The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7)

by Richard Sanders

  God I hope the intercom still has power, he thought, only now realizing that, if the Nighthawk had indeed drained power from everything it possibly could, in order to keep its shields raised and itself intact against the energy bombardment from that damned Custos vortex, then the intercom itself might be down. He then wondered what he would do. Hopefully the bridge would know the pod had attached and then simply make the jump, he thought. But if not, then I’ll have to get to the bridge and tell them myself. If the intercom is down, then the elevators will be down too, that means the ladders…he continued forming his plan and coming up with contingencies when he felt he needed to. Whatever happened, whatever they found the situation to be once they got aboard, Calvin wanted to be ready for anything.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a collective gasp from seemingly all of his passengers at once.

  “What?” asked Calvin, startled. He looked up and out the window, expecting to see the blinking lights, now closer than ever. Instead, all he saw was Custos. Glowing, changing in opacity as it now, apparently, had become stationary. It seemed also to have stopped blinking in and out of existence, for the time being.

  “The lights?” asked Calvin. “Where are the lights?” He looked at his men and then back up out the window, expecting to see the Nighthawk’s identifier lights turn back on again. They’re just off, that’s all, he told himself, they’ll come on again. That’s what they’ve been doing this whole time. Turning them on and off.

  “I…I don’t know, sir,” said First Lieutenant Ferreiro, as if he thought Calvin had addressed his question to him personally.

  “There was a big flash,” said Nikolai. “Very bright. Very bright, and very fast. Bright like sun, then gone. Poof. After that…no more running lights.”

  “No, no that’s not…” Calvin stuttered as he tried to keep himself from imagining the possibility that the very worst thing had just happened.

  Calvin immediately looked at the ongoing scan and saw that the computer claimed not to detect anything matching his prescribed inputs. “No, that’s impossible,” he said, “You just detected it,” he said to the Ops terminal. “You can’t just stop detecting it!”

  “Sir, I hate to be the one to say it, but I think—” First Lieutenant Ferreiro began to say, but Calvin interrupted him.

  “No!” said Calvin. “That is not the case. Whatever you’re thinking, stop it! The Nighthawk is still out there and we’re going to find it and dock with it. This…this is some kind of malfunction.” His voice became increasingly frantic as he spoke. He felt himself trembling, ever so slightly, and part of him, a very small part of him, kept telling him what had most likely happened. It was the only explanation that fit the facts. But Calvin rejected it. He refused to believe it. Especially without any proof.

  “There’s got to be an explanation,” he said, returning to the Ops controls and setting it to scan a larger swath of space, and for a greater criteria of objects. “Maybe…maybe the ship moved? Maybe they had to divert away from the vector we gave them,” he said, rambling. “I mean, we were close, but not that close, not close enough to dock, not yet. Barely even close enough for visible range. And they could easily have lost power to the running lights…that’s why they aren’t switching them on anymore, and the scanner, well, this piece of shit can’t detect a—”

  Calvin stopped abruptly at the sound of his passengers reacting to something.

  “What the hell?” asked one.

  “Is that what I think it is?” asked another.

  “Are we going to die?” asked a third.

  Calvin looked away from the Ops console and back up at the window to see what the hell was going on. The instant he did, he felt something inside his heart die. And all of his denial, all of his defenses, they vanished like vapor.

  The window above had been struck by a large, black, sharp piece of metal. It had clearly struck the window at high speed, so much so that the object had implanted itself in the thick, transparent material; a massive crack had even formed, although, fortunately the crack had not penetrated all the way through. Still, there was no mistaking the object for what it was…nor any question as to where it had come from.

