The Phoenix War (36 page)

It isn’t
, thought Nimoux as he snuck
up behind the guard and, in a single quick motion, clamped his left
hand tightly over the man’s mouth while his right arm curled around
his neck. Nimoux applied enough pressure to cut off the guard’s
carotid arteries and, after a few seconds, he became unconscious,
collapsing limply in Nimoux’s arms. Nimoux tightened his grip,
making certain to completely obstruct the airway, as he dragged the
guard around the corner and out of sight, in case another guard
emerged from the guardroom to check on his friend.

Unlike the sandy-haired cellmate who’d done
nothing to warrant imprisonment here and therefore deserved to
live, this guard had voluntarily made himself an enemy combatant.
Someone who actively worked to keep the prisoners unjustly locked
away, had perhaps even assisted in some of the abductions, and
probably had orders to help with any extermination of the prisoners
that was likely to occur. Nimoux therefore had no moral difficulty
at all in his decision to kill the guard to purchase his
silence.

In order to kill, Nimoux had to think like a
machine. He had to remind himself that enemy combatants were a
lethal threat to his life and the mission. Nimoux did not enjoy
killing, least of all when he had to do it with his bare hands, but
it was a necessary skill that had been part of his special forces
experience, and that knowledge had lent itself—fortunately only
rarely—to his work as an Intel Wing operative. And now he would use
it to escape this prison planet and warn the Empire.

He laid the unmoving soldier down and
withdrew the combat knife strapped to the man’s leg. It appeared to
be the only weapon he had on his person. Not having enough time to
wait for the guard to completely asphyxiate, and not wanting to
weaponlessly kill him through a blunt strike to his throat or head
which would have been the usual go-to option—since Nimoux never
relied on the
snap-the-neck
method which he considered to be
both difficult and unreliable. Instead he rolled the guard onto his
stomach and very swiftly plunged the knife through the indent at
base of the man’s skull, where the bone was the thinnest, angled
upwards. The knife punched through with ease. Shredding the
target’s medulla oblongata with its serrated edge.

Nimoux withdrew the knife and spun away from
the corpse, needing to remain focused on the mission at hand and
not obsess over the gruesome details of what he’d just been forced
to do. Especially when the night promised to get bloodier.

He took up a good striking position at the
periphery of the door, waiting for the other guard to leave the
guardroom, thinking there probably was one and that he’d notice his
fellow guard hadn’t returned. Ten seconds passed and the door
didn’t budge. Nimoux wondered if that meant the guard he’d just
killed had been the only one in the guardroom. He hoped so. But,
just in case…

He knocked on the door again. Pounding loudly
with the flat of his hand. When it opened, Nimoux rushed the guard.
This one was larger and thicker than the previous, probably about a
hundred kilograms. But size made little difference. Nimoux struck
first and fast, stunning the guard with a flat-handed blow to first
the nose—meant to break the cartilage—and then the throat. As the
guard doubled over, Nimoux knocking him onto his stomach and
finished him in the same way. Knife through the base of the skull.
It was a favored method because, when done correctly, it was
silent, quick, and guaranteed to be fatal.

There was no other choice
, Nimoux
reminded himself as he withdrew the knife from its second victim.
He knew it had been necessary to eliminate both guards but it still
made him unhappy to do it. And, in truth, he valued that it was
difficult for him to take another person’s life. He hoped to never
be so desensitized to it that it ever became
just
business
. Not that his discomfort would ever make him
hesitate when things were on the line and he had to act
quickly.

Fortunately, the two guards he’d killed
proved to be the only ones in guardroom. Nimoux took the pedestrian
transmitter, which he was able to strap to his back, and relieved
the second guard of his firearm—a small handgun with an extra
magazine. He also took the boots off the first guard—because they
were the better fit—and put them over his feet. Knowing that
durable footwear greatly improved his chances of survival out in
the wild, far more than people might expect. The last thing he had
to do, which gave him no degree of pleasantness but he knew he had
no choice, was to use the now very bloody knife to cut off one of
the dead guards’ thumbs. The knife was extremely sharp and he had
less trouble breaking through the bone than he’d expected.

