The Chronicles of Heaven's War: Burning Phoenix

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  Screams hit Captain Asarel in the back of his head like a sledgehammer, making him bolt upright, spilling some of his hot brew. “Damn!” he fumed, setting down the cup, reaching for a towel to clean up the spilled mess. As he wiped off his uniform, the captain wondered how his other officers were managing. Every evening since beginning this voyage had been filled with torturous cries and whimpers of a distraught woman being pummeled by incessant visions of unspeakable terrors, each night getting worse, with tonight’s the greatest so far.

  No one in the officers’ quarters could sleep, all trying to privately manage as best they could. The captain had taken to squirreling himself away in the quiet of the officers’ mess to find relief. It had worked reasonably well until now. Another bloodcurdling screech reverberated off the bulkheads, sending a chill up Asarel’s spine that almost made him cry out in fear.

  “How does he do it?” Asarel asked himself aloud, wondering at Euroaquilo.

  Every night the man entered into a world of darkness and evil that the captain could only imagine, battling demonic forces so vile that Euroaquilo dared not speak about the sordid events when asked concerning them.

  It was taking its toll, too. Euroaquilo looked haggard and tired…well, everyone looked tired, but Euroaquilo more so. He had also gone to wearing long-sleeved shirts to hide bloody scratches and bite marks on his arms and back. And what of the woman, Leftenant Darla? Asarel dared not tender a guess. She and Euroaquilo would quietly arrive at morning mess, silently breakfast and quickly go about their duties, the woman burying herself in her work.

  The good Leftenant’s face was ghostly pale, with dark rings surrounding sunken, colorless eyes. She spoke little if at all and, when she did, it was with a great deal of pain. Yet the woman always remained so polite and courteous, smiling her hellos to the others when meeting at mess or in the hallways. No complaint, not a word. What kind of a person was this Darla anyway?

  Another wailing scream caught Asarel by surprise, jumping up and knocking over his cup, spilling remaining brew across the table. He cussed again, glancing out the door of the mess and down the companionway. “Enough! Enough!” Abandoning the spilt drink and broken cup to the cleaning crew, he made his way from the mess and down the passageway. The engines were running hot, meaning they must be quite noisy. Maybe if he secluded himself in the boson’s wardroom behind the engine room he could find a little peace and quiet. With desperate anticipation, Captain Asarel hurried away to make his escape.