The Phoenix Darkness

by Richard L. Sanders

  “No it’s more…” Alex simply could not find the words. “They…are fighting against the same enemy that we are.”

  “The enemy of my enemy is not necessarily my friend,” Nau T’orrna said, quoting from a famous Rotham treatise on strategy.

  “But they are…” he stopped himself before he could say the word.

  “They are what?”

  Alex didn’t reply. He tried to think of something to say, something the Nau would approve of.

  “They are your friends,” said Nau T’orrna. “Is that the way it is?” As Alex had expected, there was tremendous disapproval in his tone. And the worst part of it was, they weren’t Alex’s friends; not really. The big one constantly mistrusted and ridiculed him and the rest, even the kind ones, had treated him like a pariah, something dangerous to be handled with delicacy, if handled at all. And yet Alex felt a peculiar desire for the extractions to end, for his former companions to not have to suffer.

  “No, they are not my friends,” said Alex. “And if you gave me over to them, they would kill me.”

  “Indeed, they would kill you. But only because you betrayed them by handing them over to us as was your duty. But one can only betray someone when there exists a bridge of trust. The kind of trust which comes with friendship.”

  “I was their prisoner,” said Alex emphatically.

  “Yet, in your debriefing you told us they liberated you from the Rahajiim. Could you really be a prisoner to those who freed you, especially when they gave you free reign to explore their starship?”

  Alex didn’t know what to say. He realized he’d made a mistake. Not only had he failed to end the extraction sessions, he’d weakened himself in the eyes of the Nau. And that loss of standing would be unfortunate with regards to his Advent career.

  “I apologize, Great Nau,” Alex said, bowing his head. “I have disturbed your rest to discuss things of madness and lunacy; I should have known better.”

  “Indeed, you should have.”

  “I beg your leave to go now.”

  Nau T’orrna nodded and Alex turned to leave. Before he reached the door, he heard the Nau say, “Just one more thing.”

  Alex turned back to face him.

  “Yes, Great Nau?”

  “I shall release your companions from the extraction chambers immediately,” said Nau T’orrna.

  Alex tried hard not to appear pleased, although it was difficult.

  “Under two conditions,” said Nau T’orrna. “The first, you will agree to sessions of rehabilitation once we return to Ro after all this terrible Rahajiim business is put to bed for good. It is clear to me your time with the humans has affected you and softened your mind. I cannot have soft minds in my organization, so you must necessarily be rehabilitated.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And second, you not only allow your companions to participate in the upcoming mission, you convince them to do so.”

  “Mission, sir? I am not aware of any mission.”

  “Then there is much to tell you. Go to the strategy room in two hours’ time and wait there. The V’ort and I will explain everything.”

  ***

  Miles lay on his back on the floor of the room he’d been shoved into. All the others were here too, probably. It was hard to tell without looking. But he lacked the strength to stand, much less examine his surroundings. His eyes still stung, though no more liquid was touching them, and the floor felt like it was shaking, although it did not move. Worst of all, even worse than the cuts and bruises on his chest, was the feeling of spinning…faster and faster, round and round. He felt like he was falling, only upward. Toward the ceiling. Falling at a thousand kilometers an hour.

  Please, Dear God, make it stop, he thought, but he couldn’t even mouth the words.

  Eventually, the sensation lessened until the vertigo faded altogether. But that only made the rest of his pain that much easier to notice. He didn’t move, he just lay there quietly repeating over and over. “Goddamned lizards…goddamned lizards…goddamned lizards…”

  ***

  They tossed him in a rather nondescript room. It was empty of any furnishings or equipment, containing metal walls, metal flooring, and a metal ceiling. Calvin supposed its purpose on the destroyer was that of a cargo hold, but there was no cargo to be seen.

