The Phoenix War (27 page)

As he stepped over the corpses, Samil tried
not to look. Tried not to let the immediate reality of what was
happening sink in.
This isn’t real
, he told himself.
This
isn’t happening
.

Puddles of blood stained the walls and the
deck. Most of the dead, mercifully, seemed to be the victims of
Rotham hardware. Gunned down by Rotham Teldari commandos and Khan
soldiers as they fled every which way. Their bodies were scarred
and blackened where they’d taken fire, and indeed some of the
corpses were still burning, clothing aflame—not a sight he wished
to see,
nor
one he’d soon forget. But it was mercy compared
to the other bodies. The savage, butcherous handiwork of the
Enclave Remorii had been swift and extreme. Whole limbs had been
torn from bodies, flesh had been ripped from necks by razor-sharp
teeth… and a few of the corpses seemed even to have been drunk dry,
rotting bloodless and pale.

It was all he could do not to gag and vomit
as he scrambled through the rooms and corridors. Plugging his nose
tight. Wishing he could cover his eyes…

When he’d run as far as he could, and his
legs threatened to give out beneath him, he collapsed against the
wall to catch his breath. Panting desperately, he felt a warm sting
well up in his eyes and, though he tried to fight it, the tears
flowed. Like a storm without warning, pouring down in droves and
buckets.

He sobbed for a long time, long after he’d
caught his breath the waters kept coming. He thought of his
pitiful, miserable life. All the people he’d wronged. Most
especially Calvin, his sweet little boy, and Olivia, the tender,
lovely woman who had adored him so deeply she would have moved the
planets themselves for him, if he’d asked her to.
And yet I
cheated on her. And left her. And abandoned her
… The deals he’d
made. The friends he’d betrayed. The money, always the money…

And for once, Samil Cross didn’t value his
own life. For a brief moment, he stopped caring whether he lived or
died. It no longer seemed to matter what happened to him. And
suddenly it sank in, then and there, just how small and
insignificant he was. A mere flickering of a matchstick in a great,
vast, black whirlwind that had existed long before he’d ever been
conceived and would remain long after he was gone. Even the brutal
slaughter here, the countless thousands of lives who were being
butchered at this very instant—an ocean of blood compared to his
meager five liters—were nothing compared to the great black
whirlwind. A little brighter than his single matchstick, perhaps,
but the endless void awaited to swallow them all just the same.
Numbers made no difference. Life, when it got right down to it, was
just a stall.

And then he heard it. Suddenly and abruptly.
The ominous sound of silence. The screaming had ceased. The gunfire
quieted. No banging on the walls. No bodies crashing to the floor.
No yelling or crying or wailing. Just… silence. Broken only by the
slight hushed hum of air circulating from the vents. He closed his
eyes, shutting back the tears that still wanted to flow, and
listened to the nothingness.
Is it over?
he wondered.

As if in answer, he heard footsteps approach
from behind, fast and light. And instantly his fear returned,
seizing him by the throat, and his sense of self-preservation took
command. He whirled around to face the threat.

“Well look what craven, sniveling fool I find
hiding in the corridors,” said Nicu.

Samil felt his throat tighten even more. Out
of everyone in the Enclave, Nicu was the last Strigoi he would ever
want to see. He was the most vicious, the most ruthless, and
without doubt the most evil.

“It is only fitting that the First should be
the one to discover what happened to the mighty
Savetnik
,”
said Nicu with a wicked smile.
The First
… in Samil’s mind,
Nicu was still only the Second. After all, that had been his
identity for years. Since the very beginning of the Enclave. But
recently he’d taken the mantle of First upon himself by brutally
murdering the true First before the entire Enclave. Because of that
dark display, they’d accepted him as their new leader.

“You seem unusually silent,” said Nicu with
relish in his voice. “What’s the matter, Savetnik?” His eyes glowed
blood red and Samil found himself at a loss for words. He began to
tremble and he could hear his own heartbeat, as the weakened muscle
throbbed harder and louder than he ever thought possible.

