The Phoenix Rising Read online

  “If you’re willing to deceive your own people,” said Calvin, “how do I know I can believe anything you say?”

  “I told you once that my word is my bond,” said Tristan. “I gave you my word that I would be honest with you. That should be enough.” He reached the top and disappeared.

  “Doesn’t that seem a little inconsistent to you? If your word is your bond, how can you justify deceiving your own people?” Calvin reached the top and climbed out into the storage room. Fortunately, it seemed that no one else was there. He looked Tristan in the eyes, making it clear that he wanted an answer.

  “I would never deceive my own people,” said Tristan. “Omitting truth and lying are not the same thing. I have never lied to my people, and I never would.”

  “I don’t think it really matters,” said Pellew as he came through the hatch. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

  “No argument from me,” said Calvin.

  After the last soldier reached the top and climbed out, Tristan re-sealed the hidden trap door and they walked as a group toward the exit. But, before they got there, a voice spoke.

  “Calvin Cross?”

  They all stopped dead in their tracks. Calvin didn’t recognize the speaker, or see him. He drew his firearm and the others did the same.

  “Who’s asking?” Calvin’s eyes surveyed the crates and other stored items, behind which any number of people could be hidden.

  Several men emerged from their hiding places, forming a tight circle around Calvin’s group. There were eight in total, and all of them—except for one—brandished weapons. A mixture of submachine-guns and pistols.

  “What do you want?” asked Calvin. He held his gun steady, aimed at one of the newcomers, who pointed his submachine-gun right back.

  “We’re here because we have something to discuss with you,” said a brown-haired man, perhaps their leader. He, like the others, wore common Tybur civilian clothing and seemed to have no armor or tactical gear other than weapons and ammo.

  “I’m listening.” Calvin looked at each of the men, trying to determine his group’s chance of winning a violent engagement—and predicting how severe their casualties would be. If nothing else, at least one of them had to survive and get word back to the Nighthawk regarding Remus Nine and the isotome weapons.

  “Monte Blair, he’s a friend of yours, isn’t he? We’d like to have a word with him.”

  Monte? Why would they—? And then it made sense. These men were part of the criminal outfit known as the Khans. The rapidly-expanding organized band of thugs that aspired to one day challenge the Roscos for dominance in the galactic racketeering market. Unfortunately, the Khans had none of the honor the Roscos prided themselves in, and were willing to do anything—no matter how heinous—for the right price.

  “So where is he?” asked the Khan leader.

  “I’m sorry to say that Monte is no longer with us. He was killed in battle a little while ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said the Khan leader. “But no matter. That only means his debt falls to you.”

  “His debt?”

  “That’s right, Monte owed us a great deal of money. Now what he owes us, you owe us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because no one reneges on a debt to the Khans. Even if the debt covers four or five generations, it doesn’t matter. The debt gets paid. With interest. Or else... bad things happen. Really bad things.”

  “We can take these guys,” whispered Pellew. “Just say the word.”

  “How much is the debt?”

  “Five-hundred thousand q.”

  “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “In that case, you just earned a lifetime of indebted servitude. Since there are six of you... I’d say that that makes us even. Now why don’t you lower your weapons, while we still let you.”

  Curiously, the one stranger who was unarmed and dressed more formally than the others, flashed a look of disapproval at the Khan leader. The leader seemed to notice this and he shot a gaze of steel back at the unarmed man. As if daring him to challenge the decision.

  Calvin wasn’t one who delighted in bloodshed, and though he’d personally killed some Rotham as recently as the battle in Abia, somehow it was harder to kill fellow humans. It felt more real. More severe. But he wasn’t about to let that feeling keep him from acting when he had to. “Now,” he said, noting the moment of confusion in the Khans’ faces as the unarmed man and the apparent leader seemed to stare each other down.

  Calvin’s group opened fire, dropping three of the Khans immediately. The others managed to take cover. As the Khans returned fire, Calvin and his group crouched down and scrambled for cover of their own. Now it was six against five, with the numbers in their favor, but Calvin knew they had to end this fight fast and get away. Before Tybur security showed up. Otherwise they’d never make it back to the Nighthawk.

