The Phoenix War

by Richard L. Sanders

  “Look at him,” said the curly-haired man. “Look how he cowers on the floor, like the slime he is.”

  Rez’nac ignored him.

  “Get up, slime,” said the curly-haired man.

  “Yeah get up, asshole!” one of the others chimed in.

  Slowly and methodically, Rez’nac rose to his feet. Great pain shot through his body as he stood. At least two of his ribs were cracked, he knew, but he did not wince. Nor did he submit to the pain. I may be master of none else now, but I remain master of my own body.

  When he stood to his full height, he towered over the humans. The tallest one didn’t even reach his chin. He was mightier than any of them, stronger, and far more deadly. The warrior within him burned, begging to be released. And, as Rez’nac looked them over, he was sorely tempted. The men standing before him, it was hard not to think of their throats and how easily he could wrap his hands around them, one by one, and crush them, with no effort whatsoever. He could kill these men, it would take him mere seconds. He could slice them to ribbons with his ceremonial dagger, or he could rip them apart, limb from limb with his bare hands. These humans, although deadly with their guns and bombs and instruments of killing, were absolutely nothing to him barehanded. Frailer than children. I could kill them easily.

  They began pushing him. And one human connected a right hook with Rez’nac’s throat. His tough skin protected him far better than a human’s would have, but the blow made him recoil backward all the same, gasping momentarily for air.

  They punched him some more, and kicked him. Two of the humans held him by the arms, no doubt believing they had the strength to contain him, while the curly-haired man struck him in the face. Repeatedly.

  I could kill them, he thought again. And indeed his instinct to fight tempted him, to defend his own life, to slaughter his enemies, it was so very deeply engrained! Burning. It was, perhaps more than anything, who he was. At his deepest, truest core. A warrior. No longer of Khalahar perhaps, but a warrior all the same.

  “This is for Gary!” They struck him again.

  He embraced the pain. I am nothing, he reminded himself. I am a Fallen One. A Lost One. A Forgotten One.

  The curly-haired human punched him hard in the gut. Most of the force of the blow deflected off Rez’nac’s hard, muscular abdomen. But the pain still stung, as did the injury to his pride. Even mere weeks ago he would never have allowed this. A leader of the Essence of Khalahar should never stand for such abuse. He would have killed these men with barely a thought, snapped their necks the moment they first struck him. And yet now he was Fallen. Now he had to bear this insult. For a Fallen One, truly, could receive no insult. One must have pride first before that pride could be hurt. And whatever pride he still clung to he knew he needed to let go.

  This is good for me, he thought. It was past time he learned to accept the consequences of his actions, of his decision to spare Grimka despite everything he knew. And everything that was right.

  The curly-haired man had hit Rez’nac so many times now that his pale human knuckles had turned purple and begun to bleed. Yet the man’s eyes burned with fire, glowing with hate and malice. And he seemed not to care about his own pain. So long as he could inflict worse upon his enemy. There was a kind of strength in that, a strength Rez’nac had to respect, but at the same time a kind of recklessness that could easily lead this human to put his own comrades in danger to satisfy his foolish pride. He is not yet broken, this one. He is rebellious. Pellew would do well to break him and put him in line.

  Another blow connected with Rez’nac’s face. He felt a tooth loosen and blood filled his mouth. He spat it out. Readying himself for the next blow. He was starting to feel light-headed, and the many injuries were starting to take their toll on him. His knees threatened to buckle under him, but he asked for no quarter and begged for no mercy.

  I deserve this. This is just. Grimka was one of mine when he slaughtered Patterson. And so the sin is upon my head. And when I went to make him atone for his action, his foul deed, I chose not to take his life. And by so doing I took my own life. And, far worse than that, I gave up my eternal honor. And now, rather cruelly, I yet walk among the living. Unable to find some kind of peace in the great darkness that awaits the souls of the soulless and the dishonored.

  As another blow struck him, everything seemed to darken a little. He was vaguely aware of the sound of the door sliding open.

