The Phoenix Conspiracy

  The Phoenix Conspiracy

  Title Page

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  The Phoenix Conspiracy

  by Richard L. Sanders

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 Richard L. Sanders

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  ***

  All was quiet.

  Those eyes not glued to computer-screens were staring out the windows at the two very large cruisers flying alongside them. Warships more interested in preventing their escape than offering protection.

  Raidan felt the weight of every passing second, each taking him one step closer to the inevitable—and, in the silence of spaceflight, he heard the solemn bells of the executioner.

  "This is it, boy," he whispered to himself. "I hope it was worth it."

  His XO looked up from her station, probably a response to his mumbling. Her narrow eyes shot him a hateful glare. Seeing her that way, knowing her disgust was justified, made him almost regret his decision to leave her in the dark. But, if he’d told her everything, she would have compromised his efforts. And, if somehow, by some miracle, she had taken his side... she'd be under arrest now too, and that would be unbearable.

  Poor beautiful Commander Presley. And she really was beautiful. Glossy golden hair, cunning eyes that were as sharp as they were green—accented by her brilliant mind. She was more than most twenty-eight year old officers could hope to be, and an outstanding second in command. His eyes traced her misleadingly delicate face and part of him wished he were ten years younger, like the junior helmsman at her side, enthralled and intimidated by such a stunning young woman. With an amused smile, he imagined himself as the boy he used to be—the timid young officer at the operations post—nervously scouring his mind for an excuse to ask her out. It made him laugh inside and, for a moment, he almost forgot the gravity of his situation. Almost.

  His expert crew looked elegant in their blue-and-black uniforms while they worked tirelessly to keep the damaged ship under control. They had a certain dignity, and it had been a true honor serving with them these past several years. An honor tainted by the fact he was leaving them this way, shocked and confused. Wondering… why had fellow Imperial ships intercepted and boarded them? Why were they being escorted to the nearest government station, Praxis One? And why was their faithful CO under arrest? Had their last mission been the Captain's personal crusade and not orders from Fleet Command?

  Poor officers, they would never know the whole truth. Very soon they'd all arrive at Praxis and the tribunal would invent whatever explanation it wanted. No one would ever get the real story. If only they could, they'd realize he'd done the right thing. But that knowledge was too dangerous to have. So, for their own safety, he'd kept his crew out of it. If things didn't go as planned, if his friends didn’t come through for him, then he'd be dead soon. No reason to drag such fine men and women to the grave with him.

  "I'm going to my quarters," he said aloud, all heads turned his way. "Commander, you have the deck."

  "Yes, sir." Even though hate poured through her eyes, her tone remained respectful. Despite how he'd betrayed them all.

  "Thank you," he paused. "All of you." It was barely more than a whisper—an inadequate tribute, but sincere.

  He left the bridge, flanked by a marine who followed him down three decks to his quarters. Raidan thumbed the plate and the door whisked open. Before stepping inside he addressed the marine. "What's your name, soldier?"

  "Lance Corporal Charlie Davis, sir."

  Raidan nodded. "Thank you for the escort, Corporal. That will be all." He stepped into his quarters, making it clear the soldier was not invited to follow. Instead the marine took up position outside, guarding the door which slid shut.

  Finally alone, Raidan was able to relax. He pulled off his uniform shirt, replacing it with something more comfortable, and took a seat at his small desk. His bedroom was the largest aboard the ship, but he kept it just as dull and barren as the lowliest midshipman. Basic carpet, empty grey walls, a standard bed, and a single desk. His only luxury was the one he couldn't dispense with, the window set against the port wall. The view was dominated by the very large ISS Andromeda, the flagship of the Fifth Fleet. She was an awesome spectacle to behold. More than four times the size of the Phoenix, her running lights splashed the royal navy's colors against her hull, blue and white. Raidan’s heart saluted it.

  They wouldn't believe him. But the truth was, everything he'd ever done had been for the good of the Empire. That knowledge gave him some small comfort.

  Vice Admiral Aleksandra Harkov was somewhere aboard that ship. Whether she was on the bridge or asleep in her quarters, her commanding presence filled every inch of her massive starship and permeated the space all around. She had been kind to allow him the dignity of retaining his command until they reached Praxis, even if it was just a façade.

  "Don't worry, Admiral. You'll get no resistance from me… yet."

  He picked up the bottle of whiskey on his desk and pulled off the cork. An old proverb came to mind. "Eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow I die." He took a sip, trying to forget that in three hours time he'd be officially arrested by the authorities on Praxis. And after that, his friends would either come through for him or they wouldn't. But at least he'd done his part to save the Empire.

