The Phoenix War

by Richard L. Sanders

  Must keep fighting. Must fight. Must fight until the end. No. Giving. Up.

  Then, one day, in a flash of light and a screech of metal against metal, the door opened a crack. And, for the first time in weeks or months, Nimoux could see. He squinted, his eyes at first unable to handle the light, little that it must have been. He looked at himself. At his naked body and the lingering remains of the worst of the bruises. Next to him was the tangle of soiled clothes he’d removed. It was clear that he’d lost some weight but, thanks to his exercises, his body hadn’t atrophied as badly as it might have.

  He rubbed his face, feeling the long beard that he’d grown. It wasn’t truly that long, in candid honesty. But for someone who always kept himself clean shaven, it felt long. Certainly it was the longest it’d ever been. Indeed it had grown long enough to compensate for the patchy unevenness that normally showed in his stubble. Strangely the soft whiskers had become as much a companion to him as the darkness.

  “Prisoner Number Two-Two-Seven, are you still alive?”

  It was the first human voice, other than his own, that he’d heard in a long time. And, although it belonged to one of his captors, a man that Nimoux considered to be an enemy, he still relished the sound.

  “Two-Two-Seven, are you alive?” the voice repeated. “If you’re dead, then I don’t understand why the food keeps disappearing.”

  “I’m alive,” said Nimoux, his voice barely a croak.

  “Two-Two-Seven, you may come out now. Do you want that?”

  “Yes,” said Nimoux, feeling more hopeful than he believed was wise.

  “And will you miss lockdown roll call again?”

  “No, sir,” said Nimoux submissively, ready to say whatever his captor wanted to hear if it meant a chance to get out of the black cell and feel the sun again. His rebellious spirits had been beaten down some by his nightmarish stay in solitary. “I will not.”

  “Very good. Now follow my instructions exactly. Crawl out on your belly. Then stand and put your hands on your head. Do you understand?

  “Yes.”

  The door opened the rest of the way. Letting in more light. Nimoux’s eyes had adjusted enough that it no longer hurt and he didn’t have to squint so much. Once the door stopped screeching, Nimoux started to crawl forward, toward the light. For the briefest instant he wondered if he was actually dead, and if this was the light at the end of the tunnel that people so often spoke of in metaphor. Perhaps it was literal.

  Obviously I’ve been trapped in this cell far too long, my brain has gone to mush…

  He crawled out of the cell and slowly rose to his feet. There was a guard standing there, baton in hand. “Remember, hands on your head,” the guard barked.

  Nimoux did as he was told, placing his hands flat against the back of his head. It felt good, and oddly strange, to be standing fully upright. His back ached and he felt lightheaded, but his joints thanked him.

  “Naked,” said the guard, looking rather amused. “They always go in with clothes and come out naked,” he shook his head. “All right, now move. That way,” he pointed his baton toward a doorway. Nimoux walked slowly, following the guard’s orders. All the while reminding himself that he was on Gamma Persei Three, and that he had a plan to get out of here. He just had to put up with a little more abuse, exercise a little more patience, and he’d be home free.

  The guard marched him through a short maze of corridors in what must have been one of the largest of the prison’s portable structures, and then out into the yard. The bright hot sun licked his pale skin with its fiery tongue, and burned his eyes, but it was an oddly welcome unpleasantness. He’d missed the light, and the heat, and most of all the open air. So he didn’t mind that he was marched across the yard, hot sand burning his feet, stark naked in front of all the other prisoners—no doubt to make an example out of him. It was still better than rotting in the black cell another day. Or month. Or eternity—which was how any further amount of time would feel.

  After they’d marched him across the yard, they took him inside another of the portable structures and issued him new clothes to wear. A blue, prisoner jumpsuit, just like the garb he’d removed in his cell. Except fresh and clean. At least by comparison. There was no prison staff assigned to do any laundry, rather the prisoners were forced to do it themselves. And had only cold water at their disposal, no soap, and no means of drying the clothing except for the hot air of the prison yard. But it sufficed. And compared to the soiled rags that had lived next to him these past several… who knows how long, the new jumpsuit felt like a spotlessly clean, warm, lavender-smelling quilt.

