The Phoenix War

by Richard L. Sanders

  He knocked on the door again. Pounding loudly with the flat of his hand. When it opened, Nimoux rushed the guard. This one was larger and thicker than the previous, probably about a hundred kilograms. But size made little difference. Nimoux struck first and fast, stunning the guard with a flat-handed blow to first the nose—meant to break the cartilage—and then the throat. As the guard doubled over, Nimoux knocking him onto his stomach and finished him in the same way. Knife through the base of the skull. It was a favored method because, when done correctly, it was silent, quick, and guaranteed to be fatal.

  There was no other choice, Nimoux reminded himself as he withdrew the knife from its second victim. He knew it had been necessary to eliminate both guards but it still made him unhappy to do it. And, in truth, he valued that it was difficult for him to take another person’s life. He hoped to never be so desensitized to it that it ever became just business. Not that his discomfort would ever make him hesitate when things were on the line and he had to act quickly.

  Fortunately, the two guards he’d killed proved to be the only ones in guardroom. Nimoux took the pedestrian transmitter, which he was able to strap to his back, and relieved the second guard of his firearm—a small handgun with an extra magazine. He also took the boots off the first guard—because they were the better fit—and put them over his feet. Knowing that durable footwear greatly improved his chances of survival out in the wild, far more than people might expect. The last thing he had to do, which gave him no degree of pleasantness but he knew he had no choice, was to use the now very bloody knife to cut off one of the dead guards’ thumbs. The knife was extremely sharp and he had less trouble breaking through the bone than he’d expected.

  As soon as he had the thumb, he darted for the corridor and fled the Command Station. Knowing he had no time to sneak, should anyone chance upon him, since the dead guards were bound to be discovered as soon as their shift was over—if not sooner. He tried to keep his breathing silent as he ran, and he felt empowered by adrenaline but also weighed down by the heavy transmitter on his back. As he emerged from an auxiliary exit and out into the night, he was happy to see that there was still no foot patrol in the yard. And no sign that an alarm had been raised.

  So far so good, he thought. Again grateful that the number of guards had been reduced. He wondered if escape would have proven entirely impossible before, back when the prison had been fully staffed. Perhaps so. As he thought of how few guards remained, probably only two dozen, he was considered staying. And wondered if he had any chance of taking them out, one by one, utilizing his superior fighting skill and the element of surprise. He did a quick balancing test in his mind and weighed the probability that, should he hide in the portable structures, and judiciously attacked the guards when circumstances were most favorable, if he had any chance of prevailing. If he killed or chased off the guards, he could save the prisoners and they could plead their case before the Assembly together.

  But it was only a fleeting thought, and one he swiftly abandoned as he looked at the barracks structure to the northeast. There were still too many guards for him to deal with alone, even with his training and the best use of the resources available, they were too many and too well equipped. And if he freed the other prisoners, so they could create chaos and perhaps even join him in fighting the guards, he would only be inviting a bloodbath of violence. Most of the prisoners are civilians, they wouldn’t stand a chance, and such an action would probably only hasten their demise. Encourage the leaders of the prison, whoever they were, to issue the final order that was likely looming over them all already. The extermination of everyone here…

  No, Nimoux’s best hope, and that of his fellow inmates, was for him to escape the prison and call for help. Which was what he intended to do.

  He approached the electrified fence as directly as he could, having to zig and zag to avoid moving spotlights and infrared cameras, and went immediately to the gate. He pressed the severed thumb against the touchscreen. When the computer recognized the thumbprint, accepting it as valid, Nimoux tossed the thumb aside and thought back on the keycode pattern: Left. Left. Up. Right. Right. Up. He’d watched the guards input it a hundred times. He’d deduced the first five digits of the code and input them. Hesitating only briefly when he got to the final digit.

  It’s either this or that, he considered for a moment. Knowing he had a fifty-fifty chance. He held his breath and took a guess.

