The Phoenix Rising

by Richard L. Sanders

  “Got it,” said Sarah.

  “Take us in,” said Calvin. “Fastest safe speed.”

  “Aye, aye. We’ll dock with the station in two minutes.”

  “Shen,” said Calvin, “can you get a good look at the station?”

  “Yes.”

  “Display it.”

  Shen adjusted the 3d projector to show the cylindrical metal station in close orbit around Remus Nine. It appeared unlit and had few if any windows. To Shen it looked like a coffin in space, silently circling what was probably the biggest graveyard in the galaxy.

  “Is the station powered?” asked Calvin.

  “Not from what I can tell—” said Shen, doing another detailed scan and reviewing what the Nighthawk’s sensors could pick up. “There is no damage to the station, other than a few signs of wear and tear.”

  “What about the station’s generator? Is it still there? Can we restart it as planned or will we have to do a more involved operation to restore power?”

  “The generator seems intact. Though I’m not sure from the scans why it isn’t functioning. My guess is that it’s simply offline but there’s no way to be certain from here.”

  “Can we access the generator from space or is it inside the station?”

  “From space. I’m guessing when this station was built, all practical repairs had to be done by spacewalks.”

  “Sarah, move the ship into position for a spacewalk repair. Then send word to Andre. Let him know his repair team is cleared to begin operations. Once power is restored and everyone is back on the ship, dock us with the station.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Shen, what can you tell me about the atmosphere and gravity systems on the station?”

  “The air on the station is still a breathable concentration of oxygen, though it’s probably very old and stale. The gravity system and all life support should come online as soon as the station has power again. Though it might take a while to purge the environment and recycle the air—should any toxic gases be detected. I don’t foresee a problem for your shore party, but climate suits are advised as standard procedure in this kind of situation.”

  “No point in taking unnecessary risks,” said Calvin. “I planned on us using pressurized suits from the beginning. Now, what can you tell me about the planet?”

  “It’s still habitable; atmospheric conditions are stable. Though it might not be very pleasant as there seems to be an above average amount of hydrogen sulfide in the air near the surface. The air composition isn’t toxic, though.”

  “Can anyone on the planet detect our approach?”

  “Negative. There aren’t any structures on the planet capable of detecting the Nighthawk. And... I don’t see any that could detect an inbound planetary landing craft of any type, but I’m less sure on that. Once you leave the orbital station and descend below the stratosphere, you should assume you are visible.”

  “Fortunately for us, they’re expecting company,” said Calvin. “I’d better get below—”

  Shen interrupted him, “Calvin.” He turned his chair to face the center of the bridge. “Let me come too.” Shen didn’t want to be here with Sarah, he didn’t want to be stuck on the Nighthawk, where it was safe, always the one to stay out of the action. Never the one compelled to adventure and take risks. No wonder Sarah, and every other woman in the galaxy, couldn’t see him as a man. At least not as a man to be drawn to.

  Calvin looked surprised. “I... don’t think that’s a very good idea,” he said gently. Even he didn’t see Shen as the kind of man who could hold his own in a tight situation. Always the brain and never the brawn. Just like how, to women, he was always the friend and never the lover. Cursed with feelings—powerful ones—that could never be reciprocated. What a cruel universe. And for what? There seemed to be no point anymore. Life had dealt him an unfortunate hand—and he’d had enough. It wasn’t worth it anymore. He would be who he wanted to be from here on out, or die trying.

  “Calvin, you have to let me go,” said Shen, shooting his friend an earnest look.

  “It’s going to be extremely dangerous down there.”

  That was what Shen was counting on. He was going to prove Sarah, and everyone else, wrong about him. He was every bit as capable a man in a tough situation as all the muscle-headed idiots that donned camouflage and toted firearms. He had to be. But he knew Calvin well enough to understand that Calvin wouldn’t tolerate Shen’s presence on the mission—or anyone else’s—unless they had a reason for going. And Calvin would never understand Shen’s reason, so he had to invent one. Make it seem like he was essential.

