The Phoenix Reckoning (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 6) (32 page)

“And if he is a deceiver?” asked Rez’nac.

“Then the equarius will reveal his true form on the spot, and the entire Council will know they have been misled this whole time—and they will know the Dark Ones have penetrated the religious order far deeper than any of them could have guessed.”

“It would explain a great many things,” said Rez’nac, though he still seemed hesitant to believe such a thing was possible.

“What about the rest of the Council?” chimed in Rafael. “Surely if the High Prelain has been replaced by a replicant—I mean
Dark One
—many on the Council will have been as well. How do we expose them?”

“That is a job for Nimoux,” said Calvin.

“What?” asked Nimoux, sounding baffled.

“You are not only the most touted member of Intel Wing, you have considerable experience as a Special Forces officer, and, by your own admission, you were trained for a mission to penetrate Polarian Forbidden Space.”

“True, to all of that, but I got scratched from the mission, that and the mission went as wrong as possible,” said Nimoux.

“Still, you’re the most qualified; Rez’nac is available for consultation, but I expect you to draw up our plans,” said Calvin.

“And, just so I know, those plans would be?”

“How we take the High Prelain into custody, how we expose him before the Council of Prelains, and, perhaps most difficult of all, how we quickly expose the other Prelains who have been replaced by replicants.”

“That’s a tall order,” said Nimoux. “But I’ll do my best.”

“There is a lot at stake here,” said Calvin. “So devote all your time and resources to coming up with this plan. If I have any suggestions, I will send them your way.”

“Much obliged,” said Nimoux.

“Everyone understand the general plan, then?” asked Calvin, looking each one of them in the eyes.

“Yes,” they acknowledged him. He could tell that most of them were skeptical that the crew could pull off such a thing, and, if they could, they almost certainly wouldn’t be escaping with their lives. Still, no objections were raised. And for that, Calvin was grateful.

“Once we cross the Veil,” said Rez’nac, “our success lies in the hands of the Essences.”

“Or chance,” said Rafael.

CHAPTER 15

The feeling was overpowering at first. It came in spurts, like getting shocked over and over, but Shen found the inner strength to push it all down, compressing it deep within him until it was merely a jolt.
I can do this
, he told himself.
I have the strength
.

The strange thing was, the farther they moved, closing in on their destination, the more he felt it. It didn’t hurt more. The experience of it, and how it seemed to work, was ineffable. But, somehow, on some deeper level, he
felt
it more. The Calling. It was like a biological homing beacon had been activated and now that he was some sort of modified human…some sort of thing…he was under its spell.

Wait
, he thought.
That isn’t The Calling. That’s something else
. A second feeling was there. Before he had had difficulty distinguishing it from The Calling. But then he realized the second feeling was the source of the sporadic pain. The Calling was more like a drive, a hum, a compulsion forward. Something that underlay the jolts of pain. But it was not the source of the pain he felt.

For one, none of the others in the group seemed affected by any pain, yet Shen had felt it ever since they had landed, coming and going every few minutes. Now, though, the pain came every few seconds and it felt…strangely directional.

The Calling felt directional too, which was partially why it had taken him this long to tell the two senses apart. But it felt more like an arrow, pointing forward, as if guiding them as they hurried through smashed buildings, over cracked pavement and broken terrain, and into a large superstructure that, by the look of it, had once been a magnificent institute of science. The pain sensation was different, it was more like a confused compass, seeming to come at him from random and sudden angles, as if the dial on the compass had become confused and randomly began to spin at uneven intervals.

“Over there,” one of the lycans pointed. “The sound came from over there.”

The group stopped as the lead lycan pointed. The feeling was tense, all of them expected resistance, and if the lead lycan had indeed heard a noise, it seemed perfectly likely that they had found their adversaries. Or worse, their adversaries had found them.

Ouch
thought Shen as another jolt of pain shook through him. It seemed to indicate the other way. Behind them. Another jolt followed. Then a third. The pain became more intense.

“We need to keep moving,” said Zarao, the leader of the lycans. His voice was hushed yet authoritative.

“But we should be cautious,” said Tristan. His own words equally silent, Shen doubted a normal human could have even heard them. “If they are right there, they could we waiting for us. In ambush.”

“I don’t think it’s
them
,” said Zarao. “No doubt it’s just some of the filth of this world. Some Type I Remorii. And probably just a few of them. Nothing we can’t handle.”

