The Phoenix Crisis

by Richard L. Sanders

“And the Nighthawk?” asked Raidan.

  “No sign. Could be the ship is stealthed.”

  “Use all our scanning power to search the space around the Arcane Storm,” said Raidan. The Organization had managed to steal the latest scanning technology and equip one of the prototype models to the Harbinger, greatly boosting its detection capabilities. Unfortunately it was the only working updated scanner the Organization had and the Phoenix Ring, undoubtedly, had equipped several of their ships with the new device.

  “Aye, sir,” said Mister Ivanov. He began instructing his lieutenant to commence scanning procedures.

  “Mister Watson, break orbit and set an intercept course for the Arcane Storm,” said Raidan.

  “Aye, aye,” reported the helmsman. It took him and multiple flight lieutenants to fly the massive ship. The vessel turned and Lyra Minor’s deep crimson sun was visible out the port window briefly.

  “Hail the Arcane Storm,” said Raidan. “Let’s make sure our friends are actually aboard.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mister Gates acknowledged him. Raidan was especially glad to have him aboard, he was a former CERKO agent—and therefore a good informer on the changing organization—and his role as communications officer had greatly assisted Raidan’s effort in capturing the Harbinger in the first place. His position was the only major function on the bridge that did not require the assistance of other personnel, which had kept Captain Simmons and the rest of the Harbinger’s bona fide crew unable to alert Praxis of the mutiny that’d freed Raidan and given him command of one of the galaxy’s deadliest fighting ships. Gates input something into his computer and began speaking into his headset. Raidan watched him intently, knowing a lot hinged on what kind of response they got from the Arcane Storm. Hopefully it was their people aboard, and that Calvin was merely being unnecessarily cautious and keeping his own ship stealthed and standing by.

  “Response from the Arcane Storm,” said Gates after a moment.

  “On speakers.”

  “I’ve brought her back to you, sir,” came the familiar voice of Tristan over the speakers. “I recommend we dock with the Harbinger immediately.”

  “I agree,” replied Raidan. He had full confidence in Tristan, and had reasons to trust him completely, but he’d honestly expected Calvin to be in command of the incoming group—not Tristan. “Tell Calvin to come aboard as well. We have things to discuss immediately.”

  “Calvin won’t be able to make it,” replied Tristan. “He sent one of his lieutenants in his place… a Mister Vargas or something.”

  Dammit! What’s the matter with you, Calvin? I specifically instructed you to meet me here. Raidan was distressed by this news but he did not show it in his voice. “Why did he do that?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me,” said Tristan. “Hopefully Vargas knows more than I do – he says he has a message from Calvin.”

  “Very well, bring this Vargas with you when you come aboard. I’ll see the two of you in my office right away.” Calvin had no idea the lives he was putting at risk by not coming. Already the Harbinger had been gone too long from the region of space directly around Renora. Fortunately Lyra Minor was within striking distance, but now that Calvin and the Nighthawk were gone, God knows where, the Harbinger might have no choice but to withdraw from the region for an extended amount of time. And all the Phoenix Ring needed, Raidan knew, was twelve hours. If they had twelve hours of unblocked access to the planet, Renora was doomed. And perhaps so was the Empire.

  “We will come aboard immediately,” said Tristan. And the communication ended.

  “See to it that our teams are ready to go aboard the Arcane Storm the instant she’s docked,” said Raidan. “And be sure that Vargas and Tristan are shown to my office the moment they arrive.”

  “Yes, sir,” his staff acknowledged him.

  “I’ll wait for them there. Mister Mason, you have the deck.”

  When Tristan and a man Raidan didn’t recognize—who was a bit shorter than average, thin, very pale, and had extremely dark hair—entered his office, Raidan nearly stood up and commanded them to enter swiftly. Instead he remained patient and kept his chair, not wanting to appear distressed or panicked. Though the clock was ticking.

  “I take it you are Mister Vargas,” said Raidan, the instant the door had closed.

  “Aye, sir,” said Vargas. He looked uncomfortable, afraid even.

  “Please be so kind as to tell me why Calvin decided to abandon our rendezvous and send you in his place.”

