The Phoenix Reckoning (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 6) (21 page)

Calvin had expected to hear such news—he had known the large objects detected from alteredspace in chaotic orbit had been debris from the Conglomerate—but hearing it confirmed by Shen, from an up-close view, still felt a bit like getting punched in the stomach.

“Display it,” said Calvin coldly.

The 3D display lit up, showing the mostly-desolate planet, Gemini Two. It looked the same, the planet was essentially uninhabitable the last time they’d been there, what was different was the notable absence of interlocking, individually propelled sky cities that formed an intricate, and movable, web orbiting the planet. Instead, there were bits and pieces, all completely separated from each other, orbiting patternlessly.

“Hone in on the debris,” said Calvin.

“The orbital debris or the planetary debris?”

“Planetary debris?” asked Calvin, remembering that there had been no meaningful settlements on the planet for the Dread Fleet to destroy. And then he recalled that much of the Conglomerate had—upon being shot apart—crashed into the surface of the desolate world below.

“Yes, sir,” said Shen. “I would estimate that ninety percent of the Conglomerate was destroyed into such small pieces of debris that we can barely detect them; however, of the remaining ten percent, about half of it remains in orbit, while the rest—along with most of the small debris—has collided with the surface of the planet.”

“Show us the orbital debris first,” said Calvin, “then the planetary debris.”

It wasn’t until he was staring at it himself on the 3D display that Calvin finally believed the mighty Conglomerate had been destroyed. Worse than destroyed, it had been clearly fired upon without mercy, the Dread Fleet’s work had not been for a military purpose; this had been an execution. Where once three million Polarians had lived in peaceful orbit around their desolated planet, now they had all been killed, most likely without much fight. And for what? To purify the System as part of some kind of Polarian religious Reckoning? Or some such rubbish that Rez’nac had explained to him.

“Now show us the debris on the planet,” said Calvin, once it was obvious that none of the debris still in orbit could possibly support life. It had been blasted, shredded, fired upon, even exploded into rubble and ruins, and the bits that remained large enough to be confused for starships at long range, they were hollow, and torn, and none of them could contain any atmosphere. Calvin could only imagine the horror as explosive decompression after explosive decompression occurred, as the Conglomerate’s protective hull was breached again and again, blowing Polarian children, women, and unsuspecting men out into space to their deaths. The rest, those who had managed to remain in the areas where there still had been climate, they died in the fire as their own oxygen betrayed them, scorching them alive.

The debris on the ground had fared no better. Much of it had been burned and destroyed during the descent, the bits that remained showed no signs of life or organization. They didn’t resemble habitable structures from which a survivor could take refuge against the desolate harsh planet’s surface, rather they were rubble—mere rubble—skeletons of what had once been one of the most glorious achievements the galaxy had ever seen.

“Shen, are there any signs of life anywhere, no matter how remote?” asked Calvin. He was reasonably sure he knew the answer, but he
had
to know for certain.

“No, Calvin, I’m afraid not,” came Shen’s reply.

“Any evidence the station was boarded?” asked Calvin desperately. “Perhaps prisoners taken?”

“There is no indication the Conglomerate was boarded at any time,” said Shen.

“I’m afraid I have to agree with him, Cal,” said Miles. “I’m looking at these blast patterns and they’re totally consistent with missile, beam weapon, and gunfire attacks from hundreds, maybe thousands of different angles.” When he said that, Summers stood up to go look over his shoulder. She, like Miles, had trained as a Defense officer, so her analysis of the scans Shen had made would prove equally insightful.

After a few minutes, Summers turned around, met Calvin with sad eyes, and simply shook her head, not saying anything. And Calvin knew what it meant. Everyone here had died. There hadn’t been a fight, none of the debris was consistent with an armed conflict, this had been an execution—a massacre.

“Good God, is this what we are up against?” said Calvin, as he stared at the 3D display, imagining the slaughter as it had been. “Savages willing to slaughter their own people over what, religious differences?”

