The Phoenix Darkness

by Richard L. Sanders

  More bad news, thought Raidan. “Does this mean you didn’t have to activate your protocol after all, then?” said Raidan. He’d strongly been against any action inside the Nighthawk, whose crew he’d hoped to keep loyal. But if there had been isotome weapons to take, and the crew couldn’t be made to see the logic in acquiring them for the Empire, then action would have been necessary, however unfortunate.

  “Not exactly,” said Pellew. “There was one silver lining. When we overtook the Duchess, she was retrieving a lone isotome missile from a point in open space. When we captured the ship, we took the missile and now it’s aboard the Nighthawk.”

  Raidan felt a small measure of relief. At least now their side had some kind of deterrent available to them, even if the one weapon was a poor match for fourteen of its brothers and sisters.

  “How did Summers handle it?” asked Raidan, worried his overly principled former XO might have resisted and gotten herself injured.

  “She did not take it well. Neither did Captain Lafayette Nimoux, who, as I told you before, Summers has put in place as her Acting XO. The two of them refused to see logic and instead made this kind of alliance against me. They were willing to destroy the Nighthawk if it meant getting rid of that isotome weapon.”

  “Good thing you didn’t let them,” said Raidan, almost afraid to ask what had transpired.

  “I was forced to activate Kilo Protocol. I have since taken over the ship and have soldiers on the Bridge, Engineering, and on patrol. Most of the crew are confined to quarters and all nonessential doors are sealed.”

  “Did they resist?”

  “The Bridge crew tried to, at first. But they failed.”

  “Casualties?” asked Raidan. Not liking the sound of that.

  “One wounded and three dead…so far.”

  “What does that mean, so far?” Raidan demanded to know.

  “It means two of my soldiers were killed, along with a minor bridge officer—someone named Roy. There was another person injured who might die. It’s not clear yet.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t worry about it; it’s not your precious Summers. Other than a bump on her head and maybe some emotional scars, she’s fine.”

  Raidan closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. They were not supposed to harm Summers in any way whatsoever.

  “I don’t trust transmitting on this frequency for much longer,” said Pellew, for good reason. “So I think it’s time we discuss my payment for services rendered.”

  “Get the Nighthawk underway and meet me in the outskirts of Taurus System; I’ll be waiting. The sooner you get here, the more you’ll be paid,” said Raidan.

  “Half now, half on delivery,” Pellew counter-negotiated.

  “Very well, I’ll transfer the funds,” he said, not in the mood to argue.

  “Very good. You, sir, have just bought yourself one bona fide isotome missile. Although, before I sign off, I do have to ask. What about my other problem?”

  Raidan clenched his teeth. “I’m dealing with it. These things take time.”

  “Whatever you say, Captain.”

  Pellew terminated the call and the comm went dead.

  ***

  After a thorough debriefing, in which he’s regaled his fellow Advent members about his capture by the Rahajiim, rescue in Abia, time as a prisoner to the humans, and how they sought to find and destroy the isotome weapons, he was eventually restored to full status as an Advent operative and given complete clearance for the ship. His colleagues, a few of whom he knew personally, but not most, aboard the Advent destroyer, wanted to believe his story right at its face, but they had to fiercely interrogate him all the same, as was procedure. And Alex understood.

  It was a good feeling to be back in uniform, and have the liberty to walk about a proper Rotham warship without having to dodge suspicious eyes and backward glances. They didn’t welcome him back as a hero; his mission had failed, but he’d survived, returned to them, and brought some useful intelligence with him, and so they treated him in the next best way, as if his mission had never occurred at all. So there was no record of error on his slate. This was a courtesy for which he was most grateful.

  Now that he was free, however, there was something quite urgent he needed to discuss with the ship’s commander. And so, after providing adequate clearance, he gained access to the Bridge and arranged to discuss the matter in private. Nau T’mo, the ship’s commander and a high ranking Advent officer in his own right, agreed to the meeting and the two met in the privacy of the strategy room.

  “Proxitor Ol’ixe, It is good to see you alive and in one piece,” said Nau T’mo. “I honestly thought you'd died long ago. Then, when we intercepted your short-range message, I was so shocked I nearly thought it was a trick. And yet, here you are, in the scales.”

