The Phoenix Wars: Book I, Reprieve

by C. R. Daems

  The Phoenix Wars

  Book I, Reprieve

  By

  C. R. Daems

  The Phoenix Wars: Book I: Reprieve

  Copyright © 2021 by C. R. Daems

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from C. R. Daems.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7362282-0-3

  Check out all my novels at

  talonnovels.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  They Aren't Listening

  Chapter 2

  It's Not Good News

  Chapter 3

  Not What I Expected

  Chapter 4

  No Good Options

  Chapter 5

  Orientation

  Chapter 6

  The House Of War

  Chapter 7

  Training For War

  Chapter 8

  The Art Of War

  Chapter 9

  Unhappy People Are Dangerous

  Chapter 10

  War Games

  Chapter 11

  Graduation Of Sorts

  Chapter 12

  'The Enemy In The House

  Chapter 13

  Wounded People Are Also Dangerous

  Chapter 14

  The Tullizor

  Chapter 15

  What We Did Right And Wrong

  Chapter 16

  The Eye Of The Storm

  Chapter 17

  Foolish People Are Also Dangerous

  Chapter 18

  To Do Or Die

  Chapter 19

  Anixia Inquiry

  Chapter 20

  Escalating War

  Chapter 21

  The K-Box

  Chapter 22

  Living In The Fast Lane

  Chapter 23

  K-Box Qualifications

  Chapter 24

  New Survivors

  Chapter 25

  New Thinking And Techniques

  Chapter 26

  No More Hotshots

  Chapter 27

  Too Many Potential Options

  Chapter 28

  The Space Gods Must Love Birds

  Chapter 29

  Being Right Isn't Always Good

  Chapter 30

  Quality Testing After The Sale.

  Chapter 31

  Down The Rabbit Hole

  Chapter 32

  New Clothes

  Chapter 33

  Looking Toward The Future

  Chapter 34

  Starting Over

  Chapter 35

  New People, New Ship, New Command

  Chapter 36

  A Whole New world

  Chapter 37

  A War Of Misdirection

  Chapter 38

  New Home, New assignment, New challenges

  Chapter 39

  Anixian Secrets

  Chapter 40

  Becoming Anixian

  Chapter 41

  Shakedown Cruise

  Chapter 42

  Treachery

  Chapter 43

  Phase One, The Hunt

  Chapter 44

  Phase Two, Capture

  Chapter 45

  Double Trouble

  Chapter 46

  A Plan Is A Commitment

  Chapter 47

  Double Trickery

  Chapter 48

  The Moment Of Truth

  Chapter 49

  The Party Is Over

  Chapter 50

  Updraft

  Chapter 51

  Teaching Tricks

  Chapter 52

  Packing To Leave

  Chapter 53

  Into the unknown

  Chapter 54

  Learning a New Language

  Chapter 55

  Trust Is In short supply

  Chapter 56

  Monkeys Galore

  Chapter 57

  No Good Options

  Chapter 58

  What To Do Now?

  Chapter 59

  It Might Work

  Chapter 60

  The Cures Are Temporary

  Chapter 61

  The Prophecy

  Chapter 1

  They Aren't Listening

  I sat pushing my grandma's mushroom-stuffed pork Roulade around my plate. It looked delicious, but I felt too nauseated to eat. Grandma had immigrated to America with her husband and two children from Germany in her twenties. Forty-five years later, her husband, my father's father, died of a stroke, and she moved in with us and immediately took responsibility for the cooking, cleaning, and nurturing of her precious granddaughter. I was five at the time. She was a small woman, seven centimeters shorter than me, with a round face, black hair now mostly grey, a matronly figure, and a tender heart. Currently, the only sounds in the room were of knives and forks scraping on plates. The usual chatter about current events were swallowed in a black hole surrounding me. The only person who would look at me was Grandma. Her eyes were sad, and she looked like she wanted to pull me into a protective embrace. Eventually, my father pushed back his chair and rose from the dining room table.

  "Kayla," he said. His voice harsh and angry. He gestured toward the front room. His six-foot muscular frame towered over me as I rose and proceeded him out of the dining room into the formal front room used mostly for guests or business. His thick lips were in a tight line, his eyes narrow, and his forehead wrinkled in a frown. His expression appeared to oscillate between angry, frustrated, and wanting to be somewhere else. I knew because I felt the same way. He sat on one of the two Bombay leather sofas and patted the cushion next to him for me to sit.

  "We've had another call from Sister Angus. She said you missed five classes over the past two weeks. This is unacceptable, Kayla. If you keep this up, they are going to expel you or place you under court supervision."