  Tristan seemed to fathom the urgency. He bent down, his muscles rippling, and leapt over the enemies’ cover and into the line of fire. He began ripping into them with deadly claws and teeth. All fury unleashed.

  Calvin’s group moved out of cover and converged on the enemy, taking advantage of their surprise. Pellew and his men opened fire to cover their swift advance.

  A fierce hiss sounded on Calvin’s right. He turned, a little too slowly, to see the unarmed man bearing down on him. Seemingly darting through the air with the speed and grace of a hawk. His teeth were bared—thin, sharp, and deadly—and a feral lust for violence shined in his eyes. Calvin knew the look. Remembered it all too well... The unarmed man was a strigoi!

  He struck Calvin hard, throwing him down on the ground with a powerful crunch. Calvin ignored the pain that shot across his back; adrenaline fueled his body, pumping through every vein, throwing him in a state of intense fear, and hate. He was there again. On the Trinity. Only this time he didn’t hesitate. He opened fire mercilessly. Letting the strigoi have it with all he had.

  His target hissed and snarled, stung by the bullets that tore into him, but he kept going. Once again bearing down on Calvin. As if the hollow points striking him were mere inconveniences. Calvin’s clip ran dry and the chamber stuck back. He was a goner.

  Out of sheer instinct he closed his eyes and covered his face with his arms. Waiting for the fatal strike to fall. Christine, here I come...

  There was a horrible snarl a few feet away and the sound of bones cracking. Calvin opened his eyes to see Tristan ensnared with the strigoi, both powerful Remorii grappling fiercely. Tristan was the larger and stronger one, but even his awesome dexterity struggled to keep pace with the lightning-fast strigoi whose fluid movements were almost too quick to follow.

  Calvin climbed to his feet, taking care not to get into the cross-fire of what was left of the on-going firefight. By now most of the Khans had been slain.

  Tristan and the strigoi ripped into each other, tearing at flesh and biting and snarling. It was an intense, vicious bloodbath of hate and raw carnage that lasted only a few seconds—but seemed much longer. Calvin wanted to intervene, to do something to help Tristan—who had once again saved his life. He replaced the magazine in his firearm but realized that even with a fresh clip he had no shots worth taking; Tristan and the strigoi were too tightly interlocked as they clawed, bit, and choked each other. He couldn’t hit the strigoi without risking hitting Tristan—not that bullets had proved useful anyway.

  Eventually Tristan got the better of his strigoi opponent; he bent him backwards and with a powerful blow forced the other’s head back hard. His neck snapped with an audible pop, killing him instantly. The fight was over, but Tristan continued tearing into the strigoi’s corpse. An animalistic rage had been unleashed inside him. His eyes glowed brighter and more intensely red than Calvin had ever seen, and he wondered if Tristan was even conscious of his actions.

  “Tristan,” Calvin called out to him.

  Tristan didn’t seem to notice; he continued ripping apart the strigoi—it w
as one of the most gruesome displays Calvin had ever seen. Somehow, though, despite his disgust, he couldn’t look away. Part of him was glad to see the strigoi brutally torn to pieces.

  “Tristan,” Calvin said again. “We have to go, now! The Tyburian police might be here any second.”

  After a few more swipes, Tristan stopped mauling the barely recognizable remains of the strigoi and began to calm down. He stood up straight, his eyes dimmed, and his muscles relaxed—no longer swollen and bulging. Only then was it clear how severely torn his clothes were, tatters that barely concealed his deep wounds. Blood poured out of him profusely and he staggered. Calvin noted the slashes, cuts, teeth marks, and deep gashes that streaked his body. He ran over to see if he could assist in some way and caught Tristan as the Remorii nearly stumbled to the ground.

  “Is he dead?” asked Tristan, seeming slightly delirious.

