The Phoenix Darkness Read online

  This is unexpected, he thought. Not really sure what could have caused such a thing—or why—and as he searched inside his heart, he found The One True God gave him no explanation. He does not want me to know, thought Blackmoth. Or he wants me to discover for myself. He radioed a command to Hunter Four, pausing retraction of the missile, and considered it a moment.

  Blackmoth gazed upward and saw what appeared to be a man, a heavy-set, short man dangling from a ceiling fixture. For an instant the two of them locked eyes. Blackmoth deactivated his infrared so he could see with his naked eyes, and, sure enough, the overweight man hanging right above his head, who looked equal parts confused and terrified, had glowing red eyes.

  Blackmoth instinctively raised the railgun and pointed it upward, ready to put the creature out of its misery. Yet, as he curled his finger to pull the trigger, he found he could not get himself to squeeze.

  This thing. This chimera must have some purpose, thought Blackmoth. The One True God was many things, but random was not one of them, neither was purposeless. All things had their place and all things were part of the Grand Design that was the Master’s plan. Even this…whatever it was, the body of a man and the eyes of a demon…it even wore a human military uniform. Yet it has not succumbed to death in this vacuum? It looked swollen, but not suffering from full-blown ebullism. It looked ill, but had clearly not succumbed to hypoxia. It even looked cold, but obviously wasn’t frostbitten. Most baffling of all, this thing, this chimera, still remained conscious. When a normal man, even Blackmoth himself—who was not a normal man—couldn’t remain conscious for fifteen seconds in these conditions. Yet this one could.

  Whatever your purpose is, thought Blackmoth. It shall not be revealed to me here. He lowered the railgun, sparing the creature, and then commanded Hunter Four to resume extracting the weapon. With a jerk, the chain pulled once more, the isotome weapon floating along with it. He re-activated his infrared vision and continued on his way, only to be stopped again when he heard movement.

  It came from far ahead. He commanded Hunter Four to again pause retraction while he searched for this newest threat. He tapped his helmet and used its magnification to see that several more soldiers, each a dim green—their minimal heat imprint only just barely visible from this distance—were on their way, using magnetic boots of their own. He counted at least seven. He drew the railgun, feeling tempted to pick them off from this distance, one by one, as they ran toward him, closing the distance as fast as their magnetic boots allowed. But no…these are the distractions, Blackmoth realized. And, in an unconventional move, he spun around and knelt—making himself a small target—and waited for the enemies he was certain were sneaking up behind him. Sure enough, a few seconds later, three men appeared, in full climate gear, each brandishing a carbine rifle.

  “Freeze,” said the first, as he leveled his weapon toward Blackmoth.

  ***

  “Sir, we’ve engaged the enemy,” came a voice over the radio. With the crackle of static it was hard to identify who, but from where the sound of gunshots seemed to be coming, it had to be ODA support.

  “Return fire,” said Pellew. “If intruder is hostile then engage, do not attempt to bring them in peacefully unless you’re sure you can.”

  “Understood, sir. He’s…everywhere. Can’t tell how many.”

  Pellew doubled his pace, signaling the men around him to do the same.

  “Looks to be just one intruder, sir.”

  Well, that was certainly good news, though Pellew was skeptical his team had found the only intruder. More likely a team of hostiles were cooperating apart from each other, perhaps in groups of one for purposes of beguiling Pellew’s response teams.

  “Watch your backs; there could be more of them,” said Pellew, not wanting any of his men to fall victim to ambush.

  Garbled noises could be heard over the radio followed by “…we’re under heavy fire. Need support!”

  “On our way,” said Pellew. “Fall back if you must.”

  “He’s…he’s got…missile,” every other word was lost to static. “Chain…it’s…”

  “Keep it together,” said Pellew. He took the garbled communiqué as confirmation of what he’d always assumed, the enemy had boarded their ship to steal the isotome weapon. Pellew would sure like to know how the enemy had found them, and how they’d known just where to look to find the missile, but those were questions for interrogation later, assuming he didn’t slaughter the intruders first. Intruders, which, he remained convinced, had to be more than one man.