  Once he was dressed, they sat him down in the guardroom of the Command Station and grilled him for a few more minutes. Wanting to frighten him into further submission with additional threats that, should he ever miss lockdown roll call again, the punishment would be far more severe.

  Despite the guards’ efforts to intimidate him, their decision to bring him into the guardroom proved unexpectedly useful. While he was in there, pretending to be terrified for his life and completely submissive to his captors, he spotted the X-H kataspace all-purpose “pedestrian” transmitter he hoped to steal. He also got the chance to examine the Command Station’s corridors and make a tactical assessment. Once they had grilled him to their satisfaction, they discharged him from special observation. Which meant he was just another one of the prisoners again. Only when he was back outside, this time with shoes on his feet, did he feel like himself once more.

  Gamma Persei Three, he reminded himself. That knowledge cost me. He touched his jaw, which still hurt when he moved it. It cost me but it was worth it. Now to finish directive three.

  ***

  Shen knew he should go to sleep. It wouldn’t be too many hours before it was White Shift again and he’d be back on the bridge. But still, as he sat at his desk, intentionally not looking at his bed, he couldn’t find it in himself to want to sleep.

  If I sleep then I’ll dream, he thought. And if I dream, it will be one of those dreams…

  He hated those dreams. Even feared them. Though the scenery was always different in his dreams, the theme was always the same. And Tristan would inevitably be there. Watching. Sometimes beckoning or calling for Shen to go to him. Most times Shen didn’t. Choosing to just stand there staring emptily at Tristan’s glowing red irises. But sometimes Shen did answer the call. And whenever he did, the dreams became violent after that. Sometimes Shen would watch as Tristan slaughtered people. And sometimes it was Shen who did the dark deeds. His mind would blank and he’d be taken over by the feral bloodlust, a pure irrational instinct. And in the blink of an eye he would transform into the monster he feared he truly was, deep inside.

  Eventually he always woke and breathed in sweet relief that it had only been a dream. But he couldn’t help but wonder how long he could say that, that it was only a dream. How long before the dormant monster came out in the daylight? No longer chained to the land of dreams. The dreams occurred with such frequency now that he dreaded sleep and only resorted to it when he was absolutely exhausted. Fortunately he seemed to need far less sleep now than he used to.

  He massaged his foot, surprised that it had completely healed, and his eyes fell upon the remnants of the bloodstains on his carpet. He’d scrubbed and scrubbed and removed most of the blood, but some traces remained. Hints, like echoes, to remind him of what he truly was. He thought of how easily he’d smashed the alarm, barely even aware of his own actions… he recalled vividly the thoughtless, mindless, horrifically violent husks that roamed the surface of Remus Nine and wondered, for the millionth time, if he was transforming into one of them. He imagined himself terrorizing the halls of the Nighthawk, and being put down by a firestorm of bullets from special forces, ripping him apart, blowing him into pieces. Tearing him to shreds. Will that be my end?

  The chime rang. Someone is here? Shen was surprised, a glance at his new alarm clock told him that it was twenty-three-twelve hours. Anyone who knew h
im knew that he was a White Shift officer and should be asleep by now. He was tempted to ignore the call and continue sitting at his desk, staring blankly at the wall, but his curiosity got the better of him. And he walked to the door. The peephole camera revealed that it was Sarah.

  Shen felt a flutter of excitement but it vanished quickly once he reminded himself that Sarah was undoubtedly only here to express pity, and that she’d tried to call on him several times now. His instinct was to ignore her, like he’d done every other time. He knew that opening that door was little different than opening his heart to further ache and injury. It was better to keep his distance—better for both of them.

  But he knew he couldn’t ignore her forever. And he did feel miserably alone. And then, before he even processed what was happening, he found himself taking a deep breath to soothe his nerves and opening the door.

