The Phoenix Darkness

by Richard L. Sanders

  The pilot still looked too timid to act. The defense officer looked on the fence, willing to act so long as someone else did first. The Ops officer, likewise, seemed uncertain what to do. Fortunately for Summers, however, Cassidy had been summoned to command this shift. She sprang immediately from her seat in the command position and raced into the CO’s office, quickly returning with a box-cutter.

  “I was just waiting for the right opportunity,” said Cassidy as she carefully sliced Summers’ bonds, freeing her. She did the same for Nimoux, despite his unconsciousness.

  “Thank you,” said Summers. “As ever, you’re an asset to this ship.”

  “Pleased to serve.”

  “As for the rest of you, I’ll ask you this once and only once,” she eyed the rest of the officers with a fierce sternness. Even her voice seemed like iron. “Choose now if you are loyal to your Commanding Officer or loyal to the mutineers who have taken this ship.”

  “You, sir,” said the defense officer. The Ops officer agreed.

  “And?” asked Summers, looking at the timid pilot.

  “Well, you, of course,” he said, nervously. He kept checking behind his shoulder, expecting the elevator to open back up full of soldiers. If that happened, Summers planned to be ready.

  “Cassidy, return to the CO’s office and bring all the firearms here. Every one of you is going to help defend this Bridge, should the enemy try to take it.”

  “You want us to f-f-fight Special Forces?” asked the pilot.

  “Only if it comes down to it,” said Summers. “But by the sound of it over the radio, they’ve got their own problems to deal with, which is why now is the perfect time to act.”

  She thought back to the time when Calvin and his most loyal officers had successfully mutinied against her and Major Anderson. Of course, he’d had Pellew’s considerable help back then, but still, there were lessons from that encounter which applied here.

  The first and most important one was: whoever controlled the Bridge and Engineering controlled the ship, which meant it was time to liberate Engineering.

  By this point, Cassidy had passed a variety of carbines and handguns out to the crew. She’d wisely given a handgun each to the pilot, who probably wouldn’t use it anyway, and the Ops officer, who may or may not help them. The defense officer, Cassidy herself, and Summers each were given a carbine. And each, Summers believed, would be willing to use them if they had to.

  “Miss Dupont, watch the elevator. Mister…” she fumbled to think of the defense officer’s name.

  “Harmon, sir.” Although he wore a standard issue uniform given to him by the quartermaster, it was obvious he was one of the civilians who had come aboard the ship back at Gemini. Hopefully, after all they’d been through since then, the man had learned his station.

  “You guard the hatch in case they come up the ladders.”

  “Uh, yes, sir. If they do…what should I do?”

  “See who they are,” said Summers. “If they’re wearing black-and-silver, let them pass. If they’re wearing camouflage, shoot them dead.”

  “Dead, sir?”

  “Dead. That’s an order. We don’t have the luxury of taking prisoners.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” He looked positively petrified, but willing to comply. He went to take his new position.

  “As for you, Mister Tully,” she said, now remembering the cowardly pilot’s name. “Contact the infirmary and tell them we have an emergency up here. We need them to send someone on the double!”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “I’ve got this covered,” said Cassidy, keeping a vigilant eye on the elevator. “But what about the defense post? It’s vacant.”

  “I shall man it myself when the time comes,” said Summers. But first she needed to secure Engineering.

  Taking her newly armed force and marching below decks to storm the engine room by force was entirely out of the question. Not only did it present a high probability for casualties, most likely friendly ones, it also required her to abandon the Bridge. Which left her with only two weapons at her disposal: diplomacy and guile.

  She tapped the main line to Engineering.

  “Engineering, this is the Bridge, do you copy?” she asked.

  “We copy, Bridge,” crackled the reply. “Who is this? Over.” She could tell from his speech she was not speaking to Mister Cowen or any of the engineers he’d trained. No, this, this was a soldier, one of the two Pellew had left to defend Engineering.

  “This is Commander Presley,” said Summers, knowing that any dishonesty on her part would undermine her chances of success.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be under arrest, Commander?”

