The Phoenix War

by Richard L. Sanders

As if I make reports to you… for the briefest instant she considered saying nothing more and terminating the connection right then and there. But Raidan already knew what Summers’ current mission was—his intel was what’d convinced her to take her present course of action, and Raidan knew it—not to mention the fact that Raidan wasn’t the type to reach out and make contact unless he had something important to say. Usually something thickly laced in ulterior motive. Summers was curious to know what that was—if for no other reason than to stay one step ahead of him.

  “We remain on course for the Kynar Asteroid Field,” she said, deciding to reply truthfully. “That is where the jump signatures coalesce, according to our calculations. Hopefully, when we get there, we’ll find the isotome weapons. Or at least identify the ship carrying them.”

  “Or ships.”

  “Yes, or ships.”

  “Good, the trail hasn’t gone cold,” said Raidan. “That, at least, is some good news. Yes, your news is much better than mine.”

  Summers felt her heart stop. News about Calvin? she wondered. Even if it was, Raidan could be lying. Raidan was not to be trusted…

  “What news?” she asked coldly.

  “The operation on Capital World has failed,” Raidan spoke slowly and clearly, probably so there would be no mistaking what he’d said. And what the message was beneath the words. Summers knew what it meant…

  “The Phoenix Ring?” she asked.

  “They will not be brought to justice. Much of their leadership is dead—murdered apparently. No one knows who is responsible, but I have a theory.”

  “What is your theory?” she asked. News that the Phoenix Ring was dead didn’t seem like such bad news—though if they were killed by an even deadlier, more pervasive influence, that was indeed a chilling thought. If only Summers could throttle this elusive specter to death and forever purge the Empire of the corruption, finally restoring it to order once and for all, she would. Even if it cost her own life. She’d do it in a heartbeat.

  “The Phoenix Ring had an operation on Capital World, and that is the operation that suffered a violent incident, but they’ve also had connections with an element in Rotham space. You yourself have seen the evidence of these connections with your own eyes, Commander.”

  Indeed she had. She remembered Abia all too well. She had waking nightmares of the images she’d witnessed, and what they meant—the Fifth Fleet destroying itself while an illegal alien squadron watched, unchallenged.

  “Recently,” said Raidan, continuing, “these two elements…. came to something of a disagreement.” He seemed to tip-toe around the words. “I believe the bombing of Cepheus was the work of the Phoenix Ring element back on Capital World, the one that Calvin was hunting, and what happened to them—the murder—well, it was revenge of a sort.”

  Summers had heard about the savage attack on Cepheus. A non-descript, seemingly pointless Rotham world, about as pointless of a world to the Republic as Renora was to the Empire. But sadly the commonality hadn’t stopped there; much like Renora, Cepheus had accumulated quite the body count, most of it civilians…

  “Why would the Phoenix Ring attack its own connections?” asked Summers, unable to think of any reason why the Phoenix Ring would do that. Why, after receiving Rotham help, would they spontaneously attack their Rotham co-conspirators, only to be massacred by them in retaliation? Summers was no Intel Wing officer but that sounded like defective reasoning to her. No, it has to be something else, she thought. Raidan must be lying.

  “Who could say why they’d take such a course?” said Raidan. “But you know the ancient expression, don’t you? About how there exists no honor amongst thieves. I suspect this was a weak, very tenuous alliance, and the two groups, the human and Rotham co-conspirators, had always planned to betray one another once their beneficial cooperation was complete.”

  “And I take it this surprise murder, the slaughter of the human conspiracy leaders, wound up throwing a wrench into the plan to expose them before the Assembly?” said Summers.

  “Yes. With no living witnesses and no strong evidence left behind to identify a culprit… there was no conspiracy to expose. Not in time, anyway.”

  “Then the throne…?” Summers steeled herself, ready for the bad news she knew was coming.

  “Fallen. The Assembly stripped it from the Akira House.”

  “What about the King?” Surely Hisato Akira wouldn’t simply step down and watch the Empire shred itself to bits, would he?

  “Dead.”

