The Phoenix Reckoning (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 6)

by Richard Sanders

  Shen unloaded his magazine into the head of the closest one as they approached. It was enough to kill it, the corpse-like being, the sick, pale Type I Remorii fell to the ground, its head an explosion of bone, blood, and brain-matter that just didn’t look right. But then his trigger stuck and the gun stopped firing. He glanced around for half an instant, searching for an ally to come to his aid; no one was nearby, and the closest to him had problems of their own.

  He fumbled to release the magazine and slide in another, but his response was too slow. The two Type I Remorii were right next to him, so close he could feel their cold, moist breath. It smelled like death.

  He swung the carbine against the head of the nearest one, it cracked and broke as it struck its target, yet the blow did not kill the monster. It seemed only to slow it a little, to stun it. But the monster didn’t even fall down. As for the other, it was near enough to take Shen by the throat if it wanted to, or strike him with the truck-like force of blows these Remorii had proven capable of.

  Goodbye Sarah, thought Shen, realizing his time had come.

  But the blow did not come. Nor did they take him by the neck or exert any other force against him. They came within inches of him and then just…passed him by. As if they didn’t even see him. It didn’t matter that he had gunned one of them down and broken his carbine in a forceful blow against another; they seemed not to care about him at all. As they strode past him, Shen stared at them in utter disbelief, but only momentarily. His new friends were still in danger and the panic of battle had not left him, and before he realized what he was doing, he dropped the broken bits of carbine in his hands and wrapped his fingers around one of the Type I Remorii’s heads and quickly and forcefully snapped its neck. This did the trick and it slumped to the ground, dead.

  “Good work,” said Tristan, suddenly back at Shen’s side. He shredded the last of the three Type I Remorii that had approached Shen. His claws were a fury as he ripped out the monster’s heart, in the process dodging a swift and forceful blow that nearly managed to take him in the head.

  “Why?” asked Shen, not meaning the question to be directed at Tristan so much as simply wanting to voice his incredulity that the Type I Remorii had ignored him.

  Tristan seemed both to take it as an inquiry directed at him and to understand what was being asked. “It’s because they think you smell like them,” said Tristan.

  “What?” asked Shen, as he followed Tristan to go to the aid of Zarao, who had taken on at least five Remorii, and had evidently killed half as many more.

  “They identify you as one of them,” said Tristan; he dodged a succession of swift, powerful blows as he engaged the group of Remorii, taking some of the pressure off Zarao. “And I hate to be the one to tell you this but…you do smell like them.”

  Shen didn’t know what to say.

  “Come on then,” said Tristan, as he clawed another Type I Remorii to pieces. “Lend a hand.”

  ***

  The wound was flaring up again. Nimoux ached, yanked from his dreamless sleep, and found himself curled on his side, writhing on his bed. The gunshot wound had been treated, and, according to the doctors, had begun the healing process, but that was small comfort to Nimoux, who every now and then fell victim to bouts of agony like this one.

  He muttered something incoherent then bit down hard, trying to ignore the pain, as he rolled to his other side and reached for the translucent orange bottle on the nightstand of his cabin.

  He grabbed it and unscrewed the lid only to discover it was empty, except for a plastic freshness preserver. He set the bottle back down and then lay on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling.

  It will pass, he told himself, trying to find his center and forget about the pain. The pain shall pass.

  It didn’t. He tried every technique he could think of: counting breaths, meditation, attempts to return to sleep, biting down on his tongue, just enough to confuse the pain sensors in his body…nothing worked.

  Damn, he thought as he forced himself to sit up, and once he could muster the strength, stand to his feet.

  Fortunately, these episodes were rare and had not compromised his ability to perform his duties. In fact, most of the time, he didn’t even need to rely on the strong synthetic painkillers to move about and get on with his tasks. But every now and again, the pain simply seized him; it felt like a heated cannonball had been transplanted into his abdomen. The burning sensation, and the rest of the pain, was worst in the front, where the exit wound was. Where the bullet had actually struck him, in the back, there was pain there too but not nearly so much.

  He dressed himself in a robe, the simplest way to make himself look decent enough to traverse the starship’s corridors, and then left his quarters, headed for the infirmary. The pain’s intensity changed, increasing and decreasing like waves, but ultimately it refused to go away, no matter how much he focused upon his breathing exercises while he walked to the elevator.

  Once he reached the infirmary level, the pain had somehow gotten worse. He walked, almost limpingly, down the long stretch of corridor and to the infirmary doors. A crewman passed him on the way, giving him a strange look and then a proper salute, along with an offer of assistance. Nimoux politely refused. This, he thought, this I can do on my own.

  The door opened and he stepped inside the infirmary, immediately scanning it over for the primary attending physician, who, at this hour, should be Dr. Andrews. The man who had saved his life.

  Nimoux spotted Dr. Andrews easily, but it wasn’t the sight of him that made Nimoux’s heart temporarily stop and the pain disappear for a half second; it was the beautiful sight of the ship’s XO. Commander Presley seemed to be discussing something with Dr. Andrews, and deciding to be polite and wait, Nimoux remained by the door, far enough away not to eavesdrop, and enough out of sight not to draw their attention. The pain was back, despite the charming effects of Summers’ beautiful form, but Nimoux suppressed the pain, telling himself that he was in command of his body. He did not have to submit to it, no matter how hot it burned or fiercely it raged.

