Friday, March 16th, 0012 NE

1722 hours

Philadelphia, USA

THEY WENT IN as a six-man team. It was a simple operation: neutralize the enemy. The same as always. Or at least the same as the one other time they’d done it.

Mark wiped his sweaty hands on his pants as he waited. With hazel eyes staring ahead from his crouched position behind cover, he waited to hear his signal over the comm. It was certain to come—things were designed that way. It was only a matter of when.

When.

“Man down!”

Mark’s eyes widened. He sucked in a breath. He dashed from cover.

“Two down! Two down! Henderson is down!”

Mark slid behind a column, his heart racing. “Veck,” he cursed before lifting his comm. “I’m in Block-2A! I’m only seeing one down on my tracker!”

The voice on the other end was frantic. “4C! 4C! Tyson is in 4C! You should know that.”

“I know, I’m—” He inhaled again. “Just go,” he whispered, wheezing off-comm. Swinging around the column, he raised his M-19 and bolted forward.

The grid was a four-by-four arena—sixteen blocks filled with columns, barricades, and corridors. The blocks themselves were over eight thousand square feet, giving the entire grid a size roughly equivalent to an American football field. It was one of several such complexes on the grounds of Philadelphia Academy. Each grid block could be arranged in numerous ways with numerous impediments, giving every training class that entered it a completely customized experience. This was Mark’s second time setting foot inside its twisted walls.

Leaping over a fallen column, Mark stumbled, regained his footing, then scurried behind an automobile-sized barricade just in time to avoid a splattering of yellow from the paintball equivalent of an E-35 assault rifle. Tucking his knees in to hide himself, he said, gasping, “I have enemy contact!”

“We all have enemy contact. Get over here!” the voice on the other side answered him.

Dashing around the protected side of the barricade, Mark ran full speed, sliding under a raised column to emerge on the other side. Ahead, one of his teammates appeared from around a wall corner to provide cover fire. Yellow globs of paint burst against the walls as Mark scrambled to safety around the corner. There, leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest in disgust, was his so-called injured teammate, Jason Martinez. Across from Jason, doubled over on the floor in all of its critically-injured glory, was the actual wounded party—a life-size mannequin complete with full combat armor and polymer skin. And a lot of blood.

“Holy crap,” Mark said, the words blurting out the moment he saw the dummy.

“Not exactly what I was hoping to hear from my medic,” said Jason stoically.

Kneeling down next to the dummy, Mark opened his medical kit on the floor. His hands were shaking, his heart pounding. Detaching the portion of the dummy’s chest plate that was damaged, he tossed it to the floor. When he ripped open the dummy’s under-armor, the scope of the wound came into view. A scorched hole was bored through the right side of the dummy’s chest. Polymers and faux muscles had melted together in an odorous heap meant to mimic the real thing.

Swallowing, Mark activated the analyzer in his helmet. Several seconds later, the results appeared as an overlay in his visor. Category-3 Plasma. R. Lung collapse. A reticle highlighted the damaged area.

A right lung collapse. That would require chest decompression. His training hadn’t gotten that far.

The same voice that’d called for Mark earlier over the comm called again. “Henderson is critting! I repeat, Henderson is critting!” At the same time, an exchange of gunfire erupted from Mark’s comrade by the corner and their assailants farther down.

“You got this, man,” said Jason, arms still folded.

Scooping a handful of burn gel, Mark applied it feverishly to the plasma-cauterized wound. With his other hand, he grabbed a chest dart. “Can Henderson be moved?” he asked through his helmet comm. His voice shook.

“Negative!”

Feeling with both hands, Mark positioned the dart above the dummy’s chest. “Three, two, one,” he whispered before jabbing the dart into place. Immediately, his helmet analyzer flashed red.

Pulmonary artery damaged.

He froze.

Along the wall, Jason crouched to observe.

Mark’s breathing intensified as he stared at the chest dart. His hands red with artificial blood, he wrapped his fingers around it. He pulled it out.

After a burst of paintball fire, the soldier covering Mark knelt down. “Got ’em off our backs. How’s it going?”

“He’s working through it,” said Jason.

A new message flashed across his visor screen, accompanied by the faint sound of a flat-line. Injuries terminal.

The dummy was a goner.

Shaking his head, Mark stammered, “I can’t do anything. He’s dead. I—I can’t.”

Jason watched motionlessly, his fist propped against his mouth. Finally, he spoke. “All right, move on to Henderson.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mark as he zipped up the med kit. He was on the comm a moment later. “I’m coming! What’s Henderson’s status?” he asked as confidently as possible. He hopped up to begin his run to the second target.

“Nonresponsive,” the voice on the other end answered.

This was Mark’s second live-action exercise since enrolling in EDEN Academy as a combat medic. His entire first semester at Philadelphia had been spent reading textbooks and listening to lectures—learning the basics of equipment and weapons handling. Semester number two was geared more toward practical application and medic-specific training. Like most teenagers, Mark had zero medical training prior to enrolling. He was a “from the ground up” project in every sense of the word. The basics were coming.

But this was not basic.

Chest needle decompression was an advanced skill, one that no cadet could be realistically expected to perform after essentially reading about it in books. Beyond basic plasma burn treatment and the use of the V-Doc, the visor-integrated medical analyzer, a relatively new device in EDEN’s equipment arsenal, Mark knew as much about human anatomy as the next guy on the street—and probably less, considering his age. That was why the combat medic program lasted two years. And Mark was smack dab in the middle of his first. There was a lot to take in.

Mark had been warned by combat medic cadets before him that there’d be a “system shock” exercise sometime during his second semester, designed to hit home just how seriously a medicin-training had to take his or her studies. He’d mistakenly thought that his first live-action exercise the week prior had been it. But this exercise left no question. The other players in the exercise were cadets just like him, though from other programs and in later semesters. Even among rookies, Mark was the least experienced.

He was in mid-leap over a barricade leading into the next grid when the complex’s klaxons rang out, accompanied by the flashing of red beacons on the ceiling of each grid block. Slowing to an awkward, cloppity-clop stop, Mark sank to his knees, bent forward, and placed his hands atop his head. The exercise was over in mid-execution.

The comm crackled as Jason spoke. “They didn’t even let us finish?”

Exhaling slowly, Mark pulled off his helmet. Running a hand through his sweaty brown hair, he stared ahead, devoid of emotion.

“Mark Remington, report to the green room immediately,” said a voice over the complex’s speaker system.

His eyes widening, Mark looked up then back with an open mouth. Before he could say anything—not that he would have—Jason spoke aloud to the voice.

“Hey, this was on me! I told him what to do!”

The voice on the speaker repeated. “Mark Remington, report to the green room immediately.”

His own words shaking, Mark said, “Yes, sir!” as loud as he could. Grabbing his helmet, he ran full speed in the direction of the grid entrance.

Jason was trotting there, too, at a pace slow enough to allow Mark to catch up. “Mark,” the fourth-semester soldier-in-training said to him, “I’m gonna tell ’em this was on me. Don’t worry.”

Within seconds, they were approaching the entrance. Ahead, a pair of EDEN officials awaited. Gabriel Woods, the instructor in charge of the exercise team, stood with them. The well-built black man looked gut-punched.

One of the officials spoke before Mark or Jason could. His eyes were solely on the cadet combat medic. “Mark Remington?”

Mark huffed as he drew to a stop and came to attention. “Yes, sir.”

“Is your brother Scott James Remington?”

Confusion hit Mark’s face, followed immediately by panic. Beside him, Jason blinked. “Yes, sir,” Mark said breathlessly.

The officials swapped a glance before the second one addressed him. “We need you to come with us.”

“Is he okay?” asked Mark without pause.

For several seconds, neither official answered. They simply stared at each other, then back at Mark. Finally, the second one replied, the abruptness in his voice fading away. “Son, you just need to come with us.”

Mark hesitated for a moment, then he stepped forward. As the two officials made their way out of the green room and away from the arena, Mark followed behind them.

Once they’d gone, Jason looked quizzically at Woods. “Sir, what’s going on?”

The instructor’s gaze followed Mark and the officials until they were out of view. Still facing away from Jason, he answered, “Get back to your last position. Your training’s not done.”

“Yes, sir.”

Walking up the stairwell next to the green room, Woods returned to the observation deck to join the exercise evaluators who were standing before a large one-way mirror that allowed them to look down upon the grid. But not one of the evaluators was looking in that direction. They were focused on the wall-mounted television and the talking heads vehemently discussing the soldier whose photo was displayed in the center of the screen. And to the word “Terrorist” that was captioned beneath it.

And to the terrorist’s last name—Remington.

PART I

1

Saturday, March 17th, 0012 NE

0936 hours

Six hours after Cairo

Krasnoyarsk, Russia

PIVOTING AROUND the cover of the doorframe, Pyotr Alkaev raised his E-35 assault rifle and fired a burst of 5.56x45mm rounds—his last—into the open street toward the police stronghold. Obscured behind sheets of freezing rain, the police officers took cover behind vehicles parked on the opposite end of the street. Shrinking back inside, he looked at one of his Nightman comrades. “Magazine!” Rushing in Pyotr’s direction, the indicated Nightman tossed a fresh magazine at the door. Pyotr snatched it and slammed it into his weapon. From the door corner opposite him and through every window on the building’s face, more Nightmen released volleys of suppression fire.

This was, by leaps and bounds, the worst situation the nineteen-year-old Pyotr had ever found himself in. With General Thoor and The Machine having fallen to EDEN, every city with a Nightman presence was in open rebellion. The dark warriors were being pushed out by an amalgamation of law enforcement, local militias, and EDEN supplementary units. With the threat of the Terror gone, a full Nightman purge was in effect. No city was purging more fiercely than Krasnoyarsk.

Like all of the Nightmen around him, Pyotr was a slayer. There had been a fulcrum—the title of designated Nightman leaders—assigned to Pyotr’s building, which was a safe house. Unfortunately, the fulcrum had been among the first to fall in the attack on their location. There were numerous safe houses throughout the city, none of which were staffed by particularly high-ranking Nightman officials, as the need had simply never been there before. Only a few in the city knew the safe houses existed. But when the purge began and the first waves of Nightmen were taken into custody, the disclosure of the safe houses’ locations happened quickly and liberally. Without Thoor to protect them, the Nightmen were in full panic mode. The dangerous gleam of their black armor was gone.

Pistol fire ricocheted around the frame of the door, forcing Pyotr and one of his companions back. In the same retaliatory burst, one of the slayers in the window fell backward, struck in the head. The police force, growing in size with every minute, moved closer.

This was not going to last. Pyotr could see the end drawing nearer. An EDEN squad was heading their way from a street to the north, and several helicopters could be heard making their approaches. There was nowhere for them to run, nothing they could do. Decimated and out of ammunition, Pyotr mentally prepared for his imminent capture.

Then came the booms. Shrinking back instinctively, Pyotr and the slayers watched as heavy cannon fire erupted against the concrete, forcing law enforcement back as a wall of orange streaks lit up the street. An abandoned vehicle parked in the center of the street exploded as gunfire struck it. The slayers retreated from the windows.

By the time Pyotr reoriented himself and looked back to see what had happened, one of his comrades was already looking out of the window. Hovering onto the scene was an old, war-torn Vulture, its nose-mounted cannon blasting at the police officers’ stronghold and forcing them into a temporary, but full, retreat. Whipping his head back to the others in the room, the stunned slayer at the window shouted, “It is a Vulture!” He looked back at the window again as the Vulture’s tail fin came into view. Gasping, he returned to his comrades. “It is the Pariah!”

*

SCOTT REMINGTON SHOUTED through his mechanized helmet, “Rashid, go! Rodion, go! Feliks, go!” As the troop bay door lowered, whining against its cables, the three Nightmen who’d been a part of the Cairo rescue team readied their assault rifles for disembarking.

Bullets popped and pinged across the Pariah’s hull. “Taking heavy fire, heavy fire!” Travis pushed the stick forward, sending the Pariah’s nose pitching down. With his other hand, he reached up to adjust thruster control, yanking Tiffany’s handcuffed hand along with it.

“Yow!” the blonde exclaimed. “Watch it, nerd, you’re killing my wrist!”

“Handcuffs were the worst idea, ever.”

Her eyes rolled. “Fitting that the worst idea ever came from you.”

As the rear bay door fully lowered, the Nightmen leapt onto the street. Scott rushed out behind them. “Becan, Will, you’re both with me!” As the Irishman and demolitionist took to his sides, Scott felt another hand grab the back of his shoulder. David.

“Be careful down there!” David yelled over the roar of engines and gunfire.

“How about quick?” asked Scott.

The older man nodded. “Quick works, too!”

Gritting his teeth against the throbbing pain in his right thigh, Scott leapt from the Pariah’s door to the rainy street below.

The Fourteenth had flown from Egypt on the wings of a prayer and little else. By technical measures, the extraction operation in Cairo had been a success. Centurion, one of the Ceratopians from the Interspecies Conflict in Siberia, had been recovered. “The Archer betrays you,” were the words uttered to Scott in German by H`laar, the Ceratopian whom Centurion had been assigned to protect. In the specific task of protecting H`laar, Centurion had failed. H`laar was dead. But the mere fact that Centurion was still alive kept a flicker of hope burning that the meaning behind H`laar’s message could be discovered in full.

The battered, black-and-green Ceratopian had received severe damage in the escape from Cairo. Though the alien’s breathing patterns had normalized during the flight, there was no debating that if Centurion didn’t receive medical attention of some kind—medical attention no one in the Pariah knew how to give—he would perish. And if that happened, then all of this was for nothing. Making sure Centurion lived had been priority number one—at least, until an Antipov redirect to land in Krasnoyarsk had been thrust upon them.

As soon as Scott landed and regained his footing on solid ground, he bolted for the cover of a nearby taxi cab, followed by Becan and William. The Nightmen—Rashid, Rodion, and Feliks—found cover around a building corner on the opposite side of the street. The three Nightmen were the last survivors of the extraction team for the extraction team: the Nightmen whom Antipov sent to pull Scott, Esther, Jayden, Boris, and Auric out of Cairo. The extraction team members were among the least injured of the Fourteenth’s crew. Because of that, they were assuming the role of primary offensive force.

Rashid Faraj, the old, Turkish fulcrum, was as no-nonsense a player as Scott had ever worked with. Despite his taking a back seat to Scott’s command in the aftermath of Cairo, Rashid made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t the “blindly follow orders” type. He questioned, he challenged, at times he even scoffed at Scott’s pre-Krasnoyarsk planning. All three were qualities Scott appreciated. At a time like this, when they simply could not afford mistakes, a cross-examiner was a godsend.

Then there was the former numerically-named duo, a pair of slayers that Scott knew next to nothing about beyond their names: Rodion “One” Sayankov and Feliks “Four” Petrukhin. What little he did know had been gleaned from Cairo—that they were dangerous.

“Junction Eight, this is Rashid Faraj of the Fulcrum Elite,” Rashid said through the comm. “We are here to assist you.”

Scott grimaced. That was as cold a lie as Scott had ever heard, because they weren’t there to assist anyone. They were there to retrieve someone valuable, then leave as quickly as possible. Leaning around the far corner of the taxi cab, Scott fired a volley through the sheets of rainfall toward the police force, which was moving back into position now that the Pariah was drifting away.

A panicked reply came through the static. “We see you, Fourteenth! We are inside!”

Rashid cursed loudly. Scott could hear him from all the way across the street. The whole purpose of Rashid being the voice of the Fourteenth was so that nobody would know it was the Fourteenth. So much for that. “They were going to see the collar, anyway,” Scott said to Becan and William as he got on the comm. “Travis, what’s the view?”

“We’re only gonna be able to do so much with the ammo we’ve got!” answered the pilot. “We might need to conserve some in case EDEN shows up in the air.”

Based on our luck, you can count on it. “Drop Jayden and Esther on the roof. See if Ess can find a way inside from above. We need to get inside that building as quickly as possible.”

“Seriously?” Esther asked, her face deadpanned as the Pariah moved back in over the structure. The disheveled scout was still wearing her black maxi dress and pearl earrings from her blazing trek through Cairo Confinement and the Anthill.

“It’s just a little rain,” answered Jayden.

She crinkled her nose. “Says the man wearing a hat.”

Readying his sniper rifle, Jayden trotted toward the rear bay door, Esther at his side. Neither operative had any armor available, a detriment shared by all of the Cairo team with the exception of Scott, whose gold-trimmed armor had been brought to Egypt by Rashid and company. Fitting his brown cowboy hat—the lone personal item he’d retrieved from the base—over his head, Jayden raised his sniper rifle and peered through the scope with his one good eye. “All right, I’ve got some kind of group movin’ in on the building from the alleys in the east,” he said through the comm. “Veck, man, it’s EDEN.”

Esther gripped the handrail next to the open door as her glare bore a hole through Natalie Rockwell. The captain of the Caracals was sitting against the wall, her hands tied to a pipe with strands of strewn-about chestnut hair falling over her face. Auric, whose busted knee had disqualified him from joining the others on the ground but who could still point a pistol, was keeping watch over her.

Initially, Natalie had been as simmering and confrontational as anyone would have expected for a woman betrayed then kidnapped for leverage. Every effort made by the Fourteenth to talk to her was met with seething silence and a turn of the head in the opposite direction. The Caracal captain had not been in the mood to listen.

Until a dead man showed up.

A subtle shift occurred in Natalie the moment Antipov relayed to Scott his new assignment: retrieve Colonel Lilan and the survivors of Falcon Platoon from Krasnoyarsk. EDEN had said that Lilan and company were dead. EDEN was supposed to be the good guy in this scenario. Good guys weren’t supposed to lie. Then again, Scott was supposed to have been a good guy, too.

Though she said nothing outright, the change in her demeanor was apparent. Deliberate attempts to flare her nostrils and look the other way were swapped for all-too-obvious attempts to eavesdrop and pick up anything and everything the Fourteenth discussed about Falcon Platoon. So noticeable was the change that it even prompted David to make a remark to her imploring her to consider their side of the story. Expectedly, she met his words with silence, but the message had been received. Her emerald eyes looked more frightened now than before.

Of course, not everyone was eager to appeal to her sense of discernment—her primary antagonist being Esther. More than once, the British spitfire had been caught mouthing off to “Venus,” much to the chagrin of her comrades in the Fourteenth, who made their disapproval clear. Esther simply shrugged.

Now, Esther stood by the open bay door awaiting her drop off on the roof, her stare once again on the embattled captain. After several seconds of this, Natalie took notice. The two stayed motionless, several feet away from one another with their eyes locked, before Natalie finally asked, “What?”

Esther pursed her lips before answering. “I was just thinking of how useful you could be on the rooftop.” She paused. “I could use a good shield.”

“Bite me.”

“And do you the pleasure?” Esther turned back to the door. “I think not.” Bending her knees, the scout, alongside Jayden, leapt from the warmth of the Pariah into the frigid, battering rain.

The moment Esther came to her feet, she gasped. “Frigid!” Smoothing her hair back and with her dress clinging to her skin, she bolted after Jayden, who was running to the corner.

As Scott sunk back to reload, the Texan’s voice emerged through the comm static. “Got about a dozen EDEN operatives headin’ to the building!” The crack of a sniper rifle echoed over the storm.

“Try not to kill any of them!” said Scott.

“I’m not—just givin’ ’em a reason to pause.”

Next to Scott, William unleashed a fiery burst from his hand cannon. The projectile soared through the rain and slammed against the police car, which lurched upright and sent the police behind it scattering. The car fell back to the street with a crash.

Looking across at Rashid, Scott said through the comm, “You guys go back and stop that EDEN advance! We’ve got this.” The Turkish fulcrum affirmed the order as he, Rodion, and Feliks disappeared around the corner and out of view.

Next to Scott, Becan cleared his throat. “We’ve got this, eh?”

“Well,” said Scott, his focus returning to the street before them, where local militiamen were joining the police. “It’s a goal.”

Meanwhile, Travis was flying the Pariah at near-street level and had taken to maneuvering it sharply through the cityscape valleys in an effort to outrun a pair of military helicopters that were in pursuit. Jerking the stick while Tiffany held on, Travis sent the Pariah’s underbelly flinging upward as its nose whipped around an intersection.

The move sent everyone in the troop bay flailing, from the few operatives who remained, to Flopper, whose paws were digging out desperately, to Ju`bajai, the Fourteenth’s newly-acquired Ithini female. Centurion groaned loudly as his body slid against the wall. David placed his hands on the giant beast. “Easy, big fella. We’re just hitting some turbulence.” He snapped a glare at the cockpit. “Watch it, Trav, we’ve got valuable cargo back here!” Next to David, Boris slammed against the wall completely upside down. The Russian tech slid headfirst to the floor. “And Boris, too!”

Rain tattering against the rim of his cowboy hat, Jayden fired another shot at the approaching team from EDEN, who were now aware of his location and taking pot shots at him from around their cover. As a burst of E-35 fire peppered the concrete roof guard, the Texan ducked down into cover. Adjusting his black eye patch, he called out to Esther, “I can’t do much more over here!”

As if on cue, Rashid’s voice emerged through the comm. “We have arrived at the back of the building—engaging EDEN now.”

“Try not to kill any of—”

“Target down,” said Rashid and Rodion simultaneously.

Jayden sighed then engaged once again.

Esther’s hands were shaking uncontrollably as she knelt down over a rooftop hatch at the structure’s center. The soaked and freezing scout’s lips were blue as she tried desperately to operate the hatch’s ancient, corroded handle. Whipping the wet fringe of her bangs out of her eyes in frustration, she screamed into her handheld comm, “The sodding handle is rusted!”

“Bullets are a universal cure-all!” Jayden said.

“Bullets are a universal cure-all,” Esther mocked back. Holding out her handgun and leaning away, she closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. The lock sparked and came apart. She grabbed the hatch’s side and strained to lift it, screaming when her shoulder, injured during their escape from Cairo, flexed its muscles. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she finally shoved the hatch open. She readied herself atop the ladder it revealed. “Going down,” she said as she descended, leaving Jayden behind to hold the fort down on the roof.

Ducking back behind the taxi cab as shots ricocheted around him, Becan looked at Scott and said, “We’ve got a problem, Remmy! EDEN, twelve o’clock.”

Following the Irishman’s indication, Scott caught sight of a cluster of EDEN operatives diverging behind the various obstacles in the street. The element of surprise that he, Becan, and William possessed was now gone. Snarling, he too ducked back. “How’s the extraction coming?” he asked through the comm.

“Ask me later!” Esther answered.

“We don’t have later, Ess, we need to extract the targets now!”

“Bloody hell,” Esther said as she trotted down the maintenance hall, handgun ready to fire as she rounded corners that were composed of giant, jutting pipes and decrepit walls. Out of the storm but still shivering, she carried on until she came to a metal door. Aiming her handgun at the knob, she squinted her eyes and looked away. Then, she stopped. Eyeing the knob suspiciously, she lowered her weapon and gripped it. It pulled open without a hitch. “All right, then.”

Outside the door was a small stairwell that led up to another one—this one wooden. Weapons fire racketed behind it. Pistol at the ready, Esther opened the door, where she was met by the wall of a hallway that ran in both directions—toward the front of the safe house, where the majority of the weapons fire was coming from, and toward the back, where the intermittent sound of Rashid and his slayers could be heard as they engaged EDEN in the back alleys. Her back against the wall, she tracked toward the front of the safe house.

The Pariah was flying like its tail fin was on fire. Its rear thrusters kicked in at full blast as it weaved through Krasnoyarsk’s city valleys, slowing only to make hairpin turns that kicked the ship’s underbelly completely sideways. Behind it, the pair of helicopters were in pursuit. Tiffany’s free hand held onto the cockpit handrail with white knuckles as the momentum of the ship’s turns jostled her.

Engaging the Pariah’s vertical thrusters for the sake of turn assistance, Travis once again brought the battered Vulture around an intersection.

In the troop bay, David was barking out orders to Boris. “Grab that harness. We need to strap him down!” Centurion was sliding all over the bay, the colossal beast growling in pain with every slam against the hull. “Travis, could you possibly fly any less vecking erratic?”

“Sure!” the pilot answered. “One missile impact and we’ll all be resting peacefully!”

*

EDEN Command

The same time.

THROUGHOUT HIS military career—one that spanned almost four decades—Leonid Torokin had experienced a wide variety of situations. He’d been in the midst of the Georgian Revolution of 0035 OE, when he was a seventeen-year-old militia member in Karachayevsk. He’d been a part of the Soviet Reclamation, where he spent fifteen years rising from front-line infantryman to Spetsnaz GRU captain. He was one of eleven men who formed the original Vector Squad when the Alien War began. He’d seen children firing assault rifles, a terrorist-led hostage crisis, and the gaping jaws of charging canrassis.

But this was a first.

From across the Council’s oval table, Judge Javier Castellnou was slamming his fist and shouting something about outdated Vindicators in Nagoya. Torokin wasn’t really listening.

EDEN Command had just removed Ignatius van Thoor from power in Novosibirsk, felling the Terror in one of the more shocking and decisive victories in modern history. In a single blow, The Machine had been brought to its knees and unceremoniously executed. Thoor was vanquished with a whimper at the hands of Torokin’s comrade and friend, Klaus Faerber. It was the kind of sweeping victory that folktales were made of. And in the span of a single message from EDEN’s base at Cairo, it had been completely overshadowed.

A Nightman named Scott Remington had infiltrated the Egyptian base with a handful of his Novosibirsk agents. He’d escaped with two alien prisoners, leaving a massacre in his wake. All signs pointed to a conspiracy involving the Nightmen and extraterrestrials. Whether Remington was the mastermind or a pawn was yet to be determined. That he was a traitor was indisputable. But it was even worse than that.

Scott Remington was a Golden Lion.

Torokin remembered the mission that had thrust the young EDEN soldier into the spotlight for his fifteen minutes of fame. Remington had led the remnants of a decimated unit into the heart of an alien stronghold, capturing a Bakma Carrier without taking a single casualty. Though he was far from a household name, all it took was the mention of, “that guy from the Battle of Chicago,” to conjure up recollection. At that time, he’d been hailed a hero. Now he was conspiring with the very forces EDEN was defending Earth against. How had a Golden Lion fallen so far? It was embarrassing and infuriating.

Closing his eyes and rubbing them tiredly, Torokin listened to the sound of his counterparts yelling. Yelling at each other, yelling at the situation. Coming undone.

“It’s not the Council’s fault that we don’t have enough Superwolves to make a sweep of the whole vecking eastern hemisphere,” said Richard Lena from Torokin’s right. “It’s a matter of realism and logistics. We just sent that half of the world to Novosibirsk!”

At the far end of the room, pacing with his arms folded but attentively listening, was Captain Klaus Faerber of Vector Squad. Still clad in his purple and white armor, still stained with the blood of General Thoor, he bore the distinction of being one of the few humans on Earth who could invite himself to a Council meeting without having to ask for permission. Leaning against the wall behind him was Vincent Hill, Vector’s second-in-command—the only combat medic in EDEN to hold such a distinction for such an elite unit. He was the only Vector to accompany Klaus into the meeting. Both men had, for the most part, remained quiet.

It had been discovered that one of the transports that had shot down Falcon Platoon and slain Klaus’s son, Strom, belonged to Remington’s unit, the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk. Though transfer logs confirmed that Remington was at Cairo at the time that the interception of Falcon Platoon took place, there was no reason to believe that he wasn’t involved to some degree. It was his transport, his unit. He must have been knowledgeable to some extent.

That Klaus was partaking in this meeting was troubling to Torokin. Despite the German’s icy exterior, Torokin knew Klaus was in the middle of an emotional undertow. Remington was involved in the murder of Klaus’s son. Tracking down Remington and the Fourteenth was important for a variety of reasons. Revenge was not supposed to be one of them.

The conference room speaker phone crackled as the Indian voice of Jaya Saxena—Kang Gao Jing’s protégé in Intelligence—broke through. “President Blake, we have an urgent situation!”

Blake’s focus shifted to the speaker immediately, standing and snapping his fingers to indicate his request for silence. As the chatter died down, he said, “We’re listening, Jaya—”

The young woman cut him off. “We’ve located the Fourteenth, Mr. President.” The Council collectively held their breath. “They’re in Krasnoyarsk.”

“Krasnoyarsk?” asked Lena.

“Krasnoyarsk is a supposed Nightman recruitment city,” said Torokin, looking at his American counterpart, then the rest of the judges. “Our agents learned this while they were in Novosibirsk.”

Immediately, discussion rose again. Blake raised his hand to silence it. “Jaya, are we positive the Fourteenth is in Krasnoyarsk?”

“Yes, Mr. President—confirmed by visual and radio chatter. I am in the War Room and awaiting your arrival.”

“On our way!” Blake said. Without a second’s hesitation, half of the room rose from their chairs to follow him.

*

Krasnoyarsk, Russia

THE CRACK OF Jayden’s sniper rifle resounded over the firefight below, his shot once again impacting concrete in an effort to stave off the EDEN operatives without killing any of them—a moral conflict unshared by the three Nightmen below, who had already felled six soldiers. Raising his rifle, the Texan peered through the scope farther down the street, where a larger group of EDEN operatives was en route. “Oh, man, we got trouble! More EDEN personnel on the way. Looks like another dozen or so.”

“We can hold our position,” said Rashid. “Diminish the ranks of those who approach.”

Grumbling in irritation, Jayden switched over to Esther. “Girl, you gotta get ’em out quick or I’m gonna start havin’ to shoot some folks!”

“And?” Esther asked.

“And—” The Texan growled. “Never-freakin’-mind, just get ’em out quick!” He cut the comm off and shot at the concrete once more. “Man, I run with a rough crowd.”

Esther could see the Nightmen at the front of the safe house, some firing their weapons out of the open doorway and windows while others fell back to reload or reorganize. Focusing on one Nightman in particular—a younger-looking, blond-haired slayer who had taken off his helmet to adjust it—the British scout approached him from behind. “Hey, you!” Flinching at the sound of a female voice, the slayer turned around to find Esther’s pistol aimed at his face. She glanced at his nametag. Alkaev. “Falcon Platoon. Where are they?”

Wide-eyed, the slayer stuttered, “They—who are you?”

“I’m your worst sodding nightmare, so take me to Falcon Platoon now!”

Scott’s head whipped skyward as the Pariah buzzed overhead, the chopping sounds of the pursuing helicopters’ blades cutting through the rain. “Well, that’s not good,” he said off-comm before his focus returned to the firefight which was on the verge of turning lopsided. “Ess, what’s the status of the cargo?”

“En route to them as we speak!”

“Get them out ASAP! That safe house is about to be a lot less safe.” Ducking down, he adjusted his comm to hail the Pariah. “Trav, we’re not going to be able to hold this position for much longer. We’re going to head due east past Faraj’s location to one of the next intersections—get in position for a pickup.”

The exasperated pilot answered, “I’ll do what I can, sir.”

“Not what you can, what we need.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rescuing Colonel Lilan and the survivors of Falcon Platoon hadn’t been part of Scott’s original intentions when he instructed Travis to turn the Pariah’s nose toward the city of Krasnoyarsk. On the heels of their mad dash from the banks of the Suez, only two priorities had existed in Scott’s mind: get help for Centurion and locate Svetlana, who he’d discovered had gone missing during EDEN’s attack on Novosibirsk. There was no question that of the two priorities, getting medical aid for their injured Ceratopian was the more critical in the realm of the big picture. But hearing the news that Svetlana wasn’t among the Fourteenth’s escapees had shaken him. There was no way to hide that finding Svetlana and ensuring she was safe was his priority, big picture or not. And so Krasnoyarsk it was.

That Antipov commed him while they were already en route was just a lucky—or unlucky, depending on how one looked at it—break. The eidola chief informed Scott through a secure connection that Svetlana had been accounted for. She was in the “care” of Oleg Strakhov, who was en route to Chernobyl with the rest of the Nightmen who were escaping Novosibirsk. Despite the immediate concern expressed by the others in the Fourteenth, Scott was relieved. Oleg was unquestionably a villain, but he was a villain who knew when to rattle the cage and when not to. He was smart enough to know that Antipov was not to be trifled with. If Antipov had ordered him to bring Svetlana to Chernobyl, then that’s where Oleg would bring her, unharmed.

Svetlana, however, was not the primary reason for Antipov’s call. Now that Ignatius van Thoor had been killed and the Nightmen weakened, Krasnoyarsk was in full rebellion against the murderous sect. Nightman facilities the city over were being overrun by law enforcement.

That included safe houses. And it was this fact that presented a significant problem to Antipov. The survivors of Falcon Platoon had been taken to a safe house in the city, where the Nightmen were keeping them in custody until an appropriate time came to reveal them and EDEN’s deception to the world. At least, that had been Thoor’s intention. Now the Nightmen were at risk of losing the only leverage they had in the eyes of the media. There was no question that if EDEN’s forces discovered Lilan first, he would be hidden away until EDEN could come up with the perfect way to spin the truth as they wanted the world to believe it. At that point, the Nightmen would have nothing. But with Lilan, they had a sucker punch in hand. It was imperative, Antipov stressed, that the Falcon Platoon survivors be rescued and presented to the world as proof of EDEN’s lies. Exhausted or not, there was no better team to pull off as daring a rescue than the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk.

“Let’s go!” Scott said, motioning for Becan and William to abandon their rapidly-failing attempts to keep EDEN and the police at bay. The three men bolted in the direction that Rashid, Rodion, and Feliks had gone.

As soon as the Falcons were secured, the Fourteenth was to fly to Northern Forge, a secure Nightman facility hidden in the mountain valleys northeast of Norilsk, a remote industrial city above the Arctic Circle. According to Antipov, when the New Soviet Union—the NSU—was in its infancy, there were fears that the long-standing rivalry between the United States and Russia would escalate into a new Cold War. At that time, then-President Cherkashin commissioned the development of several “emergency facilities” in the event of an American attack. Then, the Great Drain happened—Russia’s equivalent of the Great Depression—and the Russian economy collapsed. The emergency facility project was abandoned and the site, already excavated, was left to decay. At least, until the Nightmen rose to prominence.