  My headache was getting worse as I listened to my father drone on and on. I knew he was fighting the urge to shout. Although he was a vice president in charge of operations for a medium-sized construction company, he thought shouting was the best way to make his point when crews screwed up. I wouldn't blame him if he tried it on me, although he never had. But it wouldn't work. He wasn't listening to me, and I wasn't listening to him. He was convinced I didn't like school and skipped classes to hang out with other delinquents to do heaven only knew what. In reality, I was having headaches, nausea, and fits of dizziness and couldn't concentrate. So I wasn't learning anything in class, and my lack of participation was resulting in after-class punishments, lectures, and counseling sessions on my poor attitude. It was easier on everyone for me to skip school, except for lectures from my parents when they found out. Because they each traveled a lot for work meant every week or two. My father because he was responsible for multiple construction sites located in several of the Western states, and my mother because she was the vice president of sales for a medium-sized sports apparel company and had customers scattered around the United States and Europe. My father's raised voice broke into my musing.

  "Kayla, what are you doing when you skip school?" he said, sounding like he had asked the question more than once before. I felt nauseated. My head throbbed, and I was past the point of caring.

  "Earning money on the street for cocaine and heroin–"

  His hand sh
ot out and backhanded me so hard I spun off the couch and hit the floor face first, causing my lungs to explode the breath out of me. I lay there more in shock than pain. My father had never hit me. He had always treated me like a princess. I knew I deserved it, but it wasn't my fault. No one would listen to me, I sobbed quietly as tears filled my eyes. When I told my mother, she dismissed my headaches, saying, "You have to learn to ignore them. Life goes on." She had been a very athletic person all her life, and I doubted she would stop running a marathon if halfway into the race she fell and broke her leg. "Take a couple of aspirin when you feel a headache coming on."

  Suddenly feeling sick to my stomach, I rose to my knees, gagged, and vomited onto the rust tribal medallion area rug that sat between the two sofas.

  "Martin, what's going on?" my mother asked, coming out of the dining room. She stopped, her face frozen in shock.

  "I'm sorry." My father sounded hysterical. "I hit her."

  "What if we have to take her to the hospital?" my mother said, obviously concerned about the possible ramifications. The law took a very dim view on beating your children, and doctors and hospital were quick to report injuries which could have resulted from child abuse.

  I couldn't stifle a laugh between sobs. We were each suffering in our own private nightmare. My father shocked at what he had done and thinking about being arrested, my mother concerned that the hospital would report the incident as child abuse, and me feeling alone and lost.

  I rose to my feet, feeling dizzy. My father sat at the edge of the couch as if he wanted to jump up and rush to me but was hesitant and torn with conflicting emotions. His eyes were wide open, and he was breathing through his mouth in obvious shock. My mother's eyes darting from my father to me and back again like surveying an accident but not sure what to do. Grandma stood with her hands over her mouth, like she was trying to stifle some response from coming out.

  "Don't worry, I'm not going to say anything. I don't care anymore," I said as I staggered up the stairs to my bedroom and shut the door behind me, knowing no one would enter without my permission. My room, with its private bathroom suite, television, and computer, was a sanctuary from everything except the constant pain. Ironically, my unwise remark to my father was half true. Not the part about "earning money on the street." My parents were rich and would buy me anything I wanted. Consequently, I never lacked for pocket money, but I had tried several illegal drugs, not cocaine or heroin but marijuana, meth, and psilocybin mushrooms in an effort to stop the headaches and nausea. Fortunately, the drugs I tried made me feel worse, so I never became addicted.

  A soft knock at the door woke me, and I pulled the covers over my head and mumbled, "Go away," not wanting to speak to anyone. My symptoms were the worst in the morning. But the soft voice of my grandma couldn't be ignored without hurting her, something I would never do intentionally. She had been the one constant in my life since birth. She could be a force to reckon with when she wanted and could quiet both my father and mother with a look and seldom lost an argument. With me, she was like a fairy godmother, gentle and loving. When alone, she often reverted to her native German. Consequently, before I entered first grade, I could speak fluent German. My mother had to frequently remind Grandma and me that we weren't speaking English.

  "Kayla, would you like me to make you something special for breakfast?" her soft voice said in German. "Our secret language," Grandma always said with a twinkle in her eyes.

  "Come in, Oma," I said, using the German expression for grandmother, as I struggled to sit up, leaning back against the headboard for support as my head spun and acid rose in my throat.

  "Oh my God," she exclaimed as she sat on my bed and gently examined my face. "The whole side of your face is black and blue." She jumped up and hustled out of the room. Worried, I staggered up and went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. Grandma was right. The upper half of my face was a variety of colors from red to purple, and my right eye was swollen as well as black and blue. Before I could decide what to do, Grandma returned with a jar of foul-smelling salve and began gently rubbing it on the bruises. "You need to stay home from school today."

  I nodded. I wasn't mad at my father, nor did I want him to get into trouble. The hit was a reflexive reaction to my very inappropriate remark. He had been a raging bull bleeding from the banderillas of anger, frustration, and impatience, and I had waved a red cape in front of him.

