The Phoenix Crisis

by Richard L. Sanders

  “A few weeks,” she admitted quietly.

  “Weeks? So you knew this whole time? When I brought you aboard the Nighthawk, you knew?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I’m sorry, Calvin,” she looked at him with eyes that were not apologetic. “I knew there was nothing you could do for her—not then, not yet. And I didn’t want you to become… distracted. We had a mission to do. But now you can. Now you can find her and help her. No world in the Empire is outside your reach. ”

  He didn’t know what to feel. A part of him understood and accepted the logic behind Kalila’s words, but another much larger part felt betrayed and enraged, mostly angry that his mother was missing and it had happened because of him, because of the choices he’d made. He looked out the window. Feeling wrath and a renewed desire to hunt down the bastards behind this conspiracy and make them pay.

  The rest of the drive was silent.

  Chapter 14

  “You have some serious explaining to do.”

  Zane looked up from one of the many computer terminals in his mansion to see the large round face of his older brother. Caerwyn didn’t hide his emotions well, not around family, so Zane knew he’d have to give him his full attention. He logged out, deciding to review the Phoenix Ring’s financial logistics later.

  “What is it now?” asked Zane.

  “What do you think?” Caerwyn pointed to one of the screens on display. Zane had muted it so he could concentrate but the images were still there, plain to see. It was replayed footage from the Assembly Floor earlier that day, showing Princess Kalila Akira and her Intel Wing boy-toy addressing the Assembly. As far as Zane was concerned it was old news, those events had happened hours before.

  “Politics,” he said with a sneer. “So much growling, so little teeth.”

  “And what do you call what you do?” asked Caerwyn. “You and that cult of yours.”

  Zane frowned. “Cult?” He knew Caerwyn was baiting him, and he didn’t want to get into a petty squabble. Caerwyn did not understand the Phoenix Ring. And, by its very nature, he never would. But their interests were aligned, his and theirs, and that meant Zane need Caerwyn to be happy. If he wasn’t happy he wasn’t cooperative, and more than ever Zane needed Caerwyn’s political sway and influence, even though he hated the political games.

  “Now the fallout from Renora is not landing on the King and his family.”

  “It will,” Zane assured him. His plans were always done in layers and while it was true that the Black Swan part had backfired—and the Akiras were no long suspects in the attack—that didn’t mean other forces weren’t already in place and at work to see to it that the King was blamed for that “tragic” situation.

  “So you say—just like you said that using the Black Swan replica would eliminate the Princess as a threat. Just like you promised me the throne of the Empire. But now… what are these, empty words? The Princess is back, and now she is digging. Investigating. She even has a pet Intel Wing agent, and as I understand it a pretty good one, working for her. What about that? You told me you controlled Intel Wing.”

  “There have been a few setbacks,” Zane admitted. “But the plan is working. You will just have to trust me.” It was true that, despite the unexpected twists, the Phoenix Ring’s overarching goal was coming closer. “The Hour of Ascension is fast approaching,” he said. “And then you will have your throne.” And I will have my Empire.

  “Words,” Caerwyn waved him off. “Just hollow words. I need proof. I need assurances. I need to know what is being done to keep this from getting to you, and to keep your… private dealings… from being linked to me.”

  “Calm,” said Zane. “Calm like gentle rain. A storm is brewing but do not fear. There is peace in the tempest.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that things are exactly as they should be,” said Zane. “No investigation will uncover what is happening, not fast enough. The pieces are already in place. And there is nothing to link me to you other than my blood.”

  “And you don’t think they’ll tear this house apart looking?” Caerwyn moved closer and looked Zane in the eyes. “You mean to tell me that with all your scheming and all your plots there is nothing here for them to find?”

  “There is nothing.” In truth Zane did have a great deal of information here. But it was all encrypted and hidden. And even if a professional team of investigators downloaded every scrap of data he had, they would find nothing they could use. Aliases, not names. Even the numbers he kept, such as the transaction information he’d just been reviewing, were not the correct numbers. The numbers themselves were useless without the cipher, which existed only in his memory. And the best part was that an investigator could look at the numbers and not even realize there was a code that needed to be cracked. What good was looking at the number two when it actually meant nine?

  “Damn you, you’d better be right,” Caerwyn said. “And what of this Executor of the Empire talk? That doesn’t concern you?”

  “It’s showmanship,” said Zane. “Nothing more. A title. Words. Nothing.”

  “What do you mean nothing? He has the powers of the princess herself, and the training of Intel Wing. The boy has two silver stars on his record!”

  “Mister Cross is a fish out of water and he won’t know where to begin. The Princess only brought so much attention to him, and gave him such a flashy title, to posture. He won’t know where to begin and there is nothing he can do to connect us to you.”

  Caerwyn nodded, looking somewhat reassured. “See that there isn’t,” he said. Then he stormed off.

  In truth Calvin Cross was more of a danger than Zane had admitted, and he knew it. He’d played down the threat in order to keep Caerwyn calm—Caerwyn had to be placated and trusting. As for Calvin, there were ways of dealing with him… and Zane intended to reach out to his various resources and handle the situation. As soon as he reasonably could.