Through a series of back door deals, the Nightmen purchased the facility from the NSU under a condition of secrecy. Thus, Northern Forge was born: a Nightman base protected by mountain valleys that were situated right beside a major industrial city. No one outside of Norilsk even knew the facility was manned at all, let alone by the Nightmen. For all practical purposes, Northern Forge was the Nightman equivalent of EDEN Command—minus the command aspect. Just the same, it was a major manufacturer of the iconic black armor worn by the Nightmen. Resources there would be aplenty.

The only question was how the Fourteenth was supposed to reach Northern Forge undetected. Antipov insisted that time was their ally, and that if they could rescue Falcon and soar northward quickly enough, they could slip through the cracks before EDEN solidified its global network for the purpose of the manhunt. No one would suspect Norilsk as a city the Nightmen would run to. The plan sounded reasonable. If the Fourteenth could somehow find a way to leave before EDEN fighters arrived, and if the Pariah could indeed point its nose north to the mountains of Norilsk, then the game would change. Centurion and the other injured could receive medical attention, and the Fourteenth could regroup in a place of security. It was a fantastic idea.

Now they just had to pull it off.

Dashing around the corner of the building, Scott, Becan, and William stopped to take up a new position. The husk of the vehicle that’d been struck by the Pariah during its descent was still smoking in the downpour and was now between them and the police officers they’d been engaging. At some point, those police officers—and EDEN—would move past it. “We have to hold this corner until Esther has the Falcons,” Scott said, readying his assault rifle to fire. Farther down the street along the building’s face, he could see the few remaining Nightmen attempting to defend the structure, shooting from the front door and from windows. “Ess,” Scott said through the comm, “we need to know the instant that Lilan is secure.”

Esther was following the slayer down a flight of stairs when the comm came from Scott. “Oh believe me, it’ll be instant!” she answered back.

The young Nightman’s breathing was at near-panic level. “Was that Remington? Are you with him?”

“Who I’m with is none of your business.”

“You are the woman in the news, right? Esther Brooking?” The scout cursed as the slayer went on. “My name is Pyotr. Take me with you, please! I can help with anything you need me to help with—I can do anything you need me to do.”

“Well, aren’t you keen as mustard?”

Pyotr pled on. “Please, just take me out of here, I beg you!”

Scoffing, she answered, “Kid, we’re the last people you want to be with right now.” Pushing past him as soon as they reached the bottom step, Esther emerged in the middle of the holding room.

It was like being in the underbelly of The Machine, deep within the catacombs of Fort Zhukov, minus the torchlight. Esther’s nose crinkled as it was hit with a stale mustiness; still she strode on. As the last of the iron-barred cells came into view, she saw them.

The Falcon survivors were pressed against the bars, frantically watching Esther as she made her approach. In the middle of them and exhibiting the only amount of collectedness in the pack, was the man she was most concerned about: Brent Lilan. The weary colonel looked downright irate. “What the hell is going on up there?” he asked as she drew nearer, his gritty voice stern despite the state of his team.

“Pyotr, keys!” said Esther, glancing at the young Nightman before she drew to the cell. Pyotr obediently ran to a desk on the far side of the room. The Briton’s attention returned to Lilan. “I’m Esther Brooking, with Scott Remington and the Fourteenth. We’re here to get you out.”

“I knew you were her!” shouted Pyotr.

Immediately to Lilan’s right was the smaller-framed Tom King. The fiery, black soldier scanned Esther’s body, traveling up from her soaked black dress to the tussled and damp strands of her hair. “Damn, baby,” he said, tightening his lips as if trying to restrain himself.

“What, Remington’s here?” Lilan asked.

The scout nodded. “They’re waiting in the streets—we have a transport to pick you up. But we need to move quickly.” She looked behind for her youthful slayer. “Keys, Pyotr!”

Nodding at Esther’s words, Lilan stepped back to allow room for the door to open. “Thank you, Miss Brooking. This is my team—or at least who’s left in it. Delta Trooper Donald Bell, Privates Javon Quinton and Tom King, and back there,” he said, pausing to point to the raven-haired Canadian sitting against the wall, “is Private Catalina Shivers. She’s pretty busted up—I don’t know if we can do anything ‘quickly’ right now.”

Esther eyed the four operatives, from the giant Donald Bell to the tall and slender Javon Quinton. Finally, her gaze fell on Tom. The soldier leered at her, chin nodding upward with deliberate subtleness. “’Sup?”

She stared back flatly. “Right.” Snatching the keys from Pyotr, Esther fit them into the rusty keyhole and turned it. The iron door groaned as she swung it open. “Are there handcuff keys here?” she asked Pyotr. “A set of masters?” The slayer nodded. “Go get them.”

“Handcuffs?” Lilan asked. “Now hang on a minute.”

“They’re not for you,” she said, stepping aside to allow them to exit. “They’re for Tiffany. I believe you know her.”

At the mention of her friend’s name, Catalina’s brown eyes grew wide. “Tiffany’s with you?” she asked excitedly.

“She’s in the ship. Can someone carry you?”

“I got her,” said Javon, the athletic soldier kneeling down next to her to scoop her up. “C’mon, Hellcat. Let’s get you movin’.”

Rushing back to Esther, Pyotr handed her the keys. “These are master keys for handcuffs.”

Grabbing them from him, Esther stepped past him and got on the comm. “Falcons in custody.” She slipped the keys into her bra.

Lilan looked at Pyotr. The older man surveyed the teenager with scrutiny. “And who are you?”

Pyotr opened his mouth and stumbled on his words until he finally pointed at Esther and managed a reply. “I’m with her.”

“Oh. All right, then. Let’s go.”

Together, they followed Esther out of the holding area.

*

EDEN Command

SHOVING OPEN THE double doors to the War Room, Blake strode inside, Torokin and half of the Council in his wake. In the center of the room, on the rotating holographic globe, the city of Krasnoyarsk was being indicated by a pulsing red dot. At every station at every corner of the room, operators’ hands were flying about their communications controls as they spoke frantically into their headsets.

Jaya Saxena surveyed Blake and the others from her vantage point at the center of the room. Jaya was a new addition, relatively speaking, to Intelligence, though one would never guess as much by the way she carried herself. Serving as the personal assistant—and the voice—of Kang Gao Jing, she was one of the few people on the planet who worked with him in close proximity. She was the definition of prim, from her beige three-button jacket, to the offensively-precise bun of hair atop her head, to the thin pair of spectacles that framed her hazel eyes. They were fitting extensions of her personality.

“Ms. Saxena,” Blake said as he approached her, “what is the situation?”

The young Indian woman’s voice was intense, yet controlled. “We are waiting for information as to the Fourteenth’s exact position in Krasnoyarsk, though communication with our forces there is intermittent.”

“Intermittent?” asked Dmitri Grinkov, Torokin’s robust counterpart on the Council.

She eyed him scrupulously. “There are widespread firefights currently taking place in the city as the Nightmen there are being expelled.”

Blake approached the holographic globe, setting his hands on the metal railing that encircled it. “But we’re sure it’s the Fourteenth?”

“Yes, sir. They were initially identified over standard EDEN radio then confirmed with a visual.”

“By our forces or Krasnoyarsk’s?”

She answered, “Both, sir.”

Inhaling deeply, Blake looked Jaya directly in the eyes. “They cannot be allowed to escape.”

“We have instructed all of our Krasnoyarsk forces to muster at the Fourteenth’s location.”

“And air support?”

Turning her head, Jaya addressed one of the radar operators. “Status of our interceptors?”

Turning in his swivel chair, the operator answered her, “We have a pair of Superwolves en route, ma’am. ETA ten minutes.”

“Make it nine,” Jaya said.

Approaching the two from behind, Benjamin Archer cleared his throat and addressed them. “It is imperative that Remington be taken alive.”

Blake’s voice lowered. “Do you really think this is the time to—”

“Yes, I do,” Archer said flatly.

After a brief look among the three of them, Jaya nodded her head. “I will instruct our forces to take Remington into custody unharmed.”

“They can harm him a little,” Archer said as he walked away.

Blake and Jaya exchanged a look before their focus returned to the globe, which zoomed in over the city of Krasnoyarsk. At the far edge of the view, a pair of green dots appeared. The first Superwolves were on their way.

*

Krasnoyarsk, Russia

“EVERYONE, HOLD ON,” Travis said over the comm. Pulling back the stick, he brought the Pariah’s nose skyward.

Tiffany grabbed the handrails again. “What are you doing?”

“Going back to the safe house to pick up your friends.”

Her eyes widening, the blonde said, “Don’t go higher to do that! Stay on street level.”

“No time.” Yanking the transport’s nose around, he aimed it at the location of the safe house.

Back in the troop bay, David and Boris were struggling to set the harness in place over Centurion. The colossal Ceratopian continued to grunt in pain with every sharp turn the Pariah made. “Snap it in place!” David said, tossing his end over the alien for Boris to catch. The Russian technician snatched it out of midair and clamped the snap-latch down.

“In place!” Boris said.

*

Just as Scott expected, the added EDEN reinforcements had given law enforcement enough to press forward to the safe house. As EDEN operatives and police officers began moving in using automobiles for cover, the Nightmen holding the front of the building began to lose their foothold. Whether from retreat or casualty, every passing minute delivered fewer and fewer streaks of orange assault rifle fire coming from inside the building. The Nightmen were losing.

“We’ve got to fall back,” Scott said, stepping backward then turning to run. Becan and William were right there with him. “Ess, status?”

There were several bursts of static before the scout answered, “We can’t make it up the ladder to get to the roof—one of the Falcons is too seriously injured. We’ve got to exit through the back door into the alleys.”

The alleys? Wasn’t that where Rashid and company were trying to hold off an EDEN advance? “Faraj, you get that?”

“Da, captain,” the fulcrum answered. “We are holding this position. It will not be a problem.”

Scott blew out a breath in relief. Antipov had left nothing to chance in sending Scott an extraction team that was truly elite. “Jay, get down and rendezvous with them.”

“Sir, I think I can do more from up—”

“We don’t have time for you to do more!” Scott said. “Get down or you’re staying behind!”

Sliding against the corner of the safe house’s back door, Esther leaned around and fired a shot into the cluster of EDEN operatives farther down the alley. Just outside the door and out of her view, Rashid, Rodion, and Feliks continued to suppress. Moments later, the rest of her party appeared behind her.

The team was sandwiched in. Ahead of them was the back alley. Behind them, EDEN was moving in on the slayers at the front of the building, forcing all of the Nightmen inside into a full tactical retreat. Her brown eyes searching the halls for Jayden, she called to the Texan through the comm. “Jay, where the hell are you?”

“I’m comin’! Don’t wait up for me.”

“As if I’m not going to wait up for you!”

New bursts of gunfire emerged from outside the back door and off to the right, past Rashid and his slayers. Flinching back against the wall, Esther readied herself to defend. Moments later, she saw there was no need. “We thought you guys might need a hand!” Scott said through the comm. Esther closed her eyes and exhaled.

“Press forward and push them back,” said Rashid to his slayers, who emerged from their cover to dash farther ahead to new cover in the alley. The EDEN advance was forced to a halt. Seconds later, Scott, Becan, and William appeared where the Nightmen had previously been.

Lilan’s gaze locked onto the black curves and golden, spiked collar of Scott’s armor. He was caught in momentary awe. The grizzled veteran had no words.

Scott backed up to the doorway, signaling for Esther to maneuver herself and her followers behind him. “The Pariah’s coming down in the street behind us! Get everyone there now.”

Turning to the Falcons, Esther motioned them forward. “You heard the man—go!”

The moment Scott saw Lilan, he too fell into a brief trance. It was like looking at a ghost. “Colonel,” he said plainly.

“Remington,” Lilan replied as he signaled for Donald, Tom, and Javon—who was still carrying Catalina—to move on. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“I feel like I need to explain some things!” Scott shouted over the gunfire from the Nightmen, Becan, and William.

The colonel spat out, “Son, at this moment, that’s the best lookin’ piece of armor I’ve seen in my whole life.”

“Good to hear it, sir.” As he saw Donald trot past, he punched the demolitionist on the shoulder. “Good to see you again, buddy!”

“I hear you, man!” Donald said.

Just as the last of the Falcons was running past him for the Pariah’s pickup point, Scott caught sight of someone else: a blond-haired, helmetless slayer. He looked like a kid. “What the?” Before he could say anything further, the young man was gone, following the Falcons toward the Pariah. Scott turned to Esther and stared.

“Don’t ask,” the scout said.

I’ll just add it to the list of things I don’t know. “Go get Jay—we’re getting out of this city.”

Without needing another word, Esther dashed back inside.

The Pariah touched down right outside the adjacent alleyway that had taken Scott to Esther’s position. With its nose-mounted cannon pointed at the corner ahead—the very one that Scott, Becan, and William had been holding earlier—the transport waited and watched for EDEN’s presence.

As soon as the rear bay door was down, David rushed outside to meet Lilan. “Good to see you, sir!”

“Same to you, Jurgen!” the colonel said as he and his troops rushed into the troop bay. The moment they caught sight of Centurion and Ju`bajai, the Falcons collectively froze.

“Pay no mind to our guests!” David said. “We collect aliens.” On the floor, in the middle of it all, Flopper barked merrily. “And dogs.”

From the copilot’s seat, Tiffany looked back into the troop bay. “Cat!”

Blinking, Catalina craned her neck to see over the bustling bay. “Tiff!”

“Reunions everywhere!” said Boris. “This is such a happy time.”

Bullets zinged past Esther as she ran down the hallway, some exploding into the walls around her as flakes of plaster hit her in the face, sticking to her eyelashes and hair as she tried her best to continue looking ahead. The Nightmen had been pushed back to the precipice of the hallway as the firefight entered the safe house. She could see EDEN’s forces through the smoke and debris, the bursts of orange E-35 assault rifle fire reflecting off the silver and blue of the soldiers’ armor as they pressed inward.

Finally reaching the door that led to the dungeon-esque maintenance hall, she flung it open just in time to see Jayden reaching his hand out to grab it from the inside. “Let’s go, Jay—move!” the scout shouted as bullets peppered the open door, which was now partially concealing them in the hallway. “The Pariah’s in the hallway!”

Jayden blinked as he ran past. “In the what?”

“In the street! I meant the sodding street. Go, go, go!” Aiming backward blindly, she fired her last remaining bullets toward the front of the building.

“Esther, where the—” Scott was cut off as Esther and Jayden emerged from the back of the safe house. The scout, drenched within seconds of reentering the freezing deluge, glared at him without words. “Okay, just go!” He got on the comm. “Faraj, fall back! The Pariah’s waiting.”

“Acknowledged.”

The order to retreat couldn’t have come at a better time. EDEN was steadily being reinforced, and despite Rashid and his slayers’ ability to hold the advance off until this point, their being overrun was inevitable. Much as was the case in Cairo, the numbers they were up against were too stacked to overcome. Rashid, Rodion, and Feliks backpedaled behind cover to Scott, at which point the three Nightmen made their turn down the adjacent alley. Scott, Becan, and William were right there with them.

Literally shoving Jayden inside the Pariah, Esther looked back at the alley from where Scott and company were coming, then behind the transport to the street farther back, where a police car, its sirens blaring, skidded to a sideways stop. Whipping her head back to the troop bay, she signaled to David. “Dave, weapon!”

The former NYPD officer, blocked in by the Falcons and Pyotr Alkaev, hurled his assault rifle in Esther’s direction. The scout dashed forward to catch it, flipped it around until it was properly in her hands, then knelt down and took aim at the car just as the police officers were opening the door. Finger laying down on the trigger, the Briton opened fire. With every burst from the muzzle of her E-35, her pearl necklace danced wildly around her neck. The pair of officers took shelter behind the car as it was riddled, its lights shattering and its frame shuddering with bullet impacts.

Scott was running with reckless abandon toward the street, the sound of approaching EDEN operatives growing louder with every second. The injury to his thigh might as well have not been one at all. The American fulcrum’s adrenaline was in complete control.

Then came the boom.

Not ten meters in front of Scott, the interior of the alleyway exploded. Scott and his comrades skidded to a halt to avoid getting pelted as bricks and debris flew in every direction. Coughing and staggering back, Scott waved his hands to clear away smoke and dust.

“The hell was that?” asked William behind him.

Back in the street, Esther whipped her head in the alley’s direction, the scout’s eyes widening in horror as the corner of the building by the alleyway collapsed, a plume of smoke barreling toward the street. She shielded her eyes as she was enveloped in dust.

Behind her, the occupants of the troop bay goose-necked to see the explosion. Police fire erupted again from down the street, bullets peppering the Pariah as those inside shrunk back again. “Esther,” said David, “get in!”

Nearly slipping as she turned to run, Esther charged up the ramp amid a flurry of gunfire, flipping her wet hair out of her face as she hit the bay door button to block the onslaught of bullets. Mouth open while she grasped the door frame for support and gasped for air, she wiped her face and yelled into her comm. “Scott, are you all right?”

“Not in about ten seconds!” Scott answered as he tried to squint through the dust. “What just happened?” Behind him, the tatter of gunfire emerged. Diving behind a dumpster and pipes, Scott, William, Becan, Rashid, and his two slayers returned fire.

“That must’ve been a grenade or a rocket blast!” said Esther. “That whole building is about to come down!”

Terrific. Leaning out from cover, Scott fired into the cluster of operatives. At the very least, there was enough of a cloud of dust and debris in the alley to obscure them. Checking behind him, Scott confirmed what he’d already feared: there was a mound of rubble between them and the street. They weren’t going anywhere. “Change of plans! We’re going through!”

“Through wha’?” asked Becan, shooting a wide-eyed look to Scott and pointing where EDEN’s gunfire was coming from. “Through them?”

The yes was implied. Comming the Pariah again, Scott yelled to Travis. “Get off the ground! We’re going to try and fight our way out of here. If we don’t make it, head to Northern Forge!”

Esther’s voice cut through. “We are not leaving you, Scott!”

“We’re not the mission. You’ve got the Falcons and Centurion. If you can’t get us, get them out of here!” A bullet dinged against one of his shoulder guards. Scott stumbled backward then retreated for cover. “Never a vecking break,” he said off the comm.

Hitting the vertical thrusters, Travis raised the Pariah off the ground. From ahead, behind, and the side, EDEN forces were firing relentlessly, their bullets smashing against the cursed transport from almost every direction. “Hold on, everyone,” the pilot said through the speakers.

Esther popped her head into the cockpit. “Master key! Give me your wrists.”

“Thank God,” said Travis. As he maneuvered the stick with his left hand, he held out his right for Esther to free it. The scout twisted the key, and the handcuffs fell from his wrist. Tiffany snatched them in the second that followed, unlatching her own cuff and slinging them down with the key still in place. Esther ducked back into the troop bay.

“Two contacts!” Tiffany said, her hazel eyes shifting to the radar. Groaning, she looked at Travis and said, “Superwolves.”

The pilot cursed under his breath. Pointing the ship’s nose toward the north, he hit the forward thrusters. “We’ve got two Superwolves inbound.”

“Do they see us?” David asked.

“I don’t know. We don’t have a transponder, so…I don’t know.”

Tiffany said, “If we can get out of the city fast enough to get to ground level, we can slip by without them noticing. Maybe.”

“I love a plan with a good maybe,” said David.

*

Scott blinked as the word from Travis came through. Superwolves? You’ve got to be kidding me! Again, bullets ricocheted around him, and again, he leaned out to fire a round of suppression. There was no way they were going to get through EDEN. There had to be another way. As the others in his party continued the firefight, Scott looked around for an alternative. There was a back door to the building that formed the other half of the alley, but it was between them and the EDEN oppressors. It was their only option. Leaning around to fire another shot, he shouted at William. “Fire your hand cannon!” He was almost surprised when the demolitionist complied without objection. Popping up from behind the dumpster, William fired not one, but three consecutive blasts in the direction of EDEN’s forces. As the smoky streaks whizzed their way, they scattered in all directions. The rounds exploded on impact, lighting up the far end of the alleyway with orange plumes. Scott signaled to the door. “Through there, through there! Move now!”

The six men fired their pistols and assault rifles as they ran for the door. Rashid, Rodion, and Feliks hit the door first, followed by Becan and William. Scott bolted inside and slammed the door shut, grabbing a magazine from his belt to reload.

“Almost looked like yeh bleedin’ enjoyed tha’,” said Becan to William.

Reloading his hand cannon as he ran through the building, the demolitionist answered, “Payback.”

The building they were running through was some sort of apartment complex. As the men ran onward, they met a flood of inhabitants, all beelining for the exit amid the explosion in the building next to them. It was a veritable logjam—but it would help them. As long as they were in the middle of the crowd, they could slip through the building without attracting the fire of EDEN. Glancing behind him, Scott caught sight of the pursuing operatives opening the door and charging inside. Though dozens of residents were between Scott and the operatives, he could see them plainly pointing ahead at Scott in his armor. Scott’s focus returned to his comrades. “Keep running!”

*

“Can you see them?” David asked, grabbing hold of the cockpit archway as the Pariah swept low through the streets.

Travis pointed to their display. “They’re moving through this building here!” They’re going to come out on the other side, but I can’t land there. Too many vehicles on the ground. They’ve got to get to some kind of a clearing or a rooftop.” The pilot swallowed and shook his head. “We may not be able to get them.”

Poking her head in from the troop bay, Esther said, “We’ll leave them over my dead body.”

“That arrangement is easier than anybody realizes.” Gripping the stick tighter as the Pariah neared a corner, Travis said, “Everyone, hold on!”

*

Scott was pushing apartment residents out of his way, gaining ground gradually through the moving pack of evacuees. EDEN was steadily growing closer behind him. Catching up to the other five men with him just as they reached the door exiting out onto the street, Scott patched through to Travis in the Pariah. “We’re coming out! Are you nearby?”

“Yes, but we can’t land! There’s too much on the street there.”

The Pariah appeared as the pilot was talking, veering around the corner of the building nearest to the four-lane street it had just been parked on. Beneath it, the pulsing lights of police vehicles flashed through the storm.

Travis continued. “Can you make it to one of these rooftops? Check the building at our right, right now!”

Running down the street with the others, Scott inspected the indicated building. Though a decent trek from where they were now, it could be reached. “We’re on our way!” Closing the channel, he looked behind him for pursuers. EDEN was exiting the building with the crowd. A fleeting glance later, they pointed to Scott again. Leaping on top of a car and getting height over the citizens around him, one of the soldiers aimed his assault rifle and fired. Scott stumbled and ducked as bullets hit the vehicles nearby. “Come on, man!” Avoiding friendly fire on the residents of Krasnoyarsk was apparently not high on EDEN’s priority list. Behind the EDEN operatives and running full speed, the police force that had had the Pariah pinned down was nearing.

“Contacts ahead!” Rashid shouted. Scott looked where the Turkish fulcrum was indicating, where another cluster of EDEN soldiers emerged from a side street. There was no hesitation from him or his slayers—all three men opened fire on EDEN immediately. Within seconds, two of the approaching soldiers fell. The others dispersed around the cars in the street.

“Becan!” Catching up with the Irishman, Scott pointed at the building to their immediate right. It wasn’t the one Travis had identified, but it was the best option they were going to get. “Head there!” He looked at William to make sure the demolitionist got the message, too. After firing a round of explosive suppression fire with his hand cannon, William followed Becan’s lead for the building. Scott’s focus shifted to the three Nightmen. “Guys,” he said through the comm, “we’re heading into the building across the street.” The Nightmen acknowledged, abandoning their firefight with the new EDEN arrivals and following Scott’s lead.

Like the building they had just exited, Scott and company found themselves in another apartment complex. Though it still had its fair share of onlookers amid the commotion taking place outside, at the very least it was devoid of a full-fledged evacuation. Running behind the rest of the team, Scott kept a constant watch of his backside. EDEN and police forces would be coming in at any minute.

All of a sudden, the procession of operatives in front of Scott slammed to a halt—he collided into Rashid, nearly knocking the Turk over. “What’s going on?” he asked, dropping to a knee and aiming his weapon at the doorway they’d just come through.

“Waitin’ for the elevator!” Becan pressed against the side of the hall as he joined Scott from behind.

Eyes widening, Scott looked back. “We don’t have time to wait for an elevator! Find a flight of—” The door from outside opened. EDEN soldiers emerged. “Veck!” They were all smack dab in the middle of the hallway without cover anywhere. EDEN opened fire.

Bullets zinged past Scott and his comrades, dinging against the Nightmen’s armor as they stayed in front of Becan and William. The demolitionist kicked in the door of the apartment room directly across from the elevator doors. The massive Southerner dashed inside, Becan hot on his heels.

A single shot rang out that was louder than all the others. Rashid was spun around, the bullet catching him squarely in the shoulder. The fulcrum howled in pain as Rodion and Feliks covered him. Rodion shoved Feliks into the room with William and Becan, motioning quickly for Scott to follow suit. “Sniper!” It was the last word the slayer said. Another shot rang out and Rodion’s head rocked backward, blood bursting from the back of his helmet.

Diving on top of Rashid, Scott rolled him over his own body and into the room. Not a fraction of a second after he was cleared from the hallway, a third shot from the enemy sniper zinged past. As soon as Scott and Rashid were clear of it, Scott pulled the Turk up to his feet.

Ding!

Scott looked across the hall as the elevator door opened. If they were gonna use it, then let’s use it. Pointing to William, he said, “Make them run.”

The demolitionist reloaded his hand cannon, leaned around the corner of the doorway, and fired a pair of rounds before the sniper could fire a fourth time. Even as the rounds whizzed down the hallway, Scott could hear the EDEN operatives shouting for one another to take cover.

That was their cue.

“Into the elevator! Go, go, go!” Pulling up Rashid, Scott shoved the fulcrum with all of his might across the hallway and into the elevator. Rashid collided against the wall with a roar of pain. Becan and Feliks dove next, leaving Scott and William alone in the room. “Fire again, Will!” As William did as commanded, Scott bolted into the hallway, grabbed Rodion’s limp body by the shoulder guards, and dragged him into the elevator alongside William. As soon as they were in, Becan’s finger pressed the close button repeatedly. The elevator door squeaked as it closed.

Readying themselves at the back of the elevator, Scott, Becan, and Feliks aimed their assault rifles at the door—just in case something unexpected happened. But the sounds of the shouting EDEN soldiers were gone. The only noise any of them heard was the squeal of an old belt as the elevator’s motor cranked it up.

Becan shouldered his assault rifle, looked down at Rodion’s body, then back up to Scott. Frowning, the Irishman said, “I’m sorry for stoppin’, Remmy. Tha’ one’s on me.”

Glaring at the Irishman through his faceless helmet, Scott didn’t say a thing. He simply turned his head back to the door and waited for the top floor to arrive.

*

The Pariah was still banking hard around the corners of Krasnoyarsk’s low skyline when the comm from Scott came through. “Travis, we’re on our way to the top of the building now.”

Pulling the stick back, Travis shot the Pariah’s nose straight up. “Heading up there to pick you up.”

“What’s the status of those Superwolves?”

As Travis focused on the flying, Tiffany took over the comm chatter. “If we get out of here fast enough, there’s a chance they could miss us, but when I say fast, I mean fast. Like, ‘make haste’ fast.”

“We’re making as much haste as we can.”

“We’ll be at the top waiting for you.”

Scott spoke again, quickly. “Oh! We couldn’t make it to the same building you were talking about. We’re coming up the one right before it.”

Travis’s eyes widened. As the Pariah reached the building top, he took the comm back from Tiffany. “Wait, what building are you guys going up?”

“The one right before it! Why, is that a problem?”

Their faces paling, Travis and Tiffany just stared at each other. Finally, Travis cleared his throat and replied. “Yeah. That’s kind of going to be a problem.”

*

Scott and company were already running down the twelfth-floor hallway when Travis said the words, every member of their party looking for some kind of door depicting rooftop access. There was no sign of one anywhere. “How are we supposed to get to the bleedin’ roof?” Becan asked.

Already on the comm, Scott asked Travis, “Now might be a good time to tell us about that problem you’re talking about!”

“It’s a pitched roof!”

Scott’s heart lurched up to his throat. “Come again?”

“The roof of the building you’re in right now,” Travis said. “It’s pitched! There’s no way to access it from the inside.”

The team’s collective shoulders sunk. William, with the body of Rodion slung over his shoulder, asked, “What are we supposed to do now? I mean, there’s gotta be a way we can get onto this thing, right?”

That might have been true for some of them, but most certainly not for all of them. Some of the more agile members of the team, namely Scott himself, Becan, and possibly Feliks, could maneuver themselves up and around the roof’s tip through a window. But Rashid? William, carrying Rodion’s body? Not a chance.

“I told you to get on the roof that I told you to get on for a reason,” said Travis, the pilot’s tone sharp and accusatory.

Had Travis snipped like that to Scott while standing in front of him, Scott would’ve socked him. “So where can we go now? Get us out of here.” At the far end of the twelfth-floor hallway, a stampede of footsteps emerged from the stairwell. EDEN. Scott hollered to the others. “Contacts, far hall!” The others turned to face the fast-approaching EDEN forces. “Travis, give us a route out of here now!”

*

Snarling, Travis answered, “Roger, workin’ on it.” As soon as the channel was closed, the pilot muttered. “They ask the pilot for help, the pilot offers it. They don’t listen, it all goes to hell, and somehow it’s the pilot’s fault. Do you have any idea how much of this I have to put up with?”

Tiffany ugh-ed. “Gag me with a spoon.”

“You have no idea.” Engaging his tactical computer, Travis pulled up the ground team on the display. “I have you guys on here, but I need context. Move down a hall or something!” Over the comm channel, a barrage of gunfire exploded. “Or have a shootout,” said Travis off-comm. “Whatever floats your boat.”

*

The moment EDEN’s forces emerged from the stairwell, they took shelter behind the natural corners formed between each set of doors in the hallway. Opening fire liberally at Scott’s team, they quickly fortified their position as the hunted operatives ran for cover. Chunks were blown out of the wall, windows were blown out at the end of the hallway. In a matter of seconds, the twelfth floor of the apartment complex turned into a war zone.

Having no choice but to mirror EDEN’s moves, the escapees took to the corners of the hallway, returning fire as best they were able. Dropping Rodion’s body, William readied his hand cannon to fire.

“No!” Scott held out his hand at the demolitionist. “There are people in this place!”

William angled his weapon back up.

Leaning around the corner, Scott aimed at the clustered EDEN soldiers and fired off a small burst. Though the operatives in his crosshairs ducked back, it did nothing to make a dent in the overall wave of ammunition flying their way.

“I understand your concern,” said Rashid from one corner back, “but now is not the time to let ethics guide you. If your demolitionist can help us survive, let him fire!”

“I understand your concern, but the decision’s been made.” Scott looked at the Turk. “Command still falls to me.” Though Rashid’s face couldn’t be seen behind the faceless plate of his fulcrum’s helmet, his disapproving body language made his stance clear. Just the same, he accepted it without further retort. Back to business. Firing a burst again, Scott looked across to William. “Get in that apartment next to you and look for a window!” If there was a balcony patio, the Pariah might be able to pick them up from it. Based on the law of averages alone, something had to go their way sooner or later.

Fiddling with the handle and finding it locked, William bashed his elbow against the door. It swung open wildly—inside, a woman screamed. Without a word, William hoisted Rodion’s body on his shoulders again and charged into the room. Even from a distance, Scott could make out the distinct shape of a sliding glass door at the apartment’s far side. Thank God.

He got back on the comm. “Travis, loop around to the east side of the building! We’re going to evacuate over the balconies!” As the pilot affirmed, Scott motioned to Becan. “Work your way to the balcony window in that apartment!” The Irishman disappeared inside. “The rest of you guys, keep suppressing until they’re on board!”

*

Veering around the eastern corner of the apartment, Travis and Tiffany scanned the building for any sign of William. It didn’t take long. “There!” Tiffany pointed to the demolitionist as he slid open the door to a patio on the far side. Travis brought the Vulture around as the blonde leaned into the troop bay. “Your big guy is coming in. Get ready by the ramp!”

Pelted by a blast of icy mist from the downpour, the occupants of the troop bay held on tightly. Weaving through the crowd, David and Esther made their way toward the ramp. Javon Quinton from Falcon Platoon joined them. “Grab my hand, man!” the black soldier said to David. “I can grab ’em.” Clutching one of the ramp rods with one hand, David snatched onto Javon’s hand with his other.

On the balcony, William called out to Javon. “I’m tossing the body!” Nodding his head, Javon readied himself to grab it. Spinning around like a shotput athlete, William slung the fallen slayer over the balcony gap, grunting as he collapsed in the other direction.

The top half of Rodion’s body slammed into the lip of the Pariah’s ramp. Javon grabbed it and pulled it aboard.

*

The shootout was raging on inside the apartment hallway. As the last of Scott’s E-35 ammunition was spent, the soldier threw the assault rifle down and whipped out his handgun, firing potshots down the hallway toward the advancing EDEN operatives. If they didn’t get a move on quickly, this was going to end badly.

Though he, Feliks, and Rashid had felled several, they were still vastly outnumbered. The enemies were pushing closer with every second.

Click! Click! Click!

“Veck!” He was out of ammunition. Dropping the empty handgun, he looked back at the two Nightmen. Rashid, though firing, was doing so with his left hand, sending inaccurate shots ricocheting down the hall in what amounted to little more than momentary suppressors. Feliks was their last line of defense. “Cover me!” Scott shouted back to them. As his counterparts laid down borderline insignificant suppression fire, Scott retreated back to the corner directly opposite them. He waved his hand out to Rashid. “Weapon!” The Turk didn’t argue, tossing his handgun Scott’s way. Scott grabbed it and turned it against EDEN. Again, he addressed Rashid. “Get out of here with the others!”

Ducking down, Rashid bolted across the hallway, bullets slamming against his armor as he stumbled past Scott and toward Becan.

“Hey,” Scott said, looking at Feliks, “we’re gonna have to get out of here fast!”

“Understood,” the slayer answered.

*

“You’re as close as you’re gonna get!” said Travis, having backed the Pariah’s ramp up to the precipice of the balcony.

Waving William on, David said, “Come on, big guy. Make the leap!”

Taking several steps back, William charged the balcony rail, springing over it with as much speed as the massive Southerner could muster. Much as the case had been with Rodion, William barely reached the lip of the Pariah—but it was just enough. Javon grabbed him, William regained his balance, and the demolitionist was secure.

