The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) (32 page)

It’s just us versus them
, she thought.
One dreadnought, badly scarred, against a host of capital ships and several scores of drones
.
Dammit. Damn it all.

“Sir!” her Ops chief yelled, sounding extremely alarmed. “It has happened!”

“Missiles?” asked Ravinder, knowing that was the likeliest answer, and the least welcome.

“Yes, sir,” said the Ops chief. “Three dozen missiles have been launched, all on an intercept course with this vessel.”

She felt her heart in her throat.
Three dozen!
She doubted the
Hyperion
could withstand one missile in its current state—provided the enemy had chosen the best target.

“Defense, redirect all of our guns to the task of missile interception. On the double!”

“Aye, aye!”

“Helm, move us away from those missiles, as far and as fast as you can. Retreat back into the middle of the defensive formation,” said Ravinder. She would
not
allow the
Hyperion
to be lost.

“Sir,” said her XO, “If we redirect all of the guns away from the drones, then the drones will destroy us.”

Ravinder nodded. “Be that as it may, Commander, I promise you that missiles will destroy us much faster than these gnats that are eating away at our hull and armor.”

“Understood, sir,” her XO replied.

“Comms, contact any and all nearby ships, and request immediate support. Inform any nearby friendly ships or starfighters that we are in need of missile interception. Then repeat that. Make it clear that our request is urgent!”

“Aye, aye, sir, hailing all nearby ships and starfighters,” said the Comms chief, and his staff immediately began to speak into their headsets.

“The missiles are gaining on us,” said the Ops chief. “Half the distance is gone. We must move faster.”

“We are moving as fast as I can make us go,” replied the helmsman, sounding either annoyed or terrified, perhaps both. “But there’s not a ship in the fleet that can outrun a missile without jumping into alteredspace.”

Alteredspace, thought Ravinder, what a great idea. “Helm, calculate a jump into alteredspace, it doesn’t matter where, and proceed to jump as fast as we possibly can.”

“I cannot do it, sir,” replied the helmsman. “Our alteredspace drive has taken too much damage. It’s useless as scrap to us now.”

“Not to mention we drained all power from that system long ago to help support the shields,” said the Ops chief, quickly adding, “The missiles are fast approaching. Time to interception…forty-five seconds.”

“Defense, have you gotten the gun crews to switch tasks yet?” demanded Ravinder, feeling a rush of impatience as the Ops chief continued counting down.

“We’re doing our best,” said the Defense chief. “The gun crews have their orders and they are trying to adjust the guns, some are nearly ready, with more still adjusting, while others have overheated and gone completely offline.”

“Thirty-five seconds,” said the Ops chief.

“How many guns will be ready by the time those missiles reach us?” asked Ravinder, her state of alarm rising to new levels she hadn’t thought possible.

“I’m still figuring that out; I’ll get back to you,” said the Defense chief.

“Comms, any response from any nearby allied starships?” asked Ravinder desperately. Surely there had to be
someone
who could help them.

“Twenty-five seconds.”

“Only one reply, sir,” said the Comms chief. “It’s from the ISS
Argonaut
, the nearest allied capital ship.”

“And?” asked Ravinder, hoping for good news.

“Nineteen seconds,” the Ops chief continued the count.

“They are unable to assist,” said the Comms chief. “They’re dealing with a missile problem of their own.”

“Thirteen seconds!”

“We’ve got it!” announced the Defense chief loudly. “Thirty-six guns, primed and ready.”

“Open fire!” commanded Ravinder, doing some math in her head. If every gun fired, and none missed their marks, thirty-six guns should be exactly enough to stop thirty-six missiles. And barely in time!

“Firing!” said the Defense chief. Then his look of excitement abruptly shifted to horror.

“What?” demanded Ravinder.

“Five seconds.”

“One of the guns—it’s overheated!”

“How?” demanded Ravinder.

“Two.”

“I don’t know!”

“
One
.”

When the missile impacted with the
Hyperion
, everything happened instantaneously. Ravinder didn’t have time to comprehend what was happening until it had already happened.

The hull protecting the bridge failed and was instantaneously reduced to a spray of debris; chunks of it were sent in all directions, a few struck some of the officers, decapitating one and killing another with blunt force trauma. As for Ravinder, she felt an exposure to forces that seemed to throw her leftward in her chair, violently. And crew who were not strapped in, which was most of the bridge staff, were blown out into open space, also instantaneously.

