The Phoenix Reckoning (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 6)

by Richard Sanders

  Calvin wondered why Ferreiro had wanted to make a point of that. Truthfully, Calvin did not care.

  “Sir, I request a full sweep of the ship. Something has gone wrong and I need to find my CO and make certain he’s all right.”

  Calvin resisted the urge to smirk. “I assure you Nimoux is just fine.”

  “With all due respect, sir, you don’t know that.”

  “No,” said Calvin, “I suppose I don’t. But, what I do know is, is that I’m in command of this ship. And I’m not about to alarm and awaken my overexerted crew to engage in an unnecessary manhunt. If you want to search for Nimoux, be my guest, only do it on your own time. Oh, and stay out of the crew quarters, the White Shift officers need their sleep and I don’t want you disturbing them.”

  “Understood, sir,” said Ferreiro and, with a salute, he left.

  Calvin shook his head and smiled as he watched the door close. He supposed Ferreiro had somehow become to Nimoux what Miles was to Calvin, loyal to a fault, eager to jump to conclusions, and dependable as hell. It did make him wonder what exactly Nimoux had done to win over Ferreiro’s allegiance so quickly.

  It must have something to do with the action on Aleator, Calvin mused. And, with that, he didn’t give it another thought.

  Instead, it was the files in his hands that grabbed his attention. Now that they were properly organized, he could begin to make coherent sense of them.

  The plan was surprisingly detailed, considering the limited information Rez’nac had been able to provide. Nimoux must have interviewed the Polarian in depth and squeezed every last drop of knowledge out of him regarding the Prelains and the Forbidden World. There were sketches, mockups, planned trajectories for the pods to take after release from the Nighthawk. Nimoux had even included a crew manifest, identifying which soldiers and officers were best suited to the mission, why, and what roles they would play. In the command role was written: Nimoux/Cross obviously Nimoux wanted to give Calvin the option to command the away mission, but not write him in so as to appear obligated to do so.

  It was a thoughtful courtesy, but an unnecessary one; in each instance, Calvin scratched out the word Nimoux with his black pen and circled Cross so it would be clear. The away mission was dangerous, and that meant he must be the one to lead the operation. Too many people had died for him, or with him, and he wasn’t about to stay safely on board the Nighthawk while sending out more to likely do the same. Besides, there was Nimoux’s recovering wound to think about. It would severely hamper his ability to move, and although it wouldn’t negatively effect his ability as a field commander, the mission he’d outlined here required a great deal of stealth and tremendous mobility.

  “That settles it,” said Calvin aloud. “Cross is in, Nimoux is out.” He would leave Nimoux behind to remain in charge of the Nighthawk and oversee the extraction of the away team once the objectives were complete—assuming any of them were still alive to escape.

  In short, it was the single most detailed, best thought out plan Calvin had ever seen that was also completely insane, and by some definitions, suicidal. The only detail that bothered him was the suggestion that—according to Rez’nac—communication between the away party and the Nighthawk would be impossible, which meant timing was everything. But, assuming they could manage that aspect of it, and were able to execute the designated objectives without tripping over some unforeseen pitfalls, it should work. It’s as perfect as possible, he thought, reasoning that he couldn’t have devised a better strategy himself. He made a mental note to give Nimoux credit for his fine work the next time he saw him.

  By the time he was through going over every detail of Nimoux’s plan, Calvin glanced at the clock and was surprised to see how much time had passed. He’d spent the better part of three hours combing over the details, and now had left himself with less than half a night’s rest to sleep.

  With a sigh, he put the notes back into the folder, set it on his desk, and then left the CO’s office, headed for deck five. He knew he’d been robbing himself of too much sleep lately, and that was going to eventually catch up to him if he wasn’t careful, but tonight he didn’t regret it.