“William’s in! Becan’s up!”

Travis brought the Pariah sideways to the next balcony, where the Irishman and Rashid waited.

*

Scott was on the verge of exhausting his new weapon’s ammunition supply when Esther’s voice came over his comm. “We’re securing Becan and Rashid! Get your golden tail over here now!”

Finally. “Feliks, go!” Scott shouted across the hallway to the slayer. Lowering his head, the slayer bounded across the hallway to Scott’s side, darting past him to run for the Pariah.

Scott knew that the moment he relented, there would be no more suppressive fire slowing down EDEN’s advance. But it was now or never. Popping around the corner a final time, Scott unloaded what remained of his handgun, ducking back when its final shot had been fired. Bolting into the apartment behind Feliks, he charged straight for the hovering transport.

From the ramp of the Pariah, with Becan and Rashid safely on board, Javon signaled Feliks to hurry. “Come on, dude!” The slayer leapt over the balcony rail, reaching out for Javon’s hand as the black soldier snagged it. Feliks was pushed securely inside. Looking back to the apartment, Javon waited for Scott.

Scott heard the army of footsteps approaching from the hallway. At any second, they’d reach the doorway and open fire. Ahead, he could see the Pariah just past the balcony rail. That jump from the balcony to the troop bay looked long. Running full speed, Scott leapt over the back of a sofa in his mad dash.

The moment he landed, the pain struck him.

Clutching his thigh in agony, Scott screamed and stumbled forward. His bullet wound. Whether it was his adrenaline giving up on him or the way he landed on it, something caused it to erupt in a tortuous pain. Before he knew it, he was toppling over onto the ground. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

He looked up as EDEN rounded the corner.

From the back of the troop bay, David’s eyes widened. “Scott!” Whipping his head back to Travis, he shouted, “Get closer to the balcony, Scott’s done!”

“I already told you,” said Travis, “I’m as close as I can get!”

“Stop complaining about every damn thing and do it!”

Punching the control panel, Travis snarled in frustration. The pilot backed the Pariah up closer.

“Everyone with a weapon, open fire!”

Inside the apartment room, Scott ducked down as the exchange of gunfire began. Pieces of furniture were blown apart as assault rifle rounds struck from both directions, blowing lamps off end tables and blasting chunks from the walls. Covering his head with one hand, Scott crawled for the balcony.

He wasn’t going to make it, and even if he did, in the time that it took for him to reach the Pariah, members of the Fourteenth inside—or worse, Centurion—would be struck down in the firefight. They had a mission, and his well-being wasn’t it. With his stomach in his throat, he addressed them on the comm. “Don’t come after me! Get out of here with the target. That’s an order.”

“Like hell we’re leaving you here!” David said.

“I’m not asking you, this is an order! Travis, go!”

Without reservation, Travis pulled up on the stick. “Don’t have to vecking tell me twice.” Before anyone could say otherwise, he activated the rear bay door.

“Travis!” David spun around toward the cockpit. “Get back down there now!”

“I’m following an order!”

Eyes wide in horror, David spun back to face the apartment as the Pariah lifted away from it. They were leaving Scott behind.

In that same second, someone bolted past David for the ramp—her black maxi dress a blur as she ran full speed toward it before it could close. Before David could even shout, Esther Brooking leapt out of the troop bay and toward the rapidly-distancing balcony.

Esther collided into the outer side of the balcony, her hands grasping desperately for the railing before she plummeted to the ground twelve stories below. Her fingers curled around iron. She screamed as piercing, hot pain shot through her injured shoulder when she strained to pull herself up. Esther clenched her teeth against the pain and the pelting freezing rain as she hauled herself up and over the railing with a final grunt.

The moment she was oriented, Esther looked up to locate Scott. What she saw, instead, was a gun barrel. Standing in a semi-circle in front of her, each with their weapon raised, were EDEN soldiers. Behind them, in the custody of their counterparts, was Scott.

Closing her eyes and exhaling, Esther lowered her head, letting her chocolate strands of hair dangle in the downpour. With no other options, she slowly rose to her feet and put her hands in the air.

“Are you Esther Brooking?” the man asked.

“No,” Esther answered flatly. “I’m Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile.”

For several seconds, the EDEN solider scrutinized her. “You are Esther Brooking.”

“If you knew, why’d you ask?”

Held firmly by his own captors, Scott shot her a warning look behind his fulcrum helmet, the disapproving expression hidden by its faceless surface.

The sky above the balcony suddenly erupted with the sound of a rushing wind. The EDEN operatives shifted their focus from Esther to the noise. Shielding her face from the rain and new winds, the British scout spun around.

Lowering in front of the balcony, the Pariah, its spotlight pointed and its nose-mounted cannon spinning, descended toward the balcony on the twelfth floor.

“Down!” yelled Scott from behind the balcony. He and Esther dropped to the floor just as the mounted nose cannon unleashed its rage. EDEN operatives dove in every direction—those who couldn’t get out of the way were blown to pieces. The tatter of rainfall was replaced by the cannon fire’s deafening scream.

It didn’t matter that Scott knew he wasn’t the mission—to see the Pariah again was like seeing a savior. As the cannon fired on, he crawled as fast as he could toward the balcony. Esther met him halfway.

“What were you doing?” Scott asked her over the noise.

“Saving you!” Grabbing him by the shoulder, she lifted him to his feet when the Pariah stopped firing. The transport whipped around violently, skidding in the air. Inside the open rear bay, the abled operatives waited with weapons aimed.

Scott blinked as he saw them. They had to be bluffing. There was no way they’d actually open fire with him and Esther right there in the thick of—

The barrels of their E-35s and M-19s flashed orange. The crack of Jayden’s sniper rifle cut through the engine noise. All at once, Scott and Esther were enveloped—but not touched—by suppression fire. Still, the words flew out of Scott’s mouth. “What in the hell are they doing?”

“Saving us!” Esther answered. “Lend a little trust to your trusty team!” Escorting him to the ramp, she grabbed him by the shoulder. “Now listen to me, Scott James Remington. I didn’t leap out of that sodding plane for you to fall to your death, so make that bloody jump!”

He intended to—pain be damned. Inhaling sharply, Scott charged for the rail. His leg throbbed in the kind of way that said, stop what you’re doing right now, but he pressed on. Leaping atop the rail, Scott propelled himself with everything he had in him toward the troop bay. Mid-leap, he made the mistake of looking down.

He could see the police cars beneath the Vulture. He could see their pulsing red and blue lights. He could even see the minuscule people, like specks amid the model of a city street. In that split second, panic hit him. He felt himself falling to his death.

Then, he felt hands.

Just as Scott reached—barely—the lip of the ramp, Javon and William grabbed him and yanked him aboard in a way that was so forceful, he felt powerless to even brace for it. He was thrust into the waiting mob. Everyone immediately shifted their focus from him to Esther. Scott did the same.

Esther landed cleanly on the ramp, where the protective grasps of Javon and William yanked her aboard. The saturated scout slid next to Scott as the crew continued to pepper the twelfth-floor apartment. Slowly, the rear bay door lifted.

There was no hesitation from Travis. The ramp had barely made it halfway up when he yanked the stick sideways, sending the transport swinging around and then soaring forward. Everyone who wasn’t holding on was flung against the door, just as it sealed.

Unclamping his helmet, Scott pulled it off and tossed it to the side. His heart was pounding, and he was breathing like a man outrunning his fate. Looking up, he saw that he was face-to-face with Esther. Through dripping lashes, a grin stretched across her face. Reaching for her, Scott grabbed her by the back of her head and pulled her to him so that their foreheads came to rest. Running his fingers through her wet hair, he closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, still gasping for breath. “Thank you.”

Her own eyes closed, she clutched him around the neck. “Do not ever do that again.” Despite the words, she huffed out a laugh. “Okay?”

“I promise.”

“Mean it.”

Laughing, Scott said, “I sodding mean it.” His eyes opened. When he caught sight of the Texan watching them, he halfway rolled his eyes. “All right, all right,” he said in Jayden’s direction before pulling away from Esther. The scout’s arms slid from his neck. “Go back to your boyfriend.”

Esther’s smile widened briefly. Offering Scott a parting wink, she turned to the Texan. “Oh, lay off it!” she said, shoving him. “We were having a bloody moment.”

Scott pushed himself up from his seat as David stepped forward. “Hey! You all right?” the older man asked.

“I am…” For a moment, he was at a loss for words. “I’m alive.” But for how long? Remembering the significance of their situation, Scott looked up at the cockpit. “Are we still tracking Superwolves?”

“Yeah,” Travis answered, “and they’re coming in hot.” Clicking on the cabin speakers, the pilot addressed the crew as a whole. “Everyone strap in and hold on!”

David tapped Scott on the side. He nodded toward the pilot. “He was gonna leave both of y’all before we made him turn around.”

“And he’d have been right to,” Scott said, looking his friend and mentor squarely in the eyes. “I wasn’t the mission. Travis did what I ordered him to do.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to explain that to everybody else, then—because right now, half the troop bay is about ready to throw him out the back door.”

The older man’s seriousness was evident. Order or not, Travis’s leaving Scott behind was something that’d affected the team. It was time to make something clear. “Navarro!” His volume was intentionally bellowing. Scott wanted everybody to hear this. As the troop bay turned their focus to Scott, so did Travis, who looked like he was bracing to be chewed out. Not this time. “What you did was exactly what needed to be done. If I order you to leave, don’t let them change your mind again.” His focus shifted from the pilot to the onlookers. They all needed to hear this. “What we’re after is more important than any one of us.”

Esther’s eyes remained on Scott, the British scout’s face stoic.

“Don’t second-guess anyone who follows an order,” Scott said, face stern as the Fourteenth listened. “That’s an order. Understood?” Though their voices were low, a small chorus of yes, sirs and da, captains came to him.

The whole while Scott spoke, Natalie looked at him curiously. In that moment, she was almost indistinguishable from the crew. She was as attuned as all the rest of them.

Drawing in a breath, Scott grabbed hold of the sides of his harness. The Fourteenth was two Superwolves away from escaping Krasnoyarsk. If they could pull it off, Northern Forge awaited. Everything rested in Travis’s hands.

It was time for the Pariah to fly.

2

Saturday, March 17th, 0012 NE

1047 hours

Krasnoyarsk, Russia

SCOTT COULD FEEL the Pariah’s velocity. They had flown this fast before—the Fourteenth was no stranger to emergency flights—but this was letting off an altogether different energy. Briefly, he surveyed his crew. Everyone was strapped into their harnesses. Though no one spoke, everyone looked alarmed.

In the cockpit, Travis and Tiffany talked back and forth. Neither’s voice was raised, neither sounded worked up. They were discussing treetops, angles, and fuel ranges. It was all business like Scott had never heard from the cockpit of the Pariah before. Somehow, that made it more alarming. He could feel his blood pressure soaring. He wished someone’s voice would rise—that someone would shout. This quiet was unbearable.

“Veck!” said Travis.

Scott was wrong—the quiet was better.

“All right, we need to do something here,” Travis said, the pilot’s voice downright quivering.

Tiffany was equally panicked. “Is there some place to land?”

“That’s not exactly an option!”

“Well, we’d better come up with new options, fast!”

Scott needed to know what was going on. “Talk to me, Travis!” The command was ignored as the two pilots continued to feverishly chatter. “Talk to me, Travis!”

A second later, Travis got on the comm. His voice was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. “Everyone, get ready for some turbulence.”

Removing his safety harness, Scott stood up and leaned into the cockpit, his eyes searching out the radar screen. When he saw it, his stomach fell. Plainly identifiable, the pair of blips that were the EDEN Superwolves were straight behind the Pariah—and gaining rapidly. Veck was right.

They have to know Natalie is in here—they have to want to keep us alive for her. They wouldn’t just knowingly shoot down a Vulture with a hostage on board. “It wouldn’t make sense for them to kill us, right?”

“Tracking us is killing us,” Travis answered. “What do you think’s going to happen if EDEN suddenly has a live feed of our position?”

EDEN would follow them until they ran out of fuel. They’d simply wait for the Pariah to land then assault them on the ground. They’d be facing a dozen units—a hundred units, all raining down on their position. They wouldn’t stand a chance. And that was if these Superwolves didn’t just blow them out of the sky. “What are our options, Trav?”

Scott could hear Travis swallowing. “Sir, I don’t think we have any.”

There had to be options. There were always options!

“I think this might be it,” said Travis.

Tiffany drew in a breath. “Give me the stick.”

Blinking, Travis looked at her. “What?”

“Give me the stick,” she said again, facing him.

“Why in the hell would I give you the stick? What are you going to do that’s any different from me?” From the Pariah’s cockpit, a piercing alarm resonated. “Holy veck, they have missile lock!”

This was it. The Superwolves were going to fire on them. They didn’t care that Natalie was inside. They were going to do the same thing they did with Falcon Platoon.

“I don’t have time to argue, just give me the stick, Travis!” Tiffany screamed.

From her harness, Catalina shouted desperately, “Give her the stick!”

Scott listened to the exchange as it went back and forth, increasing with vehemence every passing second as the missile lock tone continued.

“Everyone, brace!” Travis said through the Pariah’s speakers. “I think we’re about to get hit!”

“Travis, if you want to survive, give me the vecking stick now!”

Tiffany screamed with total conviction Scott’s decision was made. “Travis, give her the stick!”

“Sir, there’s—”

“That’s an order!” he said again as he strapped back into his harness.

Travis reached forward, his fingers flicking up the plastic cover for flight control transfer. He flipped the switch. “The stick is yours.”

The Valley Girl’s hand snatched the joystick on her side of the cockpit, and she yanked it backward with full force. The Pariah’s nose swung upward as its rear thrusters burst with fury. Every operative in the back was thrown toward the rear door, their harnesses the only things holding them at bay. In the pilot’s seat, Travis was slammed back into his chair cushion, his eyes widening as he watched the Pariah’s view go vertical. “What are you doing?”

The Pariah leaned backward, twisting with forward momentum until it was at the height of inversion. Rolling the Vulture around in a textbook Immelmann maneuver—a vertical rolling turn—Tiffany sent it screaming straight for the Superwolves. “Fighting.”

“You’re—you’re what?”

Tiffany’s eyes darted to the Pariah’s cannon readout, which displayed an ammunition capacity of thirty-one percent. In that same instant, the tone of the missile lock alarm shifted.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” Travis screamed.

“What the hell is that?” Scott asked.

Travis was hysterical. “They’re firing! They’re firing! We’re dead!”

With one hand on the joystick and the other on weapons, Tiffany watched the four tiny streaks approaching from the distance. The blonde’s eyes narrowed.

“What are you doing?” Travis asked. “Why aren’t you doing anything?”

“I need them to get closer.”

Travis blinked. “You need them to get—wait, the missiles?”

Slamming the joystick down, the Pariah rolled into a high-angle dive. The troop bay occupants collectively gasped as inertia tried to fling them to the ceiling. Despite the force of the dive, their harnesses held.

Staring steadily at the fast-approaching earth, Tiffany said, “We’re closing the gap, taking away the missiles’ ability to correct fast enough to avoid hitting the ground. It’s one of the ways Couriers avoid getting hit.” As the missiles drew within strike distance, diving down to intercept the Pariah as it neared the ground, Tiffany pushed the throttle to full blast. The Pariah’s engines erupted, their thrust pinning the two pilots into their chairs. Leveling off just before impact, Tiffany squeaked the Pariah beneath the downward-soaring missiles. They collided into the ground behind the transport, exploding in a series of four fiery plumes.

Yanking the stick back up, Tiffany sent the Pariah screaming back to the Superwolves’ altitude. The gap between the Superwolves and the Pariah was closing rapidly. Only seconds before the aircrafts would have merged, Tiffany jerked the stick to the left just before the leftmost Superwolf pulled the same maneuver. As their trajectories crossed, Tiffany tapped the trigger, sending a burst of nose-mounted cannon fire right into the center of the Superwolf’s hull. The Superwolf zipped past the Pariah and out of view behind it. She pulled the stick again, swinging the Vulture around to pursue.

Beside her, Travis was going nuts. “How did you do that? How’d you know he was going to do that?”

“Because it was exactly what he was supposed to do!” As the Pariah leveled off, the Superwolf she’d shot could be seen spinning toward the earth in smoky twirls. “He was going for an outer circle flow relative to his wingman, it’s basic. I just cut him off.”

“But how do you know that?”

Her blond strands soaked with sweat, she glared at her counterpart. “Because I’m a fighter pilot.”

Travis blinked right back at her. The pilot had no words.

The other Superwolf completed its turn first; the advanced tactical fighter was beading straight for the Vulture. “Hold on!” Tiffany screamed over the speakers, dropping the Pariah’s nose and spiraling the aircraft downward just as the Superwolf opened fire. Bullets peppered the Pariah’s underbelly as it fell into a downward defensive scissor.

Scott was on the verge of puking, and by the look of it, so was everyone else. Their bodies slamming back and forth like harnessed ragdolls, they stared at one another wide-eyed as the Vulture entered full-fledged dogfight mode.

“Follow me!” Tiffany screamed at the Superwolf. The moment the EDEN fighter began its downward turn, Tiffany hit the brakes and swung the Pariah’s nose out of its scissor. Overshooting the slower aircraft, the Superwolf came out of its first turn right in front of the Vulture. For a second time, Tiffany turned to pursue, kicking the thrusters into full speed as the Superwolf straightened out—moving out of firing range within half a second. Turning on the comm, Tiffany addressed the EDEN pilot on his own channel. “Hey, thruster-jockey, you’re getting whipped by a girl!”

“What are you doing?” Travis asked.

“Taunting him.”

The other pilot shook his head. “But why?”

Seconds after the insult went through, the Superwolf looped back. “To draw him back in.” Leveling the Pariah off at low altitude, Tiffany once again sent the Vulture screaming forward—the Superwolf in hot pursuit.

“Why in the world would you want to draw him back in?”

“Our only choices are to outrun or outgun!” answered the blonde. “That first option ain’t happening.”

From the troop bay, Boris’s voice cut through the noise as he hollered toward the cockpit. “How close in can you bring him?”

“What?” yelled Tiffany back to him.

“I said, how close can you—” The technician’s voice was cut off as Tiffany pulled an evasive maneuver. The Superwolf was firing its cannons behind them.

As soon as the Pariah leveled off, Scott, between Boris and the cockpit, said to the pilots, “He asked how close you can bring him in!” He then glared at Boris. “But I’d guess pretty vecking close!”

“I can bring him in close! Why?” asked Tiffany.

“I used Antipov’s kit to hack into Cairo’s systems! Maybe I can use it to hack into the Superwolf, too.” Unstrapping his harness, Boris scrambled across the troop bay, where the bag with his technician’s kit from Antipov was sliding around. “Please don’t move crazy—” Boris was flung across the troop bay as Tiffany bucked the nose upward, hitting the brakes again and rolling the Vulture to the right.

“Hold on!” she shouted.

It was far too late for that. Boris was careening off walls, flailing his arms wildly as the sound of gunfire zipped past the Pariah. The Vulture went almost vertical, and the next thing everyone in the troop bay saw, Boris’s back was slamming against the closed rear bay door. When the ship leveled off again, Boris fell upside down on his head. The technician groaned as he wobbled to his feet.

Streaks of orange flew past the cockpit. Gripping the airbrake again, Tiffany drew in a breath.

“What are you about to do?” asked Travis warily.

Engaging the airbrake again, Tiffany dipped the Pariah’s nose down. The Vulture’s forward thrusters killed, its rear thrusters bursting with full force. In a span of a few seconds, the Pariah had gone from full-speed ahead to bucking backward like a wild bronco—a maneuver the lightweight Superwolf was incapable of matching. In the same instant that the fighter went streaking past the Pariah, Boris flew headlong into the cockpit, technician’s kit in hand as he slammed into the cockpit glass.

“You okay?” Tiffany asked. The discombobulated technician held a thumbs up. Igniting the forward thrusters again, the blonde fired off a wild blast of nose-mounted cannon fire, the Pariah’s bullets zipping into the distance nowhere near the Superwolf. Seconds later, the agile fighter had once again streaked out of range. She looked at Boris. “Whatever crazy thing you want to try, you’ve got about twenty seconds to try it! What do we need to do to make this work?”

The sweating technician was already activating the kit. “Get close, stay close, and make him talk to you.”

“Talk to me? Why?” Kit in hand, Boris looked around frantically for a place to secure himself. After a moment of him standing around awkwardly, Tiffany yelled at Travis, “Go sit in the back! I need Boris up here.”

Travis rolled his eyes. “Come on—”

“Get back there now!”

Scrambling out of his seat, Travis skedaddled into the troop bay. Boris strapped into the now-vacant pilot’s seat and situated his kit. On the radar, the Superwolf was coming around again. Tiffany got on the EDEN fighter’s comm channel to address the enemy pilot. “Okay, we totally got off on the wrong foot.” She closed the channel and looked at Boris. “Why do I need to make him talk to me again?”

“Before I can do anything, I will need to find out if I can access his systems. When the pilot uses his comm, it is like he is opening a window. It will enable me to—”

“Opening a window, that’s all you need to tell me.”

Boris nodded. “It is important that he stay close! The closer we get, the easier I can try to hack into him.”

“This is possible, right?”

Swallowing, the technician hesitated, then drew in a breath. “Yes. All things are possible.”

“Well, that’s great!” Tiffany’s eyes returned to the radar, where the Superwolf was coming down on them from above. “Hold tight, evasive action.”

Boris opened his mouth to talk, but was cut short by a hard right-hand turn and barrel roll. His curly mop flew back and forth in the pilot’s seat as bullets streaked past the cockpit window once, some once again striking the Vulture. Red warning lights flashed as the Pariah’s schematics lit up with damage indicators. Yanking up with the stick, Tiffany brought the nose of the transport up and around, peeling it back as it tried to fall back nearer to the Superwolf. The fighter matched speeds.

“Are we close enough?” Tiffany asked.

Boris shook his head and looked at his kit’s display. “Not yet!”

“Feathers!” Scott said through the comm. “What kind of damage are we taking?”

“Minimal!” she answered, closing the speaker and murmuring to herself, “Totally a lie.” Her focus returned to Boris. “Get your kit ready. We’re about to chat this guy up.” Opening the EDEN channel as she weaved to avoid more gunfire, she addressed her adversary. “Pariah to Superwolf—we surrender. I repeat, we surrender! Awaiting your instructions.” Veering again, the Pariah narrowly avoided more gunfire. “I said we surrender! What does EDEN want us to do?”

The gunfire from the Superwolf ceased.

Almost holding her breath, Tiffany said off-comm, “C’mon, guy, talk to me.” Seconds later, she got her wish.

“Vulture identified as Pariah,” answered a man with a Chinese accent, “land your aircraft immediately.”

Slowing the Pariah just enough to bring the Superwolf in closer from behind, Tiffany looked at Boris. “Are you in?”

“Keep him talking!”

“Permission to land at the nearest airfield?” she asked over the comm.

A second later, the Superwolf pilot replied. “Land your craft immediately!”

Thrusting his fists into the air, Boris said, “I am communicating. Let me see if I can…yes! I can manipulate his systems.” He tapped at his controls. “What can I do? What can I do?” he asked himself. Finally, he inputted a command. “Tell him something funny, quick!”

The blonde blinked. “Uh, what?”

“Tell him an insult!”

Fumbling with the comm, she opened the channel. “Hey, you suck!” She looked back at Boris. “Dude, what in the heck am I doing?”

“Terrible job,” said Boris. “That was terrible. That was not good at all.” He finally tapped the button. “His weapons are offline!” Once again, his fingers flew across the keyboard, ending once again with a tap of finality. “I have locked his comm on our frequency—he can no longer communicate with EDEN.”

“Make him land!” the blonde prompted desperately. “I am totally jacking this guy’s ride.”

“Working, working, working,” Boris said. Several seconds later, he grinned. “Control is ours! I am instructing his auto-nav to land below.” With a final keystroke, he smiled triumphantly. “And down he goes!”

A quick look at the Pariah’s rear camera confirmed it—the Superwolf was slowly descending. Exhaling a breath, the blonde closed her eyes, leaned back in her chair, and slicked back her hair that was now soaked with sweat. After a moment, she opened her eyes and stared Boris down. “What the heck was up with the ‘tell him something funny’ thing?”

“You could have said, ‘checkmate,’ or, ‘thank you for flying with us,’ or any number of incredible, witty things that would really have made the moment.”

“Well, you can’t just, like, throw that on me! Give me time to prepare.”

Gesturing emphatically, Boris asked, “What time did we have?”

“Just a quick, y’know, ‘when we take this guy over, we’re gonna totally slam him.’”

“Land the vecking ship!” Scott shouted.

Tiffany returned to the controls. “Geez Louise, landing the ship. What crawled in his pants?”

“He is always grumpy,” said Boris. “It is very unpleasant.”

It wasn’t until the Pariah began its descent that the scope of the damage it had taken in the dogfight became evident. Regardless of what Tiffany told Scott, the Vulture had been badly wounded. On top of the descent thrusters being rendered inoperable, of the Pariah’s three wheels, only the back wheels showed functionality. That, when combined with the descent thruster problems, meant that the Pariah couldn’t actually land next to the Superwolf to claim it. If the Superwolf was to be flown by Tiffany, the Vulture was going to have to hover over the ground with its main thrusters, lower the bay door, and have operatives rope to the ground.

During Tiffany’s air show, several of the operatives in the troop bay had thrown up, causing the entire bay to reek of vomit. It was more surprising that none of the crew had blacked out. Scott had never felt the Pariah move like it had under Tiffany’s hand.

She’s a fighter pilot. How is that possible?

That question hovered at the surface of Scott’s mind as the situation cooled down and the Pariah drew nearer to the Superwolf. The only person in the troop bay who seemed unfazed by the revelation was Catalina Shivers. The crippled soldier had been the only person to speak up when Tiffany demanded that Travis hand over the controls. She must have known that Tiffany was a fighter pilot. It left a burning question: why in the world had a fighter pilot been chauffeuring around Falcon Platoon in a Vulture?

As the Pariah hovered with Travis at the helm, Tiffany made her way into the troop bay, where the other operatives tied off a pair of ropes for her and Becan—her armed escort—to be lowered. It was clear that in the time since the dogfight ended, something had begun to affect the Valley Girl pilot. Her hazel eyes were distant, almost tearful. As she passed by Catalina, the black-haired soldier reached out with her hand. Pausing, Tiffany looked Catalina’s way and accepted it. “Go get it, Tiff,” Catalina said quietly. Tiffany remained silent, and after receiving a small squeeze from her friend, approached the rope drop with something akin to reverence.

“Yeh ready, ace?” Becan asked, his feet already braced against the bottom of the opened ramp and his hands on the rope.

“I’m ready,” answered Tiffany quietly.

Together, they dropped out of the door.

As soon as Tiffany was out of the Pariah, Lilan looked at Catalina. “You want to explain to the rest of us what just happened here, Shivers?” His attention shifting to the colonel, Scott honed in on their conversation. It seemed everyone in the troop bay was.

Catalina was staring off into the distance, her gaze seemingly lost in a memory of her own, though a slight turn of the head indicated that she had indeed heard the colonel’s question. After several seconds and the faintest of smiles, she said simply, “You wouldn’t believe it.”

Touching down on the snow alongside Becan, Tiffany turned to face the powered-down Superwolf. The sleek ATF was waiting, its cockpit shield open. As Becan rushed toward it with his weapon raised, the Chinese pilot climbed out.

Tiffany walked toward the Superwolf, her sweat-dampened hair tossing in the blustery winds that whipped across the tundra. Not once did her gaze shift to regard the man she’d outwitted in the sky. Her focus was solely on the fighter. Stooping down by the Chinese pilot’s now-abandoned helmet, Tiffany picked it up and stared at her reflection in the visor. Even in the sun-distorted reflection, she could see her reddened eyes. Rising, she fit the helmet down over her head.

Placing her hands on the folded-out cockpit stairs, Tiffany climbed up as Becan watched over the Chinese pilot. With every step she took, with every rung she passed, tears rolled down her cheek. By the time she reached the top, she could barely see at all. She settled into the cockpit, shuffling her body just slightly to conform to the seat. Hand shaking, she reached out to place her fingers around the stick. When they touched it, she exhaled a trembling breath. Closing her eyes, she lowered the cockpit window.

Looking over the Pariah’s systems, Travis watched in the troop bay mirror as Becan climbed back into the ship. Once the Irishman was secure, the ropes were pulled in and the bay door eased up. “Pariah to Feathers,” he said with the Superwolf queued up, “we are heavily damaged and in need of escort. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who’d be kind enough to assist?”

Her smile audible and her voice subdued, Tiffany answered, “I think I know someone who can swing that.”

“You ever flown a Superwolf, girlie?”

On the other end of the line, Tiffany shook her head. “That is a negative, Pariah. But how hard could it be?”

“Somehow, I think you’ll manage.”

Engaging the Superwolf’s vertical thrusters, Tiffany raised the fighter up and off the ground. Looking around at the cockpit display, Tiffany located the transponder controls. She reached down to turn it off. “Transponder deactivated, Pariah.” For several more seconds, she stared blankly at the multitude of switches and buttons around her. She breathed out a laugh and shook her head. “Remind me to read the instruction manual when we find a new place to land. I might accidentally fire a missile in this thing.”

“In light of that comment, Pariah respectfully requests you fly in front of the wounded Vulture.”

Tiffany laughed. “Copy that.” As the Superwolf rose higher, Tiffany looked out of the cockpit window at the helmetless Chinese pilot standing alone in the snow, staring up as his commandeered fighter abandoned him.

As he watched Tiffany bring the Superwolf to the Pariah’s level, Scott thought about their situation. They’d been detected, engaged, and were now truly on the run. EDEN knew their last-known whereabouts. They would know where their pair of Superwolves disappeared off the map.

Glancing back, Scott’s eyes settled on Natalie, who was staring distantly at the Pariah’s floorboards. He hadn’t heard her say anything after their dust-off from Krasnoyarsk. Surely the sight of Lilan had caught her off guard. Her head must be spinning. They needed a solution for the problem she presented, though it may have already been resolving itself. Her worldview was changing before her very eyes. She would turn, in time. Scott was sure of it.

Looking forward again, Scott slipped through the cockpit door and settled into the copilot’s seat next to Travis. Ahead of the Pariah, Tiffany’s Superwolf was gliding over the ground. For the briefest of moments, Scott almost felt a sense of serenity. He watched as the clouds drifted high in the sky. They were flying so low, it almost looked like they were moving on the ground itself. Like they were barely flying at all.

Norilsk was coming. Northern Forge was coming. Undoubtedly, so were more unexpected problems. They’d handle them when they got there. But at that moment, Scott appreciated the fact that he wasn’t cold, he wasn’t wet, and he wasn’t firing at EDEN operatives and law enforcement in the middle of an EDEN base or a rebelling city. He was just along for the ride. There was something settling about that.

I haven’t forgotten you, Sveta. Even amid a picture that was widening with each passing second, Svetlana was at the forefront of his mind, desperately waiting to be addressed. Get her safely to Chernobyl, Oleg, and I might even find a small place in my heart to forgive you. Maybe.

With the horizon in front of him and the quiet of the troop bay at his back, Scott closed his eyes. It was in moments like these that his exhaustion overwhelmed him. He was due for twelve hours of sleep. Minutes would have to suffice. Scott had barely closed his eyes when he succumbed to fatigue, his breaths deepening as the unconscious took over—as brief as it was destined to be. It was better than nothing.

He dreamed of the ocean.

3

Saturday, March 17th, 0012 NE

0459 hours

EDEN Command

THE WAR ROOM was as quiet as a morgue. The only sound present emanated from the massive air conditioning units that kept the electronics-heavy room at a reasonable temperature. In the center of the floor, surrounded by a massive circular handrail, the holograph of Earth slowly rotated. In the middle of Siberia, northeast of the city of Krasnoyarsk, two red X’s were marked in close proximity—the sites where two Superwolves were lost.

Standing with elbows propped against the handrail and his entwined fists resting against his chin, was Blake. The new president’s dark eyes stayed fixed, almost numbly, on the crash sites. No judges were present—he’d ordered everyone, Jaya Saxena included, out of the room as soon as the Superwolves were confirmed lost. Only the console operators had stayed behind.

Far behind him, the door to the War Room whisked open. There was no need for Blake to turn around to identify the new arrival. The man’s German accent gave him away. “What happened?” Klaus Faerber asked.

Blake sucked in a heavy breath, angling his head only slightly sideways—just enough to signal that he was indeed responding to the question—before flatly answering, “We’ve lost contact with the Fourteenth.”

“How?” The Vector captain sounded genuinely befuddled.

Another pause came before Blake responded. “They were able to board their Vulture to flee the city. Two Superwolves were close enough to attempt an intercept, but…they were shot down.”

Behind Blake, Klaus blinked. “Shot down by who?”

“By the, umm…by the Vulture.”

“The Vulture?”

Blake nodded. “Yes, the Vulture.”

The German’s thudding footsteps drew closer. “How does a Vulture shoot down a Superwolf?”

“I don’t know.”

One of the communications operators swiveled around in his chair, speaking urgently. “Mr. President! We’ve just made contact with the second pilot.”

“That’s good,” said Blake, his lack of enthusiasm betraying his words. “I’m glad they both managed to eject.”

“No, sir…he didn’t eject.”

Blake turned to look at the man curiously. “What do you mean, he didn’t eject?”

“The second Superwolf wasn’t shot down. It was forced to land. The Vulture hacked it.”

“Hacked it?”

The operator nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Klaus’s expression matched the concern of Blake’s. Both men approached the operator as he continued to explain.

“Somehow they were able to hack into the Superwolf’s systems and take control away from the pilot. They commandeered it shortly after it landed.”

“Commandeered?” Blake asked. “Are you saying the Fourteenth took it?”

Frowning, the operator answered, “Yes, sir. They had a second pilot—according to our pilot, she was a blond-haired American woman. He didn’t hear her name.”

At the revelation, Blake’s eyes squinted. “There was no such pilot in the Fourteenth’s dossier. Where did she come from?” He seemed to pose the question more to himself. Reaching down, he unclipped his comm from his belt and brought it to his lips. “Blake to Intelligence.”

