“It is best not to disturb the Alcazar,” said Rez’nac, taking note of Calvin’s activities. He did not sound reprimanding, but instead reverent. Calvin decided to respect that. Before long, their scouts reached the primary entrance; it was a locked gate with what appeared to be a hand-shaped carving laid neatly into the stone. Otherwise, the gate blended in with the rest of the black structure, smooth, polished, and seamless.
“Rez’nac, unless you want us to get out the C4, I think this one is on you,” said Calvin; he then ordered two of the soldiers lagging behind to watch their backs.
“I can make no promises,” said Rez’nac. “For I am a Fallen One. But once, a time not long ago, I could have opened this door. Let us see if it still recognizes my touch.”
As Rez’nac placed his hands into the grooves in the wall, his hand fit almost perfectly. The stone substance around him seemed to brighten and then glow as he chanted one of his mystical chants. And then, with speed Calvin did not expect, the path was open, revealing a long corridor lit by green torches hanging from sconces along the wall.
“There will be guards now, heavily armored guards,” said Rez’nac.
“Just what I’m counting on,” said Calvin. He then spun around and called for First Lieutenant Ferreiro and Nikolai to bring forward the thermobaric weapon. This, according to Nimoux’s designs, would give them the edge they would need against the superior numbers, armor, and conviction of the defenders inside the keep-like Alcazar.
“Here, sir,” they reported, together toting the massive weapon.
“Everybody stand clear,” Calvin ordered. Then, just as guards began to appear around the distant corners, suddenly taking note of the open door—and the army of humans about to invade the Alcazar, Calvin gave the order. “Fire!”
The outcome proved even deadlier than he had expected. The thermobaric projectile quickly consumed as much of the air in the tight Alcazarian corridor as possible, gaining power as it did so. By the time the projectile reached the end of the hall and exploded, it sounded as if a mini-earthquake had occurred. As for the enemy guards who had formed up to resist any kind of frontal assault—they were dead. Bits and pieces of gore, armor, and blood was strewn and spewed throughout the floors and walls. To its credit, the Alcazar’s ancient construction material weathered the explosion without any notable damage—at least none that Calvin could see.
Looks like I owe Nimoux six Q, Calvin thought; he’d bet that the thermobaric weapon would at least partially destroy one of the walls. Nimoux, evidently, had known better.
They had to wait for the air to re-stabilize before entering the Alcazar. The torches were gone, leaving everything dark. Calvin activated a tactical light affixed to his helmet. They all did.
“This way,” Calvin motioned for the intersection where two corridors met, the very spot that the Polarian guards had tried to hold before being suffocated and scorched to death at the same time. “Rez’nac, you take the lead; scouts, follow his orders. We need to find the clearest path to the Villa—and we need to do it now. Before the High Prelain escapes.”
“It is this way,” said Rez’nac, pointing. The group accelerated to the job, pausing only to cover themselves when vulnerable, such as at the intersection of corridors. At first, Calvin believed they were safe, that their thermobaric weapon had successfully eliminated all the guards, but an energy blast from seemingly nowhere grazed his earlobe, proving him wrong.
“Go prone!” Calvin ordered, scrambling to identify where the enemy was firing from. “Take cover as best you can!”
A second blast went over his head, narrowly missing him, and tracing its trajectory backwards, Calvin could see a cluster of heavily-armored Polarian warriors in formation, opening fire on the humans.
“Over there,” Calvin pointed. “Fire at will!”
“Can we use the thermobaric weapon again?” asked Miles. “That shit rocked their world the first time.” He maneuvered, at tremendous risk to himself, to get into position next to Calvin, also prone.
“Not yet,” responded Calvin, knowing that the weapon had limited charges and depended on the saturation of oxygen in the air. As it was, even here, it felt difficult to breathe. He took aim with his carbine and, after slowly expelling a breath, managed to find his target with a two round burst—right in the head. The Polarian toppled over. Several others joined them as the humans returned their fire. Although Calvin’s team was not without casualties of their own, he noted. He didn’t have time to turn around and see who exactly, but he heard screams from burn injuries, as well as the sound of at least two bodies collapsing to the floor.
