The Phoenix War (35 page)

“Hey,
Hero
, I’m talking to you,” said
his sandy-haired cellmate. Obviously perturbed that Nimoux had
ignored him. Nimoux knew it was best not to disturb his new
roommates. Especially when he needed them to go to sleep as soon as
possible.

I need to respond enough to placate
him
, thought Nimoux.
But not enough to actually engage him.
Ideally he’ll lose interest and go to bed
.

“Hello,” said Nimoux quietly.

“Oh look he
can
talk,” the
sandy-haired inmate grinned. He gave the other inmate, the one with
brown hair, a funny look, as if they were old friends sharing a
joke. But it was obvious the brown-haired inmate wanted nothing to
do with him—he just shrugged and lay down on one of the cots,
clearly exhausted. Fast on his way to sleep. Nimoux was grateful
for that and hoped the sandy-haired inmate would take a hint and
follow suit.

“So are you going to get us out of here?”
asked the sandy-haired inmate.

“I wish I could,” said Nimoux.

The man looked at him with squinty eyes, as
if examining him. Like he expected Nimoux to produce a solution
from his rectum and vanish them all back to the safety of Capital
World.

“I saw you on the news,” continued the sandy
haired man.

Nimoux nodded.

“They said you freed all those slaves.”

The fruits of the Altair mission, which had
effectively shut down the human slave trade, had become something
of a public relations victory for Intel Wing. Even though the
specific details were mostly classified, the general public had
gotten the basic story—Intel Wing had freed thousands of slaves.
They didn’t know that to achieve success Nimoux had been forced to
murder three innocent people.

Never again
.

“So does that mean you’re going to free us?”
asked the sandy-haired man.

“I wish I could,” said Nimoux. Hoping the man
would lose interest.

The sandy-haired man looked back at him
sinisterly, disappointment shining in his crooked eyes. “When I get
out of here. I’m going to kill them.
I’m going to kill them
all
.”

“I hear you,” said Nimoux, wanting only to
placate the other inmate so he would shut up and go to sleep.

“I’m going to start with Jimmy Arnolds. I’m
going to grab that fat head of his and squeeze his eyes out with my
thumbs, all nice and slow. You know? And ask him if he likes it.
Then I’ll push harder, and harder, squishing those eyes like grapes
until that bloody gooey shit drips down the sides of his cold dead
cheeks.” As the sandy-haired man spoke, his eyes seemed to drift
off to some faraway place. “And then that fatass will be dead. And
I’ll find his children and kill them too. Even if I have to go to
all over the galaxy to do it!”

As Nimoux looked at him, listening to the
man’s lust for violence, he realized this man didn’t actually
strike him as the kind of person who would normally think such
things, less yet say them. In fact, if Nimoux had to guess, the
sandy-haired man had probably been some sort of a businessman in
civil society before he’d been dragged here and replaced. This
anger, this thirst to hurt someone, was probably the product of the
treatment he’d received here.

They take people and lock them away and
treat them like barbarians and animals
, thought Nimoux.
And
over time they become barbarians and animals. Just like they’re
treated
.

After providing a few more choice details of
the vengeance he would extract upon the specific guards and their
families, the sandy-haired man fell silent and seemed not to take
further notice of Nimoux. Several minutes passed and the guards
finished securing the prisoners. The last of the cells slammed shut
and the main lights dimmed.

Nimoux waited. Feeling his heart beat rapidly
as he worked through the details of his plan for the umpteenth
time. He went into a breathing exercise automatically and took a
moment to meditate. Ever chasing his elusive center.

I have to focus. I have to be patient. I
must be in control
, he thought.
In and out, nice and
slow
, he exhaled and inhaled deeply. Waiting.
In and
out
.

The brown-haired inmate fell asleep first.
His light snores were like music to Nimoux’s ears. Now all he had
to do was wait for the sandy-haired man to do the same. Then he
could make his move. And the sooner the better.