As they spoke, Shen felt a steady increase in the pain, seeming to point directly behind them; eventually the pain was so much that he could not hide it anymore and he doubled over, letting slip a grunt.

“Quiet, you,” said Zarao, “you’ll alarm them.”

“Are you all right?” asked Tristan, coming to Shen’s side.

“They’re not in front of us,” said Shen, feeling the pain ease momentarily.

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” asked Zarao. “Bliktah just heard them.”

“I heard something,” said Bliktah. “I don’t know if it was them.”

“Well, whatever it is, it was something,” said Zarao. “And we cannot afford to let it, or them, or whatever it was, get the drop on us. So, here’s what we’re going to do—”

“They’re
behind
us!” interrupted Shen, having finally put it together. This was how he had known which transports the Remorii had been on. He could sense it, through directional pain, and now it was coming from behind, stinging him in the back; it was unlike any sense he had ever experienced before when he’d been a normal human. But somehow he was certain of what it meant.

“I don’t sense anything behind us,” said Zarao.

“I definitely heard the noise ahead of us,” said Bliktah, “that way.” He pointed.

Shen shook his head.

“This one is a fool you have brought with us,” said Zarao, giving Shen a fleeting and dismissive glance. “Look at him; he acts as if he is in pain.”

“He is in pain,” said Tristan. The familiar lycan then gazed down at the leader, having a slight advantage in height; his eyes were intense. “We should listen to him.”

“You think they are approaching us from behind?” asked Zarao, still sounding skeptical.

Tristan nodded.

That, apparently, was good enough for Zarao. “Turn around!” he commanded. The group of them had just enough time to turnabout and take up positions, ready to ambush anybody following them, when the enemy came.

“Defend yourselves!” Zarao commanded, and the lycans bared their teeth and let their feral qualities show, letting their muscles ripple and retractable claws flash; they seemed almost to transform into honest-to-God monsters, although they looked very little like wolves. Shen had seen Tristan transform before, so he was not taken by surprise by it, yet he had never seen so many all at once. Shen even felt himself begin to change in response to the fear; his appearance didn’t change but he felt stronger, quicker, and much more alert. All of them were ready to lay waste to whatever threatened them, yet, when the enemy did come, Shen’s first thought was that he and the lycans were outmatched.

The first surprise was, it wasn’t the enemy Shen had expected. Given the amount of cunning it had taken to sneak up upon a group of lycans despite their heightened senses, and the fact that Shen had been able to detect the Type II Remorii before—on the transports—he expected them to encounter Strigoi. But they didn’t. Instead, it was a shambling, yet stealthy, horde of Type I Remorii that shuffled into the room.

The second surprise was their overwhelming numbers. First, they came through the corridor, as if they had been stalking the lycans, then, as battle was joined, the Type I Remorii began smashing in through windows and seemed to come at them from all angles. Their positions and timing seemed far too perfect to be that of a disorganized, bloodthirsty horde…it seemed almost like an ambush.

It quickly became a noisy, terrifying bloodbath, and lycans clawed Type I Remorii to pieces, ripped through their muscles and sinews with razor-like teeth, and used brute strength to hurl them back, into one another, and against the walls and floors. But despite the lycans’ ferocity, the Remorii kept coming, numbers replacing numbers, and they brought their own strength. When one of them landed a blow against a lycan, it came with the force of a sledgehammer, and, with a whimper, the lycan, Bliktah, rolled to the floor. He was quickly surrounded, and Shen took steady aim with his carbine and opened fire, focusing his shots on the enemies’ heads. But it was Tristan who came to Bliktah’s rescue, although by now Bliktah looked maimed and badly beaten. Nonetheless, Tristan fiercely fought off the Remorii that had surrounded the wounded lycan.

Shen helped as much as he could, and, in trying to do so, completely neglected his own safety, just for a moment, just long enough for the Type I Remorii to get in close. Within an instant, there were three right next to him, all within striking range, and there was little Shen could do.

He felt a flashback take him as he recalled being seized, struck, and bitten by the very creatures not long ago, in a long glass corridor, somewhere on this same godforsaken planet, just after he’d shoved Calvin aside and saved his friend’s life. That beating, and the bite he’d sustained then, had changed his life forever. It had transformed him into the inhuman beast he was today. The freak. And now, with surprising speed, three more had surrounded him, clearly ready to finish the job they’d started back then.

