The Phoenix Conspiracy (2 page)

"We've just heard that Asari Raidan is
now being transported to Detention Center 201. The Military has
refused to comment officially on the arrest but we've heard from
one officer, under condition of anonymity, that a General Tribunal
might begin as early as tomorrow. He did not know if the trial will
be made public."

Sarah waved her hand to get Calvin's
attention. "Message from Control. We're cleared to dock in
five-B."

Calvin nodded and muted the broadcast.
"OK, Sarah, take us in."

"Your word is my command," her fingers
deftly took the controls and, through the windows, the stardock
slowly became visible.

"Roger that, Control, this is IWS
Nighthawk beginning our final approach," said Sarah into her
headset while piloting.

Calvin leaned back in his chair. "You
know," he said looking over at Anand, his best friend and faithful
XO. "I'm really looking forward to this time off."

"As if you could ever stop
working."

"No, I mean it," Calvin laughed. "I'm
worn out."

"If you're worn out that means the
rest of us are borderline dead. The way they work us, sometimes I
wish I were in the navy and could lounge around on one of those
luxury liners." Anand shook his head in an exaggerated display of
irritation. Calvin knew Anand slightly resented the regulars for
having several more conveniences aboard their vessels: lounges,
bars, gyms—things a stealth frigate didn't have space
for.

"Enough to request a transfer?" Calvin
asked. His voice was full of laughter but he was only half teasing.
He knew his XO had some real grievances with the Intel Wing
lifestyle and it was probably only a matter of time before he gave
it up.

Anand ignored the question.

"Slowing to seven point two mc’s per
second," said Sarah as the ship angled into position and halted.
"All stop. The docking clamps are attached, concluding another
perfect flight." Sarah spun her chair to face the center of the
bridge, grinning.

"Good work, as always," said Calvin.
He tapped his intercom. "All hands, this is the Captain. We're
docked with Praxis One and the jetways are attached. You are
ordered to the airlocks to vacate the ship. As of this moment
you're on official leave for four weeks. That is all."

"So does that mean we don't have to
follow your orders anymore, Cal?" asked Miles. He'd also turned his
chair to face the center.

"Something like that," Calvin smirked.
"But when it’s all over, so-help-me, I'll make you swab every deck
on this ship. Now hurry and get out of here, your freedom is
ticking away."

Miles laughed, he was a big man and
his laughter was deep. "You don't need to tell me twice." He stood
up and marched to the elevator. "See ya around the casino,
Captain."

"Not this time. I only have a little
money and I can't afford to lose any of it to you," said Calvin,
but those were lies. As a single person earning a captain's
paygrade he had more q than he knew what to do with, especially
since he preferred a simple lifestyle.

His real reason for not hitting the
tables was the Raidan case. He wanted to focus on it without any
distractions. Especially the kind that could very quickly turn his
affluence into poverty.

"Suit yourself, Cal. I have 2,000q
begging to turn into 20,000—so don't get jealous when I return with
the deed to somebody's house." Miles flashed a huge grin and the
elevator shut.

***

Calvin exited the ship via the deck
two jetway. Despite their being quadruple sealed and not very long,
he always hated stepping through them. Somehow he couldn't hold
back the thought of being blown out into space. Such accidents
never happened, but it bothered him anyway because he could imagine
it.

He cleared the secondary hatch without
any trouble and descended the ladder, starting down the long ramp
that led into the terminal. Before he reached ground-level, he
caught sight of the concourse swarming with people. Some wore staff
uniforms, others military garb—including soldiers at every
checkpoint—but mostly they were civilians. Scattered in hundreds of
small groups, all awaiting transport on whatever ships docked after
the Nighthawk had been moved into long-term holding. The crowds
surprised him, until he realized that while it was late at night in
Standard Time, what he was used to, in Local Time it was almost
midday. As if to rub it in, enormous blue digits glared at him from
the wall.

1110 L.T. and 0230
S.T.

Since he was government personnel,
security ushered him over to a basic checkpoint instead of the
usual customs screening with its cumbersome procedures and long
lines. Immigration was tough in all Imperial Systems, especially
alien immigration. But he'd barely thought about it before since he
was both human and in an elite branch of the government. They waved
him to the next available desk where a middle-aged guard sat at a
computer station. He wore a green uniform—local security, and
sported a huge moustache.

"Hello, Sir, and welcome to Praxis
One," the guard said. "Hand me your I.D. and press your thumb to
the plate."

Calvin complied. They waited a minute
for the computer to analyze his card for tampering.

"So uh... black-and-silver," the guard
said, whistling as he looked over Calvin's uniform and saw the
colors of Intel Wing—mostly black from neck to boots with a touch
of silver, including his rank bar and officer’s sash. Calvin liked
the look, he thought it was stylish, and much more interesting than
the standard blue-and-black of the navy.

"So... are you here for some kind of
big assignment? We usually only get blue-and-black through
here."

Calvin fought a smile; he did like the
attention. But he'd be a terrible officer if he let his ego loosen
his lips. "Sorry, just on vacation."

"Right, of course," the man
winked. "Then I wish you good luck with your
vacation
," as he spoke, the computer
beeped its approval and the old guard nodded him through. "Follow
the arrows to your left for accommodations, transportation,
information, and anything else you need."

"Thanks." Calvin put away his card and
wandered to the offices against the far wall. Had he actually been
on an assignment, the military would have pre-arranged everything,
and someone would have met him the instant he stepped through
security. But since he was on leave, he was effectively a civilian.
Which meant civilian accommodations, and having to deal with long
waits, no-vacancies, prices, and lines. Inconveniences he'd
forgotten all about because they didn't exist in his world of
starships and open space.