  Summers Presley…Nimoux thought, as he watched the two of them continue their conversation. Her back was to him and so he could not see her exquisite face, but, as he just now discovered, there were many more exquisite angles to the commander than simply her flawless face. It was with some embarrassment that Nimoux caught himself ogling Summers from behind; he tried not to think of her, or what she would look like out of that blue-and-black uniform, but the thoughts were difficult to keep out of his mind. Besides, they seemed to help with the pain. Suddenly burning ache wasn’t the only thing he could feel; now the pain was in competition against Nimoux’s baser instincts. He didn’t like how much sway such instincts could hold over a person, and had always taken great pride in his ability to be respectful of others—even in his thoughts—but this proved to be the hardest test of his resolve yet. I blame the wound, he thought to himself, trying to excuse the sense of shame that swelled inside him.

  After a few more seconds of conversation, which Nimoux could only guess at, Dr. Andrews handed Summers a report of some kind and the commander turned around. She did not spin around with the grace of a ballerina nor was there anything special about her movements, yet Nimoux could not help but find himself enchanted by the sight of her. And, now that he could see her front—especially her face—he found it even more difficult to keep his thoughts off of her. Part of him wondered what it would feel like to take her in his hands, feel her warm skin, and…No, he commanded himself. No, I am better than this.

  “Captain,” said Summers, once she was near enough to notice him standing by the door. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here for some medicine,” said Nimoux.

  “Are you all right?” Summers approached, looking concerned. She stood so close to him now that he could smell the scent of her hair; it was a superb fragrance that seemed to combine lavender with peach and vanilla. Their eyes locked and he was quickly lo
st inside the green irises that seemed to have the depth of the sea and yet the light of the stars all within them.

  He felt his face going red and so he blinked and looked away. “Yes, Commander, thank you,” he said. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of pain.”

  Summers looked down at Nimoux’s abdomen, as if to examine the exit wound, but he was entirely covered in his robe. Or maybe that wasn’t where her eyes were probing…no, stop that, he commanded himself in his mind.

  “I’m sorry to hear that you are in pain,” said Summers.

  Nimoux nodded.

  They stood there for half a moment, neither speaking, both seeming to soak in the other. Then it was Summers’s turn to look embarrassed. “Oh, yes, well,” she said, darting aside, “please allow me to get out of your way. I’m sure you need to see Dr. Andrews right away.”

  The pain of his wound said yes, but all the rest of him thought the medicine could wait. Before he could say anything further, though, Summers saluted and made to leave.

  “And, Captain,” she said, stopping just outside the exit, her face a distinctly warmer color than before. “It was…nice to see you.”

  “You as well,” said Nimoux. With that, the door closed and Summers was gone.

  “Well, well, well,” said a voice from directly behind him, the speaker was so close that it nearly startled Nimoux to hear him. Somehow, with all his attention on Summers, his trained special forces instincts had melted away and he had allowed someone to get the drop on him. In this case, that someone was Dr. Andrews, Nimoux noted as he turned around. The doctor was smiling, despite looking rather tired. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you two had a thing for each other,” his smile became a smirk.

  Nimoux wasn’t sure which he felt most, the pain of the wound, the embarrassment at having his thoughts and feelings called out by the doctor, or confusion about how he should handle this encounter.

  He opted for a strategy of noncooperation. “Mister Andrews,” said Nimoux, “the wound has flared up again, I…need something for it.” It was difficult for Nimoux to admit when he had a need, he preferred to be self-sufficient, a person who could help raise others up without needing such help in return. But there was little he could do for himself regarding a gunshot wound. Ergo, he was here.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Dr. Andrews, his smile fading. “But let’s not get ourselves too worried; these flare ups are quite normal. Especially for someone on such a low dose of painkiller as you.”

  “The Xinocodone is a highly addictive substance,” said Nimoux. “Besides, it dulls the senses.” Although he was not a teetotaler, Nimoux tended to avoid anything that impaired his judgment or affected his senses, no matter what effect it had on his mood.

  “You are taking a very controlled dose—a minimum dose, really,” said Dr. Andrews, “I’m not worried that you will develop a dependence and I stand by my earlier suggestion that you accept the full prescription, and properly effective prescription dosages, so that you needn’t suffer more than necessary.”

  “I appreciate the advice, Doctor, and, as ever, I shall take that under advisement,” said Nimoux. He just needed a little of the Xinocodone, just enough to stop the flare ups; otherwise, he could deal with the pain through the use of anti-inflammatories, meditation, and good old-fashioned self-discipline. Such were his preferred methods.

  “You’re going to take the minimum dose at the minimum quantity again, aren’t you?” said Dr. Andrews. It was a rhetorical question. “Very well, before we get to that, let me just change my gloves and take a look at the wound itself, if you don’t mind. I’d like to make sure everything is on track and that there is no infection. You are taking the anti—”

  “Yes, I am taking the anti-infection drugs and everything else useful that you have prescribed to me.”

