“Tactical analysis,” said Ravinder, as she finished strapping in.
“The Harbinger and other ships continue retreating,” said the Defense Chief.
“On top of that, their shields are down and weapons remain offline,” said the Ops Chief. “Or so our scans indicate.”
“And is that infernal message still broadcasting?” asked Ravinder, referring to the pleas sent over all channels and frequencies, claiming that Raidan and his thugs had come to help defend the system and did not have some other ulterior motive.
“Yes, sir,” said the Comms Chief.
“Order to all ships, remain on target. All ships are authorized to open fire as soon as weapons range is achieved. Show them no quarter!” Ravinder had no intention of showing mercy to traitors. No matter what their intentions were. Justice required their elimination. And if there was no justice—what was the point of anything?
“Weapons range in one minute,” said the Defense Chief.
Ravinder kept her eyes glued to the 3D display, which showed the Harbinger. It was a mighty vessel and, by the look of it, easily overmatched against the ISS Hyperion. However, Ravinder was flanked by a hundred warships, not to mention, it seemed the Harbinger and her few dozen allies seemed unwilling to fight. No doubt this was some sort of strategic feint, Ravinder assumed. No matter, the Third Fleet would make quick work of the traitors. Should the Harbinger fight, the battle would be bloody, but it was impossible for the Harbinger to win against such an overwhelming force.
“Sir, incoming communiqué from Capital World,” announced the Comms Chief. “Maximum priority!”
“On speakers,” said Ravinder, wondering which knight or Fleet Admiral wished to micromanage her or her recently obtained Third Fleet.
“General Order to all ships! Especially the Third Fleet,” the voice said in a commanding tone, the speaker was none other than the queen herself, much to Ravinder’s surprise. “Stand down. I repeat; stand down and disengage! The Harbinger and its squadron is not to be attacked. Fleet Admiral Ravinder, order your forces to hold their fire.”
The Comms Chief looked at Ravinder, as if asking for confirmation whether or not to obey that order.
“Firing range in twenty seconds,” said the Defense Chief.
Ravinder nodded to the Comms Chief. “Order the fleet to stand down, and, to all gunnery crews, hold fire.”
The Comms Chief sent the order, and Ravinder watched, as the many dots on the Tactical Display, which was next to the main 3D display, showed a huge force of starships abruptly halt pursuit of a few dozens. They slowed until they were holding position.
“Return message to the queen,” said Ravinder, removing her restraints so she could again stand. “Open a channel; see if she accepts.”
“Hailing the queen, sir,” said the Comms Chief.
As it turned out, the queen did accept.
“Fleet Admiral Ravinder and ISS Hyperion, why do you hail me?” asked the queen. She did not sound annoyed, but neither did she sound pleased by the interruption.
“Your Majesty,” said Ravinder, she had to consciously resist the urge to bow, since this conversation was strictly audio, so there was no point. “I fully respect your commands and your wisdom…” Ravinder began.
“Then what is it?” asked Kalila. “You may speak plainly.”
“I find myself at a loss, Your Highness, for why you ordered us not to engage the Harbinger and its squadron of vessels.”
“You already know the answer to that, probably better than anyone; you, Fleet Admiral Ravinder,” replied the queen, “Have seen the size and power of the Dread Fleet. Any assistance against them is welcome.”
“But Raidan is a traitor. The Harbinger bombed Capital World. They are directly responsible for the loss of two star bases and much of this system’s static defenses. What we have now, we’ve had to scramble to cobble together, and it’s all because of them.”
“You speak truly,” said Kalila. “However, in an hour of dire need, one does not turn away an able hand that would help with the work.”
“But, and forgive me, Your Highness, but did you not, yourself, declare Asari Raidan and his compatriots enemies of the state, charging us with the duty to do them harm however and whenever we can?” Ravinder believed she had the queen there. After all, it was more than just what the law required; it was what justice demanded.