  “Good, you’re still alive,” said Rain. She and the others were already there. Rafael stood leaning against one of the walls; he seemed tired, but otherwise unharmed. Miles lay on the floor muttering something over and over, but showed no signs of permanent injury. Rez’nac was the only one who seemed to be genuinely hurt. The tough Polarian warrior still managed to remain on his feet, though Calvin did not understand how. He had been stripped of most of his clothing and his muscular grey-blue body was littered with bandages. It seemed he’d been cut in a thousand places from head to toe, not to mention whatever other torturous methods they’d imposed upon him, which Calvin didn’t even want to think about. Yet it was none of the three, but instead Rain to whom Calvin ran. She was sitting on the floor, arms curled around her knees, her wild red hair obscuring much of her face.

  “Are you all right?” asked Calvin as soon as he got to her. She looked up at him. Her face, at least, was untouched. And, despite their surroundings, despite all they’d been subjected to, she still managed a smile. It wasn’t a joyous smile, she showed no teeth, but as their eyes met, her lips subtly curled, proving the Rotham had not entirely quenched her optimistic spirit.

  “I’m fine,” she said. She started climbing to her feet and Calvin extended a hand. She took it and he lifted her. She seemed surprised by the ease with which he pulled her to her feet. Once she was standing, he did not let go of her hand immediately; instead, he held it, feeling its tenderness and warmth, enjoying the softness of her skin and, just before letting go, he gave her palm an affectionate squeeze. This made her smile even more.

  “I’m so sorry I got you into this,” said Calvin.

  “This isn’t your fault,” she said, trying to reassure him. “None of this is your fault.”

  He saw no injuries on her anywhere and knew they’d spared her from the whip and knife. Still, whatever they’d done to her, it couldn’t have been pleasant. And despite what she said to the contrary, the whole thing was entirely his fault, and Calvin felt awful because of it.

  “I brought you along,” he said, their eyes were locked together. He doubted he’d ever seen a prettier shade of soft blue than the perfection which were her irises. “I shouldn’t have, and I knew it. I knew how dangerous this would be. But I brought you anyway. That is my fault.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she tried reassuring him again. “You didn’t make me come; I chose to come. I asked to come. That was my choice.”

  “I knew how dangerous it was. I should have protected you.”

  “It’s not your job to protect me,” insisted Rain. “It’s my job to watch out for myself, just as you do for yourself. You’re here because you chose to do this mission despite the risks. It's no different for me.”

  Calvin felt otherwise. He was her commanding officer, which implied a greater sense of duty, an imperative to be mindful of the safety of all of his charges. But he did not want to argue. He was just grateful that she seemed so unharmed.

  “What did they do to you?” he asked, not really wanting to know, but too curious not to ask.

  She pointed to her face. “They poured an irritant onto my eyes.”

  Calvin nodded. “They did the same to me.”

  “And more,” said Rain, looking concerned, apparently just now noticing evidence of the lacerations he had from the whip. She grabbed at his shirt and looked down it to see the extent of his chest injuries, and she gently touched his chest. He knew she touched him and examined him as a doctor would her patient and not in a romantic way, but still he closed his eyes and couldn’t help but feel glad at her touch.

  “Did they do anything to disinfect the wound before they applied those bandages?” s
he asked.

  “They did something; I don’t actually remember,” said Calvin. He’d been unconscious before the extraction had ended. Truthfully, he didn’t even remember what information he’d told them. For all he knew, they’d gotten every secret out of him before they were done, even though he’d intended to resist and been trained by Intel Wing to resist giving up information while under torture. But somehow this had been different. The Rotham themselves were different.

  “It looks like they did an okay job with this,” she said, examining his bandages closer. “Still, if we were on the Nighthawk, I could do something more about this. Are you in any pain?”

  “I’m all right,” he said, “it’s no more pain than this.” He lifted his left hand which was still bandaged from when he’d sliced the outermost skin of his palm. “Rez’nac over there is the one you should be worrying about,” said Calvin, nodding in the direction of the Polarian. He certainly looked like he’d received the worst of it, by far, yet he stood defiantly. Not laying down, not sitting, not even leaning against one of the walls. He wore his bandages like badges of pride, and the wounds they’d inflicted, although numerous, were superficial. Calvin suspected the Polarian warrior had sustained, and survived, much worse. Certainly that was the way he looked.

