The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) (18 page)

“We’re in Capital System?” asked Shen. He tried to sit up, to no avail.

“Yes, though we haven’t been here long,” said Sarah. “Currently, we’re aboard the ISS
Mediese
.”

At that point, the doctor returned, along with two orderlies; together, they began undoing Shen’s restraints.

“I bring the captain’s compliments on your recovery,” said the doctor. “It seems your transition is complete.”

“What transition?” asked Shen, unsure what the hell the doctor was talking about.

“You have been completely cured of your Remorii-ism,” said the doctor.

Shen looked at Sarah, who smiled broadly. As for Shen himself, he didn’t believe it. It sounded too good to be true.
It can’t be
, he thought. As soon as he was free, he stood up and punched the medical console as hard as he could, expecting it to shatter into a million pieces. Instead, he bruised his hand and nearly broke the tiny bones in his fingers.

“
Ouch
!” he shrieked.

“Like I said,” said the doctor. “You are fully human once more. But I would try to keep that temper in check.”

Shen nodded, unbelieving. Sarah took him in her arms and he found himself hugging her, pulling her in tightly, thinking perhaps now, it was finally possible, that the two of them could be together. Shen did not believe in God, or gods, but whatever power governed the universe, if there was one, he felt profoundly grateful. And still a little stupefied.

“I don’t believe it,” he muttered. “I’m…I’m human…”

“I’m sorry to cut this moment short,” said the doctor, “But the captain requests your presence on the bridge—both of you,” she looked from Shen to Sarah.

“What for?” asked Shen. “Shouldn’t we be released?”

“I’m sorry, I cannot do that, not at this time. So long as you are members of the military—as you both are—your presence is needed on the bridge. The captain wishes you,” she pointed to Shen, “To take command of the Ops position. And you,” she pointed to Sarah, “To helm the ship. At least for the duration of the battle.”

“The battle, what battle?” asked Shen, suddenly alarmed.

“The Battle for Capital System,” said the doctor. “The Dread Fleet is here and, even though we are a support frigate, we stand as part of the last bastion of defense for the people of Capital World. If you would swiftly make your way to the bridge, I’m sure the captain would appreciate it.”

“Doesn’t this ship already have crew of its own?” asked Shen.

“Yes, but the captain asked me to send you to the bridge as soon as possible. There is no one aboard this ship with your level of experience. I hope you can and will help us.”

“Of course we will,” said Sarah. She took Shen by the hand. “Let’s go.”

“All right,” he said, not wanting to participate in any battle, or man the Ops post of any ship other than the
Nighthawk
—which he desperately hoped remained in one piece, wherever it was—but he couldn’t say no to Sarah. Especially if the safety of Capital World was on the line.

If nothing else, it would be interesting to see if the Dread Fleet lived up to all the stories.

***

The
Thunder Sun
was not a conventional warship. It belonged to a class of warship that had been custom designed by a team of lycans in order to protect themselves from a future Strigoi attack. Zarao, when he’d given the team he’d chosen instructions on what he wanted from the ships, he had emphasized his desire to engage the Strigoi directly and, as he’d put it then, “Rip them limb from limb.” So great had been their betrayal of the lycans that the Strigoi must be injured at all opportunities and absolutely, positively never forgiven.

Because of this, the
Thunder Sun
, and its sister ships, which were now the closest vessels to the incoming Dread Fleet, had plans to engage the enemy that did not involve much of the usual missiles and beam weapons that the humans, and most other aliens, seemed to obsessively rely on. That was why Zarao had ordered his ships to be close to the spot where the Dread Fleet had been expected to arrive—and they had guessed correctly. And that was also why the humans could seem to make no sense of it. They didn’t have the rage, the thirst, the
craving!

“The Dread Fleet has begun to appear,” reported the lycan at the Ops station. “Their vanguard is beginning to assemble into formation.”

“Do not give them the chance,” said Zarao, feeling his eyes burn. “How close are we?”

“Very close proximity,” said the lycan at the Defense station. They were not officers, like the humans, they had no ranks, no hierarchy, except that Zarao was the leader and the rest would follow him and his commands. Even, quite possibly, to their deaths on this day. A day that would be written in the blood of their enemies.

“Move the squadron to directly attack the nearest ships immediately!” commanded Zarao.

“They are complying,” said the lycan at the Comms station.

On the 3D and tactical displays, Zarao could see that his vastly outnumbered and overmatched force was quickly approaching the forward-most ships of the Dread Fleet. No doubt, the Polarian commanders, like the humans, could make no sense of the strategy; to them, the lycans’ efforts must have looked like suicide. And perhaps suicide it might be, Zarao reflected. But, if so, it would be a death of blood and honor, and their enemies would fall before them by the hundreds and thousands. Polarians were fierce warriors by reputation, and strong too—much stronger than the humans—but they still bled. And none of them could possibly be prepared for the form of wrath Zarao intended to wreak upon them.

“Drums,” he commanded. And the warship’s audio system began to beat a powerful rhythm with heavy bass elements, the kind of noise that chased away fear, reminded the soldiers about to engage in battle that they stood together in solidarity, but, most of all, the sound of the drums beating enflamed the already burning fires within them. They would treat the Polarians as if they were Strigoi, for their masters had helped the Strigoi, that much Tristan and Raidan had made clear. Not the least of which was also the damage the Dread Fleet had inflicted upon billions of innocent lives—allies of Raidan. That made them allies of Tristan, which made them allies of Zarao—whether the humans knew it or not. And the brutal and cavalier slaughter of so many billions, without provocation, only served to prove that these Polarians had a callousness toward life that was much the same as the wicked Strigoi. And, for that, they would receive the most painful and gruesome deaths that Zarao and his many lycans could give them.