“Intelligence,” a man answered.

“Are you aware of the situation with the stolen Superwolf?”

“We were just made aware, Mr. President.”

Blake nodded absently. “This pilot, this ‘blond-haired American woman,’ who could she be?”

A distinct pause came over the line. “Kang would actually like to discuss that with you, sir. He’s requesting that you come here.”

Tilting his head in puzzlement, Klaus listened to the exchange.

Very subtly, Blake’s countenance shifted. “I shall come at once.” Closing the channel, he secured the comm back on his belt. His focus turned to Klaus. “I suppose I’m due at Intelligence.”

Hesitating, the Vector captain nodded. “I will come with you—”

“I need you here,” Blake said quickly, nearly cutting Klaus off, “monitoring the War Room. There are judges who could do the same, but none with your tactical experience. I know watching a spinning globe isn’t the most exciting job in the world, but it serves a purpose.” He forced a smile. “Consider it a glimpse of your future occupation as a judge.”

Klaus was unamused.

“But I’m afraid I must be going now,” said the Briton. “Kang’s not one to wait, and this is likely quite important. Forgive me if I leave curtly.”

The German scrutinized Blake, as if searching for something. At long last, he too faked a smile and nodded.

“We’ll catch them, rest assured.” Patting Klaus on the shoulder, Blake said, “We’ll speak again soon.” Offering a farewell, he slid past Klaus toward the War Room exit.

His gaze sweeping the rest of the War Room, Klaus took in the activity going on, from the various operators at computer and communication consoles, to the array of radar screens mounted against the far wall, to the row of televisions broadcasting live feeds from news outlets across the world. Finally, his attention returned to the holographic globe as it slowly rotated in the center of the room and the pair of red X’s on its surface. Leaning forward with his elbows on the circular handrail, just as his predecessor had before making his exit, Klaus watched and waited for something to happen.

*

“STOP!” SAID JAYA as she marched behind Archer in the hallways. “I said stop!”

Spinning around in the hallway, Archer pointed his finger in the young woman’s face. “Do you have any idea what this is going to do? That was our one chance to bring Remington in while things are still under control, and our state-of-the-art Superwolves got shot down by a Mark-1 bloody Vulture.”

Jaya glared. “Getting angry will not help the situation.”

“Yes, well it damn well feels good at present,” said Archer, turning to continue his march toward the conference room. Jaya followed.

“This situation is still under control,” she said adamantly. “Remington cannot hide forever. Once he is in custody—”

“Whose custody?” Archer asked.

“Our custody!”

The champagne-blond judge scowled. “That’s precisely the point. He could be heading anywhere right now. Whatever initiative we had is gone.” Stopping again, he lowered his voice and turned to her. “Remington didn’t infiltrate Cairo on his own accord. Thoor sent him there to retrieve a Ceratopian—we both know that. If this Ceratopian has something to do with H`laar, or if he bloody is H`laar, then we must get to him first, at all costs.”

“We must, and we will,” Jaya said, hurriedly following when Archer’s hurried pace resumed. “We have good people in place.”

Archer scoffed. “You sound almost as if you had something to do with that.” Before she could respond, the judge continued. “I want to know everything there is to know about Remington—who he is, where he’s from, why he’s aligned himself with the Nightmen, his bloody favorite color. Everything.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want to know every single person in EDEN he’s ever encountered, and I want them spoken to.”

The Indian woman nodded. “Judge Rath should be touching down in Cairo at any moment to speak with Logan Marshall and Giro Holmes.”

“Who is Logan Marshall?”

“Marshall was one of the tertiary officers under Captain Rockwell. Holmes—”

Cutting her off, he said, “I know who Giro Holmes is.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get me everything on Remington, as quickly as possible. If we can find out where he’s headed on our own, we could potentially reach him before Faerber.”

At that, Jaya cocked her head curiously. “If I may ask a question?”

“You may not.”

Jaya fell silent.

Turning toward her, Archer exhaled a controlled breath. “Worry only about your assigned job. Right now, your assigned job is Scott Remington. When you have a full profile, come back to me.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“That is all.” Without another word, Archer turned around, pushing open the conference room doors and stepping inside. The doors closed in his wake, leaving Jaya alone in the hall. Her eyes narrowing, the young Indian woman pursed her lips. After taking a single step backward, she turned to leave in the direction whence she came.

*

INTELLIGENCE WAS BY far the most inaccessible and secure department at EDEN Command. Only the president was authorized to make unannounced visits—even the twelve judges had to either ask permission or receive an invitation to step into its halls. Its mere mention conjured up fanciful imagery, and it was widely regarded as the ultimate realm of wonder, where the secrets of the world were maintained. Its reputation was of pristineness and preciseness—a marvel of technology and human mystery.

As tended to be the case, reality told quite a different tale.

Three sets of secured doors kept Intelligence separate from the rest of EDEN Command, with each set guarded twenty-four-seven by four security officials who only had clearance for their posts, and no deeper. Each door presented an array of entry tests ranging from finger and eye scanners, to voice recognition, to full-body x-ray windows. It wasn’t until someone made it all the way through, beyond that third set of doors that the truth was revealed: Intelligence was as low-tech as a department could get.

Filing cabinets lined the walls, each containing row upon row of unlabeled manila folders. A cataloguing cabinet akin to Old Era decimal systems sat at the end of a simple carpeted hallway lined with wooden doors. There was scarcely a computer to be found—the word processor of choice was pencil and tablet, and in rare exceptions, closed-circuit word processors almost akin to high-tech typewriters. Kang Gao Jing, the Intelligence director, had a simple philosophy: you can’t hack into paper. As much as Intelligence utilized technology from other departments, it was insatiably paranoid about relying on it itself. In adopting that philosophy, the entire department became a walk-in time machine to the past.

As soon as Blake stepped inside, he was greeted by two things, the first a smell that reminded him of a retirement home, and the second the man who’d spoken to him on the comm: a man whose nametag identified him simply as “Douglas.” Blake didn’t recognize him, but his trips to Intelligence were rare. The few times he had been invited in as a judge, it had been Jaya Saxena who’d met him. “Welcome in, Mr. President,” Douglas said, his accent American.

“Good day to you, as well.”

“Kang is in his office, waiting to speak with you. Do you like coffee? Tea?”

Blake forced his pleasantries. “Tea is good.”

“I’ll brew some right away.”

Offering a bow of appreciation, Blake watched Douglas walk into Intelligence’s kitchenette before making his own way down the hall.

If Intelligence was EDEN’s realm of mystery, Kang was the man behind the curtain. Outside of Intelligence’s walls, there probably weren’t twenty people at EDEN Command who’d ever seen the man and even fewer who knew who he was, where he’d come from, or how he’d landed behind the three security doors that shrouded his department from the rest of the world. Blake was among them.

Before the Alien War was a thing, Kang Gao Jing was China’s minister of state security, where he’d been in charge of China’s counter-terrorism and political security for nineteen years. He was good at what he did, which was how he’d remained at the position for as long as he had, surviving multiple regime changes. He’d been a shoe-in for the job of EDEN Intelligence director, despite his being in his upper sixties when the organization was established. Upper sixties became upper seventies as the war waged on, but Kang was still Kang—a man who spoke to virtually no one but still managed to have his fingers around every string that dangled from the puppet that was EDEN Command. At least, that was how people viewed him. He was treated with so much reverence by the Council that some couldn’t help but wonder whether it was he or the president who was truly in charge. The binder of job descriptions ranked Kang right beneath the judges. No one actually believed it.

Kang’s office door was as nondescript as any other. It was a wooden door with a drab nameplate that simply read, “Intelligence Director.” There was no fancy scanner beside it, no futuristic mechanism that opened it. The extent of Kang’s office security was a push-button lock on the doorknob and a two-dollar sliding bolt at the top of the frame. It was the opposite of what was found in the judges’ suites. Drawing in a breath, Blake raised his hand to knock.

“Come in, Mr. President,” said Kang, the crotchety Chinese voice beckoning before Blake’s fist could even strike the door.

Blake straightened his posture. Turning the knob, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The first thing to hit Blake—and everyone who had the privilege of entering Kang’s office—was the assaulting smell of fresh pencil shavings and Chinese pine needles. Kang was addicted to the latter to the point where boxes of fresh pine needles were part of EDEN Command’s scheduled shipments, flown in every month by the handful of pilots who knew EDEN Command’s location. Crushed needles dangled from his desk in a way that almost seemed of religious significance. Everyone who visited Kang left smelling like a tree.

The décor of the room was in line with the rest of Intelligence. The walls were wood paneling, and filing cabinets were lined up at the back of the room. Wearing a brown sport coat that made him look more like a car salesman than an Intelligence director, was Kang himself. The older, Chinese man was writing furiously on a yellow tablet. “One moment, please,” he said without looking up.

Smiling with as much pleasantry as he could feign, Blake obliged.

As far as stature was concerned, Kang was not an intimidating figure. He was lanky and had the look of a man growing frail in his older years. His hair, which seemed on the verge of losing the last bit of artificial black the director had dyed it, was combed from one side of his head to the other. His face was wrinkled, his eyes beady. He looked neither mysterious nor villainous. He simply looked busy. As his maddened scribbling came to an end, Kang placed his half-used pencil down and looked across his desk at Blake. “Are you enjoying your first day as president?”

Blake stared back with a blank expression. “I’m not sure if that’s a joke or not.”

“There are many things we must attend to. As you know, our time is short.” Barely looking Blake in the eye, Kang reached across his desk, grabbed a sticky note, and held it out for Blake to take. As Blake took it, Kang said, “That was her instructor. He is expecting your call.”

“Whose instructor?” Blake asked, glancing down at the note. It read simply Raphael Davis.

“Tiffany Feathers,” said Kang, “the Vulture pilot who defeated your Superwolves.” Before Blake could respond, the director went on. “There are only so many female blond pilots from America flying Vultures.”

Eyeing the sticky note warily, Blake asked, “What led you to deduce it was this one?”

The director leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together placidly on his lap. “Because she was also the pilot for Falcon Platoon.”

Blake’s face fell.

“As you already know, the Vulture that survived the Great Dismal Swamp is the same Vulture the Fourteenth is using now. She must have been aboard it when it lifted.”

Shaking his head, Blake said, “That’s a very bold claim—that anyone from the swamp could have escaped.”

Kang’s beady gaze remained locked on Blake. “You know as well as I do that a number of bodies were never found. Hers was among them. The body of the colonel, Lilan, was also never found. He and others may have escaped on that Vulture, too.” He pointed to the note in Blake’s hand. “Call her instructor. He will tell you everything you need to know.” Leaning forward again, Kang returned to his scribbling.

For several seconds, Blake said nothing—he simply stared at the old Chinese man across from him. At long last, almost incredulously, he asked, “That’s it?” When Kang ignored the question, Blake went on. “You called me all the way over here to hand me a sticky note and tell me to research it myself?” Once again, Blake was given nothing. The Briton’s composure fell, and his voice rose. “I’m talking to you.”

Placing the pencil down, Kang propped his elbows on the table and placed his palms together as if in prayer. The Chinese director’s beady eyes stayed on Blake. “You have your role, and I have mine. You are where you are because Benjamin saw fit to place you there, but do not confuse that with being essential. I have done my part in identifying Tiffany Feathers and her instructor at Philadelphia. You must now do your part by contacting him, listening to what he has to say, then using it to your advantage.” He angled his head. “Is any part of that not appropriate?”

His jaw set, but with his breathing controlled, Blake glared across the desk at Kang. At long last, he answered, “No.”

“Very well,” Kang said, returning to his tablet.

Blake stood in silence as the director returned to his own world, the Chinese man humming to himself as his pencil struck paper. Finally, after it became apparent that Kang was going to say nothing else, Blake turned without a word to make his departure. The moment he stepped out of the door, he collided with Douglas, a full cup of tea splashing out against the president’s wardrobe. Both men froze.

“I am so sorry, Mr. President,” Douglas said.

Wiping tea off his hands, Blake said, his tone less than cordial, “It’s quite all right.” Stepping past Douglas, Blake strode out of Intelligence without speaking to anyone else.

*

FLICKING ON THE light to his suite, Leonid Torokin stepped inside, gesturing for those behind him to enter. “Have a seat anywhere, gentlemen,” he said, exhausted. He slipped out of his blue coat—the hallmark indicator of an EDEN judge—and hung it on the coatrack by his front door.

Torokin and his two counterparts on the High Command, Dmitri Grinkov and Richard Lena, had all been present in the War Room when the Fourteenth was intercepted by the pair of Superwolves. They’d all seen the green dots turn into red X’s when the Superwolves were presumed to have been shot down. Behind Grinkov and Lena were the three Vectors other than Klaus Faerber who were at EDEN Command: Vincent Hill, a British combat medic and Vector’s second in command; Minh Dang, pilot of the Relentless, one of the unit’s Vultures; and Torokin’s nephew, Alexander Kireev, or Sasha, as he was known. The young Vector scout had been visiting his uncle at EDEN Command when the events at Novosibirsk and Cairo had taken place. All the money in the world couldn’t convince him to leave now—not that anybody visiting EDEN Command had the option of choosing when they came or went.

The Vectors had not been present in the War Room when the Superwolves were downed, but they’d heard the report as soon as the judges were dismissed from Blake’s presence. Only Klaus went back to find Blake himself—the rest followed Torokin back to his room to discuss the goings-on. The discussion was anything but lively. It was more like discussing a death.

Closing the door behind him, Torokin approached his living area, where the others had lowered themselves into chairs and sofas. Retrieving a small stack of drinking glasses from his bar at the far end of the room, the Russian judge set them on the coffee table as he went back to grab vodka. One of the perks of being a judge was that their suites could have whatever the judges wanted in them. These suites were their homes. Everyone had their own style. Lena was a horse racing enthusiast, so his suite housed a collection of various articles about horses he’d bet on that had won, among other artifacts related to the sport: autographed photos, horseshoes, and the like. Grinkov, as his rotund body type indicated, was a fan of the culinary arts. Archer, whose room Torokin had only been inside once, was a collector of nautical décor. Every judge had his or her own style.

Torokin’s style was alcohol. Pure, simple alcohol. He’d had a custom wood bar counter flown in from Moscow specifically to house his extensive collection of tonics, which ranged from the most expensive of bottles of burgundy to flasks of moonshine he’d purchased in the United States. But his favorite drink, as was the case for any true Soviet, was vodka.

Arranging the glasses on the coffee table, he filled each halfway with drink. “Help yourselves,” he said, setting the open bottle down and claiming a glass for himself. The others, with the exception of Sasha, did the same. “A toast, to first times for everything,” Torokin said, lifting his glass haphazardly then downing a swig.

“You sound drunk already,” said Grinkov.

Vincent smirked sadly, then took a drink himself. “He sounds more like he’s just seen a Vulture shoot down two Superwolves.”

“What we just saw,” Torokin said, lowering himself into a chair, “was impossible.” He leaned forward, looking at Grinkov and Lena. “Do you have any idea what kind of pilot it would take to do what was just done?”

“Yeah, well,” said Lena, “we saw their pilot: Travis Navarro. There was nothing to indicate he possesses that kind of skill.” He gestured with his glass for emphasis. “Those guys had help.”

The American judge was referring to Travis Navarro’s dossier, which was a thorough career and psychological profile detailing everything from Academy scores to spending habits. The Council had received such a dossier for every member of the Fourteenth. Travis’s stuck out for being the only one in the bunch to reference “financially irresponsible purchasing of Stellar Man comic books.” The amount of specific info the dossiers had for each of the Fourteenth’s members—those with official EDEN records, at any rate—was downright frightening.

Looking at Minh, Lena asked, “What do you think, Dang? Can a Vulture take out a pair of Superwolves without any help?”

“Anything is possible with the right circumstances,” the American-accented Vietnamese pilot answered. “But those would take some pretty special circumstances.”

“Do you gentlemen have any idea what the Fourteenth might have been doing in Krasnoyarsk?” Vincent asked.

Torokin shook his head. “I suppose more info will be forthcoming, but as I sit here and think about it, nothing comes to mind. In fact, there are more reasons for them to have avoided Krasnoyarsk than to go to it.” He faced the Vector medic and XO. “We had dropped numerous agents in Novosibirsk to learn some of Thoor’s secrets—one of the things we discovered was that Krasnoyarsk was a recruitment city for them. It has a large Nightman presence. One would think that, with Thoor dead and Novosibirsk taken back by EDEN, the Fourteenth would go somewhere where they could lay low, hide.” He took another drink and shook his head. “It makes no sense to fly into one of the most prominent Nightman cities in Russia.”

“They must have had a reason, don’t you think?” Vincent asked.

“One would think so.”

Silence came over them for a moment as each man stared forward, some at their glasses, some ahead. It was Vincent who broke the silence with a sigh. “The captain isn’t going to stop until Remington is dead. He’s determined to be a part of the process, whether the Council want him or not.”

In Torokin’s mind, that wasn’t even a question. He knew Klaus—and the relationship that Klaus had had with his son, Strom. They weren’t close. Strom had been born under a shadow from which no child could have escaped. There was a lot of pent-up emotion between the two, despite being father and son. Klaus had always kept himself distant from Strom in an effort to protect him. Strom always resented it. Despite Klaus’s best efforts, his worst fear had come to pass: that his son was killed in the line of duty. There was no question in Torokin’s mind that Klaus would go after the people—or the man—responsible. Setting down his empty glass on the coffee table, Torokin said, “It is inevitable that Klaus contacts Todd.”

“What makes you think he hasn’t already?” asked Vincent, the Briton eyeing Torokin indicatively. “Todd’s not a part of EDEN anymore. The captain doesn’t need EDEN’s permission to ask a friend to do a favor.”

Todd Kenner: the black sheep of Vector. A man whose ability demanded a new scout classification: Type 3, both tactical combat and observations. A man whose deviant behavior, culminating with the accusation that he’d forced himself upon a woman while on a mission, had forced EDEN’s hand in removing him. It didn’t matter that the charges had been dropped—the thought of having someone accused of such a thing among EDEN’s elite was just too much for the organization to handle. It was telling that no one in Vector, with the exception of Klaus himself, stood up for Kenner during the trial and after his release. Despite whatever feelings Todd must have harbored against his former brethren in Vector Squad, there was no question that he must have appreciated Klaus’s loyalty. Todd would help him in a heartbeat.

Todd was bad news. But was he worse than Scott Remington? The acts Scott had done couldn’t be denied. He wasn’t an accused traitor. He was a public one. Could Remington’s wickedness justify enlisting the aid of a man like Todd Kenner? Part of Torokin felt it just might.

“What do you guys think made Remington turn like this?” Sasha asked.

It was the million-dollar question. How could a Golden Lion turn into a vile instrument of Ignatius van Thoor? Torokin remembered Remington’s press conference after the Battle of Chicago. At the time, the soldier seemed more than the hero of a particular battle—he seemed an ideal, an image of selfless service and courage for young soldiers to emulate. Then, he disappeared to Novosibirsk. What had happened between Chicago and now?

“The promise of power can affect anyone,” Lena said in response to Sasha’s question. “I’d imagine that promises by Thoor led Remington to do what he did, to become what he became.”

As the others spoke on, the press conference continued to drift through Torokin’s mind. The more the Russian judge thought upon it, the more something seemed off. Though he did remember the gist of the press conference, as well as the favorable impression it made for EDEN, some of the finer details were lost in his memory. He wanted to see it again. Rising from his chair, he stepped past his counterparts toward the monitor on his wall.

Eyeing him curiously, Grinkov asked, “What are you doing, Leonid?”

“I want to see…” answered Torokin, allowing the latter half of the statement to trail off. As the others watched, he accessed EDEN’s databanks, backtracking to the Battle of Chicago then sifting through its media files. After a short search, he found Remington’s press conference. Pressing play, he slipped his hands in his pockets and took a step back.

“Good morning everyone,” Scott said in the video clip. “For record purposes, my name is Scott James Remington, and I am a gamma private in Charlie Squad of Falcon Platoon. I was asked to answer a few questions, so we can go ahead and begin that whenever you’d like.”

Lena sighed. “Kid sounds like a good old-fashioned American hero.”

Listening on, Torokin heard Remington talk about his teammates and his faith, and about never hesitating when something needed to be done. He heard him decline, on multiple occasions, comparisons to Klaus. He heard everything he would have wanted to hear from one of his own soldiers, or even sons. He heard everything but the words of a treasonous killer.

“I realize,” said Scott in response to another question, “that as good as our efforts may have been, nothing can replace the loss of civilian life. Or military life. It’s unfortunate that lives were lost, and I wish we could fight under different circumstances.”

“Damn,” said Lena quietly.

Damn, indeed. The words from the press conference were difficult to hear. This was a young man who valued life, not who trivialized it. Either Remington had been lying throughout the press conference, or something drastic had happened between then and now. Torokin had a hard time believing the former. “I want to know everything about Remington.”

Pouring himself another glass of vodka, Grinkov asked, “To what end, Leonid? To have sympathy for a killer?”

“To find out how he became a killer in the first place.”

“Knowing how he came to be will not change what he has done. He must be brought to justice.”

Clearing his throat cordially, Vincent said, “I’m actually going to agree with Judge Torokin on this one—despite how I know the captain would react to hearing me say it. This is too drastic a change in too short a time to simply dismiss.”

“You guys know Carol’s gonna be working on that, right?” Lena asked, referencing Carol June, the EDEN judge in charge of personnel and the media. “Hell, she’s probably talking to Remington’s mama on the phone as we speak. Leave that to her—learning about Remington doesn’t change the fact that we need to bring him in.”

Torokin looked back at him. “I doubt she is speaking to Remington’s mother, considering his mother and father have been dead since he was a teenager.” He allowed his gaze to survey the others. “That is one of the few things I do know.” Ironically, he knew it from June herself. “Carol has been tracking down Remington’s family. Apparently, his only immediate next of kin is a brother in Philadelphia Academy. I believe she may be speaking to him herself.”

Minh chuckled under his breath. “A cadet being interrogated by an EDEN judge. That’s got to be a first.”

“Apparently, the Remingtons are full of firsts,” said Torokin, facing the screen again, where he found himself staring at the image of Remington at the conclusion of the press conference. Such a seemingly well-intentioned young man. Such a horrible turn to darkness. Something about this just seemed off.

But, Lena’s words were true. In the end, all that mattered was that Remington was captured, dead or alive—though Blake had made it abundantly clear in the initial meetings that alive was preferable. Whatever goodwill or benefit of the doubt that Remington might have saved up, he’d sacrificed it at the altar of Ignatius van Thoor. Well-intentioned young man or not, Cairo would have its consequences.

And Klaus Faerber, one way or another, would have his revenge.

*

SITTING DOWN IN his leather desk chair, Malcolm Blake set down his mug of tea and situated himself in front of his desk monitor. Though the screen was splashed with the EDEN logo, a red blinking light beneath the screen indicated that a visual communication prompt was on hold: Raphael Davis, the instructor from Philadelphia who had taught Tiffany Feathers. Taking a sip of tea, then clearing his throat, the president sat upright and patched through to the call. The EDEN logo disappeared, replaced by a black man who looked roughly Blake’s age. The moment Raphael saw Blake, he offered a salute. “Mister President.”

Returning it half-heartedly, Blake said simply, “I was informed by Intelligence Director Kang that you had information regarding one of your former students. Please, let’s get right to it.”

“Yes, sir,” Raphael said, lowering his hand as he regarded the president. “I spent a lot of time with then-Cadet Feathers.”

“Very good,” said Blake in a voice that sounded anything but enthused. “Then perhaps you can tell me how your Vulture pilot defeated two Superwolves in aerial combat.”

Raphael’s expression fell somber. “I can tell you quite easily, sir. It’s because Feathers never joined the Academy as a Vulture pilot.” Blake’s eyes narrowed. “She entered under our fighter program. Are you sure, sir, that she was the one involved in this incident?”

“Fairly sure,” Blake answered, “as in we’re positive. Why does your voice suddenly sound so troubled, instructor?”

A span of silence passed, as if Raphael was measuring his words. At long last, he offered his reply. “Because if Tiffany Feathers is an enemy combatant, you guys have one hell of an adversary.”

Blake squinted as he listened.

“Feathers was, hands down, the best fighter pilot I’ve ever seen. What she did behind the stick, it wasn’t flying.” Raphael shook his head with the words. “It was art. She can fly like Rembrandt could paint. You can’t teach that kind of thing. Hell, she taught me a thing or two.”

“Why is she a Vulture pilot?” asked Blake.

Pressing his lips together and inhaling, Raphael answered, “Her father died at the tail end of her first year. She walked. Couldn’t deal with it. He was the reason she flew.” The instructor looked away briefly. “It was one of the worst things I ever saw, losing a pilot like that. She could have been the next Mariner. I mean, this girl could’ve taught me.”

As the instructor talked, Blake listened intently, his mug of tea momentarily abandoned by his cupped hands.

“We thought we lost her for good, until a full semester later when she showed up again. Wanted to finish, make it as a pilot. I guess time healed things for her.” Raphael leaned forward. “Problem was, she’d missed too much. The only way she was going to finish the program was if she started over and did the full two years. It doesn’t matter how good you are, if you want to fly a fighter, you’ve got to complete the curriculum.” He arched an eyebrow. “But Vulture training isn’t that restrictive. Enough of fighter training is considered core to make Vulture training compatible. So we gave her the choice: start over to fly a fighter, or fast-track to a Vulture. She chose the Vulture.”

Leaning back in his chair, Blake said, “We have reason to believe that Miss Feathers has acquired a Superwolf. How concerned should we be?”

Staring straight back at the judge, Raphael released a low, dangerous laugh. Silence hung, until he shook his head and spoke. “Mister President, I’d put money on Feathers if she was flying a blimp. Don’t underestimate this girl,” Raphael warned. “If it’s in the air, she’s mastered it. Hell, the girl’s even a professional skydiver. Couldn’t be a better name for her than Feathers.”

Blake’s shoulders sank, the Briton’s dark skin paling a shade. He looked away in disgust. Almost under his breath entirely, he muttered the word, “Terrific.” No other words of significance were exchanged between the two of them. Thanking Raphael for his time, he bid the instructor farewell. The line closed with Raphael’s wish for good luck.

The game had changed. No longer were Archer and company decidedly the aggressor in the pursuit of Scott Remington and his band of outlaws. The renegade had found a wild card.

Reaching out, Blake patched through to his personal secretary. Upon answering, he told her simply, “Send a message to Mariner. His skill set might soon be needed.” The message was acknowledged, and the connection was closed.

At a loss for his next move, Blake finished his now lukewarm tea.

*

Saturday, March 17th, 0012 NE

0735 hours

Cairo, Egypt

“YOU’VE GOT TO be kidding me,” said Logan Marshall from across Vice-General Tarraf’s desk.

Unfolding his arms, the Canadian Judge Jason Rath leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk as he bore into Logan’s eyes. The vice-general was present, too, seated in his chair right next to the judge. Judge Rath repeated the question he’d asked moments before. “I will ask you again, lieutenant. Was there ever a time when you were directly involved with the Nightmen?”

Logan Marshall’s face reddened, the veins in his forehead on the verge of bursting through his skin. The aftermath of Natalie’s kidnapping was almost more infuriating than the kidnapping itself.

Immediately following Scott’s escape, Logan had commandeered a transport to pursue him. He and several other squads chased Scott’s Vulture over the Suez Canal, all the way past Saudi Arabia and into Iran. Communication efforts were futile; not one transmission came from Scott’s stolen Caracal transport. By the time their pursuit reached India, they discovered why: the ship had been flying on autopilot. There hadn’t been a soul aboard. Somewhere over the Suez, its crew had abandoned ship.

Forty-eight people in Cairo had been killed by Scott and his crew. Forty-eight. Security guards doing their jobs. Scientists in the labs. They’d even lost civilian contractors. And that didn’t even count the wounded, which last he’d heard, were nearing one hundred. This was carnage.

The interior of Cairo had been ruined. Even beyond the actual areas affected by combat, the activation of the base-wide sprinkler systems had destroyed everything from computer consoles to couches. Every hall, every wing of the living quarters, every closet was affected.

But it was nothing compared to the disaster that had been Cairo’s response. The base’s entire command staff was acting dazed, clueless, as if they had no concept as to what needed to be done now. Logan knew what needed to be done—a full-on pursuit. Spare no Vultures, no soldiers. Go after Scott with everything Cairo had to offer, like EDEN Command was doing. But Cairo wasn’t doing anything. They’d been punched between the eyes and were down for the count. It was disgraceful. Now a judge had been called in to clean up the mess, which was another way to say, “find someone to blame.” At present, Logan seemed to be that someone. The Australian was sick.

“Please don’t make me repeat myself a third time,” the Canadian warned.

Logan stared Rath down. “Why would you even ask me that?”

“Come on now, lieutenant. You didn’t join EDEN after leaving the Church. You were a mercenary.”

The lieutenant inhaled through his nostrils, shifting uncomfortably.

“Do you think we don’t know these things?” Rath asked. “Do you think we wouldn’t find out everything there is to know about everyone who was involved in this?”

“I wasn’t involved in this.”

Rath folded his hands together. “I beg to differ. Remington was in your unit. Your captain is with him. You’re the most involved person on Earth who isn’t one of them.”

Shaking his head, Logan said, “I wasn’t a part of this. Why would I be?”

“Because mercenaries want money, and the Nightmen have a lot of it.”

That was all Logan could take—he rose angrily from his chair. The motion was so sudden than Rath and Tarraf flinched. “If I wanted money, I wouldn’t have signed on with EDEN!”

Rath stood upright. “Have you ever operated in the Soviet Union?”

The question brought immediate silence. Logan stared at the judge straight on. After a moment of reluctance, he answered, “Yes.”

“There we go,” said Rath. Vice-General Tarraf jotted something down on a notepad. The judge continued. “And what was your business in the Soviet Union?”

“It was either a pick-up or a drop-off.”

Raising an eyebrow, Rath asked, “Either?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I find that very difficult to believe.”

Logan sighed. “It was a little bit of both.”

No level of painted-on charm could hide Rath’s annoyance. “Lieutenant Marshall, this discussion will go much quicker and smoother if you cooperate.”

“This isn’t a discussion,” said Logan, cutting Rath off. “You’re looking for a scapegoat. I’m not it.” Before Rath could interject, he continued. “I just watched my captain get kidnapped by operatives from Novosibirsk. From Nightmen. I want to get her back, and I can. That’s the kind of work I did for a decade before I signed on here.” Rath raised his chin somewhat as Logan approached the desk. “Don’t ask me questions. Just let me contact my people, and we’ll get Natalie back.” At the use of Natalie’s first name, Rath raised an eyebrow. Logan quickly corrected himself. “Captain Rockwell.”

“Hmm,” said Rath. The room fell silent.

Propping his hands on his hips, Logan looked down. He’d just blown it. Gone was any outside semblance of a man who was passionate about justice. Lieutenants didn’t call captains by their first name, especially in front of judges and vice-generals. He’d just played the hand that held his ulterior motive.

Rath’s eyes met the Australian’s again. “Describe your relationship with Captain Rockwell, please.”

Exhaling as he averted his eyes, Logan simply answered, “We had one. Briefly. In Atlanta.”

“I see.”

Logan’s tone fell, defeated. “I know that’s not supposed—”

“And what are your feelings toward her now?” asked Rath before Logan could finish.

The Australian’s jaw set. He shook his head, as if he couldn’t find an answer that he liked. After almost ten full seconds of stillness, his expression hardened, and he answered, “I’m a highly-motivated ex-mercenary.”

Rath’s face, on the contrary, seemed to relax. He exhaled satisfactorily.

Logan opened his mouth to say something else, but Vice-General Tarraf, quiet up until that point, spoke up. “Lieutenant, that is entirely unacceptable—”

“Shut up,” said Rath without looking. Tarraf blinked and looked at him. The judge’s gaze returned to Logan. “How highly motivated?”

4

Saturday, March 17th, 0012 NE

1135 hours

Omsk Oblast, Russia

THE M51 WAS sparsely populated. This was a good thing. Leaning back in the leather driver’s seat of his Dovecraft, Yuri Dostoevsky released a calming breath and engaged the cruise control.

Better known as the Baikal Highway, Highway M51 was a twenty-four-hundred kilometer federal road that stretched from Novosibirsk to Chelyabinsk in what was essentially a straight shot. The Omsk Oblast was the next oblast west of Novosibirsk and the first stage of the forty-plus-hour drive to Chernobyl. There’d been a time when making that journey was a much easier affair, when airborne transports from Novosibirsk could fly freely throughout Russia and the rest of the world. But EDEN had taken care of that. A trip that used to be little more than an inconvenience was now a multi-day drive through the array of plains and wilderness that dominated southern Russia.

Due to their sudden loss of air transportation, the Nightman exodus to Chernobyl would have to be a drive for everyone, high-profile Nightmen like Antipov included. Dostoevsky was a rare exception in that he was a Nightman with a luxury automobile. For most of the Nightmen making the journey, the drive would consist of piling into the backs of moving vehicles. But a Dovecraft was the epitome of privilege. He had purchased it several years earlier at an extreme discount, which meant the dealership knew they were dealing with a Nightman. A profit loss and a happy Nightman customer was still a net gain. Black and sleek, the Dovecraft was what was known as a hoverquad, a fairly new line of vehicles that combined wheels on the ground with hover travel, courtesy of a driftdrive that could be engaged when certain speeds were reached, at which point the wheels were retracted and propulsion took over. It was the best of both worlds: nimble in the city and a highway ride that was as smooth as the air itself.

Nestled into the passenger seat slept Varvara Yudina. The young blond medic had fallen asleep several hours earlier, the fatigue of the morning’s events overtaking the adrenaline rush of the escape from Novosibirsk. She hadn’t spoken much since the drive had begun, and sleep had come relatively quickly. That was all well and good with Dostoevsky, save one minor detail: he could barely keep his eyes open himself. There was nothing exhilarating about the endless rows of trees that lined the highway. There was only the subtle, lulling hum of the driftdrive motor. After a particularly alarming head nod that gave Dostoevsky visions of his Dovecraft wrapped around a tree trunk, he finally looked at Varvara and spoke.

“Varya.”

Her eyes squinting, Varvara’s body twisted slightly.

