The Phoenix War

by Richard L. Sanders

  “Good,” he said. She noticed then just how sharp and jagged his teeth were. She gulped at the sight of them, but tried to overpower her instinctive urge to flee. My instinct to run from him and his predator teeth is a primal one, she reminded herself, an evolved fear that is no longer relevant. I should not be afraid.

  “Then you are the one who will tell me,” he said.

  “Tell you what?” asked Tamara.

  “The weapons,” his eyes narrowed, as if studying her carefully. “Can there ever be more of these instruments of destruction?”

  She was taken aback by the question. “I suppose so, if more isotome is found.”

  “You could make more?” he raised an eyebrow. Perhaps this seemed to contradict something else he’d been told. Tamara realized then what the confusion was likely about.

  “No, nobody can make more of the weapons as things currently stand,” she said. “The Xenobe Nebula Region was the only place in the entire known galaxy where stable isotome has ever been found. And all of that has been mined—”

  “So, no more weapons?” his eyes narrowed again.

  “No more weapons,” she said. “Unless new isotome is found one day, otherwise no, there will never be another isotome weapon.”

  The Polarian seemed to understand this. He looked away from her and nodded to his fellow soldiers. And, for the briefest instant, Tamara thought that was the end of it. That they were free to go.

  Something crunched loudly against the terminal behind her, followed by a blood-curdling scream from Isabella. Tamara whirled around. The sight made her gasp.

  Oh god! Tamara tried to scream but the words wouldn’t come out.

  Erik was dead. He’d been forcefully thrown against the terminal. He lay crumpled over the bent helm control, his head cracked open like an egg. Revealing grey-matter and broken skull fragments drenched in a river of blood and other bodily fluids.

  Another of the Polarian soldiers seized Isabella by the throat. She struggled to break free but was hopelessly outmatched in a contest of strength. The Polarian lifted her by the neck, as if she were a weightless ragdoll, and—if that didn’t do irreparable harm to her—the jagged knife he slipped along her throat did. Opening her carotid artery. Blood gushed and Tamara had to look away.

  She felt frozen in place, unable to do anything. Hot tears drowned her eyes and, although it was biologically impossible, she felt her heart beating in her throat.

  And then, tight as a vice grip, a large hand clamped down on her shoulder. She trembled and sobbed as she felt herself pulled backwards suddenly.

  “Please…” she whispered meekly. “Please don’t…”

  “I am sorry human female,” the deep voice said from behind. “The number of ways is but one. And this is it. There is no other path.”

  “At least…” she fumbled for words. Realizing, somewhat surreally, that she was about to die—about to stop existing.

  “At least what?” demanded the Polarian.

  “At least tell me why,” she said, controlling her sobs. “We only did what was asked of us.”

  “Indeed you did, human female. And now your work is complete.”

  ***

  Calvin was with Kalila on the bridge of the Black Swan when word reached them. And once the bad news started pouring in, it didn’t stop. It seemed to only grow worse with each further detail. He could do nothing but stand there, feeling stupid—reeling in shock himself—and watch as the Princess’s entire world collapsed around her.

  “It is certain, then?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain strong even though her body was visually trembling.

  “I’m afraid so, Your Grace,” replied Captain Adiger, bowing his head respectfully. The man had personally contacted his allies on the ground to determine what was happening.

  “First Genjiro, and then Kanna and Azumi…” Kalila spoke the names softly, barely above a whisper, seeming to stare far beyond everyone. As if watching events a thousand light-years away. “And now Father too…”

  Not long ago they’d received word that the crown prince’s shuttle had been destroyed while attempting to leave the system. It exploded during takeoff; cause unknown. And then, hardly seconds afterward, news arrived that Kalila’s elder sisters were similarly deceased. One died as her ship’s life support failed, and the other was killed in a fatal car accident, while trying to reach an Akiran stronghold on Capital World—her bodyguards apparently had died with her, along with most of her forty-eight person motorcade. Calvin thought either this was the most spectacularly lethal accident of all time or, infinitely more likely, not an accident at all.