  “If you get to the station,” said Shen, clearing his throat to buy him a little more time, “and you find some of the systems offline or not functional, you’ll need me there to patch them up. Otherwise you’ll never get down to the planet. And if something goes wrong with the planetary craft, you’ll wish you had a systems expert with you.”

  To anyone truly familiar with systems, this would have seemed like a fairly desperate argument. In all honesty, if they did find something was wrong with the computers on the station or the planetary craft, there wasn’t much Shen, or anyone else, could do about it. But Calvin seemed to be mostly persuaded. Though not quite all the way. His friend looked at him with intense curiosity, as if searching for the real reason Shen wanted to go.

  “Please,” said Shen. “I don’t ask for much.” He turned his head just enough to glance at Sarah—who looked as surprised as everyone else—then he looked back at Calvin.

  Calvin nodded. “Alright. Let’s suit up. Sarah, send word once the generator is repaired and we’ve docked with the station. Summers, the ship is yours. Try to keep her in one piece.”

  Chapter 23

  No conclusive results had come in yet from the analysis lab regarding the murder of Staff Sergeant Patterson.

  Calvin was sure it was only a matter of time, but he’d hoped to have the matter resolved before they reached Remus System. Sadly, no such luck. Now that they’d arrived, those concerns had to wait—and in all probability he was going down to the planet’s surface with the murderer at his side. He couldn’t decide if that was better or worse than leaving him on the Nighthawk.

  “Everyone all suited up?” asked Calvin. His thin, lightweight climate suit transmitted the message automatically to the helmet speakers of the other members of his team. As tactical gear went, it wasn’t very protective against bullets and shrapnel, but it would keep a person alive against adverse elements. At least until the two-hour oxygen supply depleted.

  “Yes,” said Tristan. The lycan was barely recognizable behind the protective white coating covering his body and limbs. The helmet’s facial screen revealed some of his features—most prominent were the goggles he wore under the screen. Everyone wore goggles, but in Tristan’s case they made his narrow head seem almost bug-eyed.

  They stood as a group near the airlock, waiting for clearance to unseal the hatch and enter the unknown environment of the Remus orbital station. Miles fidgeted nervously. Shen stood stiff. Pellew seemed resolute. Tristan impatient. And Alex... he looked the strangest of all. Like most Rotham, he was smaller than the average human and it had been difficult finding a climate suit that would fit him properly. In the end they’d managed to adjust their smallest one adequately, though he still looked awkward wearing it.

  Fortunately the much larger Polarians had brought their own climate suits as part of their standard tactical gear when they’d boarded the ship. None of the human ones would have fit them. Theirs differed from the Imperial suits not only in size but also in color, rather than white they were a dark steely grey. And their facial shields were mirrored and revealed nothing. It was kind of unsettling to look at them, actually. They stood there, menacingly tall and stout, face and body language hidden. And one or more of them had probably performed the savage slaying of Staff Sergeant Patterson...

  Their away party totaled eighteen members, including four humans, one Rotham
, one Remorii, and all twelve Polarians. Some carried charges which would be used to destroy the isotome weapons. And all carried assault rifles, wore sidearms, and carried extra magazine on tactical belts, some even had grenades. In the case of the Polarians, many of them also carried their ceremonial daggers and metal clubs.

  They were going down as a heavily armed unit but Calvin didn’t want to be lulled into a false sense of security. What awaited them on the surface was an unknown number of Enclave agents, perhaps even a small army. And if that wasn’t enough, there were also the millions of type one Remorii which, if they descended upon Calvin’s group, could overpower them quickly. Calvin thought of the ferocity with which Tristan had fought the strigoi on Tybur, and even deeper in his mind remembered the savage, ruthless efficiency of the strigoi tha had rampaged the Trinity—if both lycans and strigoi alike feared the type one Remorii enough to flee Remus Nine, then certainly they were a threat worth taking seriously.