Dostoevsky repeated to her, “Varya.”

Varvara’s eyes cracked open. She looked around foggily before settling on Dostoevsky.

“Sorry,” he said, smiling apologetically. “Would you mind talking to me for a little while? Helping me stay awake? I am about to run off the road.”

Craning her neck in a long, delicate stretch, Varvara cleared her throat and nodded. “How long did I sleep?”

“Three, maybe four hours. We are about halfway to Omsk.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten-thirty.”

Varvara rubbed her eyes tiredly, then the medic eased herself upright. “Should you stop for a while? Get coffee, rest?”

He shook his head. “We need to reach Chernobyl. The sooner, the better. Travel will become much more difficult for all of us, soon.” The roads were free now, but at some point, the crackdown would begin. The last thing they needed was to come across a police checkpoint looking for Nightmen. “Speed and distance matter right now.”

Tying her hair into a ponytail, Varvara nodded. She pulled down the passenger makeup mirror to freshen up her appearance. “Has there been anything on the radio?” Angling her face, she examined her cheek, where the dark yellow bruises from Viktor Ryvkin remained.

“I haven’t been listening. If there is something I need to know, I will hear it from Iosif,” he said, referencing Antipov and motioning to the comm in his cup-holder. “Everything has been silent. I am sure they are keeping radio traffic to a minimum.”

“I meant music,” she said.

Blinking, Dostoevsky opened his mouth to reply, but no words came to him. Music hadn’t even been on his radar. Finally, he laughed at himself. “Sorry, I…I did not think to check.”

She made no response.

It was troubling that Dostoevsky had not heard from Antipov yet. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the sheer chaos of what was taking place or if it was indicative of a problem specific to locating Oleg and Svetlana. There were priorities, then there were high-level priorities. One could argue that tracking down Svetlana’s whereabouts was more important to Antipov than escaping to Chernobyl with the surviving Nightmen. Svetlana was leverage against Scott, and Scott possessed a Ceratopian that could change the war. Antipov was a big picture kind of person. Keeping leverage against Scott and ensuring that the Nightmen held on to whatever information the alien could provide was critical, even more so than getting the Nightman remnant to Chernobyl. The Nightmen didn’t need Chernobyl to survive, but they did need that information. That Saretok was already entrenched at Chernobyl was a benefit to Antipov. It would allow him to focus on things such as securing Svetlana as opposed to having to dabble in the affairs of a ground war and base maintenance.

Repositioning his body in the chair, Dostoevsky glanced at Varvara. She could easily say she had left Novosibirsk with Dostoevsky for Svetlana’s benefit, in the event that her older counterpart was located and found to be injured, but the truth was likely something else. Dostoevsky had stood up for her when no one else had. Varvara had spent the past several months as a villain to most people in the Fourteenth, but Dostoevsky had never treated her that way. Being with him and only him was probably a relief to the embattled medic.

Despite the fact that Varvara had only just awoken, Dostoevsky could tell that she was apprehensive, undoubtedly about their destination of Chernobyl. He respected her tremendously for having the courage to make the journey—one she hadn’t needed to make. She was stronger than people gave her credit for. Glancing at her, Dostoevsky said, “Talk to me, Varya.”

She resituated herself in the chair. “Talk to you about what?”

“What is going through your mind? What are you thinking about? Surely you must have many thoughts.”

“Must I?”

Silence fell as Dostoevsky’s eyes returned to the road. Half-frowning, he sighed and leaned back. Exhaustion threatened again as the hum of the driftdrive engine once again became the dominant sound in the hoverquad.

“What is Chernobyl like?” Varvara asked, staring at the trees as they passed.

Looking at her, Dostoevsky answered, “Did you not come to Chernobyl with us?”

“Clarke left me behind on that mission.”

“Oh.” Repositioning his hands on the wheel, Dostoevsky answered her question. “Less has changed since de-radiation than you might imagine. No one lives near the exclusion zone.”

De-radiation was the laymen’s term for the process of increasing radioactive decay in Chernobyl and Pripyat, the city nearest Chernobyl and former home to many workers at the Old Era nuclear site. The scientific name of the process was neutrino infusion, and it had something to do with lights. Or at least, that was all Dostoevsky knew about it. The bottom line was that over the course of twelve months, virtually all ground radiation in and around Chernobyl had been eliminated. Chernobyl was to be the trial run for the experiment. After its success, the plan was to implement de-radiation all across the globe, revolutionizing radioactive waste disposal. But there were two problems. Firstly, de-radiation had been patented by the New Soviet Union, which quickly turned from a spread-the-wealth nation to one with something that everyone else wanted. It was an ironic twist of capitalism for the reborn communist regime.

The right of the NSU to keep its secrets for the sake of profit became an international issue. Lawsuits, court rulings, lawyers of every type of law from every corner of the globe wrestled one another. No other nation supported the NSU’s hording of the technology. The NSU didn’t much care. At long last, after nearly five years’ worth of political bluster, agreements were made. De-radiation would become a part of the global community, and the NSU would still profit, though at a supposed lesser rate than they’d initially hoped. They referred to it as a “discount,” which was a blatant attempt to be seen as charitable. Everyone—for the most part—was satisfied.

The second problem was the Alien War. De-radiation got shelved. Earth went full military. The technology remained in the hands of the NSU, and the entire issue was promptly forgotten in the light of invading extraterrestrials. One of the greatest political tugs-of-war in modern history faded away like a whisper in the wind.

“Chernobyl power plant is like a corpse,” Dostoevsky said. “The entire building is in a state of decay. Fitting for us, is it not?” He smirked faintly.

She eyed him scrupulously. “Speak for yourself.”

“I was. I was talking about the Nightmen.” Eyes returning to the road, he said, “I would never compare you to a corpse.”

A moment passed before Varvara replied, turning her focus to the trees once more. “To what would you compare me?”

Her sullen tone indicated the question’s depth. Dostoevsky turned his head briefly to regard her, but she was still looking away. Inhaling quietly, he directed his gaze back to the road. “A seashell.”

“A seashell?”

“Yes,” Dostoevsky said. “A seashell.”

For several seconds, Varvara said nothing. Finally, she managed a response. “Why?”

His tone soft, yet firm, he answered, “Because every seashell has a story. Some find gentle rest on the bottom, while others tumble in the waves. But every shell is special, different. And sometimes, the most beautiful ones are broken.”

Varvara turned from the window to look straight at Dostoevsky, whose gaze was steadfast on the highway. Her lips parted, and she exhaled. After a moment passed, she looked ahead again. “Pull over.”

The fulcrum blinked. “What?”

“Pull the car over, now.”

The Dovecraft decelerated as Dostoevsky pulled out of what sparse traffic existed on the M51. Easing over onto the shoulder, the hoverquad drew to a halt, its wheels extending to touch the ground again once all motion had ceased. As Varvara unbuckled her seat belt, Dostoevsky looked over at her. “What is the—”

Varvara opened the passenger door and stepped out.

“Varya!” Dostoevsky hurriedly followed suit as she stalked down the shoulder, arms folded across her chest as what few cars were on the M51 whizzed past, tossing her hair in every direction. Opening the driver’s side door, he gave pursuit. “What is wrong? Varvara!”

“What are you trying to do?” she shouted, spinning around and slamming her hands into his chest, surprisingly hard. “Make me fall for you?”

He blinked. “Fall for me? I do not understand.”

“You stand up for me when no one should, you save me from Viktor, you compare me to a seashell?” Varvara’s face was flushed red. Her eyes glistened, but it seemed out of anger. “What are you doing, Yuri?”

Of every word she’d said, it was the fact that she’d called him Yuri that indicated her seriousness. It meant she didn’t fear his authority at all. That was never like Varvara. Just the same, her words left him perplexed. “I am not doing anything. You came with me, remember?”

Covering her face with her hands, she turned away from him. “I am so confused!”

“Stop walking away! Where are you going? Come back and talk to me.”

“I don’t want to be around you!” she said, turning again to emphasize with motion. Her voice cracking, she continued, “I don’t want to be anywhere near you!”

Dostoevsky’s mouth was agape. “Why?”

She pointed, her hand trembling. “Because you…” Her face twisted. She was fighting to hold it back. “Because you are so much better than me. I can’t take it.”

His shoulders sank. “Varya…”

“Little girls want to be many things. Princesses, astronauts, marine biologists. No little girl says they want to be a whore.” As the final word was pronounced, her emotions started to win out.

“Why do you say such a thing? That is foolish.”

She shouted, “Because I am the Fourteenth’s whore!”

“Varya, you are not a whore.”

“I slept with a man while my boyfriend was in the hospital! What does that make me?” Pointing to herself, she stared at him. “What do I call myself? An equal opportunist?”

Shaking his head adamantly, Dostoevsky answered, “You made a mistake.”

“I am a mistake!” Varvara bellowed, her volume making him flinch. She wrenched her fingers through her hair. “I have brought nothing to the Fourteenth. What use have I ever been? Look at Sveta, look at Esther!”

He approached her, but she stepped back. He halted the attempt. “They have nothing to do with this. They have nothing to do with you. Only you are responsible for yourself.”

“That is the point!” she screamed. “I am responsible. I made this mess of me—of Jay! Of everything! I am so…” as she fought to say the word, another heave came out, “worthless.”

As she said the word, Dostoevsky’s face became stoic. The whizzing of cars continued, sending waves of wind against them as they passed. For the first time, Dostoevsky answered her quietly. “Do not let how Viktor Ryvkin made you feel define who you are. A worthless woman would not have volunteered to go to Chernobyl.”

Wiping her eyes, she said, “Viktor was right—”

“Viktor is a speck.” Once again, he dared to draw nearer. This time, she let him. “He did not know what he had.”

Varvara laughed mockingly. “And what did he have?”

“A human being. With dreams, with aspirations. With faults. But with desires to do good. To be good.” When he came to within a step from her, he stopped. “Viktor wanted an object, something to satisfy a sick desire. No one can make someone like that happy—or into a good person themselves.”

Angling her head away, her voice now laced with exhaustion, she asked, “Why are you doing this? What are you trying to get?”

“I am not trying to get anything, Varya. I simply care.”

“Why do you care? What do you see that you simply must get involved?”

At her question, Dostoevsky fell silent, the edges of his lips curving downward just faintly. Sliding his hands into his pockets to escape the chill, he finally answered, “I see someone sickened by her own reflection.”

Her focus returned to him.

“I see someone who wakes up every morning comparing herself with everyone around her and coming up short. Someone who believes herself to be unredeemable.” He tried to smile. “It reminds me of myself, Varya.”

Looking at him curiously, she canted her head slightly as frost vapors escaped her lips. She continued to listen to Dostoevsky as he spoke.

“I arranged the murder of Scott’s fiancée. I convinced Thoor that everything would go smoothly, then I ensured that it did. I arranged her air travel, I guided Nijinsky. If not for my involvement, Nicole would be alive today.

“No one can understand the depths of my despair after her murder was carried out. What Scott did, the mistake he made by taking that young man’s life, was understandable. What I did was by design. Only an evil man designs those kinds of deeds. And it was me.”

Looking away briefly, as if to catch up with his own thoughts, Dostoevsky’s ice-blue eyes regarded the traffic, then returned to her. “I believed that I had no hope, and I am sure that others believed that, too. But I was spared. My life, which I took for granted in so many ways, was spared by a Power that I still do not understand, but that I cannot deny.” He paused. “Varya…I want to get you there, to the place where I am at now. Not perfect, not by kilometers, but redeemed just the same. What you did in deciding to come with me to Chernobyl, I know part of it was to escape the others—the company you believed despised you. I experienced that, too. But now you are with company who…”

He stopped at that word. Varvara’s brown eyes scrutinized him, waiting for whatever words were waiting in the wings to emerge.

“Who understands you. Who is a kindred spirit. We—the two of us, you and I—were despised. We were written off, labeled as lost by everyone else. But my way was revealed to me. If you just trust what is happening, your way will be revealed to you, too. I know it.”

Varvara took in his words with silence, then she drew in a breath and swallowed. “Yuri?”

“Yes?”

The words barely came out. “I am so scared.” She looked as if she were about to break. Stepping to her, Dostoevsky placed his hands on her shoulders. She closed the gap and leaned into him, arms folded inward as his arms wrapped around her. “I am scared of Chernobyl. Of Viktor, if he is there.”

“Rely on God to give you—”

“I am not ready for God, yet,” she said, interrupting him gently. “I must first make amends with myself.”

Faintly, he frowned. Rubbing her back, he exhaled frost vapors of his own. He nodded a single time. “Do not wait too long.”

Three minutes later, the Dovecraft was once again cruising down the M51, its driftdrive engaged, at 110 kilometers per hour. Varvara resumed looking out of the window, watching the tree line as it passed by. She said nothing, and within ten minutes, the blond medic was once again curled up sideways, her eyes closed, inhaling gently in an exhausted slumber. Behind the wheel, Dostoevsky watched the highway lines as they streaked past in their infinite march to nowhere, his expression conflicted and thoughtful, but mostly thoughtful. Silence enveloped the car, the lulling hum of the driftdrive motor reclaiming its place as the only sound in the vehicle.

Until the comm chirped.

Glancing at the display as he kept the Dovecraft going straight, Dostoevsky raised an eyebrow. The call was from Antipov. And it was going out to the whole caravan. Patching the comm through to the hoverquad’s internal speakers, he waited to hear Antipov’s message.

“Attention, all caravan members currently on the M51.” The eidola chief paused. “There has been a change of plan.”

5

Location: Unknown

Time: Unknown

THE FIRST SENSATION that struck Svetlana was a swell of disorientation, as if her body was dangling upside down, swaying back and forth in mid-air. She inhaled sharply, prompting a stabbing, acidic stench to assault her nostrils. It was like sucking in vinegar. Water swelled over her eyes, and she opened them.

She saw ripples—wobbling ripples, as if she was underwater and staring up from an inch beneath the surface. Beyond the liquid, swaying with the flow, was the glow of a distorted blue light. She inhaled again, and once more, the acidic smell stung her. Her eyes watered again, and the wobble grew deeper. It was as if the mere act of tearing up had plunged her farther below. But that didn’t make sense. Nor did the absence of water weight anywhere on her body. She was not underwater. She was staring through her teardrops. They were clinging to her eyeballs.

Instinctively, Svetlana attempted to wipe them away, but the unforgiving rigidness of a metallic clasp kept her hand at her side.

“What?” she whispered, shaking her head quickly. The teardrops disconnected from her eyeballs and formed miniscule spheres which hovered in front of her. As her vision returned, the blue light became defined. It was light positioned just above a metal door—dark blue, dim, and the only light present in what she could now see was a windowless chamber. Gently swaying in front of her face were strands of her own hair.

Microgravity.

As if cued, a swell of nausea hit her. After several convulses, a spew of vomit erupted from her mouth, its chunky globules soaring forward and disappearing from view. Leaning her head back, she moaned.

The whole left side of her face throbbed. Even without teardrops clinging, that side of her field of vision was obscured. It felt swollen. Coughing up what little throw up remained in her mouth, Svetlana opened her eyes again to gather her bearings.

Where am I?

She had seen that kind of dark blue light before, and there was no question as to where she’d often smelled that pungent, acidic odor. It was the reek of a Bakma Noboat. But that was impossible.

I must be dreaming.

It didn’t feel like she was dreaming. She felt everything—the swaying of her stomach, the weightlessness of her hair, the pain emanating from her face. The clasps that held her body to the wall weren’t figments of a dream. They were cold and real. She was in a Noboat.

How can this be?

The last thing Svetlana remembered was being in the infirmary. She was going over her medical charts. She was with Max. Then…

…then what? She thought hard. Something had happened. Something had interrupted her. Interrupted everyone. An attack.

Novosibirsk had been attacked!

Everything came back to her in glimpses. In her short term memory, she saw objects being displaced from their shelves, falling to the floor in violent crashes. She saw fire. Whatever happened at Novosibirsk was bigger than just an attack—it was a full-fledged eradication. Whatever EDEN was doing, they were—

Her memories halted.

EDEN!

A chill struck her spine as echoes of radio chatter reorganized themselves in her mind. The attackers were from EDEN. The invaders were EDEN. Novosibirsk had been blindsided. She recalled running with Max down a hallway, but nothing afterward. Even the memory itself was blurry, as if she was watching herself in a movie being filmed with a shaky camera, only to have it come to an abrupt end after its hallway chase scene. And now she was chained to a wall in a Noboat in microgravity. Microgravity meant…space.

At that word—space—the panic hit her. It didn’t matter how she’d gotten there. It mattered that she was there, bound to the walls of an alien spacecraft that was not on Earth. No additional context was required. Yanking her hands and feet fervently, the efforts did nothing to free them from the clasps. She was a captive.

“Setana?”

The emergence of a voice in the darkness startled her, and she gasped as she turned her head to face it. But along with the fear was familiarity. The deep, guttural tones were unmistakably Bakma. They were unmistakably Tauthinilaas. “Tauthin?” She could barely make out his form, illuminated only by the dark blue door light across the room. He, too, seemed chained to the wall.

“Tauthin! What is—?”

“Nikaash resh tischnaak, Setana,” Tauthin said, cutting her off. There was urgency in his voice, panic of his own. “Tha’hee ach lee-senach. Duu naach waech!”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand! What is happening?”

“Tha’hee ach lee-senach. Duu naach waech!”

The desperation in his voice did little to quell her sense of fear. In fact, the more he spoke, the more dreadful she felt. Over and over again, he repeated the phrase, and every time, she said she didn’t understand. Tha’hee ach lee-senach. Duu naach wa-eech. Then it came to her, the abrupt tones of Tauthin’s Bakmanese tongue linking together into broken, but recognizable English.

They are listening. Do not wake. He was telling her to be quiet. Now she understood.

Now was too late.

There was a whooshing sound from the illuminated door, and it opened into a recess in the ceiling. A shaft of light cut into the darkness from what she now recognized as a Noboat’s central corridor. Hovering in microgravity was another Bakma, its emaciated eyes transfixed on Svetlana. It was not clad in the black and brown body armor traditional of Bakma warriors. Quite the contrary, this alien’s clothing was ragged at best. In one hand, it held what could only be interpreted as some sort of spear, though it was the first time Svetlana had seen such a device in the hands of a Bakma. As the alien drifted into the chamber, its ghoulish features became more defined.

The alien’s eye sockets were shrunken in to the point where its cheekbones protruded outward. Deep scars were etched into the alien’s face, which was as withered and wrinkled as the worst of the specimens Svetlana had seen at Novosibirsk. Stretched out beneath the alien’s nostrils were lipless rows of bare teeth, indicative of a torture victim whose lips had been completely ripped off—one of the many gruesome punishments The Machine had inflicted on those unfortunate enough to visit its Walls of Mourning. What remained was a skeleton’s grin that reached from one side of the Bakma’s face to the other. In all of Svetlana’s time visiting Confinement, she had never seen anything as horrifying. The alien met her face to face, its black eyes boring into her as if searching for her soul. Svetlana’s pupils shifted subtly between the Bakma’s eyes and its tortured, permanent smile. It was like staring at the devil.

The emergence of an intermediary presence clicked in her head. As the lipless Bakma spoke, its rasps reverberated from her ears to her mind, where its Bakmanese words were unscrambled.

An Ithini connection.

“I am Nagogg, ordained of Uladek and chieftain of this vessel. You are named Setana, correct?” Nagogg’s voice was peculiar, even for a Bakma, no doubt a result of its tortured mouth. There was no flow to any of the alien’s words. Each one jarred. Svetlana was too alarmed to speak, but with the connection, she didn’t need to. Twitching his head oddly as if in response to spoken words, Nagogg continued. “You have been brought aboard this vessel by the infidel Tauthinilaas.”

The…infidel?

At the mention of his name, Tauthin lurched forward. The chains held him at bay.

“It is fortuitous for you that you are given the choice presented to you now,” Nagogg continued. “You will serve by acceptance or rejection. The choice is yours.”

Svetlana shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“You will denounce your false, Earthae god and submit to the one master, Uladek, bringer of Order and Chaos.”

Speaking for the first time with an unscrambled language, Tauthin urgently said, “Denounce, Setana.” Svetlana looked at him, then quickly back to Nagogg.

Nagogg twitched again. “You will choose now. You will denounce your false, Earthae god and submit to Uladek, or you will suffer.”

“How did I get here?” she asked, voice trembling as she fought to control her breaths.

“Do you denounce?” asked Nagogg.

Slamming his fists against the wall, Tauthin shouted, “Denounce!” His focus shifted to Nagogg. “She is too frightened to make such a choice now. Look at her! She has only just awoken.”

Growling in disgust, Nagogg barked out a word, and the Ithini connection was severed. For the next minute, Svetlana listened as Tauthin and Nagogg argued back and forth, their words spat out and venomous. Ignored for the moment, Svetlana’s focus returned to slipping her clasps, but to no avail. When she looked back at Nagogg, he was staring at her. The connection reemerged.

“You will be given time to reflect,” said Nagogg harshly. “That you are here now is evidence enough that your false god has failed you. Submit to Uladek and you may serve honorably.” The alien angled his head slightly. “Or you will serve with your suffering. The choice is yours.” Pivoting in the air, Nagogg drifted out through the doorway.

It closed in his wake.

The moment Svetlana was alone with Tauthin, she turned her head to face him. “Tauthin, what is happening?”

Despite Nagogg’s exit, her Ithini-created connection with Tauthin remained. “You have been taken captive by Nagogg and his crew,” Tauthin answered.

“Who is Nagogg? How am I here?”

“Your base was attacked by your own kind. We used the attack as a distraction to escape from your Confinement. I led my brethren to the Zone Runner your leaders had captured.” Tauthin’s voice lowered dangerously. “I intended to use this vessel to free ourselves from the Khuladi—an intention I shared with my brethren. Sharing it was my error.”

That still told her nothing about Nagogg—or her, for that matter. “How did I get here, Tauthin?”

For several seconds, Tauthin said nothing. Then he lowered his head. “That error was also my own. You were unconscious. You were being carried away by the Zone Runner’s human lord.”

The Zone Runner’s human lord? That made no sense. “Tauthin, who are you talking about?”

There was a flicker in the connection. Svetlana’s vision was suddenly replaced by images of the past, flashing through her mind from one scene to the next.

“Everyone, pay attention! We go, we rescue the survivors, then we return! This operation is quick and direct.” Oleg sat in the captain’s chair. “It is time,” he said to the slayer by Tauthin.

“Bakma,” said Oleg, “what can you see about this storm?”

“His name is Tauthin,” snapped Svetlana.

Glaring, Svetlana removed her helmet and gave it to Oleg, who deactivated its tracker. He returned it to her. “You remember how to use a pistol, right?”

After she yanked her hair into a short ponytail, she placed her helmet back on, unholstering her sidearm and cocking it loudly.

The images were from the Falcon Platoon rescue, when Oleg had demanded Svetlana’s presence. They were coming from Tauthin. Another vision followed—one she hadn’t been privy to. At least, not in the way Tauthin had.

Nightmen bustled past them down the hallway. Beneath his black, armored guise, Tauthin led his comrades forward, his connection to Ed relaying directions to the Bakma at the front of the line. The Zone Runner would soon be theirs. Then he saw her.

Svetlana.

She was slung over Oleg’s back, her face bloodied and eyes swollen. A moment of realization came over Tauthin, before the Bakma’s pace quickened. He caught up with Oleg from behind. Reaching his hand out, Tauthin touched the fulcrum on the shoulder. Oleg stopped, turning abruptly. “What—”

Clang!

The fulcrum stumbled backward; the woman fell from his shoulders. Clasping his armored fists together, Tauthin slammed them straight down atop the fulcrum’s head, then straight up, then across. The fulcrum spun, hit the wall, then slid to the floor. Tauthin looked down at the woman. “Setana…”

Nagogg, the lipless rider, rasped from the line of prisoners. “We have no use for a female!”

Growling silently, his alien vocal cords mechanized by his zombified sentry helmet, Tauthin looked down and away. After a moment of silence, he looked at Svetlana again. Bending down, he scooped her in his arms.

“For what purpose are we taking her?” Nagogg asked. “Leave her here to die!”

“I will not leave her in the arms of one who wishes her ill,” Tauthin answered.

The vision ended, and the chamber fell silent. As the dim blue light above the metal door reclaimed her vision, Svetlana looked down, her eyes open but staring at nothing. Her breathing grew heavier.

Several moments passed before Tauthin quietly spoke. “I intended a good thing. That intention was betrayed by brethren who now call me infidel.”

“Where are we going, Tauthin?” Svetlana asked.

Tauthin hesitated. “The Zone Runner’s fuel cells must rejuvenate. We are in temporary orbit around—”

She faced him deadpanned, her words leaving her before he could finish. “Where are we going, Tauthin?”

The Bakma stared back in silence, jaw motionless as his opaque eyes regarded her. At long last, he answered. “We are going to Khuldaris—the homeworld of the Khuladi.”

In that moment, Svetlana lost everything. Every comfort, every hope. Every flicker of a good memory that she’d intended to relive at some point in the life she was supposed to have had. It had all been ripped from her fingers in an event of which she had no recollection. The gravity around her body grew heavier, and she leaned forward as far as her clasps would allow.

Images flashed through her mind without the need of an Ithini connection. The day she’d decided to pursue EDEN. The day she’d arrived at Novosibirsk. Meeting Max, and Captain Clarke, and Tolya. Being rescued by Scott. Being in love. Every moment she’d ever experienced had taken place on a planet she was no longer on.

How can this be real?

“Setana,” said Tauthin, his voice low, “when Nagogg returns, you must denounce the Earthae god. You must do this for your own benefit. The consequences for rejecting Uladek are severe.”

Severe. How insignificant such a word sounded from the coldness of her chains, trillions of miles away from the only world she’d ever known. How could severity compare to this? Expression numbed, her eyes on the floor, she asked, “Will they kill me?”

Tauthin hesitated. “You will suffer.”

To love was to suffer. At no time did that feel more real than now. Beyond loving Scott, beyond loving the people she knew, Svetlana loved life. She loved her life, in spite of her tendency to overdramatize it and focus on its hardships. Life was messy—at times figuratively, at times literally—but it was hers.

It…was hers.

Inhaling slowly, Svetlana lifted her head and looked across the room. “I forgive you, Tauthin.”

The words only deepened the silence. For a time, it seemed as if Tauthin wouldn’t respond at all. When he finally did, his tone was uncharacteristically withdrawn. “I would sacrifice myself to Nagogg’s spear if it would undo what I have done to you.”

“I did not mean for that,” she said, gently interrupting him. “You do not need to be forgiven for intending a good thing.”

The Bakma angled his head. The question, for what am I forgiven, was left un-vocalized.

Svetlana’s jaw set. “I forgive you for thinking that I would be so weak as to denounce the only God I have ever known at the hour I need Him most.”

Silence fell between them as Tauthin observed her, the crimson-purple arch above his eyes tightening ever so slightly. Though her own gaze remained downcast into oblivion, his remained solely on her. At the center of his opaque lenses, his violet irises widened. Turning his head without saying a word, he joined her in beholding the darkness.

*

Floating in the Noboat’s hallway, Nagogg pivoted in the air to face two of his Bakma brethren—the larger of which was clad in the sentry armor worn by Tauthin during their escape from Confinement. Ka`vesh and Gabralthaar. Behind them, Ei`dorinthal the Ithini hovered. “Do not allow this door to be opened,” said Nagogg.

“Uladek speaks,” Ka`vesh answered, dipping his head.

The giant Gabralthaar spoke. “What of Tauthinilaas? For how long will he be allowed to repent?” The alien’s deep, guttural tones were only amplified by his mechanized sentry helmet.

At the mention of Tauthin’s name, Nagogg snarled. “Order and Chaos has used him as an instrument. I will allow him as far as Khuldaris before his choice must be made.”

“Uladek speaks.”

“Inform Wuteel: we will progress to the Mid Region as soon as fuel cells allow.”

Gabralthaar nodded submissively.

Turning away from Ka`vesh and Gabralthaar, Nagogg’s black eyes fell upon a blinded Bakma floating at the precipice of the bridge’s entryway. The alien had been there since the Noboat reached microgravity, positioning himself as far from the flow of traffic as was possible. Though his eye sockets had long been stripped of their instruments, his head was tilted in the conversation’s direction, tacitly listening. As Nagogg drifted toward him, he lifted his head erect.

“Heed well, Kraash-nagun,” said Nagogg. “Uladek speaks to those who listen.”

Dipping his head as Nagogg drifted past, Kraash-nagun said, “Uladek speaks.”

Nagogg disappeared into the bridge.

From just beyond the corona of a red giant star, the Noboat sat in stationary orbit. In the seemingly infinite distance, almost too faint to be distinguishable from the countless stars around it, was the star the Earthae called the Sun. In the opposite direction, too far beyond the Mid Region to be visible from the Noboat’s vantage point, was a star that was much bigger. It was a star that demanded that all other stars bow. It was a star draped in dogma. Born out of hate.

Beckoning its lost to come home.

6

Saturday, March 17th, 0012 NE

1214 hours

Norilsk, Russia

LAND. JUST LAND. Just get there, get that door open, and land. Then, exhale.

For the past hour, Scott had watched snow-covered trees zip past the Pariah as the Vulture transport skimmed over them, its nose pointed to Norilsk as it followed Tiffany’s Superwolf across frozen Siberia. It was a miracle that they were alive. It was unfathomable that they possessed a Superwolf and a pilot capable of flying one. It was all the more reason to want the Pariah to land as quickly as possible. They were skating on such thin ice, the slightest bit of misfortune might be all it took to plunge them beneath the depths of all hope.

According to Travis, the city of Norilsk was not far ahead. For that, Scott was grateful. Every minute they stayed airborne was another minute EDEN had to discover their location. They needed a place to hide, desperately.

As had been the case during the initial flight, the small stretch of downtime offered the operatives in the troop bay a chance to close their eyes and attempt something akin to sleep. The only sound that came from the troop bay was quiet breathing, and even that was mostly muffled by the humming of the Pariah’s engines and the rattling of its frame, both of which almost served as lulling sounds themselves. Just the same, any rest gleaned from this part of the flight would be deceptively temporary, as it had been for Scott, whose own dozing off had been little more than a glorified catnap. The whole crew would be dead on their feet upon awakening.

The only member of the troop bay that Scott knew for sure wasn’t attempting to sleep was Ju`bajai. The Ithini was strapped into the seat nearest to the cockpit—a seat that was grossly oversized for her small frame—staring at Scott in the unsettling way she tended to stare at people. Ju`bajai was almost quiet enough to forget completely, until moments like these came when one found her opaque eyes glued steadily to theirs, with no outward indication as to what the alien was thinking or feeling. And so with no indicators to guide him, Scott simply asked in his mind, What? There was no doubt that Ju`bajai was in his mind and able to read him. The way she was staring him down, she was either dropping a hint or socially inept. The Ithini made no reaction—she simply stared on. Shaking his head and looking away, Scott thought, You are so freaking creepy.

The troop bay had been mostly quiet after the excitement of the dogfight had died down and the reality of the Fourteenth’s and Falcon’s exhausted states resurfaced. Though several of the operatives appeared drowsy, a few were still fully alert. Chief among them was Natalie Rockwell.

Though she’d said virtually nothing during the entirety of their flight, she had had a constant companion in Flopper. The East Siberian Laika remained faithfully at her side, the pup’s only motion being an occasional roll-over for a tummy rub, which Natalie provided, the movements of her hand over Flopper’s stomach seeming almost involuntary.

Natalie surveyed the operatives around her, almost all of whom were sacked out, save Colonel Lilan and Auric, the latter of whom was still keeping vigilant watch over her. At several points during the flight, her leg muscles had tensed as if she was on the verge of moving, though the German’s steadfastness kept her grounded. Unable to sit still any longer, Natalie pushed up as much as her chained hand allowed. The motion prompted Auric to tense up on his handgun until opened palms by Natalie assured him she wasn’t up to anything devious. She nodded in the direction of Lilan—an unspoken request to be allowed to speak to the colonel, which the German permitted. Lilan observed as Natalie motioned for him, then rose from his seat to walk her way.

Leaning against the wall beside her, Lilan waited for the Caracal captain to address him. She cast a quick glance to the other Falcons to ensure their continued slumber. After seeing they were undisturbed, her focus returned to the colonel. “I saw the reports from EDEN Command saying that you were dead.”

Very faintly, the colonel smirked. “The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

“How is that possible?”

Lilan looked at her keenly. “You’re not a part of their crew, are you?” She shook her head. “What are you doing with them?”

“I’m…” Natalie’s words trailed off as she sought a way to answer. She finally settled on the truth. “I’m their hostage.”

Lilan’s eyebrow raised. “Hostage? I wasn’t aware they were into that.”

“I don’t think they meant for me to be one. I think I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I got swept up.”

Harrumphing, Lilan said, “Hell of an operation to get swept up in.”

Looking away, Natalie eyed the cockpit entrance, where Scott and Travis were sitting. Sighing, she addressed Lilan without looking at him. “For the past week, I was under the impression that Scott Remington had been transferred to Cairo—where I was stationed—to be my executive officer. And I just recently learned that he’d been using me as a cover.” Lilan listened intently. “He went to Cairo to break a Ceratopian out of Confinement. He and that one,” she motioned to Esther, “Esther Brooking.”

Lilan nodded. “Mm.”

“This all went down not ten hours ago. During those ten hours, I’ve spent every fiber of my being hating every single person on this ship.” Natalie’s head tilted downward. “Then you showed up.”

“And now your head’s spinning. You’re not sure what or who to believe.

“Pretty much, yes.”

The colonel’s voice lowered. “Well, let me tell you what I believe, Miss…” He paused as he waited for her name.

“Rockwell. Captain, actually,” she said, as if the title bore little to no weight, though a faint smile from Lilan indicated it did.

“Let me tell you what I believe, Captain Rockwell. I believe that a couple of days ago, my entire platoon was intercepted and shot down over a Carolina swamp. And I believe I saw Vultures touch down, and that I saw EDEN operatives step out and try to kill any survivors on the ground.” Natalie canted her head as he went on. “I believe that every member of my crew would be dead right now had we not been rescued by a young woman named Svetlana, who is from this unit, and a band of Nightmen flying a Bakma Noboat.”