“We need to clear them out with grenades,” said Nikolai. “That would be easiest.”
“I agree,” said Calvin. I have three frags in my right side pouch. He moved as if to get them, even though it meant moving out of cover, when he suddenly felt the meaty hand of Miles slam him back down into the prone position.
“I’ll get them,” said Miles, sounding unusually cavalier. “I’m in a better position to.”
Calvin nodded. He acquired a new target and fired. This time just off the mark. His opponent scampered back into cover before Calvin got a second chance. Next to him, Miles got to his knees and withdrew the frag grenades from Calvin’s side.
“I have th—” the big man announced, only to be immediately cut off by a beam that tore right through his chest. “…them,” he said with a slight cough as he fell over.
“MILES!” said Calvin, as he crawled to his nearby friend and began administering whatever life-saving measures he could, starting first by controlling the bleeding. “Stay with me, Miles. Stay the hell with me!” Calvin looked up briefly, “Nikolai, take those grenades and clear out that nest. We don’t have any more time to waste.”
“And you, sir?”
“I’ll handle things here,” said Calvin, trying his best to keep Miles’s bleeding under control, and Miles himself conscious. “God dammit Miles, you don’t die here. Not like this. Stay with me!”
CHAPTER 06
Kalila had left the Ancient Palace and returned to the War Room. With the threat of the Dread Fleet looming ever larger, and the possibility of attack at any moment, she knew this was where she needed to be. Not because it was the safest place for her—although it likely was—but because from here she could help command the defense of her people, her Empire.
With her were three tactical advisors: Sir McTavish, Sir Vasquez, and Fleet Admiral Lawson. Sirs McTavish and Vasquez were knights of the crown, the first having originally backed Caerwyn Martel—an act she had trouble forgiving—and the latter having proven himself to be one of her staunchest supporters. The third person, Fleet Admiral Lawson, was taller than both of the knights, despite being an elderly woman with a slightly curved spine. Her grey and white hair was a curly tumble that was kept short over the sides of her pockmarked face, but her eyes were the sternest shade of blue that eyes came in. Of the three, it was Lawson’s wisdom that Kalila most trusted.
They each stood around a console that projected multiple 3D displays, one focused on the planet, another on some of the fleets, and a third was focused on the Harbinger and the ships it had brought along, allegedly to assist in the fighting. Kalila did not doubt that Raidan could be taken at his word that he intended to help against the Dread Fleet, and so she had not considered it much of a risk to recall Ravinder and the vanguard from their interception of the newcomers. One peculiar detail that stood out, however, were the odd configurations of starships that the newcomers arrived in. There was nothing special about the Harbinger—other than its size and ferocity—it fit the bill perfectly of an alpha-class warship. However, the others were of strange designs, mostly custom-made or refits; Kalila had asked her advisors if they had seen such ships before, but none could identify them.
It doesn’t matter, she thought. So long as they are on our side in this conflict.
By now, most of her ships had accepted their new assignments, and most of her newly org
anized fleets had moved into their appropriate positions, she was glad to see. The process had taken longer than it should have but, since the Dread Fleet evidently moved at a snail’s pace, there had been no harm in the delays. And, with each passing hour, another asteroid, moon, or other celestial object was being outfitted with static defenses—anything that might give her and her people a greater edge in the battle that was to come. A battle that promised to be an inexorable bloodbath.
“Your Majesty, look,” Sir McTavish pointed to the display that was projecting Raidan’s squadron of ships. The Harbinger appeared stationary, as did another one identified as the Arcane Storm, but the rest were on the move. Their predicted trajectory was to ultimately position themselves closer to the spot at the edge of the system where the Dread Fleet was likeliest to appear.
Quickly, chatter could be heard over the speakers as the various Admirals and Squadron Commanders tried to make sense of this shift in the defensive organization.
“What are they doing?”
“Are they mad?”
“Do they not realize they are moving to a very dangerous position?”