  It was a little strange for Alex to hear his name spoken properly, and he was surprised how familiar the crude human term Alex had become something with which he identified so deeply.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Alex. “I am happy to have returned as well. And pleased to work again against the Rahajiim threat which would throw the galaxy into another terrible war.”

  Nau T’mo bowed his head briefly, “May that day never come.”

  Alex did the same. “May that day never come.” This gesture was, Alex supposed, a relic of the ancient days when the Rotham, like all barely civilized creatures, had possessed a religious culture. Now such superstitions were long done away with, and yet the bowing of the head and the invocation of good providence, which was symbolic only, remained a common practice.

  “Now, Ol’ixe, what are you here for?”

  “I understand you plan to execute the prisoners,” said Alex, feeling a surprising amount of concern for the humans who had brought him here, even caring a little for the Polarian warrior, who Alex had no reason in the galaxy to like and every reason to fear.

  “Of course, isn’t that only justice?” said Nau T’mo. “They held you prisoner, used you, and no doubt attempted to extract secrets from you. And so they and their knowledge are dangerous. They must be eliminated.”

  “But must they?” asked Alex.

  Nau T’mo looked surprised. “I'd thought you would want this. I was even going to give you the honor of doing the deed yourself.”

  “I am honored by that consideration, Great Nau,” said Alex. “But these humans are still useful to us. Executing them would be premature.”

  “Premature, why?”

  “They are members of Intel Wing, this I know,” said Alex. “Is it not more prudent to interrogate them first and then decide what to do with them afterward? Suppose one of them knows something else about the Empire, or the Rahajiim, and has been holding out on us? We would lose the chance to uncover that intel if we process them too hastily.”

  “You may have a point, Proxitor,” said the Nau, thoughtfully. “Very well, I shall spare the humans for now and send them to extraction.”

  “And what of the Polarian?” asked Alex.

  “Why death, of course,” said the Nau. He seemed genuinely surprised to see any hesitation or discomfort on Alex’s part regarding the sentence. “His kind are brutes. Rapists, murderers, thugs, and certainly not beings of intelligence and knowledge. Why should I waste resources sending him to extraction?”

  “Because of what you don’t know about him,” said Alex, trying to think of something and finding himself equally shocked that he was speaking up in defense of the Polarian warrior. No doubt a misplaced loyalty, but a sentiment he would have to correct at another time.

  “And what is that?”

  “The Polarian is a member of the Khalahar class. As such, he is privy to a great deal of information your average Polarian would know nothing about, including some of the secrets of Polarian Forbidden Space.” This seemed to catch the Nau’s attention and his golden eyes brightened.

  “Very well, I shall send them all to extraction, then decide what to do with them later.”

&nbs
p; “Thank you, Great Nau,” said Alex, knowing extraction would be unpleasant, but at least it would be better than death.

  “It is a wise course of action. Thank you for suggesting it, Proxitor. You may go.”

  ***

  Calvin, Rain, Rafael, Miles, and even the mighty Rez’nac had been locked in restraints and muscled, not so gently, out of the Wanderer and onto the Rotham Destroyer. Unlike the Wanderer, which had shown signs of wear and tear and evidence of its cheap construction, the destroyer was a cutting-edge warship. Calvin had tried to get what glimpses he could of the layout and technical specifics in case he miraculously survived this captivity and Intel Wing wanted to know what the innards of a brand new Rotham destroyer looked like, but he was mostly forced to keep his head down as the Teldari soldiers shoved him and the others along toward what could only be the prison cells. They had only stopped along the way briefly to force Calvin to stare out the deck’s port window and watch as the Wanderer was blasted to shreds by the destroyer’s guns.

  Goodbye Wanderer, Calvin thought, knowing this display had been meant to demonstrate to him there was no longer any hope of escape. The only thing that had represented freedom to him out here was now space dust. At least he’d chosen not to hide others of his crew in different places inside the Wanderer. Had he done so, and they’d evaded the Rotham soldiers, their atoms would have been eviscerated along with the ship.

