The Phoenix Reckoning (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 6)

by Richard Sanders

  “No, don’t be silly,” said Rain. “I’m always available for my patients and I’ve just finished helping Calvin,” she looked at Calvin. “Remember take two with water, not more than every four hours, that should take care of it.”

  Able to take the hint, Calvin headed for the door. “Thanks, Doc,” he said, with a wave. “See you around, Shen,” he added.

  As Calvin left the infirmary and headed toward his quarters to get some shut-eye, he wondered what business Shen had with Rain. Calvin remembered what Summers had said, that Rain had been the one to cure Shen of his otherwise fatal Remorii infection, and Calvin suddenly felt rather selfish.

  If Shen is seeing Rain, it could be something serious, he thought. I sure hope it isn’t.

  CHAPTER 08

  “And that is why I have decided to promote you from ordinary Private to Private First Class,” said Nimoux. He sat in his office back aboard the Nighthawk, the same office that had previously belonged to Captain Pellew, and before him, Major Jenkins. Considering how many changes in ownership the office had had, Nimoux took it as a sign that the position of Special Forces commander was especially dangerous, at least aboard the Nighthawk.

  “Yes, sir,” said the soldier standing at attention on the far side of the desk. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Before I dismiss you,” said Nimoux, paying careful attention to PFC Merrill’s eyes as he spoke. “I do have one more question for you, regarding the action we just returned from.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “I assigned you to hold against the enemy along with soldiers Ali, Rodriguez, and Ferreiro, isn’t that correct?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Did you ever become separated from them at any point?”

  “One time, sir!”

  “When and why did that happen, soldier?” asked Nimoux.

  “After Rodriguez went down, it was just me and the lieutenant left; he got real mad, sir, and when the enemy retreated he chased after them. I held my station, so we got separated.”

  “Why did Lieutenant Ferreiro run headlong toward the enemy?” asked Nimoux. “When he knew that would only put him into greater and unnecessary danger?”

  The soldier looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Speculate, then,” said Nimoux. He was still just getting to know these men, even though only two remained, but they had known each other far longer. Nimoux had no doubts whatsoever that PFC Merrill had insights into Lt. Ferreiro’s mind, insights that would help explain his conduct and help Nimoux evaluate Ferreiro’s mental state.

  “I suppose, sir, that the lieutenant took Rodriguez’s death awful hard, sir,” said PFC Merrill.

  “Did he react the same way when Mr. Ali died?” asked Nimoux, knowing that Ali had fallen first in the battle, before Rodriguez’s demise.

  “Not exactly, sir.”

  “No, he didn’t? Or yes, he did?” asked Nimoux, unsatisfied with an inexact answer.

  “No, he didn’t, sir.”

  “Why not?” asked Nimoux.

  PFC Merrill looked even more uncomfortable, almost as if he was hiding something. Nimoux was fairly certain he could guess what it was.

  “I asked you a question, soldier, and I expect an answer.”

  “I couldn’t say for sure, sir,” said PFC Merrill. “You’d be better off asking the lieutenant.”

  “The lieutenant isn’t here, you are; I’m asking you.”

  “Well, sir, I…the thing is, Ferreiro and Rodriguez were better friends, you might say. Lt. Ferreiro and the lance corporal, Mr. Ali, they were just acquaintances.”

  “So, Mr. Ferreiro and Mr. Rodriguez were friends,” said Nimoux, thinking that a soft euphemism.

  “Yes, sir. Good friends.”

  Nimoux nodded. “I think I’ve heard enough. That will be all, Mr. Merrill. You’re dismissed.”

  PFC Merrill saluted. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Please send in the lieutenant on your way out.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.” With that he was gone. And Nimoux was alone again, momentarily. He thought for a moment about what he’d just confirmed to himself, and what was the right thing to do. On the one hand, there were regulations that needed to be upheld, at least to the degree that they made sense and were not an infringement upon justice; but, on the other hand, how much of it was really his business? Aside from the obvious need to evaluate the emotional fitness of his soldiers.

