The Phoenix War Read online

  Nowhere was safe. Least of all here. For all Guillermo knew, he was the last surviving Phoenix Ring operator on Capital World. Certainly he was the last living Second.

  When a cab finally came, he hailed it and climbed into the back almost too hastily.

  “Drive,” he said. Expecting the car to demand he scan his money card before pulling away from the curb.

  “Where?” asked the driver. Just his luck, he got one of the only cabs in the city that wasn’t automated.

  “Anywhere, just go,” snapped Guillermo.

  Obediently the driver hit the gas and they were off. Heading north. The driver held course, keeping them in a straight line, and Guillermo said nothing and kept his head down, occasionally peeking out the rear window to see if anyone seemed to be following.

  The driver attempted to engage him in idle conversation, but Guillermo only answered him with hard eyes and a stony face that effectively silenced the driver.

  After the better part of an hour, Guillermo told the driver to take him to the nearest public launchport. In truth, Guillermo didn’t know where to go. He hadn’t been back to his home since receiving the news that Zane Martel and the others were dead—a decision he was certain had helped prolong his life—but that left him with nowhere to go and he knew, beyond a doubt, that it wasn’t safe for him on Capital World. If he stayed he would certainly be hunted down, just like the others. That meant he had to jump system. Yes, the launchports were probably being watched, but Capital World is a massive planet with more launchport traffic than any other place in the Empire, or the galaxy for that matter, he tried to reassure himself.

  I have to take my chances at the launchport. If I don’t get off the planet then I’m dead already.

  The car pulled over and stopped. Out the window Guillermo could see hordes of people coming and going, and security personnel corralling would-be passengers like cattle as they moved to and fro, laden with luggage. Crowds were good. Crowds meant he could disappear.

  “Here,” he said, paying the man with a fistful of cash from his wallet. It was more q than the cab driver would have charged him, many times over. “I was never here and you never saw me,” he said, giving the cab driver a serious look.

  The driver looked at the cash with a grin and then nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. I never saw you. Never took you here.”

  “Good.” Guillermo left the cab and disappeared into the crowds, and then into the main building of the launchport complex. He resisted the urge to walk briskly. He didn’t want to standout, if he was in too much of a hurry he would only draw attention to himself. But he also didn’t dare linger. Every second spent on Capital World kept him in danger.

  He went to a ticket kiosk and paid for five different flights departing the system. He would have purchased more but that was all he could afford with the cash he’d brought. Hopefully, in case anyone was tracking him, this maneuver would confuse them. Make it harder for them to determine which flight he was taking. And, to make things even harder for the Khans, or whoever was killing off the Phoenix Ring, Guillermo made certain the tickets he purchased were for the flights soonest to depart.

  No turning back now…

  He went through security and boarded a shuttle to the orbital station associated with this launchport. He sat by the window and watched everyone else carefully as they took their seats. Wondering, as each new person strapped in, if that passenger had orders to kill him.

  On this shuttle, at least, he seemed to be safe. It left the hangar on schedule and roared skyward, lurching toward the stars. The ascent was filled with the usual bumps and turbulence any passenger would expect, but they docked with the orbital station without incident. Guillermo made certain he was the last to exit the shuttle so no one would be right behind him. He could imagine some innocent looking person shoving a shiv into his back and collecting a handsome reward from whichever maniac wanted him dead the most.

  Once he was on the station, he found a quiet corner in the main concourse and chose which of the five boarding passes he would use. Not wanting to be predictable, he chose at random.

  Keptus One.

  It was as good as any of the others, he supposed. He gazed out the window at the blanket of space, it was dark and the stars were invisible thanks to the light of the station and nearby ships. There was something appealing about that blackness. A darkness so vast it could hide anything…

  Yes, that is where I must go. There I will be invisible. I can survive. I can wait for this hellish nightmare to end.

