The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7)

by Richard Sanders

  ***

  The sounds of the Council in session were audible several steps before the end of the tunnel. Calvin could not understand any of the words—they were in Polarian. However, he could tell by the tone of the voices that there was no sense of alarm or urgency. Whatever impressive materials the ancient Polarians had constructed the Alcazar, the Villa, and the Dome out of, able to withstand grenades without so much as a scuff, was also the kind of material that smothered noises. And so it was no surprise to Calvin that their sudden appearance inside the Council Chamber, with the High Prelain as their hostage, would be the last thing any of the other Prelains expected to see. But, see they would.

  They shuffled the final few steps toward the white light, and Calvin hesitated for a moment. He turned behind him and whispered to Nikolai, “Double-check and make sure the men have the correct magazines loaded.”

  “Already did,” the burly soldier whispered back.

  “Now, remember, stay hidden until I give you the signal to come out,” Calvin whispered.

  “Or until it’s obvious that we should come out—like if you are taking fire.”

  “Right,” Calvin nodded. He then looked at Rez’nac, who had one hand clamped around the High Prelain’s mouth—somewhat reluctantly, Calvin could tell—and in his other hand he held the High Prelain firmly in place, guiding him along with a shove or a push as needed. As for the High Prelain himself, his hands were shackled and his mouth covered—he was no threat.

  The rest was entirely up to Calvin. He had a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. He checked his own magazine, making sure it too had the correct cartridges loaded, and then he nodded toward Rez’nac. Thinking to himself, it’s now or never. Time to find out if I’m right, and I shatter everything Rez’nac believes, or if I’m wrong and Rez’nac kills me where I stand…

  Without further hesitation, Calvin and Rez’nac barged into the Council room, dragging the High Prelain in front of them. It was a small room, with multiple exits, and seemed to be made of the same dark stone-like material that composed the Alcazar. Seated on mats, in positions not unlike the lotus position, were thirteen Polarians in long flowing robes. Around them, and near the exits, Calvin counted seven bodyguards. Unlike the useless ceremonial guards that had been protecting the High Prelain in his private Villa, these Polarians wore modern armor and brandished modern beam weapons. They immediately pointed their weapons at Calvin and Rez’nac—who made sure to keep the High Prelain close to make any shots fired their way too risky to take—and all chattering amongst the Prelains stopped. A few even stood up, apparently in alarm, while the others remained seated; Calvin wondered if their respective reactions had to do with whether or not a given Prelain had been replaced by a Dark One.

  The three of them moved far enough into the room that they were in plain sight of everyone. The room was lit by white crystalline torches, bright enough to illuminate everything. As soon as they came to a stop, Rez’nac began speaking boldly in the Polarian tongue. Calvin wasn’t sure exactly what the Polarian was saying, but he had a guess. Something about the Dark Ones, and the Council being deceived, and other accusations. The Prelains responded in kind, no doubt demanding they unhand their precious High Prelain, and explain why—Rez’nac especially—had taken such drastic and unrighteous action, and why he had brought an unclean human with him. Though, again, Calvin was only guessing.

  Whatever Rez’nac said had some effect, because the guards lowered their weapons, although they remained in place and appeared on high alert. Rez’nac spoke more and the rest of the Prelains stood up—a few of them backing away slowly. Calvin took note of them, suspecting they were the likeliest to be the Dark Ones and they feared exposure.

  Those are the imposters, I’ll bet, he thought.

  ***

  If the arrival of the Harbinger and its squadron of strange starships had been something of a surprise, the sudden appearance of seven-hundred Rotham starships had been a profound shock. Ravinder, like most of the Fleet Admirals, had been scurrying their ships in and out of formation, trying to coordinate with the other fleets, and, most of all, determine when and how to engage this new enemy—if a new enemy they were. As the orders trickled down the chain of command, they were instructed to not only hold their fire on the Rotham ships, much like the Harbinger’s squadron, but to also incorporate the Rotham warships and supply ships into Capital System’s defense pattern. For Ravinder, that translated into one thing, she was the beneficiary of fifty-seven Rotham ships, ready to be deployed according to her instructions. The trouble was, she wasn’t quite sure what to do with them.