After a second or two, Ravinder got her bearings, and could make some sense of where she was, and what had happened. Everything had become completely silent and all around her was blackness, interrupted only by strangely bright, artificial lights that seemed to be everywhere. She opened her mouth to breathe, but found no air to inhale. In fact, making the attempt immediately resulted in severe chest pains that she couldn’t quite understand. For that matter, making sense of anything quickly became progressively more difficult.

She could make sense of the fact that she was still strapped into the command position’s chair, which remained bolted to the floor, but the bridge itself had been blasted entirely free from the rest of the
Hyperion
, and was now an exposed, free-floating object, spiraling in open space. As far as she could tell, only she remained. There were others who had been strapped in too, but, of the ones she saw, they looked dead or unconscious…some skewered by debris, others simply looked as though they were having a nap. As for the rest of the crew, those who had been blown out into open space the instant the breach occurred, none of them could be seen. At least not from her vantage point, as she, and the remains of the bridge, continued to spiral.

Things felt a little heavier after a few more seconds. It was difficult to remain conscious, her chest burned with horrible pain, and she wanted more than anything to breathe, but there was nothing for her lungs to take in. Her cognitive functions began to decline and, as even more seconds ticked by, she managed to think of only two more things:
Strange, I thought space would feel a lot colder
, and,
I feel swollen everywhere…

The last thing she saw, as the remnants of the
Hyperion
’s bridge spiraled around, bringing the ship into view, was the rest of the
Hyperion
break apart, its hull suddenly and instantly giving way. Then there was nothing but darkness. In all, the entire experience lasted fifteen seconds.

CHAPTER 13

Calvin had hoped to avoid any more fighting as he and his team raced back toward the pods. He wanted nothing more than to get back on the
Nighthawk
, jump away from this system, and put the entire experience permanently behind him. For the most part, he kept his concentration well, and managed to think only of the mission, and, when they had come across enemies, it had been Calvin who had spotted them first.

The fight had proven to be brief, although extremely gruesome. The enemy force outnumbered Calvin’s group by about fifty percent. However, they also seemed to be taken completely by surprise when Calvin and his team attacked them. For a few deadly minutes, Calvin was not sure that he and his forces would prevail, or that anyone would manage to get back to the pods and back to the
Nighthawk
. If that proved to be the case, he dearly hoped that Nimoux would eventually retreat the ship to safety after making the obvious assumption regarding Calvin and his team.

But, as the fight intensified, Calvin’s Rosco-trained soldiers proved to be more effective than he had expected and, through superior marksmanship and a little cunning, his force managed to entirely eliminate the enemy soldier patrol, while only sustaining six casualties of their own. They were regrettable losses, all six of them. The lost included: one of the mercenaries that Raidan had sent Calvin what seemed like forever ago; also the specialist pilot—rendering one of the two pods completely un-flyable since only Calvin remained who knew how to operate the damned things; and finally four Rosco soldiers whose names, Calvin was ashamed to admit, he had never bothered to learn.

During the chaos, their captive slipped free of the soldiers restraining him—mostly because those men had to draw their weapons and return fire on the enemy to save their lives. The escape attempt was noticed immediately, and the captive never managed to get far, nor could he wriggle out of the restraints that kept his arms behind his back, but his effort still contributed to the chaos. Ultimately, Nikolai had been the one to overtake the fleeing captive, the Dark Prelain, and aggressively tackle him to the ground. When Nikolai returned to the group, he had the captive slung over his shoulder as if the Dark One were a bundle of potatoes, yet, considering the ease with which Nikolai held him, it was as though he was as light as a feather. Fortunately, by the time Nikolai returned, the fight was over. So he had set the captive down and turned him back over to the two soldiers charged with watching him.

“Don’t let him get away again,” Nikolai had warned them, “Or else I’ll do to you what I did to him.”

The guards seemed to understand; although the exact threat hadn’t been clear to Calvin, the message had essentially been not to allow the captive any opportunity to slip away, even if their group found itself embattled once more. Calvin hoped these soldiers they had slaughtered would prove to be the only ones between them and the clearing where they had left the pods but, of course, it was impossible for him to know for sure.

