The Phoenix War

by Richard L. Sanders

  “How do you expect it not to be bloody?” asked Adiger. “If we attack the Apollo Yards, you can be certain that the Assembly will defend them vigorously. From a strategic vantage, the Apollo System is the most valuable card in the enemy’s possession. Except for Capital World itself.”

  “Yes, they will defend the system,” admitted Kalila. “So long as they anticipate our attack. Which is why we will leak intelligence, and make every pretense, to convince them we are attacking Olympia instead.” She’d thought long and hard about this, and discussed the strategy at length with her truest knights.

  “Olympia is one of the most-populous systems that has sworn allegiance to the Assembly,” said Adiger thoughtfully. “If they think it’s in danger, they’ll have to defend it.”

  “And it’s far enough away from the Apollo Yards that, by the time they realize their error and rush their forces to defend, the Apollo Yards will already be under our control.”

  Adiger nodded. “I like it,” he said.

  Kalila resisted the urge to smile. She knew it was a good plan, she didn’t require validation on that score, but it was still pleasant to hear. Adiger was a man for whom she’d always held the highest degree of respect, particularly with regard to matters of military strategy, so it meant a lot to hear him approve of the plan that she’d personally thought up.

  “We will hand the enemy their first defeat, and that defeat will be heard far and wide,” said Adiger. “And we will do it with minimal loss of life.”

  “That is my hope, Captain,” said Kalila. “That is my dearest hope.”

  ***

  If he listened carefully, he could hear the distant echoes of the screams—along with the muted whine of alien rifle-fire accompanied by the faint thumping of bodies crashing onto the hard, metal deck of the Waeju Canton.

  As fast as he moved, however, Samil never caught up to the fighting. He ran through the corridors—as quickly as his old, broken body would let him—not sure where he was going but knowing he had to get away, to hide somewhere, anywhere that wasn’t here. But, no matter where he went, he couldn’t escape the grisly signs of what was happening.

  Bodies littered the floor. Some were soldiers, Alliance security personnel who’d been taken unawares, but most weren’t. Most were civilians. Samil had never had much love for the Alliance, their citizens were naïve, ignorant, paranoid, and xenophobic. But they were people all the same. Human beings. And somehow, no matter what side of the conflict they were on, there was just something profoundly upsetting about the sight of women torn to pieces and children lying with their heads burned and bodies melted…

  As he stepped over the corpses, Samil tried not to look. Tried not to let the immediate reality of what was happening sink in. This isn’t real, he told himself. This isn’t happening.

  Puddles of blood stained the walls and the deck. Most of the dead, mercifully, seemed to be the victims of Rotham hardware. Gunned down by Rotham Teldari commandos and Khan soldiers as they fled every which way. Their bodies were scarred and blackened where they’d taken fire, and indeed some of the corpses were still burning, clothing aflame—not a sight he wished to see, nor one he’d soon forget. But it was mercy compared to the other bodies. The savage, butcherous handiwork of the Enclave Remorii had been swift and extreme. Whole limbs had been torn from bodies, flesh had been ripped from necks by razor-sharp teeth… and a few of the corpses seemed even to have been drunk dry, rotting bloodless and pale.

  It was all he could do not to gag and vomit as he scrambled through the rooms and corridors. Plugging his nose tight. Wishing he could cover his eyes…

  When he’d run as far as he could, and his legs threatened to give out beneath him, he collapsed against the wall to catch his breath. Panting desperately, he felt a warm sting well up in his eyes and, though he tried to fight it, the tears flowed. Like a storm without warning, pouring down in droves and buckets.

