The Phoenix Darkness (26 page)

Now he lay on the floor, locked in a prison
cell. It was tight, too small for a human prisoner, and the floor
was hard and damp. Not unlike the cramped conditions he’d endured
the last time he’d been a Rotham prisoner. Only this time there was
no plan of escape, no Summers and Pellew stashed away with the
black beacon summoning the Fifth Fleet to their rescue. Nor could
he expect his allies to storm the detection block and free him and
the others.

“Cal,” said Miles, his voice a terrified
whisper.

Calvin looked through the metal bars across
the walkway to the cells on the other side to where Miles had been
locked away.

“Yeah?”

“Is this the end?”

Calvin didn’t know what to say. He didn’t
want to admit failure or defeat to his people and rob them of
whatever inkling of hope any of them might still be clinging to,
but things sure seemed bleak. The
Nighthawk
wouldn’t know
where to find them, nor the queen, nor Raidan. And besides, no one
would even be looking, not yet anyway. And by the time they did, if
they did, it would be far too late. No, the fact of the matter was
they were on their own, entirely left to their own devices. And,
from where Calvin lay thinking of all they had available to them,
they’d run plum out of devices. He had no tricks, could think of no
strategies, and so yes, it seemed like the end. But he just didn’t
have the heart to tell that to Miles.

“I don’t know,” said Calvin, the best, most
optimistic response he could muster. He still didn’t understand why
Alex had betrayed them. He’d known not to trust the Rotham
operative too much, he was too clever by half and Calvin had always
known it, plus he’d even admitted, or at least claimed, to be an
Advent operative. That made him dangerous. But if he really had
been a member of Advent, why turn his coat on Calvin and the
others, and why now? They were on the same side; they had the same
ultimate goal: prevent or deter a Rahajiim invasion of the Empire.
Calvin and the humans were in it to protect their people, and the
Advent wanted to eliminate the corruption of the Rahajiim and
return their people to a policy of nonintervention.

Yet here they were, betrayed and
incarcerated, doubtless awaiting torture or death; probably
both.

“We should've fought them when we had the
chance,” said Rez’nac. “At least that way we would have gone out on
our terms.” He was too big by far to fit inside one of the Rotham
cells, and so they’d chained him to the cell bars, each arm and
leg, and one chain cinched tightly around his waist.

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Calvin. Although
he still wouldn’t have liked that option. If he’d gone through with
it, he and the others would be dead by now. Perhaps mercifully so,
depending on what awaited them, but somehow he still valued life
too much, even now, to wish he’d died in battle.

“I haven’t given up,” said a soft voice from
somewhere beyond Calvin’s range of sight. It was Rain and it broke
Calvin’s heart to know she too was trapped in one of these
godforsaken cells. It was one thing for Calvin, Miles, Rafael, and
Rez’nac to be enduring such conditions, they were military soldiers
and had gone into this knowing the risks. But Rain was as sweet as
the summer and more harmless than a fly. Locking her away like
this, and so forcefully, it was like caging a songbird.
And it’s
all my fault
, Calvin reminded himself.
Why, oh why did I let
her come with us?

“There’s still hope,” came Rain’s soothing,
calm voice. “If you listen hard enough, you’ll know; there’s always
hope.”

As if in response to her words, the door
screeched open and the sound of boots could be heard, marching
their way. It didn’t sound much like hope to Calvin.

“Wake up,” said a Rotham soldier in a
hiss-like yell. As if any of them could have possibly slept in
these conditions… “Today is your lucky day.”

Calvin didn’t know what that meant, but
somehow he doubted his definition of “lucky day” and the Rotham
soldier’s were the same. The Rotham gave some orders, this time in
Rotham. Calvin wasn’t sure whether he envied Rafael’s ability to
understand the orders, or if it was one of those times when it was
better to be ignorant.

One by one a group of soldiers approached
each of the prisoners and then began unlocking the cells and
undoing their shackles.

“What’s going on?” Calvin asked the lead
Rotham soldier. The man refused to acknowledge him, so Calvin
looked to Rafael. “Is this what I think it is?”