  Eventually, he was lulled to sleep while his mind still turned, thinking through the details of Nimoux’s plan. He even dreamed he was there, on the Forbidden World’s surface, deep inside the heart of the Citadel. It was a vague, almost detail-less dreamscape, but, as he stood there, believing he had made it, he felt a sinking feeling overpower him. At first, he thought it was fear, but it wasn’t. It was regret. Deep probing regret, and anger. The anger of a thousand suns.

  He awoke in a sweat, panting, and it took him the better part of a minute to reclaim his bearings and realize that it had only been a dream. He didn’t wonder what the dream meant—dreams don’t mean anything—but instead felt frustrated that his sleep had been so poor, and so short, and that he’d awoken with less than ten minutes before his alarm was set to ring.

  Oh, well, he thought. Time for another day.

  ***

  He peeled his eyes open and saw the ceiling of someone’s personnel quarters. At first, he assumed it was his cabin, but then he heard the breathing of another body next to his. He felt her warmth under the sheets and then he remembered what had happened; it made him smile.

  Life is full of joys and sorrows, Nimoux reflected, but last night was something even greater. It had been a night of passion, lovemaking, and unadulterated bliss. It had been a long time since Nimoux had been in love with someone, or even felt romantic attachment to another person, but right now, lying here next to Summers, listening to her softly snoring, he could not help but feel a renewed spark inside him.

  He rolled over to his side and looked at her, tracing her button nose and luscious lips with his eyes. She was stunningly beautiful, even in sleep. He watched her for a time, probably not longer than five minutes; the sight of her was ever so captivating.

  He felt as though he’d fallen through a window and into a painting, and there, splashed upon the canvas, lay the masterstroke of the greatest artist of all—nature—and that masterstroke was the physical perfection that was Summers Presley. Nimoux knew better than to allow himself to develop an attachment to her solely based on her natural beauty—which was, if anything, profound—and truthfully, he did see more in her than just her astoundingly good looks. He thought she was intelligent, loyal, a hard worker, devoted, and, above all, the kind of trustworthy person that he would want to be with. Because of those reasons, and her obvious beauty, Nimoux was able to justify his developing feelings for Summers. Meeting her seemed like a life-changing event; it didn’t make up for the loss of his ship and crew, and the hell he’d had to endure on the prison world of Gamma Persei Three, but it felt like it almost did. For all the suffering he’d been forced to endure, and all the darkness he’d had to witness—and create—now, before him, was a shining light, a petite, beautiful, brilliant beacon of hope that felt like a breath of fresh air that his lungs had sorely needed.

  I love you, Summers Presley, he thought, making certain not to say the words aloud. Still, it felt good to think them.

  After another minute or two, he couldn’t help himself, and he woke her by gently taking her cheek in his hand and lightly kissing her.

  She kissed him back, her eyes still closed, as she slowly woke from her sleep. Eventually, her eyes peeled open, and upon seeing him, she scooted away.

  “So, it wasn’t a dream?” said Summers, sounding halfway alarmed.

  “No, not a dream,” he said, reassuringly. He scooted closer to her, and in response, she moved away again…maintaining a bubble of distance, much to Nimoux’s chagrin and surprise.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “This—” said Summers, sitting up. Then, startled that she was physically exposed, hurriedly covered her front with the bed sheet.

  “It’s all right,” said Nimoux, as reassuringly as he could. He reached out his hand for her to take. She didn’t.

&
nbsp; “This was a mistake,” said Summers, looking racked with guilt.

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Nimoux. “It was poetry.”

  Summers shook her head. “We’re officers. Both of us. We know better than to get involved.”

  “We’re also human,” said Nimoux. “Both of us. And that means something too.”

  Neither of them spoke for about a minute. Nimoux racked his brain for the right thing to say. He desperately didn’t want Summers to regret the night they’d spent together; for him it had been the best thing that had happened to him since…longer than he could remember.

  “That wasn’t like me,” she said, then she stared up at the ceiling. “I knew better.”

