The Phoenix War (28 page)

When his body felt up to it, he began a
regimen of exercise. There wasn’t much he could do. He couldn’t
stand and run, not enough room to even dream of doing that. But he
could do pushups and, to an extent, work on his core doing very
small crunches and other similar exercises. If he angled his body
just so, he could even work on his legs.

Every day, between bouts of meditation, he
would do whatever physical training he could. It helped him manage
the pain, and the stress, and most importantly, it helped him cling
to his sanity.

It was worth it
, he tried to remind
himself over and over. Perhaps a thousand times a day.
It was
worth it. I know where I am now. Gamma Persei Three. Now all I have
to do is get a message out, and I can get off this godforsaken
rock
.

He repeated the same cycle. Slept when he
felt like it. Meditated when he could marshal the mental focus.
Exercised when he was able to. Over and often and again. It felt
like years went by, though Nimoux knew that couldn’t possibly be
so, and a part of him believed that the guards intended to leave
him here forever. Feeding him just enough to draw out his end… A
prisoner driven mad by the darkness, and the solitude, and the
inability to stand. A wild desperation flashed through him,
tempting him to put a premature end to it all. To open his own
artery. To leap to the finish rather than suffering the long road.
What, ultimately, would be the difference? If both roads, long and
short, took him to the same destination anyway.

He was able to muscle down such thoughts and
force them into submission. Reminding himself of who he was, and
what his purpose was. He felt unworthy to be alive, at times,
considering that it should have been him who ate those bullets on
Korrivan, not the three victims. But if anything justified his
continued breathing, it was the need to get out of here and warn
the Empire. Warn them that there were dangerous imposters in high
levels of power, imposters who undoubtedly had the worst interests
of the Imperial public at heart. Lives would be lost, wars fought,
and who knows what else, if the imposters were allowed to have
their way. Nimoux took some small comfort in the knowledge that
Calvin Cross was out there and seemed to be aware of the conspiracy
at play, and was fighting against it. But Nimoux felt an urgency to
get out there himself and join the struggle.

Must keep fighting. Must fight. Must fight
until the end. No. Giving. Up
.

Then, one day, in a flash of light and a
screech of metal against metal, the door opened a crack. And, for
the first time in weeks or months, Nimoux could see. He squinted,
his eyes at first unable to handle the light, little that it must
have been. He looked at himself. At his naked body and the
lingering remains of the worst of the bruises. Next to him was the
tangle of soiled clothes he’d removed. It was clear that he’d lost
some weight but, thanks to his exercises, his body hadn’t atrophied
as badly as it might have.

He rubbed his face, feeling the long beard
that he’d grown. It wasn’t truly
that
long, in candid
honesty. But for someone who always kept himself clean shaven, it
felt long. Certainly it was the longest it’d ever been. Indeed it
had grown long enough to compensate for the patchy unevenness that
normally showed in his stubble. Strangely the soft whiskers had
become as much a companion to him as the darkness.

“Prisoner Number Two-Two-Seven, are you still
alive?”

It was the first human voice, other than his
own, that he’d heard in a long time. And, although it belonged to
one of his captors, a man that Nimoux considered to be an enemy, he
still relished the sound.

“Two-Two-Seven, are you alive?” the voice
repeated. “If you’re dead, then I don’t understand why the food
keeps disappearing.”

“I’m alive,” said Nimoux, his voice barely a
croak.

“Two-Two-Seven, you may come out now. Do you
want that?”

“Yes,” said Nimoux, feeling more hopeful than
he believed was wise.

“And will you miss lockdown roll call
again?”

“No, sir,” said Nimoux submissively, ready to
say whatever his captor wanted to hear if it meant a chance to get
out of the black cell and feel the sun again. His rebellious
spirits had been beaten down some by his nightmarish stay in
solitary. “I will not.”

“Very good. Now follow my instructions
exactly. Crawl out on your belly. Then stand and put your hands on
your head. Do you understand?

“Yes.”