More time passed. Nimoux estimated that it
had been almost thirty minutes. Making
now
the perfect time
to slip away, but he couldn’t. Because the sandy-haired man
remained awake. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the
wall, staring off at the darkness. Silent as the night.

Nimoux remained patient, still hopeful that
the sandy-haired man would lie down and sleep. But his mind began
to consider what his contingency options were.

I could use a sleeper hold and force him
unconscious by blocking his carotid arteries. Then I could slip
away
, thought Nimoux.
But that won’t help. He’ll remain
unconscious for thirty seconds, at most a minute, then when he’s
awake he’ll see that I’ve gone, remember that I choked him, and
undoubtedly call for a guard. I can’t incapacitate him safely. Not
unless I kill him
…

As soon as he thought it, Nimoux dismissed
the option, feeling disgusted that it’d even crossed his mind.
I
can’t kill him
, he knew. This man, despite his clear need for
therapy, was likely as innocent as everyone else here, in the sense
that he hadn’t committed some kind of crime and was justifiably
incarcerated for it, rather he’d made the mistake of occupying a
position of influence in human society and some pervasively vile
force had stolen him away and replaced him for its benefit. Just as
they’d done to Harkov, and Edwards, and even Nimoux himself. The
justification that the ends justified the means was always
tempting. Nimoux wanted to escape, had an urgent need to escape—he
had to warn the Empire—and on balance the value of this man’s life
seemed like nothing. A perfect stranger, and a deranged one at
that, what would it matter if he was dead? But Nimoux refused to
let himself think along those lines. He’d promised himself he
wouldn’t, not again, he’d sworn as much over the graves of the
three innocents he’d killed. And he wasn’t about to go back on his
word. If he did, what would that make him? He shuddered at the
thought.

So if I can’t kill him and he refuses to
go to sleep then what
? Nimoux wondered.
I’ll have to take
him with me, won’t I?
realized Nimoux as he found himself
unable to come up with another option. He supposed he could abandon
his escape effort for the night and try again tomorrow night, but
that didn’t feel like a good option to him. It felt like an
unacceptable risk. Especially since there was no guarantee that he
would find in a better position.

I’ll wait a little longer
, Nimoux
decided.
Eventually he’ll go to sleep. He’ll have to
. There
was no guarantee, of course, but Nimoux judged it was still the
likeliest outcome. In general, the prisoners weren’t given as much
time to sleep as they needed, and they didn’t sleep particularly
well in the cell block. The days weren’t very long but they were
scorchingly hot and that had a way of making them all tired. It
wouldn’t make sense for the sandy-haired man to stay awake all
night for no compelling reason.

So Nimoux made a pretense of going to sleep
himself. His instincts warned him not to turn his back to the
sandy-haired man, and indeed if Nimoux had actually planned to get
any sleep, he would have made certain to be the last to drift off.
Hoping he slept very lightly. But since he was only pretending, he
closed his eyes and kept his ears alert. Remaining awake and
vigilant, despite appearances, and waited.

After twenty or so minutes, he stirred
silently and got up. Taking care to move as soundlessly as
possible. Both of the other inmates were asleep.
That’s more
like it
, he thought. He waited for two minutes, carefully
watching the sandy-haired man, wanting to make certain he was truly
asleep, and then Nimoux crept to the cell door. It was time to find
out if his idea worked. He held his breath and curled his hands
around the bars.

Moment of truth.

With expert care, he gently pulled on the
cell door. It slid.
Success
! The mud that he’d put inside
the locking mechanism to block the pin—mortared into place with his
own spit and sweat—worked. He felt a rush of excitement but
remembered to keep calm and manage his breathing. His heart beat
like a snare drum, thumping in his ears, but that couldn’t be
helped.

He slid the door open just enough to slip out
and not a millimeter more. The action made a slight scratching
noise but it was barely audible, and no one seemed to notice. He
gingerly closed the door behind him so it wouldn’t be noticed by a
patrolling guard.
Time to go
.