  “Oh yeah, he’s definitely dead. Now come on,” Calvin helped to brace him as the two walked to the center of the room. By now the firefight had ended and the survivors of Calvin’s party were gathering together. Pellew, whose own clothing was burned from a few close calls, leaned over a fallen comrade who lay in a pool of his own blood. Pellew closed the others’ eyes.

  “Damn those bastards...” said Pellew.

  “Is he—?” Calvin began to ask.

  “Yeah… he’s dead,” said Pellew with a snap.

  Fortunately this special forces soldier seemed to be their only casualty. Calvin didn’t know the man’s name, but he regretted the loss all the same. And, as any commander would in such a situation when those under his leadership fall, he wondered if there was something better he could have done to prevent the tragedy. He looked out over the other corpses strewn throughout the room. All their attackers had been violently killed. There was nothing serene in the way they lay. Some doubled-over, contorted in positions of intense pain. And there was neither subtlety nor mystery surrounding their causes of deaths. Once the Tyburian authorities found the scene, they’d lock down the canton and begin a massive investigation. Calvin and the others couldn’t afford to still be on the canton when that happened.

  It dawned on Calvin, as his eyes swept the bloody scene before him, that this would haunt him in the future. The Khans were an organization that existed on some level practically everywhere in the galaxy. And they wouldn’t let a blow like this go easily. “The Khans will want retribution for this,” said Calvin ominously.

  “So will the Enclave,” said Tristan.

  “Not to mention Tybur,” said Pellew. He shot to his feet and began dragging the fallen corpse to the nearest garbage disposal hatch. On the cantons of Tybur, all waste was disposed of through refuse chutes and taken by conveyer to the incinerators. It seemed an ill-fitting, irreverent thing to do with the body of a fallen comrade, but Calvin understood why Pellew did it. They couldn’t risk Tybur identifying the victim and linking his presence to the Empire. And, with their few resources, it was the best chance they had at disposing of the body before the authorities got to it.

  “Good bye, Private Clarke,” said Pellew as he heaved the man into the chute and watched him slide down into the darkness. Calvin could tell the death affected the special forces captain, despite Pellew’s efforts to shrug it off. “Come on, let’s go,” he said, leading the way out of the room and back into the corridors of the canton. “We have to get out of here immediately! Hurry!”

  Calvin looked around for something to help Tristan stall the bleeding. He didn’t know much about Remorii physiology, but he was sure too much blood loss would result in death. He took off his own shirt and handed it to Tristan. “Here, press this against your chest, hard. I’ll look for—”

  “Why Calvin Cross,” said Tristan with a dark smile. “You do care. I’m flattered.”

  Before Calvin could reply, he noted that Tristan was again supporting his own weight and much of the bleeding had already stopped. His body still bore the bright marks of scars to be, but many of the lacerations had closed off. “Oh my god,” said Calvin. He’d never seen such swift recovery.

  Tristan raised an eyebrow. “What, you didn’t know that in many ways the Remorii body is superior to the human one?”

  Calvin didn’t have a reply. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he never would have believed it.

  “Trust me, I’ve had worse,” said Tristan. “Here,” he handed Calvin back his shirt. “You keep this.”

  Their group slipped out and disappeared down the hall. There wasn’t much they could do to hide their haggard appearance, but fortunately the Tybur police hadn’t closed in on the area yet. Calvin supposed that the storage room wasn’t equipped with listening devices, and the walls and door had been soundproof. Hopefully they’d be back on the Nighthawk before anyone wandered in there and found the mess.

  As they moved toward the docking platform, as quickly as they dared, Calvin wondered if his father had been involved in the Khans’ ambush. If so, was the intelligence leading them to Remus Nine actually good, or did a similar trap await them?

  He couldn’t know for sure, and would have to be cautious, but he decided to believe that, as bad a person as Samil was, he didn’t really have it in him to sell out his only son. And if he’d had a hand in saving Calvin’s life on Aleator, as he’d claimed—and Calvin had no good reason to doubt it—then Samil would have no motive to put Calvin in danger with the Khans. So that meant the members of the Enclave who’d gotten the Khans involved were not under Samil’s control. Perhaps his father didn’t have the kind of sway with the Enclave that Calvin had thought.