He fell into line, trying not to push
his way too hard through the mob of people doing business with the
various offices and kiosks, or else just waiting around, and Calvin
found himself wishing Raidan had been arrested on some small fringe
outpost with fewer people.

He stood against the wall, unable to
find a seat, and wondered how he'd pass the time. That's when a
random stranger tried to engage him in polite—and very
boring—conversation about nothing. Calvin made pointless small-talk
for a few minutes while he searched for an escape. That's when he
saw a beautiful woman in full navy garb across the room. She was
striking even from this distance, and familiar.

"Oh what do you know," said Calvin. "I
see an old friend. Thanks, though!" With that he rushed away, not
wanting to lose sight of the woman across the room.

She was Summers Presley, XO of the ISS
Phoenix, and definitely not an old friend. In fact, he'd never seen
her before in his life, not in the flesh. She was breathtaking with
her cascade of blond hair and exquisite physique and her aura of
certainty was disarming. He knew of her because of his short
investigation into the Phoenix and there was no mistaking her. Her
file photo had looked more like it belonged in a model's portfolio
than a military profile, and even it hadn't done her justice. She
was probably the most beautiful woman Calvin had ever seen. A fact
he hoped to ignore since it gave her an unfair
advantage.

"Summers Presley," said Calvin,
catching up to her. "I'm glad I recognized you, I have a few
questions..."

"I'm sorry, do I know you, officer?"
She looked distracted and slightly annoyed, no doubt because he'd
just breached protocol. Unacquainted officers in uniform always
referred to each other by title or rank, and never by first name.
Casual use of given names was something unique to Calvin's command
style, and certainly not encouraged by either the Fleet or Intel
Wing. But this practice had now come back to bite him, especially
since, officially, he looked like a lower ranking officer than
Commander Presley.

"Oh right, sorry," said Calvin, but
the damage was done. "I'm Calvin Cross of the IWS
Nighthawk."

Her eyes jumped to his rank insignia.
"Lieutenant Commander?"

"Yes. But don't let the silver bar
fool you, I'm a CO."

Her eyebrows shot up and she gave him
strange look—a mixture of intrigue, disdain, and
skepticism.

"Look," he said, waving her away from
the crowd of people. "I'm attending the trial of your CO and as an
Intelligence Officer I've had to do some research. And, frankly,
several things don't add up. I'm hoping you can help fill in the
gaps, you know, the details that don't make it on paper. Like
habits, traits, behaviors, and anything peculiar about Raidan’s
personality."

"I don't fully understand," said
Summers, she made no effort to mask her reluctance to cooperate.
"Am I being implicated in some way?"

"Oh, no, no, not at all," said Calvin,
raising his arms innocently. "This isn't an official
investigation," he wasn't yet convinced she’d had no part in what
unfolded on the Phoenix, but his priority was to investigate Raidan
first. "Don't take this the wrong way. I'm just hoping you can tell
me something I don't know. All of Raidan's, I mean Captain Asari
Raidan's personnel notes describe you as an outstanding officer
and, more importantly, a close friend. He trusted you. And you were
near him when everything went down. Your perspective would be
invaluable."

She looked hurt for a split-second. It
passed almost instantly but Calvin knew what it was when he saw it.
When it vanished she became colder than ever.

"Captain Asari Raidan was a very
secretive man and he kept his true feelings to himself. I'm as
mystified as you are, Lieutenant Commander. But the writing's on
the wall. He either snapped and bowed to a hunger for violence or
else succumbed to a deep hatred for the rotham he made us kill.
Whatever the case may be, he's a criminal and unfit for command.
Nothing more to it."

"With respect, Commander,
there
is
more to
it. And you should be the first to realize that. You served with
him for six years and were his XO for almost two. Doesn't it bother
you that a nine-times decorated captain, from an established
affluent family, and a full citizen, would throw away everything
without motive or cause, after twenty-nine years of diligent
service?"

She closed her eyes for a moment and
looked incredibly frustrated. "You speak as if I were somehow
involved, Lieutenant Commander. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I
wasn't."

"No, I'm sorry," said Calvin.
"Sometimes I'm not very good at communicating what I am trying to
say. So, instead, if you don't mind, I'll just ask you a few simple
questions about the days leading up to the Beotan Incident.
Beginning just before Captain Raidan ordered the Phoenix to go
dark."

Again he saw the glimmer of what might
have been sincere hurt. But this time, instead of looking
vulnerable, Summers' eyes narrowed and her voice turned to steel.
"I'm sure all your musings will be satisfied by the trial,
which—despite what you may think—doesn't begin until tomorrow. Now,
if you don't mind, I'd prefer not to discuss this any further off
the record."

"Yes, of course," said
Calvin, giving her an exaggerated nod. "
Commander
."

She returned the nod with a fake smile
and walked away. He tried to keep his eyes from following her,
feeling irritated, and wondering how he might have handled the
conversation better.

He hated arrogant women, especially
the attractive kind who’d probably had everything in life handed to
them on a silver platter.

Chapter 3

The room Calvin had been given was
about the same size as his quarters aboard the Nighthawk. Just
large enough to have a bed, a desk, various drawers, and enough
floor space for a pile of boxes. It was sparse and dull, with a
small liquor cabinet as the only luxury. But since Calvin didn't
drink, it was only there to take up space in an already cramped
room.

At his feet, and in piles on his bed,
were all the effects from his quarters aboard the Nighthawk. Even
the posters had been removed from the walls, the remains of which
were in tatters. He was probably the only CO in the Empire who
decorated his military quarters with posters of music artists and
slick-looking ads for upcoming blockbusters. He liked the color and
noise they filled his space with, and they reminded him of the
lighter side of life. But, because of the ship’s scheduled
cleaning, they'd all been removed and in their condition would
never hang again. Luckily they were less than 1q a piece and would
be easy to replace.