The Phoenix Darkness Read online

  And so, with that reasoning, shared by many in the Assembly but spoken of only in whispers, Addison had convinced herself to abandon her seat on Capital World and instead join the queen as a part of Kalila’s new Assembly, if she would be received, and hope such an action would sway her otherwise neutral planet onto the side of the queen. And, as others did the same, the balance of the Empire would become clear. The Akiran name would be restored to its original glory. And Kalila, like her great-great grandfather before her, might lead the Empire, and all of humanity, into another golden era of security and prosperity.

  That had been the hope, anyway, when Addison had discreetly arranged transport off of Capital World. She had no intelligence training, but she knew others like her were disappearing, or winding up dead, usually in apparent suicides. It was only natural to expect if her intentions were discovered she too might befall some sort of tragic accident. And so she kept things as quiet as she possibly could. She sat her seat in the Assembly Hall up until the day she’d arranged to disappear, so as to deflect suspicion. And then, when the time came, she fled under cover of darkness, abandoning her own son and husband without a word, hoping to better protect the secret of her flight and also to protect them from having any part of her conspiracy to defect.

  She told no one of her plans or her sympathies; she spoke to no one other than those necessary to arrange passage off the planet, and she’d even quietly hired guards to protect her person. Not too many; nothing to attract attention. But two professional bodyguards who would see her safely away to make certain no hired thugs kidnapped her and made her seem to have hanged herself with her own belt, if such treachery was indeed going on. One couldn’t be too careful.

  In the dark of night, she took a redeye shuttle to one of Capital World’s lesser trafficked starports. There she took a starship away from the system, bringing her bodyguards with her. That ship jumped to a nearby system where again she found herself in a starport, this time surrounded by people, which she decided was a good thing; more people meant more witnesses, and before long she was on another ship, jumping for yet another world. All steps along an irregular ladder which ultimately, if the universe was kind, would lead her to the queen.

  But the universe was not kind, which she soon discovered as a first-class passenger aboard the civilian transport Midnight Waltz.

  At approximately 0100 hours standard time, she left her quarters. She knew the other passengers would be asleep and only essential crew members would be awake and about the ship. This, she reasoned, made it the safest time to unlock her cabin and go use the ship’s head. It was down the corridor and to the left, she recalled; she’d seen it on the way in. With no one else up and about, no one would recognize her, minimizing her chances of being found and discovered, and potentially dealt with, or so she hoped.

  After unlocking the door and exiting her cabin, she told her two bodyguards, who had been vigilantly standing guard outside her door, she was going to go relieve herself and that she shouldn’t need any escort.

  “If I don’t return in five minutes, then come after me,” she said. It was an unnecessary precaution, she believed. The corridors were silent but for the hum of the equipment and the rustle of the cool air flowing from the vents. There wasn’t another soul to be seen or heard anywhere on the deck. The head was located a mere nine yards away and just around the corner. Surely it was perfectly safe, especially since she had cleared so much distance between herself and Capital World. Now it was just another two starports and another two ships and she’d be on her way to the queen herself, ready to announce her identity as she arrived.

  “Very good, ma’am,” said the nearest guard with a respectful nod. The other remained silent. As she looked at him, she thought perhaps he was asleep. He leaned against the wall in a slouched position, eyes too obscured by shadow to see.

  “Thank you,” she said, speaking to the awake guard, and then she proceeded onward. No one disturbed her on the way.

  The head was well lit and surprisingly clean for a bathroom on a starship, even for one in a first class section. The mirrors were spotless, there was no trash on the floors, and pleasant-looking hand towels with floral patterns on them were folded in a clean pile. By all accounts, no one was there. But before Addison got comfortable, she checked each and every stall, paranoid one of them was hiding a knife-wielding maniac who was going to carve her up and drag her disemboweled corpse back to Caerwyn Martel to display before all of the Assembly.

  “I’m not a traitor,” she whispered, partly to remind herself she hadn’t betrayed her oath and was still performing her patriotic duty, and partly because the complete silence made her uncomfortable.

  Satisfied she was sufficiently alone, she selected a stall and took care of her business. She did not dawdle or linger and, as soon as she was able and had done her trousers back up, she went to the sink. She glanced around, then checked in the mirror and made certain she was alone still. No one could be seen. She looked down to find the soap and she lathered then rinsed her hands. As she reached for one of the floral hand towels, she thought she heard something. A faint noise, barely more than the slight squeak of a shoe. She glanced up at the mirror and saw a man’s face there, standing right behind her.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but the man’s gloved hand clamped down over her mouth while his other arm wrapped around her neck tightly, cutting off her air supply.

  “Now, ma’am, take it easy, there’s nothing to worry about,” the man whispered. And, for a moment, she relaxed. Suddenly, she recognized the facial features in the mirror, and the familiar sounding voice, as belonging to one of her bodyguards. The one who she’d thought was asleep.

  She let herself go limp and calm, realizing the bodyguard had only restrained her to stifle her scream, and he’d only come after her because she must have exceeded her five minutes. She was ready to thank him for his diligence as soon as he let go of her mouth and throat, but he didn’t let go. Rather, the more she went limp, the tighter he held, now squeezing at her throat, locking closed her windpipe with an iron grip.

