The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7)

by Richard Sanders

  The 2O smirked, clearly thinking he had total control of the situation. “Well, look at the balls on you,” he said, waving his handgun casually in Adiger’s direction. The gesture was supposed to be menacing, Adiger thought, but to him it just came across as sloppy and further evidence that the 2O didn’t know much about small arms. All the better, thought Adiger.

  “Now would be a good time to do as I asked and surrender,” said Adiger, no trace of fear in his voice.

  “Or what, Captain?” asked the 2O. “You’ll have me executed as a traitor months and months from now, after a long, drawn out general court martial proceeding?”

  “No,” said Adiger calmly. “I’ll do it right now.” With that, Adiger drew his handgun, about as fast as anyone could have, pointed it at the 2O’s head, and then squeezed the trigger.

  The entire thing happened so quickly that the 2O had not been able to work through his confusion fast enough to realize he was in danger and then fire his own weapon. Instead, he looked stupefied for a split second and then, well, he became considerably uglier…

  “Ensign,” said Adiger, looking to the helmsman as if nothing had happened. “Please input the coordinates that Sir Doran gave us and get us there with all haste.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said the helmsman as he got to task.

  Most of the rest of the bridge crew stared at Adiger and the slain 2O, whose body lay on the ground in a crumpled heap not far away. Whenever Adiger looked their way, they hurriedly averted their eyes, turning back toward their stations, but, just as soon as Adiger was no longer looking, they were gawking at Mr. Anderson’s body again.

  Honestly, thought Adiger. It was as if the men and women of his bridge crew had never seen a dead body before.

  Adiger tapped the line connecting him to the Marine Commander at military HQ several decks below. “Colonel Westbrook, I need you to send a man or two up to the bridge to take care of a problem for me,” said Adiger.

  “What’s the problem?” asked the colonel.

  “There is a corpse here and I need it removed as soon as possible.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Calvin had no idea why Custos, the strange energy-vortex, had left the pod alone after destroying the Nighthawk. Perhaps, somehow, it didn’t see the pod. Or perhaps it needed to go investigate something or harass someone else. For all Calvin knew, the reason Custos blinked in and out of existence for movement, as if teleporting short distances, might have required it to disappear to recharge or something. Calvin had no clue whatsoever. And he accepted the fact that he would probably never know the answer.

  There were only three things about Custos that mattered to Calvin at that very moment. First, that it had destroyed his beloved starship. Second, that it had slaughtered nearly everyone Calvin knew and cared about. And third—and most urgently—the damned thing had returned, and was in fast pursuit of them.

  “Come on, come on,” said Calvin, as he made another attempt to disengage the remaining safety protocols, so that he could open up the thrust even more; he planned to push the pod well beyond its natural limits, and he didn’t care if that resulted in permanent damage to the mechanical innards that made the pod go; all he needed was for it to accelerate to its maximum speed and then drifting through space would do the rest—provided he remained on target. Which he wasn’t worried about in the slightest.

  “It’s gaining on us,” said First Lieutenant Ferreiro.

  “Yeah, I don’t really need to know that right now,” said Calvin, as he lay on the floor with a panel open, making physical adjustments to the electronic chips and connectors. “There,” he said, getting back to his feet. “That should do the trick.” He took back the flight controls from Nikolai—whose only duty was to make certain the craft remained on a direct course which, in space, was usually a foregone conclusion. Once Calvin was back at the controls, he punched it, sending a command to the thrusters to burn as hot as they possibly could. And, even though there was no way to experience the significantly increased acceleration, the readout plainly showed him that the thrusters were burning dangerously hot, well beyond common safety protocols.

  Well, no shit, Computer, he thought. I just spent the better part of a minute intentionally overriding all the safety protocols.

  An alarm sounded, along with a mechanized feminine voice that sounded almost perfectly human. “Warning, this craft is not functioning within expected parameters. All safety protocols have been disengaged. Warning, this craft is not functioning within expected parameters. All safety protocols have been disengaged…” the voice continued to repeat.

  “So, we are moving fast now, yes?” asked Nikolai.

  Calvin nodded. “I’ve got her going as fast as she possibly can now. The thrusters and some other mechanical systems might become severely and permanently damaged but, so long as we can accelerate to the fastest possible speed, we won’t need the thrusters anymore, obviously.”

  “Work is good, Calvin,” said Nikolai, slapping him on the back, a bit too hard. “Now we escape cloud.”

  It took Calvin a second to realize what Nikolai meant, but then, when he considered it, Custos did somewhat resemble a chaotic, swirling, sparking cloud.

  “Now if only you could figure out a way to get this bitch to shut up,” said one of the soldiers, pointing up at one of the pod’s speakers.

  “Warning, this craft is not functioning within expected parameters. All safety protocols have been disengaged. Warning …” Calvin agreed that it was annoying, but he didn’t know any proper way to make it stop. He had even looked at all the controls for both the Ops terminal and the flight controls, but there was no way to switch off the audible warning system. Or, if there was, he couldn’t figure it out.