  “Calvin said he had something important to take care of—and that you just had to trust him,” said Vargas, he stuttered ever so slightly. Raidan wondered what was making the officer uncomfortable, was it the might of the Harbinger, or perhaps Tristan’s presence—those who knew the ferocity of a lycan were wisely apprehensive around them. Whatever it was, Raidan hoped to capitalize on the man’s anxiety and squeeze every drop of information out of him that he could.

  “Where did he go?” asked Raidan.

  “The Nighthawk’s heading was unknown,” said Vargas. “No one knows where he went.”

  Raidan looked to Tristan, as if to check the veracity of this claim.

  Tristan nodded. “He also entrusted Mister Vargas with this written message,” Tristan produced a piece of paper from his pocket and placed it on Raidan’s desk. Raidan picked it up and read.

  “I’m sorry that I’m not here to meet with you in person as we agreed. You must trust me, though, that I have very good reasons. The matter I’m attending to is urgent. However I can offer you this, Xinocodone is fatal to replicants in even small doses. Calvin.” It was disappointingly vague, almost insultingly so, but at least that last part had some value—potentially. Raidan folded up the note and looked back up at his guests. “And that was all Mister Cross told you, Vargas?”

  “Yes, sir. I swear it.”

  Raidan had no reason to doubt the man’s word, he seemed far too intimidated to tell a lie directly to Raidan’s face.

  “Very well, you may go,” Raidan waved him off.

  For some reason Vargas didn’t move.

  Raidan looked at him curiously. “Was there something else?”

  “Yes…” said Vargas eventually. “There was one more thing. I’m not—” he hesitated.

  Raidan waited patiently.

  “I’m not to turn over the Arcane Storm to you until the Nighthawk has new crew and supplies,” said Vargas. “Calvin’s orders. The ship is badly damaged from battle with the Phoenix and needs new crew as well, and food and medical supplies. And ammunition too.”

  “It’s too late, the Arcane Storm is already mine. My men took the ship immediately,” said Raidan.

  “Calvin said not to let you have it. Not until he has the supplies he needs. And that his crew is safely back aboard the Nighthawk. That we’re to use the Arcane Storm to deliver everything… then you can have the ship.”

  Raidan resisted a smile. Surely Calvin didn’t think he had any bargaining power here, especially when he couldn’t be bothered to come here and make his demands himself. “I’m sorry Mister Vargas but those terms are not acceptable.”

  “They’re not for negotiation,” said Vargas. To his credit he was trying to be brave in a very frightening situation, but Raidan knew the man’s bite had no teeth, and certainly he had no leverage.

  “The Arcane Storm is already mine. Everyone on board—all of your compatriots—have already been moved onto the Harbinger. My scanning crews, technical staff, and investigative analysts have already begun. They will tear apart every inch of the Arcane Storm until they find the answers I am looking for.”

  Vargas looked unsure what to say.

  “But don’t worry,” said Raidan. ”I’ll see that Calvin gets the repairs and resupply he needs. You and all the rest of the Nighthawk’s crew will be safely taken back to the Nighthawk by a repair convoy. We will arrange a rendezvous and do a swift deep-space repair. The Arcane Storm will not be available to be involved, but don’t worry, I have
other ships at my disposal. And Calvin will get everything he needs.”

  Vargas nodded.

  “You may go,” Raidan dismissed him for a second time. This time the man left.

  “I take it that one didn’t give you any trouble,” said Raidan once Vargas had gone.

  “No,” said Tristan. “At first he was under the mistaken impression that he had command of the Arcane Storm, but I corrected that for him.”

  “You saw it necessary to usurp command of the Arcane Storm?” asked Raidan curiously. He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.

  “Well… it is my ship. The Organization said I could have it if I ever tracked the damn thing down. And besides, Vargas had the silliest notion that he wouldn’t dock with the Harbinger unless you agreed to all of his—and Calvin’s—terms.”

  “We could have easily disabled the ship and boarded it by force,” said Raidan.

  “Which would have been a hassle for everyone. So I saved you the trouble. You’re welcome.”