  Chapter 2

  The IWS Nighthawk was one of only a few phantom-class stealth warships ever to be commissioned. 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 about. And it was with those technologies that the rogue ISS Phoenix had been finally tracked down. The Fifth Fleet had swept its space looking for it, for over two standard days, before eventually appealing to Intel Wing for help. Another two standard days and it was back under Fleet control. Now the Nighthawk trailed it and its flotilla 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 incident made no sense to him. His inve
stigation into Captain Asari Raidan and the Phoenix had been unfortunately short, conducted in only two days while he tracked down the missing ship, but he had expected to find a motive that explained everything. He hadn't. No one had. A decorated captain, a veteran of the Great War, inexplicably going rogue, attacking and destroying a civilian convoy of alien traders, and then refusing to communicate with any Imperial ships or outposts for days. Then, when finally caught, he surrendered without resistance. Now he sat, presumably on his bridge, soaring toward Praxis where he'd certainly face the death penalty.

  Why would you do it, Raidan?

  Some believed he'd mentally snapped. Years of too much pressure? Mid-life crisis? Chemical imbalance only now manifesting? Calvin dismissed all 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 well-known to their tight-knit crew. People joked she'd be calm even if the ship were breaking apart and everyone was 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. On paper he was a Lieutenant Commander, a technicality few people other than his crew 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."

  They followed behind the Phoenix, while the other two warships were on its flanks. The Phoenix's identifier lights flashed the brilliant white signal of surrender, illuminating its damaged hull. That was another mystery, the plasma burns and the shredding pattern that could only have been caused by the heavily mounted guns of a serious warship, damage not caused by the Imperial navy. His only other engagement had been the skirmish with the Rotham freighters, but surely freighters wouldn’t be outfitted with weapons like that.

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

  "We've been targeted by two small destroyers, weapons armed," 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 these 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're clear to approach."

  They passed through the station's outer defenses and, after receiving clearance from Traffic Control, entered a long orbit around the planet while awaiting their turn to dock with the station. They were last in line, following the Phoenix and the battleships from the Fifth Fleet, meaning they had time to spare.

  "What do you suppose happens next?" asked Sarah.

  "Two words," said Miles from the defense post, "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 famous for, the same 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 non-essential screen on the bridge."

  “Aye, sir,” his operations officer said. His long, unkempt hair and bulbous figure made him seem a poor fit for Intel Wing but Calvin doubted there was a more brilliant 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 military Captain Asari Raidan. A passer-by caught this footage."

  The image on the viewers shifted to show several blue-and-black navy officers descend a ramp, accompanied by marines in grey fatigues. Upon reaching the bottom, the leading 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 Control. We're cleared to dock in five-B."

  Calvin nodded and muted the broadcast. "OK, 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, 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 borderline dead. 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 slightly 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?" Calvin asked. His voice was full of laughter but he was only half teasing. He knew his XO had some real grievances with the Intel Wing lifestyle and it was probably only a matter of time before he gave it up.

  Anand ignored the question.

  "Slowing to seven point two mc’s per 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 Captain. We're docked with Praxis One and the jetways are attached. You are ordered to the airlocks to vacate the ship. As of this moment you're 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. He'd also turned his chair to face the center.

  "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, but those were lies. As a single person earning a captain's paygrade he had more q than he knew what to do with, especially since he preferred a simple lifestyle.

  His real reason for not hitting the tables was the Raidan case. He wanted to focus on it without any distractions. Especially the kind that could very quickly turn his affluence into poverty.

  "Suit yourself, Cal. I have 2,000q begging to turn into 20,000—so don't get jealous when I
return with the deed to somebody's house." Miles flashed a huge grin and the elevator shut.

  ***

  Calvin exited the ship via the deck two jetway. Despite their being quadruple sealed and not very long, he always hated stepping through them. Somehow he couldn't hold back the thought of being blown out into space. Such accidents never happened, but it bothered him anyway because he could imagine it.

  He cleared the secondary hatch without any trouble and descended the ladder, starting down the long ramp that led into the terminal. Before he reached ground-level, he caught sight of the concourse swarming with people. Some wore staff uniforms, others military garb—including soldiers at every checkpoint—but mostly they were civilians. Scattered in hundreds of small groups, all awaiting transport on whatever ships docked after the Nighthawk had been moved into long-term holding. The crowds surprised him, until he realized that while it was late at night in Standard Time, what he was used to, in Local Time it was almost midday. As if to rub it in, enormous blue digits glared at him from the wall.

  1110 L.T. and 0230 S.T.

  Since he was government personnel, security ushered him over to a basic checkpoint instead of the usual customs screening with its cumbersome procedures and long lines. Immigration was tough in all Imperial Systems, especially alien immigration. But he'd barely thought about it before since he was both human and in an elite branch of the government. They waved him to the next available desk where a middle-aged guard sat at a computer station. He wore a green uniform—local security, and sported a huge moustache.

  "Hello, Sir, and welcome to Praxis One," the guard said. "Hand me your I.D. and press your thumb to the plate."

  Calvin complied. They waited a minute for the computer to analyze his card for tampering.

  "So uh... black-and-silver," the guard said, whistling as he looked over Calvin's uniform and saw the colors of Intel Wing—mostly black from neck to boots with a touch of silver, including his rank bar and officer’s sash. Calvin liked the look, he thought it was stylish, and much more interesting than the standard blue-and-black of the navy.