The Phoenix Crisis

by Richard L. Sanders

  His mind wandered as fatigue finally set in and as his thoughts became emptier, he began drifting off to sleep. Only to be abruptly awakened by the noise of the intercom panel.

  “What?” he yelled hoarsely, almost rolling off the bed as he tried to get his bearings.

  The alert on the comm panel went off again. He staggered to get up and then rushed over to the panel. He slapped the button. “What is it?” He tried not to sound cranky but knew he did a poor job of it.

  “Midshipman Hughes here, sir.”

  “Did you find out more about that listening device?” asked Calvin. He knew that Hughes was putting in extra hours at the analysis lab, now that so much of their staff had left the ship, and for that Calvin was grateful.

  “No, sir. This is about the murder investigation of Staff Sergeant Patterson.”

  Calvin felt a solemnness overtake him. “Go on,” he said.

  “We’ve finished analyzing the DNA evidence found at the scene. In addition, after further study of Staff Sergeant Patterson’s remains, we’ve identified the cause of many of his injuries.”

  Calvin recalled the gruesome sight, probably the ugliest and most revolting thing he’d ever laid eyes on. The body had been thoroughly eviscerated, in particular the head which had been smashed to a pulp. The victim’s blood had then been used to paint a message on the wall in bone-chilling letters. JUSTICE.

  “It looked to me like the cause of death was severe blunt injuries and… a head smashing in,” said Calvin.

  “We were able to determine that Staff Sergeant Patterson died before his head was smashed in. There was an altercation—a very short one—and after physical blows, which cracked some of his bones, he was repeatedly slashed and stabbed by a sharp blade. Blood filled his lungs and that was the cause of death. After he was dead the attacker stomped on his head with significant force, enough to crush it. By studying the remaining bone fragments we were able to get an idea of the shape and texture of the boot.”

  Hearing these details made Calvin sick to think such an action had taken place on his ship, and therefore under his watch. It was hard to believe, and he’d be tempted not to if he hadn’t seen the corpse for himself. “I’m guessing the boot was a Polarian boot,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  It all added up. The Polarians had motive for the slaying—the victim had interrupted their sacred ritual. Polarian DNA had been found on the scene. The victim had been slashed and stabbed to death by a knife and Polarians were the only personnel who carried knives around—the humans used bayonets and only when deployed. The corpse had been slaughtered and displayed almost ritualistically and Polarians were well known for their value of rituals, and lastly the boot that had crushed the deceased’s head had been a Polarian boot. In Calvin’s mind this was certainly enough evidence for conviction. Sure it was technically possible that an extremely clever person with a lot of resources could have framed the entire thing to blame the Polarians, but Calvin could think of no one on the ship able to do so, and certainly no one with incentive to arrange all of that. It was time to put the issue to rest.

  “So which Polarian was our attacker?” he asked. He sincerely hoped the offending Polarian the DNA belonged to was one of the many who’d died on Remus.

  “After comparing the DNA sample to samples taken by Dr. Poynter during the inoculation process, we found a perfect match. The DNA belongs to Grimka.”

  Calvin felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Not only was Grimka one of the Polarians that had survived the Remus Nine mission, Grimka was also Rez’nac’s son. He did not look forward to breaking the news to the Polarian commander.

  “Thank you, was there anything else?” asked Calvin.

  “No sir.”

  Calvin shut off the comm and returned to bed. He stared up at the ceiling once more, in the darkness, and thought of what he was going to say to Rez’nac. And he wondered how the mighty Polarian leader would take the news.

  Calvin debated for some time whether or not to even deliver the news to Rez’nac, he considered delaying and even the idea of having someone else send him this information—sounds like a perfect job for Summers! But even as he thought it he knew those options were unacceptable. For whatever reason, Calvin was the only one Rez’nac truly respected, probably a cultural thing, and the news really needed to come from him. And, Calvin reasoned, some things were just better to get out of the way rather than let fester.

