The Phoenix War (4 page)

“Who could say why they’d take such a
course?” said Raidan. “But you know the ancient expression, don’t
you? About how there exists no honor amongst thieves. I suspect
this was a weak, very tenuous alliance, and the two groups, the
human and Rotham co-conspirators, had always planned to betray one
another once their beneficial cooperation was complete.”

“And I take it this surprise murder, the
slaughter of the human conspiracy leaders, wound up throwing a
wrench into the plan to expose them before the Assembly?” said
Summers.

“Yes. With no living witnesses and no strong
evidence left behind to identify a culprit… there was no conspiracy
to expose. Not in time, anyway.”

“Then the throne…?” Summers steeled herself,
ready for the bad news she knew was coming.

“Fallen. The Assembly stripped it from the
Akira House.”

“What about the King?” Surely Hisato Akira
wouldn’t simply step down and watch the Empire shred itself to
bits, would he?

“Dead.”

Gasps filled the bridge. Cassidy covered her
mouth, her face flushed white. The others stared at the speaker,
expecting to hear more. Waiting for the details to flow forth. But
Summers just sat there, blinking. Not really sure what she’d heard.
Raidan’s voice had come through clearly, she’d heard the word. She
knew what it meant. But… she simply couldn’t accept it. Like the
word had completely bounced off her skull, never reaching her
brain.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” asked Summers,
clinging to her disbelief.

“The king is dead,” said Raidan. “As are his
heirs, save one. Kalila lives. At least for the moment. But
Genjiro, Kanna, and Azumi are all dead. Along with Hisato
himself.”

Summers shook her head.
No…. No it can’t
be
. “How?” her voice cracked.

“The King was murdered on the Assembly
Floor,” said Raidan coldly, impassively. “Shot in the head. Who was
the killer?—no one knows. Probably some lackey hired by Caerwyn
Martel or one of the others who stand to inherit the throne. Maybe
it was the Rotham element, the same aliens who arranged for the
Phoenix Ring to be
dealt with
. It’s anyone’s guess… As for
the crown prince and his sisters, they were killed in very
suspicious-looking accidents. I’m certain they were likewise
murdered.”

“Then the Empire…?”

“Is finished as we know it. There’s
pandemonium on Capital World, the Assembly struggles to assert
control. Usurpers—
all of them
…” said Raidan. Summers wanted
to believe he was lying, certainly these claims were far too
ludicrous to be true, but she heard the anger in his words. It was
subtle, but it was there. And she knew what it was when she heard
it, and that it always accompanied an unpleasant truth. One that
ate at him on the inside. She’d only heard it a few times when
she’d served as his XO, but there was no mistaking it.

He speaks the truth
…

“And the Executor?” asked Summers finally.
Almost too hesitant to form the words. She wondered if she’d ever
get the chance to return Calvin’s stupid ship to him.
Please be
alive
…

“Escaped,” said Raidan, much to Summers’
relief. “He is aboard the Black Swan along with Kalila Akira
herself. I am rallying all the forces I can and have asked the
Princess to jump her ship to the coordinates I provided, somewhere
safe.”

“Somewhere safe? You mean, they remain in
danger?” asked Summers, her momentary relief instantly gone.

“Last I saw it, the Black Swan was at Capital
System with the Eighth and Ninth Fleets bearing down on it, not to
mention a wounded but still fierce ISS Andromeda and other hostile
ships nearby. But don’t worry, I’m certain they jumped away in
time. If they didn’t… then it would already be too late for anyone
to help them.”

So that was it then?
Summers thought.
All their efforts, all their hopes… dashed and worthless. They’d
failed. The Empire was doomed. The corrupt influence had won…
This cannot be! Justice must win in the end! Mustn’t it?
Summers found herself thinking nothing was true anymore. Everything
she’d ever hoped; everything she’d ever believed… wiped away so
suddenly…

To her horror—and surprise—she felt tears,
hot burning tears that dampened her eyes. She fought them, barely
keeping them from flowing in earnest. Tears.
Actual tears!
She hadn’t cried since she was a little girl… not in public. She
scarcely managed to hold them back, reminding herself that she was
an officer in uniform—and the command officer besides! She had to
keep it together! But as she did, she found herself wondering what
the point was. It was over. They’d lost. And in the end everyone
dies anyway. Death. The ultimate injustice, still undefeated after
billions and billions of years—in all the time that’d past since
that very first strand of RNA had formed and began the cycle of
life, death had always come to claim its victory. Every single
time.