Rafael nodded. Mouthing the word,
“Extraction.”

Calvin felt his blood run cold. The last time
he’d seen someone taken away for extraction had been when they’d
dragged Major Jenkins away. He had been one of the toughest men
Calvin had ever met, and yet he never made it back.

***

The tracer had stopped sending him signals.
When that happened, Blackmoth had known then The One True God had
taken his revenge against Zander. And now Zander, and all of his
crew, had been sacrificed to the void.

As perfect as clockwork, though, as could
always be expected of the plans of The One True God, Blackmoth had
managed to get a positive fix on the
Duchess’s
final
position before the tracer sent its final message.

Now he eased
Hunter Four
out of
alteredspace, but kept the ship in motion so it would remain
invisible to scanners. The
Duchess’s
debris was scattered
across kilometers in every direction of space. The ship had been
blown to oblivion. But what was more telling was that the explosion
had originated from the inside. Someone had gone aboard the ship,
taken the prize, and then destroyed the
Duchess
.

“Zander, you have been served justice before
I could have delivered it to you,” said Blackmoth, surprised by
this development but, as ever, accepting of the superior wisdom of
the designs of The One True God. “But fear not, for another stands
ready to take your place and be judged.”

It was obvious to Blackmoth that another ship
was present, and whoever it was had been the party responsible for
destroying Zander’s ship and, without a doubt, taking claim of the
final weapon.

No matter…

Blackmoth activated
Hunter Four
’s
advanced scanner and, sure enough, spotted a small Imperial stealth
frigate sitting idly in space less than a million MCs from the
largest chunk of debris from Zander’s ship. The frigate was about
twice the size of
Hunter Four
and in a common display of
human arrogance believed itself safe because of its activated
stealth systems. But those systems could not hide from Blackmoth,
nor could they hide from The One True God.

Blackmoth got a fix on the stealth frigate
and accelerated
Hunter Four
, slicing through space as
invisibly as the ether itself.

“The One True God judges you,” said
Blackmoth, as he kept his eyes vigilantly upon the other ship, “and
he finds you unworthy.”

***

The latest numbers did not seem to show the
kind of results Caerwyn had expected. Although his latest smear
campaign against the rebel queen had wrought some serious benefits
by having tremendously slowed the flow of magistrates and
representatives rallying to her cause, it had not stopped it
altogether. In fact, Caerwyn expected his impeachment of Kalila’s
mental faculties to be a deathblow to her ambitions for the throne.
He'd imagined droves of her supporters abandoning her by the
legion, either to return to their cautious neutrality or, better
yet, to rally to Caerwyn’s side. After all, he’d been the one to
expose Kalila’s insanity to the Empire, he’d been the one to
preserve and protect his people as Steward by routing Kalila’s
fleets at the Apollo Yards. Why weren’t more of the Imperial
magistrates seeing his side?

It was profoundly upsetting. In addition to
the wishy-washy success of his smear efforts, there'd been a
backlash in the form of advocacy groups condemning him for using
the rebel queen’s mental health as a subject of criticism and
ridicule. “Well, forgive me for pointing out the undesirability of
having a Head of State that belongs in the loony bin and should
only be trusted with plastic scissors!” He’d shouted at the advisor
of his that’d brought him the news.

“Is that your official comment, sir?”

“No, that isn’t my official comment, you
nitwit!”