  “I looked at him when he first came in,” said Rain. “Or tried to, at least. He wouldn’t let me near and insisted he was fine, that they’d barely scratched him.”

  “Sounds like him.”

  At this point, Rafael approached. Despite the fact that he’d been leaning against the wall, and appeared to have some difficulty standing straight, he didn’t show any signs of pain. Calvin looked at the man’s eyepatch and was reminded that he, like Rez’nac, had experienced torture before and had never broken. Calvin wished he had the same fortitude.

  “So, what now?” asked Rafael. “Are they going to kill us?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Calvin. He led Rafael and Rain to the center of the room, catching Rez’nac’s attention in the process. Even Miles stopped his mumbling and looked up, although he remained on the floor. Calvin looked at each of them and noted how they all looked to him for direction, and wished he had some idea of how they could get off this ship and back to Imperial space. In that moment, he wished for nothing more than to be back on the Nighthawk. If he ever did get back on that ship, it was hard to imagine anything could ever convince him to part from it again.

  “If they were going to kill us, I think they would've done it already. Probably during the extraction,” said Calvin. “So, obviously, we’re still worth something to them.”

  “Or at least worth more alive than dead,” said Rafael.

  “Yes. It’s possible they want to trade us for something, or someone,” said Calvin hopefully, thinking that was their best chance of ever seeing the proper side of the DMZ again.

  “But you doubt it,” said Rafael shrewdly, seeming to read Calvin’s facial expression. It was true; he did doubt it. It seemed far likelier the Rotham had something else in store for them. Perhaps more sessions of extraction.

  “What we need to do,” said Calvin, “is to figure just why we’re valuable to them, why they’re keeping us alive. Once we know what our value is, we can leverage that to our advantage.”

  There was a whooshing noise. Calvin looked to his left and saw the main door had opened. Four Teldari soldiers entered the room and approached them. Rez’nac looked at them as if ready to rip them to shreds with his bare hands, and Calvin didn’t doubt his ability to do it. But he also knew, even with the Teldari dead and their four weapons in Calvin’s team’s hands, that wouldn’t buy them anything more than a swift death. They were too outnumbered on this ship to hope to take it by force. So Calvin raised a hand to stay Rez’nac just as the Teldari reached him.

  “You,” said the forward-most Teldari soldier, pointing at Calvin. “You’re the leader, yes?” Calvin had a flashback to the brief time he’d been a prisoner aboard the Thorpian cruiser in Abia. The Rotham had been interested in who was the leader then, too, ultimately dragging Major Jenkins away for torture never to be seen again.

  “Yes,” said Calvin tentatively, hoping not to receive the Major Jenkins treatment.

  “Come with us,” said the Teldari. The others looked ready to draw their weapons and attempt to take him by force. Rather than risk a battle that could end up with one of his teammates dead, or himself, Calvin elected to go peaceably.

  “Very well,” he said. “Where are we going?”

  They grabbed him and shoved him toward the door, clearly unwilling to answer his question.

  “Easy,” said Calvin. “I’m going, I’m going.”

  He felt the point of one of their rifles stick into his back as he marched for the door, wondering just what the hell they had in store for him.

  Chapter 13

  Summers observed the Bridge from her spot on the floor, still tied up and gagged. She worried for Nimoux, who still remained unconscious, but she now also was concerned for the ship. From the chatter she’d heard, both over the speakers and between the Bridge officers, it sounded like the Nighthawk had been invaded, boarded by a ship of smaller but similar size, and that the intruders were trying to abscond with the isotome weapon. If they did, then the very last one will have slipped through her fingers and her mission to destroy them will have resulted in a total failure.