“How could it be about religious differences?” asked Summers. “The Polarians share a common religion.”

“Rez’nac explained to us,” said Calvin, filling her in, “that there has been a schism within the Polarian religion. And that many of the outcasts that have been sent away to the darkest corners of Polarian Forbidden Space—outcasts like our replicant
friends
—have upset the religious, and therefore political, balance within the Confederacy.”

“Still,” objected Summers. “If reports are to be believed, only the High Prelain can summon the Dread Fleet and declare a Reckoning.” Calvin was surprised at how well versed Summers appeared to be regarding the technical nuances of the Polarians’ religion.

“That is true,” admitted Calvin. “And it remains confusing. But that is why I suspect the High Prelain himself to have been fooled, coerced, replaced, or otherwise convinced to declare this Reckoning. I believe it is the will of the rejected Polarian minority religion, the outcasts that Rez’nac refers to as
the Dark Ones
.”

“Wait,” said Summers, half in shock and half piecing something together. “You don’t mean just to take us into Polarian Forbidden Space,” which they all knew was insane enough, “you plan to take us to the Forbidden World itself!” The fabled world where, it was said, the Council of Prelains, and the High Prelain himself, lived in luxury and comfort, and from there directed the Polarian faithful.

“If the religion has been corrupted,” said Calvin, “then I suggest we start at the top.”

“And if it hasn’t and this really is the command of the Polarian Prelains?” asked Summers.

Calvin didn’t really have a plan for that possibility—not yet anyway. “Well,” he said, checking behind him to make certain Rez’nac hadn’t appeared, “then there’s an answer for that too,” he patted the handgun in his holster.

“You’re
insane
,” said Summers. “You’re completely mental!”

“I’m open to suggestions if you have a better idea,” said Calvin. He then looked out the window as a piece of debris floated by. “But considering the state of the Empire, our recent conflict with the Rotham, and what we are going to inevitably be up against with the Dread Fleet…I don’t see very many options on the table.”

Summers seemed at a loss for words. But she still shook her head, shooting Calvin a look that said, in no uncertain terms, that she thought his plan was a suicide mission.

“If we die,” said Calvin, answering the concern she never explicitly expressed, “then we die trying to do something—trying to make a difference,” he said. “If we do nothing, and simply wait for the Rotham or, worse, the Dread Fleet, to come and attack us, and then help the queen defend Imperial space as best she can—with the broken fleets left available to her—then we will make very little difference. Probably none. This isn’t a proper warship, Summers, and we will still die. If we’re going to die anyway,” continued Calvin, “then I suggest we die doing something that might—no matter how harebrained it may seem—make a difference.”

“Hear, hear,” said Miles, much to Summers’s disapproval.

“Oh, quiet, you,” she said, turning to the Defense officer. Then, looking back at Calvin, “I am willing to do my part. Whatever it takes. I just hope—for all our sakes—that you know what you’re doing.”

“So do I,” said Calvin, trying to mask his own feelings of insecurity and doubt. “So do I.”

“Sir—” interrupted Shen. “I have a ship appearing on our scopes. Looks to be a mid-sized cruiser of unknown type.”

Calvin immediately snapped back to attention, as did Summers, who bolted for the XO’s chair. “Can we identify it?” asked Calvin.

“Not yet,” said Shen. “But the ship is dropping out of alteredspace very deep inside the system.”

“Is it the Dread Fleet?” asked Calvin.

“No, sir, I don’t think so. The ship appears to be alone.”

“Could it be a straggler?” asked Calvin, “a latecomer?”

“That’s always a possibility,” admitted Shen. “But I am doubtful. The signature appears to have come from the wrong spatial direction and I don’t think I’ve ever read any instances of the Dread Fleet splitting up or sending out solitary units.”

Calvin had to agree. Although, as much of their information came from hearsay as it did from history, both agreed that the Dread Fleet always moved and fought as a single unit—part of why it was such an effective and deadly force.