“I respect your opinions, Fleet Admiral Ravinder,” said the queen in a more forceful tone. “But I would ask you to limit them to opinions of strategy for the time being. My orders are for our forces not to engage the Harbinger and its squadron and instead to welcome whatever assistance they are willing to offer, and those orders, my orders, shall stand.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” said Ravinder, feeling red in the face.
“Now, is there anything else?” asked the queen.
“No, Your Highness,” said Ravinder.
“Good, then I suggest you order your ship and your fleet back into position to be ready to engage the real enemy. The Dread Fleet might arrive at any time.”
“At once, Your Highness.”
***
Calvin stole a glance through the upper window, as the pod—which was so thoroughly packed with soldiers and cargo that it was standing room only—descended toward the planet. Calvin had a little more space than most; he needed it in order to man the controls and fly the tiny vessel to its designated LZ near the Alcazar.
But, as he momentarily looked away from the console and stared upward through the window, he could see the outline of the Nighthawk—a blackness that blocked out the stars—seem to vanish away. He wondered if he would ever see the vessel again, or if this place, this Forbidden Planet, was going to be the place where his story came to an end. He looked around at the others, mostly unfamiliar faces—Rosco soldiers—but Nikolai was there, as was Miles, and looming above them all, Rez’nac, and Calvin hoped he could get as many of them as possible back to the Nighthawk once their objective was achieved. He further hoped that the damned vortex didn’t destroy the Nighthawk in the interim, or force the ship to retreat into alteredspace, abandoning Calvin and his away party.
He wondered then, as the pod continued its gentle descent, expertly piloted, what Rain would say if she was still alive and with him. No doubt something comforting. Something that would help him keep it all in perspective. But, without her, he felt a tremendous emptiness, and it was hard to be hopeful, no matter how determined he was for this mission to succeed.
“Pod Two to Pod One, we’re beginning our final approach, what is your status?” Calvin transmitted to the other pod, the one shadowing his every movement, its pilot one of the junior crew members. A green shift officer, not unlike Calvin had once been, back before the Trinity Incident…
“Copy that, Pod Two, Pod One is about a kilometer behind you, following your same trajectory, over.”
Calvin knew that transmissions between the pods might be noticed by some kind of high-tech equipment at the Alcazar, but, since Pod One had gone out of visual sight, he felt he needed confirmation that the other half of his away party was still intact and en route. That, and, by the medieval look of the Alcazar structure, he doubted it had much by way of modern technology. Perhaps in this ancient simplicity, the Polarians found a kind of peaceful reverence. Calvin didn’t know, and he wasn’t about to speculate. What mattered was, if there indeed was little technology here, that would make everything much, much easier. Though he knew better by now than to let such a thing make him overconfident. That and appearances were often misleading.
What gave him confidence the most, more even than the apparent lack of technology displayed by the Alcazar, was the fact that the strange radiation from the system’s parent star seemed to interfere with conventional instruments; this forced Calvin to land the craft manually. The purplish color was gone, but the radiation was not, and it made Rez’nac’s skin appear an even deeper shade of blue—much bluer than Calvin had ever seen it. All hints of grey s
eemed gone. Calvin hoped the radiation only affected the Polarian’s pigment and not his judgment.
He set the craft down gingerly in a small clearing surrounded by trees, the designated LZ. If they had been detected during their landing operation, there was no sign. No ships or fighters had been launched to intercept them; there was no chatter on any of the frequencies or channels, no alarms seemed to be going off. As far as Calvin could tell, they had managed a discreet landing, just as they’d hoped.
A few moments later, Pod One came into view, its pilot rather skillfully landed the craft with feather-like gentleness, only meters away from Pod Two.
“Okay,” said Calvin. “Everybody remember where we parked.”
***
It wasn’t just his imagination; no, there were certainly more patches of grey in Raidan’s hair as his face appeared over the viewscreen in Tristan’s office aboard the Arcane Storm. The man looked positively spent and yet, despite the fatigue, and the wear, he still seemed stalwart. A bulwark of the Imperial Fleet, this one, thought Tristan.