As soon as he had the thumb, he darted for
the corridor and fled the Command Station. Knowing he had no time
to sneak, should anyone chance upon him, since the dead guards were
bound to be discovered as soon as their shift was over—if not
sooner. He tried to keep his breathing silent as he ran, and he
felt empowered by adrenaline but also weighed down by the heavy
transmitter on his back. As he emerged from an auxiliary exit and
out into the night, he was happy to see that there was still no
foot patrol in the yard. And no sign that an alarm had been
raised.

So far so good
, he thought. Again
grateful that the number of guards had been reduced. He wondered if
escape would have proven entirely impossible before, back when the
prison had been fully staffed. Perhaps so. As he thought of how few
guards remained, probably only two dozen, he was considered
staying. And wondered if he had any chance of taking them out, one
by one, utilizing his superior fighting skill and the element of
surprise. He did a quick balancing test in his mind and weighed the
probability that, should he hide in the portable structures, and
judiciously attacked the guards when circumstances were most
favorable, if he had any chance of prevailing. If he killed or
chased off the guards, he could save the prisoners and they could
plead their case before the Assembly together.

But it was only a fleeting thought, and one
he swiftly abandoned as he looked at the barracks structure to the
northeast. There were still too many guards for him to deal with
alone, even with his training and the best use of the resources
available, they were too many and too well equipped. And if he
freed the other prisoners, so they could create chaos and perhaps
even join him in fighting the guards, he would only be inviting a
bloodbath of violence.
Most of the prisoners are civilians, they
wouldn’t stand a chance, and such an action would probably only
hasten their demise. Encourage the leaders of the prison, whoever
they were, to issue the final order that was likely looming over
them all already. The extermination of everyone here
…

No, Nimoux’s best hope, and that of his
fellow inmates, was for him to escape the prison and call for help.
Which was what he intended to do.

He approached the electrified fence as
directly as he could, having to zig and zag to avoid moving
spotlights and infrared cameras, and went immediately to the gate.
He pressed the severed thumb against the touchscreen. When the
computer recognized the thumbprint, accepting it as valid, Nimoux
tossed the thumb aside and thought back on the keycode pattern:
Left. Left. Up. Right. Right. Up.
He’d watched the guards
input it a hundred times. He’d deduced the first five digits of the
code and input them. Hesitating only briefly when he got to the
final digit.

It’s either this or that
, he
considered for a moment. Knowing he had a fifty-fifty chance. He
held his breath and took a guess.

The gate unlocked with a click and Nimoux
pushed his way through. Jogging out into the night. Clearing as
much distance between him and the prison colony as he could, as
fast as he could.

He didn’t know what would have happened had
he keyed the last digit wrong. Most likely the gate would have
given him a second chance but he was glad not to have been forced
to find out.

I’m free
, he thought. Trying to manage
his excitement and the surge of adrenaline that fueled his every
step.
I’m free. I’m free
.

He knew he wasn’t quite in the clear. Even
though he was out of his cell and out of the compound and out in
the untamed wild of Gamma Persei Three. There was still the very
real danger that they would track him and hunt him down. In which
case, his immediate future was one of death or re-incarceration
with much more aggressive security protocols in place. In a pinch
he couldn’t decide which he feared more. Painful death or
inescapable confinement.

Not going to happen
, he told himself.
No way, no how. Not a chance in hell
. He had to believe in
himself. In his ability to get away. He trusted his instincts and
kept pushing ahead, intending to keep moving all through the
night.

He reached the river as soon as he could. He
took off the transmitter and held it high above his head as he
stepped unflinching into the icy water. It was about waist deep. He
shivered in the cold and his muscles felt really tight but he
pushed on. Even submerging himself up to his neck at one point,
deliberately, to make it harder for dogs to track him.