They had no time to mourn their dead, nor the means to retrieve their bodies—it would slow them down too much and make them too vulnerable, so as much as Calvin hated it, especially because it meant he could not retrieve Miles’s body either, they left the corpses where they lay and continued, moving at a near full sprint.

The only truly difficult moment for Calvin, one that proved almost to break him, had been the moment they passed the spot where Miles had been slain. His body was still there, just as it had been, not even showing the first signs of rigor mortis—so recently had he died.

Calvin felt a surge of rage, combined with tremendous regret, and he stopped dead in his tracks…wanting nothing more than to reverse the clock, just enough to prevent this senseless loss.

His men did not agree with his decision to pause and stare down at the body. And, within two seconds, they were tugging and pulling at him, practically forcing him to continue onward, away from Miles’s corpse and toward the pods.

It was several paces before Calvin could rip his eyes away from the sight of his departed friend. All the while thinking, in disbelief, how he would never hear that boisterous laugh again, nor feel the pat on his back that was always just a bit too hard. He felt a burning sensation in his eyes, the slightest hint of tears, the more he thought about it.

God damn you, Miles, for leaving us so soon,
he thought, successfully fighting back the outpouring of tears that threatened to overwhelm him.
And God damn me for bringing you with us
.

Whatever else Miles had been, one thing that could always be said for him, was that if Calvin ever needed him, he had always been there for Calvin. And it didn’t matter what the circumstances were, or the details, or who was right or who was wrong; in any situation, no matter what, Miles always had Calvin’s back. That had proven true more times than Calvin could count. It was something he had loved, something he had relied on, and even something he had taken for granted. If there existed a person in the galaxy who was more loyal than Miles had been, Calvin had never met them. And in that moment, as he and his team continued racing to the pods, Calvin realized that that had been what he always admired most about Miles. His pure, unbendable loyalty.
The galaxy sure could use a few more people like Miles
, Calvin thought.
Then it would certainly be a better place
.

It took great difficulty, but Calvin somehow found the will inside himself to compartmentalize Miles’s death away, for the time being, and focus on the immediacy of their situation.

The mission was not over. And none of them were safe. They had to interrogate the prisoner, just as surely as they had to escape the system in one piece. That meant getting back to the
Nighthawk
, and fast. Calvin knew that.

They continued, moving swiftly, racing to get back to the pods. Before they reached them, however, they encountered another group of Polarian soldiers; this group seemed less taken by surprise when Calvin and his men attacked. Perhaps word had spread,
intruders in the building. Be on alert
. Calvin would be surprised if it hadn’t.

The two groups exchanged fire almost immediately. Calvin was eager to squeeze his trigger—too eager—he didn’t even bother spending the extra second it would have taken to actually line up the sights. Because of this, and his compromised state of mind, his bullets, although rapidly fired, were all completely off mark. When he’d fired his last round and it too failed to strike his intended target, Calvin was swift to drop the magazine, slide in another, and resume his shooting.

As much as he had tried to compartmentalize away the death of his friend, and as much as his personal survival instincts pled with his mind to pay his full attention to the battle, he could not stop thinking of Miles. And that sent Calvin into a blind, blood rage. It was so intense a feeling, and it took such overwhelming control of him, that when another of his shots missed his Polarian target, he leapt to his feet—having previously been kneeling for cover—and began walking down the corridor, completely exposed, continuing to fire his weapon with every step.

His men cried behind him, shouted at him to get back or get down, some asking what the hell he was doing. He didn’t really comprehend what any of them said, nor did he allow himself to think any of it through…to him it was white noise. Something that existed outside his world. His tiny, limited, focalized world consisted of the Polarian soldier whom he had selected as his target, and his own insatiable lust for revenge. Retribution. Blood for blood. It was as if Calvin had so wanted to believe that this individual, his target, had been the person who had killed Miles, that he had somehow succeeded in convincing himself of that very fact. And nothing else mattered, nothing but making the bastard pay for what he had done. For Miles’s pointless, utterly senseless death.

Two beams of energy fired his way. One off target by over a foot, perhaps it had been aimed at someone else; Calvin didn’t know, nor did he care. The second beam proved much more of a threat…it nearly took him in the head, proving to be just off mark by mere inches on his left. It had come so close to striking him that he’d felt the heat of the blast momentarily. It had felt, for a moment, like he had stuck his ear on a frying pan, but the heat and the pain were gone in an instant. And Calvin did not care that he had just narrowly escaped death. It did not matter. All that mattered was exacting painful justice upon this Polarian, his target, so that Miles may rest in peace.

