The Phoenix War (2 page)

“Incoming message,” said Isabella.

“From whom?” asked Tamara.

“Polarian command ship. We are ordered to
maneuver to a position in open space, oh-one-three by
seven-three-three by nine-nine-one. And there we will power down
our engines and… prepare to dock?” Isabella turned away from her
terminal and gave Tamara a very confused look.

“Did they say why?”

“They say they have to do a security check
before we can be granted clearance to leave.”

Tamara knew that there was no other option. A
whole squadron of Polarian warships patrolled the system; if they
wanted something, they would have it. One way or another.

It’s all right
, she told herself.
The warships are loyal to our employer’s interests—or, at the
very least, loyal to someone Zane has made a deal with. There is
nothing to fear.

Despite her effort to reassure herself, she
felt her heart quicken. The sight of the Polarian soldiers—seven
feet tall, thickly muscled, bluish-gray skin… not to mention all of
the weapons, including savage knives, that they wore—they’d always
intimidated her. Even when they were there to protect her and the
other scientists, they’d still frightened her.

Once they finally jumped the system, Tamara
would be glad to be rid of them. But by the look of things, they
would have to put up with one more unwanted encounter.

“Comply with all instructions,” said
Tamara.

“I’m already on it,” said Erik. He looked by
far the most eager to return home, or, at the very least, put the
vomit-green, catastrophically-polluted, forever-darkened world of
Titan Three behind them once and for all. Out of sight and, if the
universe was merciful, out of mind.

The ship angled and accelerated, and Tamara
watched as the planet slipped out of view.

“We’ve broken orbit,” Erik announced.
“Accelerating to coordinates.”

“Isabella, are they saying anything?” asked
Tamara.

“Not much. Just that they will make this
quick. And then we can go and claim our reward.”

“Payment.
Finally
, the reason I did
this,” said Erik. “I wonder what the going rate is for a soul these
days…”

The ship reached the designated position.

“Answering all stop,” said Erik.

“They’ve dispatched a shuttle,” said
Isabella. “It will reach our position in thirty seconds and
commence docking operation.”

“Then we let them search the ship, make sure
we didn’t steal any of their toys, and after that we can finally be
on our way,” said Erik. He ran a hand through his hair and leaned
back impatiently in the pilot’s seat.

Let’s hope that’s all it is
, thought
Tamara. She had an ominous feeling about this, but she kept her
sentiment to herself. The simplest explanation was usually the
likeliest—that was the Razor Principle—and the simplest
explanation, she knew, was that the Polarians were following a
basic, normal, non-threatening protocol. Search any ships leaving
their systems, especially after completing a top-secret joint
venture. Make certain we aren’t leaving the system with valuable
information that could compromise the security of the Polarian
Confederacy.
Yes, that must be it
.

But, even as she thought it, she remembered
the little idiosyncrasies she’d noticed over the months. Signs that
made her suspect these Polarians were not actually part of the
Confederacy, even though they seemed organized and powerful enough
to have military-class starships.

After a minute, Isabella rotated her chair
and made eye-contact with Tamara, her face as pale as a ghost.
“
They’re here
.”

“Good,” said Erik, “the sooner they get this
over with, the sooner we can go home.” He tried to sound
reassuring, but anxiety pierced his words.

The next thirty seconds passed in eerie
silence. All Tamara seemed able to hear was the thumping of her own
heart. She resisted the urge to stand up and pace about nervously.
She didn’t want to add to her colleagues’ anxiety, however, so she
refrained.

The elevator door slid open and four towering
Polarians entered with heavy footsteps. Tamara stood to receive
them. She found herself face-to-face with the lead Polarian’s
chest. She craned her neck to look him in the eyes.

“You are Tamara Baxter?” he asked, his dark
eyes seeming to shimmer ever so slightly in the bridge’s light.

“Yes… yes, I am,” she said, as strongly as
she could. “And these,” she pointed, “are my colleagues. Erik
Davidson and Isabella—”

“I do not care who
they
are,”
interrupted the Polarian leader.