At mention of the word Noboat, Natalie’s eyes narrowed with confusion.

Glancing around the troop bay, Lilan’s voice fell to a whisper. “Things aren’t what they seem right now, and I’d be lying if I told you I knew the whole truth. But whatever Remington and his crew did to you, I’d give them the benefit of the doubt and a chance to explain themselves.”

Her eyes flickering downward, Natalie stared at the floor, before lifting her head just enough to catch a sidelong view of the operatives within the troop bay—her abductors.

“One more thing,” Lilan said, capturing Natalie’s attention again. “Whatever you think you know about Remington, I can assure you that you don’t know the whole story. Give him, above anyone else here, a chance to talk to you. You might be surprised at what you hear.”

“How do you know what he’s been through? We just picked you up.”

Smiling, Lilan answered, “I heard about it from that young woman who rescued us, Svetlana. My guess is she knows him better than anyone.”

“Who is this person?” Natalie asked. “Svetlana.”

“That would be Remington’s woman,” Lilan answered, dipping his head toward the cockpit. After receiving a stunned look from the Caracal captain, the colonel smirked. “Sorry if that disappoints.”

She shook her head. “Disappointment about that is the last thing I’m feeling right now.” Natalie offered Lilan a look of apologetic appreciation. “Thank you for talking to me.”

“Talk to him,” Lilan said, pointing at the cockpit. “And be open to the possibility that what you’ve been led to believe may not necessarily be the truth, no matter how bad things may appear.”

Before Natalie could respond, the Pariah’s troop bay speakers crackled, and Travis’s voice emerged. “We’re approaching Norilsk, crew. Strap yourselves in.”

Nodding to Natalie’s chair, Lilan said, “Better listen, captain.” A brief smile was exchanged, and Lilan returned to his seat.

In the aftermath of the dogfight, Catalina had explained to everyone how Tiffany was able to outwit a pair of Superwolves. She recanted, with heartbreaking recollection, the story of how she’d vaulted up to the pole position in EDEN’s class of fighter pilots, only to have her world come crashing down in the wake of her father’s death. It was a vivid retelling, and it put into context for everyone the girl who was Tiffany Feathers—the pilot who was a pilot because of her father. That she lost him before earning her wings with EDEN was a tragedy.

On that same note, they were alive because she lost him. Had she not been flying the Vulture that EDEN intercepted over the Great Dismal Swamp, none of her comrades would likely have survived the crash landing. Her father’s death might have been the ultimate blessing in disguise. But it didn’t make the story any easier to hear. It was yet another reminder that not all books could be judged by their covers.

With a fighter ace leading the way, the Fourteenth now had a fighting chance, even if they were intercepted in the air. There was much for Tiffany to learn, to be sure, about the handling of a Superwolf. But if there was anyone who could pass the test, it was her. Her trial by fire had already come. Everything now was just part of the job.

The cityscape of Norilsk was like a scene straight out of a post-apocalyptic movie. Scott had never seen anything like it. It was an expanse of snow-covered geometry. L-shaped apartments and flats were sprawled out from one side of Norilsk to the next, giving the entire city the look of a dark gray labyrinth. Outside of the constant snow flurries that scraped across the rooftops—none of which looked higher than a few stories—there was no movement anywhere. No traffic, no people. The city didn’t even have roads leading into it at all, as if the city itself was some sort of island.

The coordinates to Northern Forge pointed the Fourteenth in the direction of snow-covered mountain valleys off to the northeast, just as Antipov had indicated. The skies were as empty as the ground. There wasn’t an aircraft in sight. Scott took a moment during their descent into the valleys to look at the outside temperature. Minus twenty-six degrees Celsius, with a windchill Scott didn’t even want to acknowledge was possible.

It was cold.

Rising from the copilot’s chair and turning to the troop bay, Scott winced, gripped the ceiling handrail, and addressed his operatives. “We’re coming up to Northern Forge. I want everyone ready for anything. If you have armor, if you can fit into some of the armor lying around, you might want to do so. It’s chilly out there.” The crew acknowledged and began to gear up.

Both the Pariah and Tiffany’s Superwolf lowered their velocities as they weaved through the mountain valleys. Scott’s focus was a constant swivel between the radar screen and the cockpit window, watching to see when the mountainside entrance of Northern Forge would make itself visible.

He didn’t have to wait long.

There was no mistaking the Old Era emergency facility when the two aircraft arrived at the blip on the Pariah’s coordinate map. The door was built directly into the mountain in a way that, though not visible by onlookers from the direction of Norilsk, was anything but hidden. Slightly smaller than Novosibirsk’s hangar doors, this door looked easily capable of fitting several different types of aircraft into whatever space was on the other side. The door’s metal surface would have blended in perfectly with the dark gray rock of the mountainside had it not been for the rust that covered it from top to bottom, providing the only red-orange hues on the mountain’s backside. On both sides of the hangar door stood two turret towers, each looking out over the mountain valley. They, too, were akin to the turret towers of Novosibirsk, each with a set of twin-barreled cannons that seemed capable of rotation. The towers themselves were built into the rock. There was something menacing about the way the structures appeared.

Behind Scott, everyone in the troop bay had clustered behind the cockpit door to get a look at the facility. It was a sight to behold.

“All right,” Scott said, placing his hand on the back of Travis’s seat. “Ring the doorbell.”

The pilot didn’t have to. Before he had a chance to get on a comm frequency, motion on the mountain face captured everyone’s attention. Tiny pebbles and stones slid down the hangar door as its rusty gears came to life and the door started to rise. The forms of several uniformed Nightmen came into view, the most forward Nightman making signals for the aircraft to approach. “All right, we’re looking good,” Scott said to Travis. “Bring us in.”

The hangar was downright dingy. An array of cables hung from the relatively low ceiling, and the lone vehicle that was there—a forklift sitting in a far corner—looked abandoned. There was one set of closed metal double doors in the center of the back wall.

Travis brought the Pariah to a hover and moved it into landing position.

“What’s the status of the landing gear?” Scott asked. “Is that going to stop us from landing?”

Reaching across the cockpit control board, Travis pulled a short lever. Beneath the Pariah’s nose, something released, its weight felt beneath the floorboard. “What was that?” Scott asked.

“That was the front wheel.”

“I thought you said it didn’t work.”

The pilot looked at Scott flatly. “I just deactivated the gear locks. Wheels are heavy—when there’s nothing holding them up, they’ll fall down on their own weight. Now getting them back up? That’s gonna be a bit of a problem.”

As long as they could land safely, Scott was happy. “Just put us down.”

“Aye-aye.” Engaging the cabin speaker, Travis said, “Hold on, folks. We’ve got no vertical thrusters, so things are gonna get a little bumpy.”

“Slow and steady,” Scott said. “You got this.”

Easing down the power on the Pariah’s main thrusters, Travis slowly dipped the nose of the aircraft—the opposite of how the transport typically landed. Grabbing hold of the cockpit doorframe tighter, Scott held himself in place as he watched the Pariah lower.

Come on, Travis. Bring her down gently.

Scott’s thoughts were cut off as the Pariah dropped. The whole of the troop bay was rocked in the impact, as the ship’s main thrusters abruptly cut off. As the whine of the engines began to fade away, Scott closed his eyes and exhaled.

“Before you say anything,” Travis said, “that was pretty darn good!”

“I wasn’t going to say anything. Sixty seconds ago, I thought we’d be landing on the nose.”

Travis smirked. “Well, you know…”

Patting his pilot on the shoulder, Scott said, “Nice work,” as he watched Tiffany land the Superwolf.

The hangar wasn’t nearly as large as an EDEN hangar, looking only capable of housing three, maybe four aircraft at maximum. The best Scott could guess was that its original intent was to house a few helicopters, likely for Russian officials or perhaps even the president. For Scott and the Fourteenth, it was ideal—large enough to house them comfortably, but small enough to be hidden. He’d take it.

Ducking away from the cockpit and weaving through the troop bay, Scott made his way to the rear bay door, a visible limp in his step now that his adrenaline was gone. During the short trek, he allowed himself a moment to place a hand on Centurion, as if the physical gesture would in some way say, hang on, big guy, you’re almost good to go. The same could have been said concerning Auric and Catalina, whose legs were badly injured. As much as this was a regrouping, it was also a chance at recovery.

The outside air whipped through the open hangar door and inside the Pariah, causing Scott and the rest of the troop bay to shrink back from the bitter cold. Snow flurries flew past in what felt like gale-force bursts. This was the kind of cold that hurt—that could kill. Thankfully, it didn’t take long before the rusty gears of Northern Forge’s hangar doors turned again, lowering the massive metal jaws that protected the forge from the outside.

Scott wasted no time once the icy cold was staved off. He stepped out of the Pariah and searched for Northern Forge’s dedicated greeter. Approaching Scott from the small collection of gathered Nightmen was a man in a Nightman uniform and of comparative build to Scott. Shaved dark brown hair and a five o’clock shadow framed a face that scrutinized Scott with all the compassion of a crocodile. Against his better judgment, Scott extended a hand. It wasn’t met.

“I am Valentin Lukin,” the man said, “keeper of Northern Forge.” Valentin looked to be in his thirties, perhaps mid to upper. His face was scarred with pits that made him seem either a mild burn victim or someone whose teenage years had been plagued with terrible acne. For the sake of feeling at ease, Scott chose to believe the latter.

“Hi,” Scott said, retracting his hand awkwardly. “I’m Scott—” Valentin stepped past Scott mid-introduction. The abruptness was jarring.

Barking out orders in Russian, Valentin inspected the Pariah’s troop bay and the soldiers inside it. Valentin must not have known that Scott could understand it all. “Get the Ceratopian to Shubin,” he had said, “then refuel this ship—it will not be staying.”

“Whoa, hold on a second,” Scott said, limping Valentin’s way as the keeper’s Nightmen took to their assigned tasks. “What do you mean this ship won’t be staying?”

Valentin turned Scott’s way, but only to look him eye-to-eye for a moment. Once again, he walked past him without another word, and once again, he addressed his Nightmen in Russian. “Find out who in there is from Falcon Platoon. Isolate them at once.”

“Hey, you’re not isolating anyone!” said Scott. Valentin continued walking away, as if Scott wasn’t even there. Now Scott was mad. Trotting painfully to catch up with the keeper, Scott reached out and grabbed Valentin’s shoulder to stop him.

The keeper whipped around, sticking his face directly in Scott’s. “I will do what I will do, and you will obey,” Valentin said. “There will be a time for you to talk. That time is not now—it will be at my request. Your operatives in the Fourteenth have rooms reserved in the living quarters. I suggest you go to them.” Taking a single step backward, Valentin then turned to walk away.

Every impulse inside Scott screamed, waste this man. Biting it all back, he simply said, “Our injured need medical attention.” Valentin didn’t so much as slow down. He doesn’t even care. Scott’s thoughts went to Auric, Catalina, and Rashid. They all needed help. Not receiving it wasn’t an option. Scott could feel it taking over. “I said our injured need medical attention.” Removing his pistol from its holster, he aimed it at Valentin’s head from behind. He clicked off the safety.

Valentin stopped. Angling his head down and away, just enough to offer him the slightest look at what was in his peripherals, he simply said, “You and I both know that would be a poor decision.” Hesitating for one moment longer, the keeper looked ahead again, then resumed his march away.

His jaw statuesque, Scott slid his finger over the trigger. Do it. He could take those Nightmen behind him—he could shoot Valentin, about-face, and engage. He’d have one or two seconds of lead time. Do it. Trembling, his hand guided the crosshairs to the dead center of the keeper’s head. One pull. That’s all it would take. One pull, and Valentin’s brain matter would decorate the wall. End this man’s life.

His finger left the trigger. He reengaged the safety. That’s not who you are. At least, it wasn’t supposed to be. You’re exhausted. You’re not thinking straight. You need to sleep. Lowering his pistol, he once again secured it in its holster. Looking around, his hazel eyes surveyed the people in the hangar. None of them were looking at him—with the exception of one: Tiffany Feathers. The blonde, having climbed out of her Superwolf, was staring directly at Scott. For a moment, the pair’s eyes locked.

You don’t know who I am, do you?

To Tiffany’s credit, the look she was giving him wasn’t exactly one of disapproval. More accurately, she simply seemed uncertain. Offering her the faintest of apologetic smiles, he turned to make his way back to the Pariah.

Just as Scott returned to the transport, the operatives from the troop bay began trickling out, making room for Valentin’s Nightmen to approach and tackle the moving of Centurion. Running his hand through his hair and sighing, Scott addressed his crew. “All right, guys and gals, listen up.” This was going to be a fun one. “So it looks like this isn’t going to be quite as warm a reception as we hoped.” Behind him, Tiffany approached and dropped to a knee, as had some of the others. Scott glanced at her briefly, then resumed. “The Nightman in charge—the keeper, as he calls himself—is Valentin Lukin. He is…not welcoming.” He inwardly gave himself credit for not saying much worse. “We’re in his domain, so for the time being, we have to play by his rules. One of those rules, unfortunately, is that the Falcon survivors stay in isolation, whatever that means.”

“Isolation, like a cell?” asked Lilan.

“It could be, for all I know. Lukin made it clear that he wasn’t obligated to entertain questions—or help in any way, really.”

The colonel briefly looked at Catalina, then back to Scott. “Well, what about Shivers? Isolation’s not gonna help a busted leg.”

“I agree,” said Scott. “I heard him mention to his men that Centurion was to be taken to a man named ‘Shubin.’ I can only imagine that’s for medical treatment. We’re going to find Shubin, on our own if we have to, and bring her to him.” He looked at Auric. “You too, buddy.” The German nodded quietly. Now came the tough part. “As for the rest of us, in the Fourteenth…they’ve apparently reserved for us rooms.”

Tom King stood and punched air. “Man, that’s bull!”

“King, settle down,” Lilan said.

Tom looked anything but settled, but fell quiet nonetheless. Sighing heavily, Scott continued on. “It was made abundantly clear to me that these are the rules, and that’s that. Right now, at least for tonight, we don’t have a choice.”

Drawing a tired breath as her chain was released, Natalie asked, “What about me?” She rubbed her newly-freed wrist.

“I’m going to go ahead and say that you’re with the Falcons tonight.” It felt natural to tack an if you’re okay with that to the end of the statement, though it would have served no purpose. She had the least say-so out of anyone. Natalie made no outward response beyond a simple nod of the head.

“So where are these rooms of ours?” asked David.

Scott looked at him. “In the living quarters, wherever those are. Naturally, I wasn’t told.” The Nightmen had a way of saying, sleep there, without ever specifying where there was. He’d endured the same thing when he’d first arrived at Novosibirsk with David, Becan, and Jayden.

Glancing at the Pariah’s troop bay, Scott watched as the Nightmen hoisted Centurion on a harness. At least the burden of carrying the massive beast hadn’t fallen on the Fourteenth. They were almost too tired to stay on their feet, let alone carry a Ceratopian warrior.

His gaze returned to the group. “So let’s go right now, take a self-guided tour, I guess, and find out where we’re supposed to go. And more importantly, let’s find this Shubin guy, wherever he is.” The group acknowledged, and they rose to their feet.

The body of Rodion Sayankov, their lone loss from Krasnoyarsk, was hauled away with word to Rashid and Feliks only that he would be sent to Norilsk to be buried somewhere. Though details were nonexistent, neither surviving man from the Cairo extraction team complained. Their comrade was being buried somewhere and that meant a lot more than his corpse being left behind in Krasnoyarsk for EDEN to poke and prod. They’d take what they could get.

As Valentin had stated, the Falcons didn’t make it very far—not even to the hangar’s inner doorway leading to the rest of Northern Forge—before a pair of Nightmen showed up to escort them to wherever the isolation area was located. Natalie, without a word, accompanied them. There was a bit of good news, however, in the fact that one of the Nightmen, upon seeing the injuries to Auric, Catalina, and Rashid, offered to have them brought to the medical station. It was an offer Scott and Lilan eagerly accepted. It was one less thing they had to do themselves. After a brief exchange of see you tomorrows, the Falcons were led away, leaving the Fourteenth to explore Northern Forge alone.

Despite the mountain’s size, the facility within was roughly the size of Novosibirsk’s main barracks, square-footage-wise. It consisted of four levels, of which they were on the third, simplistically titled Level-3. In addition to being the level that housed the hangar, Level-3 also contained a small mess hall, a meeting room complete with conference table, a mini-theater with a projector that seemed to be a briefing room, restrooms, and a recreation room, equipped with various couches, circular tables, and a bar—the rough equivalent of Room 14’s lounge, though much larger in size and lacking a kitchenette.

Level-4, accessible via both an elevator and stairwell that connected all four levels, contained living quarters. There were far more bunk beds than the crew needed, each of which was located in its own room, a feature no one from the Fourteenth had ever experienced save Scott, and one that ensured that every member of the crew would have a place mostly to themselves. Rooms didn’t seem so much “reserved,” as Valentin had claimed, as they seemed “available.” It was an inaccuracy that mattered not a bit. They were just happy to have beds at all.

Level-4 was laid out in a grid pattern, with four quadrants connected by a pair of hallways that intersected in the center of the level. Each quadrant contained twenty rooms, each of which contained a bunk bed. That meant that, in all, the facility could house one hundred and sixty personnel. In addition, there were two shower rooms, neither bearing a designation for a specific gender. There was no question that Scott and his crew would put those to good use.

As it turned out, the living quarters were on the same level as the medical station, which was also where the Falcons were being kept. In addition to several rooms that were the equivalent of hospital rooms, there were two quarantine chambers. One of these chambers, for the time being, appeared to be Lilan and company’s new home. The exceptions were Catalina and Auric, who each had a spot of their own in the medical station.

Though Scott and company did get to meet the doctor Valentin was referring to, a lanky russet-haired individual named Gavriil Shubin, the doctor was far too busy to offer anything other than the most basic of greetings. All of this attention was directed to Centurion who had arrived in the medical station as Scott had walked in. Though they didn’t speak much, Scott was assured by Gavriil that he indeed had experience dealing with extraterrestrials, even if he wasn’t exactly an “expert” in the subject. He knew enough to help and that was all that mattered. The Ceratopian was placed in the second quarantine chamber, and that was the last Scott saw of H`laar’s bodyguard that night.

Despite the hectic state of the medical bay, Scott and Esther were able to receive a small amount of medical attention from a nurse called in for backup. With their bullet wounds treated and Scott given a pair of crutches, they were sent on their way so that the more direly injured operatives could be tended to. That was fine with Scott.

With cognition rapidly fading, the group migrated to the living quarters, where they doubled up in rooms with bunk beds. The only exception was Esther, who was the last woman standing in the Fourteenth—though she was given the task of taking in Flopper, something she didn’t mind in the least. Scott, appropriately, shared a room with David. Were it not for their sheer exhaustion, the two men might have felt nostalgic. Instead, they simply felt tired.

With two entire levels of Northern Forge still unexplored, and with evening approaching, the men and women of the Fourteenth finally retired.

7

Saturday, March 17th, 0012 NE

1058 hours

EDEN Command

IT WAS THE longest flight Mark Remington had ever taken. For over ten hours, the Philadelphia cadet and brother of Scott Remington had sat strapped in a transport, gliding around the Earth to a place he couldn’t see. There was nobody in the cabin with him—nobody to talk to who could help pass the time. All he could do was sit there, flying in an aircraft with blacked-out windows and a tendency to turn left.

Despite the fact that he was alone, he was aware that eyes were on him. There were two men sitting in the cockpit—a pilot and the security guard who’d escorted Mark there. There was a camera at each corner of the small cabin, ensuring that any movement he made would be seen.

Mark had been told nothing—not why he’d been taken straight out of a training exercise or why his relation to Scott was of any significance. The only thing he knew was that, apparently, EDEN had attacked Novosibirsk, where Scott was stationed—or at least, where he had been. Mark hadn’t heard from Scott in almost nine months.

At long last, the transport descended, indicated by the sudden, almost alarming popping of Mark’s ears. Roughly thirty seconds later, the aircraft clunked to a landing. With the engines still whining, the front door of the cabin opened, and the security guard emerged.

“On your feet.”

Mark complied quickly, unfastening his safety harness and standing up. Swallowing, he watched as the guard marched past him to the rear door, hitting the button to lower it down. “Where are we? Sir.” The guard stared at him, but said nothing. Shifting his focus to the door itself, Mark watched as it slowly came down. Standing outside, not twenty meters from the aircraft, was an auburn-haired woman in a blue coat.

Waving Mark on, the guard said, “Get out.” Once again, the cadet did as he was told.

As soon as he stepped outside, Mark’s gaze wandered the room he’d landed in. It was monstrous in size, and there were once again no windows to indicate where exactly he was. There were people about, as well as other transports, but no signs or indicators of a geographic location. The woman approached him. Stopping, Mark did the only thing he knew to do: assume a stance of attention.

As soon as he did it, the woman smiled disarmingly. “Hello, Mark. There’ll be no need for that today.”

Shifting a bit on his feet, Mark attempted a nervous at-ease.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.

Though he was trying his best to hide it, Mark’s nerves were obvious. “No, ma’am.”

Her eyes softening sympathetically, she said, “My name is Carol June. I’m one of the judges on the High Command.”

His eyes bulging in a moment of what seemed to be panic, the young medicin-training instantly paled.

“It’s all right,” she said, extending her hand to gently touch him on the arm. “You’re not in any kind of trouble.” Though the gesture seemed to do little to quell his anxiety, she went on. “I know you must be very confused. Please, if you’ll come with me, I’ll try to explain everything.” Turning partially away, she motioned for him to walk alongside her. Nodding awkwardly and in silence, Mark complied. “The place you’re in now,” June said as she led him along, “is EDEN Command. The flight here was disorienting, I know. It’s designed to be that way, but it’s for a purpose. No one can know the location of EDEN Command. This place is too important.” She smiled at him again. “I don’t even know it, myself. My flights are the same as yours.”

Even as they walked, Mark’s face grew whiter. Staring ahead like a deer in headlights, he kept pace beside her.

June angled her head his way, briefly. “So, you’re enrolled in Philadelphia to be a medic, Mark?”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

“That’s fantastic. It’s such an important position, and we need it now more than ever—” June froze as Mark’s throat convulsed. The cadet buckled over.

Everything came out.

In a series of violent hurls, Mark lost what little food there was in his stomach. As it splattered onto the floor in a puddled mess of bile and partially-digested chunks, the teary-eyed medicin-training set his hands on his knees. All around him, officers of EDEN Command stepped around him, weaving widely around him as if they were at risk of catching some kind of disease. Every single one of them was staring in disgust, though Mark paid no attention.

June, after an initial jaw drop, regained her composure as she placed a hand on Mark’s back. Her gaze drifted to her shoes, where chunks of the cadet’s upchuck had landed. Restraining a look of disgust, she collected herself and exhaled. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Just…” She looked around desperately for help. “It’s okay.” Glaring at a passer-by, she barked, “Don’t stare at us, idiot, call a custodian.” As the officer clumsily acknowledged, June’s focus returned to Mark. Gently, her hand rubbed between his shoulder blades. “Don’t worry about that, okay? I’m going to get you some crackers, and we’ll have a seat somewhere. Again, you’re not in trouble—not at all. You’re actually here because you could be a big help to us. All right?”

Wiping his eyes, Mark nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

In the minutes that followed, Mark was led away through the halls, until he and June reached a large, open cafeteria. Despite the sights and sounds around him, Mark continued to stare ahead numbly, his eyes moist and his face still in need of a napkin or two. Sitting him down at a table, June excused herself briefly as she walked toward the cafeteria line.

Reaching for the napkin holder, Mark claimed several napkins to use on his mouth, nose, and eyes. Once he was cleaned up, he sat still and waited. It wasn’t long before June was walking back to him, a box of saltine crackers in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Taking the seat across from him, she slid both items to him. “So what made you decide to become a combat medic, Mark?”

Biting one of the crackers then swallowing, Mark closed his eyes and looked down. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’m so sorry for—”

“Mark, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I just—”

“Mark,” she said again, laughing softly. “You’re not the first person in the world to lose their lunch. You’re in an uncomfortable situation, and it’s not your fault. I don’t want you to apologize for it.” After a slight hesitation, Mark nodded his head. Her smile returned. “So, why a medic?”

Mark took a sip of water, then answered, “I saw what my older brother was doing—he’s also in EDEN, as I guess you already know…”

She offered a look that seemed to say, oh yes, we know.

“And he just gave up so much to do it, and he was so convicted about it. I just felt like, you know…what was I doing?”

Nodding along with him, June said, “And you wanted to make a positive difference, like him.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s a very brave choice,” she said. “You must love your brother very much.”

At long last, Mark’s countenance cracked, as if some sort of invisible wall of tolerance fell. Shaking his head in an almost discombobulating way, he said, “I know this is about Scott. They asked me if I was his brother before they took me out of class. Is he…is he dead?”

Though June’s smile remained etched in its place, June’s eyes flickered up to meet his dead-on. Beneath cautiously narrowed eyebrows, she answered, “No. No, your brother is not dead.”

“I just—” Mark said, his voice breaking ever so slightly. “He’s all I’ve got, you know? I haven’t heard from him in so long. The last time we talked, it was after his fiancée died, and he was just like, so…” He sought for words. “He told me to go do my own thing, and not to look for him anymore, and I didn’t know what…” Shaking his head, Mark brought his hand up to rub his eyes. His lost look remained. “It wasn’t like him at all. I never heard from him after that.”

Canting her head slightly, she asked, “How long ago was that?”

“Eight, maybe nine months.”

“Did you try to get in touch with him?”

Swallowing, he nodded. “I tried calling, I tried sending a few letters. But they all came back unopened. I don’t even think he got them.” His shoulders sagged. “Please tell me what’s going on, ma’am.”

For several long moments, June’s eyes remained still, scrutinizing Mark’s own gaze as if to ascertain the cadet’s level of truthfulness. When the moment passed, she inhaled calmly. “Mark, your brother was involved in something that was…” She bit her lip, and for a moment, paused. “Maybe it’s better if you see for yourself.” Rising from her chair, June motioned for the young man to follow her. “Come with me please. You can take those,” she said, pointing to the crackers.

Doing as instructed, Mark pushed back from his chair with the cracker box and glass of water in hand. Quietly, he followed her as she led him out of the cafeteria.

“You said your brother lost his fiancée?” June asked. Mark nodded. “How did she die?”

“She got sick. Some kind of virus, or…I don’t really know. It just happened all of a sudden.”

After a moment, June eyed him again. “And this was at about the time you lost contact with him?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did Scott ever mention a woman named Esther?”

Blinking, Mark returned June’s gaze with a look of confusion. “What? No, not ever. I’ve never heard him mention someone with that name.”

“Mm.” June continued to walk on as they left the cafeteria behind, returning to the long corridors that led into EDEN Command’s depths. Once again, she asked, “And you’re certain about that? No mention of an Esther, not before he joined EDEN or after he was sent to Novosibirsk? Not an ‘Esther’ or a ‘Molly Esther?’ Last name of ‘Brooking.’”

“Ma’am, I promise, I’ve never heard of any of those names. He didn’t really deal with any other women but Nicole.”

June’s chin dipped slightly. “Nicole was his fiancée, I’m assuming?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I see.” Turning down a small hallway, June pointed to a metal door at its far end. “We’ll be going right in there.” Quickening her pace to get ahead of him, the judge stood in front of the door’s side retinal scanner. After a satisfied chirp, the door slid open. Inside was a series of unoccupied chairs, all facing a wall of monitors, all of which were turned off. “This is one of our many briefing rooms,” she said. “They’re sprinkled throughout EDEN Command. Please, have a seat in one of these chairs.”

Shuffling down the front row, Mark slid down into one of the chairs in the middle, his hazel eyes watching June as she approached a panel that was set into the wall. After several taps on the screen, one of the central monitors came to life. June’s fingers continued to move about the screen until a final press sent a feed to the monitor. What appeared was a hallway viewed from a vantage point in the ceiling. Camera footage.

Walking to the side of the monitor, June looked at the cadet again. “This was footage taken from one of the security cameras at our base in Cairo. Cairo is a base that specializes in, among other things, Xenobiology—the study of the extraterrestrials we’re fighting.”

Mark nodded quietly, his glassy gaze shifting to the monitor as the video played. There was an obvious commotion taking place off screen, as numerous men and women ranging from what looked like scientists to civilians ran like a small, albeit panicked, mob. Squinting with curiosity, Mark watched as a small cluster of operatives in black, metal armor—led by one with a golden, spiked collar—emerged, running and firing their weapons behind them. Everything about the way they moved looked like defensive tactics. Suddenly, a giant, fully armored Ceratopian appeared. The cadet’s eyes widened as the alien fired its neutron blaster, seemingly in unison with the men in black.

Reaching her finger to the display, June tapped the pause button. She angled her head back to Mark. “Does any of that make sense to you?” Mark shook his head in silence. Drawing a preparatory breath, the elder judge once again dipped her head down. “Mark, this soldier, the one with the golden collar, right here,” she pointed, “is your brother. He and a group of agents from Novosibirsk broke into Cairo, retrieved two extraterrestrials from Confinement—a Ceratopian and an Ithini—then fled the base. Forty-eight people were killed in their escape.”

The medicin-training’s reaction was one of being taken aback. His head flinched back a bit as he stared at her, then turned his focus back to the screen and the black warrior with the golden collar in its center. Several seconds passed, then he laughed defensively. “No. No way. Ma’am, you guys have the wrong guy. That’s—that’s not Scott, there’s no way.”

June smiled sympathetically. “Mark, that man in the center is your brother. And this woman,” she pointed, “wearing the black dress, is Esther Brooking, his primary accomplice in this heist.”

“But that’s—” Shaking his head the whole time, he motioned to the image. “I mean, why would he be wearing something like that? I don’t even know what that is.”

Arching an eyebrow, she asked, “You’ve never seen a Nightman, Mark?”

“What? No. I mean, yeah, I’ve never seen a Nightman. They look like robots. What…”

“Do you know who the Nightmen are?”

After a moment, Mark answered, “I’ve heard of them, a little, I think. But…” Again, his words trailed off.

June bit her lower lip as if unsure how to proceed. Sighing quietly, she said, “The Nightmen are a Russian military cult that were thought disbanded until recently. Their leader, and also once a Nightman, was Ignatius van Thoor, the general of Novosibirsk.” She hesitated. “The Nightmen are a dark force, Mark. They do very bad things. In fact, one of their rights of passage—one of the things you have to do to become a Nightman—is to commit an act of murder.” Mark stared at her for several seconds, no response on his face. It was as if he didn’t understand. Exhaling softly, the judge went on. “This means that, in order to become a part of the Nightman cult, your brother murdered someone.”

“No,” Mark said firmly. “That’s impossible. Ma’am, I’m sorry, you guys are wrong. There’s no way Scott would murder someone. He wouldn’t even think about something like that.”

“These aren’t speculations, Mark. These are provable facts. This man,” she said, pointing again, “is Scott Remington. That’s a fact. And he’s with the Nightmen, fighting with them, wearing their armor. That means he is a Nightman. That’s also a fact.” Once again, she frowned. “I know how hard these things must be to hear, Mark, but these aren’t the reasons we called you here. These aren’t things we need clarification on. These are knowns.” Stepping toward him, she lowered herself into the chair beside him. “Mark, the reason you’re here is to help us bring your brother in.”

The moment she said it, his eyes widened alarmingly. “Wait, are you guys going to kill him?”

June’s hand reached for his knee. “No, no, not at all. We believe your brother was manipulated. Perhaps he was even placed in an impossible situation where he was forced to do the things that he did. Scott Remington was a good soldier, as evidenced by the Golden Lion he earned during the Battle of Chicago.” Her eyes returned to the screen. “That obviously meant a lot to him, and the Nightmen knew it—hence why he has that golden collar, there.” She looked at him again. “Your brother does need to answer for what he did. Everyone in that image does. But everyone has a right to a fair trial. We’re a noble organization, Mark. We would never punish one of our own—especially someone as reputable as your brother—without knowing all of the facts.” Very faintly, she smiled. “Our eagerness to bring him in is also out of concern for him. We don’t want any of our flock being manipulated, especially by the religion of Ignatius van Thoor.”

The room fell silent. Mark simply stared ahead at the screen, his expression as blank as it had been since he’d first arrived. He looked numbed beyond belief.

Her eyes unwavering, June offered him the faintest of hopeful smiles. “Will you help us, Mark?”

Without words, Mark nodded his head a single time.

The smile on June’s face widened. “Thank you. This is important for the world. It’s important for him. There are a lot of difficult questions that Scott is going to have to answer. You deserve to be there to hear them, too.”

“What do we have to do?” Mark asked, his voice subdued. “To bring him in.”

Very slowly, the smile leveled off on June’s face. Beneath dark auburn eyebrows, her eyes turned to stone. “Whatever it takes.”

Twenty minutes later, after a thorough conversation with the medicin-training, and after he was escorted away by one of Security Chief Hector Mendoza’s deputies, June was walking down the hallway alone. Her face revealed no emotion. She simply stared straight ahead. Bringing her comm to her lips, then flicking away loose strands of her shag haircut that had fallen across her forehead, she opened the channel and said, “Mark Remington is in.”

“By choice or by force?” The voice that replied was Archer’s.

“By fear,” she said. “Little turd doesn’t know where to put himself. He just wants his brother taken alive.” She glanced down at her vomit-stained shoes in disgust.

Archer’s smile could be heard. “Then we share something in common. Thank you, Carol.”

“It’s what I do.”

*

“I DON’T CARE how well-invested he is in this,” Klaus shouted, “he is not a Vector! He has no reason to take part in any of our operations!”

Archer ran his hand down his face and sighed. “Captain Faerber, listen—”

“There is nothing to listen to. It is out of the question!”

The four men—President Blake, Judges Archer and Rath, and Klaus Faerber—had been sitting in the Conference Room for almost thirty minutes. Initially, the Vector captain had been under the impression that he’d been summoned there to strategize about Remington’s capture. It was only after he’d arrived and engaged in the discussion that he learned he had been misled.

“Captain,” said Rath, standing across from Klaus near the entrance, where all of the men were gathered, “he is a former mercenary with a lot of experience. He’s highly motivated, and he has the ability to track people down. He also worked with Remington, which none of us can say that we did.”