  He felt his mobile vibrate. Instantly his heart resumed its anxious pounding. He fumbled with shaky fingers and pulled the mobile out of his pocket and pressed it to his ear. As he did, he seriously considered not accepting the call. Recently the mobile seemed only able to bring him bad news…

  “Yes,” he said, accepting the call.

  “I have news,” a familiar woman’s voice sounded in his ear. Celeste Ortega-Gasset, she was one of the Phoenix Ring’s best informers and among the very few still breathing.

  “Go ahead,” he said, keeping his voice hushed so none of the passers-by would take notice of him.

  “It’s about Tamara Whittaker,” said Celeste, her voice grave. Guillermo knew what it meant before Celeste said any more, Tamara was dead now too… “One of Miss Whittaker’s colleagues sent an emergency message not long ago. Unfortunately, the message was suddenly cut off before it finished and we’ve heard nothing from them since, but before that happened we did get something… the Polarians boarded their ship and attacked them. I doubt any of our people survived.”

  “I’m sure they didn’t,” said Guillermo soberly. He shuddered at the thought of Polarian soldiers butchering unarmed humans. He imagined the muscular aliens towering over their frail victims as they ended their lives with brutal efficiently. Tamara and the other scientists wouldn’t have stood the slightest chance even if they’d had weapons.

  “I don’t know why the Polarians would attack them,” said Celeste. “They were supposed to protect them. But that is the information that we have and I can vouch that it’s credible.”

  “It could have been for many reasons,” said Guillermo. “The money wasn’t good enough, or someone else paid them more. For all we know the Polarians at Titan Three planned to betray our people the whole time.”

  “Speaking of money… it’s fast disappearing,” said Celeste.

  Guillermo knew that was true. Zane had been the primary source of income for the Phoenix Ring. He’d greased all the wheels and made certain the right money, barely imaginable sums, was always in the right hands at the right time, gluing everything together. But now he was dead. His incomes belonged to Caerwyn Martel now, and to some extent Brinton, his father, and neither of them were members of the Phoenix Ring, nor was either likely to keep funding them. Zane had money in place, a lot of money, he’d set aside certain funds, but those were swiftly depleting. It was probably only a matter of days, if not hours, before the last remaining q that held their associates together dried up. And then the Phoenix Ring truly would have no more friends left in the galaxy…

  “I take it by your silence that Zane didn’t leave you in charge of another even more secret emergency fund or something? Something that could keep certain interests happy?” asked Celeste.

  “I’m sad to say no. When the funds you know of are gone, then everything is gone. There won’t ever be any more.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Celeste. “I was hoping you’d say something else.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “That we’ll have to start cutting people off,” said Guillermo. “Although someone has been doing a good job helping us with that.”

  “The biggest expense left is the Compound,” said Celeste.

  Yes that is true, thought Guillermo. Something will have to be done about that. And before the money dries up. Because, once it does, the guards will no longer obey us. And who knows wha
t they will do with the prisoners, possibly they’ll ransom them to the Empire or let them go or something else unfortunate.

  “Celeste,” said Guillermo. “I’m starting to think it’s past time we eliminate the evidence. We’d better do it now, while there’s still time.”

  “You mean while the guards are still under our control?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Do you think that’s wise? Surely Zane kept the prisoners alive for a reason.”

  “I know exactly why he did,” said Guillermo. “He wanted to keep the replicants in line, so he kept the originals as leverage. But there’s no point anymore. The replicants are probably already working for the Rahajiim, or the Enclave, or god knows who, or else have gone rogue. If we continue keeping the prisoners alive, that will only serve to incriminate us. We must eliminate the evidence. All of it. And soon.”

  “All right, I’ll send the word. But it’ll take time. There are loyal people who will need to be removed before things get ugly down there, people and information too,” she said. “Only then can we do a full sweep.”

  “Do what you have to do. Just see that it gets done.”

  “I’ll see to it personally,” said Celeste. “In the meantime, I don’t think it’s safe for you to remain in Capital System.”

