The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) (13 page)

“And just what is the value of an ally, one wonders?” asked Tristan.

“To the queen…” Raidan hesitated before replying. “I suspect the queen considers all forces to be allies, provided they have a useful purpose to serve.”

“And the minute we don’t,” said Tristan. “After we defeat the Dread Fleet—assuming we can—what then? Can we expect her to allow us to go in peace or in pieces?”

Raidan didn’t seem to have an answer. Tristan knew him well and could tell from his haggard facial expression that his mind was too hyper-focused on the forthcoming battle to worry about anything afterward—if, indeed, there was anything afterward. “I suppose,” ventured Raidan, “Only time will tell. I doubt if your ships make it so far as to Remus System that the queen or any of Her Majesty’s forces will pursue you there. After all, it is still considered banned space, removed from all Imperial star charts.”

“Yes, however making it there does depend upon a very large if,” said Tristan, already wary that the queen had
other
plans for them. Most likely to exterminate the Remorii. He knew Raidan well, and trusted him, and by extension many humans because of him; Tristan even had taken the humans’ side during the wars, but that did not make him foolish enough to believe he was one of them—in his eyes or theirs. The same held true for all lycans throughout the galaxy, but most pointedly so for the ones who had nobly travelled with Raidan to oppose the Dread Fleet—as they were the ones within striking distance once all the shots had been fired. Tristan believed he needed a contingency plan for just such an occasion, even though the odds stood firmly against them, all of them, that they stood any chance of victory against the Dread Fleet.

“In that case,” Raidan raised a shot of whiskey. “Here is to a noble death.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Tristan, raising his own liquor—his, a shot of vodka. They downed their drinks, and after a bit of unceremonious chatter, they terminated the call. Tristan immediately hailed Zarao, who, once he appeared on the viewer, it was clear the Alpha lycan was sitting at the command position of the
Thunder Sun
, the ship of his choosing.

“And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” asked Zarao. “Have you any news?”

“Not news,” admitted Tristan. “More like a question.”

“I am all ears.”

“My question is, are your ships ready—for when the enemy comes?” Tristan said the words carefully, knowing all too well what Zarao and the others planned to do, and thinking them both courageous and perhaps a bit stupid for committing to such an idea.

“My ships are ready,” said Zarao with an air of confidence that nearly gave Tristan the chills. It was a good sound to hear. The others had chosen wisely when they had made Zarao their leader. For, while Tristan considered himself the brighter of the two, there was none who could match Zarao for his bravery and leadership prowess. He was the kind of lycan that others instinctively wanted to follow. Many of them, here in this system, to their very graves.

“And you’re certain that you and your ships are up to this task?” asked Tristan, needing confirmation.

“Yes,” the answer came immediately. No hint of hesitation, wavering, or second-guessing. Zarao meant what he said. That much, Tristan could depend on. No matter how crazy the scheme appeared in Tristan’s mind.

“I wish I could join you, my brother,” said Tristan—it was half-true. “However, Raidan has requested that my ship protect the
Harbinger
’s flank. As you know, that is where my first duty lies.”

“I understand and approve,” said Zarao with no animosity. “You and your ship do as the humans bid. I will take the rest of us and do what we came here for. We are moving to position now, eager to spill the blood of our enemies.”

“Just…be mindful,” said Tristan. “It promises to be a long day.”

***

Calvin and the others had exited the pods to find themselves in a small clearing in a wooded area. Judging from the black spire that could be seen above the tree-line, he knew he wasn’t far from the Alcazar; it was walking distance away.

“I’m surprised they don’t have better defenses,” said Nikolai.

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” admitted Calvin, thinking this whole operation was proving too easy to be true. He was used to having to improvise, to think on his feet, to adapt to unexpected obstacles and strange yet stubborn resistance, but here, here felt peaceful. Almost
spiritual
. It was the kind of place Rain would have liked. Calvin sighed.