  It was a mostly-black, metal fragment of debris that had, without a doubt, come from a starship. Almost certainly one that had exploded. By its every appearance, down to the subtlest detail, it reminded Calvin of the hull of the Nighthawk. It even had the same unique shade of not-quite-black, and there were subtle lines going longwise across the piece. No there was no longer any denying, nor any question as to what it was that had struck them…Calvin knew his ship. Knew it like a parent knew his own child. The Nighthawk had been his home, his sanctuary, his world. He knew its every detail. He could even identify which part of the hull the debris had come from…

  “No…” said Calvin weakly; feeling his legs buckle beneath him, he collapsed to his knees, feeling as though all strength within him had suddenly been sucked away. “It…it can’t be…”

  “The flash, that was Custos, striking the Nighthawk again,” said Nikolai. “Only that time, it was clearly one time too many. And, well, the rest you know. I am so sorry, my friend.” He placed a hand on Calvin’s shoulder. Probably he’d meant it to be reassuring, but there was nothing in the universe that could reassure Calvin now.

  When he left the surface of the Forbidden Planet, he had already felt empty and depressed, and believed he had lost and sacrificed far too much, practically everything. But now, as the reality sunk in that the Nighthawk was gone, destroyed, exploded into a million pieces…and all the many, many people aboard: Summers. Nimoux. Cassidy. Jay. Andre. The medical staff…the engineering staff…the shift officers…everyone…Calvin looked around, thinking, only the soldiers survived. And even then, only around half. So much waste. So much loss of life…

  “So, now what?” asked one of the soldiers.

  “Yeah, now what do we do?”

  Calvin didn’t have the answer to that question. He didn’t even feel like he had the stamina to so much as begin to attempt to figure what their next step should be. It seemed pointless. And hopeless. And, without the Nighthawk, perhaps there was no next step. Perhaps, trapped here in this pod, floating pointlessly somewhere in the Forbidden System, maybe they had already taken their final step.

  They continued to ask him questions, but Calvin did not acknowledge them. Not any of them. He couldn’t so much as look any of his subordinates in the eyes. Instead, he remained on his knees, feeling like a corpse that was only just now learning it was dead.

  “I hope it was worth it,” he whispered, thinking of all the blood, all the sacrifice, and the now the loss of the Nighthawk and all hands present…

  The worst part was, he wasn’t even sure they had actually accomplished anything meaningful during their mission on the planet’s surface. Yes, he believed they had. Or, at least, he had believed that, especially at the time. That was why he had come here and taken the risks; risks he’d known but had mostly ignored. And now here he was, a gambling debtor, finding himself on the wrong side of the table, with the wrong cards in his hands, and the wrong dice roll staring up at him. Taunting him.

  Maybe it had been worth it, he tried to console himself. Maybe what they had done down there, by exposing the Dark Prelains to the others, maybe they had saved lives, whether in the present or the future, by helping the highest echelon of Polarians achieve resolution regarding a major conflict that many of them, if not most, hadn’t even known was going on.

  Calvin did believe that what they had done down there, in the Alcazar, and in the Sacred Dome, would have positive repercussions…for the Polarian people, at least. Assuming Rez’nac had succeeded in his effort to defend the actual Prelains long enough for them to achieve safety, which, for all Calvin knew, had been a failure as well. But, if he gave Rez’nac the benefit of the doubt, and let himself believe that the Prelains, who now understood that their order had been infiltrated and corrupted, could now make meaningful changes that
would promote peace and prosperity, at least among the Polarians, who were, after all, people just as surely as the humans were, then yes, maybe it was worth it.

  Maybe then it was a good enough thing for the galaxy to justify the massive expense it had cost. Even though it had cost so many people everything, including their lives. For all he knew that applied to him too; after all, he had no way of getting back to the Empire, assuming there was an Empire to return to and it hadn’t fallen apart.

  This pod certainly wasn’t going to get them anywhere. Although it did have limited alteredspace capability, it could never dream of sustaining an alteredspace jump long enough to get them back inside Imperial space. Not from here. And, on top of that, it had neither stealth measures nor defense capabilities that could withstand attack, or help them to elude or fight their way through an intercepting patrol—which was bound to happen. Not that it mattered. Not really.