“How… how may we help you, sir?” asked
Tamara, her throat tight. Back on the planet’s surface, the
Polarians almost never spoke to them, so she’d never gotten used to
interacting with them. Back then they’d been like fearsome statues,
a part of the ominous background.
Oh how I wish these were mere
statues
…

“You are the one who developed the weapon,
yes?” asked the lead Polarian, gazing at her intensely with those
coal eyes.

“We all worked on—”

“But
you
, you were the one who divined
how to do it, yes?
You
were the one who was gifted with this
knowledge?”

It took her half a heartbeat to figure out
what the Polarian was saying. “Yes,” she answered cautiously. “The
science of the isotome weapons was based upon my theories of—”

“Good,” he said. She noticed then just how
sharp and jagged his teeth were. She gulped at the sight of them,
but tried to overpower her instinctive urge to flee.
My instinct
to run from him and his predator teeth is a primal one
, she
reminded herself,
an evolved fear that is no longer relevant. I
should not be afraid.

“Then you are the one who will tell me,” he
said.

“Tell you what?” asked Tamara.

“The weapons,” his eyes narrowed, as if
studying her carefully. “Can there ever be more of these
instruments of destruction?”

She was taken aback by the question. “I
suppose so, if more isotome is found.”

“You could make more?” he raised an eyebrow.
Perhaps this seemed to contradict something else he’d been told.
Tamara realized then what the confusion was likely about.

“No, nobody can make more of the weapons as
things currently stand,” she said. “The Xenobe Nebula Region was
the only place in the entire known galaxy where stable isotome has
ever been found. And all of that has been mined—”

“So, no more weapons?” his eyes narrowed
again.

“No more weapons,” she said. “Unless new
isotome is found one day, otherwise no, there will never be another
isotome weapon.”

The Polarian seemed to understand this. He
looked away from her and nodded to his fellow soldiers. And, for
the briefest instant, Tamara thought that was the end of it. That
they were free to go.

Something crunched loudly against the
terminal behind her, followed by a blood-curdling scream from
Isabella. Tamara whirled around. The sight made her gasp.

Oh god!
Tamara tried to scream but the
words wouldn’t come out.

Erik was dead. He’d been forcefully thrown
against the terminal. He lay crumpled over the bent helm control,
his head cracked open like an egg. Revealing grey-matter and broken
skull fragments drenched in a river of blood and other bodily
fluids.

Another of the Polarian soldiers seized
Isabella by the throat. She struggled to break free but was
hopelessly outmatched in a contest of strength. The Polarian lifted
her by the neck, as if she were a weightless ragdoll, and—if that
didn’t do irreparable harm to her—the jagged knife he slipped along
her throat did. Opening her carotid artery. Blood gushed and Tamara
had to look away.

She felt frozen in place, unable to do
anything. Hot tears drowned her eyes and, although it was
biologically impossible, she felt her heart beating in her
throat.

And then, tight as a vice grip, a large hand
clamped down on her shoulder. She trembled and sobbed as she felt
herself pulled backwards suddenly.

“Please…” she whispered meekly. “
Please
don’t
…”

“I am sorry human female,” the deep voice
said from behind. “The number of ways is but one. And this is it.
There is no other path.”

“At least…” she fumbled for words. Realizing,
somewhat surreally, that she was about to die—about to stop
existing.

“At least
what
?” demanded the
Polarian.

“At least tell me why,” she said, controlling
her sobs. “We only did what was asked of us.”

“Indeed you did, human female. And now your
work is complete.”

***

Calvin was with Kalila on the bridge of the
Black Swan when word reached them. And once the bad news started
pouring in, it didn’t stop. It seemed to only grow worse with each
further detail. He could do nothing but stand there, feeling
stupid—reeling in shock himself—and watch as the Princess’s entire
world collapsed around her.

“It is certain, then?” she asked, forcing her
voice to remain strong even though her body was visually
trembling.

“I’m afraid so, Your Grace,” replied Captain
Adiger, bowing his head respectfully. The man had personally
contacted his allies on the ground to determine what was
happening.

