The Phoenix War (37 page)

And so he continued onward. Step after step.
Determined to just keep putting one foot in front of the other,
over and over again.

He was grateful when his clothes were dry
enough he could put them back on. And counted it as a small
victory. The kind that would keep him going in spite of the many
troubles and difficulties pressing in on him. Despite how cold the
planet seemed and how spooky and dangerous the woods undoubtedly
were.

I will survive
, he insisted.
I have
too much important work to do to die here
.

His mind drifted again to the three officers
he’d killed during the Altair mission and how, had he refused to
kill them, it would have meant his life rather than theirs.
By
all rights I should be dead right now and they should be alive
,
he thought.
But that isn’t so. They’re the ones in the ground
and I’m the one still breathing. Surely I cannot disgrace their
sacrifice by dying here. Not without warning the Empire
first
.

It was almost astonishing how just when he
felt on the very brink of collapse and he reached inside himself
desperately for another ounce of strength or scrap of hope, he
always managed to find enough—just barely enough—to keep moving
forward. Heaving the heavy transmitter as he went. Determined to
persevere.

Zander knew he was not an evil man. Not by a
long shot. He was merely prudent. Cautious in a galaxy rife with
self-interest and betrayal. He didn’t consider himself a hero. He
entertained no illusions that he was some kind of valiant knight on
a brilliant white steed ready to charge to the rescue of the less
fortunate. Neither did he consider himself malevolent. He wasn’t
wicked any more than he was a martyr, or a patriot. Just because he
always put himself first didn’t make him a bad person. It was the
very thing everyone else did too, the difference was he was willing
to be honest about it with himself.

What did he owe anyone else? He’d always
wondered. Why should he be ready and willing to sacrifice what was
good for him and his so someone else could gain? Someone who
probably wouldn’t shed many tears for Zander if
he
stumbled
into misfortune. No, that someone would likely welcome Zander’s
misfortune if there was some profit to be had.

Neither did Zander see any reason why he
should think himself lucky or indebted to be one of the billions of
subjects claimed by the Empire. Sure they pedaled their stories
about how their fleets and their soldiers and their wars were all
for the safety and wellbeing of Imperial citizens everywhere, such
as him. But he knew it was hogwash, politics and lies spun in the
golden webs of money that weaved together every government. One was
not more benign than another. And indeed each government throughout
history, regardless of species, was just as happy as any other to
take from its citizens whatever it could in order to hedge its
future, further its power, and increase its wealth. The only
difference was that some governments had proven more capable and
more effective than others. But none of them, not even the most
durable, or the most invasively powerful, was immortal. And as the
ages had come and gone for the humans, and the Rotham, and the
Polarians, each government had risen and fallen with frequency not
unlike the amber leaves of the parigold trees of Rivennia Alpha.
Which bloomed and died in mere weeks, once a year, every year, and
had done so since before any human had discovered how to control
fire. And would likely continue to do so long after the human had
been driven to extinction.

This realization, this truth of how the
universe worked, and what motivated everyone within it, had made it
easy for Zander to make and break deals in the blink of an eye, but
difficult to surround himself with people he could trust. Indeed
other than a few associates whose loyalty he’d bought and paid for,
it was hard to find anyone in the galaxy he could trust to even the
remotest degree.

They’re liars. All of them
, he’d often
reflected, as he stared at the stars and imagined the many hundreds
of worlds that had been colonized by the major races of the galaxy.
Liars and robbers and crooks. The only difference between a
thief and an honest man is an awareness of opportunity
. That
was a proverb he’d coined himself and, like a favorable tailwind,
it had steered him true. Kept him safe from many a damaging and
dangerous business deal that otherwise promised poverty, prison,
and death.

“We’re clear of the nebula,” said Jasmine
from the helm of the Duchess.

“Very good,” said Zander. He looked at her
with a mixture of desire and condescension. Like she was both his
wife and servant. Jasmine, of course, was neither. Which was a
pity; if she’d been Zander’s possession, she would undoubtedly be
the most valuable of all his treasures, save one—the cargo
currently stashed away in the hold.