  “Stop this at once!” yelled a man’s voice. It sounded like Captain Pellew but Rez’nac couldn’t be sure. He blinked but his eyes were too blurry to see.

  The hands let go of him immediately and, without them holding him up, he stumbled and nearly collapsed. Yet somehow he managed to keep his feet a little longer. I am nothing, he reminded himself.

  “Alldroit! Smith! Baudin! What the hell is going on here?”

  Rez’nac saw the blur of a man approach and the soldiers around him stood at attention, saluting.

  And then he lost his bearings and collapsed.

  Chapter 7

  He’d never taken it by needle before. He’d always taken it in pill form. But they said this was faster, it should take effect immediately. And they wouldn’t need as high of a dose, this form of delivery was more bioavailable. He understood the reasoning, but it still felt odd and a little… wrong.

  Calvin held still as one of the medics prepped the site on his upper arm while the other readied the needle. He stared at its glistening metal tip, thinking about the dose of equarius that was about to be injected directly into a large vein, which would take it to his heart.

  All my effort to rid myself of the damned drug, and here I am letting it flow deep into my core.

  “All right, this will sting for just a second,” said the medic holding the needle as he took Calvin’s arm in his free hand and readied the needle against the injection site.

  “I understand,” said Calvin, but the prick of the needle was the last thing he was worried about. What he feared most, strangely, was also what he wanted most. A part of him missed the cool, pleasant, almost-apathetic release that equarius gave him. But that modest pleasure had nearly cost him his ship and, if he kept turning to it, would eventually cost him much more than that—including his life.

  I have no choice. I have to do this. Everyone has to. Even now, as Calvin took his turn receiving the drug, there was quite a queue of officers lined up behind him to take their minimum doses of Xinocodone and be certified—most of the Black Swan’s massive infirmary had been put to the task of certifying people. Although, out of necessity, only two-thirds of those aboard could be certified immediately, since the third that was currently on-duty needed to wait for relief before they could be administered Xinocodone.

  “There,” said the medic as he carefully removed the needle from Calvin’s arm. If there had been a prick, the sensation was gone instantly as the equarius entered his bloodstream. He felt a familiar lighthearted tingle and couldn’t stop a slight grin from spreading across his face.

  “Thank you, doctor,” said Calvin as the assistant medic cleaned and bandaged the site on his arm.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  A recorder made a note on his tablet device that Calvin was certified and the medic who’d delivered the injection pressed his thumb on the tablet screen to verify the recorder’s note.

  “Next,” called the assistant medic.

  Calvin stepped out of the line and headed for the exit. Before he left he stopped and stared up at the many lights affixed to the ceiling. This is a big room, he realized, feeling light as a feather. He left.

  He wound his way through the many corridors and elevators of the Black Swan, mostly lucid but occasionally feeling waves of mild, euphoric disorientation, and returned to his quarters.

  It is done, he thought. He was familiar enough with the drug to recognize its soothing, mind-numbing effects. I should get some sleep. He knew that would be best, he’d wake in a few hours and the effects would be gone. And it would be as if
he’d never broken his word to himself and had never taken more equarius. The last time he’d been tempted, when he’d thrown the drug down the toilet, he’d vowed never to take the drug again. And yet, here he was, feeling just a little bit airborne.

  He stared at the clock, wondering what time it was. The numbers seemed a little blurry. He squinted to read the digits and then he realized that he didn’t care what time it was.

  He paced around his room for a bit, in part enjoying the effects of the drug, and partly because he felt he ought to do something but no particular thing seemed important enough to do. Eventually he settled down onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling. Opening and closing his eyes, slowly and repeatedly, thinking about how strange it was that such thin layers of flesh were the only natural protections the soft, vulnerable organs had.

  Not quite sure when it happened, he did fall asleep. And when he woke, only a few hours later, he didn’t remember his dreams. No night terrors haunted him, and he awoke with none of the terrifying vertigo that lately seemed to torment him whenever he ingested equarius and slept. The only thing he felt was a dull, throbbing headache, and a dry, parched throat.

