes. Our scanners will have a confirmed fix on Zander’s ship, assuming it’s still there, in about ten minutes.”

  “Is it still there?” asked Summers, feeling alarmed.

  “By last report, yes. Our informant said the ship hadn’t left the system, not yet. They had to dock with the station for some kind of repair. That’s been completed, last I heard, but the ship itself hasn’t jumped yet,” said Sarah. “Although, all of that may have changed by now.”

  “Let's hope not,” said Summers. “Why so long to get a positive identification of the ship? The Nighthawk’s scanners are supposed to be state-of-the-art.”

  “We can see plenty of ships,” said Shen, no doubt deciding to field this question since he was the resident Ops expert. “However, with the limited information we know about Zander’s ship, we’ll need to get closer and do a more complete analysis of the many ships traversing the system before we can be 99.9% certain it’s him.”

  “Why only 99.9%?” asked Summers.

  Shen shrugged. “Nothing in life is 100%.”

  True enough, Summers supposed. She glanced to her side to see Captain Nimoux there, whose quiet presence had almost been forgotten about due to his tendency, at least so far, toward silence and observation. At first, this had made the crew nervous, being supervised by one of the Empire’s greatest heroes and, more recently, one of their most dangerous foes, but now that Nimoux had attended a watch and a half, and had said fewer than five words, the crew seemed to be forgetting he was there. Summers, however, was more pleased to have him by her side than she would readily admit. Finally someone intelligent, with the record of service to prove it, she could trust to double-check her work and help her make those hard decisions. Without meaning to, she found herself staring at him. Strong jawbone, greatly receded hairline, pale eyes…she wondered just how much of the galaxy those eyes had seen. Things that he would never be able to divulge to anyone.

  Captain Nimoux met her gaze. “Yes, Commander Presley?” he asked innocently.

  “Please go about the stations and familiarize yourself with their basic controls,” Summers said instinctively, hurriedly darting her eyes away from his chiseled jawbone.

  “Of course,” he said, and he stood up and began studying the stations. It was good procedure for each of the officers to have basic knowledge of how the other systems worked in case one or more of the specialists became incapacitated, but Summers knew her order had been a stupid one. Nimoux had been the commanding officer of the IWS Desert Eagle, one of the Nighthawk’s sister ships. No doubt he knew these consoles better than she did.

  Damn my lingering eyes, she thought. The odd thing was, she didn’t find Captain Nimoux particularly attractive. At least, she didn’t think so; certainly not conventionally. Yes, he was reasonably tall and clearly kept himself in excellent physical condition, but his bone structure was a bit more narrow than she liked, his face a bit too long, his ears mismatched slightly, and he had one tooth that was just faintly, annoyingly, crooked and stood out against all the others, which were straight, as if to deliberately irk her need for order. True, Nimoux was a famous name across the Empire, and if he were the type to use it thusly he no doubt could leverage that to get many a woman’s pants off. But his fame held no appeal for Summers, nor was she the type to be attracted to secrets, and Nimoux probably carried more of those around than anyone else on the ship. Besides, she’d never gone for his type…whatever it was: possessing the masculine and well-formed body of a military man combined with a head and face which seemed almost bookish or professorial. She refused to let herself believe her lack of physical attraction was due to something so superficial as hair, the whole going bald gracefully thing fit in nicely with Nimoux’s entire philosophy of life but, admittedly, it wasn’t her favorite feature about him. Yet, there was something else which did conjure up very positive, almost alluring feelings. Could it be…?

  “Ten minutes away from Izar Ceti,” reported Sarah, snapping Summers back to the present situation. She too had been sleep deprived and overworked, like the rest of the crew, but that was no excuse, and she reprimanded herself inwardly for allowing her mind to wander.

  “Thank you, Lt. Winters,” said Summers. “Mr. Iwate, how much longer until we can get a positive ID? And have we got anything new?”

  “At least five more minutes before we can begin scanning and identifying ships with maximum accuracy at present depth. Probably more like seven minutes, considering Ms. Winters will have to decrease our jump depth before we finalize approach into the system.”

  Ms. Winters? Summers had never heard Shen refer to Sarah as Ms. Winters before, or in any formal way. Perhaps Summers command style, the correct one, was finally taking root onboard the formerly hopeless IWS Nighthawk.

  Captain Nimoux finished his walk around the Bridge and returned to his seat beside the command chair. “Commander, if I may?” he hesitated.

  “What is it?” Summers asked, perhaps a bit too curiously.

  “I know this is not the best time, we discussed a great deal of this during my debriefing before I put on this uniform.” He glanced down at the black-and-silver that seemed so damned appropriate on his tall frame. “But, when you have a moment, I still have a great deal of questions, ones which have been bothering me since I arrived.”

  “You’re right, this is not the time,” said Summers, as she concurrently got a report from Cassidy they were only minutes away from the system. “However,” she looked into his eyes, trying to appear stern and not melt before them, a task she believed she did successfully. “I will gladly answer all of your questions at the earliest possible time.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Him calling her, “Sir,” nearly made her blush. But, somehow, she kept her composure and looked away from him, chiding herself internally for her foolish feelings. “All hands, Condition One. Sound general quarters. Mr. Roy, keep our shields and energy weapon powered down until I say otherwise.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With that, the Bridge came to life as did the lower decks, now subjected to the Nighthawk’s klaxon.