He went prone immediately and crawled
directly forward and under the railing, stopping once he got to the
ledge. He didn’t want to be seen by any patrolling guards or his
fellow prisoners. It would be almost a dead giveaway if he walked,
or crept, to the stairs. That route would take him past other cells
and someone would see him. This was the only alternative.

Keeping a firm grip on the ledge, he swung
his legs out and lowered himself as much as he could until his
whole body was dangling in the air. Suspended over the ground
floor. He was tempted to drop from there but knew the distance from
his feet to the ground was still about eight meters. Which was too
much.

So he moved laterally along the edge, holding
up his entire bodyweight as he went, placing hand over hand. The
metal-grated flooring gave him excellent handgrips, allowing him to
loop his fingers through the grating and not have to depend
entirely on his topmost knuckles to sustain him, but the process
was still arduous. And became increasingly difficult with every
meter. At one point his arms and hands felt so tired he was sure he
would lose his grip and plunge to the ground floor. But he didn’t.
He remembered what was at stake, controlled his breathing rhythm,
and forced himself to endure.

After what felt like an eternity, he’d gone
the distance and found himself next to the stairwell. He swung his
legs up over the railing, grateful for the core exercises he’d
forced himself to do in the black cell, and got himself onto the
stairs. As soon as he had sufficient footing, his arms went limp
and he wanted nothing more than to rest but there was no time. He
scrambled down the stairs as stealthily as he could. The instant he
reached the ground floor he bolted for the exit. Quickly finding
himself in the yard.

It was dark outside. A few of the portable
structures had light pouring out their windows but most looked
abandoned. He ran at a steady jog, wanting to be swift but not tire
himself out, all the while grateful the sand cushioned his
footfalls, allowing him to move silently.

None of the guards had been organized into a
foot patrol for the yard. Leaving Nimoux alone, able to approach
the Command Station with virtual impunity, so long as he moved
warily and avoided the spotlights, infrared cameras, and
windows.

When he reached the Command Station, he
entered through one of the side entrances. One he suspected would
neither alarmed nor actively watched. As the door slid open, he
knew he was rolling the dice. But took some comfort in the
knowledge that most of the remaining guards were in the barracks
sleeping, not guarding the Command Station.

Luckily no one was there. Just a small
security desk at the elbow of two main corridors, if they hadn’t
stripped the prison staff so thoroughly there probably would have
been someone here, he knew.

He sprinted down the hall and around a
corner, ducking aside and hiding in doorways and behind desks
whenever someone sounded near. He moved carefully, with the
instincts of a trained special forces operative. And he thought
back to his military service prior to joining Intel Wing.

Eventually he reached the guardroom.
The
pedestrian transmitter is in there
, he thought.
And there
will be a guard in there too for sure. Perhaps more than
one
.

He tried to think of some way to lure the
guards out. So he could deal with them on his terms, ambushing them
in the corridor. He went with the only idea that came to him, which
was to knock loudly on the door and then hide out of sight. He
wished he could do something larger, break something, make some
real noise, and get all of the guards to leave the guardroom and go
scampering through the building while he slipped in and stole the
transmitter. But unfortunately, any ruse that was large enough to
draw all of the guards away would also probably trigger some kind
of emergency protocol, and the guards would probably lockdown the
building, if not the entire camp, as they did a security sweep.
Probably check on the prisoners too, and count them.

So this knocking would have to do. He pounded
on the door then darted aside. Listening as the door slid open. “Is
someone there?” a man’s voice could be heard. “I could have sworn.”
Nimoux waited just around the corner, expecting to hear footsteps
as the guard searched the corridor for the phantom door
knocker.

Instead the door slid shut without another
sound.
Lazy guards
…

Nimoux repeated the process. Knocking and
hiding a second time.

“All right just what the hell?” the man
barked after opening the door again and seeing no one. This time,
to Nimoux’s relief, he heard the impatient footsteps of the guard
draw near. The guard was searching the corridor for the source of
the knocking. “This had better not be some sort of joke,” he
growled.