Inside the medical bay of the U.S.S. Fortitude, Phoenix sat in a wheelchair in the hallway, biting his lower lip, staring at the space where his right arm used to be. In reverse order, a series of memories jolted his mind's eye, sucking him into a whirlpool of bitterness and regret. In one glimpse, Callisto hauled him to the surface, azure blue water bursting with bubbles across his field of view, into the bright glare of the sun. The next one, at his side, Nova helped him swim toward the safety of their boat, and in a flash, she vanished. And finally, the most gruesome memory of all, the great white sinking its teeth into his flesh and severing his arm from his body with disturbing ease.
He groaned and shook the thoughts away, returning his focus to the bare stub of his arm. Thanks to the nanobots, the brown skin appeared smooth. A painful smile creased his lips as he ran the fingers of his good hand over the rounded end. For a moment, he felt delirious, like he was on the edge of insanity, a deep underwater canyon dropping off beneath him, threatening to pull him to the bottom. But instead of plummeting to the depths, he floated over the abyss with glassy eyes.
Then he realized he was in a wheelchair. Of course, he knew this, but still... he snorted, his head bobbing on his neck, swaying like the sea. The only way to feel anything but utter despair was to find some oddity about his situation—there was nothing humorous about it—but thinking about himself in a wheelchair vented some steam. After all, his legs still worked. He could walk. No problem.
A sobering thought occurred to him. Maybe he was in the chair because of his mental state?
Most likely, he surmised.
He lifted his gaze and let his eyes take in his surroundings. The dark claws of hopelessness raked their morbid nails over his broken mind. If he peered inside his soul, he imagined it might appear sparsely lit and empty, like the hallway before him. Behind him, the light from a nursing station cast his shadow on the wall. Further down the hall, another light hung near a patient's room. The setting was subdued compared to the bright fluorescent bulbs that illuminated the place during the day. But of all the questions in his mind, the one that tormented him the most, was why Nova? Why not him? Maybe if they had left him at the bottom of the sea, bleeding out, the shark would have finished him and allowed Callisto, and the love of his life, to escape?
Dressed in his khaki service uniform, he didn't feel like a pilot or an officer. He felt less than what he knew himself to be.
He visualized his missing hand... fingers flexing, balling into a fist, relaxing... like a ghost.
Phoenix had heard stories about people losing limbs. They reported having phantom pains, their brains still linked in some mysterious way to their severed body part, but he didn't feel pain, only a sense of loss. Like someone stole something from him.
From a million miles away, a memory flooded his mind, his right hand operating the flight controls inside his F-49 Comet. The same hand he used to flip up his visor. The one he used to walk his fingers across the back of Nova's neck, pretending to be a spider.
Nova's gone. The realization punched him in the gut. A gnawing pain squeezed his stomach and worked its way up his throat.
After he awoke from sedation, the moment he heard she had died, Phoenix jerked his arm from the nano-case, fought his way out of bed, stumbled into her room and fell across her body, weeping uncontrollably. Yes, a Naval commander cried like a sniffling schoolboy, but he gave no thought to his reputation. Something, some monster, ripped Nova from him. He could still remember the scene. There was so much blood on the bedding and sheets, dripping to the floor.
He pictured Nova on a beach with the sun sinking low in the sky. Her smile was soft, eyes falling on him, tranquil and kind. They sat in the sand, waves rolling in and receding.
They dove beneath the water, scuba diving in the bluest ocean. There was a violent collision, blood, and then death.
He felt like something snatched his heart from his chest. All that remained was emptiness. There were no tears now. No matter how badly it hurt, he had no more to cry. Just loss, and bitterness, and numbness.
As he sat in the wheelchair, he wondered how long they had kept him sedated while in the med bay. He pondered why Nova's body had remained under a sheet in her room for such a long time. Who knew how much time had lapsed? The only thing he could remember was the doctor had been on the phone down the hall, talking to someone about Nova. What to do with her body?
A voice snapped him from the trance. "I'm almost ready, Commander Drake."
Lost so deep, the woman's voice erupted from nowhere. The suddenness of her intrusion brought him back to the here and now. It was the doctor, but he had no desire to twist his neck to look at her... and he didn't try.
"Okay, shall we?" she said, much closer.
The wheelchair moved forward, toward the sliding auto doors. Still in a bit of a funk, Phoenix's head bobbled on his shoulders, his gaze straying left to right, up and down. According to the latest scan, he was one hundred percent healed. The thought caused a half-hearted chuckle to rumble from somewhere within his stomach.
"It's strange that the Admiral sent a discharge order this late at night," Phoenix said. "Don't you think, doc?"
The woman leaned over his shoulder, closer, to catch his eye. He caught a whiff of coconut and vanilla. Lotion probably. "I scheduled you for release for tomorrow, so it's not too soon in that regard, but the timing is odd."
