Phoenix Feathers, Part I Chapter 6

Disclaimer: All of the characters, moons, space stations, and horses of this 'verse belong to Joss, and if I happened to create one or two new ones along the way, then they should belong to him anyway.

***

In Horizon City, where aircars of all shapes and sizes sped back and forth amidst gleaming buildings that seemed to reach into space, the area designated as a spaceport was something of a formality. It was not nearly as impressive as its surroundings, but it was just as busy. In one of its many Traffic Control towers, however, there was still time enough for one rather inexperienced controller to undergo a thorough dressing-down.

He squirmed before his supervisor’s glare. “Sir, I’ve reported the incident as it happened. The Goliath-class freighter reported engine trouble and was instructed to activate its hazard beacon and stay on course.”

“And who,” the Supervisor grated, “gave them that order?”

The junior controller gulped. “I did, sir.”

“Did you also take it upon yourself to examine their entry pattern, that they really were experiencing a malfunction?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t suppose it occurred to you that they were faking it? Simulating a critical engine malfunction is the oldest trick in the smuggler’s book!” The Supervisor saw the mortified look on the junior controller’s face and calmed himself, his tone softening. “It’s all right, son. Now you know. Unfortunate, that’s all. No-good criminals like that should be seen to.”

“Sir,” the controller ventured, “there’s more. Their last known course would have taken them directly over the Blackout Zone in Sector 9. We lost radar contact with them for the night, but it’s re-established now. They haven’t gone anywhere just yet.”

The Supervisor’s eyes widened. “Dispatch a team to those coordinates right now! We’ve got to bring them in.”

The Supervisor sprang out of his seat and hurried to the door of the room, thoughts dark, while the junior controller, still seated, stared after him bewilderedly.

“Sir, what’s the matter? What’s out there, anyway?”

The Supervisor turned back to him from the doorway.

“There are some things that are better left blacked out.”

***

In the Stallion’s common area, Cody stared at Monty, aghast. “Phoenix fixed the ship?”

“Well, I don’t know about any Phoenixes, but she’s up and runnin’ well enough. Speaking of which, we’d better dig up the goods- Feds’ll be lookin’ for us, and we don’t want to leave those bits of precious behind.”

The Captain, motioning for Cody to follow, strode aft towards the Stallion’s main ramp. When they got there, they were brought up short. The boy, framed by the open cargo bay doors, was waiting for them.

“Going.”

“Already?” Cody was incredulous. “Are you sure you’ll be okay out there? It’s a long ways to anyplace civilized by foot.”

Monty rooted around in a corner for a battered and rusty pair of shovels, tossing one to the mechanic. “Kid doesn’t have much of a choice, Cody. We’re in a bit of a rush to get off-planet.”

Phoenix ignored Monty, staring intently at Cody. “Not me. You.”

“Oh! Yeah. Just as soon as we dig up our buried treasure.” Cody made to move past him to help Monty, who was trudging out into the undergrowth that encircled the ship, but Phoenix restrained him.

“Gotta go!”

“Um, okay. You just sit tight, we’ll be real quick.” Cody all but ran down the ramp, more than a little disturbed at Phoenix’s insistent tone.

The strange boy stared after him, unmoving, as Cody followed the Captain’s path into the trees. “Coming and going, but you’re not it…”

Phoenix turned and walked quietly back into the Stallion’s main bay.

***

Clarke heard someone approaching the shuttle, so he closed the doors and hid himself in its dark interior. He didn’t feel very much like talking to anyone, let alone remaining with the crew he’d let down, job after job after job. He’d decided that it would be the best thing for them if he left as soon as possible, but he couldn’t just run away. That kind of cowardice wouldn’t be bearable, let alone would it help the crew. Clarke had to find a way to pay Monty back for his kindness and hospitality.

When the door opened and the boy stepped through, Clarke stopped breathing. He willed himself to melt into the walls, to become just another part of the shuttle. He was surrounded by empty crates and discarded equipment which perfectly concealed him. It didn’t make a micro of difference- the kid walked right up to him. Creepy.

“I know you.”

The words sent a chill down Clarke’s spine.

“Need help. They’re coming, but it won’t go back. It won’t! No, they’ll find it! Shines like a beacon, it’s so bright. In plain sight. Can’t fight…”

The boy examined his fingers in silence for a few moments, but then his head snapped up and he looked right at Clarke, as if seeing him for the first time. He seemed to become cogent once more, slowly reaching out with a finger and poking Clarke in the chest.