  The gate unlocked with a click and Nimoux pushed his way through. Jogging out into the night. Clearing as much distance between him and the prison colony as he could, as fast as he could.

  He didn’t know what would have happened had he keyed the last digit wrong. Most likely the gate would have given him a second chance but he was glad not to have been forced to find out.

  I’m free, he thought. Trying to manage his excitement and the surge of adrenaline that fueled his every step. I’m free. I’m free.

  He knew he wasn’t quite in the clear. Even though he was out of his cell and out of the compound and out in the untamed wild of Gamma Persei Three. There was still the very real danger that they would track him and hunt him down. In which case, his immediate future was one of death or re-incarceration with much more aggressive security protocols in place. In a pinch he couldn’t decide which he feared more. Painful death or inescapable confinement.

  Not going to happen, he told himself. No way, no how. Not a chance in hell. He had to believe in himself. In his ability to get away. He trusted his instincts and kept pushing ahead, intending to keep moving all through the night.

  He reached the river as soon as he could. He took off the transmitter and held it high above his head as he stepped unflinching into the icy water. It was about waist deep. He shivered in the cold and his muscles felt really tight but he pushed on. Even submerging himself up to his neck at one point, deliberately, to make it harder for dogs to track him.

  Nothing was more tempting than to ford directly across the river and emerge on the far shore at the nearest point. But he summoned all that remained of his mental fortitude and forced himself to follow the river a ways before trying to leave it. It would have been more direct to go upriver, since his ultimate destination was the nearby mountains—from which he could get the best kataspace signal out and could find a plethora of trees and caves to hide in—but fighting the current was too difficult. And he knew trying to do so was dangerous. So he walked with the current. Pushed along step after step in the frigid water, arms aching above his head weighed down by the heavy transmitter—desperate for relief.

  After a while, when he believed he was as close to his snapping point as he dared get, and his body begged him to drop the transmitter and just collapse into the water, and let whatever would happen happen, he exited the river. Feeling a slap of icy wind crash into him the instant he did. Whatever parts of his body hadn’t gone completely numb, bit him with horrible agony. And he shivered violently, almost dropping the transmitter as he did. Even though this planet seemed to get only a few degrees short of hell during midday, it felt like a frozen wasteland at night. At least he knew there was very little humidity in the air, not that he could tell, drenched as he was. He knew if he didn’t get dry quickly, then it wouldn’t matter if the guards found him or not, because he would be dead.

  “I… have… to… survive,” he told himself out loud as he shivered, trying desperately to marshal his courage and rally his fighting spirit. “I’m a survivor,” he whispered to himself. He began peeling off his clothes, though it was difficult and painful to do so in the frozen cold. But he knew it was necessary, if he was to get dry fast enough to get his body temperature raised to a safe level he couldn’t wait for his soaked clothing to dry. Then he rolled around on the ground, trying to get what heat he could from the earth and use the dirt as a kind of natural towel, absorbing the water off his skin. If nothing else, the movement helped him elevate his heart rate—sending warm blood shooting through his body—and warmed his muscles. Once
he was as dry as he was going to get, he stood up and lashed the wet jumpsuit together along with the boots and socks, making a sort-of makeshift knapsack to carry. He then took five minutes trying to cover up all traces that he’d emerged from the river here, including smoothing over his footsteps. After that he picked up his bundled clothing, strapped the transmitter to his naked back, and continued forward. Stepping as lightly as he could, and erasing his tracks as much as he could as he went. Making slow and steady progress toward the mountains ahead. Estimating that he could be at the base of the mountains, and reasonably well hidden, by sunrise. If he kept going all night.

  At first the winds that licked his naked body felt like torture, like murderously cold breaths kissing his tormented skin with the frigid sting of dry icy vapor. And he seriously wondered if he would survive the night. But he soldiered on and with each step things seemed to get a little better, as the little water that remained on his naked skin rapidly dried.