Scoffing, Klaus said, “He worked with Remington for what? A week?”

“Enough to know what he’s capable of.”

Archer interjected. “We’re not asking you to give up anything in regards to the manhunt. We’re simply requesting that you allow several Vectors to fall under his authority.” Arms folded, he went on. “He knows how to track people down—that’s what he did prior to EDEN. Vector Squad doesn’t. You are, however, the best of the best when it comes to tactical combat.” The Briton tried to smile. “We add some of your soldiers, under his command in this unique situation, and suddenly we have an elite strike team with the specific task of hunting down the Fourteenth.”

The double doors opened as Judge Torokin entered. Blinking, he looked at the clustered group.

“Thank you for coming, Leonid,” said Archer, motioning for the Russian judge to approach them.

Confusion on his face, Torokin asked, “What is going on?” As he approached the group, Archer explained.

“Whilst Rath was at Cairo, he interviewed a Lieutenant Logan Marshall—Captain Natalie Rockwell’s third in command who also reported directly to Remington.”

“Rockwell is the hostage?” asked Torokin as if he half-knew already.

Archer nodded. “That’s right. He and Rockwell’s unit was the unit that Remington used as his cover to enter Cairo. Marshall was a mercenary prior to his joining EDEN.”

“An elite mercenary,” Rath interjected.

“Exactly. He knows how to hunt people down, even those who are supposedly ‘off grid,’ as Remington and his outlaws are now. Marshall has a good relationship with Captain Rockwell; they came to Cairo together from Atlanta. He has a strong desire to track Remington down.” Motioning to Klaus, Archer continued. “What we’re trying to convince the good captain here to do is ‘donate’ several of his operatives in Vector to Marshall’s command.”

The moment Archer said it, Torokin’s eyes widened in surprise.

Klaus caught it immediately. “Look, see? Leonid’s sentiment echoes my own.”

Archer shot Klaus a look of fatigue. Sighing, he went on. “Having an experienced mercenary with Vectors at his disposal, on an operation like this, would be a tremendous benefit. It puts elite forces in the active pursuit of Remington. This is what we need right now.”

“Who in Vector does he want to send with this Marshall?” Torokin asked Klaus.

“You see, that’s the glory of it,” Archer said, interrupting before Klaus could answer. “I’ve left that completely up to the captain. He may send whoever he sees fit.”

Klaus scowled and turned away, but a quick hand from Torokin caught him by the shoulder. “Wait, my friend.” Looking back at Archer, Torokin asked, “Under whose jurisdiction would this operation fall? Is this a mercenary operation or one sanctioned by us?”

“Does it matter?” Klaus asked before Archer could reply.

“Yes, it does. Marshall wears two badges, that of a mercenary and that of an EDEN officer. If he undertakes this as a member of EDEN, it is not a terrible idea.”

Smiling, Archer said, “This would absolutely be an EDEN operation. What makes Lieutenant Marshall so alluring is not his ability to skate the boundaries of international law, though he most certainly has it. It’s his personal knowledge of the situation, of Scott Remington, and his close connection with Natalie Rockwell.”

“Why must the Vectors fall under his command?” asked Torokin.

“Because, quite frankly, Logan Marshall knows how to run a manhunt. Vector Squad does not. Marshall is a lieutenant; he does have command experience.”

Torokin’s focus shifted to Rath. “How long has Marshall been a lieutenant?”

A boisterous laugh escaped Klaus’s mouth, prompting his ex-Vector counterpart to stare at him. Klaus waved Rath onward. “Go on. Tell him how long Marshall has been a lieutenant, please.”

As Archer sighed, the corners of Rath’s lips curved downward. Looking at Torokin, he answered, “I think the important thing to remember is that Logan Marshall is where he is because he has a proven track—”

“One week,” said Klaus.

“Longer than that,” Archer rebutted, glaring at the Vector captain.

Klaus held up nine fingers. “Nine days, Leonid. Nine.”

Closing his eyes and groaning, Torokin ran his hand down his face as the conference room fell into silence. The only man with any semblance of a pleased look on his face was Klaus, whose nine-finger salute had shifted into triumphant arms folded across his chest. Torokin’s gaze shifted to Malcolm Blake, who had been silent during the entire conversation. The black Briton simply stood there, eyes downcast with a look that bordered outright disillusion, one arm propped across his chest while the fist of his other hand pressed against his mouth. At long last, Torokin broke the silence. “What say you, Mister President?”

His brown eyes shifting to Torokin, Blake hesitated for a moment before he spoke. “It is my opinion that we have reached a stage where uncommon solutions may constitute our most viable options.”

That was political speak for, We’re going to go with Marshall. Torokin frowned. “I understand Klaus’s concern—I do. I also understand the benefit of having someone with Marshall’s skill set guiding the effort.” Raising his finger, he said, “Might I offer a solution that may appeal to the valid concerns of my friend?” The others waited for Torokin to continue. “Allow me to accompany Marshall.”

The surprised reactions were immediate.

“Klaus has a valid concern in that we cannot entrust a man fueled by emotion—as Marshall very well may be—to lead a team of Vectors on a mission that is this critical. My being with him, however, would mean that there is an EDEN Command presence on the operation. In this instance, I would be the overseer of the operation,” he said, holding his hands out graciously, “but strategic planning would fall under the guidance of Lieutenant Marshall. It would be my job to ensure that what he does is both legal and logical.”

The Vector captain shook his head. “In that case, I might as well go myself.”

“I do not think that is wise,” Torokin said. “You are too emotionally attached, my friend—even more so than Marshall. I believe you would compromise this.” Though Klaus grumbled beneath his breath, he didn’t rebut. “Is this something that would be acceptable to you, Mister President?”

After a brief glance at Archer, Blake answered, “I would certainly feel more comfortable with someone like you serving as operational oversight, with the assurance that you will not attempt to partake in any ground operations.” His expression grew hardened. “Is that acceptable to you, Leonid?”

Unamused laughter escaped the Russian’s lips. “I can assure you that partaking in ground ops is not my intent.”

“Well, that’s not quite the same thing now, is it?”

“I have been in this business long enough to know not to make promises.” He looked at Klaus. “But you know I will do nothing to jeopardize the capture of Remington, especially to satisfy my own ego.” Inhaling deeply, he said, “So, will you allow it, Mister President, even if I cannot offer the assurance you seek?”

Blake nodded. “I will—thank you for stepping up to this.”

“I would also like to bring Chiumbo,” Torokin said. “He would serve as an insurance policy for Lieutenant Marshall should things…not work out.”

At that, there was no hesitation from Blake. “I fully endorse Chiumbo accompanying you on the operation. Should things go south with Marshall, he’s an excellent candidate to take the reins.”

His face reddening, Klaus pointed at the two men. “Do you really expect Chiumbo to take orders from Marshall? That would be an insult.”

“I fully expect him to, because that is the kind of person Chiumbo is,” Torokin answered. “Chiumbo is one of our best. You know that. He would not raise any issues—”

The German cut him off loudly. “Then I will raise issues!”

”Captain…” said Blake.

“Chiumbo has been a lieutenant in Vector for years, and you wish to place him under the authority of a child?”

This time, it was Torokin who glared. “Logan Marshall is anything but a child. He is a former mercenary—he could probably give anyone in Vector a run for their money.”

“Marshall has not been a lieutenant for two weeks, and he will be issuing orders to the best we have to offer. I will not allow Chiumbo to endure such a disgrace.”

Hands clasping behind his back, Archer spoke flatly. “With all due respect, captain, this isn’t your decision.”

Torokin raised an eyebrow and shot Archer a look. That was either one of the boldest or most foolhardy comments he’d ever heard. Either way, it was not the way to win over Klaus Faerber.

Growling loudly, Klaus turned away. Torokin called out for him. “Comrade, please! If Marshall is a capable mercenary, he may have resources that we do not. He may have resources comparable to the Nightmen, and they were able to infiltrate Cairo Confinement.”

“Take my Vectors,” Klaus said, angling his head just enough to glare at his ex-Vector counterpart. “Take whoever you wish. I will not stop you.” Without another word, the German captain turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving the door swinging in his wake.

A knot formed deep in Torokin’s stomach. He had seen Klaus angry—he’d seen him brooding. This was much, much worse. Torokin shook his head. “He has no intention of leaving this alone.”

“I think that much is obvious,” said Archer.

“Do you think he’ll try to interfere?” Blake asked Torokin.

The Russian answered, “With an operation led by Marshall? No. With the apprehension of Remington? There is no question.” He looked back at the other men. “And if you want my advice, I would let him.”

“He would kill Remington the moment he sees him,” said Archer.

“And would that not be good enough?”

Looking at Torokin harshly, Archer said, “No, it would not be. What if Remington isn’t working alone? What if there’s another terror cell waiting to strike? Capturing Remington and his band of merry men alive is critical to attaining that information.” Realizing his abruptness, he paused briefly and softened his tone. “He also escaped with a Ceratopian and an Ithini. It would make sense to find out why, would it not? Remington may be the only one who can provide us with answers.”

Speaking up, Rath said, “A conspiracy between human and alien forces could be catastrophic, even if Ignatius van Thoor is dead. What if there are other Remingtons out there waiting to carry out plans of their own? By capturing Remington, we may be able to find out the full scope of whatever it is they’re doing, and maybe more importantly, why.”

“Who from Vector do you think would be suitable for this operation?” Blake asked Torokin.

The Russian answered, “Marty Breaux comes to mind, and obviously we’ll need a pilot, so I would suggest Minh Dang. Beyond that, I need to speak with Vincent. I believe this operation would be best handled small. No more than five, maybe six.” After a moment, he raised a hand. “Pablo Quintana, as well. And I may just take Sasha, um, Alexander Kireev, my nephew who is here,” he corrected.

“There’s your five or six right there.”

“I suppose it is.”

Blake hesitated for a moment as he drew a breath. Then he said, “I feel we’re at the very least obligated to mention Todd Kenner, even if only for the probability that Captain Faerber will attempt to contact him.”

“One hundred percent,” Torokin said, eyeing the president. “That probability will be one hundred percent.”

Silence prevailed as the four men exchanged looks, until Blake said, “Then, it seems there’s nothing more for us to discuss. Leonid, contact Commander Hill and make the arrangements.”

“Yes, Mister President.” Bowing his head cordially, Torokin turned away and stepped from the room.

Once Torokin was out of earshot, Blake said, “It sounds as if there’s little doubt in Leonid’s mind that Faerber will contact Kenner.”

“That would be a catastrophe,” said Archer.

Rath raised an eyebrow. “Why would that be a catastrophe? We’d be adding a capable hunter without the burden of being held liable. Wouldn’t that be a benefit?”

“We’d be adding more than a capable hunter, Jason. We would be adding one of the best hunters humanity has ever known. We would be adding a man who is supremely intelligent—a man who would miss nothing.” He angled his head back to the others, allowing them a moment to process his words. “Not even from us.”

Rath’s expression fell solemn. He nodded his head. “I understand, sir.”

Facing his fellow conspirators, Archer said, “We must overcome this, gentlemen. For the sake of us all.” Bowing in farewell, he left the room.

8

Location: Unknown

Time: Unknown

THERE WAS NO WAY for Svetlana to tell how much time had passed since she’d first awoken and discovered herself chained to the wall of a Bakma Noboat with metal clasps. Beyond there being no sense of day or night to reference in the spacecraft, her internal clock felt in complete disarray. Despite her situation, she had fallen asleep—unintentionally—after a long silence between her and Tauthin, who was chained several meters to her left. This only added to her uncertain sense of time, as she didn’t know whether she’d slept for two hours or twelve.

She had long gotten accustomed to the vinegar-like smell of the Noboat’s interior, the acetone odor having layered itself upon her nostrils like a sour blanket. She only knew that if the vessel stunk, she must have stunk, too, an attribute that mattered little in her current predicament. At the very least, the sensation of nausea had subsided to a degree, weightlessness settling in as a strange, new normal.

In the time that Svetlana and Tauthin were both awake, interpersonal communication was almost nonexistent. It wasn’t for a lack of effort, at least on Tauthin’s part. Despite the loss of their Ithini connection much earlier, before she’d fallen asleep, Tauthin’s attempts at broken English had been met with a cold silence from Svetlana.

Reality had set in. The shock and horror of her awakening had quickly transformed into numbness, and over time, that numbness had become focus, not on a plan, but on her situation. The suddenness at which her panic and confusion settled surprised even her. Past dramas—loves, rivalries, the trivialities of daily life—were now wholly insignificant. Nothing she had ever done, nothing she had ever felt, mattered any longer. It was a past life erased. It was a new mindset for her, and necessity demanded a quick acceptance of it. And so accept it, she did.

But on her terms.

They could take away her hope and render her past insignificant, but they couldn’t change who she was. The last time she’d checked, she was still Svetlana Voronova. Tauthin had warned her that if she failed to submit to Nagogg’s demands, to denounce God for Uladek, she would suffer. Trade the truth for a lie. That just wasn’t something she was prepared to do. And so suffer, it would be. She was afraid, but she was determined to be strong.

Her determination came just in time. The door to the chamber whooshed open, and the familiar click of an Ithini connection tapped into her mind. Entering through the door, propelling himself with a gentle push in microgravity, came Nagogg. The lipless Bakma’s opaque stare settled on Svetlana. Beside her, Tauthin tensed.

Nagogg wasted no time. Hovering in front of Svetlana, he rasped through his exposed teeth, “The time has come for you to choose. Do you denounce your false Earthae god and submit to the one master, Uladek, bringer of Order and Chaos?”

“I do not denounce,” she said defiantly.

Tauthin quickly interjected. “Setana, you must denounce!”

“I will never denounce!”

Snarling angrily, Tauthin turned his focus to Nagogg. “She is useless to you, Nagogg. She does not possess the capacity to understand.”

Svetlana glared at Tauthin.

“She does not fear because she does not know. You cannot hold this ignorance against her!”

Speaking clearly, firmly, and with narrowed eyes, Svetlana said to Nagogg, “I. Do. Not. Submit.”

Tauthin’s shoulders sank.

His focus returning to Svetlana, Nagogg angled his head and scrutinized her, the emaciated rider’s bulbous eyes surveying her from top to bottom. Then he looked out of the chamber door, where his makeshift crew observed. Nagogg’s eyes came to rest on Kraash-Nagun, the foot soldier elite with the gouged eyes. Seeming deep in thought, Nagogg clicked his own teeth together, each click loud in the absence of his lips. He looked back at Svetlana, his eyes narrowing faintly as he examined her face. Beyond discoloration from the bruise on her cheek, it was perfect. Unblemished. His choice had been made. Silently, Nagogg raised a finger to the observers. With an unaffected tone, Nagogg said simply, “Take her.” From outside the chamber, Gabralthaar the titan and Ka`vesh the soldier floated toward Svetlana.

Tauthin erupted. “Do not harm her! She is innocent!” he shouted, rattling his clasps violently but to no avail. “She is innocent!”

Svetlana’s heart raced faster as the Bakma drew nearer. By the time they reached her, it felt like it was pounding out of her chest. “What are they doing?” she asked, looking frantically to Tauthin. Her chained counterpart looked almost dazed—he was taking in Svetlana’s face with borderline obsession, as if seeing it for the last time.

Gabralthaar and Ka`vesh unclasped her hands and feet. The moment she was freed, she wrenched her body violently from side to side in an effort to escape. They restrained her with ease. Nagogg said nothing as the two Bakma led her to the door. Spinning her head in Tauthin’s direction, Svetlana’s scared blue eyes locked onto his for the briefest of moments.

Tauthin’s face fell grave. All the while Svetlana resisted, all the while she screamed—at Nagogg, at her two handlers, at Tauthin himself in irrational desperation—Tauthin watched her. She was thrust into the hallway, past Ed and the blinded Kraash-nagun, where Gabralthaar and Ka`vesh slammed her back against the wall. Nagogg exited the chamber, and the door slid shut.

Through the metal, Tauthin heard Svetlana screaming in vain for her captors to release her. But the tussling continued. Tauthin listened as the rending of clothes began. There were rips, violent tears. The total stripping of dignity. Though she pled for them to stop, the tearing continued until there was nothing left to be torn. Then he heard them move her.

Svetlana’s voice, the reverberations of her useless kicks and punches, grew more distant down the hall of the Noboat. They became muffled behind metal, fading away until there was no sound at all.

His chest heaving, Tauthin hung forward in microgravity, ears acutely listening. Waiting for the inevitable. When it came, his jaw set, and he closed his eyes.

Svetlana screamed—she pled. He could hear her panicked words through the wall, words repeated over and over, hysteria growing with every syllable. Begging them not to proceed. But proceed, they did.

Screams the likes of which he’d never heard from a human echoed through the hallways, bouncing off the lifeless metal of the Noboat’s hull as if broadcast for all to hear and take heed. Lung-tearing screams. Life-altering screams. But they did not last long. Svetlana’s screams morphed into wails of pain, mingled with realization, mingled with disbelief. Tauthin fought to ignore them, to no avail. This was torture that was meant to be heard.

Tauthin’s veins pulsed with fire. He continued to breathe fervently, his inhalations and exhalations akin to that of a predator listening for prey, but powerless to pursue it. Sweat seeped from every pore on his body.

The chamber door opened and Nagogg hovered past its threshold. With a backhanded fling, he threw something at Tauthin’s face. Tauthin flinched as it deflected off his forehead with a wet squish, then drifted in front of him. His violet eyes sought it out and it came into focus.

It was a nose.

Angling his head wickedly from the precipice of the chamber, Nagogg addressed Tauthin through his lipless smile. “Now, she knows. Now, she fears. Now, she will obey.”

No time was allotted for Tauthin to reply. Drifting backward and out of the chamber, Nagogg’s eyes stayed fixated on Tauthin’s until the chamber door sealed shut. The Bakma captive was left alone.

During the half hour that followed, Tauthin heard no sounds from beyond the chamber—no screaming, no scuffling. Only the faint, distant hum of the Noboat’s engine room could be distinguished, and even that was barely audible at all. The only sounds of movement came from Tauthin himself as he occasionally moved his hands and feet in their clasps.

Though there was nothing distinct to hear in the Noboat, there was change in the vessel’s lighting. Not long after Nagogg had left, the deep blue light near the chamber door was replaced by an equally dark red, only to have the dark red replaced by a simple white contour light. The Noboat had materialized. This indicated that the Noboat was in full fuel-replenishment mode. Though fuel cells could be recharged while the vessel was in the Zone, the name given to the temporary dimension the Noboat’s crystal was able to create, charging went much faster when in what the Khuladi called real space.

Though humans referred to the vessels as Noboats, to the Bakma and Khuladi they were dubbed Zone Runners. Zone Runners were neither Bakma or Khuladi technology. They were the brainchild of the Subjugated Ithini—the portion of the Ithini species that had been captured and placed into servitude by the Khuladi. The Ithini who had escaped Khuladi rule, long before the Bakma had ever encountered the Khuladi at all, were known as Free Ithini. It was a common misconception that the Free Ithini were more intelligent than the Subjugated Ithini, but it was far from the truth. Quite the contrary, the Subjugated Ithini were capable of far greater technological achievements—just not in the realms of their choosing. The Khuladi were masters in every regard, directing all of their subjugates in the manners in which they saw fit, Ithini included. The Subjugated Ithini had been ordered to create trans-dimensional technology, so they had, focusing all of their intellect in that direction and only that direction, with no space allotted for free thinking. With that kind of forced focus, the Ithini were dangerously capable, but only as a collective. On an individual basis, the Subjugated Ithini often appeared less apt in most areas.

To the best of Tauthin’s knowledge, the Ithini were the only species to have ever been split, with some falling under subjugation and some escaping to other parts of the galaxy. This was also due to Ithini jump-drive and skip-drive technology, technology that allowed for space travel over vast distances without affecting time. The Khuladi had essentially captured this technology from the Ithini they’d initially encountered, using it to bolster their military and advance. It was due to this that the Ithini were speculated to be the first species to fall under Khuladi subjugation. The only other species to possess jump-drives and skip-drives was the Golathoch, who also inherited it from the Free Ithini who’d made contact with them. It was a rare and exceedingly valuable technology, essentially turning the galaxy from an expanse too vast to be traversed into a freeway.

Humans, or Earthae as they were often called, were light years away from this technology, figuratively speaking. They were, for all practical purposes, a proto-civilization, yet to colonize any bodies outside of their homeworld. A species like humanity had no chance of repelling the Khuladi.

From outside the chamber, the sounds of movement emerged. Tauthin raised his head, his vision focusing on the door as he waited for it to open. Once again, the Bakma’s breathing grew heavy. The door whooshed into the ceiling and several silhouettes appeared in the white contour light. Gabralthaar, Ka`vesh…and her.

Svetlana was stripped down to her undergarments, any and all illusions of invulnerability having been removed with prejudice. The shame was important—at least to a zealot like Nagogg. For his authority to be complete, she needed to be humiliated. Dominance began in the mind. But Nagogg hadn’t stopped there.

As Gabralthaar and Ka`vesh led Svetlana in, her face became visible to Tauthin for the first time since she’d been led away. Tauthin had prepared for something horrible. The reality was worse. Red stains of blood splatter surrounded the mutilated pair of cavities that had once been Svetlana’s dainty, upturned nose. Tauthin had never seen a human look like that. Her nostrils were like those of a skull. It was horrifying.

Once again, the blood burned in Tauthin’s veins. This was religion. This was worship. Disfiguring a creature once considered beautiful by her own kind, enforcing their beliefs through the humiliation and mutilation of all who chose not to believe. Nagogg and his kin would boast about this as if they’d accomplished something noble.

Snarling, Tauthin fought to wrench himself free from the clasps, and again, he met futility. He could only watch. Svetlana said nothing as she was floated toward the wall beside Tauthin, turned around, and clasped in place. Her blue eyes were despondent. They almost looked drugged. But Tauthin knew better. It was disbelief. As soon as Svetlana was in place, Gabralthaar and Ka`vesh propelled themselves away. They disappeared through the door just before it closed.

“Setana…” said Tauthin quietly.

She made no outward indication that she’d heard him. She made no outward indication that she was aware of anything at all.

Breathing heavily through his own nostrils, the Bakma enunciated as clearly as he could in the absence of a connection, “Palees saab-mit. It caan gecht waarse.”

Once again, nothing. Svetlana simply hung there, lifeless and limp, hair floating in microgravity before her disfigured face.

“Thaar is no reesistaance, Setana. Thaar is no ree-sun to hoop. Buht yu caan leev in saab-mishun, aas I haaf leeved, saab-mitting buht baa-leefig nuuthig. A Gaad yu canaacht see is nacht waar-thee to be waar-shipped. Ree-moof blind-aars ahn see waat is real. Thaar ees no Gaad herre tu sahv yuu. Saab-mit to saar-vive.”

Svetlana’s eyes rolled back then closed, her head floating weightlessly atop her neck. The loss of bodily control was indicative. She had passed out.

Tauthin’s jaw set. The Bakma captive made no effort to wake her. He made no effort to do anything at all.

For the next several hours, no sounds came from either of them. They simply hung clasped, side-by-side, one conscious, one in and out of consciousness, in the silent microgravity of deep space. On several occasions, Tauthin caught glimpses of miniscule water orbs drifting past the white contour lights, indicative of tears being released in her brief moments of awareness, though the Bakma hadn’t heard Svetlana make them. He knew they were likely from pain.

The only audible sounds at all came from Svetlana’s shivering, the result of having no clothes to trap her body warmth. Though the chamber wasn’t cold, it most certainly wasn’t comfortable. Shame was something Tauthin knew humans weren’t accustomed to—at least, not to the level at which the Bakma knew shame. It was for this reason that he tried his hardest not to look at her, though sometimes he couldn’t help it. He had never seen such an exposed human body. As it would for any sentient creature in an observatory position, curiosity just got to him. Whether Svetlana knew of his observation was an unknown. The blond-haired medic simply hung there, staring down.

Nagogg never returned to the chamber during that span of time, nor were any sounds heard in the halls. There was only the ambient noise of the Noboat’s engine as its fuel cells charged on. Tauthin knew that the charging could take a while—not that it mattered for he or Svetlana.

Waiting was the only thing either of them had to do.

PART II

9

Sunday, March 18th, 0012 NE

0332 hours

Norilsk, Russia

The next morning

INHALING A SHARP breath, Scott opened his eyes. Where am I? In front of him and in every direction, there was darkness. It took him a moment to remember he was at Northern Forge, the hidden mountain base next to Norilsk.

Sitting up and closing his eyes, Scott stretched his neck to the side until it popped. He’d been in the middle of the craziest dream moments before he’d woken up. Though its fragments were rapidly fading from his memory, it’d had something to do with Svetlana. Except in the dream, she wasn’t Svetlana. It was just strange—as all dreams were. Just the same, he’d have given anything to return to it. To be lost in a strange dream with the woman he loved was still better than the harsh reality he was actually in. Centering his mind on the present, he placed his bare feet on the icy floor with a wince.

What time is it?

A quick glance at his comm display revealed that it was just past three-thirty in the morning. He’d slept for over twelve hours. As his senses slowly returned, he revisited the hours just before he’d dozed off.

The Fourteenth had arrived at Northern Forge to the icy welcome of Valentin Lukin, the keeper of the hidden Soviet facility. It was a reception that had somehow managed to be colder than his first arrival at Novosibirsk, where Thoor had met him and his comrades in the freezing rain.

David…

Scott remembered that David was in the room with him, or at least he had been when they’d fallen asleep. Everyone in the Fourteenth had paired up in rooms with bunk beds. Scott listened for any signs of life in the bunk above him. There were none. Turning, Scott grabbed hold of the ladder and pulled himself up on his feet, wincing at the pressure that was placed on his injured right thigh. Thankfully, his newly-acquired crutches were nearby. Snagging them blindly in the darkness, he hobbled up to his feet to peer into the top bunk with his slowly adjusting eyes. It was empty. David had already woken up and left somewhere.

A whiff of something caught Scott’s nostrils, causing his face to contort uncomfortably. God, what is that, sewage? He realized a moment later that it was himself. He stunk like sewage. Or more specifically, he stunk like the Suez Canal. Scott had spent the entire firefight in Krasnoyarsk inside the confines of his fulcrum armor. The stench of the Suez had just festered. “Nasty,” he said under his breath.

Maybe that’s why David left.

Scott was wearing the only set of clothes that he had, which was the same EDEN uniform he’d been wearing when he set out to meet Natalie at Cairo before all hell broke loose. That uniform had been soaked with water, sweat, and industrial refuse. He sought out the closet.

God, let there be something here I can wear.

Hanging in the closet was a single white towel, complimented by a pair of white slippers that looked straight out of a hotel. “I guess you’re better than nothing.” At least he had the early morning hours in his favor. He had plenty of time to find something else to wear. Right now, it was shower time. Grabbing the towel and slippers, Scott set out for Northern Forge’s bathing facilities.

Much to Scott’s relief, the halls were devoid of activity. No sound came from any of the rooms around him, nor were there any footsteps in the halls. For all practical purposes, Northern Forge was a tomb, leaving his trek to the closest shower room one of privacy.

There were eight stalls inside the room, all shielded by three walls of tile and a shower curtain, far more than they ever had in Room-14. Though Scott had grown accustomed to total privacy in his officer’s quarters at Novosibirsk, this was at least not a complete step backward.

There was also a bar of soap sitting in one of the stalls, which he supposed was a blessing, though he couldn’t bring himself to be totally thrilled by it. He forced himself to imagine it being brand new, despite the presence of a black, stringy hair that could have come from a chest or someplace much less desirable. Scott removed the hair, scrubbing the bar of soap thoroughly under the showerhead—then thoroughly again—before putting it to use. The fact that there was no shampoo was of little concern to him. The soap would work fine for all parts. Turning up the water’s temperature, he limped under the flow.

It was pure bliss. The moment the warmth covered his body, he closed his eyes and exhaled in ecstasy. The hot water was like a massage for his scalp and back. Setting his hands against the wall, Scott stood under the showerhead to take it all in. In that moment, Northern Forge might as well have been Paradise.

There was a veritable laundry list of things to do today. He needed to check on Centurion, then check on the Falcons. Auric and Catalina were injured. The Pariah was damaged and out of fuel. Svetlana was still somewhere else.

You’d better take good care of her, Oleg.

Even with everything going on around him, Svetlana was still at the forefront of his mind. With Centurion now in the hands of someone else, and with Lilan and his Falcons securely in their custody, Scott could now guiltlessly dedicate his thoughts to her.

I wonder if they made it to Chernobyl, yet. I wonder how long a drive that is. He couldn’t imagine how Svetlana must have felt being surrounded by only Nightmen. At least she’d have Dostoevsky and Varvara, eventually. I don’t even know where Max is. It was dawning on him now just how fractured the Fourteenth was. The only comfort Scott could hold onto was the fact that, at the very least, David, Becan, and Jayden were still with him. The four of them were still one. He was thankful for that.

Smoothing his hair back, he closed his eyes and looked up, allowing the water to hit his face. The heat was rejuvenating. It even managed to diminish the soreness in his thigh. Blowing out a breath and looking away, he wiped his eyes and reached for the soap.

Though the actual cleansing part of Scott’s shower took all of five minutes, he lingered behind the curtain for almost twenty, strictly for its therapeutic nature. Only when his fingers had begun to show signs of serious wrinkling did he turn off the flow and allow himself to air dry. Wrapping the towel around his body and sliding on his slippers, he hobbled out of the bathroom smelling and feeling like a new man.

Apparently, David did, too.

Scott caught sight of his friend as soon as he was back in the hall. The former NYPD officer was literally at the opposite end of the long hallway, walking out of the other bathroom, clad in the same white towel and slippers as Scott. For a moment, the two men stared at each other across the way, surprised expressions on each of their faces as if they’d just looked into funhouse mirrors that’d altered their reflections. Then they both laughed. Approaching one another down the long hall, Scott spoke as they met in the middle. “We must’ve caught the same sale.”

“Yeah, I guess we must’ve,” David said.

“How long were you in there?”

David shrugged. “Twenty, thirty minutes?”

Just about as long as Scott. The two must have missed each other by minutes. “It looks like we just checked into the worst spa in human history.”

Laughing, the older man nodded. “Yeah, well, I’m not putting that old uniform on until its cleaned. It smells like funk.” He smirked. “I hope the laundromat has good detergent.”

Scott concurred. “I can’t think of a better time to track it down than right now.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Together, the two men set off to explore.

It struck Scott as they trekked the empty halls of Northern Forge just how similar this experience was to the first time he and David had met at Richmond. The first thing they’d done after meeting was explore the small base. Here they were again, exploring a base that was even smaller yet vastly less cozy. Northern Forge felt like trespassing on someone else’s property. Perhaps that was due to Valentin’s “welcome.” Perhaps the base would grow on them, as Novosibirsk had grown on them and as Room 14 had grown on them. Time would tell.

They just didn’t have much of it.

Just the same, this was a place that needed to be explored, just as Richmond, Novosibirsk, and even Cairo had. This was home, even if on a temporary basis. They all needed to learn their way around.

Scott and company had already visited the topmost two levels: Level-3, which consisted of the hangar and “heart” of the facility, and Level-4, with the living quarters and medical bay. They could only assume that the forge aspect of the facility was located somewhere on Levels 1 and 2. And so that was where they went.

Level-2 of the facility was general storage. Storage rooms were scattered throughout hallways, some with food supplies, some with bottled water, and most critically to their protection, some with Nightman armor and weapons. There was slayer armor, fulcrum armor, sentry armor. There were even several full sets of EDEN armor that Scott could only assume were there for eidola replication. After being so depleted in the equipment category after their flight from Cairo, Scott could only liken this to finding an oasis of black metal. He’d gladly take it.

He and David also gladly took new uniforms, which were in abundance in several of the rooms. Though nameless and Nightman, the uniforms were better than the filth-endowed outfits the two men had left in the bathrooms. There were likely enough uniforms there to supply the whole of the Fourteenth and Falcons with clothing, as long as none of them minded wearing all-black. Scott doubted anyone would complain. With new pairs of socks and boots to match, Scott and David walked out of the storage section looking like a pair of Ignatius van Thoor’s most dedicated.

At long last, on Level-1, they found the forge. It lived up to its namesake. There were furnaces, rows of assembly lines, work stations, storage rooms dedicated solely to raw materials. There was even a small section dedicated to weapons, complete with a short firing range. Even at the early hours, workers were at their stations, pounding away in the sweltering heat of a dozen furnaces, covered from head to toe with sweat and soot. None of the workers were dressed in Nightman outfits, leading Scott and David to wonder if the Nightman presence near Norilsk was just as much that of an employer as that of a military cult. Regardless, the number of work stations and potential workers for them—at least during the daylight hours—was formidable. They must have been able to pump out weapons and armor at will.

Throughout the whole of their walk, Scott and David discussed the Fourteenth’s situation, from their status as the world’s most wanted to their missing members, Svetlana in particular. It was the first time that Scott could remember David having no practical wisdom to offer—only the somber acknowledgment that the situation they were in was far worse than any of them truly realized. In particular, David brought up their families, who were no doubt being questioned about the Fourteenth’s actions and whereabouts. The absence of emotion from David was what scared Scott the most. There was simply none there. It was as if they had reached a level where sadness and remorse were no longer of any intrinsic benefit. They were simply at a place where things had to be dealt with, and nothing else mattered.

Scott had his own concerns in the realm of family: his younger brother, Mark. He hadn’t spoken to Mark since his fall from grace and the murder of Sergei Steklov, which seemed like an eternity ago. But Mark was still his brother. Was he going to be detained by EDEN? Used as leverage? Or worse, was he going to believe that his big brother was truly a traitor? Mark was only going to see what was on the news, and what was on the news was that Scott was the leader of a terrorist group. The thought of Mark believing that was unbearable.

Mark didn’t even know that Scott was a Nightman. Scott had broken off communication with Mark after his fall, but he’d never told Mark about the fall. He’d only expressed his desire to lead his post-Nicole life by himself—alone. It was his way of never having to confess what he’d done to his younger brother. It was only now, when the situation demanded that he think about it, that he realized how wrong his approach had been. He should have told Mark what had happened, even if it meant Mark would have hated him for it.