  The door opened and Lt. Ferreiro stepped inside. He stood at attention, having moved to where PFC Merrill had been not five minutes before, and saluted. He did not tremble nor were their tears in his eyes. In fact, the only thing Nimoux could see that betrayed Lt. Ferreiro’s emotional state was a bright redness in the man’s eyes. He’d been crying recently. That or he’d had an allergic reaction or he’d gotten high. Nimoux was betting on the first.

  “Welcome, Lieutenant,” said Nimoux. “You may stand at ease.”

  The man visibly relaxed, but only somewhat. He still looked uncomfortable, and Nimoux was quite sure the soldier did not want to be there. Nimoux did not blame him.

  “I’ve finished drawing up assignments for our new soldiers,” said Nimoux. “I’m going to be splitting them into two divisions; as is standard aboard this ship, there will be alpha and bravo operational detachments.”

  The soldier said nothing. He kept his eyes attentively on Nimoux, but not having been asked a direct question, elected to remain silent.

  “Before I go any further into the specifics of that,” said Nimoux, “I would like your official report regarding the action on Aleator One.”

  “I have no official report, sir,” said Lt. Ferreiro.

  “Then describe your experience for me, soldier.”

  “I took Ali, Rodriguez, and Merrill to the forward position you assigned us. We accepted command of the ranking Rosco soldier, moniker Alpha Two; we did this by your instructions, sir. There we met the enemy, there were a series of engagements. We continued to fall back from one defensive position to the next, until reinforcements arrived and overwhelmed the enemy. The enemy attempted to retreat, but were cutoff and surrounded. Some of them surrendered, but most of them were gunned down. It was a slaughter, sir.”

  “Very simple,” said Nimoux, thinking Lt. Ferreiro’s report had an obvious detached quality to it. “Aren’t you missing some details, such as what happened to our soldiers?”

  “Lance Corporal Ali and PFC Rodriguez were killed in the battle. Ali died first, sir. Then Rodriguez. Private Merrill and myself sustained no injuries.”

  “When Mr. Ali died, how did he die?” asked Nimoux. He watched Lt. Ferreiro carefully, paying special attention to his body language and tone of voice.

  “He was killed by enemy fire, sir. Two shots penetrated his neck, maybe more. I didn’t get to examine him; we were in the process of falling back.”

  “And when Mr. Ali died, what did you do?”

  “I fell back, following orders.”

  “I see,” said Nimoux. “And when Mr. Rodriguez died, how did that happen?”

  There was a long pause before Lt. Ferreiro spoke; however, when he did, he managed remarkably to keep his voice collected and calm. “We were prone at the last defensive position with orders not to retreat any further,” said Lt. Ferreiro slowly. “The enemy stormed our position in what was supposed to be overwhelming numbers. There was chaos and then…I noticed Diego, I mean Mr. Rodriguez, he was not responding to my command to move. I looked to my right and…” his voice cracked, despite his every noble effort to force it to sound neutral.

  “You saw that he was dead,” Nimoux said, finishing it for Ferreiro so he wouldn’t have to recount those details.

  Ferreiro recounted them anyway. “He’d been shot in the face, sir. Multiple times.” Ferreiro’s eyes narrowed as he spoke. He gave Nimoux a chilling stare, but Nimoux didn’t flinch.

  “And then what happened?” asked Nimoux.

  “Then…I led the charge against the enemy,” sa
id Lt. Ferreiro. “Reinforcements arrived and we pushed a counter attack. It was successful.”

  “When you charged, had reinforcements arrived? Or did that happen afterward?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Nimoux. “Because PFC Merrill—yes I promoted him—he swears to me that you charged before the reinforcements arrived. He says there’s no way you could have known that reinforcements were almost there.”

  Lt. Ferreiro looked trapped. “Then I guess that is how it happened. I’m not going to argue with PFC Merrill.”

  “Why did you charge?” asked Nimoux.

  “I was…strongly motivated to defeat the enemy, sir.”

  Nimoux looked at him shrewdly. “Strongly motivated, because of the death of Mr. Rodriguez?”

  “Yes,” said Lt. Ferrero unapologetically. “I had lost two soldiers under my command. I’m sure you know what that feels like, sir. How that can eat you up, all of a sudden, and take over.”

  More than you know, thought Nimoux, as he thought of the Altair mission, where, on Korrivan, he’d been forced to execute his own subordinate officers in order to maintain his cover. A choice he had struggled to find peace with every day since—and suspected he never would.