  “Anyone who can get eyes on the man moving the missile, stop it at all costs,” commanded Pellew. “Report!” No reply came. “ODA Support, do you copy?” Still nothing.

  “God dammit, these radios must have failed,” said Pellew. “ODB, please tell me you can hear me.”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “Report!”

  “We’re close to ODA Support’s last known position. We’re about to engage.”

  “Shoot him on sight.”

  “Understood.”

  As they ran, they came upon a large, heavy chain floating in the corridor. It obviously led somewhere, no doubt back to the intruder’s ship. So that’s what ODA Support had meant, thought Pellew. The one man is able to move the missile because he’s pulling it by a chain in the null gravity.

  Pellew stopped in his tracks, then waved for his men to keep going. “Go, finish him,” he said. “I’m going to go disable this extractor chain of his.” The last thing he needed was for the intruder to utilize some kind of trick, slip past the soldiers, and abscond with the missile, which meant that missile needed to become stationary, and fast.

  “Yes, sir! On our way!”

  ***

  What a mess, thought Blackmoth as he pushed aside another of the floating corpses. This one had had his helmet smashed open by a swift elbow from Blackmoth, who’d been busy shooting rails into the man’s comrades. Now the results of the skirmish were everywhere…complete with broken helmet parts, chunks of bone and tissue, floating drops of blood in copious numbers, abandoned weapons flying about, and most annoying of all—the bodies themselves. He counted at least ten as he shoved them aside, out of the way of his missile. “An entire squad of ghosts,” he mused. “They chose the darkness. They chose the void.” He took just half a second to look at one of them. They did look eerie, Blackmoth had to admit. With their helmets broken and suits punctured, their bodies leaked blood, which, in infrared, looked like strange sprays of green.

  That these humans thought they could stop him, and frustrate the plans of the One True God, truly pathetic.

  “Soon this will be all of humanity,” he thought aloud. “Billions of corpses from one side of the galaxy to the other, Rotham and wayward Polarians too. All of them food for the void. Sacrifices for the One True God.”

  He’d gone perhaps another five yards when he was interrupted by more soldiers. These too were rushing, as fast as their magnetic boots could carry them, as if coming to the defense of their ghostly comrades.

  “Very well, if you wish to join them,” Blackmoth said as he raised the railgun and fired, taking the first through the helmet and directly between the eyes. This attack was enough to give the others momentary pause, and Blackmoth used that time to slaughter two more. By the time they’d dropped to their knees and were returning fire, he’d managed to kill four of them.

  Blackmoth didn’t even bother to make himself a smaller target, or use any of the tricks he’d used before—such as deactivating his magnetic boots and launching from firing position to firing position—taking his confused enemies mid-flight. From this distance, his weapon was accurate and theirs weren’t. Especially considering his superior fighting ability. And so, one by one, he swatted them. Like the gnats they were. Shredding them with rails while their harmless bullets whizzed past him. Only one managed to find purchase on his suit, barely grazing his upper thigh. The suit was resilient however, when not hit directly, and he felt n
othing.

  In fewer than seven seconds, the entire squad had been killed. More ghosts to join the others. “United again,” he said aloud, as he returned to shoving the hovering corpses out of his way and pushing them on down the corridor behind him, toward their comrades. This time, Blackmoth hadn’t even needed to pause the extractor, which continued to pull the chain, and the missile along with it, toward Hunter Four.

  The countless droplets of blood floating throughout the corridor, sometimes merging and combining into larger droplets, was a beautiful sight. It was like staring into a rainstorm of blood frozen in time. The raindrops were trapped, unable to fall. To Blackmoth, this was beauty. Yet even all of this blood was meaningless and entirely inconsequential compared to the thirst of the insatiable void.

  Blackmoth had given many to the void over the years. But even his valiant efforts were invisible compared to the Grand Design that lay in store…the great plans of The One True God. He only felt lucky just to be a small part of it.

