“Nothing of any real interest,” said Vulture. “There’s still life in the city, I see people from time to time. Mostly scavengers, though. Whatever semblance of society that had been in the capital is long gone now, at least this far west. Maybe ten or twenty kilos east of here there could be something; can’t say for sure.”
“There’s nothing,” said Micah, a kind of monotonous acceptance in his voice. He lay on the ground in his usual spot, head propped up against the trunk of a willow tree. “Everyone out there is either dead or dying. Same as us, eventually.” He’d always had a sort of macabre nature to him, Ryker had known, but lately his near psychotic interest in all things dead or dying had taken a turn and puffed out of him, leaving behind this thin shell of a man who slept most the time, day or night, and seemed complacent were he lay, as if waiting for a death he’d long ago come to terms with. Ryker could still get the man off his nihilistic, lazy ass and make him help with the hunting or the foraging, else they would’ve left him for dead long ago, but no one else seemed able to put a spark of energy into him, no matter how hard they tried. This was especially difficult on Tank who, no longer quite so Tank-like having shed at least thirty pounds, had always considered Micah a good friend. The two had had some sort of bond. Now, though, Ryker wasn’t so sure.
In fact, he wasn’t so sure of anything. He’d kept his part of the bargain. He’d helped raise the planet to a state of revolutionist zeal, with pure and unapologetic hatred toward the crown and the Empire, just as Zane had promised was possible and asked him to do. But the rewards, where were they? Currently, the small group of them spent their days scavenging the wilds for food, chasing off, and sometimes killing, dangerous fauna with their limited ammunition, and slowly wasting away as they waited for the next sign, the next instruction, for any indication that the next phase in Zane Martel’s plan had begun. Truthfully, Ryker had expected to have been evacuated off this rock by now, him and the rest of the surviving CERKO units, and, for his remarkable success and valiant efforts, he should be relaxing on some beach somewhere, surrounded by women. Or else enjoying the pampered lifestyle Martel's riches promised and could so easily bring. Yet, here he was. Here they all were.
Ryker wondered how many more days and weeks of this before even these men, friends he’d served with in prison, bled with in battle, more like brothers than any family he’d ever known, would blame him for their misfortunes and turn on him. Perhaps deserting him to go their separate ways or worse, killing him in a fit of misplaced rage. After all, he’d made certain promises to them, just as Zane had made certain promises to him. The one hinged on the latter. Had Ryker been wrong to put his faith in Zane Martel? It was hard to imagine. Yet, as the smoke from the small fire blew into his face, his stomach rumbled, and the sound of crickets chirped all around with not one Martel furnished luxury to be seen anywhere, it was getting harder and harder to think he’d chosen the right side.
“Tank, you take first watch tonight, Vulture second, and I’ll take third,” said Ryker, just as Tank brought the fish over for them to eat. The trout were nothing spectacular to look at and, sans bones, looked much smaller than they had when first caught that day. Still, there was something to be said for nearly a whole fish for each man. As Tank cut a sliver and tossed it to Micah, Vulture protested.
“Him, a fish?” he said, disgruntled. A feeling Vulture had carried with him for days now.
“Yes, him a fish,” said Tank. His tone carried the implied threat what are you gonna do about it?
“He didn’t help catch any, why should he eat?” asked Vulture. “Neither is he taking a watch. I say, no watch, no fish. That seems more than fair, right?” he looked to Ryker for support. And, truthfully, a part of Ryker agreed with him. But mostly Ryker found himself lost in thoughts of the not too distant future when their current way of life would no longer hold. Something had to change, and soon. Ryker knew it, but he was at a loss for what that thing might be.
“Come on, Vulture, we’re all in this together,” said Ryker, knowing if he let this group splinter apart that would be the end of them. “Just like Andricus.”
“This is nothing like Andricus,” said Vulture.
“Sure it is, Vult,” said Ryker. “We’re prisoners here, just like we were there. Only here it’s a different kind of a prison.”
“On Andricus there was a plan, something we could do about it,” said Vulture. “Here…?” he looked around.