“That one was a little too close for my level of comfort,” said Tristan, referring to the interception of their squadron by the Third Fleet—an overwhelming force that would have blasted them all to smithereens, especially with their shields down, had they not been given the order to stand down at the last instant.
“Indeed. A close call,” Raidan admitted. “But one I was certain of. The queen is no fool. She knows not to allow infighting between her limited forces, just as surely as she understands the value of an ally.”
“And just what is the value of an ally, one wonders?” asked Tristan.
“To the queen…” Raidan hesitated before replying. “I suspect the queen considers all forces to be allies, provided they have a useful purpose to serve.”
“And the minute we don’t,” said Tristan. “After we defeat the Dread Fleet—assuming we can—what then? Can we expect her to allow us to go in peace or in pieces?”
Raidan didn’t seem to have an answer. Tristan knew him well and could tell from his haggard facial expression that his mind was too hyper-focused on the forthcoming battle to worry about anything afterward—if, indeed, there was anything afterward. “I suppose,” ventured Raidan, “Only time will tell. I doubt if your ships make it so far as to Remus System that the queen or any of Her Majesty’s forces will pursue you there. After all, it is still considered banned space, removed from all Imperial star charts.”
“Yes, however making it there does depend upon a very large if,” said Tristan, already wary that the queen had other plans for them. Most likely to exterminate the Remorii. He knew Raidan well, and trusted him, and by extension many humans because of him; Tristan even had taken the humans’ side during the wars, but that did not make him foolish enough to believe he was one of them—in his eyes or theirs. The same held true for all lycans throughout the galaxy, but most pointedly so for the ones who had nobly travelled with Raidan to oppose the Dread Fleet—as they were the ones within striking distance once all the shots had been fired. Tristan believed he needed a contingency plan for just such an occasion, even though the odds stood firmly against them, all of them, that they stood any chance of victory against the Dread Fleet.
“In that case,” Raidan raised a shot of whiskey. “Here is to a noble death.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Tristan, raising his own liquor—his, a shot of vodka. They downed their drinks, and after a bit of unceremonious chatter, they terminated the call. Tristan immediately hailed Zarao, who, once he appeared on the viewer, it was clear the Alpha lycan was sitting at the command position of the Thunder Sun, the ship of his choosing.
“And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” asked Zarao. “Have you any news?”
“Not news,” admitted Tristan. “More like a question.”
“I am all ears.”
“My question is, are your ships ready—for when the enemy comes?” Tristan said the words carefully, knowing all too well what Zarao and the others planned to do, and thinking them both courageous and perhaps a bit stupid for committing to such an idea.
“My ships are ready,” said Zarao with an air of confidence that nearly gave Tristan the chills. It was a good sound to hear. The others had chosen wisely when they had made Zarao their leader. For, while Tristan considered himself the brighter of the two, there was none who could match Zarao for his bravery and leadership prowess. He was the kind of lycan that others instinctively wanted to follow. Many of them, here in this system, to their very graves.
“And you’re certain that you and your ships are up to this task?” asked Tristan, needing confirmation.
“Yes,” the answer came immediately. No hint of hesitation, wavering, or second-guessing. Zarao meant what he said. That much, Tristan could depend on. No matter how crazy the scheme appeared in Tristan’s mind.
“I wish I could join you, my brother,” said Tristan—it was half-true. “However, Raidan has requested that my ship protect the Harbinger’s flank. As you know, that is where my first duty lies.”
“I understand and approve,” said Zarao with no animosity. “You and your ship do as the humans bid. I will take the rest of us and do what we came here for. We are moving to position now, eager to spill the blood of our enemies.”
“Just…be mindful,” said Tristan. “It promises to be a long day.”
***
Calvin and the others had exited the pods to find themselves in a small clearing in a wooded area. Judging from the black spire that could be seen above the tree-line, he knew he wasn’t far from the Alcazar; it was walking distance away.