  The pod reached ninety-nine point six percent of its potential sublight acceleration before the thrusters failed, along with any other equipment that was adjacent to the propulsion system. Calvin was no engineer; he’d been lucky that he had figured out how to disable the safety protocols in the first place, that would allow them to reach their target destination that much quicker, buying them a few more seconds before Custos could overtake them.

  It was difficult to track Custos. The sensors were unable to send any kind of useful logic about it to the readout displays, and, as for the tiny 3D display, it did attempt to create an object but, Calvin suspected, since Custos was not only blinking in and out of existence, every spark of energy that composed the thing was constantly shifting around, and nothing about it, other than its general size and color, seemed to remain constant.

  Because the sensors were useless at tracking Custos, they had to rely entirely on what they could see out the window. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any way to see very well behind them. In space, the stern of the pod was also where the designers had had jammed the thrusters and probably the mechanics for every other system as well. Every few seconds or so, Custos would reappear just enough to their port or their starboard side—there did not seem to be any consistency—and that would allow them to get a sense of just how quickly the energy-vortex was overtaking them.

  Calvin hoped, as they were now closing in on their target, that nothing would go wrong with the plan he had made, even though three or four things immediately jumped to mind. And none of them were unlikely. Still, this was their best shot at getting back home ever again and, should they fail, at least they would die quickly. The others had pointed that out and mostly seemed comforted by that fact; Calvin tried to feel the same way but couldn’t. Death was terrifying, whether it took you quickly or slowly, in the end, you were still dead.

  Calvin justified the many risks involved with his scheme on the basis that this was the best option among a selection of bad options; on a platter of foul, rotted food, the one he’d chosen for himself, and the rest of them, risky as it was, and mad as it seemed, it was nonetheless the most palatable of the choices available.

  The way he’d looked at it, they could remain in space in the pod, and then be destroyed by Custos
or eventually run out of air, either was certain death. Or, they could return to the Forbidden Planet, attempt to set up some kind of life there, and hope the Polarians never noticed them; or, maddest of all, they could do this.

  “Closing fast on target,” said Calvin.

  “So is Custos,” replied one of the soldiers. Calvin felt a bit like a cat, chasing a mouse, while being chased by a dog. And even that analogy got the order wrong. It was more like being a mouse, charging at a cat—on purpose—meanwhile being chased by a dog.

  “You there,” he said, turning his head over his shoulder to face their captive. “How many strikes from Custos do you suppose this pod can withstand before it is destroyed?”

  The captive looked at him, showing no emotion whatsoever, and kept silent.

  Nikolai approached the captive and said, “Answer question!” said Nikolai, raising his right arm and forming a fist, as if threatening to beat the knowledge out of him.

  “I’m not intimidated by physical threats,” said the captive. “But, if you must know, this vessel will not be able to withstand even one strike from Custos. So, if you allow it to catch up, then all of us will certainly be killed.”

  “Well that’s…reassuring,” said Calvin. Then, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear, “Everyone remember the plan?”

  “Yes,” they replied.

  “And everyone remember their number?” asked Calvin. The numbers put them into an order that translated to who went through the hatch when, since only one person could fit at a time. And the last thing Calvin needed was a mad scramble with everyone mobbing the hatch at the same time and ultimately boxing everyone out.

  No, it was imperative that they got through the hatch as quickly as possible, both because of the threat of Custos overtaking them, but also so that their full strength would be united as quickly as possible outside the pod.

  Technically they could not be sure what they would be up against, though Calvin suspected Rotham soldiers the most. After all, the Hunter ship—which they were about to attempt to board and capture—was of Rotham origin. Then again, they were in Polarian space, so it might be Polarians aboard the ship, or, for that matter Dark Ones, or something else as yet undiscovered. All he knew was that they needed that ship, desperately, and, although it was small, it would feel positively roomy compared to this pod. Not to mention its small size meant fewer soldiers aboard to resist them, and therefore a better chance of success. At least, these were the thoughts he used to comfort himself to stave off the fears that Custos would catch them, or the Hunter ship would detect them and fire on them, or else move and disappear completely, or a plethora of other things that might go wrong.

  No, he told himself. This is going to work. It has to. After all it has taken from me, the Universe owes me this one!

  The target was now within visual range, which meant Calvin had to be extremely careful. He did not want to slow the pod prematurely, that might allow Custos to have the precious little time it needed to overtake them. However, if he fired the braking thrusters even a fraction of a second too late, then the pod and the Hunter ship would collide and Calvin, and all of his men, would become permanent fixtures in the Hunter ship’s hull. Assuming it survived…

  Because of the precision required, Calvin used the instruments to guide him, rather than simply trying to eyeball it and guess. The instant the flashing light came on, Calvin fired all braking thrusters, slowing the pod to a speed at which it could successfully dock, while also placing them within a meter of the Hunter ship itself. His target had been two meters, so that had nearly proven disastrous. Luckily, nobody knew about it but him. And he was going to keep it that way.

  He gently maneuvered the pod until its hatch was lined up with the Hunter ship’s starboard hatch, he then pressed the pod against it, nice and slow, then, once the computer confirmed they were correctly positioned, he activated the seal, which clamped the pod to the side of the Hunter ship. Perfectly executed, he thought. Feeling proud that he “still had it,” as far as piloting skill was concerned.