Ryker shook his head and bit into his portion of the fish. There was neither salt nor seasoning, as could be expected, only the char of imperfect cooking and the flakey, fishy scales for flavor, yet to his growling stomach it was like biting into the most succulent meal, something fit for a king at a banquet. Even Vulture stopped his complaining while he enjoyed his scraps of fish, savoring them like raindrops on a desert landscape. The taste of food, though inadequate for their appetites, seemed to put the argument to rest and, slowly, one by one, they drifted off to sleep, except for Tank who climbed up to the top of a boulder and perched there, watching and listening for any danger which might overtake them. Ryker was the last to shut his eyes. As he did so, he thought, for the briefest flicker of a moment, he was back home. Green grass, blue skies, a hot yellow sun crisping his skin to a perfect tawny color, all while his lips tasted of summer wine and the sound of amateur singing filled the air. It was a joyous melody and a joyous dream, and it carried him away like an ocean breeze…
… “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” said a forceful whisper, repeating over and over.
Ryker felt his body shaking. “Where the hell am I?” he croaked, rubbing his eyes. He blinked to see Vulture kneeling over him, his face far too close for comfort, as the other man gripped Ryker by the shoulders and continued shaking him. Instinctively, Ryker made a fist and struck Vulture in the mouth, sending the smaller man to the ground.
“Ouch, God dammit,” said Vulture, climbing back to his feet. Ryker too stood up, taking stock of his surroundings, and then suddenly remembered the dismal setting of his tiny forested campsite. No food, little water, and even less hope.
“What in God’s name is this about?” asked Ryker, angered at being ripped from such a pleasant dream. Dreams were better than real life, especially now.
“Look!” said Vulture, his voice a powerful whisper. He pointed up to the night sky and, while the others slept, Ryker followed Vulture’s gaze upward until he saw it. It was the most beautiful spectacle he’d ever seen and, despite not wanting to get his hopes up, he felt his heart start pounding in his chest.
“They’re beautiful,” said Ryker. Above them a thousand-thousand shooting stars stretched across the sky, gleaming and glowing as they made their passes, group by group, around the planet. But they weren’t shooting stars, Ryker knew.
“Is that what I think they are?” asked Vulture. Undoubtedly he knew damn well what they were, but needed to hear it from Ryker before getting his hopes up.
“Yes,” said Ryker, staring up at the most wonderful sight his eyes had ever gazed upon. “Ships! And large ones at that.” At this point, it hardly mattered if they were Imperial, Republican, or even Polarian. All that mattered was someone was coming, a lot of someone, and that meant Renora hadn’t been forgotten after all. “Maybe,” said Ryker, tracing one of the lights with his eyes as it darted across the sky, continuing its low orbit until it disappeared. “Just maybe, we’ll get off this goddamn rock after all.”
***
“My Lord Steward. Pardon the interruption, My Lord, but it is of utmost urgency.”
“Yes, what is it?” he asked, slowly rising from his bed and wondering which of his incompetent ministers had managed to convince his personal guard to stand aside so he could disturb the Royal Steward in his personal bedchamber in the middle of the night. If this crisis proved anything like the last one, when the Minister of Finance had discovered someone was stealthily dipping his fingers in the Royal Treasury, which of course was Caerwyn himself, then Caerwyn would be sorely temp
ted to have the interrupting minister’s head mounted on a pike and have the pike driven into the ground in a place of utmost prominence in the grand yards of Caerwyn’s personal estate as an example to any who would think to disturb his majestic slumber.
“My Lord,” said the minister, pausing for breath as he reached Caerwyn’s side. He bowed his head and, upon lifting it, Caerwyn could see through foggy eyes it was his Minister of State.
Dear gods, what on all of Capital World do you want? Caerwyn thought, but instead of revealing his tired displeasure, he kept his composure dignified as was befitting the Royal Steward. “Yes, what is it?” he asked, tone neutral.
“It’s about the Assembly, My Lord.”
What are those fools up to this time… “What about the Assembly?”