  Chapter 3

  “The repairs you ordered, Captain,” she said the word with a sneer, “are completed.” Jasmine looked at Zander with squinty eyes of disapproval and suspicion. And somehow her insult seemed to come across all the more disrespectful because of her accent. But because she hadn’t broken any of the codes he’d created for those serving with him on the Duchess, he knew he could not punish her, not openly.

  “Thank you,” he said, as if pretending not to have heard the derision in her voice. He walked past her, trying to resist the urge to brush up against her, entirely by accident of course, and feel just a whisper of her sensual heat. For that was what made Jasmine so dangerous, what allowed her to challenge him more openly and more often than any other sailor, trader, or pirate he’d ever brought aboard. Somehow, in something about her thick ebony lips and radiating out of her raw
, womanly dark curves, which she made no effort to hide in what she chose what to wear, she had power. And despite all the alarm bells inside Zander’s head and all the promises he’d made, that he’d be rid of her tomorrow, that he’d have her made an example of, that he’d maroon her or jettison her or otherwise deal with her, they never became concrete plans.

  And now again, as he faced an unhappy, borderline mutinous crew, all of whom had done his bidding and none of whom had yet been paid for it, Zander knew he should've gotten rid of Jasmine long, long ago. Better yet, he should have had his way with her and been off, never to see her again. Though even that fantasy had its own element of fear deep inside his heart; for all his pride, he honestly wasn’t even sure he could take her. He half expected her to rip his scrotum from his body, declare herself the new captain, and have him fed to dogs…

  “What now, Boss?” asked Rolland, the first mate and most trusted crew member on the ship. Though, despite their long and shared history, Zander likely wouldn’t be able to trust Rolland any more than the others, perhaps less, were he not secretly bankrolling the man under the table. And allowing him to take certain…privileges with his fourteen year old daughter, whenever they made port at any place run by the Khans. Zander would compose the arrangements for the meetings and Rolland would make certain to pacify the crew. This had worked well, until Jasmine came along. Suddenly, it wasn’t Rolland’s clever wit and fast tongue the crewmen paid attention to, but instead the voluptuous curves and strong, feminine attitude which was Jasmine. The woman of the people who would stand up to the captain and make sure they got paid and paid equally. To be fair, Rolland had warned Zander Jasmine would be trouble when he’d first brought her aboard. Zander shook his head, angry at his younger self for his mistakes. No more…after this mission, Jasmine would be gone.

  “Yes, we get paid,” he said at last, mostly to placate the increasingly unsettled crewmembers, each of whom seemed ready to tear the Bridge apart wherever they stood. As if the barbarians had forgotten this ship represented not only the chance for wealth, bounty, and adventure, but it was their only damned ride home. To any who still had one.

  “When?” demanded Jasmine. Her sentiment was echoed by several others.

  “Yeah, when?”

  “We keep hearing it, but I don’t feel my pockets any less empty!”

  “Silence!” ordered Rolland, drawing his rifle. The rest of the crew reacted in two very different ways, half obeyed and cowed down immediately, the other half drew their own weapons and aimed them at Rolland.

  “Enough!” shouted Zander, to get their attention back onto him. He looked down at Jasmine and nodded his head, gesturing for her to help take control. This worked.

  “Lower your guns; we’re about to be paid,” said Jasmine. Because it came from her, the crew calmed down. And in that moment, Zander realized he was no longer the captain in their eyes, she was. Never in my life have I seen a more mutinous crew of filthy dogs anywhere in the galaxy, he thought. After this deal, it would be time to get rid of them all. All except Rolland…unless he too had some kind of trick up his sleeve…

  “The repair is finished,” said Zander, referring to the repair of their systems the outpost orbiting Izar Ceti had performed for them after they'd damaged their own systems, trying to make it look as natural as possible, so they could fool the buyer, who unbeknownst to the rest of them was the highly dangerous Enclave, into thinking that their delay had indeed been the product of a systems failure, and currently it was fixed. “Now we move out into open space, dock with Anton’s ship when it appears, transfer the cargo, get paid, and everybody wins.”

  “This had better be worth all that effort, Captain,” said Jasmine. Others grunted their agreement.

  “It will be, I promise,” said Zander. “Now, just keep your heads down and be ready to move the fourteen units of cargo onto the buyer’s ship, or let his people do the lifting if he prefers.”

  “What fourteen units of cargo?” asked one of the men. “I remember there were fifteen.”

  “No, there were definitely only ever fourteen,” said Rolland, obviously trying to corroborate the Captain’s story. Only he and Rolland had known that, while the crew slept, they’d cautiously jettisoned one of the isotome weapons to a hiding spot in open space near the neutron star Rana Kentaurus, far enough away to keep it safe from the neutron star’s radiation. For Zander, it was to be his insurance policy. For Rolland, well, God knows what Rolland expected to get out of it. Half the profit? Not bloody likely…

  “I swear it; there were fifteen,” the man insisted.