  As far as her orders stood, her Seventh Fleet was still the primary vanguard, standing vigilant and ready to deliver the first punch against the Dread Fleet—hoping, after attack after attack, to divide the force into smaller units, weakening their phalanx shield. What confused her was the presence of Raidan’s squadron, which, to a ship, other than the Harbinger itself and another called the Arcane Storm, had maneuvered into a position that would allow them to be the first line of combat rather than the Imperial vanguard. That was fine with Ravinder, the first to engage in battle was often the first to fall, but it did wreak some degree of havoc by confusing the captains of the many ships under her.

  “We are to hold our position until I say otherwise,” she had that order broadcast throughout the Seventh Fleet. “All ships clear for action and stand ready. The enemy will be upon us soon.” Barring the arrival of any more surprise allies—or alleged allies—the next wave of alteredspace exit signatures would belong to the Dread Fleet. Although the Dread Fleet seemed to move at a snail’s pace, it promised to devour and destroy anything that ran afoul of it. Ravinder knew her ship, the Hyperion, and all those belonging to her Seventh Fleet, including the additional fifty-seven Rotham warships, would be among the first to charge into the maw of the Dread Fleet itself. An unenviable death sentence; she knew it, and the captains and commanders beneath her knew it too. They must have. She couldn’t imagine them not knowing. Yet here they all were, together, in formation, waiting. Watching as the hours, minutes, and seconds ticked by.

  The time was spent with idle chatter on her bridge; her staff tried to mask their anxiety with a blanket of denial, many of them discussed what their plans were for after the battle. Ravinder allowed it, whatever made them feel more comfortable with their ultimate destiny was all right by her. But she knew, as did they all, that there would be no after the battle. Not for the ISS Hyperion. And not for the vanguard.

  Eventually the silence of her thoughts was broken again. This time by her Chief of Operations. Before the man could speak, Ravinder knew what he was about to say. In her mind, she could faintly hear the ringing of the Lacrimosa bells ringing in her head. Humanity had come a long way since abandoning organized religion—they no longer clung to supernatural hopes that remained forever unfulfilled—however, in that particular moment, Ravinder found it hard not to hope, just a little bit, that she and most of humanity had been wrong. That her death was not the dark, experience-less oblivion that awaited all life, but instead something else.

  She had no reason to believe in such a thing. In fact, to her, surviving one’s own death was a concept that made no sense. But as her Ops Chief announced the arrival of, “Massive numbers of alteredspace signatures congregating at the edge of Capital System,” and Ravinder was forced to snap into action, ordering her fleets to begin the interception protocol, she felt a twinge of hope that maybe, just maybe, her sacrifice would not be the end. Perhaps, in some other universe—for physics had proven that there were infinitely many—I will be born again, she thought. And with that, she made her peace and allowed herself to be consumed by the moment. To command her forces with all the best of her ability and to hopefully be a very small part of what might turn out to be a very important victory.

  “It’s definitely the Dread Fleet this time,” said her Ops Chief. “I can’t even count the number of exit signatures that are appearing—and the
computer is unable to estimate the mass. And, worse still, they just keep coming. Pouring in in droves…”

  “Shields double front, weapons live, all hands prepare to initiate first strike,” she said, making doubly sure she was strapped tightly in place.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” came the reply.

  “And to the rest of the Seventh Fleet and our Rotham allies…Godspeed.”

  ***

  Shen awoke with a start, realizing he had no idea where the hell he was. Slowly, the memories returned to him. He’d been on Remus Nine with a group of lycans. They had encountered and defeated a group of Strigoi…all over some strange device called the Phalaxium. He remembered drinking something—something strange, at the urging of Tristan. And then…that was it.

  Now he was here. Wherever the hell here was.