  We’re on our own now. The reality had sunk in at the sight of the death of the Wanderer, and Calvin knew that had been the intended effect. Still, he hadn’t been able to help feeling that sense of dreaded hopelessness overwhelm him just as the Rotham had intended.

  Now he lay on the floor, locked in a prison cell. It was tight, too small for a human prisoner, and the floor was hard and damp. Not unlike the cramped conditions he’d endured the last time he’d been a Rotham prisoner. Only this time there was no plan of escape, no Summers and Pellew stashed away with the black beacon summoning the Fifth Fleet to their rescue. Nor could he expect his allies to storm the detection block and free him and the others.

  “Cal,” said Miles, his voice a terrified whisper.

  Calvin looked through the metal bars across the walkway to the cells on the other side to where Miles had been locked away.

  “Yeah?”

  “Is this the end?”

  Calvin didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to admit failure or defeat to his people and rob them of whatever inkling of hope any of them might still be clinging to, but things sure seemed bleak. The Nighthawk wouldn’t know where to find them, nor the queen, nor Raidan. And besides, no one would even be looking, not yet anyway. And by the time they did, if they did, it would be far too late. No, the fact of the matter was they were on their own, entirely left to their own devices. And, from where Calvin lay thinking of all they had available to them, they’d run plum out of devices. He had no tricks, could think of no strategies, and so yes, it seemed like the end. But he just didn’t have the heart to tell that to Miles.

  “I don’t know,” said Calvin, the best, most optimistic response he could muster. He still didn’t understand why Alex had betrayed them. He’d known not to trust the Rotham operative too much, he was too clever by half and Calvin had always known it, plus he’d even admitted, or at least claimed, to be an Advent operative. That made him dangerous. But if he really had been a member of Advent, why turn his coat on Calvin and the others, and why now? They were on the same side; they had the same ultimate goal: prevent or deter a Rahajiim invasion of the Empire. Calvin and the humans were in it to protect their people, and the Advent wanted to eliminate the corruption of the Rahajiim and return their people to a policy of nonintervention.

  Yet here they were, betrayed and incarcerated, doubtless awaiting torture or death; probably both.

  “We should've fought them when we had the chance,” said Rez’nac. “At least that way we would have gone out on our terms.” He was too big by far to fit inside one of the Rotham cells, and so they’d chained him to the cell bars, each arm and leg, and one chain cinched tightly around his waist.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Calvin. Although he still wouldn’t have liked that option. If he’d gone through with it, he and the others would be dead by now. Perhaps mercifully so, depending on what awaited them, but somehow he still valued life too much, even now, to wish he’d died in battle.

  “I haven’t given up,” said a soft voice from somewhere beyond Calvin’s range of sight. It was Rain and it broke Calvin’s heart to know she too was trapped in one of these godforsaken cells. It was one thing for Calvin, Miles, Rafael, and Rez’nac to be enduring such conditions, they were military soldiers and had gone into this knowing the risks. But Rain was as sweet as the summer and more harmless than a fly. Locking her away like this, and so forcefully, it was like caging a songbird. And it’s all my fault, Calvin reminded himself. Why, oh why did I let her come with us?

  “There’s still hope,” came Rain’s soothing, calm voice. “If you listen hard enough, you’ll know; there’s always hope.”

  As if in response to her words, the door screeched open and the sound of boots could be heard, marching their way. It didn’t sound much like hope to Calvin.

  “Wake up,” said a Rotham soldier in a hiss-like yell. As if any of them could have possibly slept in these conditions… “Today is your lucky day.”

  Calvin didn’t know what that meant, but somehow he doubted his definition of “lucky day” and the Rotham soldier’s were the same. The Rotham gave some orders, this time in Rotham. Calvin wasn’t sure whether he envied Rafael’s ability to understand the orders, or if it was one of those times when it was better to be ignorant.

  One by one a group of soldiers approached each of the prisoners and then began unlocking the cells and undoing their shackles.

  “What’s going on?” Calvin asked the lead Rotham soldier. The man refused to acknowledge him, so Calvin looked to Rafael. “Is this what I think it is?”

  Rafael nodded. Mouthing the word, “Extraction.”

  Calvin felt his blood run cold. The last time he’d seen someone taken away for extraction had been when they’d dragged Major Jenkins away. He had been one of the toughest men Calvin had ever met, and yet he never made it back.