“I—” Samil tried to speak, but no words
seemed able to follow.

“You
what
?” Nicu seemed to enjoy the
look of terror frozen on Samil’s face. His eyes stared at Samil
with hunger and his smile showed a glint of his jagged, reddened
teeth. He stepped closer and Samil tried to take a step backward,
only to be stopped by the wall. “Are you going to confess?” asked
Nicu. “Are you going to admit there’s a tremendous weight of guilt
pressing down on you?” asked Nicu. As he said the word ‘pressing’
his arms flew forward and he took hold of Samil by the shoulders,
slowly pushing him harder against the wall. Samil felt like his
bones would break.

“
Stop
,” he said weakly. “Please.”

“Why should I?” asked Nicu, pressing even
harder. Samil yelped in pain.

“
Please stop
!”

“Admit what you’ve done!” snapped Nicu.
“Admit it!”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“
Yes
you do!”

“I don’t, I swear—”

“Lies! I know what you did. Admit it. Admit
it and the pain will stop.” Nicu’s fingers dug into Samil’s
shoulders as he pinned Samil even tighter against the wall.

Samil heard something snap as he let out a
cry. “All right, ALL RIGHT!”

Nicu relaxed his grip but the pain didn’t go
away. They stood face to face, mere inches away, and Samil could
smell the disgusting stench of death and corpses on Nicu’s breath.
The First’s red eyes glowed; his gaze seemed to see everything.
Even Samil’s most guarded secrets.

“
Say
it,” said Nicu. “Just say it.
Tell me what you did.”

“I sent it,” whispered Samil.

“Sent
what
?”

Samil wanted nothing more than to hold his
tongue. To say nothing. Odds were good he was a dead man anyway. So
why not deprive Nicu of the satisfaction? But unfortunately, the
pain was too intense. And the fear and despair were so thick and
palpable that it seemed a miracle Samil was managing to remain
conscious.

“I sent a warning to the Najamnik,” he
confessed, finding more courage with every word.

Nicu’s eyes narrowed. “I
knew
it.” He
let go of Samil’s shoulders and curled his fingers around his neck.
“You
always
smelled of treachery to me…”

“The Empire will defend itself,” said Samil,
scraping his insides for any ounce of defiance he could muster.
“You’d better believe it. And you can tell your Rotham overlords
that anyone and anything they send against humanity… will be
completely and utterly destroyed.”

“Maybe the Empire fights, maybe it doesn’t;
makes no difference to me,” said Nicu. “We honored our part of the
arrangement and now the Republic must too. It’s just a pity that
you won’t live to see our glorious day.”

Samil took a deep breath, and he realized in
that moment that he’d always known he was a goner. That he’d been a
dead man all along. Since the moment he’d chosen to transmit that
warning, he’d known—deep down—that pressing
send
was no
different than signing his own death warrant. At least he felt some
small measure of peace in the knowledge that his final act had not
been a selfish one. True, it was probably not enough to undo a
lifetime of selfishness. But at least it was a hell of a way to go
out. And now he could die hopeful that he’d protected his son. His
only living child. The only meaningful contribution he’d ever made
to the universe.
Forgive me Calvin. Forgive me Olivia
.

“Any last words, Savetnik?” asked Nicu.
“Before I end your miserable existence?”

“Just this,” said Samil. He spat in Nicu’s
face.

Being surrounded by complete darkness does
strange things to a person
, thought Nimoux.

When they’d first thrown him into the
solitary confinement cell it had felt like a good thing, it meant
relief from the beatings. He’d taken several blows to the chest and
face, each designed to maximize pain not cause permanent injury.
They’d wanted him to suffer for the stunt he’d pulled, for being
absent at lockdown roll call. He’d staged it as an accident, made
it seem as if he’d tripped and struck a rock, dazing himself. And
that was the role he played. He was a semi-amnesic victim of an
accidental head injury.

Some of the guards believed him, some didn’t,
and those who were skeptical had made certain to communicate that
point to him. The blows to the face and chest had the bite of
granite and Nimoux wished he’d had something to alleviate the
pain.