  A bright light shined above him and he squinted it out then attempted to sit up, only to find himself restrained to a hospital bed. As he looked around, he could tell he was in some sort of starship infirmary. It wasn’t the Nighthawk—too large—nor was it the infirmary of a major starship or space station—too small—he didn’t recognize it, nor did he recognize any of the staff wandering around, or the few patients he could see from his restricted position. As far as he was aware, he was the only one restrained.

  “Hello,” he said finally, trying to get some attention. “HELLO,” he repeated. That time, it worked. A nearby orderly—or was he a nurse?—Shen couldn’t tell, ran to his side and began checking his vitals.

  “How do you feel, Mr. Iwate?” the man asked.

  “I assure you, I’m quite alive,” said Shen. Well, at least as alive as a human-Remorii hybrid can be, he thought. “Where am I?” he demanded. “And how the hell did I get here?”

  “Your pulse is good, heart rate strong. Take a deep breath for me, please,” said the medical practitioner. Shen decided the man was probably a nurse after all.

  “How about you answer my questions first?” said Shen.

  “You seem to be talking just fine,” said the nurse. “That means your lungs are all right.”

  “Really?” asked Shen, sarcastically. “I’m talking just fine? Then why aren’t you answering any of my questions?”

  The nurse looked down on him with a pleasant smile. “Everything seems to check out. We should be able to release you in no time.”

  “Release me where?” demanded Shen.

  “I’ll get the doc so she can start the paperwork.” And with that, the nurse was gone.

  Well, to hell with this, thought Shen. He knew how strong he was—how strong the Remorii toxins had made him—so he wasn’t about to take this lying down, literally or otherwise. So he struggled against the restraints, intending to break them. They should have snapped like twigs against his superior strength but, to his surprise, they held him bound. He could scarcely move.

  Wow, they really make these things strong, he thought.

  Before long, a woman in a lab coat was standing over him. “Hello, Mr. Iwate, how are you feeling today?”

  “Fine,” said Shen. “Who are you? And can you remove these restraints please?”

  “Your vitals are good, your blood work came back; it looks good too,” the doctor said, as if she hadn’t heard his question. “I’ll begin the paperwork for your immediate release.”

  “Thank you,” said Shen. At least when he was free of his restraints he could figure out just where the hell he was, and what had happened.

  “In the meantime, there’s someone here who I think will be excited to see you,” said the doctor. “I’ll go get her.” The doctor left.

  Shen waited five minutes, but it felt like fifty. However, the wait proved well worth it. He was pleasantly surprised to see Sarah standing over him, as beautiful as ever, beaming. “Oh, my God, Shen, it’s so good to see you awake. You had me so worried!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said automatically, feeling bad for having made Sarah worry. “Can you tell me where we are, and what exactly has happened?”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” asked Sarah.

  “I was on Remus Nine and Tristan had me drink something…some weird concoction. I don’t know what it was. Then…everything is black after that.”

  “That makes sense,” said Sarah, “You were in a medical coma by the time they got you back to the ship. Tristan carried you himself. We then got transferred to an Imperial starship, one with better medical facilities, once we arrived at Capital System.”

  “We’re in Capital System?” asked Shen. He tried to sit up, to no avail.

  “Yes, though we haven’t been here long,” said Sarah. “Currently, we’re aboard the ISS Mediese.”

  At that point, the doctor returned, along with two orderlies; together, they began undoing Shen’s restraints.

  “I bring the captain’s compliments on your recovery,” said the doctor. “It seems your transition is complete.”

  “What transition?” asked Shen, unsure what the hell the doctor was talking about.

  “You have been completely cured of your Remorii-ism,” said the doctor.

  Shen looked at Sarah, who smiled broadly. As for Shen himself, he didn’t believe it. It sounded too good to be true. It can’t be, he thought. As soon as he was free, he stood up and punched the medical console as hard as he could, expecting it to shatter into a million pieces. Instead, he bruised his hand and nearly broke the tiny bones in his fingers.

  “Ouch!” he shrieked.

  “Like I said,” said the doctor. “You are fully human once more. But I would try to keep that temper in check.”