Shen unloaded his magazine into the head of the closest one as they approached. It was enough to kill it, the corpse-like being, the sick, pale Type I Remorii fell to the ground, its head an explosion of bone, blood, and brain-matter that just didn’t look right. But then his trigger stuck and the gun stopped firing. He glanced around for half an instant, searching for an ally to come to his aid; no one was nearby, and the closest to him had problems of their own.

He fumbled to release the magazine and slide in another, but his response was too slow. The two Type I Remorii were right next to him, so close he could feel their cold, moist breath. It smelled like death.

He swung the carbine against the head of the nearest one, it cracked and broke as it struck its target, yet the blow did not kill the monster. It seemed only to slow it a little, to stun it. But the monster didn’t even fall down. As for the other, it was near enough to take Shen by the throat if it wanted to, or strike him with the truck-like force of blows these Remorii had proven capable of.

Goodbye Sarah
, thought Shen, realizing his time had come.

But the blow did not come. Nor did they take him by the neck or exert any other force against him. They came within inches of him and then just…passed him by. As if they didn’t even see him. It didn’t matter that he had gunned one of them down and broken his carbine in a forceful blow against another; they seemed not to care about him at all. As they strode past him, Shen stared at them in utter disbelief, but only momentarily. His new friends were still in danger and the panic of battle had not left him, and before he realized what he was doing, he dropped the broken bits of carbine in his hands and wrapped his fingers around one of the Type I Remorii’s heads and quickly and forcefully snapped its neck. This did the trick and it slumped to the ground, dead.

“Good work,” said Tristan, suddenly back at Shen’s side. He shredded the last of the three Type I Remorii that had approached Shen. His claws were a fury as he ripped out the monster’s heart, in the process dodging a swift and forceful blow that nearly managed to take him in the head.

“Why?” asked Shen, not meaning the question to be directed at Tristan so much as simply wanting to voice his incredulity that the Type I Remorii had ignored him.

Tristan seemed both to take it as an inquiry directed at him and to understand what was being asked. “It’s because they think you smell like them,” said Tristan.

“
What?
” asked Shen, as he followed Tristan to go to the aid of Zarao, who had taken on at least five Remorii, and had evidently killed half as many more.

“They identify you as one of them,” said Tristan; he dodged a succession of swift, powerful blows as he engaged the group of Remorii, taking some of the pressure off Zarao. “And I hate to be the one to tell you this but…you do smell like them.”

Shen didn’t know what to say.

“Come on then,” said Tristan, as he clawed another Type I Remorii to pieces. “Lend a hand.”

***

The wound was flaring up again. Nimoux ached, yanked from his dreamless sleep, and found himself curled on his side, writhing on his bed. The gunshot wound had been treated, and, according to the doctors, had begun the healing process, but that was small comfort to Nimoux, who every now and then fell victim to bouts of agony like this one.

He muttered something incoherent then bit down hard, trying to ignore the pain, as he rolled to his other side and reached for the translucent orange bottle on the nightstand of his cabin.

He grabbed it and unscrewed the lid only to discover it was empty, except for a plastic freshness preserver. He set the bottle back down and then lay on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling.

It will pass
, he told himself, trying to find his center and forget about the pain.
The pain shall pass
.

It didn’t. He tried every technique he could think of: counting breaths, meditation, attempts to return to sleep, biting down on his tongue, just enough to confuse the pain sensors in his body…nothing worked.

Damn
, he thought as he forced himself to sit up, and once he could muster the strength, stand to his feet.

Fortunately, these episodes were rare and had not compromised his ability to perform his duties. In fact, most of the time, he didn’t even need to rely on the strong synthetic painkillers to move about and get on with his tasks. But every now and again, the pain simply seized him; it felt like a heated cannonball had been transplanted into his abdomen. The burning sensation, and the rest of the pain, was worst in the front, where the exit wound was. Where the bullet had actually struck him, in the back, there was pain there too but not nearly so much.

He dressed himself in a robe, the simplest way to make himself look decent enough to traverse the starship’s corridors, and then left his quarters, headed for the infirmary. The pain’s intensity changed, increasing and decreasing like waves, but ultimately it refused to go away, no matter how much he focused upon his breathing exercises while he walked to the elevator.

Once he reached the infirmary level, the pain had somehow gotten worse. He walked, almost limpingly, down the long stretch of corridor and to the infirmary doors. A crewman passed him on the way, giving him a strange look and then a proper salute, along with an offer of assistance. Nimoux politely refused.
This
, he thought,
this I can do on my own
.