The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7)

by Richard Sanders

  He once more entertained the idea of forcing his way onto the Hunter ship, thinking, perhaps, it could survive long enough for Calvin and his men to commandeer it and then jump the system before Custos had entirely pulverized it. And yet, somehow, Calvin knew it was such an impossibility that he could not so much as make himself even believe that that plan could work, much less achieve it.

  And his soldiers agreed with him. Yes, many were angry, all seemed upset, but none were racing to try and burst through the Hunter ship’s hatch. No, this is the end. Custos had both the pod and the Hunter ship surrounded. And, while the Hunter ship’s stealth technology was certainly impressive, Calvin knew for a fact that it couldn’t take many strikes from Custos, if any. The Nighthawk at least had shields meant for combat, and even it had been destroyed. The Hunter ship, for all he knew, had no shields at all. It didn’t need them.

  Calvin decided to do like Nikolai and find a vacant spot on the floor and close his eyes. Trying to find some way to be calm about what was happening. Or rather…what he knew was coming. He felt a shiver shoot through him. And he was quivering slightly. He took deep breaths to calm himself further, then tried to take comfort in the knowledge that he had done his best to get the pod to the Hunter ship and use it as a solution to save all of his men and himself. But, truthfully, the moment Custos reappeared, some small part of him had known, even then, that it was all over. Continuing with the plan, docking, trying to capture the Hunter ship and flee somehow before Custos overtook them…they never had a chance. Those actions had merely been dance steps, nothing more. And now the dance was over.

  He thought of something his mother had said to him once when, as a child, he’d lost a game—he couldn’t remember what—all he remembered was how upset he felt over losing because he’d been so sure that he had not made any mistakes. That was when his mother told him what had proven to be a profound truth that he’d witnessed all over the galaxy, including within his own life. “Son, it’s possible to do all the right things, and make no mistakes, and still lose. Life can be like that sometimes. You can’t always control what happens.”

  He’d told her she was wrong then, probably very rudely; he hadn’t been very old at the time. And now he was here, feeling much the same way, as though he had tried to do everything right, to make no mistakes, to do the best he could with whatever he had, and yet the summation of all of that had resulted in him being here…surrounded by some kind of energy-vortex entity that would destroy them at any second. He didn’t know what Custos was waiting for, perhaps for them to attempt to flee once more, or perhaps feeding somehow on all their anxiety as they waited, uncertain whether they had seconds or minutes left to live.

  One thing was certain, Custos had proven to be as powerful and terrifying as Rez’nac had described it. Calvin could still hear Rez’nac’s voice as he recalled the words: “Custos is a vengeful Essence.”

  Vengeful, yes, thought Calvin, though he believed the word cruel described it even better.

  Calvin took a deep breath, tuned out the yelling and panicking of the others, and simply closed his eyes. Yes, he was afraid. No, he did not want to die. Despite everything that had happened and everything he had lost, he still wanted to go on living. But, if this was the end, and surely it was, he decided he would accept it as peacefully as he could. There was no way to fight it. No means by which to resist. There was only the compelling weight of inevitability.

  Calvin remained silent, eyes closed, waiting, certain that the thing, whatever it truly was—Polarian god, or artificial construct, or something else unknown and not yet explained—would destroy them soon; no doubt it was growing tired of hovering around them, inflicting terror upon them before delivering them to death.

  More seconds ticked by, but it felt like an eternity of waiting as he remained silent, trying to feel peaceful, yet feeling his heart racing. Nothing can change the inevitable, he told himself, in an effort to feel a little bit better.

  Calvin’s only hope now was that, as soon as the darkness took him, that it would not truly be the end of his existence. That death was not the total cessation of all ability to ever experience anything again. It probably was, unfortunately. Nothing else seemed to make any sense—not that life and sentience had ever made much sense to him either. And so, by all measures of probability that he knew, because of the absence of believing in any suggested hypothesis, he expected that death probably was the end. And his mortal brain just simply grasped the concept of the universe continuing to exist without him. But he knew also that he would be lying to himself if he felt certain of anything when it came to death.

  I realize now that I do not know the answer, he thought, still waiting, as Custos seemed to enjoy having them in its clutches, able to destroy them all within a millisecond, and yet holding back for some reason…as if to give them false hope only to steal it away in flash of its god-like wrath.

  Maybe there is something more to life and death, Calvin continued pondering. Of course, maybe not. I suppose either I’m about to find out if there is or, if there isn’t, then I will never know it.

  Noises distracted him. It sounded a bit like a cheer. And someone yelling, “That’s right, you chicken shit, you’d best be running!”

  Calvin woke from his thoughts and opened his eyes, only to see blackness and stars out the windows…no sign of Custos. He stood up and only then could he see the energy-vortex; it had apparently chosen to leave them alone and go on its way. Now it was so distant it seemed barely more than a blinking flash of yellow, just larger than a star. Then it seemed gone completely.

  Okay…thought Calvin. That made no kind of sense. Certainly Custos had not shown such mercy—or possibly disinterest—in the Nighthawk. No it had hunted the stealth frigate, chasing it wherever I went, striking at it repeatedly, until it was no more.