  “Did Calvin’s people resist you? No doubt they were told Vargas had command.”

  “They were surprisingly cooperative. Once I explained to them that I am actually a commander, and that I’m also a Remorii…” his eyes shimmered in the dim lighting. “And once they knew that Vargas wasn’t going to challenge me… they made no complaints.”

  “And what about the security forces on the ship? I hope you didn’t feel the need to kill anybody.”

  “Calvin only sent five beat up Polarians as security, and they were entirely preoccupied with their own foolishness to care what was happening on the bridge. Everything went smoothly.”

  Raidan nodded. No harm done, he supposed.

  “So what now?” asked Tristan.

  “Now I want you to see to it that arrangements are made to get the Nighthawk the supplies it needs. You know the state of the ship so I’m putting you in charge—get a convoy ready to depart as soon as possible. Calvin’s no good to us if he and his ship are destroyed for lack of armor and weapons.”

  “I will,” Tristan saluted.

  “And see if you can arrange for the rendezvous to take place near Renora. I know it’s a risk, but I don’t want to draw our ships away from this zone. For… obvious reasons. Once the King’s soldiers land, you can bet our enemies will want to take advantage of that and release some hell of their own… if no one is around to stop them.”

  “I understand,” said Tristan. “And what do you plan to do?”

  “I’m going to oversee the tearing apart of the Arcane Storm. I know you have fond feelings for the ship, but there are answers that need to be had.”

  Tristan grinned, flashing his sharp teeth. “Rip her apart to the bone if you have to. Just let me have her when you’re done.”

  “I will.”

  ***

  “New message coming in, sir,” said the helmsman.

  Nimoux spun his chair to face the officer. “From whom?” His ship, the Desert Eagle, was leading a squadron of warships to a strategic position near the DMZ. Several of the vessels’ captains had concerns about these orders—which seemed to contradict their existing standing orders which were to pursue the Nighthawk—so it had become commonplace for them to contact the Desert Eagle and request clarification. Nimoux had the same answer for all of them—I am in command, you will follow my orders exactly.

  “Not from one of our ships, sir,” reported the helmsman. “ It’s from Intel Wing, Office of the Director. Highest priority.”

  Nimoux stood up and approached the helmsman’s terminal. Thinking perhaps now, finally, after he’d repeatedly sent reports to Intel Wing and the Fleet, they were getting somewhere.

  “Message is pre-recorded, sir.”

  “Play it.”

  The familiar-looking face of Director Edwards materialized on the computer screen. Lately he’d seemed tired and not quite himself, this time was no exception. “Captain Nimoux, your squadron is dissolved. Each ship will be given new instructions from Intel Wing and the Fleet. As for the Desert Eagle, you are ordered to proceed to the following coordinates and rendezvous with the ISS Wolverine. Proceed with all haste. Further instruction to follow.” The image of the Director disappeared and was replaced by a set of coordinates.

  Very curious… Nimoux wasn’t quite sure what to make of these latest orders. He wondered if the ships were being diverted to join forces with the Fifth and Sixth Fleets—as well they should—to respond to the Rotham invasion. It was possible that was the case, certainly it was the logical thing for the Fleet to do, but this did seem to be an odd way to go about it. Why not keep the squadron together? And why order the Desert Eagle to meet up with the ISS Wolverine? It was a navy battleship—one of the more powerful ones—and had nothing to do with Intel Wing.

  “Sir, your orders?” asked the XO. No doubt everyone expected Nimoux to follow the Director’s orders to the letter. It was his sworn duty, after all. One did not maintain a command by making rash, renegade decisions. But on the other hand, something did feel strange about these orders.

  Nimoux returned to his seat and stared out the window. His face looked calm and serene but inside his head his thoughts were a windstorm. There were so many considerations to be made, and so many variables. Defiance of his orders wasn’t really an option—not truly—and he had no concrete reason to distrust his superiors, other than Calvin’s testimony—which may have been a ploy on his end—and the general lack of sense behind the Fleet and Intel Wing’s under-reaction to the intelligence he’d given them about the Rotham invasion force, and the missing isotome. Neither security crisis seemed important to them.