  “So that was it then?” asked Nimoux, doubtfully. “You lost a second soldier under your command and that caused you to enter a ballistic rage and charge the enemy? Knowing, as you must have, that doing so was likely suicidal?”

  Lt. Ferreiro thought about that before answering. “I suppose so, sir.”

  “I see.” Nimoux folded his arms. “Do you mind telling me why your reaction to Mr. Ali’s death was to follow orders and retreat with the rest of the men, but your reaction to Mr. Rodriguez’s death was to forget orders and charge the enemy—putting your life in jeopardy?”

  “With respect, sir, I already told you. I had lost two men by then, half of my command.”

  “You had lost two men. But losing the second man affected you much differently than losing the first,” said Nimoux. “And we both know that’s true. So, why don’t we stop playing games, and you come clean about the fact that Mr. Rodriguez’s death affected you much more deeply than Mr. Ali’s did?”

  Lt. Ferreiro looked angry at first, and Nimoux expected to encounter more stubborn resistance, but then, in a flash, Lt. Ferreiro’s rock-solid exterior was gone and the man slouched and began weeping. Nimoux had wanted to elicit an emotional response, mostly so he could assess the status of Ferrero’s emotional state, but he hadn’t expected to completely break him.

  “Yes,” said Lt. Ferreiro, wiping away tears. “Diego meant more. Mr. Ali was just another soldier. An acquaintance. Maybe even a friend, of a sort. But Diego,” Lt. Ferreiro stared at Nimoux through teary, red-stained eyes, “Diego was much more.”

  Nimoux nodded, accepting this as final confirmation of his suspicions. “Lieutenant,” said Nimoux, “please, take a seat.”

  The soldier looked embarrassed and almost too confused, or possibly too ashamed, to reply. “I insist,” said Nimoux, gesturing toward the chair opposite him. After a short pause, Ferreiro withdrew the chair and sat. His elbows collapsed to the desk and he buried his face in his hands.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, muffled. “I’m so, so, so very sorry.”

  Nimoux wasn’t sure how best to reply. “Tea?” he offered, instinctively. He slid the thermos across the desk. “It’s still hot.”

  “No, thank you, sir,” said Ferreiro, looking up once more. His face a mess, every blood vessel in his eyes seemed to be bulging. The tears continued to flow, but the sobbing stopped.

  Nimoux fished around the cabinets in the desk until he found an old, dusty packet of tissues. He wiped off the dust then slid them across the table to Ferreiro, who, obviously ashamed of himself, ripped into them and blew his nose. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely audible. Then, a little louder, “I’m not fit to be one of your soldiers, am I sir?”

  “Now, why would you say that?” asked Nimoux.

  Ferreiro snorted. “Look at me. I’m a disgrace.”

  “Not a disgrace,” said Nimoux. “You are in mourning.”

  “I’m weak.”

  “The ability to feel emotions, especially pain, in particular pain for someone else, that is not weakness, it is strength. It is something invaluable to our species,” said Nimoux. “Especially when we feel that pain…for love.”

  Lt. Ferreiro sat up suddenly, shooting Nimoux a look as if to say: How did you know? Nimoux raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, as if replying: Did you really think it was a secret after all of this?

  “I take it that means you’ll be discharging me,” said Lt. Ferreiro. “Oh well, probably for the best.”

  “Now, why in the universe would you think that?” asked Nimoux.

  Lt. Ferreiro stared back at him dumbfounded. “Because of the Reg 206(B).”

  Ah yes, 206(B), thought Nimoux. The regulation did not forbid homosexual relationships among members of Special Forces, contrary to what many gay servicemen were led to believe upon recruitment, rather it forbade sexual and romantic relationships between members of Special Forces concurrently serving at the same post. Nimoux didn’t personally agree with the rule; he subscribed to the school of thought that a person cannot help who he or she finds attractive—it simply happens—however, he did understand the use in not allowing such relationships to blossom among soldiers serving together. That point, however, now that Rodriguez was deceased, seemed not to matter anymore.

  “What does 206(B) have to do with anything?” asked Nimoux.

