The Phoenix Darkness (37 page)

It wasn’t just the possibility of survival
that had led Alex to acquiesce to Calvin’s request he be given a
discreet data disc with which he could steal as many of the
Rahajiim’s secrets as he possibly could. It was also in the best
interests of the Republic, or so Alex believed. Sure, there were
things in the supercruiser’s databanks which could be used against
the Republic, such as details of the defenses of various Rotham
star systems for a start. But the humans, with their ridiculous
civil war, were in no position to launch an attack against Rotham
space. And the vast majority of the Rahajiim data, at least the
data Calvin was likely to target, would be about the group itself,
their conspiracies, and likely whatever their attack plan was
against the humans. If Calvin escaped with that data and got it
into the right hands, it was possible the humans could mount a
resistance against the invading Rotham fleet and perhaps force a
few Rahajiim commanders and the senators supporting them to think
twice about their ambitions inside human space. Certainly stalwart
resistance from the humans, if it were possible, would go a long
way toward helping the non-interventionist cause.

On the reverse hand, should the Rahajiim, and
the fleet they’d coerced the senate into giving them, successfully
campaign inside Imperial space, conquering multiple human worlds,
it could only result in the inevitability of ongoing war between
the two species and prolong tensions for untold generations to
come. Conquest was not the purpose of the Republic, thought Alex.
It never has been and it never will be. Conquest is the game of a
few profit seeking individuals who stood to enrich themselves with
power, money, and prestige at the expense of the people who would
bear the cost of the wars, both in blood and treasure.

And so Alex was more than happy to acquire
such a data disc for Calvin’s exploitation. It only helped to serve
the right cause.

Chapter 15

Cassidy’s announcement had sounded loud and
clear, doing Summers proud. By the time it had, Summers and Dr.
Andrews had already gotten Nimoux to the infirmary. The instant
they arrived, the whole staff pounced upon him with such vigor
Summers could barely get out from under the many arms trying to
grab him and carry him to the medical bed in the intensive care
side of the small facility. Even though she knew her place was at
the Bridge, she couldn’t make herself leave and instead watched as
they transfused new blood into Nimoux, did an exploratory
thoracotomy and discovered the bullet had struck Nimoux’s liver, as
Dr. Andrews had feared. Fortunately, it had missed his right lung,
although the medics said it had been a narrow miss. At least Nimoux
hadn’t died en route to the infirmary drowning in his own
blood.

They
worked
and they worked
fast
! It was fascinating to watch, and a bit gruesome, as
the men and women in scrubs and masks, with white gloves, now
drenched red, rushed about trying to give what aid they could.
Certainly all of them would have recognized him, Summers was sure.
Nimoux had become a household name after he shut down the slave
industry in The Corridor, putting the final nail its coffin through
his heroic actions on Korrivan. But these same medics would also
likely know Nimoux had been their enemy not long ago, that he’d
been hunting after the
Nighthawk
, wanting to see them all
arrested. When Summers had offered Nimoux the XO job, she’d sent
around a memorandum to all heads of staff, which informed them of
the change, and that Nimoux was now not only an ally, but a crew
member. She didn’t know if these particular medics had read the
memorandum, but whether or not they had, they followed Dr. Andrews’
commands with strict obedience. Each and every one of them seemed
to diligently fight for Nimoux’s life, as if they were operating on
Calvin himself.

They discovered the bullet had cleanly
penetrated the body without splintering, and after suturing the
liver and then the entrance and exit wounds, they’d finally gotten
the bleeding under control, both internal and external. Now they
were trying to restore his blood supply to a healthy amount,
provide relief to his heart, and fill him with fluids.

Dr. Andrews approached Summers and took off
his mask. “That’s all we can do for him for now,” he said, peeling
off his bloody gloves and dispensing them into a hazard bin. His
scrubs were still coated in blood and the green cloth soaked with
so much dark red only served to remind Summers how much had stained
her own uniform from helping to carry Nimoux down here and, more
importantly, how much blood the man had lost.