“It’s shrinking, My Lord.”
Caerwyn squinted, scratched his head, and then looked his Minister of State back into his eyes. “What in name of the late king are you talking about?” Shrinking?
“I mean there are defectors, My Lord. Traitors,” the Minister of State bowed his head again, as if accepting personal blame for this political upset.
“You mean to tell me members of the Royal Assembly are abandoning their posts to join with the false queen?” asked Caerwyn, now feeling ire replace his fatigue.
“Yes, My Lord. A number of Representatives have disappeared. It is thought most of them, if not all, are on their way to accept Queen Kalila’s, I mean false-queen Kalila’s, cry to join her in her new Assembly, the one she has raised in exile.”
Damn her, thought Caerwyn. Always a thorn in his side. If only that fool Admiral Tiburon had finished her off when he’d had the chance. He shook his head, trying to decide what to do. “How many?” he asked.
“Dozens, My Lord,” said the Minister of State. “And possibly more to come.”
“Dozens…” mused Caerwyn. “Dozens from hundreds…” not enough to make a deathly impact, but sufficient to question his legitimacy across the realm, not to mention the possibility of encouraging others to defect. But why would they? he wondered. Didn’t they know it was he who had the rightful claim and not her? That she and her father were enemies of the state? Did they not hear about his great victory over Kalila at the Apollo Yards?
“Kill them,” said Caerwyn, through clenched teeth.
“Pardon me, My Lord, what?”
“I said kill them.” No one would abandon him and get away with it.
“Kill them, sir?”
“Yes. Let the realm know what happens to traitors who aid and abet the enemy. Let it be known any and all citizens, regardless of their station, rank, or class, shall be treated as traitors and receive a traitor’s death,” he said, now standing and dressing himself.
“Kill them how, sir?”
“Kill them quietly. Arrest them, execute them, flay them, and put their bodies on display on Capital World for all to see. Mount their heads on pikes in the public square, or else off them in the dark and dissolve them secretly in acid; it makes no difference to me so long as the message is clear. Traitors to the Empire will receive neither quarter nor clemency. Traitors to the Empire will meet their just demise.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“And to any who have already absconded and think to join the likes of the rebel queen,” said Caerwyn. “Put their names at the top of Intel Wing’s Most Wanted list, and place bounties upon their heads to be awarded dead or alive.”
“Yes, My Lord. How much, My Lord?”
“For a common Representative two-hundred thousand Q, for a lord or lady of noble standing…one million Q.” Caerwyn would be damned if he'd let Kalila raise an anti-Assembly with enough numbers, power, and prestige to challenge the true Imperial Assembly.
“Yes, My Lord. And now, what are we to do with any who have not declared for the rebels, but who are found to be leaving the planet under suspicious circumstances?”
“Have I not made myself clear?” asked Caerwyn, feeling his blood boil.
“Pardon me, My Lord,” said the Minister of State. “Perhaps I have not fully understood. You wish bounties and sentences of death upon traitors who have left our services and joined and declared for the rebels, but what of those who merely are discovered to be absent? Perhaps on their way to join the rebel queen, but perhaps not. What are we to do with those representatives, My Lord?”
Caerwyn looked his Minister of State directly in the eyes. “Minister, if you could not see with your eyes, yet you happened upon something under your shoe and it smelt of shit, felt of shit, and tasted of shit, what do you suppose you might have stepped on?”
“Shit, My Lord.”
Caerwyn nodded. “I trust you take my meaning, then?”
“I do, My Lord.”
“Good. Now what are you waiting for? Off with you!”
Chapter 4
“Yes, but the thing you have to understand about Camdale, though,” said Calvin, chuckling midsentence, “is that it wasn’t exactly known for its…piloting expertise. The program existed, to be honest, as a way for the school to get more funding. So when I made that run, just after three book lessons and a half a day of practice with the instructor, I really was being quite the idiot.”