Nothing was more tempting than to ford
directly across the river and emerge on the far shore at the
nearest point. But he summoned all that remained of his mental
fortitude and forced himself to follow the river a ways before
trying to leave it. It would have been more direct to go upriver,
since his ultimate destination was the nearby mountains—from which
he could get the best kataspace signal out and could find a
plethora of trees and caves to hide in—but fighting the current was
too difficult. And he knew trying to do so was dangerous. So he
walked with the current. Pushed along step after step in the frigid
water, arms aching above his head weighed down by the heavy
transmitter—desperate for relief.

After a while, when he believed he was as
close to his snapping point as he dared get, and his body begged
him to drop the transmitter and just collapse into the water, and
let whatever would happen happen, he exited the river. Feeling a
slap of icy wind crash into him the instant he did. Whatever parts
of his body hadn’t gone completely numb, bit him with horrible
agony. And he shivered violently, almost dropping the transmitter
as he did. Even though this planet seemed to get only a few degrees
short of hell during midday, it felt like a frozen wasteland at
night. At least he knew there was very little humidity in the air,
not that he could tell, drenched as he was. He knew if he didn’t
get dry quickly, then it wouldn’t matter if the guards found him or
not, because he would be dead.

“I… have… to… survive,” he told himself out
loud as he shivered, trying desperately to marshal his courage and
rally his fighting spirit. “I’m a survivor,” he whispered to
himself. He began peeling off his clothes, though it was difficult
and painful to do so in the frozen cold. But he knew it was
necessary, if he was to get dry fast enough to get his body
temperature raised to a safe level he couldn’t wait for his soaked
clothing to dry. Then he rolled around on the ground, trying to get
what heat he could from the earth and use the dirt as a kind of
natural towel, absorbing the water off his skin. If nothing else,
the movement helped him elevate his heart rate—sending warm blood
shooting through his body—and warmed his muscles. Once he was as
dry as he was going to get, he stood up and lashed the wet jumpsuit
together along with the boots and socks, making a sort-of makeshift
knapsack to carry. He then took five minutes trying to cover up all
traces that he’d emerged from the river here, including smoothing
over his footsteps. After that he picked up his bundled clothing,
strapped the transmitter to his naked back, and continued forward.
Stepping as lightly as he could, and erasing his tracks as much as
he could as he went. Making slow and steady progress toward the
mountains ahead. Estimating that he could be at the base of the
mountains, and reasonably well hidden, by sunrise. If he kept going
all night.

At first the winds that licked his naked body
felt like torture, like murderously cold breaths kissing his
tormented skin with the frigid sting of dry icy vapor. And he
seriously wondered if he would survive the night. But he soldiered
on and with each step things seemed to get a little better, as the
little water that remained on his naked skin rapidly dried.

It was dark and the sticks and stones of the
ground dug into his feet, hurting him as he walked. He tried to
step carefully, to avoid getting cut so he wouldn’t leave behind a
trail of blood, and soon he found himself putting the boots back on
his feet. The footwear wasn’t completely dry but he slipped it
directly onto his feet anyway. After that he could move
considerably faster, though it was harder to cover his tracks.

He did the best he could, pausing to rest
only when he had to, and forced himself to focus, to concentrate,
to keep fighting. He used every meditation and breathing technique
he knew, trying as always to grasp for his center, as he fought
against his pain, the elements, and even the spookiness of the
thick woods full of darkness and strange alien noises.

The sense of panic that some of the noises
gave him made it easier to keep his rests short and keep moving
forward, ever forward. Fueled by adrenaline and sheer force of
will. He doubted he rested for more than a minute at a time. With
the only exception being when he activated the transmitter and
tried to connect to kataspace. It had proven unsuccessful which was
disappointing but not surprising. No doubt the patrol vehicles and
the command station at the prison compound had signal enhancers to
augment the transmitter. Out here he had no such technology. But if
the skies were clear and he could transmit from the tops of the
mountains just ahead, the chances were good that he’d manage to get
a signal out. He just had to get there.