  He scooped up the water bottle he’d deliberately set on the nightstand and drank. Not stopping until the bottle was half empty. Then he wiped his face, took a deep breath, and set the bottle aside.

  For a few minutes Calvin entertained notions of trying to return to sleep. But after tossing and turning for some while, he found that his racing thoughts returned and kept him from slipping back into the dark dreamscape.

  War is coming, he thought ominously. Thinking of all of the admirals, captains, and knights of the crown who remained loyal to Kalila that were racing across the Empire to meet them here, along with whatever strength the Organization still had. Already the warships had begun to arrive and more were coming. It promised to be quite a force, and yet… Calvin had serious doubts that it would be enough. Many of the admirals and starship commanders Kalila had contacted refused to take a side in the conflict, or else had declared for the Assembly. And even though the princess had been very judicious about transmitting their coordinates, Calvin was one-hundred percent certain their location had been leaked to the Assembly by now. Not to mention their jump signature would have been traced when they fled Capital System. It was best to assume the Assembly and the rest of the Imperial military knew Kalila was here. Which meant an attempt on her life was probable.

  Only one question remained, how would the enemy go about it? Would it be through guile and subterfuge? Perhaps an assassin was already in place aboard this very ship, which—for all its steel, might, and thunder could easily prove useless at protecting her. Or perhaps the enemy would corner them with an even larger force, and Kalila, Calvin, and all the rest were destined to be destroyed in one final epic, inglorious battle of human fleets tearing each other apart. Leaving the sad victor defenseless against the deadly Rotham menace, and possibly the Polarians too.

  Maybe I’m being too pessimistic, he thought. Maybe we’ll have one great decisive battle, and after our stunning victory Kalila will unite humanity before the Rotham can figure out some way to get their fleets into Imperial space without upsetting the Alliance.

  It seemed too much to hope for. But he found himself hoping for it all the same. Wishing also that he wasn’t trapped here, on the Black Swan, feeling completely useless while Summers and the crew of the Nighthawk, his closest friends, risked their lives to thwart an even more sinister evil. The threat of isotome weapons. I never should have left the Nighthawk, he thought for the umpteenth time.

  As he thought of his experience on Capital World, his boyhood home where he’d so recently proven himself unable to save the Empire—despite the vast powers granted him, he thought of the spectacularly miserable result of his efforts and recalled how narrowly he and Kalila had escaped. And he wondered if he’d even deserved to escape—he felt a bit like a boat captain swimming to shore while his vessel and all her passengers went under—and how lucky Kalila had been to escape the horrifying fate that had seized her father—the king—and all of her older siblings. They’d each been killed in swift succession, and none of them by accident, Calvin was certain.

  Now that he thought about it, Kalila had been almost stupefying lucky not to have shared her siblings’ fate. Sure she’d been safely aboard the Black Swan by then, but each of her slain family members had been surrounded by layers of protection that each had proven ineffective. Not to mention that Kalila stood to gain the most from her father’s and siblings’ deaths…

  It couldn’t be! No, now I’m just being paranoid, he thought. But, even as he dismissed the suspicions that swirled inside him, he couldn’t help but consider the ominous possibility that Kalila herself was behind what had happened on Capital World. Her father’s death, her siblings’ deaths, maybe even the deaths of Zane Martel and the rest of the Phoenix Ring’s leaders.

  No, that’s simply crazy. He blinked repeatedly, as if to chase away the rush of paranoia that had overtaken him. He recalled rather vividly how determined Kalila had been for Calvin’s efforts as Executor to succeed, how she’d pressured him to achieve results, and how she’d given him the best resources she possibly could. Obviously she wanted me to succeed.

  He was ninety-nine percent sure that things were as they appeared, that Kalila had taken no part in the brutal slaughter of the rest of her family, despite the fact that it made her next in line for the throne. And she’d almost certainly had no hand in what’d happened to the Phoenix Ring. Someone else was out there, someone powerful. A grimmer, deadlier threat that remained in the shadows. Lurking. And yet, as Calvin tossed and turned thinking about it, he couldn’t stop dwelling on the one-percent chance that he’d been deceived, that Kalila was more devious and cunning and self-motivated than he ever would have guessed.

