The Phoenix Reckoning (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 6) (38 page)

“What am I supposed to be noticing?” asked the Great Nau.

Alex made more adjustments and slowed the footage. Then he pointed out what he thought to be incredibly useful information. “Look here,” he said, pointing out a group of starfighters clearly positioned to intercept any incoming isotome missile. “These are human ships, deployed in an intercept formation. I think the humans were afraid an isotome weapon might be used, and deployed these ships to prevent it.”

“You’re not actually suggesting that we fired the missile,” said the Grand Nau, appalled by the notion. “That star’s destruction inflicted casualties on our fleet far worse than those inflicted upon the humans. Why would our commanders do such a thing?”

That was a good question. Good enough that it made Alex seriously doubt the missile had been fired by the Rotham fleet.

Of course, the fact that the fleet had been sent by the Rahajiim and was mostly commanded and crewed by Rahajiim members and sympathizers, meant perhaps they were willing to use the isotome weapon in order to make some kind of statement, perhaps to inspire chaos and war, even invoke terrorism, but none of that seemed to match the Rahajiim’s normal modes of operation. The Rahajiim had a history of trying to acquire power, usually as invisibly as possible, and then exert that influence to garner more influence and more power. Nowhere in their manifest, if they had such a thing, was there any suicidal devotion to any cause. The Rahajiim were inherently selfish, which made it hard to believe they would be behind such a blow. Alex had no doubt the fleet had arrived armed and ready to destroy Thetican System, but they would not have fired any of their isotome weapons while the bulk of their own fleet was in range of the star’s explosive shockwave. It was possible someone had fired prematurely, or something had gone wrong, but ultimately Alex was inclined to agree with the Grand Nau, the isotome weapon had not been fired by the Rotham fleet. But, knowing what he did of the humans, and their general lack of isotome weapons—according to Calvin’s missions—it seemed implausible for the isotome missile to have been fired by the humans either.

“I do not believe we fired the weapon,” said Alex, wanting to reassure the Grand Nau that his loyalty remained true. This seemed to please the Grand Nau. “However,” Alex continued, “I don’t believe the humans would have destroyed their own star system, even to do massive damage to one of our greatest fleets.”

“Humans are capable of vast corruption when given even an inkling of power,” said the Grand Nau. “It would be wise not to forget that.”

“Be that as it may, as I have described in my reports chronicling my time with the humans, it is my fervent belief that the Empire did not, and does not, possess an isotome weapon. Therefore, they couldn’t have fired it.”

“But you spent time with, primarily, only one human crew, is that not correct?” asked the Grand Nau.

“You read my reports?” asked Alex, flattered.

“I like to remain informed,” said the Grand Nau.

“Yes, that is correct. I was with an Intelligence Wing crew aboard one of their Phantom-class starships. However, I also spent time on other ships, but always with the same humans, that is true.”

“So, you would not know if the humans had an isotome weapon, or more, if those humans themselves didn’t know about it. Or if they had chosen to deceive you.”

That was true, Alex supposed. “I don’t believe they intended to, or could have, deceived me so effectively. This crew seemed adamant, almost obsessed—and rightly so—with finding and destroying the isotome weapons. In fact, I am aware of the destruction of half the known galactic supply during an operation on Remus Nine.”

“However, the humans themselves might not have known what isotome weapons their government may have possessed.”

Alex had to consider that for a moment. “I suppose that is the case,” said Alex. “But that still doesn’t explain why they deployed these squadrons here in this way—clearly in formation to intercept any incoming isotome missile.” He pointed back to the screen.

“Posturing,” replied the Grand Nau. “If the humans were willing to sacrifice part of their fleet, and one of their star systems, in order to deliver a hefty blow against one of our greatest forces, they certainly couldn’t be honest about it. They would have needed to at least make the appearance of trying to safeguard their system, despite being the architects of its doom.”

Alex was surprised he hadn’t thought of that. It took him another moment to consider it, but ultimately he still found it doubtful. Though it left him without an explanation for who had fired the isotome missile, where it had come from, and why Thetican System had been destroyed.

“Humans are always more capable of treachery than they let on,” said the Grand Nau, “you would be wise to remember that.”

“I will,” promised Alex. “However, I still don’t believe the humans fired the missile.”

“Oh? So you’re back on us, then?”

“No, not us either.”

“Then, who?” asked the Grand Nau.

