The Phoenix Darkness (9 page)

That was why he had taken to the woods, along
with Vulture, Tank, and Micah, leaving the rest of their cell to
fend for themselves. Ever since making that decision, and slipping
away under cover of darkness, they’d had no contact with any of the
other forty-three members of their cell. Likewise, they’d had no
contact, and heard no word from, any of the other two-hundred and
ninety-nine CERKO cells distributed all over the planet. Some,
undoubtedly, had been wiped out. Killed in battle, or killed
fighting amongst themselves over ever more precious resources,
while others likely starved or resorted to pillaging whatever
towns, storehouses, and farms they could find that hadn’t already
lost everything or been burnt to the ground. Ryker made it a point
to send Vulture out scouting every day with the binoculars. Of
their group, he had the sharpest eyes and the instincts of a
sniper, but even he'd only been able to watch helplessly from afar
as a hopeless situation in the cities nearby seemed to deteriorate
into something even worse.

“You can smell the dead now,” he said,
returning from his daily scouting trip.

“I could smell the dead when we left,” said
Ryker. He sat on a log poking a small fire with a stick while Tank
set about cooking the three fish they’d caught that day, a
veritable bounty compared to their usual victuals.

“No, not like that,” said Vulture, setting
the binoculars down and kneeling down next to the fire to warm his
hands. “Not like when we left. I mean now you can smell the piles
of corpses rotting away. The scent is carried by the wind, and it’s
strong enough I can smell it not two kilometers from here. And it’s
growing stronger.”

“And still no sign of anything?” asked Ryker.
He removed the stick from the fire and crushed the burning tip with
the heel of his boot, stamping out the tiny flame. It died, much
like the embers of hope that had been the revolution on Renora only
mere weeks ago.

“Nothing of any real interest,” said Vulture.
“There’s still life in the city, I see people from time to time.
Mostly scavengers, though. Whatever semblance of society that had
been in the capital is long gone now, at least this far west. Maybe
ten or twenty kilos east of here there could be something; can’t
say for sure.”

“There’s nothing,” said Micah, a kind of
monotonous acceptance in his voice. He lay on the ground in his
usual spot, head propped up against the trunk of a willow tree.
“Everyone out there is either dead or dying. Same as us,
eventually.” He’d always had a sort of macabre nature to him, Ryker
had known, but lately his near psychotic interest in all things
dead or dying had taken a turn and puffed out of him, leaving
behind this thin shell of a man who slept most the time, day or
night, and seemed complacent were he lay, as if waiting for a death
he’d long ago come to terms with. Ryker could still get the man off
his nihilistic, lazy ass and make him help with the hunting or the
foraging, else they would’ve left him for dead long ago, but no one
else seemed able to put a spark of energy into him, no matter how
hard they tried. This was especially difficult on Tank who, no
longer quite so Tank-like having shed at least thirty pounds, had
always considered Micah a good friend. The two had had some sort of
bond. Now, though, Ryker wasn’t so sure.

In fact, he wasn’t so sure of anything. He’d
kept his part of the bargain. He’d helped raise the planet to a
state of revolutionist zeal, with pure and unapologetic hatred
toward the crown and the Empire, just as Zane had promised was
possible and asked him to do. But the rewards, where were they?
Currently, the small group of them spent their days scavenging the
wilds for food, chasing off, and sometimes killing, dangerous fauna
with their limited ammunition, and slowly wasting away as they
waited for the next sign, the next instruction, for any indication
that the next phase in Zane Martel’s plan had begun. Truthfully,
Ryker had expected to have been evacuated off this rock by now, him
and the rest of the surviving CERKO units, and, for his remarkable
success and valiant efforts, he should be relaxing on some beach
somewhere, surrounded by women. Or else enjoying the pampered
lifestyle Martel's riches promised and could so easily bring. Yet,
here he was. Here they all were.

