The Phoenix Conspiracy

Chapter 28

  Once the Nighthawk docked inside the attack cruiser, Calvin and his bridge crew went to the main hatch unarmed to await capture—as instructed.

  He stood with Sarah, Shen, and Miles in silence. Trying not to make eye contact with any of them. Whatever horrors awaited them on the Rotham ship—a people known for brutality—Calvin bore the guilt. Had his judgment been better, had he known more about the situation, he would have acted differently and spared them all from what would come next: captivity, torture, perhaps even death. What kept him going was the hope that Summers and Pellew would not be found.

  The hatch unsealed with a snap-hiss and slowly retracted. “Here goes,” said Miles.

  The first group of Rotham swept in, their movements lithe and swift, like lizards. Shining gold eyes, crimson scaly skin, black hair, and the distinct uniforms of the Teldari—the invasion force that had raided so many worlds in the Great War. They held a variety of small arms, mostly energy rifles, and ordered Calvin and the others against the wall.

  Calvin raised his hands, and the others followed his lead. They were searched, and then pushed along through the hatch and onto the deck of the Rotham ship’s main hangar.

  Once they were clear, a column of about sixty Rotham Teldari swarmed onto the Nighthawk to turn everything upside down and capture everyone aboard. Calvin watched them go with a mixture of anxiety and forlorn regret. No captain should ever have to see his ship taken by the enemy.

  “Move along,” a Rotham said, knocking Calvin in the back of the head.

  “Ouch!” He suppressed a wave of fresh anger as he looked at his assailant, a Teldari with a yellow collar—a captain. He was probably one of the few Rotham here that spoke human. After their eyes met, Calvin looked away, not wanting to provoke the captain further. Instead he moved forward—as directed—to the corridor.

  The hangar was a basic structure, almost boring in appearance; its only standout feature was how large it was. It could easily fit three Nighthawks. Most of the fighters stored here had been deployed making it feel empty, despite piles of crates and scattered equipment.

  A gun pressed into Calvin’s back told him they didn’t like him looking around. He put his head down and marched forward in silence, like they wanted. After all he and his crew were surrounded by Teldari who looked grim and eager for violence.

  The detention block was strategically located near the hangar. Far enough away that a rogue prisoner couldn’t slip off and steal a fighter, but close enough that new prisoners could be processed and locked up without much opportunity to escape or see ship operations.

  Before he knew it, he was in his cell. No bed. No chair. Not even tall enough for him to stand. He could sit on the floor, crouch, or lie down—curled into a ball. The Empire would never treat prisoners this way. And, unlike detentions on most Imperial ships, he was held in place by metal bars instead of a proper force field. Either to save money or to prevent prisoners from escaping in the event of a power failure. But the downside was that a practiced criminal might exploit a weakness in the lock and hinges. Too bad Calvin had no such talents.

  Straight across from his cell, with its limited view, was Miles. He gave Calvin a weird look—like a kicked cat. Calvin wasn’t sure what it meant.

  “Do you think they’ll feed us to each other?” asked Miles.

  Before Calvin could reply—or decide if he wanted to—one of the guards yelled at them, probably ordering them to be silent. His staccato language seemed impossible to understand. Calvin knew a few phrases of Rotham—it was a required course at the academy—but he didn’t remember much beyond the inane and completely useless practice phrase: the book is on the table.

  He heard footsteps, and, by scooting over and arranging his head in such a way, Calvin caught glimpses of familiar faces marching with hands on their heads between forceful Rotham guards who—despite their height disadvantage—looked vicious and domineering. Calvin saw Rose and his shift, other crewmen Calvin knew and, before long, men and women in Special Forces uniforms. Last of all was the major, who they pushed into the cell next to Calvin’s—out of sight.

  The top-ranking Rotham officers had some kind of alien discussion, but whatever they talked about was totally incomprehensible to Calvin. After one dismissed the others, and most of the Teldari filed out, the same captain in a yellow collar approached Calvin and bent down to look him in the eyes. He uttered something that sounded like gibberish.

  Calvin said nothing. Only stared into his adversary’s golden eyes, unblinking.

  “You don’t speak Rotham?” the captain asked, now in human.

  “Nope.”

  “A pity. Your language is … limited. But it will have to do.”