“You’re it!” Then he was gone, leaving Clarke alone once more.

Most men who have had gibberish spewed at them by a crazy-eyed teenager would be more concerned with committing said teenager to a mental institution than actually working out what had been said. Clarke would have acted in a similar fashion but for one reason: In the light of the open doorway, he had glimpsed a long, fresh scar that ran up the length of the boy’s arm. Having considerable expertise with weapons injuries, he recognized the type of weapon that did the scarring. Or rather, the burning. It was a laser, and it screamed Alliance Military.

Clarke thought back over what the kid had said, the meaningless string of nonsense. Then something clicked.

“Tsao Gao!” Suddenly he was sprinting out of the shuttle at top speed.

***

Monty and Cody finished hauling in the last of the cargo and straightened painfully up, panting.

“Nebula, how’s she lookin’?” Monty hollered up the long corridor to the bridge.

Priscilla jogged back to them, her face set. “Engine’s hot, Captain, but she won’t fly. Nebula thinks the vector jets were fouled by the landing. We’re gonna have to dig her out.”

Monty’s smile disappeared. There were several vector jets that were located directly underneath the ship which now were embedded in the ground. The Goliath-class freighter was designed to land and take off from massive landing struts through the use of small vector jets. Since the actuators for the landing struts had been damaged by the crash, the Stallion had lost some, if not all, of its launch capability.

With the inevitable search by the Feds nearing by the minute, there was only one thing to do.

“Let’s get digging,” Monty ordered.

It was tedious work. Priscilla, Monty, and Cody worked furiously on the dirt-clogged nacelles which protruded from the Stallion, but it was slow going. Phoenix wandered over to where Monty scrabbled with his huge hands at one of the vector jets.

“Won’t make it.”

Monty didn’t turn around. “Ain’t you gone yet, kid? I ‘preciate you fixin’ the engine and all, but we’re gonna be purplebelly bait in another minute, so why don’t you clear out?” Finished with the first nacelle, Monty looked around, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. Cody and Priscilla had finished their jets, so the three wearily jogged around the ship to get at the other side. As they crossed in front of the bridge they heard a sharp ringing noise. Then Phoenix came into view, his bare foot drawn back to kick a fouled jet.

Cody yelped. “No, Phoenix, don’t-”

Phoenix’s foot swung forward into the side of the jet with a clang. To their surprise, a cascade of dirt fell from the nacelle. Monty saw that all three of the vector jets on this side of the Stallion had been cleared, presumably in the same manner.

“Huh,” he breathed. Then he addressed his crew. “All right, mount up. Let’s get out of here!”

Priscilla and Cody made for the ramp, but Monty paused. Why was the gorramn kid still staring at him?

Wondering what he was getting his crew into, he cleared his throat. “You too, if you like. Sure got talent, which we’re grateful for. We’ll get you where you’re going. Which is where, exactly?”

Phoenix shrugged, then chanced a smile. He pulled his lips apart experimentally. Ugh. That was terrible. Now the large one was disturbed. Phoenix concluded that he’d have to work on his mannerisms, among other things. He trotted by Monty, who muttered under his breath, “Sure are weird, though…”

“Heard that.”

***

The police patrol skimmer was a model of Alliance engineering and technology. Capable of high speeds and of achieving a ceiling far above that of normal aircars, it was an efficient, powerful, and sleek machine.

In the lead patrol skiff the Lieutenant fidgeted. Finally, his curiosity won out over his self-control and he leaned over the back of the copilot’s seat.

“Are we there yet?”

The crew, who had plenty of experience with these types of operations, heaved a collective sigh.

“Not just yet, sir. We’re homing in on their pulse beacon. Should be there in another minute,” the copilot responded.

Despite his attempt to pacify the Lieutenant, the man was still anxiously breathing down their necks. The copilot silently cursed whatever power in the ‘verse kept sending his squadron rookie officers such as this.

The trio of skiffs screamed into the Blackout Zone at an incredible speed, their pilots keeping in tight formation as only veterans can manage.

“Head for the forested area. That’s where they’re hiding.” The copilot indicated a spot in the distance and the pilot banked the craft straight for it. They spoke rapidly back and forth, running through an operations checklist. They really didn’t need to, but they were trying to impress their competence on the Lieutenant.