Ryker wondered how many more days and weeks
of this before even these men, friends he’d served with in prison,
bled with in battle, more like brothers than any family he’d ever
known, would blame him for their misfortunes and turn on him.
Perhaps deserting him to go their separate ways or worse, killing
him in a fit of misplaced rage. After all, he’d made certain
promises to them, just as Zane had made certain promises to him.
The one hinged on the latter. Had Ryker been wrong to put his faith
in Zane Martel? It was hard to imagine. Yet, as the smoke from the
small fire blew into his face, his stomach rumbled, and the sound
of crickets chirped all around with not one Martel furnished luxury
to be seen anywhere, it was getting harder and harder to think he’d
chosen the right side.

“Tank, you take first watch tonight, Vulture
second, and I’ll take third,” said Ryker, just as Tank brought the
fish over for them to eat. The trout were nothing spectacular to
look at and, sans bones, looked much smaller than they had when
first caught that day. Still, there was something to be said for
nearly a whole fish for each man. As Tank cut a sliver and tossed
it to Micah, Vulture protested.

“Him, a fish?” he said, disgruntled. A
feeling Vulture had carried with him for days now.

“Yes, him a fish,” said Tank. His tone
carried the implied threat
what are you gonna do about
it?

“He didn’t help catch any, why should he
eat?” asked Vulture. “Neither is he taking a watch. I say, no
watch, no fish. That seems more than fair, right?” he looked to
Ryker for support. And, truthfully, a part of Ryker agreed with
him. But mostly Ryker found himself lost in thoughts of the not too
distant future when their current way of life would no longer hold.
Something had to change, and soon. Ryker knew it, but he was at a
loss for what that thing might be.

“Come on, Vulture, we’re all in this
together,” said Ryker, knowing if he let this group splinter apart
that would be the end of them. “Just like Andricus.”

“This is
nothing
like Andricus,” said
Vulture.

“Sure it is, Vult,” said Ryker. “We’re
prisoners here, just like we were there. Only here it’s a different
kind of a prison.”

“On Andricus there was a plan, something we
could do about it,” said Vulture. “Here…?” he looked around.

Ryker shook his head and bit into his portion
of the fish. There was neither salt nor seasoning, as could be
expected, only the char of imperfect cooking and the flakey, fishy
scales for flavor, yet to his growling stomach it was like biting
into the most succulent meal, something fit for a king at a
banquet. Even Vulture stopped his complaining while he enjoyed his
scraps of fish, savoring them like raindrops on a desert landscape.
The taste of food, though inadequate for their appetites, seemed to
put the argument to rest and, slowly, one by one, they drifted off
to sleep, except for Tank who climbed up to the top of a boulder
and perched there, watching and listening for any danger which
might overtake them. Ryker was the last to shut his eyes. As he did
so, he thought, for the briefest flicker of a moment, he was back
home. Green grass, blue skies, a hot yellow sun crisping his skin
to a perfect tawny color, all while his lips tasted of summer wine
and the sound of amateur singing filled the air. It was a joyous
melody and a joyous dream, and it carried him away like an ocean
breeze…

… “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” said a
forceful whisper, repeating over and over.

Ryker felt his body shaking. “Where the hell
am I?” he croaked, rubbing his eyes. He blinked to see Vulture
kneeling over him, his face far too close for comfort, as the other
man gripped Ryker by the shoulders and continued shaking him.
Instinctively, Ryker made a fist and struck Vulture in the mouth,
sending the smaller man to the ground.

“Ouch, God dammit,” said Vulture, climbing
back to his feet. Ryker too stood up, taking stock of his
surroundings, and then suddenly remembered the dismal setting of
his tiny forested campsite. No food, little water, and even less
hope.

“What in God’s name is this about?” asked
Ryker, angered at being ripped from such a pleasant dream. Dreams
were better than real life, especially now.

“Look!” said Vulture, his voice a powerful
whisper. He pointed up to the night sky and, while the others
slept, Ryker followed Vulture’s gaze upward until he saw it. It was
the most beautiful spectacle he’d ever seen and, despite not
wanting to get his hopes up, he felt his heart start pounding in
his chest.

“They’re beautiful,” said Ryker. Above them a
thousand-thousand shooting stars stretched across the sky, gleaming
and glowing as they made their passes, group by group, around the
planet. But they weren’t shooting stars, Ryker knew.

“Is that what I think they are?” asked
Vulture. Undoubtedly he knew damn well what they were, but needed
to hear it from Ryker before getting his hopes up.