  And now Kalila had just learned the reason her father’s speech had been abruptly interrupted was that he was dead. And Kalila looked almost too stunned to comprehend what it all meant. While all Calvin could think was, they’re butchering the crown and everyone in line to inherit it. Does that mean Kalila is next? Is this ship rigged to explode too? Or lose life support? He looked around at the many officers manning the many stations of the bridge, whole teams of people relaying commands to hundreds of crewmen all throughout the dreadnought. And he realized, if this ship were timed to destroy itself, he had no choice but to rely on these officers to keep him safe. There was nothing he could do to help them.

  “None of this was an accident,” whispered Rafael to Calvin. Calvin nodded. Rafael was right about that, this was all planned. Someone wanted to create a vacuum of power… but who? Not the Assembly… not unless those in power there, such as Caerwyn Martel, had learned in advance that King Akira had intended to cling to his throne, and Caerwyn and the others had axed him before he could cry for the loyalist citizens to rally to his cause. But that felt wrong to Calvin. Nothing about the King’s speech, short as it’d been, gave him the impression that he was on the verge of challenging the Assembly.

  His eyes automatically returned to Kalila. So beautiful and so pitiable. Calvin’s heart stirred. More than anything he wanted to reach out, to hold her, to try to comfort her. But he knew it would be completely inappropriate, so he suppressed the instinct. Even though he could see her heartache in her hauntingly sad eyes.

  “How did he…?” asked Kalila, now looking at Captain Adiger.

  “He was murdered, Your Grace,” he said. “Slain on the Assembly Floor, killed by a cowardly sniper.”

  Calvin reeled at the cause of death. Shocked that he’d lived to see such a day.

  They’d all been watching the King’s address before the Empire—wondering if he would submit to the Assembly’s decision to strip him of his throne, or if he’d cling to his powers and fight the forces that had usurped their government. As Calvin had listened, it’d proven difficult not think about the Eighth and Ninth Fleets bearing down on Capital System even now, fifty-two ships ready for battle. Ships that were likely to capture or destroy the Black Swan.

  And yet, even though he feared for his own life, he couldn’t help but feel an intense measure of crushing guilt. This whole tragic situation was as much his fault as anyone’s. He’d been the Executor. The duty had fallen on him to capture the Phoenix Ring conspirators, to shake loose every iota of information they had and expose them and their treachery before the Assembly and the Empire, but he’d come too late. And Zane Martel, the Phoenix Ring leaders, and all of their precious information had melted away—like snowflakes in the palm of his hand—before he could raise his angry fist and expose the truth.

  As they’d watched the King’s broadcast on the Black Swan’s bridge, gripped by every word, waiting to see if he would fight for his crown, they were shocked when the broadcast abruptly terminated. The King had been in the middle of a sentence, and then static. At first Calvin had assumed, along with most others—he was sure, that the broadcast had been cut off by someone wanting to silence it. Perhaps by jamming communications. But it turned out the state-run news organization had been broadcasting with a seven-second delay, rather than live, and that delay had spared Kalila the torment of seeing her father co
llapse on the Assembly Floor, apparently shot by a sniper.

  “Did they apprehend the coward?” Kalila asked through clenched teeth. A newfound fire raged in her eyes. Burning in place of the thousands of tears she somehow held back.

  “Not yet, Princess,” said Adiger. “But I’m sure it is only a matter of time.”

  With the heir to the throne, Genjiro Akira, slain, along with the next two in the line of succession, Kanna and Azumi, and the King himself dead—killed before ever revealing if he intended to submit to the Assembly or maintain his claim to the throne—that meant Kalila herself was heir to the Empire. All that her father was, all that her family had, everything now belonged to her.

  “The Harbinger reports it can no longer remain in Capital System and is about to jump to alteredspace,” said the communication chief, loud enough for Captain Adiger to take note.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Captain Adiger.

  “Captain Asari Raidan sends his condolences, and strongly advises we leave the system immediately,” added the communications chief.