Jasmine’s presence was almost disruptive.
With her enchanting, ebony curves, thick lips that begged to be
tasted, and most of all those hauntingly brown eyes that seemed to
hold everyone prisoner who looked at them. Every exposed inch of
her served only to distract the people around her, men and women
alike, filling them with intense, covetous lust. At least, that had
been Zander’s experience. The effect she had on him was joyous,
ecstatic, intoxicating euphoria. It was also dangerous. Keeping her
on the ship, especially so close at hand, was a flirtation with
death. He wasn’t quite himself when dealing with her, his reactions
were a bit slower, his thinking a bit more muddled, and she had a
way of making simple things seem…
complicated
. Which meant
that he’d eventually have to dispose of her. But not now. Not yet.
For the moment he enjoyed her presence too much.

“Proceed to position and make the jump as
scheduled,” he instructed her.

“And then I’ll get paid?” she pressed him.
Clearly wanting to stay informed, in case the plan had changed.

“Then we’ll all get paid,” said Zander
dismissively. Jasmine gave him a hard, critical look. No doubt
trying to take the exact measure of his words and sift through
them, wanting to unearth what he was truly thinking, rather than
take his words at face value.
Good luck with that, my dear
,
he thought. He kept his people paid, fed, and happy so they’d
continue serving him, always ready to do whatever was necessary,
but no part of that arrangement required him to keep them informed.
Zander understood that information was the most valuable commodity
in the galaxy, and none more so than one’s intentions. If those
were known, then enemies—and even friends—would gain the upper
hand, and plans would be foiled and countered and ruined. And so he
guarded his intentions, guarded them like precious oxygen in a
vast, black interstellar ocean of emptiness.

Not that it truly mattered in this case. As
things currently stood, he hadn’t fully decided his intentions, not
yet anyway. He’d sent off Julio and Todd to relay a message to the
Enclave as something of a stall, to appear complicit but actually
buy himself a little more time to mull things over.

Because, what he understood most of all, more
than the fact that he needed water to live; more than the fact that
money was the lifeblood pumping through the universe; more even
than the fact that every person out there was, at their deepest
core, a deceitful, lying, self-serving, scheming crook; was the
fact that the cargo stored in the Duchess’s hold was unlike any
other cargo anywhere else in the universe. Indeed, it was unlike
any other cargo that had ever existed or ever would exist.
Something so profoundly, overwhelmingly, mind-bogglingly rare that
an opportunity like this would never come again. Not just for
Zander, but for anyone. And he would be a fool to squander it
without at least
considering
all of his options…

I have in my possession weapons like no
other
, he thought.
Weapons that can darken stars and destroy
planets. Weapons of such massive destruction that billions upon
billions of lives can be ended in a single stroke
. Zander had
very little taste for violence and even less interest in killing.
Of course he’d had to sully himself with such barbarism from time
to time, by arranging for enemies and rivals to disappear. But he
would never use the isotome weapons himself, slaughter for its own
sake was beneath any gentleman of reason, and destruction on such
an epic scale was not profitable.

On the other hand, should he sell the weapons
to another a party, and that party decided to use them, who was he
to say they couldn’t? The blame for such atrocity would rest on the
head of the one who made the decision to do so, whoever that was,
and perhaps a little too on the heads of those who’d agreed to
carry out the order. But not so much as a single drop of blame
would belong to Zander who was, after all, merely a businessman. A
trader. A market-maker. An exchanger of goods and services.

The weapons had originally been created
through a combined endeavor of humans, Rotham, Polarians, and the
Enclave that lived on Tybur in Alliance space. Ironically it had
been the potential for great destruction that had fostered the
first truly cooperative enterprise that had involved each of the
major races. As it had been explained to Zander, the main science
of the process had been developed by a woman named Tamara who’d
supervised the construction of the missiles themselves in Polarian
space at a place called Titan Three—which they completely ruined.
The main component in the weapons, isotome, had been mined from its
only natural source, the Xenobe Nebula Region, by the Enclave and
delivered to Titan Three. There had only been enough stabilized
isotome to create thirty-one missiles. Once the weapons had been
made and successfully tested, however, that seemed to be where the
cooperation ended. And each party had made their play, revealing
their true hand.