The doctor patted the upper part of his right arm. "Call me Ariel, or Dr. Fairhaven, please."
"You got it, doc, I mean, Ariel... Dr. Fairhaven," he said as they passed through the doors and exited the medical bay. The September air, even after sundown, blew on them thick and dry, the heat from the day still present.
A golf cart with its headlights on buzzed toward them, its interior cloaked in a veil of darkness. Still some distance away, Phoenix squinted to see, but found it difficult to tell who was driving. As the four-seater drew near, the cart coasted through the designated loading and unloading zone, turned in front of them, and came to a stop. Finally, the exterior light hanging above the auto doors illuminated the driver.
"I guess Lieutenant Maxwell couldn't make a run this late," Ariel said, edging the wheelchair near the passenger side of the cart. "Hey, wait a minute, you're Ensign—"
"Callisto Tenzing," Phoenix said, finishing her sentence with an air of confusion.
Ariel angled the chair so she could help him onto the rear bench. For a second, Phoenix wanted to thank his friend for saving his life, but that moment passed as Callisto peered over his shoulder. He didn't speak, but his demeanor felt like an accusation. His eyes appeared like dark beads piercing a hole through Phoenix.
"Why you?" Phoenix asked, sidetracked by the way Callisto stared at him, the confusion lingering.
"Why do you think?"
"The admiral chose him," Ariel said. "He ordered the discharge. He's had his fingerprints on everything since the shark attacks. But why he'd pick the ensign in particular, I don't know."
"Guess you'll have to ask him yourself."
Ariel tried to assist Phoenix out of the chair, but he waved her off. "I've got this," he said.
His first instinct, he thought to use his dominant hand to push up from the wheelchair, but it wasn't there. He rocked in the seat, scooting a few inches forward. When he attempted to use his left hand, it worked better, but his body turned to the right while the chair swiveled left. Phoenix groaned and muttered a curse under his breath.
Ariel assumed her role and placed a hand on Phoenix's shoulder. Then she wrapped her other arm around his waist. This time, he didn't resist her help as she guided him onto the rear bench. After making sure he was steady, she took her place next to Callisto.
"Will you be okay back there by yourself?" she asked.
"I'll be fine. I'm not a child, I can manage."
Ariel drew her lips to the side and knitted her brows together.
"I'll be okay."
After a careful nod, she turned away, seemingly more satisfied with his second response.
Callisto floored the gas pedal.
Phoenix's neck whip-lashed. His head wobbled, and he threw his hand up to the back of the front seat. His left hand, thankfully.
He leaned toward Ariel as they sped down the designated pathway. "Take it easy," Phoenix said, narrowing his eyes at Callisto, his voice stressing the word easy. "We're not in a race."
"Mess with me, and I'll swerve all over the place, throw your—"
"Please, Ensign Tenzing," Ariel said, "how about showing conduct becoming an officer?"
"What do you know about being an officer?" Callisto fired back. "You're not even in the Navy."
"I know an officer, and I know a gentleman when I see one."
Callisto blew hot air from his mouth. Looked ahead again with resignation.
"I'd settle for respect due to a superior officer," Phoenix said.
This drew a fierce glare from Callisto. He held the gaze momentarily and then returned his focus to the path ahead.
"I'll be glad to be back in my bed," Phoenix said as he settled into the seat, head back. The instant the words left his mouth, guilt washed over him, the flood drowning him. How could he think of enjoying anything without Nova?
They passed through a darkened alleyway with the ship's superstructure bridge wing illuminated in the distance, four-stories high like a skyscraper laying on its side. A tunnel at its center permitted access to the rear of the carrier where the airstrips lay.
Ariel pursed her lips, glanced back at Phoenix. "I'll second that—"
Callisto pounded the brakes. The cart lurched, the tires skidding, shuddering to a stop. Phoenix's head bounced off the back of Ariel's seat.
"What's wrong with you?"
The words froze on his lips.
Two men blocked the golf cart's path, arms folded, decked out in black from head to toe. Boots. Clothing. Gloves. Masks. Visors over their eyes.
Their masks fit snugly over their faces. The material looked form fitting, but hard as granite. Phoenix imagined rapping his knuckles on their cheeks and hearing a metallic ring.
His eyes drifted down to one man's waist, to a holstered pistol and a sheathed knife. Not a sliver of skin showed on their necklines or wrists. Phoenix was so focused on the pair in front of him he didn't see the two men appear from both sides until the last second. A white rag covered Callisto's mouth and nose. Ariel got it too, and they melted into unconsciousness.
From behind Phoenix, a hand wrapped around his forehead, gripping him like a vise. A rag with an acrid odor hovered over his face and a gloved hand mashed it down with such force that there was no hope of wriggling free. Before he could cry for help, an ammonia-like substance overpowered his sense of taste and smell and plunged his world into utter darkness.