  “Sir, the rest of the squadron is splitting up. IWS Rhea has jumped from the system. The other ships are preparing their engines,” said the ops officer.

  “What are our orders?” asked the XO again.

  If everything Calvin had said was true, and there were isotome weapons, and corruption in the military leadership, and cooperation with hostile foreign interests, and there was a cover-up going on—all of which seemed unlikely, but increasingly plausible—then Nimoux had asked too many questions, and rattled too many cages, and was being sent to rendezvous with the Wolverine as a way of mitigating him. After all, he’d allowed the Nighthawk to escape, despite orders to capture or destroy it, that alone might be sufficient to make him seem like a threat.

  On the other hand, there might be a very logical and credible reason why the Desert Eagle needed to meet with the Wolverine, though Nimoux couldn’t think of what that reason was, and failing to obey that order might be putting not only his command at risk but, much more importantly, other peoples’ lives. He thought of the three fellow officers he’d been forced to kill during the Altair mission and shuddered.

  “Sir?” asked the XO. By now the officers on the bridge were likely starting to worry about him.

  “Proceed as directed,” he said at last. “Fastest safe jump depth.”

  “Aye, sir. Setting course,” replied the helmsman.

  Nimoux reasoned that there was nothing truly compelling him to defy his orders and fail to make the rendezvous. And while he was suspicious of many things, not the least of which was the destroyed Imperial starships he helped clean up in Abia, he needed more information before he could truly act. For now, making reports to both the Fleet and Intel Wing regarding the Rotham invasion force and the disappeared isotome was all he could do. And though he felt he was being ignored, and had half a mind to take his case directly before the Imperial Assembly where he knew his celebrity status would ensure he’d be heard, things were not so desperate that such a bold, defiant action was required. Or so he hoped.

  He corrected his posture and closed his eyes, forcing his mind to be silent so he could meditate and clear away the noise inside him. He felt some anxiety toward what he’d be facing once his ship met up with the Wolverine—especially if he’d inadvertently made himself into a liability—but he reasoned that he couldn’t be dealt with easily. He was too well-kno
wn, too public a figure to be made to disappear without questions being asked. Certainly there was no action that could truly be taken against him, not without spreading alarm. And, for the first time ever, he took comfort in his celebrity status—something that, until now, he’d always hated. And certainly something he felt he did not deserve.

  Chapter 10

  For as bad as the Nighthawk had been injured in its fight with the Phoenix, most of the damage had been superficial and had not affected important systems. There were some failures, and power had to be routed and rerouted every which way to keep things online and functional, but so far the stealth system seemed to be holding. Which was good since the Nighthawk was now extremely deep inside Imperial space, about a day and a half’s flight from Capital System. Calvin had ordered the bridge to change course from Ursa Leo to the dead space zone Kalila had provided. Where, if all went as planned, they would meet up with the Ice Maiden.

  Calvin ran a hand through his newly darkened hair as he walked through the ship, catching strange looks from the skeleton crew that remained. By now word had gotten around that Kalila was on board, and that she and Calvin were going to pose as newlyweds for some sort of undercover op, but people still looked at him without recognition when they saw him. Which, though a bit awkward, was actually quite reassuring since he and Kaila had both gone to great lengths to alter their appearance. In addition to changes in hair color and style, they’d both had false skin grafted to their fingers and thumbs—to change their prints—and both wore lenses in their eyes that served the double purpose of changing their iris colors and caused any retinal scanners to achieve a false result.

  In all, Calvin thought he made a rather good-looking brunette with eyes that were nearly as green as Summers’. They stood out a lot more than his normal faded blue color and he was actually enjoying the compliments he was getting from his staff. Almost enough to consider wearing color-changing lenses in his eyes all the time, but not quite. The hassle wasn’t worth it.

  He arrived at the infirmary and entered. It was the second time that day they’d he’d been inside its familiar walls—the first was to get the skin grafts on his fingers. It still felt haunted and missing something, ever since Monte’s death, but Rain had brought her own warmth and personality to the place, so Calvin didn’t dread going there nearly so much. When he stepped inside she looked up from her clipboard of notes and snickered a little.