The Phoenix Rising

by Richard L. Sanders

  “Any sign of the Nighthawk?” asked Nimoux.

  “Negative sir. If the Nighthawk is here, we’d be able to see it with our advanced scanner. But we’re not picking up any ships that match its signature, or any sign that a ship is stealthed anywhere in the system.”

  “So they’ve already left then...” he rubbed his hands thoughtfully. Word had reached them that Calvin and members of the Nighthawk’s crew—along with a few unknown persons—had been positively identified on both the main station orbiting Tybur and on Tybur itself. They’d chosen to use fake identities that were flagged by Intel Wing and that had given them away. The core collectors on the Waeju Canton had sent out the encrypted alert. It had been brief out of necessity and so the question remained what Calvin and the Nighthawk had been doing here, and where they’d gone.

  “Can we positively identify any of the alteredspace jump signatures as belonging to the Nighthawk?” asked Nimoux.

  “No, sir. This system is so heavily trafficked, and the Nighthawk’s mass is so similar to so many other ships, it would be total guess work,” replied his ops officer.

  Nimoux hoped they wouldn’t be forced to crunch the probabilities again and make another educated guess at where Calvin went. They’d never catch him at that rate. No, this time they had to do better.

  “Very well, then,” said Nimoux. “Contact the safehouse on Waeju Canton.”

  “Aye sir,” replied the ship’s pilot. It took him a minute to configure the appropriately secure and discrete channels that allowed their signal to piggyback off normal communications without being noticed by Tybur’s tight security.

  It took several minutes before a reply came—as expected.

  “This is Mi-Cha,” a voice came over the speaker.

  “Core collector Mi-Cha, this is Captain Nimoux. You are ordered to relay all intelligence gathered on the following subjects.” He then told his ops officer to transfer the pictures and names of Calvin and what appeared to be a shore party that had landed on Tybur for whatever reason.

  “Message sent,” confirmed the pilot.

  Again they waited. When an appropriate communications window opened up again, Mi-Cha replied. “The subjects visited the Enclave. A bribed listener told us that they are interested in something on Remus Nine. And are going there now.”

  There it was. Calvin’s destination. And what an unusual place to be going… With any luck they could beat him there. Nimoux was about to order the channel cut and an immediate departure when another communique from Mi-Cha arrived.

  “The subjects were also involved in a violent firefight with Khan soldiers and a member of the Enclave—all of whom were killed. At least one of the subjects was also killed. His corpse was found in the garbage chute on its way to incineration. PFC Robert Clarke. That is all.”

  The Khans? Of course Nimoux knew about them, they were one of the most dirty-handed, pervasive, ubiquitous criminal outfits in the galaxy. But what business would Calvin have with them? Had he picked the fight? Or had it been bad luck that he’d crossed paths with them? Nimoux wasn’t sure what to make of this news—except to infer that Calvin’s hands were even dirtier than he’d thought.

  “Cut the line. Then set a pursuit course and calculate jump.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lieutenant, once we’re clear of Tybur’s listening outposts I want you to send the following message to the rest of the task force.”

  “Aye, sir. Go ahead.”

  “To all ships, converge on Remus Nine. Coordinates will be provided. We will enter the system in containment pattern bravo two. More instructions to follow. That is all.”

  His pilot nodded. “The message will transmit as soon as we’re in alteredspace. We’ll be clear to jump in fifteen seconds.”

  “Very good, Lieutenant. Jump as soon as you’re able. Eighty-five percent potential for now and, as soon as we’re clear of the DMZ, accelerate to one-hundred percent.”

  We’re not far behind.

  ***

  The two soldiers responsible for disrupting the Polarians’ religious service turned out to be Specialist Alldroit and Staff Sergeant Patterson. Calvin recognized their faces from seeing them around the ship but didn’t know either man personally. He remained quiet as he observed Pellew’s discipline.