“Set wide-wave comm override.”

“Check. Calibrate air to ground radar-”

“Check. Activate first jump light-”

“Check. Fifteen seconds. Arm Mag Drops, set for single fire-”

“Check. Activate second jump light, prep troop hatch for rapid egress…Five seconds. Let’s give them a show.”

The skiffs made a pinpoint deceleration right on top of the signal. Alliance troopers boiled out of specialized rearwards-facing hatches, sliding rapidly down ziplines to the ground. As they landed, each squad fanned out in a well-practiced search pattern while the skiffs hovered above the tree canopy, menacing and ready to provide immediate fire support to any areas of resistance.

In the lead skiff, the copilot frowned at the radar screen. “They should be right under us. What’s taking so long?” He moved to activate the comm, but the Lieutenant beat him to it. “Blue Prime to squad leader. What’s the holdup, over?”

The voice of their platoon’s sergeant came back over the speakers, slightly distorted as was dictated by the Alliance Military. “Sir, we haven’t acquired the target yet. Continuing search pattern, Over.”

The Lieutenant looked at the copilot, incredulous.

“Sir,” said the pilot, “Red Team leader’s found something. He’s coming up.”

A minute later, the sergeant of Red Team was on board the command skiff, barely winded by his climb back up the zipline in full kit. He saluted the Lieutenant and presented him with an oblong device, the tangled ends of wires protruding from it.

“It’s a ship’s pulse beacon, sir.” He reported the bad news without any trace of emotion, but glanced sidelong at the copilot, the faintest trace of a smirk hidden in his eyes. It took a moment for the Lieutenant to react.

“But where’s…”

The pilot touched his earpiece. “Squad leader say’s they’ve located the landing site.” Without asking permission, he guided the skiff to a clearing not a hundred yards away that had been concealed from view by the trees around it.

A small area, it showed signs of a violent landing and a hasty take-off, with felled trees and scorched ground outlining where the rogue freighter had rested. Some of the logs which had been too close to the ship’s jet engines were still burning.

The Lieutenant was sickened. “So- the signal…”

“Was faked, sir.” The copilot shrugged. “They must have bugged out just a few minutes ago.”

The recall code was issued over the comm. The three skiffs eased downwards into the open space to recover their search teams, then lifted off and oriented as one towards the distant Horizon City.

Holding the Stallion’s severed pulse beacon, the Lieutenant looked out over the deserted site, then slowly gazed upwards into the clear blue sky.

***

In the Academy control room, Dr. Titus rubbed his tired eyes as he addressed his two subordinates. “Gentlemen, we are sunk. Both subjects are well away from here by now, and we’ve only just repaired the sabotage done to our sensors. Options?”

Mathias shrugged. “We alert any federal agents on planets that they’ll likely end up on to look for the shuttle. Meanwhile, we find whatever locals were involved, question them, see what they know.”

Barnes shook his head. “That would take far too long to get results. If we are looking at a cell of former Independents, they’ll have gone to ground by now.”

“Then we pick on their friends. We start rounding up resident Browncoats on smuggling charges and wait for them to-”

Titus cut in. “Never. We’re not monsters, Mathias. The war’s over.”

“We also have another option,” Barnes said quietly. “Prep 01 and 02 for deployment. Together, they are advanced enough to hunt the rogues down, and can overpower them, which is more than a lucky fed agent could hope to do.”

Mathias objected. “But they’re prototypes! Who will be the one to issue them orders, not to mention keep them from running? There’s no way we’ll get clearance for deployment- Our sponsor might want to cut their losses, not to mention our funding!”

Titus spoke slowly. “Getting the clearance we need to be able to go after the rogues will be next to impossible without a Parliamentary override.

“What we need is an Operative.”

To ensure that the vast society of the Alliance remained perfect and safe for its citizens, it was necessary for the Parliament to quietly perform deeds that would be viewed in a less noble context as highly illegal and immoral by its constituents. The chosen few who carried out those missions were called Operatives and, for all intents and purposes, did not exist.

Highly trained, fanatically loyal, and wielding complete authority amidst the Alliance’s tangled bureaucracy, Operatives were called in as a last resort, due to their rather permanent methods of problem-solving. They were ruthless, smart, and very deadly. They had voluntarily sacrificed their own humanity to meet the needs of Parliament. They were predators, and they would stop at nothing.

***