  “I quite agree,” said Guillermo.

  “I take it that means you’re jumping system?”

  He considered not telling her, the fewer the people who knew his plans, the safer he was. But Celeste was one of the only people still alive who he trusted completely. So he didn’t mind letting her know that he planned to escape Capital System, but he decided not to tell her to where exactly, in case someone was listening.

  “Yes, I am jumping system,” he said. “But I can’t tell you where I’m going, not yet. But I’ll let you know once I get there.”

  “I understand.”

  ***

  It was lonely in his quarters. Like most Polarians, Rez’nac was unused to privacy as he slept. It wasn’t his first night back on the Nighthawk; this black, metal, soulless human object hurtling through space, but sleep came no easier than it had the previous night, and the night before that, and so on.

  By human standards it had been a kindness, Rez’nac knew, that Captain Pellew had granted him his own living space apart from the barracks that housed the human soldiers. But with no fellow Polarians to share it with, no brothers of the Essences, no son, no one but himself, it felt cold and empty and lifeless.

  We are not meant to be alone. We draw strength from one another, that is our way, alone we cannot flourish. Alone we must certainly perish.

  He disliked the loneliness that came with being the sole Polarian aboard the ship, now that Grimka and the others of the X’jinn Detachment had moved on, but he knew it was his duty to remain and offer whatever aid he could. Even though his dark thoughts shifted in the night, haunting him with the memory of the Arahn-Fi he’d fought against his son. How by sparing his son’s life, a decision he’d make again in a heartbeat, he’d stripped himself of honor and deprived himself of his sacred place among the Essences forever.

  I was of Khalahar, he reflected. One of the noblest and mightiest of the Essences. But now, Rez’nac knew, he was devoid of Essence. He was a wandering soul. A Lost One. A Fallen One. Forever. No matter how honorably or dishonorably he lived the rest of his life, it would not matter. His soul would never join the honored dead once he passed away. His place had been given up in that moment, that instant when he’d withheld the knife from Grimka. And now it could never be restored.

  And yet it was worth it, he thought. If it meant he’d given Grimka more time to live, to mature, to see the error of his ways and become an honorable person. If it means my son can join the Essences when he dies; I gladly offer him my place.

  It was a strange thing being a Fallen One. Before, when he’d still been in the good graces of Khalahar, he’d looked upon the Fallen Ones with pity and confusion. Wondering why they had allowed themselves to fall. He’d always imagined that they must not care, that they were empty inside. That they lacked the Rhiq’ir—the thirst for duty. And yet, now that he himself was Fallen, he did not feel empty inside. Not truly. He still thirsted to do good and have honor, even if such honor was not attainable, he thirsted for it all the same. He still had the Rhiq’ir burning inside him. An appetite he could never satisfy, now that he had no honor. A curious thing indeed.

  Eventually sleep came. His dreams were empty and fleeting and when he woke six hours later he remembered nothing of them. Nor did he care to try. Once the Essences—the collective souls of the many ancestors stretching back to the beginning of time—might have divined wisdom upon him through his dreams, but no longer. Now his dreams belonged to the domain of darkness, whose fabric was emptiness and threads despair. He would be wise to ignore them.

  He checked the time and saw it was still an hour before he needed to report to Captain Pellew and ask for his duties for the day. The human captain had been averse about letting Rez’nac serve guard duty alongside any of the other human soldiers, in fact Pellew had even gone so far as to arrange quarters for Rez’nac on deck three, with the human crew, almost as far away from the special forces barracks as possible.

  He fears me, Rez’nac thought. Fears that I will do violence to his people as my son did—slaying one of their own called Patterson. Pellew is wise to think so, if one has murderous blood he surely was given it by his father, and his father’s father. But Pellew’s fears are nothing. I shall harm no human aboard this ship. It would serve nothing to do so. And I am less than nothing.