  Nimoux had spent years trying to learn to master his feelings, those exercises and that discipline had been the only way he’d managed to survive and cope with the atrocities he’d been forced to commit on the Altair Mission. However, even with the benefit of such emotional mastery, he wasn’t made of stone, and hearing Summers say that—that it was a mistake, that she knew better—it stung him on a deep level. He tried hard not to show how much it emotionally wounded him. “So, I guess now isn’t the best time to ask if it was as good for you as it was for me,” he joked, trying to deflect.

  Summers ignored him and continued to stare up at the ceiling; it was several seconds before she replied. “This never happened.”

  “But it did happen,” he said. “And it was wonderful.”

  “No, it didn’t,” she said, a bit more forcefully. “And this can never happen again.” She sat up and looked at him. “Agreed?”

  Nimoux couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Last night she had come onto him, and welcomed his embrace, and she was tender, and warm, and wanting him—practically needing him. And now, with the coming of the dawn—or the nearest thing to it on a starship—it was as if she’d transformed into a completely different person.

  “No, not agreed,” he said gently, but firmly. “I have feelings for you, Summers Presley.”

  “Most of the men on this ship have feelings for me,” she said dismissively.

  “No, not like that,” said Nimoux. “I have actual feelings for you, the whole you, not just the way you look.”

  She looked sad when he said that. “I’m sorry, Captain,” she said, looking at him with radiant, sincere eyes. “I take full responsibility for this, and I’m sorry for leading you on. For putting you in this position.”

  Nimoux opened his mouth to protest, but she didn’t let him get a word in edgewise. “Please don’t take it personally, you’re a wonderful man. It just…it wouldn’t work out between us.”

  “Why?” asked Nimoux. It was the question that any man would instinctively ask in such a situation, but also the kind of question that was nearly always best left without an answer.

  “I’m so sorry for leading you on the way I did,” said Summers.

  “Why wouldn’t it work?” Nimoux repeated the question.

  “It’s just…there’s someone else,” said Summers. “Please, don’t take it as an insult. Really, you were wonderful. It’s just…well…you know.”

  “Who is he?” asked Nimoux, too curious not to ask about the other man—or woman—who had stolen Summers’ heart.

  “I—” Summers began to say, then she seemed to change tracks. “I think you should go now, sir. Discreetly, if you please would.” She spoke politely, even respectfully, but there was no room for interpretation in her tone of voice. She really did want him to leave. It hurt, but by now, knowing that she had her eyes on someone else, Nimoux agreed that it would be better for him to go. So he got out of the bed and dressed himself.

  “And if I might ask one more thing of you, Captain?”

  “Promise me you won’t tell anyone about this. About what transpired between us. Will you do that for me?” her eyes pleaded with him even more than her words did, and she was impossible to refuse.

  “My lips are sealed,” he said, promising to keep their late-night foray a secret.

  “Thank you,” she said, giving him a wan smile.

  “Although, I have to admit,” said Nimoux, “I’m not sure what that makes us. Friends? Colleagues? Ships that passed in the night?”

  “I hope we can be friends,” said Summers. “Despite all of this.”

  “Friends it is, then,” said Nimoux, managing to make peace inside himself regarding the matter. It wasn’t what he wanted; in fact, it left him feeling a bit used even, but he knew there was nothing he could do to change Summers’ mind, and that obsessing over it was little different than torturing himself for no reason. And so he accepted it for what it was. They’d met, they’d shared one glorious night together, and that was it. Instead of focusing on all the future days and nights they might have shared together, he opted instead to cherish the memory of this one and move forward, focusing on the future instead of the past.

  “Thank you, Captain,” said Summers. “For understanding.”

  “Of course, Commander.” With that, he left.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Sound General Quarters,” said Calvin. “All decks, condition one.”

  “Aye, aye, Cal,” said Miles, as he adjusted the Nighthawk’s alert status.

  They had emerged from alteredspace once again, only this time it was not to avoid a minefield of thousands of black holes. No, this time, what awaited them was something truly bizarre, mesmerizingly beautiful, and far more dangerous.

