The Phoenix Darkness (29 page)

He gave that his best effort for the better
part of ten minutes, then took a break to rest up. The resting
didn’t help and he felt only an increased sense of entrapment and
agitation, so when he resumed his efforts to shove the doors apart,
he did so with all the fury he could possibly muster. He thought of
everything he could that might spark a little extra passion—he
imagined he would be trapped in here forever if he didn’t get them
open. That helped, but wasn’t enough. He imagined that he was
running out of air and desperately needed the doors apart or else
he would die. Again, it seemed to help, but was not sufficient. He
even made himself imagine that Calvin was on the other side of the
door, and in danger, and that Shen needed to rip the doors asunder
in order to save his best friend. This came very close to success,
but ultimately proved insufficient.

He attempted to rest one more time, this time
only managing five minutes before he could take no more, and then
he threw himself at the doors with all he had—this time imagining
that it was Sarah and not Calvin who was on the other side, in
grave danger.

There was a tremendous crash of noise and
Shen felt himself blown forward, hard, slamming him into the doors,
which were now successfully shoved apart. He held to them as a gale
of wind from behind blew its way out the door, all of this in less
than a second. Then it was gone. The atmospheric conditions had
equalized and, to Shen’s horror, the observation deck lost its
gravity. He grabbed one side of each door and shoved himself
through the hole he’d made and found himself floating across the
corridor of deck four. He crashed into the bulkhead and
instinctively pushed off, upward, toward the ceiling. Not that
upward had much meaning in the null gravity, but the décor of the
corridor served as a reference with which he still associated the
floor with down and the ceiling with up.

He grabbed hold of a fixture on the ceiling,
a part of the lighting system—which, like everything else, seemed
not to be working. It was then that he noticed all the lights were
off and the deck was swallowed in darkness. It didn’t seem like
darkness to Shen, though. His eyes apparently had been blessed with
surprisingly good night-vision.

He tried to breathe and confirmed there was
no air, yet he tried anyway. The sensation terrified him and he
found himself petrified, glued to the ceiling fixture. He knew that
in vacuum exposure he should remain conscious for only a few
seconds and then pass out. Which meant he needed to hurry if he was
to survive. But he just couldn’t make himself move. His limbs
started to swell up and everything felt so cold.

It wasn’t freezing cold, more like an icy
bath, deeply uncomfortable and slowly turning his sensations numb.
Still, he
could
move. If he tried very hard.

***

Blackmoth guided the missile back the way
he’d come. His ship continued to slowly retract the large object,
which seemed to bob in the air—if there had been any air—with each
and every pull. Blackmoth walked ahead of it, now and again giving
it a shove this way or that, to help it around corners.

His instincts prickled and he drew the
railgun in a flash, expecting trouble around the next corner. He
was right. Far ahead, in suits that lit up green to his infrared
vision, he could see two soldiers, rifles in their hands. They too
wore climate gear and helmets, but on each of their helmets was a
mounted torch, lighting the darkness for them—but helping to give
them away. To Blackmoth it was all too easy, more a child’s game
than any kind of sport.

He raised the railgun and fired, its
electromagnetic projectile was throne forward, right on target, at
a rate of four kilometers per second. The man didn’t have time to
blink as the object ripped through his bullet-resistant suit, tore
through his body, and implanted itself deep inside the
Nighthawk’s
bulkhead behind him.

The second soldier opened fire, but did so
blindly, his sight impaired. His rifle worked—no doubt using the
same explosive principle as Blackmoth’s vacuum charges—but his aim
was wildly off mark from this distance.

“In the name of The One True God, I hereby
sentence you to the void,” said Blackmoth as he fired his railgun a
second time, this time allowing the projectile to punch through the
enemy’s helmet and skull before implanting itself in the
Nighthawk’s
bulkhead, like the first.

Having handled them, he continued onward,
pushing the missile away from the wall as needed, so it would not
scrape. Then, as he passed the large doors he’d seen on the way
in—the ones that had been sealed shut and led to some kind of
common room—he noted they’d been smashed and pried open, as if
forced apart just wide enough to allow a man through.

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 nothing.

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.