  “Boarding party, you’re all clear,” said Sarah’s voice over the radio. “Docking seal is in place.”

  “That’s the go-ahead,” said Pellew.

  “Open the hatch,” said Calvin.

  Pellew opened the hatch and their group pushed inside, weapons drawn and ready. The Polarian force led the way. Miles, the last to go through, closed the hatch behind them. They were now aboard the Remus orbital station.

  It was very dark, almost completely black. A few consoles and panels were lit up, now that they had power, but almost everything lay in shadows.

  “IR goggles, activate,” said Calvin. The device recognized his voice command and snapped to life. Replacing the darkness with a pale, almost faded pool of green. Because climate control had been restored, heat was again ventilating through the station, making sight possible, but it was still very cold overall. Calvin was glad to be protected by his climate suit.

  Their group fanned out and swept the room, performing a swift but thorough search. Then Rez’nac reported. “Area secure.”

  “Move out,” said Calvin. And, with military efficiency, they proceeded out of the room and down the long corridor. Not wasting time, but making sure to properly clear any room they entered. Calvin doubted anyone was on the station—according to his father’s intelligence no one would be—but he didn’t want to walk into an ambush either.

  Because the orbital station was a standard—albeit antiquated—design, the Nighthawk’s computer had a blueprint of the facility. All team members had committed the path to memory—it was a simple route—and together they headed directly for the forward control room, caution in every step.

  When they arrived, Calvin noted that the control room was smaller than he’d expected. It served as the station’s primary bridge and, even though the orbital structure was many times the size of the Nighthawk, he estimated its control room was barely larger than the Nighthawk’s bridge.

  They cleared the room, once again finding no one.

  Very few of the computers and panels were lit up. That was to be expected.

  “Alright, Shen,” said Calvin. “Restart the main computer.”

  “On it,” said Shen. And a slightly pudgy white figure moved to the central control station and began making adjustments. Within a few seconds there was an audible hum as much of the old equipment growled to life. The main lights snapped on so Calvin switched his IR goggles off.

  “I take it that’s a good sign,” said Calvin.

  “So far, no problems,” said Shen.

  “Is the map there?” asked Calvin.

  “Checking...” Shen typed something in the console and a search began. “Yes,” he said. “Looks like there is a file here in a language I don’t recognize.” He displayed the characters.

  “That’s it,” said Tristan. “That’s the foul language of the strigoi!”

  To Calvin the characters actually looked surprisingly elegant.

  “Tristan, hand me the tablet,” said Shen, reaching out a hand. The lycan handed over a small tablet computer device which Shen affixed to one of the consoles and began downloading the map. “Download complete,” he announced a moment later. He handed the tablet back to Tristan.

  “Are you sure it is the map?” Calvin looked at Tristan. The lycan seemed to be staring down at the tablet, perusing the document.

  “Yes. Yes, it’s all here,” said Tristan.

  “Good,” said Calvin. “Now let’s hope they left us a working planetary craft.”

  “Move out,” said Pellew. He led the group out of the forward control center towards the shuttlebay. Rifle aimed high and ready.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” said Miles as they went. “It’s like a space station run by ghosts.”

  Tristan chuckled darkly. “This is nothing. Wait ‘til you see what’s coming.”

  “Calvin... how did you talk me into this again?”

  “Look at you,” said Calvin. “You’re big and you have a gun.” He noted that Miles seemed to be holding the rifle awkwardly, probably from inexperience. “No one will mess with you.”

  “True. But that’s still not very reassuring...”

  They reached the shuttlebay. It was a wide open area with seven planetary craft resting idly on the deck. Pellew and the Polarians began sweeping the room. Because of its size, however, and the tactical vulnerabilities of wide open spaces, Calvin knew it would take them a significantly long time to properly comb the room. So he just decided to step out into the open. Convinced by now that Samil’s information was correct and no one was aboard the station.