“They are dropping in, roughly one-hundred and ninety-thousand MCs from our current position,” said Shen.

“Can they see us?”

“Doubtful.”

“What is their ETA?” asked Calvin.

“Less than a minute.”

“As soon as they appear, I want you to ID them immediately, if you can. Even if you can only get the make or model of the starship, that will be helpful,” said Calvin.

“If you don’t recognize it, I could help, provided it’s a warship,” said Miles.

“I too,” added Summers.

“If the ship’s configuration is not in our database,” said Shen. “Then—” he paused, and adjusted his controls, then took a good long look at one of his panels. “They are dropping into normal space.”

“I see a ship appearing on my controls, as well,” said Sarah, confirming it.

“Can you get a sense of their relative size and firepower?” asked Calvin, wanting to know if it was a threat to the
Nighthawk
.

“Size, yes,” said Sarah. “Firepower, no. I agree that it’s a mid-sized cruiser of some type.”

“Let me see it,” said Miles, coming over to the Ops display, just as the ship materialized. Shen immediately sent the image to the 3D display, no doubt annoyed at having three other officers crowding his station and looking over his shoulder.

“It’s the
Arcane Storm
,” said Calvin immediately, the instant he got a glimpse of it.

“I confirm that,” said Shen.

Miles, seeming slightly annoyed that it wasn’t an enemy Polarian ship, wandered back to his station.

“What the hell are they doing here?” asked Summers. “Is the
Harbinger
with them?”

“Unable to tell,” said Shen. “Although I am starting to pick up more alteredspace signatures. It could be either a very large squadron or a very small fleet.”

“So, not the Dread Fleet, then?” asked Calvin.

“Not unless the tales of its numbers are wrong,” said Shen. “I estimate a force of about seventy ships, including any support ships. The Dread Fleet is said to have anywhere from two-thousand to two-hundred thousand ships.”

“I’ve heard the stories,” said Calvin, returning to the command position. He too wondered what Tristan was doing here. And he assumed that meant Raidan—now a fugitive from justice even more than before, since he’d murdered the king—was likely doing here.

“I recommend we remain in stealth and wait and observe what they do,” said Summers, returning to her seat.

“A wise suggestion,” said Calvin, thinking that was probably the smartest thing to do. However, he felt too impatient. “Miles, drop stealth. Sarah, hail the
Arcane Storm
, let’s find out what brings them to Gemini.”

“Aye, aye,” they both acknowledged. Summers, for her part, did not object, although her beautiful pouty lips didn’t show the least sign of approval that her idea had been ignored.

“Hail them as soon as they can see us,” said Calvin.

“Sir,” said Sarah, before she could follow his command. “
They
are hailing us.”

“On speakers.”

“Some devastation, isn’t it, Calvin?” came the familiar crackle of Tristan’s voice over the Bridge’s loudspeakers.

“What are you doing here, Tristan?” asked Calvin, not wanting to be lured into some kind of game.

“Well, pleasant greetings to you too,” said Tristan. “If you must know, I’m here for the same reasons you are.”

“
Reasons
, as in plural?” asked Calvin.

“Why, yes, of course,” said Tristan. “First to behold the destruction and devastation wrought by the Dread Fleet. Spectacular, isn’t it? Even beautiful in a macabre sort of way.”

Calvin thought about the ruins he saw, how mercilessly scorched they were, and imagined the excruciating suffering of the three million inhabitants who had been brutally executed for no damn reason at all.

“Beautiful is not the first word that comes to mind, no,” said Calvin. “What’s the other reason?”

“Why? We were both drawn here for a reason.”

“And that reason would be?” asked Calvin, impatiently.

“Don’t you think it odd that once word about the Dread Fleet being in Gemini, so close to Imperial space, spreads that both of us would come here, as fast as we could? Almost magnetically drawn to this place?” asked Tristan.