Justice was a fairy-tale. A dream. Nothing
more. Millennia ago mankind had invented religion to explain away
the injustice of death, but like the many mythologies that had
risen and fallen with each passing generation, Justice itself was
an empty, pleasant lie. A cheat. A con…

“You are rallying your ships?” asked Summers.
“Why bother?”

“To fight, Commander. To fight,” came
Raidan’s stalwart reply. “This isn’t over until
I
say it’s
over.”

It was then that Summers realized what she
wanted to do. “Give me those coordinates,” she demanded. “It’s time
Calvin’s ship was returned to him. And if there is to be a fight,
one last, glorious, desperate fight, then I’ll be damned if the
Nighthawk isn’t there.”
And me with it
.

“That’s not a good idea, Commander,” said
Raidan.

“And why not?” she asked, her teeth
clenched.

“If this battle can be won—and I believe it
can, then one more small frigate in our numbers, like the
Nighthawk, will only make a small difference in our firepower. But,
even if that’s what tilts the scale, we will never truly have our
victory. Not if it means those isotome weapons are still out there.
Even if we somehow salvaged the Empire, it could never be safe. Not
if weapons that powerful are in our enemies’ hands. You know that
as well as I do. Right now the Nighthawk is our fastest ship, and
already hot on the trail of the isotome weapons—following our only
lead. We can’t give all of that up just to have one more dog in the
fight…”

Summers realized that he was right. If the
Nighthawk went to the rendezvous, yes, she would see Calvin again,
and sooner rather than later—provided the boy wasn’t foolish enough
to let himself get cornered at Capital System by the Eighth and
Ninth Fleets—but the isotome weapons would remain a menace at
large. Weapons that could eradicate billions of people in a
heartbeat; they could eliminate whole civilizations, destroy the
stars themselves, and extinct entire species. They were the
greatest instrument of evil ever designed. But if she stayed the
course, maybe… just maybe, she could stop them in time.

Perhaps there is a fleeting hope
yet
…

“And what of Calvin?” asked Summers. The
Nighthawk was his ship after all. And Summers didn’t want to usurp
his command, despite what that stupid idiot Miles thought.

“Calvin wants you to hunt down those isotome
weapons,” came Raidan’s reply. “Trust me.”

A part of her was skeptical. A part of her
doubted that Raidan would know that, since Calvin wasn’t with him,
nor was he in contact with him currently—according to Raidan’s own
admission. Yes, the more she thought about it, the more certain she
was that Raidan had made that up, to encourage her to hunt after
the weapons. To give her an excuse, should Calvin later object.
Summers knew Raidan was lying.
Raidan cannot be trusted
… but
she decided to believe the lie, just this once, because—deep
inside—she knew it was the right thing to do. Those weapons
had
to be destroyed. If the Empire toppled over and
collapsed, and war followed, and the savage destruction threw
humanity back into the bronze age, it would still be better than
losing whole star systems, and perhaps being hunted to extinction
by isotome-wielding aliens.

“The channel is closed,” reported Mister
Tully. “The Harbinger is no longer transmitting to us.”

“Very well,” said Summers. “Midshipman
Dupont, you will resume your duties as Green Shift’s officer of the
watch. Should you need me I shall be in my quarters. Preparing for
White Shift.” Summers knew she needed time alone to process all of
this. To grieve in peace for her king and her Empire, where no one
could see her weaknesses, and to get some much needed rest—if she
could. For that matter the entire crew would have difficulty coping
with the loss of their king. She wished she had some relief to
offer them.

“And what are our orders?” asked Cassidy as
Summers relinquished the command position.

“Stay the course. And increase our jump depth
once Mister Cowen says the engines can handle it.”