“I don’t know. But one thing is consistent about all of these recordings,” he pulled several more of them up onto the many displays. Then he played them, each in 1/16 time. “There is no missile visible anywhere. I can’t tell who fired the shot because, by every appearance, no shot was ever fired. It’s like the fighter squadron failed to intercept the missile because it was invisible somehow.”

“That or they knew it was coming,” said the Grand Nau.

“But, even if they knew it was coming, the missile had to come from somewhere. There must have been a shooter and there must have been a shot, but none of these recordings, from so many different angles,
not one
of them records either a shooter or a shot fired at the Thetican star.”

“I think it’s fairly obvious,” said the Grand Nau. “The humans fired the missile from out of sight of the battle, so they could cloak their action and also so as not to alarm any of our warships, so, when the star did explode, it could take out the vast majority of our ships with it.”

“Perhaps,” said Alex, still unconvinced. “Or perhaps it was the Enclave, maybe they withheld one of the isotome weapons they were supposed to deliver to the Rahajiim and then, after developing some sort of grievance with them, chose to use it against the Rahajiim fleet, and decided to slaughter some humans too while they were at it. Billions of them.”

“If this atrocity was perpetuated by the Enclave, then retribution has already been carried out,” said the Grand Nau.

“What do you mean?”

“I still am doubtful that it was the Enclave who fired an isotome missile into the Thetican star, however I am of the opinion, as is the rest of the Advent’s leadership, that the Enclave is an unwanted element that, like its Rahajiim allies, must be purged from the Republic, if not the entire galaxy. And so we took action against them.”

“What sort of action?” asked Alex.

“After combing through that intelligence we recovered, among other things we discovered legislation ready to be enacted to bring those human monstrosities into the Republic as citizens. We also uncovered a great depth of cooperation between the Enclave and the Rahajiim, so we decided to deal with them. They have been neutralized.”

Alex liked the sound of that, but it was hard for him to imagine how the Advent had so quickly, if effectively, neutralized the nightmarish Strigoi of the Enclave. “What did we do, if I may have the privilege of knowing, sir?”

“The isotome weapon stockpile that the Rahajiim acquired, with the help of the Enclave, I am happy to report that it was essentially destroyed in the Battle of Thetican System. When the star’s shockwave destroyed so many of our ships, the one positive development was that the isotome weapon inventory was aboard them.”

“So all of the isotome weapons in the galaxy are finally gone, then?” asked Alex, hoping desperately to hear an affirmative reply.

“Not at the time. After the battle, one survived. We have since used it, however, and now all known isotome weapons are forever destroyed,” said the Grand Nau proudly.

“Wait…used it where?” asked Alex.

“On Tybur, of course. That was a human colony once, but they were never friendly toward the Empire, or us for that matter, but they were taken over by the Enclave as part of the Rahajiim’s payment to the Enclave in exchange for the delivery of these dreaded isotome weapons.”

That much Alex already knew.

“We decided it would be the most appropriate irony to blockade the system and then use the last of the isotome weapons on the Tyburian star. This we did.”

“So the Enclave is no more?” asked Alex, incredulously.

“I wouldn’t say that for a certainty,” said the Grand Nau. “But Tybur is no more, and the majority of the Enclave has been eliminated. As for the rest, they are scattered somewhere, probably they fled into human space, but to us they are irrelevant. Just as the Rahajiim falls, so do their dearest ally.”

“And the isotome weapons are finally gone as well,” said Alex, unable to contain a smile. “So there is still some good news in this universe.”

“There is indeed,” said the Grand Nau.

“It was wise to get rid of the last isotome weapon,” said Alex.

“Indeed it was. The Senate, had they known about it, would have wished to use it against the humans as retribution for what happened to Cepheus,” said the Grand Nau.

“Cepheus is a tragedy that deserves an answer,” said Alex. “But the humans have bled far more and far worse than us, and now they must be preparing to engage the Dread Fleet; fighting the humans will serve us nothing.”

“On that we agree, Proxitor.”

“That said,” said Alex, ready to reintroduce his idea, despite having expectations that it would not be well-received, “I believe strongly that our best chance of survival is to fight the Dread Fleet alongside the humans.”

“That is lunacy,” said the Grand Nau. “We don’t even know for certain that the Dread Fleet will ever attack Republican space, and you would have us bring the battle to them—not to mention setting ourselves up to be stabbed in the back by treacherous humans?”