  Lt. Ferreiro looked at him incredulously, as if in shock that Nimoux was making him walk him through it out loud. “You know…” said Ferreiro. “Because of me and Diego Rodriguez…”

  “Lieutenant,” said Nimoux. “I did not bring you here for a reprimand. True, you may have breached 206(B) under Captain Pellew’s watch, but that makes no difference to me for two reasons. Firstly, because, considering the state of everything, you are not currently in breach of 206(B), irrespective of how things stood yesterday and before. And, secondly, because whatever you and Mr. Rodriguez had, which you unfortunately had to keep secret about, was undoubtedly something beautiful, and rich, and a wonderful part of the human experience. And what kind of a commander would I be—indeed what kind of person would I be—if I made it my business to interfere with that and condemn you for it?”

  Lt. Ferreiro stared at him with disbelief. Nimoux continued, “The thing about love is that it doesn’t respect regulations or boundaries, no matter how many we try to give it—it is always a futile endeavor. You should be proud of what you and Mr. Rodriguez had and cherish the memory of it, not be ashamed. Never ashamed.”

  “Thank—thank you, sir,” said Lt. Ferreiro, tripping over his own disbelieving words.

  “No thanks are necessary,” said Nimoux. “This is a matter of common human decency.”

  “Captain Pellew saw things differently, sir.”

  “Well then, Captain Pellew was a fool,” said Nimoux. “And now he’s a dead fool. What he said or thought is no longer relevant. And to be honest, I never particularly liked him anyway. The bastard shot me.”

  That got a genuine laugh out of Lt. Ferreiro, breaking through his wall of tears and sorrow. “Permission to speak freely, sir?” he asked.

  “Of course,” said Nimoux. “What do you think we’ve been doing the last several minutes?”

  “Sir, I, I never liked Captain Pellew either. He gave me this rank, promoted me in front of the others, he seemed to value my skills, but the man was a bully. And Rodriguez and I lived in fear that he would find out about us. Forgive me, but I am shocked to learn that you are so different.”

  “Let us hope I am,” said Nimoux. “At the very least, I hope I do not repeat his mistakes and get the entirety of Special Forces killed while fighting a single enemy.”

  This elicited another laugh from Lt. Ferreiro, but it was a darker, more sombe
r laugh.

  “Anyway, Lieutenant, I didn’t order you in here to censure you. I ordered you in here to ask you a question.”

  “Ask away, sir.”

  “How long do you need?” asked Nimoux.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” Ferreiro looked confused.

  “I said, how long do you need?”

  “For what, sir?”

  “Until you are ready to return to duty,” said Nimoux.

  “I’m ready now, sir.”

  “No offense, Lieutenant, but you are not ready. Nobody would be ready after just going through what you have experienced. Soldier, I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It is okay to mourn. In fact, it’s more than okay, it is necessary. To not mourn would be to deny an important aspect of our precious humanity. It would mean bottling our emotions up, one at a time, until one terrible day when they inevitably crack the bottle and all come crashing through. I will not have that among my soldiers. Therefore, I am ordering you to take a few days, mourn, and collect yourself. Then, and only then, will you return to duty—as commander of operational detachment Bravo. But until such time, I am asking you again, how many days do you need?”

  “Two, sir. And thank you, sir.”

  “Two it is.”

  Lt. Ferreiro stood up and saluted.

  “And soldier,” said Nimoux. “When you report back to me in two days, you will be ready for action. With nothing bottled up. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal clear, sir!”

  “Very good. You’re dismissed.”

  ***

  “That’s what I’m saying,” said the doctor. “I don’t think it’s anything to overly worry about. Keep an eye on it, report any symptoms, but don’t overly worry. You’re not dying. I promise you that.”

  Easy for you to say, thought Shen. You’re not the one transforming into a freak. You’re not the one haunted by nightmares of Tristan and at risk of a fate probably worse than death…

  “And none of it concerns you?” asked Shen again. “Did you read the report? I was in a vacuum, exposed to it for minutes, not seconds. Yes, I did eventually get some air and protection from a dead soldier’s climate suit, but I was exposed for a long time. I got hypoxia, I got ebullism, I got…all those medical conditions. And yet, I survived. Not just that, I managed to remain conscious the whole time. None of that seems strange to you?”