  “Shen!” said Sarah, looking almost surprised to see him. Perhaps she’d caught on to the fact that he’d been ignoring her.

  “Hello,” said Shen. He moved aside and Sarah entered. The door closed behind her. He motioned for her to take a seat at his desk but she chose to sit on the foot of his bed instead. Normally Shen would have felt self-conscious to have anyone see that his bed was unmade and that his living space was such a mess—especially Sarah—but right now he didn’t care even a little. This was how he lived. And if she wanted to judge him for it, then so be it.

  “Shen, I’m so glad I finally caught you when you were here,” said Sarah. “Sorry to call on you so late. I know you were probably asleep.”

  “It’s all right,” said Shen. “I was having trouble sleeping anyway.” He sat down at his desk and turned the chair to face the bed.

  “So was I…” said Sarah. She gave him an earnest look and then glanced away, suddenly, as if unable to make eye contact. Shen knew something pressing was on her mind, and a tiny part of him wanted to ask her about it, and to comfort her. But he reminded himself how she’d rejected him, and how he’d become a monster, and the inclination slipped away. Leaving him content to sit in awkward silence until Sarah spoke again.

  “I—” Sarah began, she looked very uncomfortable. Like she was having a plethora of second thoughts. Shen forbade his curiosity from getting the better of him, but it did anyway.

  “What is it, Sarah?” he found himself asking, in a kinder tone than he intended. His eyes combed over her mahogany-brown hair, smooth skin, and chocolate eyes and he felt like he was in the presence of a goddess, not a woman. He suppressed his feelings of desire. She rejected me, he reminded himself. And she was right to do it. I’m a dangerous monster.

  “Shen, I’m just so happy to see that you’re all right and healthy,” her eyes glistened.

  And there it is, thought Shen. Sarah’s sympathy. And her pity. Just like I expected… He was about to say something dismissive, something that might encourage her to leave and take her unwanted pity with her, when she said something he never expected to hear.

  “I was wrong, Shen.”

  “What?” he asked, confused.

  “Look, I know that things haven’t been the best between us, since… well, you know,” said Sarah, seeming to struggle for the right words. “And I’m sorry. Believe me, I am. And I’m just as confused by everything as you. But, when you went down there, down to Remus Nine, and you almost didn’t make it back. And… it looked like we were going to lose you, that I would lose you… I don’t know…” she looked at him, almost pleadingly, and then her eyes darted away; she was obviously struggling.

  “Sarah,” said Shen gently. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t.”

  “I’m sorry to hear tha—”

  “Shen, go out with me,” she said the words suddenly, sharply, and with obvious difficulty.

  What? Shen thought, unable to even vocalize his confusion. What just happened? Had she really asked him, just now, to go out with her? Him? Shen? Did Sarah have a head injury? Had she gone blind?

  Her eyes met his and it was clear she expected an answer. Shen swallowed hard. Feeling momentarily delirious, almost drunk on the moment. He’d fantasized about this very situation a hundred-thousand times. It’d been the feverishly wonderful yet hopelessly impossible daydream that had been on his mind for over two years. But that had been before. Back when he’d been human. And normal… or, at least, as normal as he could be. Now, though, now he was a monster.

  What a cruel reality this is, he thought. When the very thing he’d always wanted was so very close to him, almost tauntingly so, and yet forever beyond reach.

  “Well?” pressed Sarah.

  Shen glanced away. Thought of the alarm clock he’d smashed, thought of the dreams that kept tormenting him—the savage, feral wildness that was undoubtedly a part of him, using his dreams to express itself. Buried for now, but certain to come out eventually. And when it did… Sarah didn’t deserve to be there to see it. Or experience it firsthand. She deserved better. Certainly there was no way he could ever be what she needed.

  He met her eyes as he spoke. “Sarah, I… I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

  She looked surprised, but stubborn. “Come on, Shen, let’s give it a try. What have we got to lose?”