  “Calvin, what are you doing?” asked Pellew.

  “Testing the water.”

  “I can’t cover you if you’re out in the open like that.”

  “It’s alright, I don’t think anyone is here,” he said. He approached the nearest planetary craft, a small compact shuttle. At first glance it looked alright but when he walked to the side of it he saw a small puncture had breached the hull. That craft wasn’t going anywhere. On to the next one.

  One by one he inspected the different planetary vessels and found that five of them could not be trusted to fly. Whether it was because of torn heat-shielding, hull breaches, missing stabilizers, or other reasons, these craft had clearly been grounded for good cause. On the far end of the deck though, near the massive metal door that opened into space, were two gunships. Both had seen their fair amount of wear. The metal was scratched, paint flaked off, and so on. But both, after a detailed inspection, seemed flight capable.

  “Either of these should get us down to the planet and back,” said Calvin.

  Ideally he would have liked to take both of them, splitting his team in half. It was usually better not to invest every egg in a single basket. If he were wrong about the craft’s flight worthiness, at least some of their team might survive to complete the mission. But unfortunately he was the only trained pilot in the entire group. And, in the event their approach was seen, two planetary craft rather than one might alert the Enclave agents on the surface that the people coming were not the people expected.

  Pellew and the others finished sweeping the room and gathered around Calvin in a semi-circle.

  “Which one should we take?” asked Alex.

  “I’m leaning towards this one,” Calvin pointed to the smaller, lighter craft. It had much less armor and fewer guns than the other option, but was more agile, could ascend quicker, and could perform more aggressive maneuvers.

  “I think we should take the other one,” said Pellew. “If things get dicey down there and we get into a firefight, there’s no substitute for a bit more armor and a lot more guns. But it’s your call, of course.”

  Calvin realized that Pellew had a point. Part of what attracted him to the lighter gunship was that it would be more enjoyable to fly, but if they did come face to face with an army of Enclave agents—or a mob of type one Remorii, the additional weapons would pay off.

  “Alright, agreed,” said Calvin. He patted the nose of the large gunship. “Now let’s see
if this old bird will fly.”

  ***

  The gunship was over fifty years old but its flight mechanics were simple and its controls intuitive. A relic leftover from a humbler era of piloting. Calvin fell in love with it right away, despite its hiccups and wear and tear.

  “They simply don’t build them like this anymore,” he said, clutching the yoke with bare hands—it just felt sturdy. Fortunately the craft’s life support systems were all functioning so he’d been able to remove his gloves and helmet. Though, since it had no gravity system, he and everyone else had needed to strap in.

  “This isn’t so bad,” Miles said from behind. He was seated at the weapons console. Calvin couldn’t see him, but imagined a very sick, very nervous look on the big man’s large, round face.

  “Flight path laid in,” said Tristan. He sat at co-pilot holding the tablet computer with one handand using the other to input information into the gunship’s computer.

  Calvin made an adjustment so he could see Tristan’s data in his head-up display. The green-lit numbers guided him as the craft gingerly descended—slipping, almost majestically, down toward the grey and black mass below.

  “That really is not a hospitable looking planet,” said Calvin.

  “Why do you think we left?” said Tristan.

  The aerodynamic heating intensified as the craft descended into denser atmosphere. But the heat shield was holding.

  Their smooth descent becamerocky with turbulence when they reached the troposphere. The gunship was surrounded by storm clouds and its sensors tracked extreme precipitation and wind forces. The vessel seemed almost to buckle under the pressure, as it lurched—violently thrown about—and Calvin had to make several adjustments to compensate. A rush of excitement filled him. And he remembered why he got into piloting in the first place. The feel of planetary forces, powerful winds, real gravity, and intense inertia were thrilling. Space-flight robbed the trade of its truest joys.