  Rez’nac changed into fresh clothes and then headed to the mess hall. It was a small, usually quiet room that rarely had more than one or two people using it at a time, since the master of this ship had allowed those who belonged to him to take their meals at their leisure rather than scheduled times.

  He picked up a plate and arranged it with dried fruit from Gemini and reheated K’qurion steak. When the Nighthawk had been at Gemini, it had taken aboard a lot of Polarian food, enough to feed the small army of Polarians that’d come aboard. Now all of those Polarians were gone, either slain at Remus Nine or else belonging to Grimka and now far away, and all that remained was Rez’nac. One sole Polarian and nearly half the Polarian food that had come aboard.

  He ate in silence. Listening to the sounds of the ship, trying to hear their voices. The air vent purred and the food storage units hummed. Even one of the lights above seemed to buzz ever so slightly. But there was nothing but chaos in these voices. No song, no soul, no harmony.

  The humans sail the stars upon lifeless stones…

  And then a new sound. A click and a slide as the door opened.

  Rez’nac looked up to see three humans enter. They wore the camouflage fatigues of human soldiers and the patches on their shoulders bore the symbol of Imperial Special Forces. As Rez’nac studied their faces carefully, he saw familiarity in them. These were not some of the new soldiers who’d come aboard with him, when he’d returned to the ship, these were seasoned killers that had belonged to the Nighthawk longer than he had. These were men who’d known Patterson, and probably bore fury over his unrighteous killing. Let them, thought Rez’nac, it is their right.

  He returned his attention to his meal and was peacefully chewing away at his second piece of K’qurion steak when he noticed the sound of boots approaching. He tried to ignore them, even though his heart quickened and his hunter’s instinct told him he was in danger.

  “You,” said one of the humans once they were near.

  Rez’nac looked up to see; the one who addressed him had curly dark hair and brown eyes and looked even more familiar than the other two, though truthfully all humans seemed to look rather alike—making them hard to tell apart one from another.

  “Do you know who I am?” asked the curly-headed man. His eyes seemed to stare into Rez’nac like daggers while the other two humans moved behind, surrounding Rez’nac.

  The
n something clicked, and Rez’nac remembered who the curly-headed man was. This human, he’d been one of two that’d invaded the observation deck during the Essential Rite of Xi’Yorn-Ra and interrupted the ritual. He and the one called Patterson. And since then, Patterson had been slain for such sacrilege. This one, with the curly hair, had somehow escaped Grimka’s wrath—Grimka’s poor understanding of justice—and now here the curly-haired man stood, perhaps seeking a kind of justice of his own.

  “Yes, human. I remember you,” said Rez’nac.

  “Do you hear that?” asked the curly-haired human, now looking at his compatriots. “He remembers me. Maybe the blue-skinned asshole remembers my friend. Gary Patterson, that name mean anything to you?” Rez’nac felt a hand suddenly grip his right shoulder from behind. He ignored it.

  “Yes, I remember,” said Rez’nac. “What happened to Patterson was unjust and cruel—”

  “Unjust and cruel,” the curly-haired human interrupted him. “Can you believe this guy?”

  “I deeply regret what happened to Patterson,” said Rez’nac. “I wish I—”

  Again he was interrupted. The curly-haired man’s face turned bright red and his eyes narrowed into slits. “As if you give a damn!”

  Rez’nac felt a new hand grip his left shoulder and before he realized what was happening he was thrown onto his back. His head struck the hard ground but he ignored the pain. Above him loomed the three humans. One of them sent a swift kick into his side, the soldier’s hard boot connected with his ribs. He gritted his teeth and ignored the pain. Managing to suppress the warrior’s instinct that raged inside him, wanting to fight back.

  I am nothing, he reminded himself. These men suffered an injustice. Their friend was murdered by my own blood. If they can find a way to take their justice at the cost of my blood, that is their right.

  They kicked him again. And again. Rez’nac closed his eyes and forced himself to endure the pain. There was something warm with each new bruise, something comforting in each creak and crack of bones.