  But whatever the case, it was clearly unsafe to remain. And the trail led them to Remus Nine and all its mysteries and dangers. For better or worse, that was where they had to go.

  ***

  Sarah neatly cut the lime-glazed, seared salmon into small bites. It had been delicately prepared and served over mashed sweet potatoes. She never would’ve guessed that Shen was such a marvelous cook.

  “This is absolutely delicious,” she said, between bites. They were in Shen’s quarters, which were so spotlessly clean it made her a little embarrassed that she didn’t manage to keep her own in better order.

  Shen blushed—it was hard to see, but Sarah could tell. “No, really, I’m not much of a cook,” said Shen.

  “Now don’t be modest,” said Sarah with a wide smile. “This is the best food I’ve had in a long time.” She could tell she was embarrassing him with her compliments, though they also seemed to make him happy. Sarah took a sip of her drink and then asked, “so, what made you go to all this effort? Just wanted to keep your cooking skills sharp or what?”

  He looked into her eyes for a second, not saying anything. Then looked away. Shen had always been kind of an introvert, and sometimes he got in those moods that made it difficult to pull him out of his shell and get him to be socially outgoing, but right now he seemed unusually stiff and reserved. Perhaps he wasn’t used to putting his cooking out there for others’ scrutiny.

  “Well, whatever your reason,” said Sarah. “You have nothing to worry about. This is a fabulous meal.” Shen truly had gone all out. He’d fed her soup and salad—which she’d assumed to be the main course—before surprising her with what was surely the best food she’d ever eaten in space. In fact, she was surprised the Nighthawk even carried the ingredients that allowed for such fine dining. Shen must have gone through tremendous creative effort to make something five-star out of whatever random foodstuffs the Nighthawk happened to have in stock.

  She continued eating, realizing that if Shen didn’t want to be sociable, he wouldn’t be. After a few more bites, she noted the time. “Look at that, only twenty minutes until White Shift and we have to be back at our posts.”

  Shen nodded. Sarah noted a tiny accumulation of sweat had slicked Shen’s forehead and he seemed to be trembling ever so slightly. Surely he wasn’t this worried about his cooking, was he? Sarah supposed that Shen was nervous for the shore party. She didn’t blame hi
m, but she’d also learned a long time ago not to let things outside her control upset her nerves; it was better to simply accept that whatever was going to happen was destined to happen, and it did no good to worry about things one couldn’t affect.

  She took another sip of her drink. It didn’t quite have the bite she wanted, it was dealcoholized wine since they both were due back on the bridge soon, but it was refreshing and complemented the entrée well.

  “Sarah...” said Shen, he rubbed his palms together nervously for a moment and then placed his hands flat on the table. They seemed almost ghost white.

  Sarah put down her glass and gave Shen her full attention, realizing that he was going to open up about something very important to him. He occasionally did this, but such times were rare. Normally he kept his innermost feelings to himself. He was a very private man. And socially timid. Sarah understood this about him. And, in a way, it was what made him so sweet.

  “Yes, go on,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile.

  Shen’s eyes darted away from hers for just an instant, but then they came back with renewed strength. “I didn’t just make this dinner and invite you over to practice my cooking skills, I... have something... there’s something. I want to tell you something.”

  “What is it?” She felt a rush of curiosity overcome her.

  “I...” Shen cleared his throat. “I like you.”

  Sarah didn’t say anything for a moment. “Thanks, that’s very nice of you.”

  “No, I mean I like you, like you. Romantically.” It obviously took extreme mental effort but somehow Shen didn’t look away. He seemed positively petrified, but he held his ground.

  “Oh,” said Sarah, suddenly realizing that this was supposed to be a romantic dinner and not just some fine dining between friends. The spotless quarters. The multi-course dinner. The wine. Shen’s nervousness... it was so obvious. And yet so utterly surprising. She’d known Shen a long time; they’d been friends for years, and she’d never even once considered the idea that he was interested in more than that. Or that such was possible.