The Phoenix Darkness (30 page)

Blackmoth had given many to the void over the
years. But even his valiant efforts were invisible compared to the
Grand Design that lay in store…the great plans of The One True God.
He only felt lucky just to be a small part of it.

Chapter 11

“Bridge, this is Captain Pellew,” he
transmitted.

“Go ahead, Captain.”

“I’m at the site of the breach,” he said,
gazing at a large round hole cut out of the ship. It was eerie, and
more than a little alarming, to watch the stars turn slowly and
know that there was nothing more than a helmet between him and
them. “The breach has a diameter of about three and a half feet. It
definitely wasn’t caused by debris. There’s a ship here, latched
onto the
Nighthawk
.”

“Are you sure it’s a ship? The scopes show
nothing.”

“I’m sure. Definitely a ship.” He looked at
it. It was sleek and, although mostly out of view, what he could
see of it looked new and state-of-the art. No doubt this was one of
those Hunter ships the prisoners had told him about. “It’s about
half the size of the
Nighthawk
, but it has a cockpit instead
of a bridge, and looks designed for a crew of only one.”

“I’m still not getting any readings,
Captain.”

“That’s because the ships are moving,” Pellew
replied. “Stop the ship. That will force this one to become
stationary and then you’ll see it.”

The stars stopped turning and almost the
instant they became stationary, he heard a scream over the radio.
“Holy shit!”

“Stay calm,” said Pellew. “I’m going to
disengage us from her,” he’d already begun to examine the controls
and systems available to him on the foreign ship. It appeared to be
of Rotham design, based on its markings, and fortunately, since he
had Rotham fluency, he was able to interpret the meaning of most of
the controls. “I think I can use the control here to patch the
breach,” he said, noting that the Hunter ship was designed to cut
its way into another ship and then seal the cut. But the intruder
here had made the unique decision not to seal the cut, no doubt to
keep the deck in a state of null gravity, otherwise he couldn’t
hope to move the isotome missile alone.

Pellew climbed inside the cockpit of the
Hunter ship and fiddled with the controls. On his second try, he
was able to force the ship to patch over the
Nighthawk
’s
hull breach, sealing it—at least for the time being.

“I’ve got a patch on our breach,” said
Pellew. “I want gravity and atmosphere restored to Deck Four
immediately, but keep decks three and five under Hull Breach
Protocol.”

“Right away, sir.”

Pellew next set to task trying to disarm or
disable the extractor device, which was slowly pulling and coiling
a chain toward the ship. No doubt bringing the isotome missile with
it. Unfortunately, this seemed to be stuck using some sort of
command override system that he could not figure out. In his
frustration, he climbed out of the cockpit, drew his carbine, aimed
it at the extractor, and emptied a magazine.

Other than sending a hail of ricocheting
bullets all throughout the Hunter ship’s cabin, it seemed to have
no effect. “Damn…” he muttered, then slapped a new magazine into
his gun.

“Where are we at with that gravity and
atmosphere?” he asked.

“Just three more seconds.”

He counted down and, to his surprise, the
gravity, atmosphere, and lights were all restored in almost exactly
three seconds. He felt suddenly heavy, which meant so would the
isotome missile.
Take that, you bastard
, he thought. Then he
deactivated the magnets on his boots, so he’d have better
mobility.

***

When the lights snapped back on, so too did
the atmospheric pressure and the artificial gravity. This caused
the isotome missile to plummet to the deck where, with a hideous
screech, the extractor attempted to drag the now 220 kg object
along the deck. It only managed to pull it a few feet before
becoming stuck. The extractor wasn’t rated for dragging a heavy
object in such a way. Obviously, Blackmoth needed to take care of
this.

He disabled the magnetism of his boots and
left the missile where it lay, marching forward, toward
Hunter
Four
, ready to deal with the rest of these pests. And feeling a
premonition that there was only one of them left, and that one was
the leader. And most strongly of all, that of all the sacrifices
he’d made that day—sending soul after soul into the void—this one
would prove the most deserving. In fact, it seemed to be the will
of The One True God that this one be made to suffer. So suffer he
shall.

The One True God does like to test me
,
he thought.
But I shall prevail. The One True God’s design
requires it.