  He sobbed for a long time, long after he’d caught his breath the waters kept coming. He thought of his pitiful, miserable life. All the people he’d wronged. Most especially Calvin, his sweet little boy, and Olivia, the tender, lovely woman who had adored him so deeply she would have moved the planets themselves for him, if he’d asked her to. And yet I cheated on her. And left her. And abandoned her… The deals he’d made. The friends he’d betrayed. The money, always the money…

  And for once, Samil Cross didn’t value his own life. For a brief moment, he stopped caring whether he lived or died. It no longer seemed to matter what happened to him. And suddenly it sank in, then and there, just how small and insignificant he was. A mere flickering of a matchstick in a great, vast, black whirlwind that had existed long before he’d ever been conceived and would remain long after he was gone. Even the brutal slaughter here, the countless thousands of lives who were being butchered at this very instant—an ocean of blood compared to his meager five liters—were nothing compared to the great black whirlwind. A little brighter than his single matchstick, perhaps, but the endless void awaited to swallow them all just the same. Numbers made no difference. Life, when it got right down to it, was just a stall.

  And then he heard it. Suddenly and abruptly. The ominous sound of silence. The screaming had ceased. The gunfire quieted. No banging on the walls. No bodies crashing to the floor. No yelling or crying or wailing. Just… silence. Broken only by the slight hushed hum of air circulating from the vents. He closed his eyes, shutting back the tears that still wanted to flow, and listened to the nothingness. Is it over? he wondered.

  As if in answer, he heard footsteps approach from behind, fast and light. And instantly his fear returned, seizing him by the throat, and his sense of self-preservation took command. He whirled around to face the threat.

  “Well look what craven, sniveling fool I find hiding in the corridors,” said Nicu.

  Samil felt his throat tighten even more. Out of everyone in the Enclave, Nicu was the last Strigoi he would ever want to see. He was the most vicious, the most ruthless, and without doubt the most evil.

  “It is only fitting that the First should be the one to discover what happened to the mighty Savetnik,” said Nicu with a wicked smile. The First… in Samil’s mind, Nicu was still only the Second. After all, that had been his identity for years. Since the very beginning of the Enclave. But recently he’d taken the mantle of First upon himself by brutally murdering the true First before the entire Enclave. Because of that dark display, they’d accepted him as their new leader.

  “You seem unusually silent,” said Nicu with relish in his voice. “What’s the matter, Savetnik?” His eyes glowed blood red and Samil found himself at a loss for words. He began to tremble and he could hear his own heartbeat, as the weakened muscle throbbed harder and louder than he ever thought possible.

  “I—” Samil tried to speak, but no words seemed able to follow.

  “You what?” Nicu seemed to enjoy the look of terror frozen on Samil’s face. His eyes stared at Samil with hunger and his smile showed a glint of his jagged, reddened teeth. He stepped closer and Samil tried to take a step backward, only to be stopped by the wall. “Are you going to confess?” asked Nicu. “Are you going to admit there’s a tremendous weight of guilt pressing down on you?” asked Nicu. As he said the word ‘pressing’ his arms flew forward and he took hold of Samil by the shoulders, slowly pushing him harder against the wall. Samil felt like his bones would break.

  “Stop,” he said weakly. “Please.”

  “Why should I?” asked Nicu, pressing even harder. Samil yelped in pain.

  “Please stop!”

  “Admit what you’ve done!” snapped Nicu. “Admit it!”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Yes you do!”

  “I don’t, I swear—”

  “Lies! I know what you did. Admit it. Admit it and the pain will stop.” Nicu’s fingers dug into Samil’s shoulders as he pinned Samil even tighter against the wall.

  Samil heard something snap as h
e let out a cry. “All right, ALL RIGHT!”

  Nicu relaxed his grip but the pain didn’t go away. They stood face to face, mere inches away, and Samil could smell the disgusting stench of death and corpses on Nicu’s breath. The First’s red eyes glowed; his gaze seemed to see everything. Even Samil’s most guarded secrets.

  “Say it,” said Nicu. “Just say it. Tell me what you did.”

  “I sent it,” whispered Samil.

  “Sent what?”

  Samil wanted nothing more than to hold his tongue. To say nothing. Odds were good he was a dead man anyway. So why not deprive Nicu of the satisfaction? But unfortunately, the pain was too intense. And the fear and despair were so thick and palpable that it seemed a miracle Samil was managing to remain conscious.