“Is it normal for him to still be
unconscious?” asked Summers. The fact that Nimoux never regained
consciousness during the trip to the infirmary or at any point
during the operation alarmed her. She’d read extended periods of
unconsciousness, other than sleep, were often associated with a
host of serious disorders.

“I gave him a small sedative once we began
the surgery,” said Dr. Andrews. “Not much. I didn’t want to overdo
it. He was already deeply unconscious, but I didn’t want him to
wake up during the thoracotomy. With any luck, he’ll be waking up
any time now.” His words were optimistic, but Summers noted a
distinct lack of cheer in Dr. Andrews’s voice.

“Will he recover?” asked Summers, point
blank.

“Hopefully, he will,” said Dr. Andrews,
evasively. “But I can’t make any promises. The hemorrhaging is
under control, but there are a lot of variables still to worry
about.” He looked at her. “I’m sorry, Commander, I’m not trying to
distress you…”

He was interrupted by the sound of the door
opening. Summers looked behind her and was shocked to see Shen
arrive, not looking very healthy. He seemed pale, like Nimoux, only
he shivered and one of his arms and one of his legs seemed
outrageously swollen. He leaned against one of two medics who,
together, were helping to carry him in.

“Oh, God, what now?” said Dr. Andrews as he
rushed over. Two more medics joined him; it was clear he’d gotten
his entire staff on alert. They began to do everything from putting
a blanket around Shen to taking his temperature to a host of other
things Summers could only guess at. She would have kept watching,
but her attention immediately leapt to the presence of four Special
Forces soldiers marching through the door. She felt her heart
accelerate and she glanced around for anything, a scalpel, a chair,
whatever she could use to resist and defend herself.

But the soldiers did not look hostile. On the
contrary, they entered with their hands over their heads. They wore
climate gear, but had shed the helmets somewhere along the way, and
though they had weapons strapped to them, none of the guns had a
magazine loaded inside it. Summers recognized one of the men as
Pellew’s right-hand man. She approached him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she
asked. Not quite sure where else to start.

“Forgive us, Commander,” he said. “We only
wanted to make sure this one,” he pointed at Shen, who’d been moved
to an infirmary bed, “made it back in one piece.”

“Does this,” she pointed at the man’s hands
resting upon his head, “mean you soldiers surrender to the crew,
and abandon your mutiny?”

“It does, sir,” he said, sounding genuine.
“To be honest, we were only following Pellew’s orders when we took
the ship,” he looked ashamed for the hostility he'd so recently
shown her, and no doubt expected her to punish him befittingly.
Summers was just glad some of the soldiers seemed to have been
persuaded into joining the crew’s side of the mutiny, and without
violence to convince them.
Maybe Cassidy’s announcement put the
fear of God into them
, she thought.

“Do you speak for these, your men?” asked
Summers, looking at the other three.

“I do,” said the lead soldier. Summers looked
at each of the others, clearly wanting to hear it from them. Each
of them answered affirmatively.

“Aye, he does.”

“We surrender.”

“I never wanted to be fighting y’all in the
first place.”

“Then I command you to put your weapons on
the floor, as well as your magazines and any ammunition you have on
your persons,” she said.

They complied, laying their rifles and
magazines on the ground of the infirmary. This action, more than
anything they’d said, proved to her their motives were sincere. It
filled her with an intense sense of relief.

“What is your name?” she asked the lead
soldier.

“First Lieutenant Ferreiro, Commander,” said
the lead soldier.

“And your names?”

“PFC Rodriguez, sir.”

“Lance Corporal Ali, sir.”

“Private Merrill, sir.”

So one officer and three enlisted. By the
look of them, not one had been a member of the
Nighthawk
’s
original complement of Special Forces soldiers. These men were
mercenaries taken aboard ship from the
Harbinger
itself.
Sure
they’d been drilled and trained by Pellew since then,
but none had seen any real action except for possibly today.
Would they be much use against the others?
she wondered.

“And what about the rest of your men?” she
asked. Glancing toward the door. “Do you speak for them too? Or do
they fight for Pellew?”

