The Phoenix Reckoning (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 6)

by Richard Sanders

  Just as she finished familiarizing herself with the surprisingly simple and pedestrian flight controls, finding herself disappointed at the lack of computerized assistance systems, word came over her earpiece that the transport had been loaded to capacity and was ready for launch. Seeing no reason to delay the inevitable, she signaled for her people to prepare for launch, then detached her ship and fired the keel thrusters to lift the vessel into the air. Of course, as a star transport, the vessel had no actual keel, but many small ships used such thrusters as a means to break free from any given landing pad.

  “This is Transport Kilo to Control One,” said Sarah into the radio, “requesting you evacuate the deck and disengage the navigational deflector, over.”

  “Copy that, Transport Kilo, the horn has already been sounded and the deck should be clear momentarily. Please hold position and await further instruction.”

  “Understood, Control One. Wilco.”

  She waited a good thirty seconds before receiving clearance to disembark. “All right,” she said, “let’s see what she can do.” She accelerated the vessel slowly, giving it a bit more lift so it could clear the bay, and then throttled forward at an increased rate of speed—faster than Control One would have liked. They said as much over the radio, but she insisted she had full control, and, as soon as she could, put some distance between her transport and the Arcane Storm.

  “Beginning initial descent protocol,” she radioed to her passengers. “It looks like we’re in for some stormy conditions once we’re through the stratosphere,” she said. “Then again, I can barely read this damned, dated terminal. In any case, I suggest you strap in and brace yourselves.”

  The damned, dated terminal proved to be correct. At first, the descent through the exosphere was gentle enough, and then, upon slipping through the thermosphere and into the mesosphere, the heat came. Blinding, fiery heat that threatened the integrity of the craft and obscured most of her outside vision. Sarah used the various terminals and limited computer projections to help guide the craft lower, cautious of her angle of attack, as she tried to force a controlled descent; she hoped Tristan had been right, and there wasn’t a single chink in the transport’s old-fashioned heat shield. Which, from what Sarah had observed, consisted of lightweight, heat-resistant tiles. In this day and age, it was the equivalent of wearing a chainmail vest to protect oneself from a handgun, but Sarah had been given little choice except to make do, and now they had reached it. Aerodynamic heating and atmospheric drag, two dangers that threatened to transform them into an exploding meteor.

  Come on, baby, stay together, she thought, as she guided the craft. Deciding that, at least if she did it this way, she would die as a shooting star.

  To Tristan’s credit, and that of the old tech, the vessel survived, managing to enter the troposphere of Remus Nine without burning them to cinders.

  At fifty kilometers above ground level, everything seemed calm. It was as if the transport slid downward upon an ocean of glass toward a painted surface of dark clouds directly below.

  It wasn’t until a little under twenty-five kilometers that the air became rough. The transport, caught by a strong wind sheer, jerked hard to port, threatening to throw the vessel into a spiral. Sarah was glad for her restraints then, as they held her firmly in place, even though her eyes blacked over momentarily as a result of the tremendous and sudden force.

  She kept herself conscious and alert, and by adjusting the yoke, managed to regain control of the vessel and get it back onto its course. She gave the computer new instructions, but limited as it was, she kept most of the controls on their manual setting. There would be more wind forces like that; Calvin had warned of sudden changes in air pressure and bizarre wind patterns when he’d piloted down to the surface.

  Well, if he can do it, I certainly can, thought Sarah.

  At about forty-five kilometers, the transport plunged headfirst into the uppermost clouds. They were dark and gray, and submerged the vessel in almost total darkness. Here, it was some kind of reverse, aerial hell; instead of violent fire wreaking havoc beneath the ground, where legend claimed the devils existed; on Remus Nine, if there were devils, they certainly existed in the air.

  With limited to no visibility, the craft plunged ever downward, thrown about like an arrow in a whirlwind. As they descended even further, the forces did not relent, and it took all the strength and cunning Sarah had to keep the vessel on a relatively direct and benign trajectory.