  Surely not, he reminded himself. Surely it isn’t so. Another very real, very deadly player was in the game. Someone more powerful and more threatening than even the Phoenix Ring had been, and that was the danger Calvin knew he must focus on. He thought of conversations he’d had with Alex, back on the Nighthawk, and remembered hearing about the elusive and deadly Rahajiim organization within the Republic. Perhaps it was the Rahajiim who was behind the slaughter of the Phoenix Ring’s leadership and the massacre of the royal family.

  Calvin believed that to be a much more likely case than the frightening suspicion that the princess was behind those evil deeds. Especially since, if he couldn’t trust Kalila, that didn’t leave him with much. He believed in humanity, he believed in preserving his species, and their proud, rich traditions, but if he couldn’t trust Kalila… who was left to trust? Who could he support? Not Raidan’s Organization, surely. He knew what they Organization were capable of… which left him with only the corrupt Assembly, which had proven itself easily deceived and manipulated by corrupt interests such as the Phoenix Ring—for all he knew the murderer of the king was an Assembly member himself. Perhaps Caerwyn Martel. His brother Zane had been a Phoenix Ring leader after all, maybe Caerwyn was one of them too. If nothing else, the fat politician was reaching for the throne, serving only his own best interests, not those of the Empire. Calvin could never support the Assembly, not in its current state.

  Which meant, if he couldn’t trust Kalila, there was no one left to trust.

  I wish I was on my ship, he thought again. Or somewhere else, at the very least. Somewhere far away. But that forlorn wish was unattainable. For now he had to weather the storm, trust his instincts, throw his lot behind Kalila, and hope against hope that somehow the Empire would survive, that Kalila would prove the kind of leader her ancestor was—the man who’d originally united humanity into a single Empire. Because, if she failed…

  Calvin imagined Rotham ships burning and pillaging human worlds everywhere. Followed by the death-black ships of the Dread Fleet, leaving nothing behind. Human planet after human planet falling. Until they’d been wiped from the galaxy. And that was assumin
g the isotome weapons didn’t reappear. If they did…

  He shivered as a sudden chill overcame him.

  I need to get it together, he realized, wanting relief from his depressing thoughts. Knowing the crushing feeling of despair, while perhaps founded on very tangible fears, was mostly just the after effect of equarius. Or so he hoped…

  His comm beeped. Calvin climbed out of bed to answer it. It was the bridge requesting his presence immediately. The comms chief didn’t say why, just that it was urgent. Obviously something important was about to happen. He wondered what it was.

  Could it be the enemy fleets bearing down on them? He doubted they could muster their forces so quickly. But if the Assembly did ultimately decide to throw their starships against them, despite the strength that Kalila and Raidan had amassed, it wouldn’t be good. He couldn’t guess who would emerge the victor of such a bloody slaughter, but he could imagine it would leave humanity all but defenseless against alien invasion.

  As Calvin left his quarters he did not walk to the bridge, he ran.

  ***

  Caerwyn watched the large display screen. So did everyone else. And anyone whose eyes weren’t glued to the large display at the front of the chamber was certainly watching his own personal display—the message was on all channels and frequencies. As far as Caerwyn could tell, it was being broadcasted to every outpost, starship, colony, and planet in the Empire.

  “…the usurpation of power by members of the Assembly and many of the elites within our military is not only against our great political tradition—throwing our sovereign Empire into peril, it is also a declaration of war against the citizens of this great nation,” Princess Kalila Akira was saying. Her face was the main object in focus but two men could be seen in the frame, standing a ways behind her. One was the former Executor of the Empire, the young and impetuous Calvin Cross. The other was a man whose face Caerwyn didn’t recognize, but he wore a navy uniform with a captain’s insignia which he meant he was probably the commander of the Black Swan.