  So why treat them any differently? And then Calvin’s eyes fell upon their captive, who sat in one of the seats, completely expressionless, staring at nothing in particular, but still somehow his eyes appeared to be extremely fixated.

  You, thought Calvin, You’re the reason Custos did not destroy us, aren’t you? It had to be that; nothing else made any sense.

  While his men continued to react: “It spared us!”; “It was God’s will!”; “Divine intervention.”; “Hell, I don’t even believe in God, but…thank you, God.”; “Do you think it’s coming back?”; “If it wanted us dead, we would be dead already.”; And so on. Calvin approached the captive, having to push two of the soldiers gently aside to get close to him.

  “You,” said Calvin, kneeling so he could meet the captive’s gaze. “You know the answer, don’t you?”

  The captive looked at him, his facial expression remained blank, as if deliberately refusing to betray any of his thoughts.

  Calvin asked again. Same reaction. Calvin changed the form of his question. Same reaction. Calvin then asked a series of different questions, but the captive refused to so much as utter one word.

  Calvin had never been a professional interrogator, but he had gone through some training as part of his enlistment in Intel Wing. One thing he did remember was, when dealing with a non-cooperative, the best tactic was not the one most everybody initially jumped to. And that was to make threats of consequences, usually violent threats, or else committing actual violence, as methods of changing the non-cooperative into a cooperative.

  Things such as smashing fingers with a hammer, removing—or threatening to remove—appendages, one by one, applying electrical torture, keeping the non-cooperative in solitary confinement for an extended amount of time, waterboarding, and so on, none of it had proven to be an effective way of getting good intelligence. It usually worked at getting you information, but, more often than not, that information was either made up on the spot—because the non-cooperative is afraid of the threats you are making so they say whatever pops into their heads to avoid the consequences of your threats—or else the information is true, but outdated. The tactic just wasn’t ver
y good. It was medieval, it was simple, it seemed like it should work, but somehow it just proved, time and again, to produce bad information.

  So Calvin went with another approach, the one he’d been taught. And that was to try to connect with the non-cooperative and form some kind of bond, some kind of trust relationship.

  The captive knows he is a captive; he knows he is powerless to get things he wants, or to protect or provide for loved ones elsewhere in the galaxy. Often, if the Intelligence Specialist developed some kind of rapport with the prisoner, enough that the Specialist could promise to deliver on something for the prisoner that the prisoner valued, such as making sure his kids got into school, or paying the rent for his wife’s house, or helping to evacuate his family from a dangerous area, or even something as simple as bringing the prisoner better food and providing him with more luxuries.

  Train them to think you are their friend, the only one they have in here—locked away—or, if not their friend, the person they can trust the most. Then, and only then, will they start to let the information they have slip out. Good interrogation was not about compulsion or force; it was more like…a quid-pro quo relationship. At least, that was what Calvin remembered from Intel Wing training. So he chose to try to engage the prisoner some other way.

  “You must be pretty bored sitting here, waiting, not sure what will happen next,” said Calvin, in a friendly tone. “Well, I’m pretty bored too. So, how about we play a game?”

  The captive’s face remained expressionless except for his eyes, his eyes looked at Calvin like he was crazy. Calvin did not react.

  “How about I guess why Custos left us alone, and you tell me if I am right or wrong. If I never get it right, you win. But if I do, then you have to tell me, so I know I won. Sound fair?”

  The captive still looked at him like he was crazy. But Calvin persisted, wishing then that he had actual interrogation experience and not just some one-day lecture on theories and methods.

  “Okay, my first guess,” said Calvin. “Custos left us alone because of you. Because it detected you onboard somehow and did not want to destroy you; therefore, it determined it could not destroy this pod. Am I correct?”

  The captive refused to cooperate.

  “I’m right,” said Calvin, in a light-hearted tone. “Come on, just admit it. I won the game.”

  Irritation appeared in the prisoner’s eyes but, to Calvin’s surprise, the captive actually spoke something. It wasn’t much, just one word. “No.”

  Well that just proves he will talk if you engage him the right way, thought Calvin, then he thought that coming up with the right way, whatever it was, would likely prove difficult.

  “All right then, my second guess,” said Calvin. “Hmm…Custos left us alone because there was something more urgent that it had to do.”

  “Also no,” said the captive.

  Ah, that time I got a two-word response, thought Calvin. Progress.

  “Very well, time for my third guess. Custos spared our lives and did not destroy us because Custos was unable to destroy us.”

  The look in the captive’s eyes changed. He still appeared defensive, but not so obviously annoyed. He seemed to think for a moment before giving his reply to what Calvin had expected to be a simple yes or no question.

  “Explain what you mean,” said the captive.

  Calvin was delighted. Not only was he getting the captive to vocalize things to him, he also may have stumbled upon something of value. Calvin thought for a moment. I said, “Custos was unable to destroy us,” and he replied with, “What do you mean?” that implies that, in some way, for some reason, by some definition, Custos was unable to destroy us. Calvin then thought through various possible explanations for how Custos might be unable to destroy them, since the captive had essentially communicated that Calvin was on the right track, but needed to be more specific.