  “Good God, why would anybody ever come here?” she muttered, feeling her grip start to loosen on the yoke as she pushed and pulled as needed.

  Somehow, in the battle of it all, ancient space transport versus hellish gales, the altimeter stopped working. This left Sarah trapped in the clouds with minimal visibility, depending on a proximity alert system that was older than she was, and with no reliable way of knowing how far away from the ground she was. For all she knew, these thick clouds were a low-hanging fog that went all the way to the bottom.

  “Piece of shit…” she muttered, then she noticed lightning out the window. A whole lot of it. Electrostatic sprites leaping from cloud to cloud. Then came the rain, the transport plunged right into it and the cockpit window became soaked.

  “Weather, this means we’re close.” She estimated her maximum altitude at six-thousand meters, and probably less. She slowed the vessel’s descent to a snail’s pace and slipped through the clouds, hoping for some sign of her position.

  At what must have been just over a kilometer, the clouds parted and she caught her first glimpse of the ground. It was a barren wasteland, like she had imagined. The ground seemed more grey than brown, there was hardly any greenery to be seen, and their transport flew over a large river, whose churning liquid seemed more like the color and consistency of oil than water—at least from above.

  What took her by surprise, however, was the surprising number of buildings—no, more than just buildings—a network of mega-structures that still existed. The lights were out, they seemed in ill repair and abandoned, but they still haunted the surface, like ghosts, and it occurred to her that Remus Nine, before all of the horrors had been created and unleashed here, had been home to a great many people. The buildings and networks of structures existed in in thick, dense pockets, mostly, but if the rest of the planet’s surface featured similar construction, this once must have been home to no fewer than two billion people.

  Amazing, she thought. Then she felt a wave of sadness overcome her. Perhaps it was because of the now sorry state of the buildings, or the pounding rain, the constant rolling of thunder, the grim, almost grey-like terrain, or maybe it was the fact that there was not a soul to be seen. Whatever it was, there was something deeply saddening about this place. And eerie too.

  The wind died down, although the rain and lightning continued, and, after getting the transport back onto its original descent path and circling it once, she identified the LZ. There were three small blinking white lights in an open area near one of the larger complexes. Tristan had briefed her on how to recognize this and had instructed her to land the transport there. Sarah did as she was supposed to and made the touchdown as gentle as possible.

  “We’re here,” she reported. God knows why…she wanted to add as she looked out at the lifelessness of the many buildings and the dark, unwelcoming colors that seemed to coat everything from the ground to the sky.

  “Excellent job, Sarah,” came Tristan’s reply through the headset.

  “Yes, good work,” Shen’s voice trickled over the speaker also.

  “Come on, it wasn’t that hard,” said Sarah.

  “Well, in that case, terrible job,” quipped Tristan. “We had a rather bumpy ride back here.”

  Sarah ignored him. “So I got you here, now what?”

  “Do you see any of our other ships?” asked Tristan.

  “No, just us,” said Sarah.

  “Well, I suppose that make sense,” said Tristan. “Just be on the lookout; there will be m
ore of us coming. A lot more. Do try not to crash into one of the others.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes, even though no one could see her.

  After a minute, Tristan’s voice could be heard again. “We’re all unloaded now and the hatch is closed. You are clear to take off.”

  Music to my ears, she thought. As bad as the transport was, she felt safer in the air than on the ground. And Tristan and Shen had both implored her at some length, quite emphatically, not to keep the ship on the ground.

  She fired the keel thrusters, readying for liftoff.

  “I’ll put the bird back in the sky, but then what?” she asked.

  “Do a wide circle of the area and see if you can spot any transports or shuttles that aren’t ours,” said Tristan.

  “How will I know they aren’t ours?”

  “Because they will be either of Rotham or Alliance make, either way, they should stand out.”

  It chilled her to think that Shen and the others were walking into such a dangerous situation. Despite being safe in the air—well, safer—she wished Shen were with her, seated at co-pilot. Not down on the ground with the rest of the idiots.