  It was dark and the sticks and stones of the ground dug into his feet, hurting him as he walked. He tried to step carefully, to avoid getting cut so he wouldn’t leave behind a trail of blood, and soon he found himself putting the boots back on his feet. The footwear wasn’t completely dry but he slipped it directly onto his feet anyway. After that he could move considerably faster, though it was harder to cover his tracks.

  He did the best he could, pausing to rest only when he had to, and forced himself to focus, to concentrate, to keep fighting. He used every meditation and breathing technique he knew, trying as always to grasp for his center, as he fought against his pain, the elements, and even the spookiness of the thick woods full of darkness and strange alien noises.

  The sense of panic that some of the noises gave him made it easier to keep his rests short and keep moving forward, ever forward. Fueled by adrenaline and sheer force of will. He doubted he rested for more than a minute at a time. With the only exception being when he activated the transmitter and tried to connect to kataspace. It had proven unsuccessful which was disappointing but not surprising. No doubt the patrol vehicles and the command station at the prison compound had signal enhancers to augment the transmitter. Out here he had no such technology. But if the skies were clear and he could transmit from the tops of the mountains just ahead, the chances were good that he’d manage to get a signal out. He just had to get there.

  And so he continued onward. Step after step. Determined to just keep putting one foot in front of the other, over and over again.

  He was grateful when his clothes were dry enough he could put them back on. And counted it as a small victory. The kind that would keep him going in spite of the many troubles and difficulties pressing in on him. Despite how cold the planet seemed and how spooky and dangerous the woods undoubtedly were.

  I will survive, he insisted. I have too much important work to do to die here.

  His mind drifted again to the three officers he’d killed during the Altair mission and how, had he refused to kill them, it would have meant his life rather than theirs. By all rights I should be dead right now and they should be alive, he thought. But that isn’t so. They’re the ones in the ground and I’m the one still breathing. Surely I cannot disgrace their sacrifice by dying here. Not without warning the Empire first.

  It was almost astonishing how just when he felt on the very brink of collapse and he reached inside himself desperately for another ounce of strength or scrap of hope, he always managed to find enough—just barely enough—to keep moving forward. Heaving the heavy transmitter as he went. Determined to persevere.

  Chapter 18

  Zander knew he was not an evil man. Not by a long shot. He was merely prudent. Cautious in a galaxy rife with self-interest and betrayal. He didn’t consider himself a hero. He entertained no illusions that he was some kind of valiant knight on a brilliant white steed ready to charge to the rescue of the less fortunate. Neither did he consider himself malevolent. He wasn’t wicked any more than he was a martyr, or a patriot. Just because he always put himself first didn’t make him a bad person. It was the very thing everyone else did too, the difference was he was willing to be honest about it with himself.

  What did he owe anyone else? He’d always wondered. Why should he be ready and willing to sacrifice what was good for him and his so someone else could gain? Someone who probably wouldn’t shed many tears for Zander if he stumbled into misfortune. No, that someone would likely welcome Zander’s misfortune if there was some profit to be had.

  Neither did Zander see any reason why he should think himself lucky or indebted to be one of the billions of subjects claimed by the Empire. Sure they pedaled their stories about how their fleets and their soldiers and their wars were all for the safety and wellbeing of Imperial citizens everywhere, such as him. But he knew it was hogwash, politics and lies spun in the golden webs of money that weaved together every government. One was not more benign than another. And indeed each government throughout history, regardless of species, was just as happy as any other to take from its citizens whatever it could in order to hedge its future, further its power, and increase its wealth. The only difference was that some governments had proven more capable and more effective than others. But none of them, not even the most durable, or the most invasively powerful, was immortal. And as the ages had come and gone for the humans, and the Rotham, and the Polarians, each government had risen and fallen with frequency not unlike the amber leaves of the parigold trees of Rivennia Alpha. Which bloomed and died in mere weeks, once a year, every year, and had done so since before any human had discovered how to control fire. And would likely continue to do so long after the human had been driven to extinction.