  “The situation has changed; Pellew will explain it to you later,” she said. “But for now, there’s something urgent you need to do.”

  “Oh, it’s changed, has it? Put Pellew on the line if he’s there. Or else First Lieutenant Ferreiro.” Summers realized he must be talking about Pellew’s right hand man.

  “I’m unable to do that because they’re not here.”

  “Not there?” the man sounded alarmed.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. We’ve got a situation here, an urgent one!”

  “What’s the situation?”

  “Pellew has gone dark. He won’t respond, we’ve lost all contact with him and his team.”

  “Can’t be…”

  “Radio him yourself. Try to get in touch with him.”

  There was a pause. No doubt the soldiers in Engineering were attempting to do just what she said. Now would not be a good time for you to suddenly reappear, Pellew, she thought. Fortunately, he remained as quiet as a ghost.

  The comm crackled back to life. “We can’t reach him either. What was the last thing he told you?”

  “He was investigating a foreign vessel that had docked with us. There was an intruder aboard!”

  “Is that where Ferreiro went, to go deal with that?”

  “Yes, and to rescue Pellew. They need your help too; we all do. We’re in great danger!”

  She clicked off the intercom and waited. A few seconds later, she got a message from Engineering. It was the welcome voice of Andre Cowen, the chief engineer. “They’re gone, Commander. Engineering is all clear of those pesky SF soldiers.”

  “Very good, Mister Cowen. So is the Bridge. Please immediately raise your defense walls and prevent all further access to Engineering.”

  “Aye, aye, Commander. We’re doing it now. I suggest you do the same.”

  “In due course,” said Summers as she stared at Nimoux just lying there.

  “We should raise the defense walls,” said Cassidy. “Then we’ll have complete control of the ship and we won’t have to fight anybody.”

  “And we will raise those walls,” said Summers. “But not yet. Not until we get a doctor up here.”

  “But, with all due respect—”

  “No buts! We wait for a doctor and then we raise the walls; that’s the order of things.”

  A very anxiety riddled five minutes of silence followed. Summers caught herself biting her nails and trying to think about anything but Nimoux and his condition. Her thoughts felt like light speed as she considered the situation, trying to make sense of what had happened, what was still going on below, and how she’d managed to fail to destroy even the one isotome weapon they’d found. Hopefully, Pellew at least managed to stop the intruders from taking it, she thought.

  Then, in a moment that shattered the silence, the elevator door slid aside.

  “Hands on your head!” Cassidy shouted, waving the carbine at whoever was in there.

  Fortune smiled on them because the man who stepped out onto the Bridge, looking equal parts terrified and surprised, wore a white lab coat and carried a medical bag over his shoulder. Summers immediately recognized him as Dr. Andrews.

  “Okay, you’re clear,” said Cassidy, waving him forward. She resumed her watch of the elevator, carbine at the ready.
r />   Dr. Andrews approached Summers.

  “Defense walls up!” she commanded to the intense relief of her crew. Then she gave the doctor her undivided attention. “The patient is in severe need…” said Summers. But Dr. Andrews didn’t seem to be listening. Instead, he took her by the face, gently, with his gloved hands, and rotated her head slightly, examining her. Then he shined a flashlight in her eyes.

  “What the hell are you doing?” demanded Summers.

  “You look slightly concussed and show minor symptoms which could indicate shock. You have a black eye, with additional bruising and swelling on your forehead. I recommend…”

  She gave him a shove to both create some distance between them and to get his attention.

  “What?” he asked, confused.

  “I’m not the patient,” Summers practically screamed. “He is!” she pointed to Nimoux, who was still just lying there, still showing no sign of consciousness.

  Dr. Andrews turned and looked down, upon seeing Nimoux he cried, “Bloody hell!” and then sprinted over, dropping to his knees the instant he got there. Immediately, he readjusted Nimoux’s body and applied new bandages on top of the existing, blood-soaked ones, then reinforced them with adhesive tape.

  “I don’t think they did a very good job bandaging him up,” said Summers. “Don’t you want to clean the wounds with something and then bandage him up properly?”