The human element, which called itself the
Phoenix Ring, had made two efforts to secure the weapons for
themselves. They’d made a secret deal with the Enclave, for the
Enclave to deliver the weapons to the humans in exchange for
certain favors and payments. And secondly, the Phoenix Ring had
replaced one of the members of the Enclave, the one who was
supposed to deliver the weapons, with what they believed to be
their own agent, to ensure that the weapons wound up in Phoenix
Ring hands. After all, it had been their scientist who’d
ingeniously invented the entire process of weaponizing the isotome
in the first place, and the Phoenix Ring understood as well as the
others that whoever was left holding the weapons in the end would
have all the cards.

Something had gone wrong, however. Something
that none of the humans expected, except for Zander. The Enclave
had played the Phoenix Ring and had secretly made another deal, one
with the Rahajiim—which was the Rotham element of the conspiracy. A
group whose tenuous cooperation with the Phoenix Ring had always
been temporary and limited, and they’d always intended to betray
the Phoenix Ring. Indeed, the Phoenix Ring had thought the same
thing of the Rahajiim. Both were dangerous, subversive, shadowy
organizations that sought to promote their own interests, and the
advancement of their respective races throughout the galaxy.
Conflict between them had been inevitable. And the obvious point of
difference would circle around the isotome weapons themselves,
whichever group controlled them, that group would have unspeakable
power over the other. Indeed over anyone else who understood the
weapons’ true power.

And so the Enclave, which was growing very
tired of its secretive, delicate existence among the non-Imperial
humans occupying the DMZ between Rotham and Imperial space, had
made deals with the Rahajiim too. Probably the Enclave’s leader
weighed the value of what the Phoenix Ring offered against the
promises of the Rahajiim. In the end, the Rahajiim’s offer
prevailed. Zander didn’t know if that had been because the Enclave
discovered that the Phoenix Ring had tried to trick them, by
replacing one of their members, or if the Rahajiim had simply made
the better offer. Whatever the case, arrangements were made and
half the inventory of weapons were planted on the surface of Remus
Nine. Awaiting transfer to the Rahajiim. The Enclave intended to
withhold the other half as a means of ensuring the Rahajiim made
good on their promises. Which, among other things, included such
lavish perks as official, bona fide membership in the Rotham
Republic, making the Enclave a legitimate political organization
instead of an unwanted blight on the galaxy. They’d also be given
control over Alliance space itself and would be permitted to corral
the remaining humans of the Alliance, any who’d survived the
takeover, and breed them for food.

Unfortunately, something went haywire. And
somehow a rogue Imperial Intel Wing operative, undoubtedly working
for the Organization, had found out about the sale and managed to
get to Remus Nine before the Rahajiim did. By the time the Rahajiim
fleet arrived, ready to take possession of the weapons, all the
missiles on the planet had been permanently destroyed. And the
Rahajiim were forced to leave the system empty-handed. Meanwhile
the remaining fifteen weapons had been entrusted to Zander. Who was
technically safekeeping them on behalf of the Enclave. They
promised to pay him for his services and he’d negotiated for more,
agreeing to sell them back their own weapons in exchange for proper
compensation.

But therein lay the problem. Zander’s
allegiances had changed so many times during this conflict, as the
tethers of political convenience changed and the balance of power
shifted. What mattered most to him was to get out of the chaos
ahead, and be on the side that was still standing once the dust
settled. In this sort of game, idealism counted for strikingly
little, and adaptation counted for much. Indeed such was the
natural order of all life everywhere, adapt and survive, resist
change and die. Zander had followed the shifting winds, always
staying one step ahead.