  Shen nodded, unbelieving. Sarah took him in her arms and he found himself hugging her, pulling her in tightly, thinking perhaps now, it was finally possible, that the two of them could be together. Shen did not believe in God, or gods, but whatever power governed the universe, if there was one, he felt profoundly grateful. And still a little stupefied.

  “I don’t believe it,” he muttered. “I’m…I’m human…”

  “I’m sorry to cut this moment short,” said the doctor, “But the captain requests your presence on the bridge—both of you,” she looked from Shen to Sarah.

  “What for?” asked Shen. “Shouldn’t we be released?”

  “I’m sorry, I cannot do that, not at this time. So long as you are members of the military—as you both are—your presence is needed on the bridge. The captain wishes you,” she pointed to Shen, “To take command of the Ops position. And you,” she pointed to Sarah, “To helm the ship. At least for the duration of the battle.”

  “The battle, what battle?” asked Shen, suddenly alarmed.

  “The Battle for Capital System,” said the doctor. “The Dread Fleet is here and, even though we are a support frigate, we stand as part of the last bastion of defense for the people of Capital World. If you would swiftly make your way to the bridge, I’m sure the captain would appreciate it.”

  “Doesn’t this ship already have crew of its own?” asked Shen.

  “Yes, but the captain asked me to send you to the bridge as soon as possible. There is no one aboard this ship with your level of experience. I hope you can and will help us.”

  “Of course we will,” said Sarah. She took Shen by the hand. “Let’s go.”

  “All right,” he said, not wanting to participate in any battle, or man the Ops post of any ship other than the Nighthawk—which he desperately hoped remained in one piece, wherever it was—but he couldn’t say no to Sarah. Especially if the safety of Capital World was on the line.

  If nothing else, it would be interesting to see if the Dread Fleet lived up to all the stories.

  ***

  The Thunder Sun was not a conventional warship. It belonged to a class of warship that had been custom designed by a team of lycans in order to protect themselves from a future Strigoi attack. Zarao, when he’d given the team he’d chosen instructions on what he wanted from the ships, he had emphasized his desire to engage the Strigoi directly and, as he’d put it then,
“Rip them limb from limb.” So great had been their betrayal of the lycans that the Strigoi must be injured at all opportunities and absolutely, positively never forgiven.

  Because of this, the Thunder Sun, and its sister ships, which were now the closest vessels to the incoming Dread Fleet, had plans to engage the enemy that did not involve much of the usual missiles and beam weapons that the humans, and most other aliens, seemed to obsessively rely on. That was why Zarao had ordered his ships to be close to the spot where the Dread Fleet had been expected to arrive—and they had guessed correctly. And that was also why the humans could seem to make no sense of it. They didn’t have the rage, the thirst, the craving!

  “The Dread Fleet has begun to appear,” reported the lycan at the Ops station. “Their vanguard is beginning to assemble into formation.”

  “Do not give them the chance,” said Zarao, feeling his eyes burn. “How close are we?”

  “Very close proximity,” said the lycan at the Defense station. They were not officers, like the humans, they had no ranks, no hierarchy, except that Zarao was the leader and the rest would follow him and his commands. Even, quite possibly, to their deaths on this day. A day that would be written in the blood of their enemies.

  “Move the squadron to directly attack the nearest ships immediately!” commanded Zarao.

  “They are complying,” said the lycan at the Comms station.

  On the 3D and tactical displays, Zarao could see that his vastly outnumbered and overmatched force was quickly approaching the forward-most ships of the Dread Fleet. No doubt, the Polarian commanders, like the humans, could make no sense of the strategy; to them, the lycans’ efforts must have looked like suicide. And perhaps suicide it might be, Zarao reflected. But, if so, it would be a death of blood and honor, and their enemies would fall before them by the hundreds and thousands. Polarians were fierce warriors by reputation, and strong too—much stronger than the humans—but they still bled. And none of them could possibly be prepared for the form of wrath Zarao intended to wreak upon them.