Still, for better or worse, he’d gotten the
allegation out there. And Caerwyn had to think that in the minds of
the Imperial public, the people who could not be successfully
polled or asked, the issue of the rebel queen’s sanity must have
taken some kind of purchase. Not everyone bought into the
pleasantries
of being so obsessively politically correct
that they had to forever tip toe anywhere they went for fear they’d
step on someone else’s feelings. Feelings which were draped about
the ground like massive blankets, practically inviting any passerby
to trod upon them so they could then cry havoc and expect social
reparations. Caerwyn had been in politics his entire life. He knew
the importance of dancing when he needed to, and among his business
associates and fellow representatives he could tango with the best
of them. He’d even done a fair job of addressing the public when
he’d needed to, over the years. But this business of running an
Empire, with the duties of the crown but none of its immunities,
left him completely exhausted. And as time stretched on, he found
himself decreasingly willing to play nice, pamper and schmooze, in
order to be the proper diplomat, and ever more the temptation grew
to tell it exactly as it was. Well, not
exactly
as it was,
he needed to lie of course, but rather than implanting those lies
subtly through subtext and spin, he now preferred to state them
directly and blatantly, letting the chips fall where they may.

Perhaps that was an unwise approach, he
supposed. But right now it seemed to be the only way he could keep
his own sanity while trying to convince the rest of the galaxy of
the rebel queen’s insanity.

It was like his Minister of State had quipped
to him one day. “It seems the people want a monarch, even a batty
one.”

Caerwyn had laughed at that and, at first,
gave it little other thought. But the words rolled around in his
head and he thought about how overwhelmingly true they seemed, the
people really did miss and
need
the monarchy, when it became
obvious what he had to do.

“My fellow lords, gentlemen, and dear
advisors,” he said, in the privacy of his council chambers. With
him were each of his ministers, along with high ranking members of
the Assembly, the ones whom Caerwyn most trusted. “It has come to
my realization that the reason why the rebel queen has been
successful at rallying the neutral worlds to her banner—”

“And don’t forget, some of our own worlds,”
added the Minister of State.

Caerwyn did not approve of the interruption,
and the reminder he’d been losing some of his own was a slap in the
face, but he shrugged it off gently. “Yes, some of our own worlds
as well,” he continued. “Is because the people have lived for such
a long time under a system of monarchy, where power is ultimately
held and exercised by a king or a queen, an individual ruler to
whom the people may look to for safekeeping and pledge their
loyalties, their fortunes, and even their very lives.”

“Well, technically, the ultimate power is
vested in the Assembly,” said the Minister of Law. “Minor point of
order, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps in the Imperial Charter it is so,”
said Caerwyn. “But that is not how it is in the minds of the
people. And
that
is the battlefield where this war is won or
lost,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect. “It isn’t in the
courts, or the legal texts, or even in the blood-soaked stars; it
is the opinion of the people that will decide this contest.”

The Minister of Strategy objected. “My Lord,
pardon my interruption, but it is fleets which win wars.”

“Fleets may win battles,” corrected Caerwyn,
“but it is sentiment that wins wars.”

His advisors looked perplexed. “So, let me
get this straight, Mr. Steward,” said Lord Wightman. “You’d have us
believe this has nothing to do with ships, soldiers, or Q, and that
with a few wet eyes, some tissues, and a few moving speeches we can
win this thing?”

“Close enough,” said Caerwyn, much to the
surprise of those assembled who knew Lord Wightman had been mocking
him. “Think about it, my friends. What wins wars are numbers, and
what are numbers? People. What brings people to your cause?
Stirring their emotions to favor you above your enemies. The reason
why the rebel queen has been recently successful at winning allies
to her cause, despite our best efforts to discredit her, is because
she is a symbol. She is the last Akira; she’s put on a crown and
calls herself queen. She is an idea, and ideas are powerful. The
masses do not rally around logic, they aren't moved by well-debated
arguments or the finer technicalities of law; people are moved by
emotions. They rally to symbols. And Kalila has given them
that.”

Most of his ministers nodded, now
understanding. A few remained quiet; perhaps he hadn’t persuaded
them all, but none chose to argue the matter.

“Then what would you have us do?” asked the
Minister of Strategy. “If she has made herself into a symbol, I
don’t believe we can unmake her, somehow tear that symbol
down.”

“You’re right, we can’t,” said Caerwyn. “But
we can make a symbol of our own, a better one. Something to which
the people can rally even more strongly towards which would take
away her advantage and give us the upper hand.”

“And just how do you suppose we do that?”
asked the Minister of Finance.