  This realization, this truth of how the universe worked, and what motivated everyone within it, had made it easy for Zander to make and break deals in the blink of an eye, but difficult to surround himself with people he could trust. Indeed other than a few associates whose loyalty he’d bought and paid for, it was hard to find anyone in the galaxy he could trust to even the remotest degree.

  They’re liars. All of them, he’d often reflected, as he stared at the stars and imagined the many hundreds of worlds that had been colonized by the major races of the galaxy. Liars and robbers and crooks. The only difference between a thief and an honest man is an awareness of opportunity. That was a proverb he’d coined himself and, like a favorable tailwind, it had steered him true. Kept him safe from many a damaging and dangerous business deal that otherwise promised poverty, prison, and death.

  “We’re clear of the nebula,” said Jasmine from the helm of the Duchess.

  “Very good,” said Zander. He looked at her with a mixture of desire and condescension. Like she was both his wife and servant. Jasmine, of course, was neither. Which was a pity; if she’d been Zander’s possession, she would undoubtedly be the most valuable of all his treasures, save one—the cargo currently stashed away in the hold.

  Jasmine’s presence was almost disruptive. With her enchanting, ebony curves, thick lips that begged to be tasted, and most of all those hauntingly brown eyes that seemed to hold everyone prisoner who looked at them. Every exposed inch of her served only to distract the people around her, men and women alike, filling them with intense, covetous lust. At least, that had been Zander’s experience. The effect she had on him was joyous, ecstatic, intoxicating euphoria. It was also dangerous. Keeping her on the ship, especially so close at hand, was a flirtation with death. He wasn’t quite himself when dealing with her, his reactions were a bit slower, his thinking a bit more muddled, and she had a way of making simple things seem… complicated. Which meant that he’d eventually have to dispose of her. But not now. Not yet. For the moment he enjoyed her presence too much.

  “Proceed to position and make the jump as scheduled,” he instructed her.

  “And then I’ll get paid?” she pressed him. Clearly wanting to stay informed, in case the plan had changed.

  “Then we’ll all get paid,” said Zander dismissively. Jasmin
e gave him a hard, critical look. No doubt trying to take the exact measure of his words and sift through them, wanting to unearth what he was truly thinking, rather than take his words at face value. Good luck with that, my dear, he thought. He kept his people paid, fed, and happy so they’d continue serving him, always ready to do whatever was necessary, but no part of that arrangement required him to keep them informed. Zander understood that information was the most valuable commodity in the galaxy, and none more so than one’s intentions. If those were known, then enemies—and even friends—would gain the upper hand, and plans would be foiled and countered and ruined. And so he guarded his intentions, guarded them like precious oxygen in a vast, black interstellar ocean of emptiness.

  Not that it truly mattered in this case. As things currently stood, he hadn’t fully decided his intentions, not yet anyway. He’d sent off Julio and Todd to relay a message to the Enclave as something of a stall, to appear complicit but actually buy himself a little more time to mull things over.

  Because, what he understood most of all, more than the fact that he needed water to live; more than the fact that money was the lifeblood pumping through the universe; more even than the fact that every person out there was, at their deepest core, a deceitful, lying, self-serving, scheming crook; was the fact that the cargo stored in the Duchess’s hold was unlike any other cargo anywhere else in the universe. Indeed, it was unlike any other cargo that had ever existed or ever would exist. Something so profoundly, overwhelmingly, mind-bogglingly rare that an opportunity like this would never come again. Not just for Zander, but for anyone. And he would be a fool to squander it without at least considering all of his options…

  I have in my possession weapons like no other, he thought. Weapons that can darken stars and destroy planets. Weapons of such massive destruction that billions upon billions of lives can be ended in a single stroke. Zander had very little taste for violence and even less interest in killing. Of course he’d had to sully himself with such barbarism from time to time, by arranging for enemies and rivals to disappear. But he would never use the isotome weapons himself, slaughter for its own sake was beneath any gentleman of reason, and destruction on such an epic scale was not profitable.