  The soldiers continued to ask questions and demand answers; they were lost with a plan, without a commander telling them what to do and when to do it. And, Calvin believed, they were afraid. Maybe some of them had already concluded what he had, that there was no way any of them could ever get home. No matter how much they might want to.

  Eventually, Nikolai spoke up, interrupting the others. He spoke loudly, as though he were in command. “Silence!” he said, shutting everyone up instantly. “The answer is, we will know what the next step is when Calvin tells us what it is. Not before. Now shut up about it.”

  Nikolai then bent down, so he could look Calvin in the eyes. Although Calvin felt too broken to engage anyone, in any way, and at first averted his eyes so he did not have to look at Nikolai directly, he eventually put himself back together enough, emotionally, that he could at least look Nikolai in the eyes and talk to him. Even though Calvin still felt shattered, from his head to his toes, as if it hadn’t been the Nighthawk that Custos had exploded into a million pieces, but rather it had been Calvin that had been destroyed. All of his hope, all of his optimism, his drive, his purpose, his very soul, everything had been somehow connected to that ship. And now it was gone forever. Being the CO of the Nighthawk, an investigator in the service of Intel Wing, that was who he was, to his core; he didn’t know how to be anything else.

  “Listen to me,” said Nikolai, his voice was neither firm nor especially gentle. “I know you are in great pain. I can see it in your eyes. But you have to get up. You have to pilot this craft. I don’t know where, but somewhere. You know we cannot stay here. And only you can get us there.”

  “And just where exactly is there?” asked Calvin.

  “I don’t know that,” said Nikolai with a shrug. “That is for you to decide. All I know is…it is somewhere other than here. And, as soon as you are ready, and you decide what we do, then we will do it. But for now, take your time. Rest. Think. Whatever you need. There is no hurry. Whether it take day or hour or year, does not matter. You will find the answer. I know you. You always do. And you always will. Even if you think you don’t want to. And yes, I can tell, you are thinking that right now—don’t try to deny it. I can see your thoughts right now. We are much that much alike. Much more than you think. That is how I know you will find a way. You cannot help it. That is simply you. That is who you are. You are a survivor. A survivor, like me. Only…not so handsome, yes?” he elbowed Calvin, no doubt an attempt to lift his spirits with a shot of humor. If so, he failed. Calvin looked back at him annoyed. “Anyway,” continued Nikolai, “I am happy to wait.”

  “Well, I’m not,” said one of the soldiers, suddenly injecting himself into the conversation. “We can’t afford to wait!”

  “Yeah, we can’t just sit around here all day waiting,” said a second soldier, backing up the first. “That’s not what we signed up for! Look at him; he’s broken! He’s given up! I say we put someone else in charge!”

  Nikolai closed his eyes for a moment, looking very frustrated, and yet somehow not the least bit angry. When he opened his eyes again, he had the irked appearance of someone who needed to go correct something—he looked perturbed but not angry. He spoke first to Calvin, using a very polite tone, “Excuse me, one moment. Just one moment.” He raised a solitary finger as he did, as if to further emphasize that he needed just one moment. Though Calvin had no clue just how long a moment was, to Nikolai.

  Then, in no kind of hurry, Nikolai climbed to his feet and approached the two soldiers who had spoken their criticism. Both had challenged Nikolai’s assertion that they, the entire group, would patiently await Calvin’s decision on what to do next, and the second of the two had gone so far as to actually question Calvin’s capability to remain in command. And, although Calvin had allowed the soldiers’ words to glance off of him, evidently Nikolai took issue with such comments.

  “You,” he said, seeming to casually point at the first of the two soldiers, both of whom were now also standing, no doubt their decision to rise to their feet and stare-down Nikolai, face to face, had been meant as some kind of symbolic gesture of rebellion. As if to say: Yes, we challenge you, what are you going to do about it?

  Calvin watched the exchange, needing to crane his head upward to properly see the exchange between the three men, since he still remained on his knees, where he had been ever since that terrible moment when despair and emptiness had broken him.

