The Phoenix Conspiracy

by Richard Sanders

Chapter 2

  The IWS Nighthawk was one of only a few phantom-class stealth warships ever to be commissioned by the Empire into its Imperial Fleet. Small and agile, it was hard to see and even harder to target. Black from bow to stern with its identifier lights usually kept off, its signature was that of Intel Wing. One that, when transmitted to an Imperial station, said in no uncertain terms: Do what we say without asking questions. Why we’re here is none of your business. Stay out of our way.

  The ship was fast and quiet but relied mostly on stealth for defense, utilizing technologies most of the galaxy didn’t even know existed. And it was because of those technologies that Raidan’s rogue ISS Phoenix had finally been tracked down. The Fifth Fleet had swept its space looking for the ship for over two ST—Standard Time—days before eventually appealing to Intel Wing for help. Two more days and the Phoenix was located, again placed under Imperial Fleet control. Now the Nighthawk and the rest of the interdiction flotilla trailed the Phoenix, all on their way to Praxis where justice would be served. And, hopefully, the incident would be investigated.

  Calvin Cross, the commanding officer of the Nighthawk, remained unsettled. The whole affair made no sense to him. His investigation into Captain Asari Raidan and the Phoenix had been unfortunately short, conducted in only the two days it’d taken to corner the missing ship, but Calvin had expected to find a motive in that time which explained everything. He hadn’t. No one had.

  Raidan, a decorated captain, a veteran of the Great War, had inexplicably gone rogue, had attacked and destroyed a civilian convoy of alien traders, and thereafter had refused to communicate with all Imperial ships and outposts. Then, when finally caught, he’d surrendered without a fight. Now he sat, presumably on his bridge, soaring toward Praxis where he’d certainly face the death penalty.

  Why did you do it, Raidan?

  Some believed he’d mentally snapped. Years of too much pressure, perhaps a midlife crisis, or maybe it was a chemical imbalance only now manifesting. Calvin dismissed all of these theories. Raidan definitely had a motive; it was just a matter of finding it.

  “Entering Praxis System. Braking thrusters have fired, and we’re again in normal space, Captain,” said Sarah from the helm. She was a young brunette, though a year his senior, with wide brown eyes and a relaxed demeanor that was famous among their tight-knit crew. People joked that she’d be calm even if the ship were breaking apart and everyone were about to die.

  “Thank you.” Calvin nodded. He didn’t like being called captain, partly because it felt too formal, but mostly because it wasn’t true. He wasn’t a captain. Not a real one. On paper he was a lieutenant commander, a technicality few outside his staff knew about since he was a CO and, therefore, held the rank of acting captain.

  “Contact the control tower, put in a docking request, and begin a standard approach. You know the drill.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Their ship followed behind the Phoenix and the two warships at its flanks. The Phoenix’s identifier lights flashed the brilliant white signal of surrender, illuminating its damaged hull—which highlighted another mystery. The plasma burns and the shredding patterns that scarred the renegade warship hadn’t come from the Empire Fleet’s interdiction operation. Raidan had not resisted. But the injuries had come from somewhere. The question was—who had the rogue captain been fighting? Certainly the damage was too severe to be the work of the civilian convoy he’d attacked.

  A transmission came over the bridge speakers. “IWS Nighthawk, power down your weapons and standby for authentication.” Two sentry ships broke from their patrol pattern and approached on the port side.

  Calvin watched them maneuver on the 3-D display.

  “We’ve been targeted by two small destroyers, weapons hot,” said Miles from the defense post.

  “They’re a bit touchy this close to the border, aren’t they?” Calvin had done plenty of missions this far out but had never docked with any of the deep-space outposts. “Okay, power it all down. Do what they say.”

  A minute later, the ships broke off and swept back to their patrol pattern.

  “IWS Nighthawk, you are cleared to approach.”

  They passed through the station’s outer defenses and, after receiving clearance from Traffic Control, entered a long orbit around the planet, awaiting their turn to dock. They were last in line, so they had a few minutes.

  “What do you suppose happens next?” asked Sarah.

  “Two words,” said Miles, spinning the defense post’s chair to face center. “Military Tribunal.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Calvin. “The Phoenix never fired on any of our ships, and, given the international nature of the incident, I expect a General Tribunal.”

  “I would have expected a court-martial,” said Shen.