  “Normally, sure. But not with this kind of blood loss. At this point, his heart is in overdrive and there’s no way infection is going to kill him because exsanguination will get him first. Look at him, he’s as pale as a snowman and by the look of the carpet here, I’d estimate he’s lost about two liters of blood already. If he loses much more…I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do for him…I need to get him down to the infirmary right away or he’ll die. He might anyway.”

  “Is it bad moving him?” asked Summers. “I mean, we don’t have, like, a stretcher or anything…”

  “I don’t think he has a spinal injury, but even if he does, he’s going to have to take his chances,” said Dr. Andrews.

  “Couldn’t you just tell the infirmary to bring blood bags and do the transfusion here?”

  “This man needs surgery, and not just to suture the wound. By the look of the blood pushing through those original bandages, there’s a good chance the bullet struck either his right lung or his liver.”

  Summers gasped, covering her mouth instinctively as she did. A terrible feeling came over her. “Which is worse?” she whispered.

  “Depends. Would you rather drown or exsanguinate? Now it’s time to go!” Dr. Andrews picked Nimoux up, gently but quickly. Dr. Andrews was smaller than Nimoux and Summers just couldn’t imagine Dr. Andrews being able to get Nimoux to the infirmary alone, not without dragging him.

  “You need help,” said Summers. Then, to her crew, “lower the defense walls!” They seemed uneasy at this request, but complied anyway.

  “I can call for one of the medics to come assist me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous; you don’t have time,” insisted Summers.

  Dr. Andrews scanned the room. “By the look of your scant crew, I doubt you have anyone available to assist me.”

  He was right; there was no one that could be spared, not to properly run the ship. But Summers didn’t care. Even though the ship that had boarded them might still be there, circling invisibly, getting ready to attack, she was willing to risk having an understaffed bridge if it meant saving Nimoux’s life, or trying to.

  “I’ll do it,” she said.

  “What?” asked Cassidy. “Commander—”

  “It’ll be fine. As soon as we’re through, raise those defense walls and don’t drop them again until you hear from me otherwise.” Dr. Andrews handed her a pair of gloves and she strapped them on. Then, together, they gently hoisted Nimoux’s body up and began their slow trek to the elevator. “In the meantime, Midshipman, you have the deck.”

  “As you say, Commander,” said Cassidy.

  “One last thing,” said Summers, once they reached the elevator.

  “Yes, Commander?”

  “Disengage the locks on all crew quarters and then…give the order.”

  “What order?”

  Summers gave her a serious look. “You know, the order.”

  A knowing expression spread across Cassidy’s face.

  “Just…give us time to get to the infirmary first.”

  The elevator door closed and the three of them zoomed downward.

  ***

  From her position in the command chair, Cassidy waited anxiously. She gave Summers a full five minutes head start before tapping the intercom, set to broadcast throughout every deck of the ship.

  “Now hear this, now hear this,” she said, in her most authoritative tone. “To all personnel, attention, there is a mutiny occurring on this ship. Special Forces are attempting to take control. I repeat, mutiny by Special Forces! All crew be advised, do not trust the soldiers on this ship! Do not cooperate with them, comply with their requests, or assist them in any way! All soldiers aboard the Nighthawk are to be avoided, resisted, and even harmed if you are able. That is all.” She clicked off the intercom. “Sound General Quarters.”

  “Sounded, sir.”

  There, the order had been given. The crew of the Nighthawk were now on notice they were at war with the ship’s soldiers. Cassidy hoped her announcement wouldn’t lead to the injury or deaths of any of the crew, but she understood the ultimate responsibility for any consequences belonged to Commander Presley and not to her.

  “Midshipman, I’ve got something,” said the Ops officer.

  “What is it?” Cassidy sprang from her chair and rushed to the Ops post, although she couldn’t make heads or tails of the various displays.

  “It’s a circuit panel on deck four. Someone keeps breaking and closing the circuit.”

  “Is it affecting a critical system?” she asked. Her immediate concern was for the welfare of the ship.