  Zander raised his pistol and shot the man in the head on the spot. It wasn’t the first time he’d killed a man, though he had a profound distaste for sullying his own hands with violence. But, in this situation, he felt he had no other options. Word could not spread to Anton, or anyone in the Enclave, that they were shortchanging them by one entire isotome weapon, or else their fates would be far worse than death.

  The crew didn’t know how to react. Some looked defensive, ready to draw their own weapons and fire back; others merely stared, baffled, including Rolland. A display of ferocity and strength like this, from the captain, hadn’t been seen in a very long time. And, to Zander’s pleasant surprise, they seemed to respect him for it, rather than condemn him.

  “His share will be divided up among the crew; I’ll keep none of it,” said Zander, further endearing himself, at least momentarily, to the dogs who worked for him. “Now, get that mess cleaned up, on the double! Our buyer has arrived.” Zander examined the 3D display on the Duchess to see a ship fast approaching his, a design that, he knew from experience, had his Duchess outmatched and outgunned in every respect. Which meant everything depended upon his next performance. Life and death itself hung in the balance.

  And even if the Enclave did believe him, that he only found fourteen isotome weapons, that still left another tremendous open question looming over his head. Will they pay us, or kill us? Zander wouldn’t know until Hunter Six arrived and revealed itself to them, because one thing was for certain: they damn sure wouldn’t see the vessel coming. But if Zander knew Anton half as well as he thought he did, Anton was already here, keeping his ship moving to remain undetected until he knew everything he could about the situation.

  By all means, Anton, take your time.

  ***

  Anton had been waiting what felt like an eternity for Zander to arrive. Uncertain whether or not he’d been double-crossed, and suspecting Zander was up to some nefarious game, Anton had ordered his ship to continue long orbits around the star in order to remain undetected. This helped to prevent any alarm on the part of the humans, should any of them this far out at such a dump of an outpost care that an unidentifiable Rotham ship had come to their system. It also allowed Anton to patiently watch and see what Zander did once his outdated starship the Duchess arrived and found the system essentially empty with no Anton in sight. Would he bother docking with the station to properly complete the alleged repair? Or would he just sit there, waiting for Anton to arrive, and either claim he’d already done the repair or else pretend his inept crew of rejects had corrected the systems failure on their own. As it happened, Zander did the former, and docked with the station. Which meant Anton had no evidence, other than suspicion, that Zander was up to some kind of trick other than the obvious one. The one Anton had been ordered not to interfere with, much to his confusion…

  After a time, when he’d allowed Zander and his ship to sit uncomfortably in open space for long enough, Anton gave the order to stop Hunter Six and reveal themselves. No more reason to delay the exchange.

  When the ships began their docking operation, the face on either side of the viewer was all smiles and cheer. “I hope you’re ready to become a very powerful man, Anton,” Zander said. “Because once I hand over these weapons to you, you’ll be the most powerful one in the galaxy.”

  “Indeed,” was all Anton could get himself to reply. He stood tall on the un
lit bridge of Hunter Six, a sloop of the most cutting-edge design, whose capabilities remained largely unknown to the greater part of the galaxy. The soft glow of various computer screens and operations panels were the only lights to be seen. Had any humans been aboard, no doubt all their pathetic human eyes could distinguish would’ve been long dark shadows moving about and the occasional glimpse of glowing amber eyes. But the darkness was no accident. On the contrary, it was comfortable, natural even. It was home.

  The ship belonged to him, one of many gifts the Rahajiim had bestowed upon his people in exchange for, well, so far nothing. True, the Rahajiim would never have eliminated the Alliance threat and opened their space without the ferocious cooperation of the Enclave, but since the Rahajiim had instantly, upon victory, given over all of the Alliance’s territory to the Enclave, including most of the surviving Alliance vessels, and had provided essential support during the battle…it hardly seemed a fair bargain. Anton knew it, the rest of the Enclave knew it, and most importantly the Rahajiim knew it.

  They expected to be paid. And the First had been forced to continue to ask for time and offer guarantees that in due and expedient course the Rahajiim would have what they coveted above all else, the surviving isotome missiles. Unfortunately, until just now, this human called Zander had made the process of recollecting the missiles for the Rahajiim an unacceptably long and difficult endeavor fraught with: delay after delay, use of seconds and thirds to relay messages when no communication was required, failures to appear at designated points at designated times…the list went on.

  The First had been unwise to plant his faith in Zander for safekeeping of the weapons, thought Anton, not for the first time. However he kept such thoughts to himself because it was both dangerous and out of place for him to do otherwise. He was merely the Second. That made him a leader of importance in the Enclave, especially now that it had territory and would soon achieve recognition on a galactic scale, but nevertheless a position which was completely subordinate to the First. And to challenge the First was the greatest of all taboos, and carried the risk of death. Anton was as powerful as Strigoi could be, but even he dared not challenge the First.