  She lifted off to a safe altitude and began her circle, not so low that she risked striking a building, but not so high that she couldn’t spot a shuttle or a transport ship.

  “Sarah, be safe,” said Shen.

  “You too,” she replied.

  “Don’t worry about him,” said Tristan, “I’ll protect him. You just keep that pretty head of yours focused on finding signs of the enemy.”

  Sarah acknowledged him, though she didn’t like the mention of her pretty head, as if her outside features were pleasing but her brain empty. A chauvinistic saying that had mostly died off…but evidently not entirely. She had felt tempted to call Tristan out on it, but she liked the idea of the lycan protecting her Shen. Even if the lycan was something of a pig-headed jerk.

  She completed her first circle.

  “See anything up there?” asked Shen.

  “No, nothing. I’m detecting some inbound transports back in the direction of the LZ, but they are ours.”

  “No sign of the enemy then?”

  “Not that I can see,” said Sarah. “I’m going to circle around again, though.”

  “It could be that they’ve already come and left,” said Tristan, obviously broadcasting to more than just her.

  “If that’s the case,” someone else said, a voice Sarah did not recognize, “then we can expect an ambush when we get there. They will have left plenty of people behind.”

  “Agreed,” said Tristan. “Everyone be on your guard.”

  Sarah did not like the sound of this speculation. She finished her second loop around the area and noted that, by now, some of the other shuttles and transports had landed and begun offloading their people. Counting the group that she had ferried down, and these newcomers, she estimated that over a hundred lycans had made it to the surface—with more on the way.

  Well, strength in numbers, she told herself. Trying to focus on the fact that these people were on Shen’s side, and, the more of them there were, the safer Shen would be.

  “Sarah, do you see any sign of any Type I Remorii?”

  She had only ever heard of the Type I Remorii—zombie like savages that were feral, dangerous, and one of them had bitted Shen—and was subsequently responsible for all the changes and hardships Shen had been forced to endure since.

  “Not sure what I’m looking for exactly,” said Sarah. “But I don’t see anybody other than your own people.”

  “So, there’s no endless swarm of monster-like humanoids converging on our position?” asked Tristan.

  “Well…there’s your people,” said Sarah.

  “Very droll…” replied the lycan. “But seriously, if there are Type I Remorii out here, we need to know it—” his voice cut off abruptly. “What was that?”

  “I heard it too,” said Shen. “Down that hall, to the right.”

  “What?” asked Sarah. “What is it?”

  They ignored her.

  “It’s moving,” someone said. “Listen, you can hear the scratching, along the far wall and moving closer.”

  “And not just there either,” said Tristan. “Listen.”

  “I can feel it,” said Shen.

  “Feel it?”

  “Trust me,” said Shen. “The ringing, it’s painful…”

  “Are you all right?” said Tristan. Then a yell could be heard and the mic suddenly went silent.

  Sarah felt her heart skip a beat. “Someone please tell me just what the hell is going on?”

  No reply came.

  “Please report, over!” she tried again.

  Still no reply.

  CHAPTER 14

  Many starships designers had a lot in mind for what a crew would need while deployed into deep space: a lounge for socializing, a counseling center for psychological needs, a planning room for tactics and logistics; some starships even had “ready rooms” where pilots could be standing by, ready to storm the hangar and get to their starfighters; and the list didn’t end there. The Nighthawk, as a bare-bones stealth frigate, had none of these luxuries. And so, when Calvin decided it was time to call a meeting to discuss the strategy of their mission, he chose the observation deck, and considered himself lucky that the ship had come equipped even with that space.

  He had deliberately arranged for this meeting not to happen during White Shift, so, although they would each be missing some sleep because of it, nobody important had an excuse not to be there.