  “Duly noted,” replied Captain Adiger. “Ops, give me the position and heading of the Eighth and Ninth Fleets.”

  “The Ninth Fleet is two minutes away; the Eight is two and a half. They are closing in on Capital System. Containment pattern likely.”

  Calvin knew what that meant, and so did Captain Adiger—by the grim look that appeared on his face. If the Black Swan was still in the system when those fleets arrived… it wouldn’t matter in the slightest that the Black Swan was among the most powerful ships ever built. It might as well be an unarmed shuttle for all the good it would do them. Calvin saw Captain Adiger’s eyes flick to the 3d display where the ISS Victory sat idle, the fiercest ship in the galaxy, uselessly docked at port. By rights it belonged to Kalila now, and yet she hadn’t the slightest chance of taking it—certainly not with those fleets bearing down on them.

  “Raidan’s right, you know,” said Calvin. He didn’t want to intrude upon the Princess’s grief but he saw no value in remaining here. The King was dead. The eldest heirs to the throne were dead. Zane Martel and the Phoenix Ring leaders were all dead. And the Empire was perhaps the most upside-down it’d ever been. But Kalila was still alive, and so was the hope that the Empire could be restored—provided Kalila didn’t allow the Eighth and Ninth fleets to trap the Black Swan.

  They needed to leave. There was much they could still do, no matter how bleak things seemed—they had to at least try. I’d rather die trying than live to see what fresh hell awaits humanity, he thought. Knowing that, looming just beyond the edges of human space, were forces far darker and threats far deadlier than even the fleets bearing down on them. The Rahajiim, the Enclave, the Rotham Republic, and others were eager to carve out slices of human space for themselves—slaughtering and enslaving in their wake, perhaps even the Polarian Confederated States would join them. And somewhere out there, in the nethermost regions of the blackest space, isotome weapons still existed, Calvin had no doubt. He hoped desperately that Summers got to them before they could be used.

  “I agree with Calvin,” said Rafael, speaking up. “If we allow ourselves to be caught by the Eighth and Ninth Fleets, it would not serve anyone…”

  Captain Adiger nodded, his dark eyes seemed to reflect the reality of their situation; he understood the danger as much as Calvin and Rafael did. But he remained Kalila’s ever-loyal servant.

  “Your Grace,” Adiger said, trying to get the Princess’s attention. She seemed lost to her thoughts. Her eyes were once again staring past the ship’s walls, well beyond the people surrounding her. Perhaps she was in some distant galaxy where her troubles should never find her. Yet find her they would. “Princess Kalila,” said Adiger. Calling her by name seemed to get her to wake up and notice of them.

  “Yes, what?” she asked. A part of her looked defeated, yet another part of her still burned. There was danger in that fiery part. Calvin knew what it was when he saw it.

  “We must depart the system, Your Grace,” said Adiger. “Our allies are fleeing the system… it would not serve for us to remain.”

  Kalila stared at him, as if to say “what is the point? Why bother?” but instead she said nothing.

  “The King is dead,” added Rafael. “We remained behind to assist him should he need it. But now… well, we know the answer to that. So there is no more reason for us to stay. Except to offer our throats to the enemy.”

  Kalila stared at Rafael with narrow eyes that were sharper than a laser drill. Her look was so piercing, and so hostile, it made Calvin shudder. And yet Rafael’s words had agitated something in her, Calvin could tell. The lowly lieutenant with the eye-patch and not enough fingers had gotten to her with his bold words and callous tone. He’d crossed a line, to be sure. But, by the look of her—half mysterious and half-ready to explode—perhaps it was what Kalila needed to hear.

  “Jump the ship,” said Kalila, at last. She shot Adiger a look and waved her hand dismissively, as if to say “do what you will” and then she turned away and walked defeatedly toward her private office. Calvin watched her go until she disappeared behind the sliding door.

  Meanwhile Captain Adiger ordered his bridge crew to clear the ship to a safe distance and jump the instant they were able. At last count, the Ninth Fleet was only thirty-five seconds from alteredspace descent.