  “What I meant was,” said Calvin, “Custos did not have the physical power to eliminate these two ships. Perhaps because it had already used up so much of its energy destroying another ship today.” It took a lot of discipline to finish that sentence in a friendly tone and not have his emotions come out regarding the destruction of the Nighthawk.

  “No,” said the captive. “And since you are obviously going to keep guessing, and that annoys me, if I tell you what the true reason was, do you promise to end this inane and childish game you have subjected me to?”

  “Of course,” said Calvin, feeling a massive sense of accomplishment pour through him that he had been so successful at engaging the captive, and had gotten such a long response out of him—not to mention he offered to volunteer the information Calvin was asking for. That didn’t mean the information he was about to give was certainly true, but the fact that it was coming voluntarily did make it more credible, in Calvin’s view, than if it had been forced. “I’d also like to know your name, mine is Calvin.”

  “Very well. The reason that Custos refused to destroy this pod and the ship it is attached to is because, to its simple comprehension, the instant you sealed the pod to the ship, the two vessels became one. Rather, this pod had become an extension of that ship. Custos knows not to interfere with that ship. And so, even though Custos knew that something was here that did not belong—namely all of you and this pod—something that Custos was supposed to cleanse, it obviously realized that, even though it has instructions to cleanse anything like you that wanders into the system, it is also subject to a higher set of instructions, one of which is for it to not interfere with that ship. So, when Custos arrived, it had to go through its hierarchy of commands, and then, upon realizing that the one missive outranked the other, Custos left, no doubt returning to its regular patrol. As for my name, not that it matters, but I am Ozumire.”

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ozumire,” said Calvin. “Now, when you say cleanse is that any different than the word I would use, destroy?” asked Calvin.

  “Custos cleanses something by capturing it, breaking it into pieces, then breaking those pieces into yet smaller pieces, and so on, until the unrighteous or unworthy thing essentially no longer exists. Of course, when something like a starship is destroyed, some pieces escape after the explosion, but, of the pieces that Custos contains, or finds, they are reduced smaller and smaller and smaller.”

  “Very interesting,” said Calvin, still maintaining the tone and façade of someone who was as friendly as possible. “You speak of cleansing, and worthiness, and righteousness, and so on; it almost sounds like this place has a kind of spiritual or religious significance to you. That this system, along with The Forbidden Planet, are not exclusively sacred places for the, uh, more traditional Polarian religion.”

  “You mean the False Ways?” asked the Ozumire.

  “I’m not familiar with that—”

  Calvin was interrupted by the shout of an impatient soldier behind him. “Hey! Are we going to board and take over this ship or aren’t we?”

  Calvin whirled around and pointed at the man in question, he was one of the Rosco soldiers; Calvin did not know his name. “You, you be silent!” said Calvin in an authoritative tone. “Yes, we’re going to board the damn ship, but not until I’m good and ready to do so. Is that clear?”

  The man said nothing, just rolled his eyes. That was when Nikolai stepped over next to him.

  “Answer question,” said Nikolai, while cracking his knuckles.

  “Or what?” asked the soldier. “You’ll punch me in the face?” he smirked. “You know you can’t just control everybody that way.”

  Nikolai’s response was to throw a hard punch at the soldier, aimed for the face, just like the soldier had predicted. But, what Nikolai had not expected, was that the soldier, anticipating this move from Nikolai, managed to deflect the punch. Then, using his other hand, send a jab of his own, right into Nikolai’s nose. Causing it to bleed.

  “I’m not afraid of you; you’re just a bully,” said the soldier. “That and I’ve been practicing martial arts
since I was eleven years old so…by all means…come at me. Otherwise shut your big, dumb ass up and stop telling people what to do.”

  “You make very big mistake,” said Nikolai, who raised both of his fists and attacked the soldier, much like a boxer might, swinging and swinging, powerful blows. The soldier was roughly Nikolai’s same height, but much thinner and lighter; true to his word, he did appear to have sufficient martial training that he either dodged or deflected every punch Nikolai sent his way, throwing in a jab of his own, here and there, to show Nikolai that he had a sting of his own, and he was not to be messed with.

  “You move fast,” said Nikolai, after backing off a step or two.

  “No, you just move too slow.”

  “Slow? Me? Not so!” said Nikolai furiously.

  “Men, both of you, listen up,” said Calvin, now standing to face them. “Stop acting like children. This ends now, that’s an order!”

  “An order?” the soldier looked at Calvin, as though he had not the slightest respect for him. Calvin made a mental note to get the soldier’s name, so he could share details of this incident with Grady Rosco, once they got back. Calvin highly doubted that this particular soldier, or any who had come along, had been too closely related to the immediate Rosco Family. But still, the Roscos took their reputation very seriously and when they lend out the use of their soldiers, there are certain expectations regarding their conduct. Calvin was certain that Grady would find it very interesting to learn of this one’s conduct.

  “Yes,” said Nikolai. “Order. He is commander. You are piece of shit. You follow order from commander!”

  “So, what are you then, his toady?” asked the soldier.

  “What you mean? Toady?”

  “It means that you’re his pathetic, crying, groveling, sycophantic yes-man who does his dirty work for him,” said the soldier.