Still, Calvin wasn’t the type to allow the apparent peacefulness, and lack of resistance, to lure him into dropping his guard, so he drew his carbine and ordered the others to draw their weapons too. Between the two pods, the entirety of the soldier unit had come aboard the surface of the planet—minus Nimoux—along with Calvin, Miles, and Rez’nac. Calvin, because he wanted to command the operation; Miles, because Calvin trusted no one more to have his back, and because he didn’t want any infighting between the Defense Chief and Summers to cause any trouble for Nimoux back on the
Nighthawk
; and Rez’nac, because he knew, better than anyone, the secrets of the Forbidden Planet and the Alcazar.

In total, the rest of their force comprised twenty Rosco soldiers, including Nikolai, and the specialist that had piloted Pod One; and the two remaining mercenaries that Calvin had received from Raidan. Nimoux had assigned them ranks accordingly, and organized them into operational detachments, Alpha and Bravo, as was custom, but these were thugs, professional mercenaries, but thugs all the same. Whatever training Nimoux had been able to give them, combined with whatever training the Roscos had required of them, the summation of that experience would have to suffice. And Calvin knew he would have to account for his peoples’ inexperience.

Calvin sent two ahead—the stealthiest two—to act as point and scout the forward position; the rest followed as quietly as twenty-something soldiers could. Despite careful avoidance of branches and twigs, boots inevitably crunched as they made their way through the wooded area, toward the Alcazar.

Fortunately, it seemed, the Polarians did not have regular patrols guarding the perimeter and, by the lack of opposition they met, Calvin suspected their pods had managed to land covertly—something he had been counting on from the beginning. Because, should a direct fight break out outdoors, his people would be able to marshal none of the advantages they had brought with them, and Calvin and his forces would either die pointlessly or retreat in abject failure. Neither option was even remotely acceptable.

“Rez’nac,” Calvin whispered. “What is the best way in and where is the High Prelain?”

“The best way in is through the front entrance,” said Rez’nac, his voice a little louder than made Calvin comfortable. “Because it is the only way in. Other than going through the Sacred Dome of the Council.”

Calvin didn’t know much about the Alcazar, other than what he had been able to glean from Rez’nac in interviews, along with the scraps of intel Nimoux had cobbled together in his report, but Calvin knew enough to rule out forcing entry through the Sacred Dome of the Council, which was essentially a fortified chamber where a tiny senate-like body of Prelains met and governed the Polarian religion, under the supervision of the all-seeing, wisdom and greatness of the High Prelain, of course.

“So, we’ll be knocking on the front door,” Calvin muttered. He wasn’t terribly surprised, Nimoux’s plan had called for nothing less. But, still, he was disappointed that a more discreet option was unavailable.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Rez’nac, failing to understand that Calvin’s comment had been rhetorical. “As for where the High Prelain is…at this time of day,” Rez’nac stared up at the local sun. “He will be in the Villa of the Alcazar. No doubt in meditation.”

Good
, thought Calvin. A premeditated attack always had the advantage over a meditating opponent. Now it was just a matter of getting custody of the High Prelain without killing him, or taking too many casualties. For while it had been a veritable walk-in-the park to come this far, Calvin knew better than to expect the Alcazar to be so unguarded.

They approached the main entrance and, as they neared the building, Calvin couldn’t help but gaze upwardly in awe at the spire tower that was the Alcazar. The structure was made of some kind of ancient stone, black and purple, something he didn’t recognize. It had the polish of glass, but the strength of steel, or so it seemed as he touched it.

“It is best not to disturb the Alcazar,” said Rez’nac, taking note of Calvin’s activities. He did not sound reprimanding, but instead reverent. Calvin decided to respect that. Before long, their scouts reached the primary entrance; it was a locked gate with what appeared to be a hand-shaped carving laid neatly into the stone. Otherwise, the gate blended in with the rest of the black structure, smooth, polished, and seamless.

“Rez’nac, unless you want us to get out the C4, I think this one is on you,” said Calvin; he then ordered two of the soldiers lagging behind to watch their backs.

