Vacation with the Phoenix (Monsters and Margaritas #10)
Chapter 1
Tove
The transport shuttle hit the docking ring with a heavy, metallic thud that reverberated through the cabin deck, vibrating the titanium struts of my passenger seat.
The deceleration engines whined, shifting pitch from a high-frequency scream to a low, rumbling hum before finally dying out completely.
Around me, the other passengers—a loud, anxious mix of wealthy honeymooners and adrenaline-seeking corporate executives—scrambled from their crash couches before the "Fasten Seatbelt" holos even faded.
They crowded the starboard viewports, practically pressing their faces against the reinforced transparisteel, jockeying for the first look at our destination.
"Look at it," a man two rows up breathed, his voice trembling with a mixture of reverence and naked, primal terror. "It's literally on fire. The whole planet."
I remained seated. The restraining harness across my chest retracted with a soft click, but I made no move to stand.
I adjusted the high collar of my oversized cooling tunic, letting the synthetic, moisture-wicking fabric settle against my sharp collarbones.
I didn't need to look out the window to know what was out there.
Ignis IV. The travel brochures had called it a majestic display of planetary infancy, a world still bleeding from the violent throes of its own creation.
They promised a brush with the chaotic forces of nature, all from the absolute safety of a five-star corporate dome.
I called it a desperate gamble. A last-ditch effort to jolt my nervous system back online.
I checked my wrist chronometer, noting the dull ache in my joints from fourteen hours of transit from the central systems. Then, pressing two fingers to the inside of my wrist, I calculated my heart rate.
Sixty beats per minute. Steady. Placid. Flat.
Even the violent shudder of the shuttle's atmospheric entry hadn't caused a single flutter.
The main airlock cycled with a sharp hiss of pneumatic pressure, and the heavy blast doors slid apart to reveal the boarding umbilical.
This connected the shuttle directly to the Cynder Bay Resort's primary intake lounge—a transparent, shielded tunnel suspended precariously over the planet’s surface.
I stood, slinging my small travel duffel over my shoulder.
I joined the herd of tourists shuffling into the tunnel, letting the current of excited bodies carry me forward.
The moment we cleared the shuttle's climate-controlled interior, the environment of Ignis IV asserted itself.
Even through the massive, high-grade energy shielding that surrounded the tunnel, the heat was a physical, oppressive pressure.
It didn't burn the skin, but it hit the invisible barrier like a battering ram, radiating inward.
The air inside the tunnel grew thick and heavy.
Outside the glass, the sheer atmospheric weight of the magma oceans created a visual haze, distorting the jagged obsidian peaks and the sprawling rivers of liquid rock into a shimmering, mirage-like painting. It was a chaotic landscape of sharp blacks and blinding, neon oranges.
Without warning, a massive geothermal geyser erupted three hundred yards to the left of the walkway.
A plume of superheated rock and liquid fire shot hundreds of feet into the thick, sulfur-choked sky.
The sound was muffled by the resort's shielding, reduced from an ear-shattering explosion to a deep, bass-heavy vibration that traveled up through the floor grates, into the soles of my boots, and rattled my teeth.
The tourists around me shrieked—a chaotic chorus of delighted, terrified gasps. Hands clutched at partners; cameras flashed frantically against the glass, capturing the destruction.
I stopped walking. I let the crowd part around me, standing perfectly still in the center of the walkway, and stared directly at the falling arc of the magma fountain.
The liquid fire rained down, splattering against the base of the energy shield in a silent explosion of blinding light and molten slag.
A woman in a neon-bright resort wrap bumped into my shoulder, stumbling as the floor shook. She grabbed my arm to steady herself, her eyes wide, pupils dilated with pure adrenaline.
"Did you see that?!" she gasped, squeezing my forearm. "My god, it's terrifying! Aren't you terrified?"
I looked down at her hand gripping my sleeve, then up to her flushed, ecstatic face. I didn't pull away. I just stared at her with the same blank intensity I'd given the magma.
"No," I said, my voice flat.