“First Genjiro, and then Kanna and Azumi…”
Kalila spoke the names softly, barely above a whisper, seeming to
stare far beyond everyone. As if watching events a thousand
light-years away. “And now Father too…”

Not long ago they’d received word that the
crown prince’s shuttle had been destroyed while attempting to leave
the system. It exploded during takeoff; cause unknown. And then,
hardly seconds afterward, news arrived that Kalila’s elder sisters
were similarly deceased. One died as her ship’s life support
failed, and the other was killed in a fatal car accident, while
trying to reach an Akiran stronghold on Capital World—her
bodyguards apparently had died with her, along with most of her
forty-eight person motorcade. Calvin thought either this was the
most spectacularly lethal accident of all time or, infinitely more
likely, not an accident at all.

And now Kalila had just learned the reason
her father’s speech had been abruptly interrupted was that he was
dead. And Kalila looked almost too stunned to comprehend what it
all meant. While all Calvin could think was,
they’re butchering
the crown and everyone in line to inherit it. Does that mean Kalila
is next? Is this ship rigged to explode too? Or lose life
support?
He looked around at the many officers manning the many
stations of the bridge, whole teams of people relaying commands to
hundreds of crewmen all throughout the dreadnought. And he
realized, if this ship were timed to destroy itself, he had no
choice but to rely on these officers to keep him safe. There was
nothing he could do to help them.

“None of this was an accident,” whispered
Rafael to Calvin. Calvin nodded. Rafael was right about that, this
was all planned. Someone wanted to create a vacuum of power… but
who? Not the Assembly… not unless those in power there, such as
Caerwyn Martel, had learned in advance that King Akira had intended
to cling to his throne, and Caerwyn and the others had axed him
before he could cry for the loyalist citizens to rally to his
cause. But that felt wrong to Calvin. Nothing about the King’s
speech, short as it’d been, gave him the impression that he was on
the verge of challenging the Assembly.

His eyes automatically returned to Kalila. So
beautiful and so pitiable. Calvin’s heart stirred. More than
anything he wanted to reach out, to hold her, to try to comfort
her. But he knew it would be completely inappropriate, so he
suppressed the instinct. Even though he could see her heartache in
her hauntingly sad eyes.

“How did he…?” asked Kalila, now looking at
Captain Adiger.

“He was murdered, Your Grace,” he said.
“Slain on the Assembly Floor, killed by a cowardly sniper.”

Calvin reeled at the cause of death. Shocked
that he’d lived to see such a day.

They’d all been watching the King’s address
before the Empire—wondering if he would submit to the Assembly’s
decision to strip him of his throne, or if he’d cling to his powers
and fight the forces that had usurped their government. As Calvin
had listened, it’d proven difficult not think about the Eighth and
Ninth Fleets bearing down on Capital System even now, fifty-two
ships ready for battle. Ships that were likely to capture or
destroy the Black Swan.

And yet, even though he feared for his own
life, he couldn’t help but feel an intense measure of crushing
guilt. This whole tragic situation was as much his fault as
anyone’s. He’d been the Executor. The duty had fallen on him to
capture the Phoenix Ring conspirators, to shake loose every iota of
information they had and expose them and their treachery before the
Assembly and the Empire, but he’d come too late. And Zane Martel,
the Phoenix Ring leaders, and all of their precious information had
melted away—like snowflakes in the palm of his hand—before he could
raise his angry fist and expose the truth.

As they’d watched the King’s broadcast on the
Black Swan’s bridge, gripped by every word, waiting to see if he
would fight for his crown, they were shocked when the broadcast
abruptly terminated. The King had been in the middle of a sentence,
and then
static.
At first Calvin had assumed, along with
most others—he was sure, that the broadcast had been cut off by
someone wanting to silence it. Perhaps by jamming communications.
But it turned out the state-run news organization had been
broadcasting with a seven-second delay, rather than live, and that
delay had spared Kalila the torment of seeing her father collapse
on the Assembly Floor, apparently shot by a sniper.