  "My son and Marie are talking about sending you to a boarding school," Grandma said after a moment. Her sad eyes watched me intently for my reaction. I nodded, not in favor but in resignation. I had been causing them a lot of trouble for over a year. In the beginning, I could keep from saying what I was thinking and could manage to work through the headaches, nausea, and dizziness. Apparently, I had reached the limits of my control based on yesterday's outburst. I no longer cared. Like a slave who had been beaten to make work harder and beaten to get up when he fell from exhaustion, I had reached the point where the beatings no longer mattered. In fact, I had reached the point where the beatings were welcomed, as was death. I lowered my head on her warm shoulder and cried.

  "It won't work." I sobbed into her tear-soaked sleeve. "I no longer care what anyone does," I said as if she had been capable of hearing my previous thoughts. "Oma, take me to the hospital!" I shouted as my head shot up.

  "You don't want to do that, Kayla. That will cause a lot of trouble for you, Martin, and Marie–"

  "No, Oh-ma. I want the doctors to examine me, not this bruise. Maybe they can help me. Otherwise, I'm going to die," I said with a finality that surprised me. "You can say you found me lying on the floor when you came to wake me for school. I'll tell them about my headaches, nausea, and dizziness and that I fell going to the bathroom late last night."

  "Are you sure, Kayla?"

  "Yes. When adults feel sick, they go to their doctor and get medicine to help. Well, I'm not a rebellious teenager. I'm sick, and maybe the doctors have something to help me get better."

  Somewhat reluctantly, Grandma helped me dress and called for a taxi.

  "Where to?" the small Asian-looking driver asked when Grandma and I entered and closed the door.

  "The closest hospital," Grandma said. "My granddaughter had a nasty fall."

  "No," I corrected. "The Mayo Clinic." My father and mother can afford the best care for their only daughter, I smiled to myself. The driver turned to look at Grandma and shrugged when she nodded. The drive took over thirty minutes, and when we arrived, we were directed to the emergency department, where we waited almost an hour before being escorted into an examination room. Twenty minutes later, a relatively young doctor in his late twenties entered.

  "I'm Doctor Norman," he said. His smile faded as he looked at my face, holding my jaw between his thumb and forefinger and gently turning my head to get a better look. "How did this happen?" he asked, his voice sounding suspicious as he looked back to my grandma, but I interrupted him before she could speak.

  "Doctor, I'm not here for this bruise. It will heal on its own. For over a year, I've been having headaches accompanied by nausea and dizziness. They have been getting worse. Fortunately, I fell in my bedroom going to the bathroom, rather than at the head of the stairs leading to the first floor. This bruise is a minor problem that my grandmother has treated. I am here for my symptoms," I said, standing to look him in his brown eyes, and I would have fallen if he hadn't caught me, as a wave of dizziness washed over me. "I'm not a child, and I haven't been abused!"

  "Alright, young lady. You say these headaches have been going on for a year?" he asked. I nodded. "How come your parents didn't send you to see a doctor before now?"

  "Because I haven't made a big deal of the headaches, thinking it was just part of my body changing from a girl to a woman." I shrugged.

  "It's not," he said with emphasis on the last word. He left, and sometime later, a woman came in and led me to another room where I had a CT scan and then returned me to the room where my grandma waited, l
ooking worried. An hour later, a man in hospital blue pants and shirt took me to a different room where I had an MRI scan and again returned to the waiting room. An hour later, an elderly woman entered and took me to another room where I had an MRE and returned to the waiting room. Each time I returned, Grandma looked more nervous, and I began to wonder if I had done the right thing insisting on going to the hospital. I hoped for Grandma's sake that they had run out of machines. We had spent close to five hours by my watch, and my usually calm grandma looked close to hysterical. Just in time, a silver-haired man entered the room along with Doctor Norman.

  "Mrs. Trager, Kayla, this is Doctor Carlson. He is our resident neurosurgeon," Doctor Norman said and stepped back to allow Carlson a clear line of sight to Grandma and me.

  "Mrs. Trager, I understand you are Kayla's grandmother?" he asked, continuing when she nodded. "Where are her mother and father?"

  "They are at work. They usually don't get home until late." She hesitated, looking at me before continuing. "Kayla insisted on coming to the hospital when she woke this morning."

  "That was very smart, Kayla," Carlson said. "I'll need to speak to one or preferably both of her parents. Today."

  Chapter 2

  It's Not Good News

  "I'm Martin Trager," he said, after being told by Naomi, his personal secretary, that the call was from a Doctor Carlson at the Mayo Clinic.

  "Mr. Trager, we have your daughter, Kayla, and your mother, Mrs. Paulina Trager, here at the Mayo Clinic. Your daughter was checked into the emergency unit six hours ago and has been undergoing extensive examination for her headaches. I would like to discuss the results with you and your wife today, if possible," Carlson said with an Austrian sounding accent.

  "Is it serious?" Martin asked, hoping he hadn't badly hurt Kayla when he hit her last night and couldn't help wondering if she was making an official complaint. If so, why didn't his mother notify him she was taking Kayla to the hospital and why the Mayo Clinic? He could feel the perspiration forming on his forehead and under his arms. Thankfully, Carlson interrupted his speculations.

  "I think our findings are best discussed in person. I'll be available anytime you, and hopefully your wife, can make it."