  Gasps filled the bridge. Cassidy covered her mouth, her face flushed white. The others stared at the speaker, expecting to hear more. Waiting for the details to flow forth. But Summers just sat there, blinking. Not really sure what she’d heard. Raidan’s voice had come through clearly, she’d heard the word. She knew what it meant. But… she simply couldn’t accept it. Like the word had completely bounced off her skull, never reaching her brain.

  “I’m sorry, what was that?” asked Summers, clinging to her disbelief.

  “The king is dead,” said Raidan. “As are his heirs, save one. Kalila lives. At least for the moment. But Genjiro, Kanna, and Azumi are all dead. Along with Hisato himself.”

  Summers shook her head. No…. No it can’t be. “How?” her voice cracked.

  “The King was murdered on the Assembly Floor,” said Raidan coldly, impassively. “Shot in the head. Who was the killer?—no one knows. Probably some lackey hired by Caerwyn Martel or one of the others who stand to inherit the throne. Maybe it was the Rotham element, the same aliens who arranged for the Phoenix Ring to be dealt with. It’s anyone’s guess… As for the crown prince and his sisters, they were killed in very suspicious-looking accidents. I’m certain they were likewise murdered.”

  “Then the Empire…?”

  “Is finished as we know it. There’s pandemonium on Capital World, the Assembly struggles to assert control. Usurpers—all of them…” said Raidan. Summers wanted to believe he was lying, certainly these claims were far too ludicrous to be true, but she heard the anger in his words. It was subtle, but it was there. And she knew what it was when she heard it, and that it always accompanied an unpleasant truth. One that ate at him on the inside. She’d only heard it a few times when she’d served as his XO, but there was no mistaking it.

  He speaks the truth…

  “And the Executor?” asked Summers finally. Almost too hesitant to form the words. She wondered if she’d ever get the chance to return Calvin’s stupid ship to him. Please be alive…

  “Escaped,” said Raidan, much to Summers’ relief. “He is aboard the Black Swan along with Kalila Akira herself. I am rallying all the forces I can and have asked the Princess to jump her ship to the coordinates I provided, somewhere safe.”

  “Somewhere safe? You mean, they remain in danger?” asked Summers, her momentary relief instantly gone.

  “Last I saw it, the Black Swan was at Capital System with the Eighth and Ninth Fleets bearing down on it, not to mention a wounded but still fierce ISS Andromeda and other hostile ships nearby. But don’t worry, I’m certain they jumped away in time. If they didn’t… then it would already be too late for anyone to help them.”

  So that was it then? Summers thought. All their efforts, all their hopes… dashed and worthless. They’d failed. The Empire was doomed. The corrupt influence had won… This cannot be! Justice must win in the end! Mustn’t it? Summers found herself thinking nothing was true anymore. Everything she’d ever hoped; everything she’d ever believed… wiped away so suddenly…

  To her horror—and surprise—she felt tears, hot burning tears that dampened her eyes. She fought them, barely keeping them from flowing in earnest. Tears. Actual tears! She hadn’t cried since she was a little girl… not in public. She scarcely managed to hold them back, reminding herself that she was an officer in uniform—and the command officer besides! She had to keep it together! But as she did, she found herself wondering what the point was. It was over. They’d lost. And in th
e end everyone dies anyway. Death. The ultimate injustice, still undefeated after billions and billions of years—in all the time that’d past since that very first strand of RNA had formed and began the cycle of life, death had always come to claim its victory. Every single time.

  Justice was a fairy-tale. A dream. Nothing more. Millennia ago mankind had invented religion to explain away the injustice of death, but like the many mythologies that had risen and fallen with each passing generation, Justice itself was an empty, pleasant lie. A cheat. A con…

  “You are rallying your ships?” asked Summers. “Why bother?”

  “To fight, Commander. To fight,” came Raidan’s stalwart reply. “This isn’t over until I say it’s over.”

  It was then that Summers realized what she wanted to do. “Give me those coordinates,” she demanded. “It’s time Calvin’s ship was returned to him. And if there is to be a fight, one last, glorious, desperate fight, then I’ll be damned if the Nighthawk isn’t there.” And me with it.