“Unknown Squadron, this is Sir Arkwright of the ISS Victory; I demand an explanation for your deployment pattern.”
When his demand was met with silence, Sir Arkwright messaged Kalila. “Shall I order them to redeploy?” he asked. “They have maneuvered themselves into a position of incredible danger.”
“No,” replied Kalila.
“But, Your Majesty, they could be slaughtered immediately.”
She thought about it briefly, as she stared at the strange shapes of the unidentifiable starships and ultimately came to the conclusion that the various commanders—death wish or not—had some idea of what they were doing. If so, Kalila did not wish to interfere.
“They are volunteers in this fight,” said Kalila, broadcasting to Sir Arkwright—who, after Ravinder’s utter failure at Centuria V had led to the responsibility of complete field command to land upon his shoulders.
“Volunteers might not understand strategy; they should at least be warned of the danger they have put themselves in,” said Sir Arkwright. “If it is Your Highness’s wish, of course.”
“Leave them be, Sir Arkwright,” Kalila replied, still thinking there was some kind of method to the apparent madness. “We are lucky to have such volunteers join us in our hour of need; therefore, let those captains command their ships and their squadron as they wish,” she said, thinking, even if it means they want to engage the enemy even sooner than our vanguard can reach them…
“Understood, Your Majesty.”
Raidan, I don’t know what your people are up to, thought Kalila. But it had damn well better be something other than the apparent suicide they have set themselves up for.
***
“Dammit, Miles, you asshole, stay with me!” said Calvin, as he repeatedly performed chest compressions on his fallen friend—having finally stopped the bleeding.
Blood oozed out of his mouth as he tried to speak.
“No, don’t say anything,” said Calvin urgently. “Just hang on.”
There were two deafening explosions, one right after another, and that seemed to put an end to the firefight around them. Calvin assumed the frag grenades he’d brought had done their job and eliminated the enemy soldiers, but he was too involved in trying to save his friend to care—or even to bother looking up.
“Hang on; you’re going to be all right,” said Calvin. Miles looked up with bloodshot eyes; he seemed to be in so much pain. His eyes repeatedly opened and closed. He looked like he desperately wanted to say something, but nothing seemed to be coming out.
“We have to move,” said Nikolai, now standing over Calvin. “They will have heard that. If we don’t want the High Prelain to escape, we need to capture him in the Villa now.”
Calvin ignored him and continued rendering first aid. Damn me, he thought. I never should have brought you here, Miles, this is all my fault.
“The human soldier is right,” said Rez’nac. “We must hurry.”
And then Miles lifted himself up, just an inch, and just for a moment, and he mouthed the words to Calvin, “I never…I never even k—”
And then he was gone.
“No, damn you,” said Calvin, but his chest compressions did no good. He checked for a pulse and found nothing. He squeezed his hand into a fist and punched the ground, which hurt, but Calvin believed he deserved the pain. Why in the name of whatever gods may be out there did I bring you along? He wondered silently.
“Come on; he’s dead,” said Nikolai. “Leave him. So are three others. Now we must hurry.”
Calvin looked around him to see that three other soldiers had fallen, all Roscos. It was a strange thing, to see them, their unfamiliar faces, bodies torn to shreds, and feel almost nothing. Some pity. Some compassion. But nothing that would stay with him. Yet, looking at Miles’s lifeless corpse before him filled him with so much rage, regret, and inner turmoil that he could hardly endure it.
Calvin felt a large hand grip him by the shoulder and start pulling him to his feet. At first, he resisted, but then he allowed it, turning his head to see that the hand belonged to Rez’nac.
“We must hurry,” said the Polarian. And Calvin knew he was right.
They sprinted ahead, and Calvin avoided looking behind him. He couldn’t stand the thought of seeing Miles just lying there. Senselessly. Goddamn Polarians, he thought. They will pay for this.
Now their group was down to seventeen soldiers, including Nikolai, Rez’nac, and Calvin. Seventeen souls. We can’t afford to lose people or we’ll never succeed at our mission, Calvin thought, promising himself that the mission would succeed—that Miles would not have died in vain.