Calvin fired twice more, both misses, as he continued his advance, still at a walking pace. His eyes never left his target; they were so intensely locked onto the Polarian that Calvin scarcely blinked.

You will pay for this
, he thought. Squeezing the trigger once more, again missing his target, but this time only narrowly.
I will make you all pay
.

Then, taking him completely by surprise, he felt a strong hand grip him by the left shoulder and yank him backwards with such force that he nearly collapsed onto his back. The jolt caused him to fire the gun and a bullet struck the corridor’s ceiling.

Fortunately, Calvin managed to keep standing; even though he was being dragged backward, away from the target he so desperately wanted to kill, a part of him allowed it to happen. And, as more beams were fired in his direction—some very nearly on target, there was a small part of Calvin’s brain that realized that he had put himself into unnecessary danger, and that retreating back into cover was a smart idea. And that small part of him, although distasteful and ultimately unsatisfying, had been enough to keep him from resisting the force of the man tugging him back down the corridor, back toward relative safety, where the rest of his group stood by, each kneeling or standing aside, taking the best stances they could in the situations where cover could not be found.

The tugging on his left shoulder stopped and was replaced with a powerful force downward, making him collapse to his knees. At that moment, something awoke inside him and he realized this was a person who had just risked his life, gone out of cover himself, and, through great effort, actually cared enough to drag Calvin back to safety, away from certain death, and had now just planted him on his knees, making him a smaller target; more or less, this person had done everything possible to protect Calvin, despite great risk to himself.

Immediately, Calvin felt foolish for what he had done, and ashamed that he had forced someone else to endanger his own life to come save him; but, coupled with those feelings, was also a tremendous sense of gratitude…even awe that someone would do such a thing for him.

True
, others had died for him in the past, or risked their lives to help him, even save him; he could not even count the number of times such a thing had happened—and he still lived with the guilt of the knowledge that it had ever happened, because, in his opinion, his life had not been worth the sacrifices made on his behalf—and yet, though it could be said that this was not the first time someone had done such a thing for him, nonetheless he felt extremely grateful. It was the kind of thing a loyal friend would do, someone with the same kind of loyalty that Miles had. And, as Calvin turned to see the face of his rescuer, a part of him hoped—despite the impossibility—that it would be Miles’s face that he would see. The big man would flash that big dopey grin of his, then he’d make some kind of attempt at a smart remark.

But it proved not to be Miles. A familiar face, yes, even someone Calvin liked, but still a part of him was irrationally disappointed that it had been Nikolai, and not Miles, who had proven to be his rescuer. Still, Calvin did not allow such irrational disappointment to color his feelings of gratitude toward the muscular, bald soldier.

Before Calvin could thank him, or say anything, Nikolai spoke. “Come now, old friend,” he said with a crooked smile, “If you wish death, that is no way to have it.”

Calvin nodded, feeling the return of his senses, his blood rage dissipating rapidly. “Thank you,” he said. Though the words felt inadequate.

“Is not problem,” Nikolai replied, once again showing off a crooked smile. He then raised his arm and pointed down the corridor, toward the enemy, a small squad of six Polarians that continued trading fire with Calvin’s people. “That,” said Nikolai, still pointing toward the enemies at the far end of the corridor. “That is problem.”

Calvin nodded. “What do we do?” asked Calvin, knowing that their small arms were about as effective at range as the enemy’s energy rifles, meaning that, aside from a direct charge—which would be bloody—there seemed to be no way to take them out. And going around them was not an option, they were blocking the only way back to the pods. “Any ideas?” Calvin asked.

Nikolai nodded. “Yes,” he said. Not further expounding.

“
And?
” asked Calvin, finding Nikolai’s answer to have been incomplete, at best.

“Ah,” said Nikolai, again showing his crooked smile. He reached around his other side and pulled something from his belt. As he raised it up for Calvin to see, Calvin could have sworn he saw an honest-to-God twinkle in the bald soldier’s eye.

Calvin was stunned; he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but certainly it hadn’t been this. To his knowledge they had been forced to use them all, so how did Nikolai still have one, and why did it look different than the others? The color was wrong, it had strange grooves, and seemed larger than normal.