“Pellew’s gone, Commander,” said First
Lieutenant Ferreiro.

“Gone? Gone where?”

“The rest of the men, they’re gone too,” he
said. “We’re all that’s left.”

“All that’s left of what?” Summers was
baffled. Surely they didn’t mean they four were all that was left
of a garrison of more than twenty soldiers.

“Commander, Rodriguez and I left the Bridge
and went to deck four to find Captain Pellew, like you suggested.
Ali and Merrill did the same, except they left from Engineering. In
teams of two we combed deck four, meeting up in the middle, nearly
shooting our own comrades out of fear.” He spoke as if he’d seen a
ghost. The others looked similarly somber and, almost
reverent
.

“Fear of what?” asked Summers. Wanting to
finally know just what the hell had gone on down there on deck
four.

“You wouldn’t believe us if we told you,”
said First Lieutenant Ferreiro.

“I
command
you to tell me,” said
Summers. Technically, she couldn’t give commands to the Special
Forces garrison, but since they'd mutinied against her and now
surrendered to her, she felt that gave her the authority to command
them. If not as soldiers, then as prisoners.

“We found some of our men there, dead, just
floating in the null gravity,” said Rodriguez, when the First
Lieutenant seemed momentarily unable to speak.

“Signs of a battle,” said Summers, not
terribly surprised. There
had
been an intruder, after
all.

“Not signs of a battle,” said First
Lieutenant Ferreiro. “Signs of a massacre! A bloody slaughter. Our
men were like sheep in their white climate gear, suspended like
that, hanging at all sorts of angles. Blood drops hung everywhere,
whole clouds of them.” Summers could see some of the blood had
stained the climate gear these men wore; she’d assumed they were
from their own injuries, but now she thought the blood was from
these so-called clouds.

“And what of the enemy?” she asked. “Did you
recognize their bodies? Were they human? Did you count the
corpses?”

“There was no enemy,” said Rodriguez, not
making eye contact. He stared forward and downward, at the floor,
as if seeing through it and reliving the experience. “All
throughout the corridor our soldiers’ bodies, in bloody tatters,
hung about like balloons. And nowhere to be found was a single
enemy. Whatever they’d been…whoever they were, they’d been ready
for us.”

Summers felt an eerie chill snake up her
spine and shuddered involuntarily. “Who could have done something
like that?”

“We have no idea,” said First Lieutenant
Ferreiro.

“Well, what did the corpses look like?” asked
Summers, grimacing at her own question. “Trajectory paths of
bullets, slash marks from knives or claws…” she thought of Tristan.
“Surely there must have been
something
.” The story reminded
her of one Calvin had told her long ago, in the privacy of the CO’s
office, about when his ship, the ISS
Trinity
, had allegedly
been haunted by vampires. Strigoi, he had called them. But
vampire-like beings seemed to defy physics; Calvin described them
as horrifying monsters who slaughtered his crew and killed the love
of his life. He’d been one of only a few to escape the nightmare.
Had this been the same thing?
she wondered. And, if so, had
these soldiers been infected? Would they transform into terrifying
monsters, or else into wretched, slowly dying corpses…

“There wasn’t much to mistake it,” said First
Lieutenant Ferreiro. “They’d been shot and torn to pieces by some
kind of high-power rifle.”

“More like a dart gun,” said Ali. “I got a
look at one of the projectiles, I would have brought it with us,
but it was stuck in the wall.”

“A dart that got lodged into the bulkhead?”
asked Summers, disbelieving.

“That’s right.”

“No, surely it would have broken apart on
impact, or else ricocheted like a bullet,” she shook her head.

“I saw it with my own eyes,” said Ali. “And
so did Merrill.”

The one called Merrill, who seemed like the
strong, silent type, only nodded. He too had difficulty making eye
contact with Commander Summers. Whatever these men had seen, they
were clearly traumatized. She didn’t doubt running into one's own
companions’ corpses could do that to a person, but she also
suspected maybe the time spent in the null gravity without any
atmosphere had gotten to them. Perhaps something had affected them
that their suits had proven insufficient to protect them from?