As they reached the remains of the enemies they’d just slaughtered, it proved a far more gruesome sight than Calvin had expected. Sprays of blood smeared the surprisingly intact walls, bone fragments were strewn about, heads were smashed and ripped from bodies, corpses were in thousands of pieces…it was impossible to tell how many enemies the grenades and firefight had killed; Calvin estimated a force of eight. Even the enemies’ weapons and armor had been destroyed beyond any usefulness.
They continued, following Rez’nac, until they reached the entrance to the Villa of the Alcazar. With a heave, Rez’nac and Nikolai forced open the heavy door and the soldiers sprinted in, quickly ordering everyone in the room to surrender. By the time Calvin reached the Villa, he heard gunshots and knew that the order to surrender had been ignored.
“They fight to defend their High Prelain,” said Rez’nac, as though he’d read Calvin’s mind. “Even though these guards are old men and cannot stop us.”
True to Rez’nac’s words, the guards they found in the Villa—about twelve—had fallen without inflicting a single casualty. They wore ancient-looking armor and carried elaborate pikes; Calvin supposed these guardsmen were ceremonial rather than practical. All the same, none had abandoned their duty, he respected them for that, and, because of that diligence, each and every one of them lay on the ground, dead or dying.
One figure in deep sapphire robes stood, currently surrounded by about a dozen soldiers pointing their weapons at him. He was tall, even taller than Rez’nac, but he was thinner also and seemed to carry no weapon.
“Search him,” Calvin ordered, knowing this was the High Prelain himself. He had to resist the urge to put a bullet in his brain right then and there, for Miles, and for all the suffering the High Prelain had caused the galaxy. But that was not the plan. And Calvin managed to contain his wrath.
“Do not harm him,” Rez’nac commanded, as he kept a vigilant eye over the two soldiers patting the High Prelain down.
“He has no weapons,” announced one of the soldiers the moment the search was complete. “Only jewelry: two earrings, and three rings on each hand. Should I confiscate them?”
“No,” replied Rez’nac, before Calvin had the chance to respond. “He may keep those. They
are a danger to no one.”
The soldiers looked to Calvin for official instructions, and Calvin decided there was no reason to contradict Rez’nac. “You heard him,” he said.
“What you have done is a terrible evil,” the High Prelain spoke up, his voice was surprisingly high in pitch for such a tall Polarian. “You have desecrated a sanctuary and you,” he looked to Rez’nac, “You must have fallen to the Darkness to allow this to happen.”
“I am already a son of the Empty Shadow,” replied Rez’nac. “I have no Essence. I am Fallen.”
“That explains much,” said the High Prelain.
“All right, that’s enough,” said Calvin. “Rez’nac, if you’d do the honors?” Calvin was afraid that any of the other soldiers would overly restrain the High Prelain, possibly injuring him, and that such a thing might invoke the ire of Rez’nac, who, even now, was not entirely convinced that the High Prelain had been replaced by a Dark One. And, Calvin could tell, a part of Rez’nac deeply hoped that Calvin’s accusations, despite how much sense they made, proved false.
Gods help me if I’m wrong, thought Calvin.
Rez’nac took the High Prelain, gently but forcibly, and placed restraints upon his hands.
“Think of your Essence,” the High Prelain protested.
“I have no Essence,” replied Rez’nac.
“What now?” asked Nikolai. They had the High Prelain in custody, but it did no good without the proper demonstration before the proper audience.
“We follow Rez’nac,” said Calvin. Then he looked around. The Villa was indeed a beautiful structure, with dark wood, dark stone, and jewel-encrusted surfaces that reflected the light into a kind of beacon that lit up the center of the room. But, despite its beauty, Calvin could not see where the entrance to the tunnel was—the tunnel that would take them to the Council of the Prelains. A Council, which, according to Rez’nac, should be in session currently. And, based on the impressive materials of the Alcazar, more than likely had not been alerted by the explosions to the humans’ presence—or so Calvin hoped.
The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) Page 11