  Calvin, who was not normally punctual, had decided to arrive early. Now he was on the observation deck, gazing out the window at the great black nothing that was alteredspace, standing completely alone, and for the first time in a long time, he felt small. The universe was so tremendous and grand, the number of galaxies beyond counting. The number of stars even more numerous and, around many of those stars, an even greater number of planets. And, if the physicists were to be believed, this universe—this reality—was but one of an infinite number of realities, some of which had other Calvins, as real as him, branching off like a never-ending tree as his decisions and his reality went one way, and the others followed their own paths. Calvin was unsure if he believed the theory—not because he fancied himself a scientist—but because it was just strange enough that it defied his ability to truly comprehend it. Without meaning to, he caught himself reciting his favorite stanza from a hundred-year-old poem in his head.

  …are we but apes, traversing the stars? Our mighty works fleeting, mere smoke from cigars. With passion and toil and blood we achieve; our labors are meaningful—in that, we believe. But as kings rise so too do they fall. Ashes and ashes, death steals from us all. When the stars have winked out, and only coldness remains, will our lives have mattered? Or was it merely a game? A breath; an instant; a moment in time. A chance to exist. Pointless. Sublime. For when we step back, the full picture we see; there was never a reason for anything to be. And all that we do…an alluring illusion. Our grand moment in time, a creative delusion...

  The words resounded with him. He felt pointless and small. Like the author—now dead—must have felt. The words had outlived the poet, so that was something, but would they still be around in another hundred years? What about a hundred-thousand years? Nothing was truly immortal, not even an idea.

  Like most of humanity, Calvin did not believe in a god. At least, not some anthropomorphized deity living on a cloud, stroking a beard of wizard-like proportions, who whispered instructions discreetly to the chosen few—people who also happened to be the most insane, deranged, or otherwise untrustworthy people around. As such, he lived his life one day at a time, taking it for granted that anything mattered at all. Perhaps there is something more to all of this, he wondered silently, still gazing out at the great, vast, empty, nothingness. He knew Rain believed as much, although her beliefs were not very specific. Still, Calvin could not imagine what purpose there could possib
ly be—if there was a creator, who created the creator? And so on.

  He did not possess enough insight to have such a case against the meaningfulness of the universe to impeach the idea entirely; certainly there seemed to be something larger at play than the simple, entropy-driven, collective randomness that had somehow generated chunks of matter that not only had become self-aware, but had created works of art and, most intriguingly, had developed the ability to question their own existences. Then again, if something larger were being achieved, did the lives of each individual matter? Are we not but cogs in a machine? A machine that, history has shown us, is oiled by death and greased with blood—usually of the innocent?

  Calvin wondered if, because of the dark cloud that shadowed much of humanity’s history—let alone that of the other sentient species—that implied the possibility that any god-like, creating force that did exist, and could intervene on behalf of the innocent, and had so often chosen not to, if that meant such a god-force was evil for not doing so. Or, at the very least, apathetic.

  Our destiny is our own to make, he thought. We are not puppets on divine strings. Yet, despite all of his reasoning that things were what they appeared to be and nothing more—which he knew to be sound logic: one should presume the explanation that made the fewest assumptions—he still hoped there was something beyond this life. Some way for him to see Christine again. It seemed unlikely. Indeed, it seemed impossible. Yet a part of him had never let go of the hope of it.

  The door slid aside, a welcome interruption from his temporary existential crisis. Rez’nac entered the room and bowed to Calvin, and then approached.

  “I see that you are early as well,” said the Polarian.

  “The others should be showing up any minute now,” said Calvin.

  True to his word, the rest of them trickled in one by one. The next was Summers, who, after greeting Calvin and Rez’nac, took up a position leaning upon the railing by the window. She stood in nearly the exact spot she and Calvin had stood before—on that strange night—when he had briefly imagined he was falling in love with her. She looked at him now with such neutrality, it was as if the ulteriorly-motivated seduction had never occurred; how can you look at me with those eyes as though you never betrayed me? Still, he had found it within himself to forgive her, and even trust her, and so a jog down memory lane wasn’t about to undo all of that.