  “We have reached the Veil,” said Rez’nac. He stood on the bridge, to Calvin’s right, with arms folded as he watched—as they all watched—the wall of flickering lights and colors that filled the entire window seem to grow closer.

  “That thing is enormous!” said Calvin, as he stared out the window at it, trying to make sense of just what it was—and finding it impossible to do so. His eyes flicked to the 3D display, which apparently was also unequal and unsuited to the task, as its rendering of the Veil was incoherent, garbled chaos.

  “It’s beautiful,” commented Rain. She’d come to the bridge about an hour ago to deliver a report and had simply stayed. Perhaps her own curiosity about the Veil—the keeper of Polarian Forbidden Space—was what had compelled her to remain, so she could see it for herself.

  “It truly is,” said Cassidy from her seat at the Ops controls. “Like a colossal, cosmic, chaotic work of art.”

  Now that they drew nearer, Calvin could more plainly see what the walls of the Veil—if one could accurately describe them as walls—looked like. Every color seemed to be represented, including, no doubt, the colors that defied the visible spectrum. Numberless bolts and arcs of energy seemed to leap about, entirely randomly, creating some sort of field, or matrix, of energy that seemed to stretch on eternally as a plane in all directions. From their perspective, the Veil looked entirely flat, like some kind of monstrous curtain that separated them from the space on the other side, and, by any measure, there was no way around the Veil. To get to, or even see, what lay beyond the sparking, firing, glowing bands and beams of light and color and energy, one had to go directly through the Veil, somehow penetrating it.

  “Shields are raised, Calvin,” said Miles.

  “Based on my scans,” said Cassidy, “those surges of energy dead ahead are of such magnitude that they will have no trouble ripping through our shields and incinerating the Nighthawk in less than a millisecond.”

  “No way,” said Miles, looking at her argumentatively. “I’ve pumped up our shields by augmenting them with all our excess auxiliary and tertiary power. They could take a direct hit from the primary beam weapon of an alpha-class dreadnought. Are you telling me that those lightning bolts out there—or whatever they are—are more powerful than that?”

  “Yes. By about a billion times,” said Cassidy. “I recommend we divert course. And…the sooner the better.”

  “Stay the course,” said Calvin. “Don’t accelerate, don’t decelerate, proceed ahead exactly as Rez’nac instructs.”

  “Aye, aye, si
r,” said Jay, looking nervous at the helm. Calvin was ready to relieve him at a moment’s notice, should the need arise.

  “The shields are irrelevant,” said Rez’nac. “Keep them up if it makes you feel more comfortable, but your woman at operations is correct, the Veil cannot be stopped by mere shields and armor.”

  That was a chilling thought to Calvin, who was about to risk his life, the lives of everyone on his ship, and the Nighthawk itself on the claims by one Polarian that he could navigate them safely through the impenetrable wall of energy that stretched out before them. This being the same Polarian who believed that said wall of energy was not a mystery of nature, but rather a gift from the divine. In short, he was placing his fate, and everyone else’s, in the hands of an extremely superstitious person.

  I have no choice, he reminded himself, as the chaotic wall of energy seemed to loom large before them, this is the only way.

  “Approaching the Veil,” said Jay. “Contact in one minute and thirteen seconds.”

  “Steady as she goes, Mister Cox,” said Calvin.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Summers, who was sitting in the XO’s chair to Calvin’s left, grabbed his arm to get his attention. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she asked, mouthing the words quietly, so as not to seem to alarm the others—or appear to undermine his authority.

  “You know the answer to that,” was his reply.

  “One minute,” said Jay.

  “At this point, I should take over the helm,” announced Rez’nac; he looked to Calvin for permission.

  Calvin nodded. “Rez’nac, the ship is in your hands. Jay, stand down.”

  Jay looked intensely relieved as Rez’nac seated himself in the pilot’s chair and strapped the headset onto his overly large Polarian head.

  “I will also require access to the kataspace transmitter,” said Rez’nac.

  “It’s all there,” said Calvin. “Just do what you have to do.”

  “I shall.”