  Chapter 11

  “Bridge, this is Captain Pellew,” he transmitted.

  “Go ahead, Captain.”

  “I’m at the site of the breach,” he said, gazing at a large round hole cut out of the ship. It was eerie, and more than a little alarming, to watch the stars turn slowly and know that there was nothing more than a helmet between him and them. “The breach has a diameter of about three and a half feet. It definitely wasn’t caused by debris. There’s a ship here, latched onto the Nighthawk.”

  “Are you sure it’s a ship? The scopes show nothing.”

  “I’m sure. Definitely a ship.” He looked at it. It was sleek and, although mostly out of view, what he could see of it looked new and state-of-the art. No doubt this was one of those Hunter ships the prisoners had told him about. “It’s about half the size of the Nighthawk, but it has a cockpit instead of a bridge, and looks designed for a crew of only one.”

  “I’m still not getting any readings, Captain.”

  “That’s because the ships are moving,” Pellew replied. “Stop the ship. That will force this one to become stationary and then you’ll see it.”

  The stars stopped turning and almost the instant they became stationary, he heard a scream over the radio. “Holy shit!”

  “Stay calm,” said Pellew. “I’m going to disengage us from her,” he’d already begun to examine the controls and systems available to him on the foreign ship. It appeared to be of Rotham design, based on its markings, and fortunately, since he had Rotham fluency, he was able to interpret the meaning of most of the controls. “I think I can use the control here to patch the breach,” he said, noting that the Hunter ship was designed to cut its way into another ship and then seal the cut. But the intruder here had made the unique decision not to seal the cut, no doubt to keep the deck in a state of null gravity, otherwise he couldn’t hope to move the isotome missile alone.

  Pellew climbed inside the cockpit of the Hunter ship and fiddled with the controls. On his second try, he was able to force the ship to patch over the Nighthawk’s hull breach, sealing it—at least for the time being.

  “I’ve got a patch on our breach,” said Pellew. “I want gravity and atmosphere restored to Deck Four immediately, but keep decks three and five under Hull Breach Protocol.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Pellew next set to task trying to disarm or disable the extractor device, which was slowly pulling and coiling a chain toward the ship. No doubt bringing the isotome missile with it. Unfortunately, this seemed to be stuck using some sort of command override system that he could not figure out. In his frustration, he climbed out of the cockpit, drew his carbine, aimed it at the extractor, and emptied a magazine.

  Other than sending a hail of ricocheting bullets all throughout the Hunter ship’s cabin, it seemed to have no effect. “Damn…” he muttered, then slapped a new magazine into his gun.

  “Where are we at with that gravity and atmosphere?” he asked.

  “Just three more seconds.”

  He counted down and, to his surprise, the gravity, atmosphere, and lights were all restored in almost exactly three seconds. He felt suddenly heavy, which meant so would the isotome missile. Take that, you bastard, he thought. Then he deactivated the magnets on his boots, so he’d have better mobility.

  ***

  When the lights snapped back on, so too did the atmospheric pressure and the artificial gravity. This caused the isotome missile to plummet to the deck where, with a hideous screech, the extractor attempted to drag the now 220 kg object along the deck. It only managed to pull it a few feet before becoming stuck. The extractor wasn’t rated for dragging a heavy object in such a way. Obviously, Blackmoth needed to take care of this.

  He disabled the magnetism of his boots and left the missile where it lay, marching forward, toward Hunter Four, ready to deal with the rest of these pests. And feeling a premonition that there was only one of them left, and that one was the leader. And most strongly of all, that of all the sacrifices he’d made that day—sending soul after soul into the void—this one would prove the most deserving. In fact, it seemed to be the will of The One True God that this one be made to suffer. So suffer he shall.

  The One True God does like to test me, he thought. But I shall prevail. The One True God’s design requires it.