  “... and this kind of conduct is not acceptable from his majesty’s special forces, is that clear?” Pellew ranted. The two men stood very rigid, faces blank, as Pellew lectured each of them, leaning in very close to their faces.

  “But, sir,” said Specialist Alldroit.

  “You’d better have a damned good reason for interrupting me, specialist.”

  “It’s just... are we even really his majesty’s special forces anymore? I mean—working alongside aliens. Hunted like dogs by our own people—”

  “You had the chance to leave and you chose to stay,” snapped Pellew. “Is that not correct?”

  “Aye, I did, sir. But that was before I knew we were bringing aliens aboard ship.”

  “If you choose to serve in this detachment you choose to accept all orders, and all inconveniences, that come with them, you do not have the right to pick and choose them as they come. Is that clear, specialist?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “And you, Staff Sergeant. I am especially disappointed in you.”

  Calvin folded his arms, continuing to watch from several feet away. The way these two men held themselves so still and attentive, hanging on Pellew’s every word and movement, it was like Calvin wasn’t there at all.

  “Sir, with respect,” said the staff sergeant. “Did you not yourself lead a mutiny against Major Jenkins—”

  “That was for the good of the ship and the mission,” Pellew cut him off.

  “Specialist Alldroit and I were acting for the good—”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it,” Pellew glared at the staff sergeant with narrow eyes. “You and Alldroit were being intentionally disruptive. You wanted to provoke a fight. You’re lucky the Polarians didn’t rip you apart limb for limb... they could have, you know. Easily. You would have deserved it too.”

  Both men did a good job of hiding their emotions. Their years of training had drained them of the instinct to break down in the face of such intense scrutiny and criticism.

  “You are both relieved of duty and confined to the barracks until further notice. You will have no contact with any of the Polarians, ever, from now on. Is that clear?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Anything you want to add, Captain?” Pellew turned to Calvin.

  Calvin maintained his frown as he looked each of the disruptive soldiers in the eyes and showed his dismay. “No.”

  Pellew nodded. “Dismissed.”

  The two men filed out and the door closed behind them.

  “I wish there was a way to make more of an example out of them,” said Calvin.

  “That seems rather vindictive coming from you.”

  “I just don’t want any future incidents,” said Calvin. “There is no good reason whatsoever that humans and Polarians can’t co-exist peacefully.”

  “You’re right. But I can’t punish these men any further, that would only anger them—and those who sympathize with them—even more.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Calvin. But he still was upset that any of this had ever happened, especially because he had given the Polarians explicit permission to use the observation deck for their cultural rituals. “Maybe you should have the men apologize to the Polarians in person.”

  “I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” said Pellew. “I think seeing their faces will only provoke the Polarians and invite reprisals, and any apology would seem forced and insincere. At best an empty gesture.”

  “In that case, I will go see Rez’nac myself and apologize. And, Pellew, this had better not happen again.”

  “It won’t.”

  ***

  Rez’nac proved more than understanding. He showed m
ore tolerance and forgiveness than Calvin would have, had their positions been reversed.

  “They are young and strangers to our ways,” said Rez’nac. “I accept your apology and your promise that it will not happen again. Now I must go and re-perform the rite.”

  That was the extent of their conversation. Calvin doubted the younger Polarians were as understanding and magnanimous as Rez’nac, but so long as Rez’nac was their leader, Calvin believed there would not be retribution. The problem was over.

  Calvin went to his office. And waited.

  It had been nearly twenty-four hours since his last contact with Rafael. His next communique was due any minute. Calvin had locked the door as a precaution so no one would interrupt him and discover who his intelligence source was. There wasn’t much he could do to protect Rafael if Intel Wing were on to him, but he’d do everything he could. That meant keeping Rafael’s identity a secret from the mole on Calvin’s ship—whoever it was.

  The time came. But no transmission was sent to the Nighthawk. No one connected to Calvin via secure channels. He double checked his console and terminal, making sure it was in good working order—it was.