  He left his bed and returned to the comm panel. He instructed the computer to bypass his communication lockout and send a message to the Arcane Storm. He hailed Rez’nac by name and waited.

  After a couple of minutes the screen flickered to life and showed the large, square, greyish face of Rez’nac. His features were fierce but his eyes were kind, and he seemed glad to see Calvin. “Hello Captain,” he said in a warm tone.

  “I have some bad news for you, I’m afraid,” said Calvin. He took a moment to collect his thoughts.

  Rez’nac looked ready to hear it, in fact he looked ready for anything. “Go ahead,” he said.

  “I was able to identify the murderer. The one who slaughtered Staff Sergeant Patterson.”

  “And who was it?” Rez’nac looked more curious than anxious. He’d taken a keen interest in the investigation and no doubted expected to be kept in the loop regardless of Calvin’s findings. He’d personally seen to the safety of Calvin’s investigation officers—who’d conducted interviews of each Polarian after the murder had happened—and even though the interviews had produced no suspects, Rez’nac was still very involved in trying to solve the mystery. No doubt he hoped to acquit his people of the tragic deed. Calvin wished he had better news…

  “I’ll have my lab send all of the information to you, evidence, reports, everything… you’ll want to see the proof,” Calvin rambled, somewhat avoiding answering Rez’nac’s question.

  “Who was it?” Rez’nac asked again.

  Calvin had trouble forming the words but when he did, he didn’t falter or hesitate. “The murderer was Grimka.”

  “Ah,” was all Rez’nac said. His face remained hard and strong but something showed in his eyes. Not tears, for all Calvin knew Polarians had no tear ducts, but there was a pain visible in them. It made Rez’nac look almost human.

  “Like I said, I wish I had better news…”

  “Do not apologize,” said Rez’nac. “The truth is the truth. It respects no man and offers no quarter. It is better that you speak a painful truth than a pleasant lie.”

  Calvin nodded.

  “Please, send me all of the reports and evidence,” said Rez’nac. “I do not doubt your findings… I just… would like to see this for myself.”

  “Of course,” said Calvin.

  “And Captain,” Rez’nac said just as Calvin was about to terminate the call, “thank you for telling me. You have my sacred word that I will take care of this.”

  ***

  Rez’nac did not have to look at the evidence Calvin had sent him. He knew the kind of man Calvin was, he knew Calvin was not the type to dishonor himself with such a perverse lie. But Rez’nac checked over the data all the same, checked it and checked it again. Not wanting to believe what he saw. But as he looked at it, there was no escaping the conclusion.

  “All the many souls of Khalahar, forgive me,” he said aloud. “I have failed my own son.”

  He stormed away from the public office—it was one of a few rooms on the Arcane Storm that had been converted for general use. On this ship, like the Nighthawk, outward communication was restricted, but access to the basic networks and applications was not forbidden. In a strange way Rez’nac wished it had been, maybe then he could have delayed learning the truth a little longer. But he knew that was foolishness even as he thought it, it served no man and no purpose to delay knowledge. As cold and brutal as it often was, the truth was the only mistress a man could ever trust.

  He went to the converted barracks—a single crewman’s quarters that’d
been made into lodgings for the Polarians. There was sufficient room for them to spread out more but such was not their way, they preferred close quarters with their brethren.

  “Grimka!” Rez’nac said the instant he entered the room.

  “He is not here,” spoke the only other in the room. He bowed his head slightly when he addressed Rez’nac, but not as much as he should have. He and the other surviving Polarians were young and untempered, they had yet to learn their place.

  “Where is he, Ki’lar?”

  “He is on the flight deck, preparing for the Pon’yor.”

  Rez’nac felt some anger at this news. He was glad his son valued the Pon’yor and their other tender rituals, but it was not his place to prepare for the Pon’yor, or to organize one. He, like the others, belonged to Rez’nac. It was his place, not Grimka’s. “It would seem the offspring of my body has overstepped himself,” Rez’nac said.

  Ki’lar did not answer, except to bow his head again.