“I would have us fight with the best probability of success,” said Alex, pointing to the computer readout. “In a few months’ time, when the Dread Fleet’s ships are encircling Ro, armed to devastate, won’t we wish then that we had fought them—and stopped them—elsewhere, rather than waited patiently for them to come find us and kill us?”

“You make too many assumptions, Proxitor,” said the Grand Nau.

“Guardians in the darkness, protectors in the light, to those who’d do the wrong, we shall fiercely serve them right,” said Alex, quoting one of the Advent’s slogans.

“Very clever, Proxitor, but I assure you, when and
if
the time comes that we must do battle against the Dread Fleet, we will be prepared to guard our people, in light or darkness, against such a storm.”

“How, may I ask you, sir, can we hope to protect our people, if we do not exercise every possible advantage we can against such an adversary?” asked Alex.

The Grand Nau seemed to mull this over before replying. “You would have us side with the humans. How can we be sure that such a thing is an advantage? How can we know they won’t betray us?”

“How can they know we won’t betray them?” Alex replied with a shrug. “It will have to come down to trust—trust founded upon the bedrock of mutual need and desperation. And, who knows? Before all of this is through, perhaps we shall betray each other. But, from where I am sitting, and from what the computer says, this is our one best chance at survival. I think we would be fools to ignore it.”

“You make some good points, Proxitor, I promise to consider it. However, if I were you, I wouldn’t start packing to go save the humans yet. I am still doubtful that I will approve such a course of action.”

“Then at least promise to consider it,” said Alex. “I expect the humans to be in such dire straits that they will come begging us for help. When they do, I strongly advise you, or whomever makes that decision, to come to their aid. Because saving them might very well mean saving ourselves.”

“I will consider it, if that happens. But I make you no promises,” said the Grand Nau.

“I understand.”

CHAPTER 18

It was a display of absolute carnage.

Smashed screens and broken tables. Shards of glass sprayed throughout the room. But, far more disturbingly, on top of all the ruined technology and furniture, lay seemingly countless corpses. Strigoi and lycans alike, ripped apart and maimed. Entrails torn out through orifices, eyeballs torn from sockets, bones cracked, broken, and even protruding. Entire limbs had been ripped from bodies and claw marks had dug deep, removing organs and shredding innards…it was a rancid spectacle of pure, brutal, animalistic slaughter.

Shen stood there, mostly intact, holding a bent steel pipe in his arms, staring down at his latest victim as blood dripped from the pipe onto the bludgeoned corpse.

What have I become
? Shen wondered.
What have I done?

“Hit him again,” snarled Tristan from behind. “Make sure the bastard’s dead.”

Shen closed his eyes, begging whatever gods existed—if any—for forgiveness, then smacked the crooked pipe down against his victim’s head; it burst apart, spraying skull fragments and grey-matter everywhere, not to mention plenty of blood. Some of the blood sprayed so high it caught Shen in the eye, stinging him; he wiped it away.

“Good work,” said Tristan, obviously still catching his breath. “Good work, everyone.”

“We’ve won a great victory here this day,” said Zarao, who, miraculously, seemed completely unharmed. He let out a howl and the other lycans joined in. Shen remained silent. He looked at Zarao and the others, all eleven that had survived—other than himself—and then stared back down at his Strigoi victim. One of three that he had personally dispatched.

I’m a killer
, he thought.
A monster
.

The scent was almost as overbearingly nauseating as the sight, yet Shen could not tear his eyes away from his handiwork. He felt his sore arms go limp and when he dropped the steel pipe, it landed against the cement with a loud ring that echoed in the mostly quiet laboratory.

For his part, Shen had taken a solid punch to the face and some Strigoi teeth had sliced through his uniform collar—just shy of his jugular.

I did what I had to do
, he told himself.
They tried to kill us. We had to kill them first
.

Still, as he held up his hands and saw the stains of red on his palms, then looked down once more at the Strigoi he had slaughtered, a creature that once—like him—had once been a human being, Shen couldn’t help but feel an outpouring of guilt wash over him.

If this is what it means to live as a Remorii, then I want no part of it
, he decided.
I would rather die.

To their credit, the lycans had proven their superior mettle when forced to the limit against the Strigoi, perhaps that was because the lycans were Type III Remorii, mused Shen; certainly, the newer the type, the more advantages would come with it. Including, evidently, the willingness and capacity to kill—to brutally slaughter—in order to survive.