“Yes,” said Ryker, staring up at the most
wonderful sight his eyes had ever gazed upon. “Ships! And large
ones at that.” At this point, it hardly mattered if they were
Imperial, Republican, or even Polarian. All that mattered was
someone was coming, a lot of someone, and that meant Renora hadn’t
been forgotten after all. “Maybe,” said Ryker, tracing one of the
lights with his eyes as it darted across the sky, continuing its
low orbit until it disappeared. “Just maybe, we’ll get off this
goddamn rock after all.”

***

“My Lord Steward. Pardon the interruption, My
Lord, but it is of utmost urgency.”

“Yes, what is it?” he asked, slowly rising
from his bed and wondering which of his incompetent ministers had
managed to convince his personal guard to stand aside so he could
disturb the Royal Steward in his personal bedchamber in the middle
of the night. If this crisis proved anything like the last one,
when the Minister of Finance had discovered someone was stealthily
dipping his fingers in the Royal Treasury, which of course was
Caerwyn himself, then Caerwyn would be sorely tempted to have the
interrupting minister’s head mounted on a pike and have the pike
driven into the ground in a place of utmost prominence in the grand
yards of Caerwyn’s personal estate as an example to any who would
think to disturb his majestic slumber.

“My Lord,” said the minister, pausing for
breath as he reached Caerwyn’s side. He bowed his head and, upon
lifting it, Caerwyn could see through foggy eyes it was his
Minister of State.

Dear gods, what on all of Capital World do
you want
? Caerwyn thought, but instead of revealing his tired
displeasure, he kept his composure dignified as was befitting the
Royal Steward. “Yes, what is it?” he asked, tone neutral.

“It’s about the Assembly, My Lord.”

What are those fools up to this time
…
“What about the Assembly?”

“It’s shrinking, My Lord.”

Caerwyn squinted, scratched his head, and
then looked his Minister of State back into his eyes. “What in name
of the late king are you talking about?”
Shrinking?

“I mean there are defectors, My Lord.
Traitors,” the Minister of State bowed his head again, as if
accepting personal blame for this political upset.

“You mean to tell me members of the Royal
Assembly are abandoning their posts to join with the false queen?”
asked Caerwyn, now feeling ire replace his fatigue.

“Yes, My Lord. A number of Representatives
have disappeared. It is thought most of them, if not all, are on
their way to accept Queen Kalila’s, I mean
false-queen
Kalila’s, cry to join her in her new Assembly, the one she has
raised in exile.”

Damn her
, thought Caerwyn. Always a
thorn in his side. If only that fool Admiral Tiburon had finished
her off when he’d had the chance. He shook his head, trying to
decide what to do. “How many?” he asked.

“Dozens, My Lord,” said the Minister of
State. “And possibly more to come.”

“Dozens…” mused Caerwyn. “Dozens from
hundreds…” not enough to make a deathly impact, but sufficient to
question his legitimacy across the realm, not to mention the
possibility of encouraging others to defect.
But why would
they?
he wondered. Didn’t they know it was he who had the
rightful claim and not her? That she and her father were enemies of
the state? Did they not hear about his great victory over Kalila at
the Apollo Yards?

“Kill them,” said Caerwyn, through clenched
teeth.

“Pardon me, My Lord, what?”

“I said
kill them
.” No one would
abandon him and get away with it.

“Kill them, sir?”

“Yes. Let the realm know what happens to
traitors who aid and abet the enemy. Let it be known any and all
citizens, regardless of their station, rank, or class, shall be
treated as traitors and receive a traitor’s death,” he said, now
standing and dressing himself.

“Kill them how, sir?”

“Kill them quietly. Arrest them, execute
them, flay them, and put their bodies on display on Capital World
for all to see. Mount their heads on pikes in the public square, or
else off them in the dark and dissolve them secretly in acid; it
makes no difference to me so long as the message is clear. Traitors
to the Empire will receive neither quarter nor clemency. Traitors
to the Empire will meet their just demise.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“And to any who have already absconded and
think to join the likes of the rebel queen,” said Caerwyn. “Put
their names at the top of Intel Wing’s Most Wanted list, and place
bounties upon their heads to be awarded dead or alive.”