***

Pellew lay prone in the corridor, with his
carbine held at the ready, his right eye peering through the iron
sights. He faced the direction that he knew the enemy would be
coming from. Because he faced the direction where the chain led. A
chain that, fortunately, had been brought to a screeching halt.
Which meant the isotome missile was safely planted on the
Nighthawk
’s deck, where it belonged, no longer being dragged
through absent gravity toward a Rotham starship for whatever evil
design the intruder had intended.

“Come on, come on,” whispered Pellew. “Show
yourself.” As soon as he had a clear shot, he was going to take it.
No one tore through his soldiers, and boarded his ship, and tried
to steal his missile and got away with it. That missile was meant
for Raidan, and Pellew had some very important—critical
even—considerations riding upon that safe delivery. As the best
fighter on the
Nighthawk
, and an expert in both tactics and
combat, Pellew felt that he would be more than a match for whatever
was coming. Especially if he managed the element of surprise, which
was why he was so bent on firing the first shot.

I’ll line up his head in my sights and
then squeeze, and that’ll be the end of him
, he thought
,
waiting for the enemy to appear
. Pellew still wore his helmet
and gear—just in case the Hunter ship’s seal failed and they lost
atmosphere again. The helmet made sighting the gun a lot harder,
but he’d managed to make tougher shots under worse conditions. And,
like all members of Special Forces, he’d been forced to train with
and without climate gear, just for such occasions as this.

After a few seconds, the enemy did appear.
His head, which was also helmeted, came into view and Pellew
immediately took the shot. His first glanced off the side of the
helmet. So he hurriedly fired another. This struck the helmet
directly, but didn’t penetrate. Instead, the carbine’s bullet
ricocheted off. Clearly the stranger’s helmet was made of tougher
material than what came standard to Special Forces.

If the intruder was alarmed, he did not show
it. He continued to walk toward Pellew at the same calm pace,
standing tall and proud, not even bothering to try and minimize the
size of his target. Nor did he seem in any haste to return
fire.

Strange and stranger
, thought Pellew.
He abandoned his plan to go for the headshot and instead jumped up
to his feet and took aim at the intruder’s heart. Certainly his
climate suit couldn’t handle a direct hit from a carbine, despite
its bullet resistant properties. One clean shot in the chest and
that’ll be the end.

The intruder, evidently, agreed with Pellew’s
analysis, because, as soon as Pellew leveled his carbine to
fire—which he did as speedily as he could—the intruder raised his
own weapon, in an inhuman flash, and fired, beating Pellew to the
punch. A metal rail carved into the barrel of Pellew’s gun,
destroying it. The projectile itself didn’t look like it was going
to stop and only managed to just shy of striking Pellew’s own
heart. It even managed to penetrate partway into Pellew’s climate
suit,
after
ripping through the entirety of his carbine.

“Holy shit,” was all Pellew could say, and he
dove for cover, scrambling to find his sidearm. Before he could
draw it from its holster, though, the intruder fired a second shot
from his railgun. This one sliced through Pellew’s sidearm and
implanted itself an inch deep on the
Nighthawk
’s deck,
leaving him completely unarmed.

He looked up at the intruder in disbelief.
Behind his helmet screen he looked like any other common human,
pale skin, dark hair, a bit of pockmarks to his face. Nothing
special, certainly nothing that hinted he was so dangerous. And yet
he’d slaughtered his way through Pellew’s entire Special Forces
garrison. And now, by the looks of it, he was about to do the same
to Pellew himself.

“How…?” was all Pellew could get himself to
say. He scooted backwards, trying to regain his feet. Not ready to
die, but not sure how to prevent it.

The intruder looked down at him and watched
in silence as Pellew climbed back to his feet. “So it is you then,”
said the intruder, in a voice that sounded dark and not quite
human. “You’re the one The One True God has sent to challenge
me.”

Pellew didn’t know what the hell he was
talking about. But so long as he kept talking, and not shooting,
Pellew might be able to think of something.

“Yeah, I guess that’d be me,” said Pellew,
scooting back a little bit farther.