  Rez’nac left him and made for the flight deck. As he took swift long strides his hand curled and uncurled around his ceremonial dagger. More of an anxious habit than anything, but it helped him to focus his mind, and to ignore his pain. The physical beating he’d sustained on Remus ached him from head to toe, but it was nothing compared to the fire in his soul at the thought of his son’s actions. And what he had to do.

  “Grimka!” Rez’nac said boldly as he pushed through the door and stepped out onto the large flight deck. It wasn’t large compared to the flight decks of many spacefaring ships but it was larger than any room on the Nighthawk—which didn’t even have a flight deck or carry any launch-capable craft.

  Grimka stood in the middle of the room. His hair had been pulled back into a ceremonial braid and he wore his finest clothes. Around him were two of the other Polarians, the same ones that Rez’nac knew to be Grimka’s closest friends. Regardless of the friendship, they too belonged to Rez’nac and it would be fitting for them to witness what was about to take place.

  “Yes, father?” asked Grimka. He turned and looked at Rez’nac as he approached. His eyes were like steel but none of his body language showed any real defiance. That was wise.

  “You have dishonored yourself, and in so doing you have dishonored me, and the Polarian race, and worst of all you have dishonored the very Essences themselves,” Rez’nac did not stop until he was but a meter away from his son.

  “I am of the Essence of Qi’lara. I know no dishonor,” Grimka replied simply.

  “And I am of the Essence of Khalahar and I say that you do.” Rez’nac pointed at him. “I know that you slew the human soldier on the Nighthawk. Slaughtered him in cold blood. And I know that you dishonored yourself further by denying your actions when questioned by the humans. Do not dare to deny it to me,” his eyes narrowed and he stared at his son, teeth clenched.

  Grimka looked at the other Polarians, as if for support, then his eyes met Rez’nac’s again, and there was a change. He stood a little straighter and his muscles tightened, his face looked like steel and fire filled his eyes. “Yes, father. I did those things. And I was right to do them.”

  Rez’nac felt like he’d been dealt a lethal blow. He had come here expecting this, convinced of Grimka’s guilt, but a small part of him had still wished all of it to be a great mistake. Now that Grimka had confessed, and showed neither remorse nor regret for his deeds, a small part of Rez’nac died. “I am the one who decides what is right and what isn’t,” Rez’nac said fiercely. “For it is I who is of Khalahar. I am the master here. I am not yours. You are mine.”

  “The human deserved what he got,” grumbled one of the other Polarians, a youth by the name of Hrokki.

  “Silence!” Rez’nac said, turning his attention to the others. “You will not speak again until I allow you,” he looked from one to the other. They both lowered their heads, perhaps in shame. Rez’nac looked again to Grimka.

  “Hrokki is right,” Grimka said. “The human defiled our sacred ways. There is only one appropriate response, the Blu-qi! I did not murder him as a dark one in the night, I performed the Blu-qi as our ways demand.”

  The Blu-qi was a punishment ritual reserved for only the most heinous of crimes. And had it been Grimka’s place to decide the sentence, and had the victim understood the Polarian ways, Rez’nac conceded that his son would have been in his right. But it had not been Grimka’s place, it had been Rez’nac’s, and the slain human had not known their ways. “It was not your place to decide.”

  “What was there to decide?” asked Grimka with wide eyes. “The Blu-qi is our way!”

  “But the humans do not follow our ways!” said Rez’nac.

  “No father,” Grimka said, now drawing his ceremonial dagger. “It is YOU who does not follow our ways.”

  “You forget yourself again, Grimka,” said Rez’nac, reaching for his own blade.

  Grimka looked to the other Polarians. “I declare an Arahn-Fi!” The others looked up in shock.

  “You would challenge me?” asked Rez’nac in disbelief. His son, who had never known true war, and had never bled true blood, was no match for him. Why dishonor himself further?

  “The Essences demand it,” said Grimka. “You have become lost, father. You may no longer lead us. For you are no longer guided by their light.”

  “How dare you?” Rez’nac felt a surge of anger, strong as tidal forces, pour through him.