  “That’s not a good idea, Commander,” said Raidan.

  “And why not?” she asked, her teeth clenched.

  “If this battle can be won—and I believe it can, then one more small frigate in our numbers, like the Nighthawk, will only make a small difference in our firepower. But, even if that’s what tilts the scale, we will never truly have our victory. Not if it means those isotome weapons are still out there. Even if we somehow salvaged the Empire, it could never be safe. Not if weapons that powerful are in our enemies’ hands. You know that as well as I do. Right now the Nighthawk is our fastest ship, and already hot on the trail of the isotome weapons—following our only lead. We can’t give all of that up just to have one more dog in the fight…”

  Summers realized that he was right. If the Nighthawk went to the rendezvous, yes, she would see Calvin again, and sooner rather than later—provided the boy wasn’t foolish enough to let himself get cornered at Capital System by the Eighth and Ninth Fleets—but the isotome weapons would remain a menace at large. Weapons that could eradicate billions of people in a heartbeat; they could eliminate whole civilizations, destroy the stars themselves, and extinct entire species. They were the greatest instrument of evil ever designed. But if she stayed the course, maybe… just maybe, she could stop them in time.

  Perhaps there is a fleeting hope yet…

  “And what of Calvin?” asked Summers. The Nighthawk was his ship after all. And Summers didn’t want to usurp his command, despite what that stupid idiot Miles thought.

  “Calvin wants you to hunt down those isotome weapons,” came Raidan’s reply. “Trust me.”

  A part of her was skeptical. A part of her doubted that Raidan would know that, since Calvin wasn’t with him, nor was he in contact with him currently—according to Raidan’s own admission. Yes, the more she thought about it, the more certain she was that Raidan had made that up, to encourage her to hunt after the weapons. To give her an excuse, should Calvin later object. Summers knew Raidan was lying. Raidan cannot be trusted… but she decided to believe the lie, just this once, because—deep inside—she knew it was the right thing to do. Those weapons had to be destroyed. If the Empire toppled over and collapsed, and war followed, and the savage destruction threw humanity back into the bronze age, it would still be better than losing whole star systems, and perhaps being hunted to extinction by isotome-wielding aliens.

  “The channel is closed,” reported Mister Tully. “The Harbinger is no longer transmitting to us.”

  “Very well,” said Summers. “Midshipman Dupont, you will resume your duties as Green Shift’s officer of the watch. Should you need me I shall be in my quarters. Preparing for White Shift.” Summers knew she needed time alone to process all of this. To grieve in peace for her king and her Empire, where no one could see her weaknesses, and to get some much needed rest—if she could. For that matter the entire crew would have difficulty coping with the loss of their king. She wished she had some relief to offer them.

  “And what are our orders?” asked Cassidy as Summers relinquished the command position.

  “Stay the course. And increase our jump depth once Mister Cowen says the engines can handle it.”

  With that she left the bridge. And managed not to collapse until she arrived at her quarters.

  ***

  The werewolf looked at him, with those awful red eyes of his. Glowing. Cutting through the darkness. Shen looked back, as if uncertain what to do. Uncertain what the lycan wanted.

  “Come to me, my brother,” said Tristan from the far cliff. Connecting them was a thin stone bridge that cut across an endless black chasm.

  “Brother, you must come,” Tristan’s voice seemed almost an echo.

  Shen felt his right foot start to move forward, as if to take that first step on the narrow bridge. But then he stopped it. Remaining in place. What am I doing?

  “Come,” Tristan called again.

  Shen felt something inside him stir. But he remained rigidly in place. Around him was mostly darkness, though a blood-red moon hung in the night sky, bright-enough to hide most of the stars. But not so bright it lit his surroundings; the landscape remained a vague outline. Sometimes the shadows seemed even to move… What were they? All Shen could be sure of was the stone bridge in front of him. The bridge and the glowing red eyes that stared at him like tiny, distant stars. Waiting.

  A shrill ringing split the air. It sounded and left, then sounded again. Coming and going like a terrible, rhythmic heartbeat. Hurting his ears.

