THE TITAN EXPERIMENT

CHAPTER 23 - The Hand of Fate (Phoenix Drake)

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.