  But for now there was a far greater concern to worry about. The truest, deadliest danger of all, the one that threatened to undo everything, the one that cost Zane sleep at night, was one that Caerwyn didn’t even know about. And that was what haunted his thoughts, not the newly appointed Executor of the Empire. It was the Rahajiim. If the Phoenix Ring’s own agents were defecting—something he’d failed to prove but increasingly suspected— then all bets were off. They would make a move as soon as they could. And so far the Enclave was still on the table. Whose side they took might determine the ultimate balance of power. Where the Enclave went, the isotome weapons were certain to follow.

  ***

  The analysis lab felt empty, like a ghost town, as Rain moved from terminal to terminal. She’d pulled the replicant corpse out of the freezing unit and was conducting tests on it. The freezing units in the lab could get significantly colder than the morgue freezers in the infirmary, and there was just something creepy about this corpse that made her not want to have it around at the infirmary. That and the tools to properly study it were here in the lab.

  “So what makes you tick?” she asked the corpse. There was no one else in the lab—since so much of the crew had gone aboard the Arcane Storm, they could no longer maintain a continuous watch in the analysis lab.

  The computer returned a result on a tissue sample she’d excised from the corpse. Unfortunately the computer seemed as baffled as she was, as the configuration of the matter—and its biological properties—did not fit any of the well-known and understood configurations in the biological database.

  Rain had not been assigned to study the replicant, and she did so voluntarily during her own off-duty time. She was compelled by the mystery of the alien life form, and how it could adapt so perfectly to take the shape of another living organism. She also believed there were medical advances that could be made—new treatments and therapies—once the replicant’s biology was understood. For instance, it had tremendous regenerative capabilities, and
an autoimmune system that functioned unlike any other organism in the galaxy. The fact that the organism had been killed at all seemed remarkable. And that Xinocodone had been able to force it back into its original state was just as fascinating. The rapid and forced transformation seemed to have caused the death more than any allergic reaction to the Xinocodone. But what had made that happen? It was quite the medical mystery. And one that gripped her curiosity.

  “I wonder if—”

  She was interrupted by an alert sent to the lab. She’d told her staff to page her if a need arose.

  “Dr. Poynter,” came the voice of James Andrews, one of the assistant medics, over the speaker.

  She slid the cart, which bore the replicant’s corpse, back into the freezing unit and sealed it. Then she tapped the button to answer the call.

  “What is it, James?”

  “It’s the ops officer… you’d better get down here.”

  She felt a surge of anxiety and immediately bolted for the door, not even taking the time to reply.

  “Situation?” she asked as she stormed through the entrance. One of the medics handed her a pair of gloves and a mask, which she put on while another medic hurried to get her up to speed.

  “The patient began seizing. We got him stabilized but now his heart rate has fallen and he is only breathing sporadically. Blood pressure is only forty over twenty—and still dropping.”

  James was standing over Shen, who was still strapped to the hospital bed. A special forces soldier stood guard over him, looking down at the gaunt, dying patient with curiosity and cluelessness.

  Rain went up to Shen’s side and started checking the various monitors. “Did you perform an EQR?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Prep for an EQR STAT,” said Rain. As she did, Shen began seizing again. Very violently. He convulsed under the straps and she wondered if the straps might potentially hurt him. One of the medics rushed to Shen, probably to try to hold him down or pointlessly put something in his mouth, but Rain stopped him. Knowing it was better to leave him be. She searched all of the objects near Shen and made sure there was nothing potentially dangerous for him to strike or choke himself with during his convulsions.

  “Get that EQR ready,” said Rain as she watched Shen seizing. After ninety-seconds the seizure ended. There was still no sign of consciousness—and there hadn’t been since Shen had been brought to her.

  “Blood pressure is now immeasurably low,” said James. “Pulse spiked during the seizure but now it’s coming down.” He watched the monitors while the others set up the EQR. “Ten beats per minute…”

  We’re losing him, Rain realized. She’d promised not only Calvin but herself that she would save Shen, no one was so far gone that they should be given up on. Unfortunately it looked like this was Shen’s time after all...

  Not going to give up! If Shen died here today, it would be the will of the universe and not for lack of trying on Rain’s part to save him, she reminded herself. She would fight for his life to the bitterest end.

  “Prep me 30 cc’s of Zythatrol,” she said. A syringe was filled and handed to her. She injected it into Shen. Knowing that this agent, while dangerous—especially in this amount—was their best chance of either swiftly reversing the falling blood pressure, or at least stopping it from getting worse.

  “EQR ready,” said James from her side. They attached the equipment to Shen and Rain made sure everything was done right. It was a bold treatment, especially when complicated by a high dose of Zythatrol, but Rain could think of no other way to stop her patient from total circulatory failure. She hoped the oxygen starvation to the vital organs wasn’t already of a fatal magnitude.

  “Now,” she said.

  Chapter 15

  There it was. In all its middle-class glory.