  The panic seized her in a flash, with the ferocity of a thousand lions. She made every effort to scream, speak, squeal, or make any noise at all, unsuccessfully, while she kicked at him, wriggled violently, and clawed her fingernails into the arm around her throat.

  “Shhhh,” the man whispered, apparently undisturbed by her efforts. Her fingernails pressed deeply and sharply, but could not penetrate the man’s jacket.

  She was feeling lightheaded now. The lights seemed to blink on and off. What was happening? Just what the hell was going on? This was her bodyguard! He was here to protect her! He was…

  “There you go,” the man whispered. “Goodnight, little birdie.” Everything darkened. She felt herself go limp, no longer able to resist, the blackness on the verge of overwhelming her. “Don’t worry,” the voice whispered. She could no longer register who it was or what was happening. “Dad and boy are already waitin’ for you. You’ll all be buried together.”

  The darkness consumed her.

  ***

  Trapped at the stardock of Taurus while awaiting the final essential repairs to the Harbinger, Raidan felt like a prisoner. He spent the time pacing, thinking, drinking, and generally trying not to obsess over the fact that critical events were happening out in the galaxy, ones that would make or break the Empire, and he was limited to the role of, at best, a puppet-master forced to trust his subordinates to perform the jobs he should be doing personally. At worst, he was an advisor, doling out intel and suggestions to the real players of the game who, for all he knew, would disregard his orders and ignore him.

  No, it’s not that bad, he told himself. He didn’t have to blindly have faith in the loyalty of his contacts to do his bidding. He owned their loyalty. They would perform. They would do as he needed. But would they succeed…? That was an entirely different matter.

  After waiting for what felt like years without hearing word from any of his
various contacts, he finally got a message from Tristan, his primary asset for the operation. Raidan elected to take it in the privacy of his office, even deciding to lock the door. He trusted his crew, with a few noted exceptions, but sometimes there were things a captain needed to keep to himself. This was one of them.

  “Report,” said Raidan in a tone more demanding than he’d intended.

  “I got back to you as soon as I could,” said Tristan, looking more amused than insulted by Raidan’s angry-sounding tone. The Lycan wore a navy uniform as he was prone to doing these days, and had apparently given himself a promotion to Second Commodore; the amethyst insignia gleamed on his lapel. The game of rank gave Raidan no concerns whatsoever, he knew, they both knew, Raidan was the superior in their arrangement and Tristan the subordinate. In fact, Tristan was likely Raidan’s most trusted subordinate in all of this. At least he had sufficient reason to know Tristan could not betray him.

  “Were you successful?” asked Raidan. “Did you find them?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” said Tristan. “Our old friend was here, there are even traces of jump signatures from his starship, but by the faded looks of it, he left quite some time ago.”

  “Damn,” said Raidan, lowering his head for a moment. He’d expected as much; Tristan’s ship was too slow and distant to overtake the Duchess. But if only it had…the game would have changed. “Were you at least able to get a fix on his likely heading?”

  “Yes, we did that. And we’re en route now, about to jump the system as a matter of fact. But, between you and me, I don’t believe there is any chance of us overtaking him.”

  “Unless he stays in one place long enough,” said Raidan in a dour attempt at hope.

  “Even so, he’ll see us coming,” Tristan pointed out. “Not to mention, when have you ever known Zander to stay in any one place for long?”

  “Never,” Raidan conceded.

  “There is one silver lining, however,” said Tristan, his blank expression twisting into a smirk. “Our scans also found evidence of the Nighthawk’s presence. By the indications of their jump imprints, they left Izar Ceti about the same time as Zander, no doubt in fast pursuit.”

  Raidan felt a feeling of hope return, although it was mixed by a conflicting sense of concern. The Nighthawk overtaking Zander was a lot better than Zander getting away. But it was also considerably riskier than if Tristan and the Arcane Storm had been the ones to manage it.

  “Since it’s now abundantly clear I will never be able to catch up,” said Tristan. “I believe it’s time for you to do whatever is necessary to activate those other arrangements you so enigmatically spoke of before.”

  Raidan knew Tristan was right. It wasn’t his first option, and in fact he didn’t even like the prospect of thinking about what would be necessary for the arrangements to properly occur, but it seemed the only move left available to him if he wanted to win this war.

  “I agree. In the meantime, keep me apprised of any new updates to the situation,” said Raidan.

  “Of course, Captain,” said Raidan. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Then he signed off.

  With a deep sigh, followed by a shot of whiskey, Raidan knew it was time to make the call. From the privacy of his office and using the precise transponder code, he linked to a very secure, very private connection on a distant ship utilizing maximum possible encryption. Even with all those precautions in place, he preferred to make such calls brief and few. While he had been assured by multiple experts this method made it extremely unlikely such a transmission would be noticed, by either the source ship or the recipient ship, it remained possible. If that happened, there was no guarantee the contents of his message would remain secure. So Raidan made it a point to be only as specific as was necessary.