  Calvin said nothing.

  “You’re the captain?”

  “I am.”

  “And that is your first officer?” He waved a toned arm toward Miles’s cell.

  “Yes.”

  “Calvin Cross and Anand Datar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I have questions for you.”

  Calvin looked away.

  “What are you doing in Abia?”

  “I could ask you the same question. We’re humans in human space. What are you doing here?”

  The Rotham pulled a baton from its hiding spot, and jammed it between the bars and into Calvin’s ribs so quickly he couldn’t react. A surge of electric shock crackled through him, and he stiffened, hitting his head on the ceiling as he tried to withdraw himself but found he could not. A moment later the pain was gone, just as fast as it’d come, and the Rotham withdrew his baton.

  “Let’s try that again,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Routine patrol,” said Calvin. “The outpost went silent. We were sent to discover why.” It was the most plausible thing he could think of, but, like he’d expected, this Rotham didn’t buy it—and he gave Calvin another painful jab with his baton. In the cramped cell, Calvin had no way to retreat or dodge.

  “What about the Harbinger?” asked the Rotham, once he’d removed the baton a second time.

  Calvin’s muscles were still tight, and his heart beat faster than he thought it should. He wondered if this captain knew that shocks like these could kill a human more easily than a Rotham. If he did know, he didn’t seem to care.

  “I said, what about the Harbinger?”

  “What about it? It’s a ship that’s gone missing. I’m supposed to find it. No idea where it is.”

  “Where does it make port?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Calvin really didn’t. For all he knew, the Harbinger hadn’t made port anywhere since Aleator. And even then it hadn’t docked.

  “I said, where does it make port?” The Rotham raised his voice and again jammed his baton through the bars, but this time Calvin was ready and managed to catch it with both hands just outside the shock point. For a minute, the two of them wrestled for control, and ultimately the Rotham managed to pull it back through the bars. “I gave you a chance, human Captain, but now you get to pay like the others.” He took out a key.

  “What others?” asked Calvin.

  “The ones who died in the Inquisition Room.”

  Calvin knew what that was. A torture chamber. And given the Rotham’s reputation for brutality, Calvin didn’t want to go there. Despite the little bit of torture he’d been forced to endure as part of his Intel Wing training, he knew that most people put under Rotham torture for any amount of time died, whether or not they cooperated. And that, if he went, he wouldn’t be coming back.

  As the Rotham began to work the lock, Calvin’s mind raced for a way to escape the situation, maybe find a place to hide until the Fifth Fleet made its move. But, as two more armed guards showed up next to the Rotham captain, Calvin’s hope of escape left him. With great effort he tried to steel himself, hoping that, should the unthinkable—but extremely likely—happen, his trusted friends and officers would still continue on without him. And uncover the tru
th for the whole Empire.

  “Wait,” said a nearby voice, stalling the Rotham who was about to open Calvin’s door.

  “What did you say?” the Rotham asked, looking more confused than angry.

  “That one is useless to you.” It was the major’s voice, coming from the adjacent cell. “He can’t answer your questions because he doesn’t know anything. But I do.”

  “You are volunteering to tell us everything?”

  “No,” said the major. “I’m telling you that I’m the only person who can answer your questions, but I never will. You’re wasting your time.” He sounded convincingly bitter, and Calvin could see the mixture of irritation and intrigue on the Rotham captain’s face.

  “Is that so, foolish human? Perhaps a visit to the Inquisition Room would change your mind.”

  “I doubt it, lizard,” the captain said.

  The use of the pejorative lizard would offend any Rotham who knew the human language well enough to recognize the word. This worked on the captain whose breathing changed.

  “Take that one,” he said, locking Calvin’s cell once more. He then opened the major’s cell.

  It all made sense to Calvin. The major didn’t actually know anything; he was just goading the Rotham into taking him to their torture dungeon instead, wherever it was. Giving Calvin that much more time to hold out for the cavalry. He was awed by the noble act and wondered, had their situations been reversed, if he would’ve done the same.

  “Don’t think you’re out of this,” the Rotham captain said, tapping his baton against Calvin’s bars while his underlings cuffed the major and escorted him forward. “Because we’re coming for you next.” He turned to Miles’s cell. “And you.” He disappeared, and a replacement set of guards entered.