  ***

  Shen heard the alarm going off. He tried to block it out with a pillow over his head, grunting as he did. But the shrill, obnoxious ringing persisted. Torturing him. Is it not enough that my nights torment me? Must my days also?

  He turned over, throwing the pillow across the room as he did. Then slapped his left hand down hard. With a powerful crunch, the alarm went silent.

  Shen opened his eyes a crack, enough to see that his alarm was now shattered splinters of broken glass, plastic, and metal.

  Strange… surely I didn’t hit it that hard.

  He sat up and examined the debris. To look at it, one would think Shen had dropped a fifty kilogram weight directly on top of it from several meters above. Was this really the work of his left hand?

  “Damn stupid thing anyway,” he grumbled. “Always too loud.” But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true. The alarm had served him faithfully for years and, while admittedly very annoying, it’d never been too loud, not even at its highest setting. But for some reason, lately, his hearing would sometimes become extremely sensitive. More than a person’s should… he was no biologist, but he suspected the change had something to do with the Remorii Virus, and those days he’d spent comatose, tied to a hospital bed, barely more than a corpse.

  In truth he felt lucky he could hear at all—even if it meant he now heard more than he wanted to. When he’d first awakened from his coma he’d been deaf as a stone. And then, with a magnificent pop, his hearing had returned. And now it seemed to switch between normal and extra-extra sharp. The way a person’s eye becomes more sensitive to light when there is very little of it; Shen’s hearing seemed to amplify when his environment quieted. And he didn’t like that.

  What is happening to me? He looked down at his body. And, from a glance, it looked the same. The same stupid belly protruded, hiding his waist, and his arms and feet looked as they always had. He nervously searched his skin over and over, like he often did now, terrified that he’d see evidence of the Remorii rot. The corrupt flesh hanging from the corpse-like body of the type-one Remorii that’d attacked him, he remembered how the monsters had looked as much dead as alive. What skin they had was bruised, purple and black, and in some places even decayed.

  “I’m okay,” he whispered. Reassuring himself. “I’m okay.” As of yet, there were no signs of rot. And Dr. Rain Poynter had assured him the virus was purged from his system. But still…

  He shook his head and tried not
to think about it. He got out of bed and began his routine of undressing. He even grabbed a towel and some soap so he could go to the deck’s head and shower. He’d never cared much for bathing before, especially when it meant the chance to be awkwardly naked alongside other people—why didn’t every ship have private showers by now? Honestly, what century is this?—but ever since his brush with death, and the numbing fear constantly on the back of his mind that he was slowly transforming into a type-three Remorii, he’d vowed to shower every day, sometimes twice. That way, if even the tiniest hint of rot or decay appeared, he would catch it as soon as possible.

  And then Rain will take care of it, he told himself. Even though he doubted medical science knew enough about Remorii physiology to fix him—should the worst happen.

  He was about to leave his quarters, his towel wrapped around his waist, when he noticed smears of red on his carpet. They looked like blood.

  It is blood! he realized upon closer inspection. He’d been tracking blood all through his quarters without even realizing it. He lifted his right foot to find the culprit, a jagged piece of glass stuck out of his arch. He removed it, with some revulsion at the sight of blood squirting everywhere. The shard of glass, which had originally belonged to his alarm—he recognized it as part of the display—had managed to sink almost an inch into his foot. And yet he hadn’t noticed it until now.

  I definitely should have felt that… he shuddered at the realization, wondering if this meant his body was going numb. Perhaps losing feeling permanently.

  I’ve always been ugly, but now I’m truly a monster… incapable even of feeling.

  He dressed into shorts, a shirt, and socks—he put three socks over his right foot, to prevent it from bleeding all over the ship—and then made his way to the infirmary, deciding his shower would have to wait.

  As he passed others in the corridors and on the elevator, he avoided their glances. And, rather fortunately, he didn’t run into anyone he knew. As an added bonus no one tried to engage him in unwanted conversation. Though Shen took care to avoid eye-contact and kept his eyes on the floor as much as possible, since that usually did the trick.