The door opened the rest of the way. Letting
in more light. Nimoux’s eyes had adjusted enough that it no longer
hurt and he didn’t have to squint so much. Once the door stopped
screeching, Nimoux started to crawl forward, toward the light. For
the briefest instant he wondered if he was actually dead, and if
this was the light at the end of the tunnel that people so often
spoke of in metaphor. Perhaps it was literal.

Obviously I’ve been trapped in this cell
far too long, my brain has gone to mush
…

He crawled out of the cell and slowly rose to
his feet. There was a guard standing there, baton in hand.
“Remember, hands on your head,” the guard barked.

Nimoux did as he was told, placing his hands
flat against the back of his head. It felt good, and oddly strange,
to be standing fully upright. His back ached and he felt
lightheaded, but his joints thanked him.

“Naked,” said the guard, looking rather
amused. “They always go in with clothes and come out naked,” he
shook his head. “All right, now
move
. That way,” he pointed
his baton toward a doorway. Nimoux walked slowly, following the
guard’s orders. All the while reminding himself that he was on
Gamma Persei Three, and that he had a plan to get out of here. He
just had to put up with a little more abuse, exercise a little more
patience, and he’d be home free.

The guard marched him through a short maze of
corridors in what must have been one of the largest of the prison’s
portable structures, and then out into the yard. The bright hot sun
licked his pale skin with its fiery tongue, and burned his eyes,
but it was an oddly welcome unpleasantness. He’d missed the light,
and the heat, and most of all the open air. So he didn’t mind that
he was marched across the yard, hot sand burning his feet, stark
naked in front of all the other prisoners—no doubt to make an
example out of him. It was still better than rotting in the black
cell another day. Or month. Or eternity—which was how any further
amount of time would feel.

After they’d marched him across the yard,
they took him inside another of the portable structures and issued
him new clothes to wear. A blue, prisoner jumpsuit, just like the
garb he’d removed in his cell. Except fresh and clean. At least by
comparison. There was no prison staff assigned to do any laundry,
rather the prisoners were forced to do it themselves. And had only
cold water at their disposal, no soap, and no means of drying the
clothing except for the hot air of the prison yard. But it
sufficed. And compared to the soiled rags that had lived next to
him these past several…
who knows how long
, the new jumpsuit
felt like a spotlessly clean, warm, lavender-smelling quilt.

Once he was dressed, they sat him down in the
guardroom of the Command Station and grilled him for a few more
minutes. Wanting to frighten him into further submission with
additional threats that, should he ever miss lockdown roll call
again, the punishment would be far more severe.

Despite the guards’ efforts to intimidate
him, their decision to bring him into the guardroom proved
unexpectedly useful. While he was in there, pretending to be
terrified for his life and completely submissive to his captors, he
spotted the X-H kataspace all-purpose “pedestrian” transmitter he
hoped to steal. He also got the chance to examine the Command
Station’s corridors and make a tactical assessment. Once they had
grilled him to their satisfaction, they discharged him from special
observation. Which meant he was just another one of the prisoners
again. Only when he was back outside, this time with shoes on his
feet, did he feel like himself once more.

Gamma Persei Three
, he reminded
himself.
That knowledge cost me
. He touched his jaw, which
still hurt when he moved it.
It cost me but it was worth it. Now
to finish directive three.

***

Shen knew he should go to sleep. It wouldn’t
be too many hours before it was White Shift again and he’d be back
on the bridge. But still, as he sat at his desk, intentionally not
looking at his bed, he couldn’t find it in himself to want to
sleep.

If I sleep then I’ll dream
, he
thought.
And if I dream, it will be one of those dreams
…

He hated those dreams. Even feared them.
Though the scenery was always different in his dreams, the theme
was always the same. And Tristan would inevitably be there.
Watching. Sometimes beckoning or calling for Shen to go to him.
Most times Shen didn’t. Choosing to just stand there staring
emptily at Tristan’s glowing red irises. But sometimes Shen did
answer the call. And whenever he did, the dreams became violent
after that. Sometimes Shen would watch as Tristan slaughtered
people. And sometimes it was Shen who did the dark deeds. His mind
would blank and he’d be taken over by the feral bloodlust, a pure
irrational instinct. And in the blink of an eye he would transform
into the monster he feared he truly was, deep inside.