The woman’s smile faltered. She let go of my arm quickly, stepping back as if the chill radiating from me was more unsettling than the liquid fire outside. She turned back to her partner, whispering something, leaving a wide berth around me.
I waited for the spike of adrenaline. I waited for the primal, evolutionary instinct that should be screaming at me to run, to hide, to survive the lethal proximity of the eruption.
For six years as a crisis negotiator, I had thrived on that spike.
I had lived in the space between disaster and salvation, talking down hostages, managing catastrophic systems failures, feeling the intense, burning need to save lives.
Until one day, the wire had just snapped.
The empathy had burned out, leaving nothing but a vast, frozen wasteland in its wake.
I pressed my fingers against my carotid artery again. Still sixty beats per minute. I watched the magma burst and slide down the invisible shield. It should have been terrifying. It should have triggered a deeply ingrained human panic response. Instead, it just looked like glowing soup.
A hollow, familiar disappointment settled into my chest, heavy and cold. The gamble was failing. Ignis IV wasn't enough.
I let my hand drop to my side and resumed walking.
The resort’s interior airlock doors at the end of the tunnel hissed open, blasting the arriving crowd with a wave of aggressively conditioned, freezing air.
I welcomed the sharp chill. It felt honest. I stepped through the threshold, leaving the silent, raging fireworks behind.
The arrival lobby of the Cynder Bay Resort was a masterpiece of corporate sterilization.
The floor was poured obsidian, buffed to a mirror finish so smooth it looked permanently wet.
High, vaulted ceilings arched over a sprawling concourse decorated with sleek, minimalist furniture, brushed steel accents, and subtle, indirect lighting that mimicked a calm sunset.
The walls facing the planet were floor-to-ceiling smart-glass, offering a panoramic view of the hellscape outside while perfectly insulating the guests from the lethal reality of it.
I walked toward the main reception desks, my boots clicking softly against the stone.
The air in the lobby was artificially crisp, aggressively pumped with the scent of synthetic citrus and crushed mint.
It was a calculated olfactory profile, designed by some corporate algorithm to evoke freshness, hygiene, and absolute safety.
But beneath the sharp tang of the lemon aerosol, I could still detect the faint, stubborn scent of sulfur.
It was clinging to the clothes of the staff, seeping through the micro-seams of the airlocks. The planet was trying to get in.
"Welcome to Cynder Bay," a concierge said, offering a practiced, blinding smile that didn't reach his eyes.
He wore a crisp, dark red uniform with silver piping that looked entirely out of place against the backdrop of a lava field.
"We are thrilled you chose to spend your hard-earned vacation with us.
Can I start you off with our signature welcome drink? The Magma-Margarita?"
He gestured gracefully to a floating grav-tray nearby, where several tall glasses bubbled with a viscous, bright red liquid that emitted a faint, harmless, dry-ice vapor.
"No," I said.
My voice was flat, clinical, unfrilly. I didn't soften the rejection with a polite smile or a fabricated excuse about travel nausea.
I simply didn't want it, and I no longer possessed the energy required to perform the basic social niceties that lubricated human interaction.
I shifted the strap of my travel duffel.
The canvas was heavy, digging into my collarbone, a physical weight I welcomed because it was something real.
I dug into my pocket, pulled out my solid-state identification chit—its cool, metallic edges rough against my thumb—and slid it across the slick stone.
The concierge snatched up the chit, his smile never wavering, though the corners of his eyes tightened.
"Of course, madam. We can arrange for standard hydration to be sent to your suite.
While I process your access code, Ms. Sorenson, might I interest you in booking an appointment at our Obsidian Spa?
We offer a deep-tissue volcanic ash wrap that is simply exquisite after a long orbital flight. "
"No spa," I said, staring at the bridge of his nose rather than meeting his eyes.
"We also offer guided VIP tours of the Exclusion Zone perimeter. You'll be accompanied by one of our native Wardens for an up-close, absolutely safe encounter with the planetary forces."
"No tours. No spa. No drinks," I said, my tone completely deadened. "Just the room."
The concierge's smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a micro-expression of confusion, before snapping back into its rigid corporate place. "Let me just finalize your room access code."