  Perhaps Rafael was indisposed. Perhaps it wasn’t safe for him to transmit. Very well, I’ll wait.

  Calvin took a deep breath and tried to relax. He emptied his mind and tried to find solace in the vacant silence. His chair creaked as he leaned back and listened to the slight hum of air blowing through the vents.

  Minutes passed. The waiting drove him crazy. After fifteen minutes of trying to relax he resumed planning his away mission to Remus Nine. He wanted to bring an adequate force with him but knew that transport off the orbital station down to the planet would be limited. And if he brought any Polarians, they weighed more and that was a necessary consideration.

  Hours went by. Calvin finalized most of the details of the operation and sent orders electronically to Pellew and other relevant department heads. Still no word from Rafael. By now he was incredibly overdue. Calvin double-checked to see if he’d somehow missed the call. He hadn’t.

  Calvin feared the worst. There were dozens of explanations for why Rafael had failed to make contact that didn’t involve him being discovered by Intel Wing—but Rafael had never been late making contact before... and last time they’d spoken, Rafael had said that people were asking questions about him.

  Calvin felt a wave of guilt. If something had happened to Rafael... it was his fault. Sure, Rafael had known the danger and had still volunteered to go. But, ultimately, he’d just done what he knew Calvin wanted.

  He tried not to think about it. If I don’t hear from you... if something happened to you... I swear, I’ll come for you, Rafael.

  Calvin had planned to tell Rafael about the isotome weapons and the inbound Rotham fleet. He knew there was nothing Rafael could do—or Intel Wing for that matter—to help Calvin and his shore party’s operation on Remus Nine. But if the worst happened, and they didn’t succeed, the galaxy deserved to know what the threat was that was out there. And maybe, if Rafael got the information to the right people in a timely manner, human kind would not be taken by surprise when whole star systems began to be wiped out...

  But, now that Rafael was not contacting him—and potentially removed as an asset—Calvin wasn’t quite sure what to do. He didn’t want to sit on the intelligence he had. Humanity deserved at least a fighting chance if he didn’t succeed. But he didn’t want to send his intelligence to the wrong person and inadvertently spook a member of the Phoenix Ring, who might alert their allies on Remus Nine to watch out for Calvin’s arrival. Or potentially even scare them off-world. Taking the isotome weapons with them...

  He debated this for some time, all the while hoping to hear from Rafael. Eventually he decided that there was still someone in Intel Wing that he could probably trust. Someone who had proven his worth to the Empire a hundred times over.

  Calvin organized his intelligence, including whatever information he had on the isotome weapons and the impending Rotham fleet, and then transmitted it through a secure, thoroughly-encrypted line to the Desert Eagle. Marked for Nimoux personally.

  Lafayette Nimoux might be hunting Calvin across the galaxy, but he was still a hero of the Empire. And the standard that Calvin had measured himself against ever since he got his first command. If Nimoux was even half the man everyone believed him to be, including Calvin, he could be trusted with this information. And maybe... just maybe, he would call off his pursuit. And perhaps even assist in the destruction of the isotome weapons.

  But even if not, it still made Calvin feel better to have told someone—even though he’d conveniently neglected naming his destination. Now another person in the Empire knew about the isotome weapons—in case Calvin failed, humanity still had hope.

  ***

  Nimoux watched the message from Calvin again. It was short and made many wild, sweeping allegations that were completely unsupported. But they were creative ones—talk of star destroying weapons, deep conspiracies, and impending alien fleets. Nimoux was skeptical of these claims but, as he noted Calvin’s earnest eyes and the levelness of his voice, it seemed that Calvin—perhaps—did believe what he was saying.

  It made as much sense as anything else. Calvin had either snapped and entered a deluded state of mind, or else had been fed false or wantonly exaggerated information. And he was acting for someone else’s interests, believing that what he was doing was somehow justified. An unknowing puppet.