  Calvin stood at the entrance to a large residential building. Like many of the other nicer buildings in this section of West Central District, it had a small garden in front. It was well-maintained, with lush green grass that was kept short, along with a handful of pruned trees. The dark green was offset by pockets of white, yellow, and red, as perfectly rectangular flower patches grew in patterns so organized Calvin thought the plants had spent time in the marine corps and were standing in lines awaiting inspection.

  He walked through the gate and along the short path that led to the entrance. Then, after taking a deep breath, he went inside. The doorman saluted when he saw him, even though Calvin had left the better part of his personal escort outside. Undoubtedly the doorman watched the news and recognized the face of the newly appointed Executor of the Empire. It was a strange thing to have people notice him everywhere he went, to have become a household name in a matter of a day. He didn’t like it, not truly, but it did have certain advantages.

  “I need access to level nineteen,” he said. “And I need the key to room nineteen eleven.”

  “Of course,” said the doorman. He handed Calvin the room key and then unlocked the elevator. No doubt being so cooperative because he didn’t want to be seen as obstructing an investigation.

  Nikolai followed Calvin into the elevator. He stuck close to Calvin at Kalila’s instance. She’d somehow realized that Calvin would be uncomfortable with an escort of bodyguards following him around everywhere, so she’d specifically instructed Nikolai to remain vigilantly at Calvin’s side at all times. Apparently he was one of her most trustworthy, and deadliest, people. Calvin had not objected—there was something about Kalila’s smile that simply made him want to agree with just about anything.

  “So this is home?” asked Nikolai as the elevator sped toward the higher floors.

  “This was home,” said Calvin. “Once upon a time.”

  His mother had moved them here once it was clear Samil, Calvin’s father, was not coming back. Calvin had resented the move, believing that if they left their old home Samil would never find them. That they only needed to keep waiting and be patient, that he’d resurface. And when he did he’d have a good explanation for his absence. You’ll see—Calvin recalled telling his mother. But he’d been young and naïve, and his mother had been wise not to listen. Samil had never returned to Capital World. Or, if he had, he’d never made an effort to let Calvin or Olivia know.

  “It is… nice,” said Nikolai. Probably just to make conversation. Nikolai didn’t have the greatest people skills, but Calvin was already starting to get used to having him around. The lean, yet thickly-muscled warrior with his shaven head and fierce, sun-damaged skin wasn’t the subtlest of shadows, but so far no one had given Calvin any kind of trouble while Nikolai was around.

  “We lived here, but it wasn’t anything special,” said Calvin. The elevator came to a stop and opened on the nineteenth floor. Calvin stepped out into the hallway, followed closely by Nikolai.

  The sights of the nineteenth floor were eerily the same as he remembered them. The old woman who kept the floor clean was there, fiddling with a cart of supplies—except now she looked positively ancient. The reddish-brown carpets and faded off-white walls were all the same, and so were the metal doors coated in cheap pseudo-wood paneling. Even the tacky art hanging on the walls was the same, as was the fake plant at the end of the hallway next to the window. That green thing—whatever it was—had been sticking out of that pot since before Calvin had moved in here as a child. And it had probably been there since before he was born. Probably since the building was erected a hundred years ago. Capital World with its limited space and high population was unlike other worlds in that it repurposed its structures more often than replacing them. As such, many of the buildings—particularly residential towers and commercial enterprises—were actually quite historic.

  “This way,” said Calvin.

  They went to room nineteen eleven and he rang the chime. When no response came—as expected—he knocked on the door. No answer.

  “Well we gave her a chance,” said Calvin, still hoping, albeit desperately, to open the door and see his mother there, wearing h
er scrubby clothes and half-finished with another of her deep cleans of the apartment, which she was prone to do when stressed or preoccupied. He inserted the keycard and the door unlocked. He pushed it open.

  No one was there to greet him. The front room was open and minimally decorated. There was a new amateur piece of art sitting on a painting easel that his mother had undoubtedly been working on. He walked up to and touched it, hoping some of the paint was still wet. It wasn’t. And the picture wasn’t finished enough to know what it was supposed to be.

  “Mother,” he called loudly as he stepped past the small kitchen and down the hall. He knocked on each of the three bedroom doors before opening them. “Are you here?”

  The first room was completely empty. It had been Calvin’s room and, now that he was grown and gone, there was nothing in it. No child’s sized bed, no box of his things all packed away, none of the scribbles he’d markered on the wall because he’d thought they were funny. It was as if he’d never lived here at all.

  The second room had been converted into a kind of office-gym combination. There was a rowing machine set up, as well as an exercise mat, and on the other side was a desk with a computer terminal. Calvin turned it on, hoping to find some kind of clue, perhaps his mother had used this terminal to arrange her travel plans, but the computer was dusty and had clearly not been touched in months. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Calvin knew his mother rarely touched a computer unless she absolutely had to.

  The third room, the master bedroom, looked neat and tidy. The bed was made and there was no sign that someone had left the place hastily. No indication that anyone had rummaged through the drawers and dressers, no sign that the closet had been hastily raided in a mad packing frenzy. Everything was orderly and in place. And nothing seemed to be missing.