  “Go ahead,” said the voice on the other end.

  “It’s on you,” said Raidan.

  “Understood.”

  “Primary effort is strongly advised and preferred,” said Raidan.

  “Primary was attempted and failed.”

  “Make a second attempt,” said Raidan.

  “Not possible.”

  “Unfortunate. Is that certain?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “I see,” Raidan paused and took a moment to think about the ramifications of what he was about to say, what he had to say. There’s simply no other choice, he reminded himself. “Then proceed as necessary.”

  “Clearance granted?”

  “Clearance is granted,” said Raidan, somewhat hesitantly. “Just remember how I want it done.”

  “It’s under control.”

  ***

  The ringing was too much! It was like tinnitus, except instead of a slight ringing or buzzing in his ear, a minor and persistent irritant, it was more like a fire-alarm bell combined with the infuriating sound of buzzing so loud and obnoxious it was exactly as if a bee had flown directly into his ear.

  “Stop…” said Shen weakly, as he stumbled, walking along the corridor of deck four. By now it had gotten to the point that he could hear nothing else. Back on the Bridge, the noise had been faint, at least at first, only gradually growing until it made it difficult to hear and understand the Commander’s orders. Now, though, now it was deafening and maddening and all he could think about was what he could possibly do to end it.

  He thought of stabbing glass deep inside his ears or ripping his ears off in frustration, though he knew neither solution would help. He even considered knocking himself unconscious or taking his own life in one final desperate effort to end the pain, the confusion, and now the awful, terrible ringing.

  What would it matter anyway? he thought. I’m a freak. A monster. A Remorii…

  When he’d left the Nighthawk’s bridge, abandoning his post to Captain Nimoux, Shen had meant to go to deck eight where his quarters were, just two decks below the Bridge. But instead he’d jammed the button for the third deck, which housed the infirmary among other things. Yet as the elevator had whizzed downward, he found himself ever less interested in being a specimen under a microscope and quickly pressed the Stop button, careful not to smash it with his newfound strength, and the elevator had halted just shy of his original destination. This left him to wander out onto deck four, aimlessly, as if hoping walking in circles would cause the torture to stop. Of all the decks to be on, wandering about, he supposed this one was as good as any. Like nearly all decks on the ship, there were rooms devoted to crew quarters, though far less than usual. The aft section was largely dominated by the auxiliary lab, where an analyst or two would be busy helping the ship’s many computer systems to crunch important data. While Shen had always had a penchant and talent for computers, numbers, analysis, and the like, it wasn’t the aft section of deck four which appealed to him. Rather, he found himself drawn to the bow.

  The door opened and he stepped inside the largest room on the ship. It was eerily empty, just as he liked it, and no lights snapped on automatically as he stepped inside. He could command them on with a word, he knew, but what would that offer him? The chance to see his own reflection in the mighty windows of the observation deck? To see a monster in a man’s body, wearing an officer’s uniform, like some kind of joke?

  No, it was the darkness he craved. It soothed him. And, as he stepped farther along, reaching the center of the deck, the buzzing and ringing faded away entirely, leaving him in peace to stare out at the great vast blackness, the nothingness of alteredspace, a vast void if ever there was one, and contemplate upon himself and his destiny. Shen had never been a religious man; the entire concept of higher orders of intelligence directing around lesser beings had always smacked of thought-policing and mind control. If something greater than him had made him as he was and set him inside the universe just so, then what did that make him if not a puppet or a plaything of that greater power? …An actor upon a stage reading lines from a script he didn’t remember, but which had already been written. All the while believing, indeed being programmed to believe, his c
hoices were his own, that his will was free. Yet it was a farce, a dark irony to be a creature forced to believe it is free; what a cruel jape! No, it could not be so.

  Neither had Shen been one for the ideas of predestination, destiny, or any other form of determinism which stripped him of his ability to take his own fate into his own hands and determine his own providence. And yet here he was, a result of circumstances largely outside his control. He’d never chosen to be born, nor to live, nor to look as he did, or have the aptitudes he had, along with the weaknesses he possessed. Neither had he chosen to be saved when he’d fallen prey to the Remorii of Remus Nine, or to be rescued, in part anyway, by the best medical efforts available, which themselves had been imperfect. And now here he was, lured away from his post by a ringing he could not control and led here to the observation deck, like a puppet on a string, until he was standing there in the darkness, fixated upon the abyss, existing as either man or monster, or both. Or neither. He didn’t know. He recalled the dreams he’d been having, ones in which Tristan was there, always there. Calling out to him, reaching for him, or otherwise beckoning him to come nearer. Like Shen’s existence and the change in his reality had not been the fluke of some random happenstance, like all things which governed the universe, but instead had been a purposeful, intentional brushstroke of design. An ugly color from a hideous palette spread along a noxious canvas.

  He wondered then if his existence, cruel, lucky, or both, was the product of the randomness that was prime-mover which instigated the universe and all within it, as he’d always suspected, including the unpredictable nature of free will, or if instead of that he existed as some kind of unwilling and unknowing participant in a sort of game for the benefit of some kind of higher and crueler power than his mind could fathom.