  He looked at her sadly. If only she could understand… “I’m sorry, Sarah, but… the answer is no. I can’t… I’m not that guy.”

  Her eyes narrowed and he couldn’t tell if she was more hurt or more angry. Sarah dismissed herself and disappeared from Shen’s room. He didn’t follow her. Nor did he let his eyes watch her go. Even though a tiny part of himself begged and pleaded with his mind, urging him to take it back, to take her in his arms and hold her and comfort her. To embrace everything he’d ever wanted. But another part of him couldn’t help but imagine what would happen when it wasn’t the alarm clock that he thoughtlessly struck with full force as he awoke from a night terror. What if it was her instead? He just couldn’t allow himself to take that chance.

  I’m sorry, Sarah. I really am.

  ***

  As Sarah hurried back to her quarters, she felt like a perfect idiot. What had just happened? She almost couldn’t get her mind around it. She had actually gone out on a limb for Shen. Why would I do that? she wondered. She’d never had those feelings for him before. And certainly that wasn’t the conversation she’d rehearsed in her mind—she hadn’t gone to his quarters to ask him out.

  What was I thinking? As she hurried back, practically racing to get to the privacy of her quarters, she felt tears threatening to break through. And she honestly couldn’t say whether she was more hurt or more surprised. Or more angry.

  She made it inside her quarters before she exploded into tears. The whole situation upset her, and the fact that it bothered her at all—enough to drive her to actual tears—only upset her further, and made the tears worse. She collapsed onto her bed and buried her face in her pillow. Wondering why she even cared at all.

  I never liked Shen. Never, ever, ever. Never!

  No matter how much she repeated it in her mind, it did precious little to comfort her, and seemed untrue besides.

  I pick real winners, don’t I? She thought of the men on the Nighthawk who’d actually managed to excite her feelings. First there had been Anand, who left and was now trying to murder them all. Having completely snapped. Then there was Pellew, the special forces captain who, on top of being as self-centered and unsympathetic as they come, had proven himself to be a total sociopath by flushing a civilian crew to their deaths in open space without showing the slightest hesitation or hint of remorse. But at least he was handsome, which was more than she could say for Shen.

  Shen… overweight Shen, with more doubts than confidence. He’d never been even the tiniest bit interesting to her. Not before. And yet, he’d always been there. He’d always supported her. And been her friend. And had tried so hard. And then, when she thought he was going to die, after his stupid act of bravado that had almost cost him his life�
��which he’d only done to impress her anyway—something became different.

  Something had changed in her. And something had changed in him too, it seemed. And Sarah didn’t like it one bit.

  “Lights off,” she croaked and her room went dark. She closed her eyes and promised herself that, as she drifted off to sleep, she wouldn’t think of Shen. Not even a little.

  Chapter 15

  “We’re now back in normal space,” reported Rafael from the copilot seat behind Calvin. The report was unnecessary, Calvin could plainly see that the view around them had filled with stars. But Calvin appreciated Rafael’s attention to duty all the same. As a general rule he’d rather be overly informed than under.

  “Very good,” said Calvin, “I’m going to move us closer to the Aleator One station.” He found the platform on the nav computer and locked onto its position in orbit around the large red planet. “Standard approach, sixty-thousand mc’s per second. Keep your ears open for any comm traffic. We should be hearing from a sentry ship any second now.”

  “There’s a lot of comm traffic,” said Rafael. “It might be a minute before we hear from that sentry ship, they’ve got their hands full.”

  Calvin did a short-range scan and saw what Rafael was talking about. Normally Aleator space was reasonably well organized and patrolled, the Roscos disdained chaos, but right now there were about ten times as many ships as usual coming and going, or else parked near the Aleator platforms.

  “It makes sense,” said Calvin, after thinking about it for two seconds. “With greater instability in the Empire, and the fear of civil war, a lot of people have fled to Aleator to escape the chaos.”