With that she left the bridge. And managed
not to collapse until she arrived at her quarters.

***

The werewolf looked at him, with those awful
red eyes of his. Glowing. Cutting through the darkness. Shen looked
back, as if uncertain what to do. Uncertain what the lycan
wanted.

“Come to me, my brother,” said Tristan from
the far cliff. Connecting them was a thin stone bridge that cut
across an endless black chasm.

“Brother, you must come,” Tristan’s voice
seemed almost an echo.

Shen felt his right foot start to move
forward, as if to take that first step on the narrow bridge. But
then he stopped it. Remaining in place.
What am I doing?

“
Come
,” Tristan called again.

Shen felt something inside him stir. But he
remained rigidly in place. Around him was mostly darkness, though a
blood-red moon hung in the night sky, bright-enough to hide most of
the stars. But not so bright it lit his surroundings; the landscape
remained a vague outline. Sometimes the shadows seemed even to
move… What were they? All Shen could be sure of was the stone
bridge in front of him. The bridge and the glowing red eyes that
stared at him like tiny, distant stars. Waiting.

A shrill ringing split the air. It sounded
and left, then sounded again. Coming and going like a terrible,
rhythmic heartbeat. Hurting his ears.

***

Shen heard the alarm going off. He tried to
block it out with a pillow over his head, grunting as he did. But
the shrill, obnoxious ringing persisted. Torturing him.
Is it
not enough that my nights torment me? Must my days also?

He turned over, throwing the pillow across
the room as he did. Then slapped his left hand down hard. With a
powerful crunch, the alarm went silent.

Shen opened his eyes a crack, enough to see
that his alarm was now shattered splinters of broken glass,
plastic, and metal.

Strange… surely I didn’t hit it that
hard
.

He sat up and examined the debris. To look at
it, one would think Shen had dropped a fifty kilogram weight
directly on top of it from several meters above. Was this really
the work of his left hand?

“Damn stupid thing anyway,” he grumbled.
“Always too loud.” But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true.
The alarm had served him faithfully for years and, while admittedly
very annoying, it’d never been
too loud
, not even at its
highest setting. But for some reason, lately, his hearing would
sometimes become extremely sensitive. More than a person’s should…
he was no biologist, but he suspected the change had something to
do with the Remorii Virus, and those days he’d spent comatose, tied
to a hospital bed, barely more than a corpse.

In truth he felt lucky he could hear at
all—even if it meant he now heard more than he wanted to. When he’d
first awakened from his coma he’d been deaf as a stone. And then,
with a magnificent pop, his hearing had returned. And now it seemed
to switch between normal and extra-extra sharp. The way a person’s
eye becomes more sensitive to light when there is very little of
it; Shen’s hearing seemed to amplify when his environment quieted.
And he didn’t like that.

What is happening to me?
He looked
down at his body. And, from a glance, it looked the same. The same
stupid belly protruded, hiding his waist, and his arms and feet
looked as they always had. He nervously searched his skin over and
over, like he often did now, terrified that he’d see evidence of
the Remorii rot. The corrupt flesh hanging from the corpse-like
body of the type-one Remorii that’d attacked him, he remembered how
the monsters had looked as much dead as alive. What skin they had
was bruised, purple and black, and in some places even decayed.

“I’m okay,” he whispered. Reassuring himself.
“I’m okay.” As of yet, there were no signs of rot. And Dr. Rain
Poynter had assured him the virus was purged from his system.
But still
…

He shook his head and tried not to think
about it. He got out of bed and began his routine of undressing. He
even grabbed a towel and some soap so he could go to the deck’s
head and shower. He’d never cared much for bathing before,
especially when it meant the chance to be awkwardly naked alongside
other people—
why didn’t every ship have private showers by now?
Honestly, what century is this?
—but ever since his brush with
death, and the numbing fear constantly on the back of his mind that
he was slowly transforming into a type-three Remorii, he’d vowed to
shower every day, sometimes twice. That way, if even the tiniest
hint of rot or decay appeared, he would catch it as soon as
possible.