  He moved, grabbing his minimal gear and his carbine rifle. “Now remember,” he said, as he did this, “Once aboard, lethal force is authorized against any enemy combatants. But try to take the unarmed crew alive, if possible. Is that clear?”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” the men chanted.

  “All right, I’m going to try to unseal their hatch from the outside first,” said Calvin. “If and only if that fails,” which he knew it probably would, “We will use a small amount of explosive to blow the lock. We do not want to blow a hole in the whole damn ship. Is that understood?”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “All right then,” he nodded. “Let’s move.”

  Calvin had elected to be the first through the hatch, mostly because he knew the first through would be going through blind, and therefore was in the greatest danger. He chose himself, not because he preferred to subject himself to danger, but rather because he didn’t want yet another person’s death weighing upon his conscience. The survivor’s guilt he already felt for all the many people who had put their lives on the line, in many case losing them, in order to keep him safe, was a much longer list than it ever should have been. Therefore, from now on, he wasn’t going to put anyone else at risk when it was a task he himself could do.

  After him would follow Nikolai, and then more soldiers, until, second to last through would be their captive, and finally the soldier responsible for guarding him—originally Calvin had assigned two soldiers to watch him but, since they were likely headed into a combat zone, and watching a prisoner severely limited one’s ability to fight, Calvin had made the judgment that only one guard was necessary. In total, they were a group of twelve: one Intel Wing officer, one captured Dark One, and ten soldiers, all of whom, except for First Lieutenant Ferreiro, had joined up at Aleator.

  Calvin doubted these men had been trained in capturing starships, the way Pellew and the Special Forces unit had been, but with any luck, the tactics of it would come naturally. After all, he did have some confidence in these men; they had survived multiple firefights in the Alcazar.

  Then their luck appeared to run out. Just as Calvin began to approach the hatch, to test it, the windows became completely filled with sparking and swirling flares of yellow energy. Custos was large enough that, Calvin had no doubt, it wasn’t just covering the pod, it had swallowed the Hunter ship as well. So, even if they did manage to get aboard the Hunter ship and defeat whatever defenders it had, it was too late. Unsealing the hatch, whether manually or by strategic explosion, would take time, as would getting everybody through the hatch and onto the Hunter ship. As much as the survival instinct within Calvin wanted him to keep going, and to try that very thing anyway, he knew it would never work. They were within the bosom of Custos now; all that was left for them was to wait for certain imminent destruction.

  The others reacted in much the same way. Rather than trying to hurry on and get the hatch open in some kind of panicked flurry, most of them appeared resigned to their fate. There was a clatter as half or so of the soldiers dropped their rifles to the ground, along with their gear.

  Calvin took one of his final moments to stare out the window and look closely at the part of Custos that he could see. Even his eyes and brain could scarcely make any more sense of it than the ship’s sensors, and yet, for as much as he loathed it, for as much as he could never forgive it for what it had done, and what it was about to do, even he had to admit that it had a strange, almost mesmerizing beauty to it. All the bright, swirling energy, the sparks seeming to jump about, what was such a thing? And where did it come from? And, most curiously of all, was it, in fact, intelligent? Was he observing some kind of new, as of yet undiscovered alien lifeform, or had Custos been somehow created by the Polarians, or whomever, to hunt and murder space voyagers?

  “We’re dead,” someone screeched. “We’re all dead!”

  Calvin was afraid that the man was right, as much as he wished it was
not so. By now, every additional second was like some kind of gift and everything could, and would, end, at any moment. It was a terrifying prospect. An almost unacceptable reality. And everyone seemed to react to it differently.

  Two of the soldiers, who must have been religious in some form or another, knelt and prayed to their deity, out loud, pleading and begging for mercy, but said that, if this was the creator’s will, then they would accept it. Others shouted. One man even appeared to cry. The rest remained silent, some seemed resigned, others clenched their teeth and fists, angry, but with nothing to say nor anyone to say it to.

  Nikolai took Calvin’s hand and shook it. “My pleasure and honor two serve with you one more time.”

  “The honor was all mine,” Calvin replied automatically.

  “Thank you,” said Nikolai, letting go of Calvin’s hand. He then found some lonely spot in the semi-crowded pod and sat down and closed his eyes…clearly waiting for the end.

  As for Calvin, he wasn’t quite sure how to react—at first.

  Initially, anger and despair came at him in waves; he hated Custos, hated it for everything it had done, and hated it for relentlessly hunting them all down—now on the verge of killing them with a single blast of energy. Then, the reality of his entrapment set in, and Calvin felt the despair overcome him. He had looked the Reaper of Souls in the face before, on several occasions, and placed dice with him. And every single time, Calvin had managed to pull through the victor. Until now. This time, there was nothing he could do. And now the Reaper and he were not merely gazing into one another’s eyes; this time the Reaper and he were shaking hands, as though a deal had been struck. Calvin thought of an old-fashioned ticking clock, then imagined that each tick represented one day…who could have guessed that his clock would stop so soon? Before he had even seen the age of thirty years old…