Even though he struggled to grasp what had just happened, the last ten minutes felt like a rushing, violent blur, during which he had surrendered to pure instinct; he nevertheless understood it rationally. The Strigoi had wanted to kill them. And one couldn’t gently and peacefully incapacitate a dangerous Strigoi; they were tenacious in their ability to survive violence, and ruthless in their capability of dishing it out.
This was the only way
, thought Shen. Otherwise, we would be the shredded corpses on the floor…in fact, some of us are. He looked at the fallen lycans, far fewer lycan corpses than Strigoi ones, but these had been people he had walked in here with. People who, a few moments ago, were living and breathing and thinking beings. Now what? A smattering of goo, shattered bones, and rended flesh, all soaking in a bath of fast-drying blood that oozed out around them in large chaotic puddles…Shen had to blink. He had to look away.

He could live with this. He had to. He could even justify it. But, somehow, the sight of it all, the smells, the memory that was forming—one that would likely haunt him night and day—it left him feeling a kind of emptiness inside. Like there was a hole in his heart where that piece of him should be—that
human
piece—that knew where to draw the line, that understood when enough was enough. Instead, he had helped to slaughter and maim these creatures. There had been no respect for their enemies and, when each Strigoi had fallen down—presumably dead—the lycans, and Shen, had made certain to mutilate each corpse just to be certain. The whole thing had been a gruesome and sickening enterprise.

“Now,” said Zarao, waking Shen from the inner depths of his own somber thoughts. “We mourn our dead.” He then launched into a speech, listing each of the fallen lycans by name, and speaking a few words of respect about him. He bowed his head as he did this, as if in human fashion, and Shen thought perhaps the human element had not been eliminated entirely.
We may be killers, we may be animals, but that doesn’t mean we cannot take responsibility for our actions, and show respect for those things that have transpired
, he thought.

As Zarao paid homage to the fallen, the survivors crowded around their deceased comrades and each of them, in turn, ritualistically knelt next to each corpse and kissed it on the forehead—or where the forehead should have been. As they did, they muttered a phrase in some other language…Shen couldn’t make it out.

He wondered awkwardly if they expected him to follow suit, but he was spared the potential embarrassment when Tristan waved him over next to a sophisticated piece of machinery. Judging by its intact state, and the fact that the lycans had swiftly moved to control the area around it—and subsequently protect it during the melee—Shen assumed it was the Phalaxium. Or, at the very least, a crucial element of the Phalaxium. By the look of it, it was a receptacle for the toxins Tristan described, and based on its setup, sent them through pipes to various distribution networks across the surface of the planet.

“Can you look at this and tell me if it is still broken?” asked Tristan.

“I don’t even know what this is,” said Shen. However, as he examined it, the technology did make a kind of intuitive sense to him. He could even spot where there had been a broken sequencer which had been spot repaired by a welder.

“Try your best,” said Tristan, as he went about finding a safe, breaking it open, and retrieving some vials. Shen watched him, curious to know what they were; he expected there to be three—one for each toxin—but the case contained several dozen vials. Perhaps to create the toxins correctly a combination of chemicals was needed. It made sense, Shen supposed, certainly a vial of something wasn’t enough to affect an entire planet, but if it catalyzed something else, perhaps other chemicals stored in this distribution matrix, that might do the trick. He only hoped Tristan didn’t expect him to know which vials to use and how much—if forced to guess, he might kill them all.

“The machine looks repaired,” said Shen. “Evidently, our Strigoi friends managed to take care of that for us.”

“Then we got here without a moment to spare,” said Tristan. He handled the vials as if he had seen them before and Shen got the inkling suspicion that Tristan knew more about the Phalaxium than he was letting on. “There we are,” he said, retrieving a combination of three vials. “Mix this to a ratio of one third each,” he said, then handed Shen an empty beaker. “Also, try not to breathe the fumes.”

“Noted,” said Shen, as he began mixing.

By now, Zarao had finished leading the others in paying their respects to the dead—and further disrespecting the fallen Strigoi corpses—and he sounded impatient as he spoke. “Can we hurry this up?”

“I’m trying to make certain it is exact,” said Shen, finally achieving the ratio that Tristan had instructed.

“Well you’d damn well better hurry it up,” said Zarao, sounding either afraid or angry—or both.

“And why is that?” asked Shen, annoyed by the leader’s tone. Calvin never spoke to him in such a manner.