Rain laughed with him. There was something about her smile. It wasn’t flashy or sensual or spectacular in any way Calvin could put his finger on; it wasn’t the smile of a vixen, or a film star, or someone who belonged hanging on a poster larger-than-life, it was just a smile. A friendly, normal, imperfect smile, and somehow it made Calvin feel just so warm to see it.
“That does put quite the spin on things, then,” said Rain, still smiling, her eyes locked on his. “I’m amazed you made it out alive.”
“So am I,” said Calvin, shaking his head. Laughing, this time inwardly, as he thought of the truly stupidest things he’d done back during his academy days. I was just a kid, he thought. And now here I am…in the middle of all this.
“I have to admit, it does make me rethink the standards Intel Wing sets for their recruits,” said Rain, teasing him.
Calvin nodded. “Well, things changed after that. A lot of things changed.” He liked this. He hadn’t felt so relaxed in longer than he could remember, and there was something just so simple and pleasant about reminiscing with Rain he even forgot about the pain in his left hand. “But, what about you? Surely you had one or two things go horribly, comically wrong in your early days of medicine.” After a pause, he regretted his phrasing. “I don’t mean funny as in, oh no my patient died, or he’s ruined for life; I’m not that kind of person,” he felt his face flush and was surprised by the rush of embarrassment which had suddenly seized him. “More like…”
“—The time I transposed the room number in my head and actually walked in on an ongoing surgery of the magistrate of Euripedes Three!” she said, clearly trying to help him out.
“Yes, exactly,” said Calvin, thankful for the rescue. “Something that turned out okay, but got you into some real trouble…” He paused, interrupted by the sound of an alarm buzzer switching on and off. “What the hell is that?”
Rain shrugged. “It sounds like—”
“I have to go,” Calvin said abruptly. “Sorry.” He sprinted out of the cargo bay-turned-infirmary and made his way to the Wanderer’s bridge. Because it was a small civilian craft, and a Rotham one at that, it didn’t have a proper alert system with klaxon and emergency lights. Instead, someone was using the fire alert buzzer and switching it on and off, as if simulating a starship’s klaxon alarm pattern.
“What is it?” asked Calvin, the moment he pushed his way onto the Bridge, squeezing past Rez’nac who, like him, must have deduced something was wrong and rushed to see if he could help in any way. He only managed to fit because Miles had left. “Is it the scans? Tell me what we see,” he reached the pilot’s station and peered over Alex’s shoulder to get a look at the readout displays.
“It’s not that,” said Rafael from the co-pilot’s station, not looking away fro
m the various ops displays as he spoke.
It looked like his suspicions about Rotham belligerency had proven true. Calvin glanced over the scan reports and noted that, despite the Wanderer’s limited equipment and the disadvantage of their distance, they’d successfully identified several Rotham warships gathered between the star clusters and managed to number them at a minimum of three-hundred ships. A light flashed and suddenly something else, much more pressing, caught his eye just as Rafael spoke.
“We’ve been spotted,” said Rafael, his tone neutral, but Calvin understood that this news was potentially incredibly bad. A lightly armed destroyer was moving along the Wanderer’s same flight vector, ostensibly patrolling what was supposed to be a well-trafficked shipping lane.
“It’s all right,” said Calvin, digging deep and finding some optimism. “They’re just doing their job. We got most of what we came here for.” He glanced at the intel they’d gathered on the Rotham fleet; it was limited, but nonetheless useful. “We’ll tell them we’ve had a minor systems failure, but we’ve resolved it and then get back under way. We’ll jump for deeper into Rotham space and then, when we’re clear of them, we can turn around.”
“It’s not that simple,” said Rafael.
“They’ve already hailed us,” added Alex. “I told them of our situation. I even used a very similar excuse to what you just suggested. I explained we dropped from alteredspace to consult our navigational database and make a course correction. But it didn't work, and nothing I said made any difference after that.”
“What do you mean it didn’t work?” asked Calvin, feeling his heart start to race. “What does that mean?”
“It means they’ve given us an order to hold position,” said Rafael. “I believe they’re preparing to board us to verify our story.”
The Phoenix Darkness Page 7