The intruder stayed where he was. “Why do you
dare oppose me? Do you not see that this, all of this,” he gestured
widely, as if meaning the
Nighthawk
. “Is utterly
futile?”

“Because,” said Pellew. “I sure as hell
wasn’t about to let you take my missile.”

The intruder nodded. Then, for no logical
reason whatsoever, he tossed his railgun far behind him—disarming
himself. Pellew didn’t know if that was meant as a gesture of
peace, or a display of superiority—like a bet that he could still
defeat Pellew, on even terms, without any weapons at all.

Big mistake
, thought Pellew, he
charged, wanting to have the element of surprise, and dove as he
reached the intruder, ready to tackle him with all his
momentum.

***

Blackmoth found the human soldier amusing.
There was something in him, his tenacity, his desire to fight, that
sparked a memory inside Blackmoth’s own mind. A memory of a time
long ago, before he’d seen the light.

I was little more than you, once
, he
thought as he caught the soldier with his hands, blocking his
tackle with ease. He threw the soldier into the bulkhead, where he
crashed and collapsed to the floor. Blackmoth looked down at him
and waited, wanting to see what the human soldier would try
next.

As he’d expected, the human soldier got back
to his feet, despite the pain he was in, and charged at Blackmoth
once more. Except, instead of trying to tackle him, this time he
threw a punch, followed by several quick jabs. It was an
unimpressive, even banal form of mixed martial-arts soldiers
learned and Blackmoth had mastered as a child. He easily deflected
the incoming blows. Block after block he watched the human soldier
struggle to connect with him, clearly frustrated by Blackmoth’s
superior hand-to-hand skill and, no doubt, surprised by Blackmoth’s
restraint.

“Tell me, soldier,” said Blackmoth as he
ducked a fast jab then blocked a second. “Are you the leader of
that army of the damned back there?” he pointed his thumb over his
shoulder to where crumpled heaps of corpses lay in piles.

“Army of the damned?” the soldier sounded
confused. He kept his attention on trying to best Blackmoth and
darted close, managing to get something of a grip on Blackmoth’s
arm and wrist, trying valiantly to grapple him down to the ground
and pin him. The soldier even managed to jam his knee into the back
of Blackmoth’s leg.

Had he been a normal man, he likely would
have gone down with such an attack. But for Blackmoth, this was
mere child’s play. In a blur, he rebuffed the soldier’s efforts and
sent him to the ground, sliding along the floor.

“The men you sent against me, did you intend
to send them to the slaughter?” asked Blackmoth. “Because I have
delivered them to the void.”

“Those were
my
men, you heartless
bastard,” the soldier said, regaining his feet.

“Their blood is on your hands, soldier,” said
Blackmoth. “The responsibility always lies with the commander.”

This had the effect Blackmoth expected and
put the soldier into a heated state of rage. When he charged
Blackmoth this time, his fists we’re practically flailing, his legs
kicking, and he did all he could to land a blow, just one blow,
desperate to rip Blackmoth apart limb from limb.

Blackmoth easily sidestepped the attacks,
blocked the blows, and held the soldier at bay. For all his
athleticism and practiced hand-to-hand combat, this soldier was
little more than a speck before the sword of The One True God.
Dealing with him was like dealing with a child still bound to the
cradle.

“Are you afraid?” asked Blackmoth, when the
soldier’s flurry of blows stopped and he bent down to catch his
breath, hands on his knees.

“Afraid of what?” To his credit, the soldier
made a respectable effort to sound strong, to sound intimidating.
As if he still had some power here, or any hope.

“Afraid of the void,” said Blackmoth. He
noticed the soldier’s eyes subtly take interest in something behind
Blackmoth and then hurriedly glanced away, as if he pretending he
hadn’t noted the railgun on the ground, several meters away. But
Blackmoth knew the soldier would make a play for the railgun. He’d
always known it.

The soldier charged him one more time,
exchanging two more blows, which Blackmoth blocked with ease, but
it was a feint, an obvious one, and the soldier spun around, ready
to sprint for the railgun. Only this time, Blackmoth wasn’t quite
so gentle. He caught the man by the back of his arm and wrapped his
free hand around the soldier’s throat, stopping him in his
tracks.