  Now, though, he watched with some measure of curiosity as the two soldiers squared off against Nikolai, seeming to dare him to say something, or do something, or to challenge them back in any way.

  Nikolai did speak, and as he did, his words came out not in an angry tone, but rather in that voice of his which seemed to somehow always come across as simultaneously calm and composed, yet also, somehow, strong and unyielding.

  “You?” asked Nikolai, pointing to the first soldier. “You have problem? Yes?”

  “You’re damned right I’ve got a problem,” said the first soldier, his face turning red as he spoke.

  “And…what is problem?” asked Nikolai, again with that same calm yet hardy tone of his.

  “What do you mean ‘what is problem’ can’t you even speak proper grammar, you big, dumb idiot?” said the soldier, raising his voice as he spoke.

  “Ah,” said Nikolai, and he nodded slowly. Demonstrating patience, but also, through both tone and body language, somehow sending the message right back that he felt completely unthreatened by the two soldiers. “I see. Yes,” he said, making eye contact once more with the first soldier, the one who had just insulted him in front of everyone.

  “Today, I let insult go,” said Nikolai. “One time,” he raised a single finger, making it clear to the soldier before him, and the rest of them, for that matter, that this was the first and only warning the man would receive.

  “Now you say you have problem. Yet you do not say what problem is,” said Nikolai. “Unless problem is you do not like my way I speak. Is that problem?” he asked, with faux sincerity.

  “Of course that’s not my problem, you big dumb ass,” said the first soldier, “My problem is—”

  He didn’t get the chance to finish his statement; by the time he’d gotten the words out that he had, he was suddenly interrupted by Nikolai’s fist, striking him forcefully across the jaw. The blow nearly knocked the man off his feet, and looked painful enough that, when it happened, there was a collective “ooh” throughout the pod.

  “Ow, God dammit!” the man said, “What the hell is wrong with you?” He was in obvious pain, and he held his jaw gently with one hand pressed against it, as though it had been relocated. And, for all Calvin knew, maybe it had.

  “Me? Nothing,” said Nikolai, speaking with that same measure of calm, as though nothing had happened at all. “I do not have problem. You. You said you have problem. So I ask you, what is problem?”

  The injured soldier took several steps backwards, retreating until he had returned to his seat, all the while clutching his jaw with one hand and wincing in pain.

  “Now you make me curious,”
said Nikolai, remaining where he stood. “You tell me is problem. I ask, what is problem. Then you do not speak. Now I must know, what is problem?”

  The injured soldier shook his head, clearly defeated; obviously all he cared about now was finding some way to cope with the pain Nikolai had given him. “Me?” he said, with some obvious difficulty.

  “Yes, you,” said Nikolai. “Tell me about problem. I listen.” Nikolai used one hand to make a cup around his ear, further driving home the fact that was ready to hear whatever the man had to say.

  “No,” he said, with some obvious difficulty. “No problem here. Everything’s…all good.” He closed his eyes, obviously fighting what, by every appearance, must have been an inordinate amount of pain from just one punch.

  As for Nikolai, he seemed none the worse for wear; obviously none of the tiny bones in his fingers had cracked, or he too would be in significant pain. Or would he? Calvin wondered. Nikolai was the type of man who gave off the impression that he could probably break every bone in his hand and still not so much as grimace.

  “Oh, okay,” said Nikolai. “So no problem. No problem at all, yes?”

  The injured soldier nodded. No doubt speaking would have only made the pain worse.

  “Ah,” said Nikolai. “Must be my mistake.” He then turned to face the second soldier who had dared to challenge him, the same man that had also called in to question Calvin’s ability to remain in command. The soldier was still standing in the same place, having not budged an inch, but, by the look of shock in his eyes, combined with an expression that could only have been fear, it was obvious to Calvin that whatever objection this man had tried to raise, he no longer cared about.

  “You,” said Nikolai, now looking directly into the eyes of the second soldier. “Maybe it was you who had problem.”