  “It’s harmless. But what’s interesting about it is…no one should be alive down there. Engineering hasn’t even entered the deck to repair the breach.”

  “It’s probably not a person, then,” said Cassidy.

  “It’s got to be a person,” the Ops officer insisted. “There’s a pattern to the breaking and closing, it’s intelligent…a code.”

  “What does it say?”

  The Ops officer watched his display for several seconds, no doubt translating the breaks, pauses, and so forth he’d been prattling on so excitedly about. Cassidy, on the other hand, was almost perfectly convinced the Ops officer had gone mad and was hearing things. Unless one of the Special Forces soldiers dispatched from the Bridge or Engineering had actually entered deck four, and gotten trapped there. But would such a brute know a sophisticated code of clicks and pauses? Cassidy seriously doubted it. Even she couldn’t make sense of the seemingly random data appearing on the Ops display.

  “It says S-O-S-S-H-E-N and then repeats.”

  “Iwate Shen!” what the hell was he doing on deck four? And how was he alive? These were burning questions, but Cassidy knew they would have to wait.

  “Where is that panel located?” she asked, thinking Shen had probably taken climate gear off of one of the soldiers and probably had a very limited supply of oxygen.

  “Directly below the emergency hatch between decks four and five.”

  “Standby to blow that hatch; let’s give him a chance to get out of there,” said Cassidy. “But not yet.” Before she could rescue Shen, she had to remember the safety of anyone who might be in a part of deck five that could prove unsafe should the hatch be swiftly retracted. Cassidy sprinted to the command position and tapped the intercom, not even caring that it was still broadcasting to every deck.

  “Attention all hands on DECK FIVE, evacuate the corridors immediately. I repeat, all hands, deck five, evacuate to a sealed room immediately. You have twenty seconds.”

  She c
ounted down the time and then, at exactly zero, she looked at the Ops officer. “Blow the hatch.”

  “Hatch is blown. Rapid decompression occurring on deck five.”

  She knew she had to give it a few seconds for the force of the air to blow downwards to deck four and ultimately out of the ship. It was unknown if Shen, in whatever state he was in, would be able to ascend to deck five against the air gust moving oppositely.

  After what must have been half a minute, she again looked at the Ops officer. “How long should it take him to get to deck five?”

  “If he’s not there by now, he’s not coming.”

  Cassidy nodded. “Re-seal the hatch.”

  “The emergency hatch is sealed. I confirm it. Deck four is once again isolated from the other decks. The lost atmosphere on deck five should be restored in…just under thirty seconds.”

  “Good, let me know the moment it is, so I can sound the all clear on deck five,” said Cassidy. She sat in the command chair and waited, wondering whether or not Shen had made it through alive. The famously reclusive operations expert had proven quite the tenacious survivor if rumors were to be believed. She hoped this time proved no different. But, if he hadn’t made it through, there was probably nothing more she could do for him. The ship’s air supply was limited and its ability to restore atmosphere was limited. She doubted she could afford to blow anymore hatches.

  “In the meantime, Mister Tully, have the infirmary send medics to deck five, tell them to go to position just above the deck five-four emergency hatch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She waited until he’d relayed her instructions to the infirmary before giving him his next order. When he was finished, she spoke.

  “And tell Engineering to get a solution together for that breach so we can restore access to deck four. It’s time those twidgets got that handled.”

  Chapter 14

  They delivered him to a room containing three high ranking officers who sat in chairs in front of a table. Each of them wore lavender uniforms, indicating they were members of Rotham Military Command. No doubt their dual membership in Advent was a closely guarded secret among their peers. All three had black hair just like ninety-something percent of Rotham everywhere and, interestingly, all three styled their oiled black hair differently. Each style was a symbol of status, Calvin knew, but only the centermost officer wore his hair in the braids Calvin recognized, braids which indicated both status and power. On the table in front of them, there appeared to be what looked like blueprints for a large Rotham starship. Calvin was unable to tell precisely what type, but he knew the vessel was much larger than the destroyer they were currently in.