  “Okay…” said Dr. Andrews, likely realizing that that was the best cooperation he was going to get out of his patient. He replaced his gloves with new ones. “Now, if you’ll kindly sit over there and take off that robe, this should only take a few minutes.”

  If the pain had hurt before, now it was overkill. The doctor poked and prodded at the injury, no doubt as gently as possible, but each touch felt like a javelin thrust, and Nimoux was forced to clench his teeth to keep from making an outburst.

  Four Hundred; Four-Hundred and One; Four Hundred and Two, he attempted a basic counting exercise in an effort to distract his mind from the searing pain.

  “Hmm…” said Dr. Andrews, using that tone that implied bad news was about to follow. Nimoux braced himself.

  “Tell it to me straight, Doctor,” said Nimoux.

  “Well, there are some positive signs here, and there has been some definite healing—although it’s a bit premature to tell. I am also seeing signs of what could be infection. I’m going to have to take a sample for testing; I assume I have your consent.

  Nimoux was certain it was going to hurt like hell, but gave consent anyway. He was right; by “sample” Dr. Andrews had apparently meant six tiny incisions and the removal of six tiny samples, along with some blood. “There that ought to do it,” said Dr. Andrews, once he was finished bandaging him back up.

  Thank God, thought Nimoux. He felt on the very cusp of doubling over in pain.

  The doctor sent him on his way with a new bottle of Xinocodone, along with a different anti-infection medication, and strict instructions to keep the wounds bandaged, but to change the dressings with clean ones at intervals that, quite frankly, sounded annoyingly often. But, if that was the best way for him to get back to feeling like his whole self, then that was what he would have to do.

  He took one of the pills before he left the infirmary, and by the time he reached his cabin, he was already starting to feel better. The sedative effects of the Xinocodone could be felt, although they were weak, and best of all the flaring, scorching, mind-numbing pain of his exit wound seemed to have died down, back to mere throbbing discomfort rather than the feeling of hell.

  Nimoux intended to return to sleep. After all, he would need to be up and alert soon so he could give his soldiers drill orders and get some work done on Calvin’s plan. It would prove difficult to organize a successful invasion of the Divine Palace on the Forbidden World with such little information about it. Nimoux had plans to grill Re’znac the next day and get from the Polarian warrior everything he knew, but until he did that, most of Nimoux’s ideas were based on guesses and assumptions that were not so well couched in probability to make him like them.

  He poured himself a cup of tea, the most relaxing blend he owned, and sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the bed. If he was careful, the pain wasn’t so bad, and he liked sitting on the floor—most often in the lotus position—not only was it good for his posture and overall well-being, the slight discomfort of it helped him to remain sharp and thoughtful.

  This time, though, try as he did, he couldn’t make himself feel sharp or alert any more than he could make himself begin working out the broader details of Calvin’s invasion plan. Instead, as he sipped his tea and relaxed, he found he could only think of Summers Presley. And a big, dopey, boyish grin spread across his face. He thought about what Dr. Andrews had said, that it looked like Nimoux and Summers each had a thing for each other, and Nimoux wondered if it could be true. Although it was entirely illogical and out of character for him, he found himself hoping that Summers did have feelings for him.

  Perhaps I have been a romantic desperado long enough, he thought. Maybe, just maybe, when all of this is over…

  With that last thought, he slumped over, and dozed off.

  CHAPTER 16

  It must have been her eighth pass around the LZ when she spotted them. Shuttles, several shuttles, landed in such a way to conceal them among the structures and debris of the ruined city.

  “I’ve got something here,” said Sarah into the radio. She descended as low as she felt comfortable, in order to get a better look. There were figures moving on the grou
nd, shrouded in dark clothes. They moved quickly, seemed hooded or cowled; most of them wore clothing that was either black or midnight blue, concealing them well as they scurried along the broken paved roads, moving at inhumanly fast speed.

  “What is it?” asked Tristan.

  “You’ve got company inbound,” said Sarah. “There are several shuttles here, I count at least nine or ten—there could be more.”

  “Did they just arrive or do they look like they’ve been abandoned here for some while?” asked Tristan.

  “Impossible to say,” said Sarah, straining her eyes and turning the transport around for another pass. “I see figures too, lots of them; it’s too dark to identify them, but they are a large group, swiftly converging on your position.”

  “More Type I Remorii?” asked Shen.

  “I don’t think so,” said Sarah, feeling a tingle along her spine. “I think they came from the shuttles. Besides, they’re too quick and too organized. I suspect—”

  “Type II Remorii,” said Tristan, cutting her off. “Sarah, can you get a target lock on any of them with the transports guns?”

  “I’ll try,” she said, swinging the transport around tightly and arming its few, primitive weapons. Target lock on the fast-moving humanoids proved to be impossible. She lit up the guns, firing in their general direction, and a lucky, high-caliber bullet my have caught one or two of them, but the rest simply scattered and continued racing toward the complex, closing in on Tristan and Shen’s group.

  “Any luck?”

  “Not much,” she said. “You can expect a lot of nasty company…and soon!”