“I can make no promises,” said Rez’nac. “For I am a Fallen One. But once, a time not long ago, I could have opened this door. Let us see if it still recognizes my touch.”

As Rez’nac placed his hands into the grooves in the wall, his hand fit almost perfectly. The stone substance around him seemed to brighten and then glow as he chanted one of his mystical chants. And then, with speed Calvin did not expect, the path was open, revealing a long corridor lit by green torches hanging from sconces along the wall.

“There will be guards now, heavily armored guards,” said Rez’nac.

“Just what I’m counting on,” said Calvin. He then spun around and called for First Lieutenant Ferreiro and Nikolai to bring forward the thermobaric weapon. This, according to Nimoux’s designs, would give them the edge they would need against the superior numbers, armor, and conviction of the defenders inside the keep-like Alcazar.

“Here, sir,” they reported, together toting the massive weapon.

“Everybody stand clear,” Calvin ordered. Then, just as guards began to appear around the distant corners, suddenly taking note of the open door—and the army of humans about to invade the Alcazar, Calvin gave the order. “Fire!”

The outcome proved even deadlier than he had expected. The thermobaric projectile quickly consumed as much of the air in the tight Alcazarian corridor as possible, gaining power as it did so. By the time the projectile reached the end of the hall and exploded, it sounded as if a mini-earthquake had occurred. As for the enemy guards who had formed up to resist any kind of frontal assault—they were dead. Bits and pieces of gore, armor, and blood was strewn and spewed throughout the floors and walls. To its credit, the Alcazar’s ancient construction material weathered the explosion without any notable damage—at least none that Calvin could see.

Looks like I owe Nimoux six Q
, Calvin thought; he’d bet that the thermobaric weapon would at least partially destroy one of the walls. Nimoux, evidently, had known better.

They had to wait for the air to re-stabilize before entering the Alcazar. The torches were gone, leaving everything dark. Calvin activated a tactical light affixed to his helmet. They all did.

“This way,” Calvin motioned for the intersection where two corridors met, the very spot that the Polarian guards had tried to hold before being suffocated and scorched to death at the same time. “Rez’nac, you take the lead; scouts, follow his orders. We need to find the clearest path to the Villa—and we need to do it
now
. Before the High Prelain escapes.”

“It is this way,” said Rez’nac, pointing. The group accelerated to the job, pausing only to cover themselves when vulnerable, such as at the intersection of corridors. At first, Calvin believed they were safe, that their thermobaric weapon had successfully eliminated all the guards, but an energy blast from seemingly nowhere grazed his earlobe, proving him wrong.

“Go prone!” Calvin ordered, scrambling to identify where the enemy was firing from. “Take cover as best you can!”

A second blast went over his head, narrowly missing him, and tracing its trajectory backwards, Calvin could see a cluster of heavily-armored Polarian warriors in formation, opening fire on the humans.

“Over there,” Calvin pointed. “Fire at will!”

“Can we use the thermobaric weapon again?” asked Miles. “That shit rocked their world the first time.” He maneuvered, at tremendous risk to himself, to get into position next to Calvin, also prone.

“Not yet,” responded Calvin, knowing that the weapon had limited charges and depended on the saturation of oxygen in the air. As it was, even here, it felt difficult to breathe. He took aim with his carbine and, after slowly expelling a breath, managed to find his target with a two round burst—right in the head. The Polarian toppled over. Several others joined them as the humans returned their fire. Although Calvin’s team was not without casualties of their own, he noted. He didn’t have time to turn around and see who exactly, but he heard screams from burn injuries, as well as the sound of at least two bodies collapsing to the floor.

“We need to clear them out with grenades,” said Nikolai. “That would be easiest.”

“I agree,” said Calvin. I have three frags in my right side pouch. He moved as if to get them, even though it meant moving out of cover, when he suddenly felt the meaty hand of Miles slam him back down into the prone position.