  “I sent a warning to the Najamnik,” he confessed, finding more courage with every word.

  Nicu’s eyes narrowed. “I knew it.” He let go of Samil’s shoulders and curled his fingers around his neck. “You always smelled of treachery to me…”

  “The Empire will defend itself,” said Samil, scraping his insides for any ounce of defiance he could muster. “You’d better believe it. And you can tell your Rotham overlords that anyone and anything they send against humanity… will be completely and utterly destroyed.”

  “Maybe the Empire fights, maybe it doesn’t; makes no difference to me,” said Nicu. “We honored our part of the arrangement and now the Republic must too. It’s just a pity that you won’t live to see our glorious day.”

  Samil took a deep breath, and he realized in that moment that he’d always known he was a goner. That he’d been a dead man all along. Since the moment he’d chosen to transmit that warning, he’d known—deep down—that pressing send was no different than signing his own death warrant. At least he felt some small measure of peace in the knowledge that his final act had not been a selfish one. True, it was probably not enough to undo a lifetime of selfishness. But at least it was a hell of a way to go out. And now he could die hopeful that he’d protected his son. His only living child. The only meaningful contribution he’d ever made to the universe. Forgive me Calvin. Forgive me Olivia.

  “Any last words, Savetnik?” asked Nicu. “Before I end your miserable existence?”

  “Just this,” said Samil. He spat in Nicu’s face.

  Chapter 14

  Being surrounded by complete darkness does strange things to a person, thought Nimoux.

  When they’d first thrown him into the solitary confinement cell it had felt like a good thing, it meant relief from the beatings. He’d taken several blows to the chest and face, each designed to maximize pain not cause permanent injury. They’d wanted him to suffer for the stunt he’d pulled, for being absent at lockdown roll call. He’d staged it as an accident, made it seem as if he’d tripped and struck a rock, dazing himself. And that was the role he played. He was a semi-amnesic victim of an accidental head injury.

  Some of the guards believed him, some didn’t, and those who were skeptical had made certain to communicate that point to him. The blows to the face and chest had the bite of granite and Nimoux wished he’d had something to alleviate the pain.

  He endured remembering that he’d taken worse abuse before, and experienced greater pain. Indeed he carried much more difficult anguish inside him daily, all he had to do was summon up the faces of the three officers he’d chosen to kill during the Altair mission back on Korrivan. The details of their faces were lost to him now and seemed more like vague shadows, specters haunting his memory, but the feelings were as potent as ever. As was the feel of the resistance on the trigger when he’d pulled it nine times, systematically executing three fellow officers—innocent people—in order to protect his cover and satisfy the larger mission…

  When he thought of the regrettable action he’d taken, the choice he wished endlessly that he could unmake, the sting of the guards’ punches felt like almost nothing by comparison. He managed his breathing, slow and deep, and embraced the pain. Pretending in his mind that it was justice for the crimes he’d committed. That had helped considerably. But when the guards had finally stopped wailing on him and instead tossed him into the black cell, he’d been relieved. At first.

  In there, in the blackness, without even enough space to stand, he waited. The pain waited with him, it was the only company he had. That and the silence. Broken only by the sound of his own coughing.

  On the first day, he’d waited all of ten minutes for the guards to come back for him and provide medical treatment. When it was clear none was coming, he knew he’d have to take care of himself. His jaw hurt the worst and, as he inspected it gently by probing it with fingers, he could tell it was slightly misaligned. That it’d been dislocated. He knew that meant he should avoid trying to open wide. And that he needed to get it re-set.

  With no light, and no assistance, and no pain medications to help him, and very minimal medical training, he used his thumbs to force his jaw back into alignment. To his surprise, the intense pain proved only the second most difficult part. Through the use of breathing exercises, meditation, patience, mental fortitude, and a whole hell of a lot of discipline, he was able to cope with the pain.