Eventually he always woke and breathed in
sweet relief that it had only been a dream. But he couldn’t help
but wonder how long he could say that, that it was only a dream.
How long before the dormant monster came out in the daylight? No
longer chained to the land of dreams. The dreams occurred with such
frequency now that he dreaded sleep and only resorted to it when he
was absolutely exhausted. Fortunately he seemed to need far less
sleep now than he used to.

He massaged his foot, surprised that it had
completely healed, and his eyes fell upon the remnants of the
bloodstains on his carpet. He’d scrubbed and scrubbed and removed
most of the blood, but some traces remained. Hints, like echoes, to
remind him of what he truly was. He thought of how easily he’d
smashed the alarm, barely even aware of his own actions… he
recalled vividly the thoughtless, mindless, horrifically violent
husks that roamed the surface of Remus Nine and wondered, for the
millionth time, if he was transforming into one of them. He
imagined himself terrorizing the halls of the Nighthawk, and being
put down by a firestorm of bullets from special forces, ripping him
apart, blowing him into pieces. Tearing him to shreds.
Will that
be my end?

The chime rang.
Someone is here?
Shen
was surprised, a glance at his new alarm clock told him that it was
twenty-three-twelve hours. Anyone who knew him knew that he was a
White Shift officer and should be asleep by now. He was tempted to
ignore the call and continue sitting at his desk, staring blankly
at the wall, but his curiosity got the better of him. And he walked
to the door. The peephole camera revealed that it was Sarah.

Shen felt a flutter of excitement but it
vanished quickly once he reminded himself that Sarah was
undoubtedly only here to express pity, and that she’d tried to call
on him several times now. His instinct was to ignore her, like he’d
done every other time. He knew that opening that door was little
different than opening his heart to further ache and injury. It was
better to keep his distance—better for both of them.

But he knew he couldn’t ignore her forever.
And he
did
feel miserably alone. And then, before he even
processed what was happening, he found himself taking a deep breath
to soothe his nerves and opening the door.

“Shen!” said Sarah, looking almost surprised
to see him. Perhaps she’d caught on to the fact that he’d been
ignoring her.

“Hello,” said Shen. He moved aside and Sarah
entered. The door closed behind her. He motioned for her to take a
seat at his desk but she chose to sit on the foot of his bed
instead. Normally Shen would have felt self-conscious to have
anyone see that his bed was unmade and that his living space was
such a mess—especially Sarah—but right now he didn’t care even a
little. This was how he lived. And if she wanted to judge him for
it, then so be it.

“Shen, I’m so glad I finally caught you when
you were here,” said Sarah. “Sorry to call on you so late. I know
you were probably asleep.”

“It’s all right,” said Shen. “I was having
trouble sleeping anyway.” He sat down at his desk and turned the
chair to face the bed.

“So was I…” said Sarah. She gave him an
earnest look and then glanced away, suddenly, as if unable to make
eye contact. Shen knew something pressing was on her mind, and a
tiny part of him wanted to ask her about it, and to comfort her.
But he reminded himself how she’d rejected him, and how he’d become
a monster, and the inclination slipped away. Leaving him content to
sit in awkward silence until Sarah spoke again.

“I—” Sarah began, she looked very
uncomfortable. Like she was having a plethora of second thoughts.
Shen forbade his curiosity from getting the better of him, but it
did anyway.

“What is it, Sarah?” he found himself asking,
in a kinder tone than he intended. His eyes combed over her
mahogany-brown hair, smooth skin, and chocolate eyes and he felt
like he was in the presence of a goddess, not a woman. He
suppressed his feelings of desire.
She rejected me
, he
reminded himself.
And she was right to do it. I’m a dangerous
monster
.

“Shen, I’m just so happy to see that you’re
all right and healthy,” her eyes glistened.