The
Thunder Sun
closed on its target. A Polarian battleship. It was clear that the Polarian vessels, although they had the advantage in numbers, were struggling to get their forces into formation so they could pool their damned shields together.

“Do your worst, you wretched fucks,” muttered Zarao under his breath, as he watched the battleship seem to grow larger on the tactical display, now visible outside the forward window. “You,” he said, as if addressing the battleship the
Thunder Sun
had targeted. “You will be the first to die.”

Zarao then looked at his crew, knowing that a great many of them were below, in position to deliver the strike once they were able to. Here, on the bridge, was just the mere skeleton of what was needed to run the ship. And it was the last place Zarao wished to be once the blood began to spill. That was a fact he knew to be true of all of them but, unfortunately, these ones had to remain, to control the
Thunder Sun
. Zarao pitied them, though he had told them their duty deserved no less honor. He did not know if they believed him.

“We’re closing fast,” said the lycan manning the Ops controls. “I think it is time.”

“I agree,” said Zarao. “Let us show these bastards what we’re made of! Deploy the ram!”

“Deploying the ram!” shouted back the lycan manning the Defense post.

“The Ram!” the rest of them cheered as they saw it, a large, sturdy fixture of their starship extend outward, pointed sharply at the end so that it could tear through the armor and hulls of other vessels.

“The ram! The ram!” they continued chanting, as it became visible out the forward window.

“Continue on collision course, high velocity,” commanded Zarao.

“My pleasure,” said the lycan at the helm.

The enemy battleship appeared to grow in size rapidly as the
Thunder Sun
approached. The battleship even began firing off its beam weapons and other guns, the first of which did minimal damage to the
Thunder Sun
’s shields, the latter only managed to scrape the
Thunder Sun
’s armor and hull. Zarao could tell because he was watching the defense display, and this was exactly the outcome he had predicted.

“Collision is imminent!” announced the lycan at the helm.

“Brace yourselves,” said Zarao, as he watched the ram near the battleship, aiming to take it at the neck of the ship—nearest to the bridge. To their credit, the Polarian battleship attempted to change course and accelerate away, doing whatever it could to avoid the collision, but none of their efforts bore fruit. Zarao’s ships were designed to ram the throats, guts, and underbellies of whatever warships they came into contact with. He had seen the
Thunder Sun
personally lay waste to a battleship three times the
Thunder Sun
’s size, and he’d slaughtered its crew, and his own people were barely the worse for wear because of it.

“Three,” Zarao counted down. “Two. One.” The moment the last word left his lips, the ram made contact with the Polarian battleship, tearing through its paltry armor and wedging itself several meters inside the interior of the ship. “Full stop!” Zarao commanded; he didn’t want to decapitate the vessel; oh no, he had much greater plans for it.

“Answering full stop!” said the lycan at the helm. And, with surprising deftness, the powerful braking thrusters brought the
Thunder Sun
to a full stop nearly immediately. Meanwhile, the canvases forming the airtight closure deployed around the ram, sealing away any leaks that would compromise the ship’s atmosphere. The lycans had many gifts, but being able to breathe in open space was not one of them. Fortunately, the ram had been designed to solve that very problem.

“The forces below report the ram has stabilized,” said the lycan at the comms station. “They await your order.”

“Tell them to attack,” said Zarao, as he began making his way toward the ship’s elevator to join them. “And tell them to enjoy it.” As the elevator door slid open and he stepped inside, he could still hear the beating of the war-drums over the ship’s loudspeakers.

“We’re coming, you bastards; we’re coming and you have no idea what is about to hit you!”

His final glance, before the elevator door slid closed, was a view of the tactical display, which showed that his sister ships—the rest of his squadron—had done the same, and rammed their targets. As far as he could tell, they hadn’t lost a ship. Not yet. The door whisked closed and the elevator lurched, delivering him several floors below to the Battle Preparation Room, which, aside from weapons and armor strewn about, showed no signs of life. All of his people had gone aboard, he would have to hurry to catch up with them, or else there wouldn’t be any kills left for him.

Fortunately, he was already wearing his armor and preferred to fight with his own claws, instead of a pike, blade, or other weapon, and so he dropped to all fours, felt himself undergo his transformation from human-like to the warped human form that the galaxy called “lycan” and, after it was over, everything seemed to move slower. His reflexes were faster. His muscles were taut and bulging. And behind his eyes was a pain, a red, burning, searing pain, and he yearned to tear into the enemies. Not because the lycans were bloodthirsty in the way the Strigoi were, but rather instead because they were the counter-balance to the Strigoi and their evil ways.

When an evil rises, such as the Strigoi—or the Dread Fleet—and slaughters the innocent, there must be someone strong enough to fight back. To deliver upon them the very suffering that they had inflicted upon others. Zarao was proud to be a member of the species that, despite being considered an abomination, was truly the carrier of the banner of justice against such vile maliciousness. And if their form of retribution, to take eyes for eyes, and to slaughter those who would slaughter, was not a very progressive form of justice, perhaps even just a pale shadow of justice, Zarao cared not. He pitied those who would not exact vengeance upon those most deserving.

Only strength can counter strength, and power…power, when such are used to take brutal advantage of those least able to defend themselves. Truly, Zarao pitied the humans and their seeming conflict with the ethics of war.

The truth was, war had never changed. And it never would. Not since the first barbarian crushed the skull of another barbarian so he could eat. Survival belonged to the fittest and, if the good was to prevail over the evil, then that survival depended upon people like Zarao and his kin. That was his core belief. And, as he raced through the long corridor that was the ram’s extension, eventually finding himself on board the Polarian ship, it was that core belief that fueled the rage inside him. It was a fire that would not burn out. No, it was a fire that
could
not
burn out. And he would use it to scourge and torment these enemies. Now, if only he could find them.