  “It’s a complicated situation to be sure, which makes me wonder what other people are speculating,” said Calvin, flashing the mischievous smile he was so famous for, the one that made people guess he was even younger than his twenty-five years let on. “Let’s tap into the local news. Shen, go ahead and put it on every nonessential screen on the bridge.”

  “Aye, sir,” his ops officer said. His unkempt long hair and bulbous figure made him seem a poor fit for Intel Wing, but Calvin doubted there was a more intelligent person on the ship.

  Seconds later several dark screens flickered to life—including the one at the command position. The image clarified to reveal a female reporter whose voice filled the bridge speakers.

  “And we’re getting reports now that the man who military police took into custody is Captain Asari Raidan of the Imperial Starship Phoenix. For those just tuning in, moments ago, military police swarmed the terminals of Access Point One and arrested who we now know to be Imperial Navy Captain Asari Raidan. A passerby caught this footage.”

  The image on the viewers shifted to reveal several blue-and-black-clad navy officers descending a ramp, accompanied by marines in gray fatigues. Upon reaching the bottom, the lead officer—Raidan—raised his hands and allowed several military police to surround him, cuff him, and take him away. A throng of people, including station personnel, tried to get a closer look but were held back by a line of security officers.

  “We’ve just heard that Asari Raidan is now being transported to Detention Center 201. The military has refused to comment officially on the arrest, but we’ve heard from one officer, under condition of anonymity, that a General Tribunal might begin as early as tomorrow. He did not know if the trial will be made public.”

  Sarah waved her hand to get Calvin’s attention. “Message from Traffic Control. We’re cleared to dock in five-B.”

  Calvin muted the broadcast. “Okay, Sarah, take us in.”

  “Your word is my command.” Her fingers deftly took the controls, and, through the windows, the stardock slowly became visible.

  “Roger that, Control, this is IWS Nighthawk beginning our final approach,” said Sarah into her headset while piloting.

  Calvin leaned back in his chair. “You know,” he said, looking over at Anand Datar, his best friend and faithful XO. “I’m really looking forward to this time off.”

  “As if you could ever stop working.”

  “No, I mean it.” Calvin laughed. “I’m worn out.”

  “If you’re worn out, that means the rest of us are postmortem—or close. The way they work us, sometimes I wish I were in the navy and could lounge around on one of those luxury liners.” Anand shook his head in an exaggerated display of irritation.

  Calvin knew Anand somewhat resented the regulars for having several more conveniences aboard their vessels: lounges, bars, gyms—things a stealth frigate didn’t have space for. “Enough to request a transfer?” asked Calvin. His voice was full of laughter, but he wasn’t truly joking. He knew his XO had some real grievances with Intel Wing, and it was probably only a matter of time before Anand gave it up completely.

  Anand ignored the question.

  “Slowing to 7.2 MCs p
er second,” said Sarah as the ship angled into position and halted. “All stop. The docking clamps are attached, concluding another perfect flight.” Sarah spun her chair to face the center of the bridge, grinning.

  “Good work, as always,” said Calvin. He tapped his intercom. “All hands, this is the CO. We’re docked with Praxis One, and the jetbridges are attached. You are ordered to the airlocks to vacate the ship. As of this moment you are all on official leave for four weeks. That is all.”

  “So does that mean we don’t have to follow your orders anymore, Cal?” asked Miles with a dopey grin.

  “Something like that.” Calvin smirked. “But when it’s all over, so help me, I’ll make you swab every deck on this ship. Now hurry and get out of here. Your freedom is ticking away.”

  Miles laughed; he was a big man, and his laughter was deep. “You don’t need to tell me twice.” He stood up and marched to the elevator. “See ya around the casino, Captain.”

  “Not this time. I only have a little money, and I can’t afford to lose any of it to you,” said Calvin, lying. As a single person earning a captain’s pay grade, he had more Q than he knew what to do with, especially since he preferred a simple lifestyle. Plus Miles was nothing if not horrible at cards; Calvin would, most likely, walk away with Miles’s life savings. The real reason Calvin planned to avoid the casino tables on this trip was the Raidan case. Calvin wanted to focus on it without any distractions—especially the kind that could swiftly turn his affluence into poverty.

  “Suit yourself, Cal. I have two thousand Q begging to turn into twenty thousand—so don’t get jealous when I return with the deed to somebody’s house.” Miles flashed a huge grin, and the elevator door shut.