“I’m surprised they don’t have better defenses,” said Nikolai.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” admitted Calvin, thinking this whole operation was proving too easy to be true. He was used to having to improvise, to think on his feet, to adapt to unexpected obstacles and strange yet stubborn resistance, but here, here felt peaceful. Almost spiritual. It was the kind of place Rain would have liked. Calvin sighed.
Still, Calvin wasn’t the type to allow the apparent peacefulness, and lack of resistance, to lure him into dropping his guard, so he drew his carbine and ordered the others to draw their weapons too. Between the two pods, the entirety of the soldier unit had come aboard the surface of the planet—minus Nimoux—along with Calvin, Miles, and Rez’nac. Calvin, because he wanted to command the operation; Miles, because Calvin trusted no one more to have his back, and because he didn’t want any infighting between the Defense Chief and Summers to cause any trouble for Nimoux back on the Nighthawk; and Rez’nac, because he knew, better than anyone, the secrets of the Forbidden Planet and the Alcazar.
In total, the rest of their force comprised twenty Rosco soldiers, including Nikolai, and the specialist that had piloted Pod One; and the two remaining mercenaries that Calvin had received from Raidan. Nimoux had assigned them ranks accordingly, and organized them into operational detachments, Alpha and Bravo, as was custom, but these were thugs, professional mercenaries, but thugs all the same. Whatever training Nimoux had been able to give them, combined with whatever training the Roscos had required of them, the summation of that experience would have to suffice. And Calvin knew he would have to account for his peoples’ inexperience.
Calvin sent two ahead—the stealthiest two—to act as point and scout the forward position; the rest followed as quietly as twenty-something soldiers could. Despite careful avoidance of branches and twigs, boots inevitably crunched as they made their way through the wooded area, toward the Alcazar.
Fortunately, it seemed, the Polarians did not have regular patrols guarding the perimeter and, by the lack of opposition they met, Calvin suspected their pods had managed to land covertly—something he had been counting on from the beginning. Because, should a direct fight break out outdoors, his people would be able to marshal none of the advantages they had brought with them, and Calvin and his forces would either die pointlessly or retreat in abject f
ailure. Neither option was even remotely acceptable.
“Rez’nac,” Calvin whispered. “What is the best way in and where is the High Prelain?”
“The best way in is through the front entrance,” said Rez’nac, his voice a little louder than made Calvin comfortable. “Because it is the only way in. Other than going through the Sacred Dome of the Council.”
Calvin didn’t know much about the Alcazar, other than what he had been able to glean from Rez’nac in interviews, along with the scraps of intel Nimoux had cobbled together in his report, but Calvin knew enough to rule out forcing entry through the Sacred Dome of the Council, which was essentially a fortified chamber where a tiny senate-like body of Prelains met and governed the Polarian religion, under the supervision of the all-seeing, wisdom and greatness of the High Prelain, of course.
“So, we’ll be knocking on the front door,” Calvin muttered. He wasn’t terribly surprised, Nimoux’s plan had called for nothing less. But, still, he was disappointed that a more discreet option was unavailable.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Rez’nac, failing to understand that Calvin’s comment had been rhetorical. “As for where the High Prelain is…at this time of day,” Rez’nac stared up at the local sun. “He will be in the Villa of the Alcazar. No doubt in meditation.”
Good, thought Calvin. A premeditated attack always had the advantage over a meditating opponent. Now it was just a matter of getting custody of the High Prelain without killing him, or taking too many casualties. For while it had been a veritable walk-in-the park to come this far, Calvin knew better than to expect the Alcazar to be so unguarded.
They approached the main entrance and, as they neared the building, Calvin couldn’t help but gaze upwardly in awe at the spire tower that was the Alcazar. The structure was made of some kind of ancient stone, black and purple, something he didn’t recognize. It had the polish of glass, but the strength of steel, or so it seemed as he touched it.
The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) Page 10