  “You bring us into the unclean company of humans, you submit us to them—that they may be our masters, you shed our blood to die in their wars, you poison our souls with their tainted politics and interests—none of which are our concern,” said Grimka, citing a list of accusations that struck Rez’nac as too ready not to have been prepared—clearly Grimka had been planning this rebellion for some time. “And you take us far from our homeland, away from the souls of the Essences. Ever since we have left I have not felt them. Have you?” He looked from Rez’nac to the others. “Have any of you?”

  “No,” they both admitted.

  Rez’nac felt his fury boil over. “And what would you have me do? You and all your wisdom of a newborn child.”

  “It is clear what we must do. We must return to pilgrim. It has been nigh six months since last any of us pilgrimmed. Already our skin is beginning to show it.” He looked down at himself and then at the others. “You see how faded we have become?”

  Rez’nac did not see. As far as he could tell Grimka and the other youthful Polarians were as blue-hued as they’d always been. True, any time spent away from the Stars of Pilgrimage would cause the skin to lose some of its vibrant blue color, but it was not something to be concerned about. The Polarian youths had made the blueness of their skin a symbol of their piety and worth, a foolish belief. One that was at its core self-centered and vain. But one that Rez’nac knew had been taking hold of this younger generation. And, as the three youths before him took sight of him, and judged him for the greyness of his skin—its blue almost completely faded away—they took it as a sign of infidelity. Clearly, in their minds, he ought to be more pious. Like they saw themselves.

  “No matter how many trips around the Pilgrimage Stars you make, whether it be one or ten-thousand, no number is enough to achieve the calling of your birth, nor will it satisfy the duties of your birthright. It is in how you treat others, and yourself, and how faithfully you follow the truest spirit and purpose of our ways that decides whether you join the Honored Dead or the Forgotten Ones when you die. No pilgrimage will be enough to permit you back into the Essences.”

  “The words of a lost sinner who has forgotten his heritage,” said Grimka. “No number of words will ever justify your lack of fidelity to our ways.”

  Rez’nac did not want to slay his son, every fiber of his soul went against it, but all that he knew and understood of his ways demanded it. The Essences themselves demanded it. The wrongly slain human soldier demanded it. It was the unflinching, unyielding, uncaring truth. And he had to submit to it. “You may hav
e your Arahn-Fi,” said Rez’nac, though the words were difficult to form. “And on the morrow we will allow the Essences to decide.”

  Grimka bowed. “And decide they will.”

  Chapter 6

  Of the original twenty-four hour window that Kalila had given him, Calvin had about four hours left. Fortunately the Nighthawk had made good time and was scheduled to arrive at the rendezvous in just under two hours. That left an additional two hours for Kalila to explain to him what was so urgent.

  The ship had followed a set of interstellar waypoints that Kalila had provided, the end destination was a star called Virgo Major. From what Calvin could dig up about the site it wasn’t home to anyone, or anything. There were some satellites, mostly rocky debris, and out in a distant orbit there was a large gaseous planet, but all things considered, Virgo Major was not a site of interest to anybody. Perhaps that’s why Kalila was there, somewhere nobody would think to be looking for her.

  He reviewed the message she’d last sent him. “Calvin, we have to meet right away. Time is short. Follow these coordinates. I regret I can only give you twenty-four hours. After that, it will be too late. I pray you get this message in time.”

  He wondered if there was more to the message, perhaps another more specific message buried within the text. He doubted it, but on the off chance there was, he had the computer run an analysis. It was still ongoing but so far no useful patterns had emerged.

  “After that, it will be too late,” he repeated in a thoughtful whisper. What would be too late? Did she have news of something big? Something she expected him and the Nighthawk to get involved with? He hoped not. Given the state of the ship: several systems offline, most of the weapons shot, and nearly all of the port armor destroyed, not to mention half the crew away, he hoped Kalila wasn’t calling the Nighthawk into a combat engagement. If she was… princess or not, Calvin might have no choice but to engage his cloaking system and his engines and get to safety.