  ***

  The tracer had stopped sending him signals. When that happened, Blackmoth had known then The One True God had taken his revenge against Zander. And now Zander, and all of his crew, had been sacrificed to the void.

  As perfect as clockwork, though, as could always be expected of the plans of The One True God, Blackmoth had managed to get a positive fix on the Duchess’s final position before the tracer sent its final message.

  Now he eased Hunter Four out of alteredspace, but kept the ship in motion so it would remain invisible to scanners. The Duchess’s debris was scattered across kilometers in every direction of space. The ship had been blown to oblivion. But what was more telling was that the explosion had originated from the inside. Someone had gone aboard the ship, taken the prize, and then destroyed the Duchess.

  “Zander, you have been served justice before I could have delivered it to you,” said Blackmoth, surprised by this development but, as ever, accepting of the superior wisdom of the designs of The One True God. “But fear not, for another stands ready to take your place and be judged.”

  It was obvious to Blackmoth that another ship was present, and whoever it was had been the party responsible for destroying Zander’s ship and, without a doubt, taking claim of the final weapon.

  No matter…

  Blackmoth activated Hunter Four’s advanced scanner and, sure enough, spotted a small Imperial stealth frigate sitting idly in space less than a million MCs from the largest chunk of debris from Zander’s ship. The frigate was about twice the size of Hunter Four and in a common display of human arrogance believed itself safe because of its activated stealth systems. But those systems could not hide from Blackmoth, nor could they hide from The One True G
od.

  Blackmoth got a fix on the stealth frigate and accelerated Hunter Four, slicing through space as invisibly as the ether itself.

  “The One True God judges you,” said Blackmoth, as he kept his eyes vigilantly upon the other ship, “and he finds you unworthy.”

  ***

  The latest numbers did not seem to show the kind of results Caerwyn had expected. Although his latest smear campaign against the rebel queen had wrought some serious benefits by having tremendously slowed the flow of magistrates and representatives rallying to her cause, it had not stopped it altogether. In fact, Caerwyn expected his impeachment of Kalila’s mental faculties to be a deathblow to her ambitions for the throne. He'd imagined droves of her supporters abandoning her by the legion, either to return to their cautious neutrality or, better yet, to rally to Caerwyn’s side. After all, he’d been the one to expose Kalila’s insanity to the Empire, he’d been the one to preserve and protect his people as Steward by routing Kalila’s fleets at the Apollo Yards. Why weren’t more of the Imperial magistrates seeing his side?

  It was profoundly upsetting. In addition to the wishy-washy success of his smear efforts, there'd been a backlash in the form of advocacy groups condemning him for using the rebel queen’s mental health as a subject of criticism and ridicule. “Well, forgive me for pointing out the undesirability of having a Head of State that belongs in the loony bin and should only be trusted with plastic scissors!” He’d shouted at the advisor of his that’d brought him the news.

  “Is that your official comment, sir?”

  “No, that isn’t my official comment, you nitwit!”

  Still, for better or worse, he’d gotten the allegation out there. And Caerwyn had to think that in the minds of the Imperial public, the people who could not be successfully polled or asked, the issue of the rebel queen’s sanity must have taken some kind of purchase. Not everyone bought into the pleasantries of being so obsessively politically correct that they had to forever tip toe anywhere they went for fear they’d step on someone else’s feelings. Feelings which were draped about the ground like massive blankets, practically inviting any passerby to trod upon them so they could then cry havoc and expect social reparations. Caerwyn had been in politics his entire life. He knew the importance of dancing when he needed to, and among his business associates and fellow representatives he could tango with the best of them. He’d even done a fair job of addressing the public when he’d needed to, over the years. But this business of running an Empire, with the duties of the crown but none of its immunities, left him completely exhausted. And as time stretched on, he found himself decreasingly willing to play nice, pamper and schmooze, in order to be the proper diplomat, and ever more the temptation grew to tell it exactly as it was. Well, not exactly as it was, he needed to lie of course, but rather than implanting those lies subtly through subtext and spin, he now preferred to state them directly and blatantly, letting the chips fall where they may.