“Because you’ve got about eight seconds to get it done before a whole mess of unwanted guests arrive,” said Zarao.

Shen looked up and saw that Zarao was looking out the only window. Then, like a zap of electricity, Shen felt it. The pulsing pain. Quick and intense. It took all his effort not to drop the beaker when the pain hit him so unexpectedly.

“They’re coming, aren’t they?” asked Shen, knowing the answer.

“Oh, yes. And a whole lot of them.”

Shen handed the beaker to Tristan, who added some other chemical to it and then set about sealing it into a large capsule, making it ready for the Phalaxium to use.

“More Strigoi?” asked Tristan, not breaking his concentration.

“No,” said Zarao. “Type I Remorii, and a whole lot of them,” he then barked commands at the others. “You there, board up that window; barricade it with anything we’ve got. The rest of you, over there, do
not
let them get in through that doorway.”

Shen understood what that meant, not only would it be a useful chokepoint to hold the enemy at the doorway—whereas, should they breach the room, they could attack the lycans from all angles—the doorway also represented their group’s only path of escape. There were no other exits.

A moment later, clawing and banging could be heard against the tables that had been turned over to block the window. A fist crashed through the wood, splintered and bleeding, but its owner did not care. Shen doubted the Type I Remorii could feel a thing.

Well, at least I’m safe
, he thought. Then felt guilty at the selfishness of it.

“I said hurry it up!” said Zarao.

“Almost done,” said Tristan. He deposited the capsule and activated the machine. “There!”

By now, the Type I Remorii had broken through the crude blockade of tables and furniture blocking the window, and were crawling and clamoring to get inside. As each of them did, a lycan shredded the Type I Remorii apart, but their numbers seemed endless. Shen moved to catch a glance out the window and indeed it seemed like an ocean of Type I Remorii had found them. Shen knew if they stayed here, they would all die. Except possibly himself, but that was of little consolation.

“Move! Move! Move!” said Zarao, once Tristan gave him the signal. The group of them charged for the door and met resistance immediately. With fury, they clawed their way past and kept going, not bothering to make certain the Type I Remorii they attacked had indeed fallen dead. There simply wasn’t time.

They sprinted through the corridor, back toward the LZ. At this point, Shen knew he was slowing them all down, as they continued to run bipedally. Like him. When he knew perfectly well they were much faster on all fours.

“Go on ahead,” said Shen.

“What?” asked Zarao. “And leave you here?”

“They won’t hurt me; they think I smell like them,” said Shen. “Just
do
it.”

“Don’t worry; I’ve got this,” said Tristan. He then grabbed Shen, stopping him long enough to hand him a small vial, Shen recognized it as the combination of chemicals he had helped Tristan brew.

“What do you expect me to do with that?” demanded Shen.

“Drink it! And be quick about it!” said Tristan.

Shen resisted at first; if it was a toxic compound meant to slowly purge the world of its Type I Remorii, and he was part Type I Remorii, it would kill him—wouldn’t it? But then he remembered his dreams, remembered seeing Tristan reaching out for him. Calling him brother. Shen knew it was stupid, he knew that dreams had no meaning. They were just random images inside your mind, the defragmentation process of the brain’s hard drive. But, not knowing what else to do in the moment, he took the vial and drank.
After all
, he thought,
I would rather be dead than be a monster
.

“Finished?” asked Tristan.

“Yes,” said Shen, tossing the vial aside. By now the pain was becoming almost too much to bear, so great were the number of Remorii closing in on them, fast on their heels, that he couldn’t move without experiencing wretched agony. It was as if he could feel each and every one. A single Remorii felt like little more than a pinch, but hundreds and thousands of them, he thought he would die on the spot.

He took a few fumbling steps forward and Tristan caught him just as he was about to collapse. The world went dark and all sound faded. At first, it became a hum, and then in time, the hum faded also. That was the last he remembered.

***

“Yes, what is it?” asked Calvin, as he stepped out onto the bridge. It was currently Red Shift and Vargas had the deck. He wasn’t sitting at the command position, but instead standing nearby, gazing intently at the ship’s bow window. Even the other officers of the watch, Cassidy, Jay, and Donaldson seemed to be captivated by something, but what? Rez’nac was there too, sitting in the XO’s chair. Calvin had no idea what the Polarian was doing on the bridge at this hour—or for that matter, what he was doing there at this hour—but he could tell it was Rez’nac because his entire head and neck stuck up over the back side of the chair, due to his height.