  Or, another intriguing possibility was that this was a ruse—and a rather desperate one—to sabotage Nimoux’s pursuit. Confuse him. Give him false leads to chase after. Cleverly written fiction meant to win sympathy and trust. Or, at the very least, get Nimoux to lower his guard, give him a reason to show hesitation at a critical moment and thereby enhance Calvin’s chances of continued escape. Perhaps even buying him the time he needed to perform whatever mission he was working on.

  The least likely—but not yet falsifiable—explanation was that Calvin was speaking the truth. Nimoux was almost afraid to even consider the possibility. Not just because it was ludicrous on its face and seemed to defy the principles of probability—specifically that the simplest explanation is the likeliest—but also because it implied severely dark things for the galaxy’s near future. War, mass destruction, and possible governmental collapse. The potential end of a society that had resiliently withstood an abusive and difficult century in space. Only two reasons kept Nimoux from dismissing this possibility out of hand. First, Calvin’s record was good enough that he’d earned the right to be taken seriously. And second, Abia. More had happened there than Nimoux had been told. All that debris from all those ships, many of them alien ships... something strange had caused that.

  Calvin’s intelligence was far from a complete story, and seemed to introduce more holes than patches, but Nimoux was open-minded—though skeptical.

  Whatever the truth turned out to be, Nimoux looked forward to a very long, very interesting conversation with Calvin the minute he was brought into custody.

  Nimoux decided to keep this new intelligence to himself for now, not even telling his XO. There was no reason to distract his officers with what was probably a red herring. But, just to be safe, he ordered a probe dispatched to the Xenobe Nebula Region. If any isotome had been taken, the probe would notice the disparity.

  Chapter 21

  “My God...”

  Calvin stared at the scene. “I... don’t even know what to say.” He grimaced, strangely unable to look away from the gruesome sight, even though it was the most revolting thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

  He stood in the head on deck one, having been called there by Pellew—urgent priority. The special forces captain leaned over a barely recognizable human corpse with a shredded special forces uniform. Pellew combed through the gore with rubber gloves. Gently moving bits of it around, collecting evidence. A forensics expert from the analysis lab was there too, assisting him. Calvin couldn’t get himself to
approach any closer than three meters.

  “Who was he?” asked Calvin

  He didn’t recognize the victim. The body lay sprawled on the ground lying face up, next to the back wall. His head was thoroughly smashed open, blood was everywhere, and bits of grey matter, ripped tissue, and bone fragments were almost ritualistically spread out.

  “Still figuring that out,” said Pellew.

  “If we don’t find an I.D. on his person we may need to do an analysis of his teeth and check our records.”

  “It shouldn’t come to that,” said Pellew. “I’ve already ordered my soldiers to report in to their squad commanders. We’ll see who’s missing.”

  About half the skull and most of the jaw was intact—but the distinct features of the face that would have identified the victim, such as its shape, eye color, and hair color, etc., had been brutally smashed.

  The most disturbing part of the scene was actually above the victim. The assailant had taken the victim’s blood and used it to smear a word on the wall just above the corpse. In furious crimson letters it read, “JUSTICE.”

  “Who would do such a thing—?” asked Calvin, talking to no one in particular. A murder on his own ship... he didn’t believe it. And didn’t know how to process it. He looked around, trying to understand why and how this had happened.

  The rest of the room was untouched. And there was no sign of a struggle. The mirrors weren’t smashed and the stalls, toilets, and sinks seemed undamaged. Calvin guessed the attacker had taken the victim by surprise—perhaps it had been a friend or trusted fellow soldier—killed him, then desecrated the corpse afterwards. This was undoubtedly a crime of passion, the attacker had enjoyed this. Justice—for what?

  “Pellew, the moment you identify the victim, I want to be informed immediately,” said Calvin. He then looked at the crewman kneeling next to the special forces captain. “Tell the lab that this investigation takes top priority. I need to know who did this.”