  Chapter 3

  Summers stood to the side, pretending not to be there, as she observed Green Shift. The “third watch” was filled with the bridge-duty officers with whom she was least acquainted—except one.

  “Status report?” asked Midshipman Cassidy Dupont from her seat at the command position.

  The man at ops—a twenty-something year old officer whose black uniform sported the same white bar Cassidy’s did—looked at her with a hint of jealousy as he replied. “Alteredspace depth of ninety-percent potential, stealth system active, ten hours and nineteen minutes from destination at present depth.”

  “Thank you, Mister Petersen,” said Cassidy. She gave Summers a glance, as if asking if she was performing acceptably. Summers nodded.

  With the ship’s original crew, what was left of them, mixed-in so thoroughly with new arrivals, Summers had needed to get extra creative with the duty assignments. Not only did she want to effectively distribute the crews talent across all three shifts, she wanted everything to run efficiently. Above all, she wanted someone she knew personally, and could trust, in charge of the bridge at all times. Since she didn’t know anyone on Green Shift particularly well, and trusted no one on the ship more than Cassidy Dupont, Summers had made the unconventional move of elevating Midshipman Dupont to the position of Acting Third Officer. And given her command of the Green Shift. That left Second Lieutenant Vargas as Acting Second Officer with command over the Red Shift—something Summers wasn’t particularly thrilled with. She disliked Vargas, but other than having a weak spine there wasn’t much she could truthfully hold against him, certainly he hadn’t proven disloyal, and he was still a mountain’s-worth more competent than the idiot Miles Brown who remained in the role of Acting Executive Officer…

  My 3O is more capable than my 2O, and my XO is less capable still… Summers shook her head, thinking how backwards the Nighthawk was in so many ways. When Calvin finally returned, once his work on Capital World was complete, Summers would be grateful to return command of the ship to its rightful CO. He made this bed, let him sleep in it.

  “Sir,” reported the man occupying the pilot’s chair. He wore the communications headset that went with the post, but it seemed to bend more than it should to fit around his unusually large head. He wasn’t overly obese, not truly, but certainly was the closest thing to it on this ship. Summers looked at him with scrutiny, thinking he was in even worse shape than Lieutenant Iwate Shen. Certainly this man, this Tully, wouldn’t have passed the physical requirements to be an active-duty service member of Intel Wing, or probably any branch of service. Tully had come aboard with other new rec
ruits when they’d docked with the Harbinger for resupply and repair. We’re getting increasingly desperate for help, aren’t we? she thought darkly.

  “What is it, Mister Tully?” asked Cassidy. In truth, the younger woman was proving to be a capable leader in addition to being a fine officer. Command-skill seemed bred into her just as surely as she was gifted with computers and technology. But Summers would have liked her to use a stricter tone of voice. No doubt that would come with practice, once she was used to the center chair.

  “Sir,” replied the fat man. “Message coming in. Encrypted. Highest priority.”

  Calvin. Summers felt her heart quicken but she remained still and quiet, content to watch Cassidy handle this.

  “Identify the source,” said Cassidy.

  “It’s the ISS Harbinger,” said Tully.

  Not Calvin then… Summers felt a wave of disappointment, but also a kind of morbid curiosity. What new hell is this, Raidan? More lies for us?

  Cassidy looked to Summers for direction. I won’t always be here to hold your hand, Summers thought. But considering that it was Raidan on the other end, it was probably for the best that Summers take control. No one else understood him like she did; no one else would be prepared for his treachery.

  “On speakers,” said Summers. It was bad enough having to hear Raidan’s snake-like voice, she’d rather not have to look into his snake-like eyes on the main display while doing it.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Summers took the command position from Cassidy, who seemed almost too eager to relinquish it. One day you’ll learn to appreciate that chair.

  “Commander Presley, are you there?” a familiar gravelly voice crackled over the speakers.

  “I’m here,” Summers replied, trying to sound completely indifferent.

  “What is your status and position?” Raidan asked.