  ***

  Pellew lay prone in the corridor, with his carbine held at the ready, his right eye peering through the iron sights. He faced the direction that he knew the enemy would be coming from. Because he faced the direction where the chain led. A chain that, fortunately, had been brought to a screeching halt. Which meant the isotome missile was safely planted on the Nighthawk’s deck, where it belonged, no longer being dragged through absent gravity toward a Rotham starship for whatever evil design the intruder had intended.

  “Come on, come on,” whispered Pellew. “Show yourself.” As soon as he had a clear shot, he was going to take it. No one tore through his soldiers, and boarded his ship, and tried to steal his missile and got away with it. That missile was meant for Raidan, and Pellew had some very important—critical even—considerations riding upon that safe delivery. As the best fighter on the Nighthawk, and an expert in both tactics and combat, Pellew felt that he would be more than a match for whatever was coming. Especially if he managed the element of surprise, which was why he was so bent on firing the first shot.

  I’ll line up his head in my sights and then squeeze, and that’ll be the end of him, he thought, waiting for the enemy to appear. Pellew still wore his helmet and gear—just in case the Hunter ship’s seal failed and they lost atmosphere again. The helmet made sighting the gun a lot harder, but he’d managed to make tougher shots under worse conditions. And, like all members of Special Forces, he’d been forced to train with and without climate gear, just for such occasions as this.

  After a few seconds, the enemy did appear. His head, which was also helmeted, came into view and Pellew immediately took the shot. His first glanced off the side of the helmet. So he hurriedly fired another. This struck the helmet directly, but didn’t penetrate. Instead, the carbine’s bullet ricocheted off. Clearly the stranger’s helmet was made of tougher material than what came standard to Special Forces.

  If the intruder was alarmed, he did not show it. He continued to walk toward Pellew at the same calm pace, standing tall and proud, not even bothering to try and minimize the size of his target. Nor did he seem in any haste to return fire.

  Strange and stranger, thought Pellew. He abandoned his plan to go for the headshot and instead jumped up to his feet and took aim at the intruder’s heart. Certainly his climate suit couldn’t handle a direct hit from a carbine, despite its bullet resistant properties. One clean shot in the chest and that’ll be the end.

  The intruder, evidently, agreed with Pellew’s analysis, because, as soon as Pellew leveled his carbine to fire—which he did as speedily as he could—the intruder raised his own weapon, in an inhuman flash, and fired, beating Pellew to t
he punch. A metal rail carved into the barrel of Pellew’s gun, destroying it. The projectile itself didn’t look like it was going to stop and only managed to just shy of striking Pellew’s own heart. It even managed to penetrate partway into Pellew’s climate suit, after ripping through the entirety of his carbine.

  “Holy shit,” was all Pellew could say, and he dove for cover, scrambling to find his sidearm. Before he could draw it from its holster, though, the intruder fired a second shot from his railgun. This one sliced through Pellew’s sidearm and implanted itself an inch deep on the Nighthawk’s deck, leaving him completely unarmed.

  He looked up at the intruder in disbelief. Behind his helmet screen he looked like any other common human, pale skin, dark hair, a bit of pockmarks to his face. Nothing special, certainly nothing that hinted he was so dangerous. And yet he’d slaughtered his way through Pellew’s entire Special Forces garrison. And now, by the looks of it, he was about to do the same to Pellew himself.

  “How…?” was all Pellew could get himself to say. He scooted backwards, trying to regain his feet. Not ready to die, but not sure how to prevent it.

  The intruder looked down at him and watched in silence as Pellew climbed back to his feet. “So it is you then,” said the intruder, in a voice that sounded dark and not quite human. “You’re the one The One True God has sent to challenge me.”

  Pellew didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. But so long as he kept talking, and not shooting, Pellew might be able to think of something.

  “Yeah, I guess that’d be me,” said Pellew, scooting back a little bit farther.

  The intruder stayed where he was. “Why do you dare oppose me? Do you not see that this, all of this,” he gestured widely, as if meaning the Nighthawk. “Is utterly futile?”