He endured remembering that he’d taken worse
abuse before, and experienced greater pain. Indeed he carried much
more difficult anguish inside him daily, all he had to do was
summon up the faces of the three officers he’d chosen to kill
during the Altair mission back on Korrivan. The details of their
faces were lost to him now and seemed more like vague shadows,
specters haunting his memory, but the feelings were as potent as
ever. As was the feel of the resistance on the trigger when he’d
pulled it nine times, systematically executing three fellow
officers—innocent people—in order to protect his cover and satisfy
the larger mission…

When he thought of the regrettable action
he’d taken, the choice he wished endlessly that he could unmake,
the sting of the guards’ punches felt like almost nothing by
comparison. He managed his breathing, slow and deep, and embraced
the pain. Pretending in his mind that it was justice for the crimes
he’d committed. That had helped considerably. But when the guards
had finally stopped wailing on him and instead tossed him into the
black cell, he’d been relieved.
At first
.

In there, in the blackness, without even
enough space to stand, he waited. The pain waited with him, it was
the only company he had. That and the silence. Broken only by the
sound of his own coughing.

On the first day, he’d waited all of ten
minutes for the guards to come back for him and provide medical
treatment. When it was clear none was coming, he knew he’d have to
take care of himself. His jaw hurt the worst and, as he inspected
it gently by probing it with fingers, he could tell it was slightly
misaligned. That it’d been dislocated. He knew that meant he should
avoid trying to open wide. And that he needed to get it re-set.

With no light, and no assistance, and no pain
medications to help him, and very minimal medical training, he used
his thumbs to force his jaw back into alignment. To his surprise,
the intense pain proved only the
second
most difficult part.
Through the use of breathing exercises, meditation, patience,
mental fortitude, and a whole hell of a lot of discipline, he was
able to cope with the pain.

The tricky part ended up being his jaw
muscles themselves. They were stronger than he realized and tended
to tighten up, frustrating his efforts whenever they did. When that
happened he had no choice but to take a break, check his breathing,
and meditate more. Trying to lower his heart-rate and relax his
muscles. Then, when he felt he was as close to finding his center
as he was likely to get, he’d try again. On the fifth or sixth try,
he succeeded.

The dislocation hadn’t been as serious as it
could have been, and he considered himself lucky that he’d been
able to get his jaw back into place. Now he knew he needed to avoid
opening his mouth wide and let his jaw heal gently for the next
several weeks. Provided he survived that long.

For the first two days, he thought he managed
to keep track of the time rather accurately. Not to the minute,
perhaps not even to the hour, but he had a reasonable approximation
of how long he’d been in the black cell. He’d always had a rather
finely tuned internal clock and, based on the frequency that they
slid him food and water through the tiny trap door, and the number
of times he’d had to relieve himself on the cold metal bucket, he
figured he had a fairly exact idea of the time. Unfortunately, the
planet’s rotation was not the same as standard time, which made his
calculations more difficult, and as the days and perhaps even weeks
stretched on, with no light, and no sign of what time of day it
was. He knew his estimate became progressively less accurate, until
he had no estimate left at all.

At least the pain had lessened. Even if the
utter silence, bleak darkness, and complete solitude were beginning
to affect him. It was a peculiar experience, a kind of torture
even, and something that he’d never want to repeat. He found
himself getting anxious at odd times, for no reason. His meditation
seemed less and less effective at helping him manage and organize
his thoughts, and his breathing exercises seemed not as powerful as
before at helping him maintain his calm.

Buried deep inside him was a tiny, terrified
voice that wanted nothing more than for him to shout, at the top of
his lungs,
scream
that he wanted out. To beg, hoping one of
the guards was listening and would take pity on him, but he knew
such an action would be either useless or detrimental. Depending on
whether or not anyone was listening.

After a time, he even caught himself thinking
aloud, mumbling to himself. It was a habit he tried to break as
soon as he realized he had it, but one that seemed to persist as he
lay in the darkness. Turning from side to side, trying to stay
comfortable in the cramped environment.