  The tricky part ended up being his jaw muscles themselves. They were stronger than he realized and tended to tighten up, frustrating his efforts whenever they did. When that happened he had no choice but to take a break, check his breathing, and meditate more. Trying to lower his heart-rate and relax his muscles. Then, when he felt he was as close to finding his center as he was likely to get, he’d try again. On the fifth or sixth try, he succeeded.

  The dislocation hadn’t been as serious as it could have been, and he considered himself lucky that he’d been able to get his jaw back into place. Now he knew he needed to avoid opening his mouth wide and let his jaw heal gently for the next several weeks. Provided he survived that long.

  For the first two days, he thought he managed to keep track of the time rather accurately. Not to the minute, perhaps not even to the hour, but he had a reasonable approximation of how long he’d been in the black cell. He’d always had a rather finely tuned internal clock and, based on the frequency that they slid him food and water through the tiny trap door, and the number of times he’d had to relieve himself on the cold metal bucket, he figured he had a fairly exact idea of the time. Unfortunately, the planet’s rotation was not the same as standard time, which made his calculations more difficult, and as the days and perhaps even weeks stretched on, with no light, and no sign of what time of day it was. He knew his estimate became progressively less accurate, until he had no estimate left at all.

  At least the pain had lessened. Even if the utter silence, bleak darkness, and complete solitude were beginning to affect him. It was a peculiar experience, a kind of torture even, and something that he’d never want to repeat. He found himself getting anxious at odd times, for no reason. His meditation seemed less and less effective at helping him manage and organize his thoughts, and his breathing exercises seemed not as powerful as before at helping him maintain his calm.

  Buried deep inside him was a tiny, terrified voice that wanted nothing more than for him to shout, at the top of his lungs, scream that he wanted out. To beg, hoping one of the guards was listening and would take pity on him, but he knew such an action would be either useless or detrimental. Depending on whether or not anyone was listening.

  After a time, he even caught himself thinking aloud, mumbling to himself. It was a habit he tried to break as soon as he realized he had it, but one that seemed to persist as he lay in the darkness. Turning from side to side, trying to stay comfortable in the cramped environment.

  When his body felt up to it, he began a regimen of exercise. There wasn’t much he could do. He couldn’t stand and run, not enough room to even dream of doing that. But he could do pushups and, to an extent, work on his core doing very small crunches and other similar exercises. If he angled his body just so, he could even work on his legs.

 
; Every day, between bouts of meditation, he would do whatever physical training he could. It helped him manage the pain, and the stress, and most importantly, it helped him cling to his sanity.

  It was worth it, he tried to remind himself over and over. Perhaps a thousand times a day. It was worth it. I know where I am now. Gamma Persei Three. Now all I have to do is get a message out, and I can get off this godforsaken rock.

  He repeated the same cycle. Slept when he felt like it. Meditated when he could marshal the mental focus. Exercised when he was able to. Over and often and again. It felt like years went by, though Nimoux knew that couldn’t possibly be so, and a part of him believed that the guards intended to leave him here forever. Feeding him just enough to draw out his end… A prisoner driven mad by the darkness, and the solitude, and the inability to stand. A wild desperation flashed through him, tempting him to put a premature end to it all. To open his own artery. To leap to the finish rather than suffering the long road. What, ultimately, would be the difference? If both roads, long and short, took him to the same destination anyway.

  He was able to muscle down such thoughts and force them into submission. Reminding himself of who he was, and what his purpose was. He felt unworthy to be alive, at times, considering that it should have been him who ate those bullets on Korrivan, not the three victims. But if anything justified his continued breathing, it was the need to get out of here and warn the Empire. Warn them that there were dangerous imposters in high levels of power, imposters who undoubtedly had the worst interests of the Imperial public at heart. Lives would be lost, wars fought, and who knows what else, if the imposters were allowed to have their way. Nimoux took some small comfort in the knowledge that Calvin Cross was out there and seemed to be aware of the conspiracy at play, and was fighting against it. But Nimoux felt an urgency to get out there himself and join the struggle.