  Fortunately, Pellew and his men were down there facing the enemy. It felt strange to be rooting for Pellew or hoping he would succeed. She’d much rather watch him be grinded into a pulp for what he’d done to her, the ship, and especially to Nimoux. So long as the isotome missile remained aboard the Nighthawk, there was still the chance of destroying it. But if the invaders took it, whoever they were, then it would be loose in the galaxy like the other fourteen, and probably in enemy hands. Hands willing to use it, despite its cruel, overwhelmingly destructive potential.

  The crew manned their stations like they were supposed to, but she could see apprehension on the few faces within her line of sight. If the crew looked concerned, the two soldiers guarding the Bridge, holding them prisoner, seemed even more worried and confused. She watched them pace about nervously, now and again pausing to whisper between each other.

  They’re probably trying to decide what they should do, she thought.

  It had now been several minutes since Pellew’s last transmission. He'd described the ship to them and made some mention about having patched the hull breach. He’d then demanded the swift restoration of atmospheric pressure and artificial gravity, which the Ops officer and the Engineering staff had complied with, and then silence. Pellew must've had some kind of plan, Summers knew, or else he wouldn’t have so urgently demanded the restoration of life support to deck four. But then, to everyone’s surprise, not ninety seconds later the breach alarm sounded again and the deck four Hull Breach Protocol automatically reinstated.

  “Just what the hell is going on down there?” demanded Pellew’s right hand man, but the crewmen had no answer for him.

  Clearly, whatever Pellew had done to patch the breach had failed, or been undone, and now they weren’t hearing anything from their commander of Special Forces. He wasn’t even responding to inquiries or requests to communicate. Summers assumed the worst.

  Ops announced that the ship latched onto the Nighthawk had vanished, but no one knew if that meant the ship had left or if it was merely ducking their scopes again, invisible as a ghost.

  Summers realized Pellew’s silence, and the spiraling feeling of chaos, created the perfect time for her to attempt to retake her ship. If the Nighthawk had any chance of getting out of this, she needed her best officers at their stations. Not to mention, Nimoux was in urgent need of proper medical attention.

  Summers made as much noise as she could, trying to speak through the gag, even scream. Her words were entirely incomprehensible, but she made enough of a racket that one of the soldiers walked over to her and struck her across the face.

>   “Quiet, you,” he demanded.

  It stung more than she would have expected, probably in no small part because her head and jaw were already injured from when Pellew had thrown her into the Ops console. But still, she needed to be heard, so she immediately began to speak, scream, and shout, making as much noise as the gag would allow.

  The soldier returned, raising his hand once more to strike her, but the other soldier, Pellew’s right hand man, stopped him. “Wait,” he said, authoritatively. “Remove her gag, see what she has to say.” It was clear the soldiers felt so lost in this situation they were open to any ideas, since their best one up until now was to keep trying to radio Pellew, asking for status reports which never came.

  Reluctantly, the more hostile of the two soldiers removed Summers’ gag and she was glad to be liberated of the foul tasting cloth.

  “Listen to me,” she said, making eye contact with the higher ranked soldier, the one standing in the distance. “Pellew is not responding; he’s gone silent. That means he’s in trouble. If you don’t go to him now, he’s done for.”

  “It’s a trick,” said the hostile soldier; he looked eager to slap her again.

  “No, she’s right,” Pellew’s right hand man said with a sense of urgency in his voice. “Leave her tied up and let’s go; Pellew needs our help!” The two of them took to the elevator and, just before disappearing, threatened the crew. “Nobody moves. If anybody does by the time we get back, you’ll get worse than them,” he pointed to Summers and Nimoux. The door slid closed.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?!?” barked Summers, looking at her officers. With some effort, and the help of leaning against the wall, she was able to rise to her feet, despite having her hands tied behind her back.

  “You heard them, Commander,” said the man in the pilot’s seat. Summers had forgotten his name, but not his cowardice.

  “To hell with them. This is our ship,” said Summers. “And he needs help,” she used her head to nod in the direction of the wounded Nimoux who, without having Summers to lean on, had collapsed to the floor.