You were never protecting Mark by not telling him the truth. You were running from your responsibility as the only father figure he had left.

Deep in Scott’s stomach, a tortuous knot twisted. He was such a fool.

David’s voice interrupted Scott’s self-loathing. “I wonder if we can get these forge workers to give some armor to Jayden, Esther, and Boris.”

“We took these uniforms, right?” Scott asked. “I doubt they’d even notice a few sets of armor missing.” There was no question that with the excess of armor here, no one would miss a handful of sets—particularly with Novosibirsk having fallen at the hands of EDEN. Scott wondered if these workers even knew about that. “Everyone you see here might have just lost their jobs.”

“Yeah, they might have.”

Snagging a dirty-faced worker as he trundled by, Scott asked in Russian, “Is there any armor here that a woman could wear? Even if it’s EDEN armor.” It was Esther who was in Scott’s mind with the question. He’d seen several sets of EDEN armor in the storage rooms, but none of them were small enough for the scout to fit into.

The worker’s mouth hung open in a stupor. Finally, he shook his head. “I don’t know. You would have to speak with the forge master.”

“The forge master, great—thank you so much, again.” Nodding politely, Scott bid the worker farewell then turned back to David to translate. “He said we can take some armor, but if we want anything Esther can wear, we need to talk to the forge master.”

“Yeah, I picked up about half of that,” David said. “He didn’t happen to say where we can find this guy, did he?”

Frowning, Scott answered, “No, but I’d imagine he’d stand out. I mean, you’ve got the word master in your title—you ought to look a little different, right?”

“The guy might not even be here yet. It’s what? Four o’clock in the morning?”

Scott looked at his comm. “It’s actually just past five.”

Eyes widening in surprise, David simply said, “Wow.”

“Which means,” Scott continued, “the rest of the crew’s going to be waking up soon. If they’re not up already.” The most crucial day any of them had ever faced was about to begin. Their plan—whatever it was they were to do next—would be determined today. There was no time to waste. “The forge master can wait. Let’s find Valentin Lukin.” Scott’s first encounter with the keeper of Northern Forge would have to be forcibly forgiven.

Today, all things started anew.

*

“Jayden?”

The Texan’s eyelids twitched from atop the covers of his lower bunk. In the bunk above him, Becan was still snoring. Not even the persistent rattle of a loose air conditioning vent had caused either man to stir until then.

Again, the voice addressed him. “Jayden?” At the hesitant touch of fingertips on his bare shoulder, Jayden opened his eyes with a startled snort. “Shhh,” the intruder said from her crouched position beside his bed. Squinting in the darkness, he turned his head to look at her. It was Esther. In her other hand was a white towel.

“Wha?” he mumbled.

“It’s okay, it’s just me,” she whispered.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he scratched his head. “Hey, baby,” the Texan said groggily.

Her brown eyes winced. “I hate to wake you up, but I kind of need your help.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said in his deep, half-asleep voice. “Whatever you need.”

“I, umm,” she said, falling quiet for a moment as she too seemed to be searching for words. At long last, behind the veil of an embarrassed smile, she found them. “I need you to…guard me while I take a shower.” He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “There are two shower rooms here, and they are both completely full of men right now. Sooo, yeah. I was wondering if you’d play the role of lookout, particularly considering I’ve only a towel to wrap myself in.”

For several seconds, the Texan stared at her, until an eager look came over his face. He sat upright. “Yeah!” he said, lowering his voice a moment later after a quick glance to the upper bunk. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Esther smiled. Even in the darkness, her pearly whites shone beneath her tangled wreck of an inverted bob haircut. “Easy, cowboy. You’re just a lookout.”

“Yeah, no,” Jayden said, pushing off the bed, “I know what you mean.” Standing beside her, he reached for his eye patch and cowboy hat, the latter of which had been sitting on the nightstand. He set it firmly atop his head. “I won’t let nobody get to ya.”

“I know you won’t. That’s why I’m here.”

He held his hands out in an offer to take the towel. Esther accepted. Quietly so they didn’t wake the Irishman, the two operatives slipped out of the room.

As Esther had claimed, the halls were alive with the groggy bumbling of Northern Forge’s staff, many of whom were on their way toward one of the two bathrooms at each end of the living quarter’s long central corridor, and all of whom were indeed male. Opting for the shower room nearest them, which also happened to be one drawing the lesser of the two crowds, Jayden and Esther opened the door and eased inside.

It became immediately apparent why a lookout was needed. As soon as the mocha-skinned Briton appeared, the whole of the shower room’s occupants turned in her direction. There was no attempt to mask their staring.

“This is why you’re here,” Esther said through her teeth, her lips showing no sign of movement. Reaching out for him, she wrapped her arm around his waist, wincing only somewhat when her hurt shoulder tugged him.

“C’mon,” said the Texan, easing her in. “Let’s find a stall somewhere away.”

As fortune had it, there was indeed a stall suitable for a woman to shower in. It was located at the very end of one of the rows and actually offset around a corner by itself—an oddity that simply followed the room’s natural architecture and ended up in a cove of sorts. It wasn’t total privacy—it was more like being seated in the corner booth of a restaurant—but it was better than being in the middle of everything. Just the same, it didn’t prevent the other occupants of the room from craning their necks to see where the exotic woman and the one-eyed cowboy had disappeared to.

As Esther stepped behind the curtain and pulled it shut, Jayden stood post just outside, leaning against the tile post that the curtain was connected to. Sliding his hands into his pockets, the Texan blew out a long, quiet sigh.

“Hey,” said Esther from behind the curtain.

Jayden quickly stood erect. “Yeah?”

“There’s no soap here. Or shampoo, or anything.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Jayden answered, “Hang on, I’ll check some of the other stalls, see if someone forgot theirs.”

“Okay.”

Meandering around the corner and away from Esther’s stall, the Texan tuned his ears to pick out stalls that lacked any sounds of water splashing. There were several, and after a quick glance in each of them before they were claimed, he indeed came across a lone shampoo bottle left on one of their ledges. He returned to Esther’s stall, easing open the curtain just enough to pass the bottle inside. “No soap, but I found this.”

“I’ll make it work. You’re the best.”

“I try.”

She smiled. “I know.” There was a squeaking of rusty metal, followed by a cascade of water splashing against the floor. Jayden watched as Esther’s bare feet pressed against the side of the curtain. “God, that’s cold!” Several seconds of silence passed before she asked, “What was that sigh about?”

Angling his head, Jayden asked, “What sigh?”

“When I first stepped in here, I heard you sigh.” She quietly laughed. “I’m a scout, you know. It was all long and drawn out.”

His good eye growing distant, the Texan didn’t offer an answer. He simply continued staring at the floor.

On the other side of the curtain, Esther’s brown eyes narrowed. Though the water from the shower was now steaming with heat, she remained in place next to Jayden, separated only by the thin sheet of plastic. “Jay?”

At long last, he answered. “I don’t know. I guess I’m like…am I really your boyfriend now?”

A puzzled look came over her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, with everything goin’ on. With what happened in Cairo, and now how we’re on the run. I guess I’m like, you know, can we still do this?” As if needing to correct himself, he said quickly, “I mean, I really, really want to. But…” His words trailed off.

Esther remained still. “But what?”

“Do you really like me enough to be with me through all this?”

Though he couldn’t see it, she shot a look at him from behind the curtain. “What in the world would possess you to ask me a question like that? Do you think I’m just playing with you like a toy?”

“No, no, no,” he said quickly, fidgeting against the tile. “I just worry that, you know, you’re not gonna feel like, or you’re not gonna have time, you know, to…whatever.”

“To whatever?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.

The Texan sighed again. “I don’t know what I’m tryin’ to say.” Looking down again, he kicked the corner gently with his boot. “I was just kinda excited.”

Very slowly, Esther’s smile crept out. “Excited about us?”

“Yeah…”

Her pupils dilating, Esther leaned her head close to the curtain. When no more words came from the other side, she rolled her eyes. “Keep talking!”

Jayden stood upright. “I just wish we’d done this sooner. Back at Novosibirsk, back when we had time to do everything. I feel like I finally got a girl who is…”

Once more, Esther leaned closer. Silence fell again. Her face fell deadpanned. “Seriously?” she mouthed silently to herself. “Jayden Timmons, finish your sodding sentences.”

Leaning back around the corner briefly, Jayden looked to see if anyone was paying them mind. With their being out of the crowd’s view for several minutes, focus had shifted away. Their privacy was intact. The Texan returned to the curtain. “A girl who is everything I ever wanted.”

Out of his view, Esther was motioning with her hands for him to continue. When he went on, she leaned back and mouthed, “Thank you!”

“She’s funny. She’s so smart. She’s drop-dead beautiful.”

Closing her eyes, the Briton smiled.

“She’s the kind of girl I never thought would take a likin’ to me.” As the world behind him faded away, his voice grew softer. “I don’t know what took me so long to see you like I see you now. It’s kind of like that whole thing with Varya had to happen so I could open my eyes and see what I really wanted. And it’s you.”

Eyes still shut, Esther drew in a breath.

“Also, you gettin’ drunk was a factor.”

At that, her eyes opened flatly. She gave the curtain a “Really?” look.

The Texan laughed a bit himself, then went on. “You know what I was thinkin’? You know how they always like to give couples nicknames, like mixin’ up their first names? I was thinkin’ with Jayden and Esther, they’d call us Jester.”

Dragging a hand down her face, she too managed a pitiful smile. “You are so hopeless.”

“What’d I do?”

“You were doing so well. You were romantic for two whole seconds. Then you talked about beer and named us Jester.”

Sighing, Jayden said, “Man, I’m sorry. I’m such a goober.”

“And then you said goober, which is another word that should never come up when you’re turning me on.”

A distinctive pause arose. “I was turnin’ you on?”

She mm-hmm-ed. “Was being the operative word.”

“Well hang on, I didn’t know that.”

“Obviously.”

His voice grew more determined. “Let me try again.”

Crossing her arms and smirking, Esther said, “I don’t know, Jay, you’ve steered pretty far off course.”

“Are you nekkid back there?”

Her eyes widened with a mixture of coyness and shock. “Nekkid…is what a toddler is.”

“Are you?”

“No, I haven’t undressed yet—” She barely had time to finish the statement before the curtain was pulled open. Inhaling, Esther was forced back into the shower, the water spraying against the back of her neck as Jayden stepped forward. “What are you doing?”

Closing the curtain behind them, Jayden turned to face her fully. The look in Esther’s eyes was part eagerness and part fear. It was fully tuned-in. With his cowboy hat still on his head, Jayden reached forward with his right hand, snaking his arm around her waist as she gazed in confusion. “C’mere,” he said quietly, pulling her against him as his left hand gently took hold of hers. Lifting it and holding it out, he maneuvered her into position. “Like this.”

It took several seconds of swaying for Esther to realize they were slow dancing. When it came to her, her brown eyes settled on him. For a moment, the scout became lost.

“Now this, I can do,” he said. Pressing her in against him, Jayden swayed her small body back and forth with as much freedom as the stall would permit. Though the water flowed warmly down Esther’s back, her gaze never wavered. It was solely on him.

“Can I tell you somethin’?” Jayden asked as he led her. Her silence begged yes. “You’re like a little dream. You come to me in the middle of the night, you bat them pretty lashes, then you take me with you. And now I’m here lookin’ at you, in that little soakin’ wet number, and I’m thinkin’ to myself, dang. If I never woke up, that’d be all right.”

Esther’s midsection tensed as Jayden’s natural progression inward guided the shower spray up her neck, to just under her hairline. Still, her brown eyes never moved.

The Texan stopped swaying. “You’re my little dream, Esther. I’m gonna hold onto you for as long as I can.” Dipping his cowboy hat forward, he angled his head close. “I’m gonna kiss you.”

Barely audibly behind a veil of trembling breathlessness, Esther whispered, “Okay.”

Jayden’s hand slid up the small of Esther’s back until his fingers slipped beneath the wet strands at the back of her scalp. Holding her there gently, he eased her in toward him. Esther’s eyes closed dizzily; she parted her lips.

There was nothing forceful about the caress that came when their lips touched. There was nothing roguish or brazen. The scout simply found herself eased backward, her head kept from the spray of the showerhead by the brim of the brown cowboy hat that sheltered her from the storm. Placing her hand against his chest, her dripping fingers traced the edge of his uniform. When he gently pulled his lips away, she asked him, “When did you become such a man?” Taking hold of the zipper at the top of his uniform, she slowly began pulling it down. When he placed his hand over hers, the motion stopped.

“Play nice, now,” he said.

“But I’m not nice.”

Beneath his black eye patch, the Texan smirked. “Not yet, you ain’t. But I’ll make a respectable woman out of ya.”

Esther arched an amused eyebrow.

Sliding her hand back into slow dancing position, Jayden said, “Best things come to those who wait.”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Did you wait with Varya?”

“Maybe I did.”

Her eyes narrowed disbelievingly. “No, you didn’t.”

“Maybe I learned a lot with Varya,” said Jayden. “Maybe I learned there’s a time to rush in and a time to hold back.”

Angling her head just slightly, Esther said, “Maybe I don’t want to hold back. Maybe,” she said, dipping her head and peering into his good eye, “I just want you. Do you have a plan for that?”

The Texan didn’t answer her question. He simply let go of her hand, reached up, and picked his cowboy hat up and off his head. Esther’s shelter from the shower was gone. She held her breath and closed her eyes as the water hit her scalp, pressing her inverted bob down over her forehead. “Mm,” she said as liquid streamed down her face. “I see.” Before another word could be uttered, and much to the scout’s surprise, she felt Jayden’s hand as it cradled the back of her head. Opening her eyes abruptly, only to close them a moment later, she once again fell into his kiss, fighting to hold onto her breath as the Texan took it away. Then, as suddenly as they were there, Jayden’s lips were gone. Opening her eyes through the streams that trailed down, Esther watched as Jayden slowly backed away.

“We’ll get there, señorita,” the Texan said. He turned for the curtain. “Nice and slow.”

Throwing her hands up, Esther replied, “The bloody world is trying to kill us!”

“Welp,” he said, stepping out, then sliding the curtain back, “more incentive to survive. Now go wash that pretty hair of yours.”

Setting one hand on her hip and the other on her forehead, Esther shook her head. “I have finally met someone more mystifying than me.” Leaning her head back to let the water hit her face, she leveled it again then smoothed her hair back with both hands. “Señorita,” she whispered mockingly. “Since when do you say señorita?” Stepping out from under the water, she snatched the bottle of shampoo.

10

Sunday, March 18th, 0012 NE

0718 hours

Norilsk, Russia

BY THE TIME 0700 rolled around, the whole of the Fourteenth had awoken, showered, and donned their borrowed Nightman uniforms—including Esther, who’d managed to find one small enough to fit into, finally allowing her to rid herself of the black maxi dress that had ushered in catastrophe in Cairo. Just the same, the pearl necklace and earrings were put back in place in an effort to look at least somewhat classy, and the scout’s hair, though damp, was as close to resembling a messy inverted bob as it was going to get in the space and time allowed. As for the men, looks mattered little. They were simply pleased to have slept and gotten clean.

Despite the much needed freshening up, breakfast was a somber affair, with the members of the Fourteenth sitting dispersed in the small eating area, either alone or in small groupings. Just the same, it allowed them the opportunity to observe the occupants of Northern Forge at close range—and it was there that the biggest surprise came.

Few of Northern Forge’s occupants were Nightman. On the contrary, most of them seemed to be civilians. There were metal workers, custodians, even a line chef. To be sure, there were some Nightmen present, but they were vastly outnumbered by grizzled, blue-collar workers. The question this prompted was obvious: where had they come from? Thanks to eavesdropping on the part of Boris, the Fourteenth got an answer.

The workers came from the city. More specifically, they came from an underground tram system that ran from Norilsk to Northern Forge, straight beneath the mountain itself. The tram system must have been in the original concept for the Soviet facility. It made sense. There was no feasible way that Northern Forge could exist with total self-sufficiency. Food, drink, supplies, these all needed to come from somewhere, and flying in and out of a mountainside hangar wasn’t exactly the most efficient means of running to the store. This was good news. It meant the Fourteenth wasn’t trapped inside the mountain. They could escape to the city through the tram system if the need ever arose.

The only problem came in regards to the workers themselves. With the world declaring war on the Nightmen, would the citizens of Norilsk disclose the location of the base to the authorities? While there was no way to know, it was encouraging to see a total lack of concern among the workers. They ate and laughed amongst their company as if this was a normal day at the mine. Perhaps they didn’t know what was going on in the rest of the world. Perhaps they didn’t care. At some point, it would certainly become an issue, particularly when the inevitable financial crash of the Nightmen occurred. These people surely weren’t working for free, and with the Nightmen falling apart, the sect’s ability to pay wouldn’t be far behind. How long would their secrecy there last? Fortunately, in that moment at the breakfast table, it didn’t matter.

Breakfast consisted of simple ham, eggs, and toast, all of which seemed to be cooked decently enough, not that Scott would have complained about any kind of hot meal at this point. With his tray of food being carried by Esther while he was on crutches, Scott sought out a seat in the eating area. The room itself wasn’t comparable to cafeterias like in Richmond and Novosibirsk, but it was still quite packed. There were six long tables in all, each surrounded by chairs that were mostly occupied. It didn’t take Scott long to find a seat, however, as Rashid Faraj had been watching Scott the whole time in line. As soon as Scott noticed him, Rashid nodded, then glanced at some empty chairs across from him. Message received. Quickening his pace as best his crutches could allow, he sat down across from the Turkish fulcrum, followed by Esther, who sat at Scott’s right with a tray of food for both of them.

Rashid’s arm, which had been shot in Krasnoyarsk, was wrapped tightly in a sling. Scott didn’t know the extent of the damage or how long the Turk would be out of commission, but at the very least, it wasn’t going to be an injury that would keep him out of the loop. That he was sitting there eating breakfast one-handed said enough. The veteran fulcrum would tough things out.

Suddenly, a third party member rushed to the chair at Scott’s left, clumsily plopping his tray down as he slid into the chair. It was the young slayer who’d invited himself along with them in Krasnoyarsk. As Esther sighed and rubbed her face, Scott stared at him. “Would you please tell me who you are, and why you’re even here?”

Extending his hand and grinning like an idiot, the blond-haired teenager said, “Pyotr Alkaev, at your service! I helped Esther escape from Krasnoyarsk.”

“Of course you did,” Esther murmured, hand covering her face.

“I am here to help you with whatever you need me to do!”

Looking more than mildly annoyed, Rashid observed the exchange in silence.

“Look,” Scott said to Pyotr, “I appreciate it, I appreciate whatever it was that you did in Krasnoyarsk, but we’re fine. You shouldn’t have come with us.”

“No, but I needed to,” Pyotr said, “and you needed me to. I am very good with all things, I can be big, big help to you. Anything you need, right? You tell Pyotr, and he will get it.”

This kid didn’t get it. “We don’t need anything, Pyotr. Just—”

“We have a dog, and he needs to be walked,” said Esther, still in the same position. “He’s in my room. Go.”

Pyotr looked at her, confused. “A dog?”

“Yes, a dog. Go, quickly. He’s going to spiz all over my sheets.”

Opening his mouth as if verging on a question, Pyotr swallowed then said, “Yes, umm. I will walk the dog. Umm.” He looked at his tray. “Can I eat first—”

“No.”

Frowning, Pyotr stood up, leaving his tray abandoned on the table. “Very good. Pyotr is happy to walk your dog. I will do this for you, beautiful Esther!”

Scott raised an eyebrow. Esther did not. Turning away from the table, Pyotr hurriedly walked away from them. Casting a sidelong glance at Esther, Scott asked, “‘Beautiful Esther?’”

The scout eyed him flatly. “Do not even.”

“You’re going to let him go to your room like that?”

Shaking her head, Esther answered, “My room is locked. I have the key in my bra.”

“I feel like we should tip him.”

“Everyone has chores.”

Across from Scott and Esther, Rashid cleared his throat loudly. The two looked his way. “Sorry,” Scott said. “What’s up, man?”

“We have been discussing our situation,” Rashid said, motioning to the man sitting next to him.

It wasn’t until that moment that Scott realized the man next to him was Feliks Petrukhin—otherwise known as Four. It was the first time anyone besides Rashid had seen one of the slayers from the Cairo extraction team outside their armor. Sensing that his surprise was obvious, Scott said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize who you were.”

“It is good to meet you face to face, captain.” Feliks wore an expression that could have been mistaken for disinterest had the slayer not been looking directly at Scott, obviously putting effort in his focus. He had orange-red hair that was almost Becan-like in its wildness. Light facial hair and droopy gray eyes completed a face that would surely not be forgotten. There seemed some roguishness there, buried beneath Feliks’ Nightman exterior. Rashid, the dark-brown-eyed, olive-skinned elder, couldn’t have been more of a contrast.

Continuing where he’d left off, Rashid leaned forward on the table and said, “At this point in our operation, we are no longer bound to remain with you, as per Antipov’s instruction. However, as is obvious, we are all in this situation together. We are specialists—we do not have a designated unit. If it is desirable for you, even if for the time being, we will join the Fourteenth as a part of its crew.”

It wasn’t exactly a decree of undying loyalty. It sounded more like a mix of necessity and convenience. “Well, the first question I’d have,” Scott said, “is, is it desirable for you?”

No answer immediately came from the two men. They simply exchanged a brief look before Rashid went on. “It is neither desirable or undesirable. It is a matter of logic. We are here. At this time, we cannot go home. Therefore, it only makes sense that we would join your unit in an official capacity, though obviously that choice is yours.”

Esther asked, “What happens when an opportunity to leave us presents itself? More than numbers, right now we need trust.”

“Trust, you will have,” answered Rashid. “Any departure on our part would not occur without discussion. You are on a critical mission—we recognize that, even if we are not privy to all of its details.” The Turk’s attention returned to Scott. “But only you can decide if having us would be a benefit.”

“It would absolutely be a benefit,” said Scott without pause. “We need you guys right now. I don’t know what we’d have done without you. We’d be dead back at Cairo.”

Rashid’s expression remained stoic. “You would. But Cairo was not your assignment to give us. It was Antipov’s.”

None of that mattered to Scott. “Well as far as I’m concerned, you’re a part of the team. What do you need from us in order for that to work?”

“Nothing,” Rashid answered. “I do not require a share of your unit’s command. I will serve as your counsel when it is requested.”

“You’d just give up your right to leadership?” Esther asked. “You’d give up your power as a fulcrum? Color me skeptical.”

Shifting his dark eyes to her, he said, “It may provide context to know that this was to be my final operation. Upon the return of your team and the Ceratopian to Novosibirsk, I was to be granted retirement.”

Scott’s eyes widened somewhat. Well, that’s certainly new information.

“I am as capable as any fulcrum,” Rashid said, “but I will not try to deceive you. My bones hurt, Captain Remington. A change in the weather causes pain in my joints, and I cannot imagine this new bullet wound will make things any easier. I have lost the ambition of youth to lead soldiers into battle. I am content to simply do my job.” Very faintly, he tipped his head toward Scott. “You will not have chain-of-command issues with me.”

It was honesty that Scott appreciated, especially now. He extended his hand to the Turk’s good one. “Then we won’t have any issues at all. Welcome aboard, Faraj.” He looked at the other man. “Feliks.” As Rashid shook Scott’s hand, Feliks nodded expressionlessly.

“What is our first order of business?” Rashid asked.

“Not repeating Thoor’s mistake,” answered Scott. When Rashid looked at him curiously, Scott went on. “The late general had Lilan in his custody for days when Novosibirsk was attacked. I think he wanted to let EDEN hang themselves—to let them talk about Novosibirsk’s guilt over and over, then to drop the survivor bomb on them.” He glanced at Esther briefly. “I don’t think anyone thought EDEN would actually attack The Machine.”

Rashid nodded his head—he was following along. “Then we must prepare Colonel Lilan for a statement immediately. We must expose him to the press and show the world that EDEN was lying.”

“They’ll have a hard time whitewashing that,” said Scott.

Canting her head his way, Esther asked, “But don’t you think they’ll find a way to anyway? Think of how they managed to set the Nightmen up with Falcon Platoon. Surely they went into that with a contingency plan in the event Lilan survived.”

“Not if they were overconfident,” said Rashid, “as was General Thoor.”

“The general was a blusterer,” she said. “Bluster is easily thwarted by action. I’m not saying we shouldn’t get the news of Lilan’s survival out there as quickly as possible. Obviously, that’s the right course. I’m just saying be prepared for a counter. I don’t think EDEN will be as easily caught off guard as the ‘Terror of Amsterdam.’”

She had a solid point. If EDEN managed to somehow deflect the blow of Lilan’s survival, the Fourteenth needed to be able to respond to it. They needed as much evidence of wrongdoing on EDEN’s part as they could find.

“Hmm,” Esther said.

Scott looked at her. “What is it?”

Her gaze trailing to the tabletop in deep thought, she answered, “H`laar, and by association Centurion, were obviously important for something they knew. I wonder if Ju`bajai knows what that might have been.”

“Ju`bajai? The Ithini? But I mean, she wasn’t a part of it, right?”

Shaking her head, Esther answered, “No, but she’s a clever little sprite. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if she poked around in Centurion’s head—particularly if she thought he might be dying and whatever he knew might be lost.”

Another solid idea. “We’ll talk to her.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Esther corrected. “She may be more keen to listen to me than to you—no offense.”

He half-frowned. “Some taken.”

“I’ll find out what she knows and let you know. She knows Centurion is of value. I’m sure she must’ve at least wondered why at some point.”

Sitting upright in his chair, Rashid said, “So we speak with the keeper about bringing Lilan into the public, and she will speak with the Ithini about the Ceratopian. Are these our only tasks at present?”

No. There was another task on Scott’s heart: he hadn’t heard from Antipov about Svetlana, yet. He was hoping to have received an update sometime during the morning hours, but none had come. Scott still had no idea where Svetlana was. But was that even appropriate to bring up when so many other big-picture issues were on the table? Fortunately for Scott, Esther brought it up so he didn’t have to.

“There are several members of our crew who are missing,” the scout said, her brown eyes on Rashid. “Matthew Axen and Svetlana Voronova, primarily. Those names may not mean much to the two of you, but they do to the Fourteenth.”

Esther referring to Svetlana as meaningful? Scott was impressed.

“It’s critical to us, if not to the mission, that we find out where they are.”

Looking briefly at Feliks, Rashid’s focus returned to the two across the table. “I am not sure there is a practical way to find out that information.”

Esther didn’t disagree. “There may not be. But just know that it’s something we’re dealing with. Any solutions would be greatly appreciated should you think of them.”

“Thank you, Ess,” Scott said quietly.

Eyeing him coyly, she smirked. “I’ve got your back. And yes, that tart of yours, too.”

Rashid arched one of his pointy eyebrows, but said nothing.

“And,” Esther said, “we need to be restocked.”

Now that, Scott could chime in on. “We’re actually already working on that. Dave and I went to the forge earlier. We’re pretty confident we’ll be able to snag armor for everyone, we just need to talk to the forge master.”

“Oh…my God,” Esther said.

Scott blinked, until he realized the scout wasn’t responding to what he’d said. Her gaze was aimed straight across the dining hall, to the doors. It was Pyotr. The teenage slayer was walking awkwardly into the dining hall, with Flopper in his arms. Half of the room turned to stare.

“I walked him in the showers!” Pyotr said, only moments before Flopper’s paws flailed in an effort to escape. The teenager stumbled and fell as the pooch scrambled from his grasp.

Scott asked Esther sidelong, “I thought you said your door was locked?”

“It was,” she said through her teeth. “Did he break into my room?”

Flopper scampered out of the dining hall, his paws digging out as he fled down the hall. Scrambling to his feet, Pyotr gave chase, disappearing as the doors swung shut behind him.

Rashid turned to Scott. “That one concerns me.”

Scott sighed. “Yeah, you’re not the only one.” Glancing at Esther, who was staring slack-jawed, Scott nudged her in the side. “You going to go get him, or what?”

“If you make it a question,” she said, “the answer’s going to be—”

“Go get him.”

The scout narrowed her eyes. Pushing back from her chair, she abandoned their table to chase Pyotr and Flopper.

After several seconds of silence, Rashid looked at Scott and said, “You have a very interesting unit.”

Shaking his head, Scott said, “You don’t know the half of it.”

*

“That’s not the one!”

From the crawlspace beneath the Pariah’s troop bay floorboards, Boris could hear Travis shouting to him. Grunting as he shifted his belly-down position to reach his voltmeter, the Russian technician hollered back, “I have not done anything yet!”

In the cockpit, Travis leaned in to get a closer look at the transport’s digital readout. The pilot raised an eyebrow. “It shows a secondary line was just unplugged!”

Finally wriggling the voltmeter to where he was, Boris inserted the test probes into one of the main line inputs. “I did not unplug anything! It must be a glitch.”

Rubbing his hair with his hands, Travis blew out a breath and murmured to himself, “This thing sure has a lot of glitches.”

“All readings good!” Boris yelled from beneath the floorboards. “The problem with the vertical thrusters is not from here!”

“If it’s not coming from there, where’s it coming from?” The question was asked mainly to himself, as Travis sighed and shook his head. Nothing about the Pariah ever made sense.

Immediately after waking up and eating breakfast, the pair of friends made their way straight to the hangar to do a thorough inspection of the damaged Vulture. Though it had taken its fair share of bullets in the dogfight with the Superwolves, most of the shots had merely hit metal. The only internal systems that were affected at all were the vertical thrusters and forward landing gear. Everything else—or what little there was in the stripped-down Vulture—checked out fine.

“I have power all the way from primary systems to thruster control!” Boris said. “There has to be a problem with the thrusters themselves.”

“But the thrusters weren’t hit,” Travis yelled back, rising from the pilot’s seat to walk back into the troop bay. He knelt down by the removed floor panel that Boris had crawled into. “It’s not getting a feed from somewhere.”

Pulling himself into view with a grunt, Boris pushed his mop of black hair from his face and looked up at Travis. “I checked everything from the housing connectors to the primary feed—there is power throughout.”

“That just doesn’t make sense. Could it be a damaged sensor?”

The technician shrugged. “Could be.”

“That would explain…” For a moment, the pilot fell silent in thought. Nodding emphatically and gesturing with his fist, he rose to his feet again. “Yeah, that would explain a lot. Maybe that secondary drop I just saw, too.”

Sighing, Boris said, “I will check the sensors.”

“If that’s the case, that’s easy. They might even have some spare sensors lying around here, somewhere.” Travis walked back into the cockpit and leaned over the controls. “What other systems run through those same sensors?”

“Uhhh.” For several seconds, Boris fell silent. “Autopilot?”

Travis bit his lip, half shaking his head. “But this thing is so stripped down,” he said once more to himself. “Hey, what about…” He cut himself off mid-phrase. “No, we don’t have that, either.”

“None of the bullets hit anywhere near the thruster inputs, so it would make sense that a sensor was damaged somewhere else!” Boris said. “I am almost to the panel. I will check and see.”

“Hey,” yelled Travis, “do you think it’s possible that she just jostled something loose with all that crazy flying she did? What if the problem wasn’t caused by a bullet?”

The technician’s grunts grew louder as he went deeper into the crawlspace. He was almost under the cockpit now. “That would be big coincidence! You have flown crazy sometimes and nothing has come loose.”

Rubbing his chin in thought, Travis said, “It’s possible something just loosened over time, and she gave things just enough of a jiggle to jar it free. Right?”

“Anything is possible!”

“I bet that’s it. I bet that loony blonde broke our ship.”

Beneath the cockpit, Boris laughed. “Small price to pay for saving our lives, no?”

“You know,” Travis said, “if we would’ve surrendered, we might not be stuck in this mountain hellhole. Do you have any idea how close she was to getting us all killed?”

“But I thought you said during flight that surrender was bad? You sound jealous!”

Travis’s eyes narrowed. “Jealous, my tail. What she did worked, but it was insane.”

“Sensor looks fine!” Boris yelled. Grunting, he once again contorted to reach his tools. “Let me look at diagnostic.”

“I kind of feel like…” The pilot bit his lip. “I dunno. I guess it’s hard to imagine anyone else flying this ship other than me.” He sighed. “But if someone’s gotta do it, I guess Tiffany isn’t half bad.” He placed his hand atop the cockpit dashboard, a sentimental expression appearing on his face. “You okay with Tiffany, old girl?”

Through a straining voice, Boris said, “Diagnostic looks good!” A moment later, a series of loud, metal-to-metal bangs emerged.

Sitting upright, Travis looked at the floorboard. “What the heck are you doing?”

Between bangs, Boris said, “When it doubt, beat it out!”

“You know, that doesn’t actually work.”

“First time for everything!”

Another series of loud clangs reverberated. The dashboard in front of Travis illuminated. His eyes widening, the pilot stared at the display. “Whoa, whoa! Stop!” The clanging subsided. “They’re on!” Cycling through the diagnostic display, Travis looked at the vertical thruster readout. “How did you…?”

“Ah-ha! One point for the technician! There is a loose connection in the sensor mount—we will have to take it apart to fix it.” Once again, he awkwardly moved back toward the troop bay. “You were probably right about it being loosened over time! So one point for us both.”

As the damage indicator lit up again, Travis frowned. “And, it’s out again.” There was a hesitation from below, as one final bang rang out. Vertical thruster control came back online. “Yeah, this is definitely not gonna cut it. That whole system needs to be replaced.”

“Maybe the ship needs to be replaced!”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that.”

Boris chuckled. “We will fly her as long as she lets us.”

“No doubt,” said Travis as he curled his fingers around the joystick, just for sentiment’s sake. “This ship’s been through hell and back on numerous occasions. We wouldn’t be the Fourteenth without her.”

His fingers emerging from the displaced floor panel to pull himself out by its edges, Boris said, “But we are not the Fourteenth, anymore. We are outlaws! Yippee pow-wow!”

Releasing the joystick, Travis rose from his seat to walk back into the troop bay. “We’ll always be the Fourteenth. And it’s ki-yay.”

“What?”

“Yippee ki-yay. A pow wow is what Indians do.”

The greasy, mop-haired technician climbed out of the hole. “If you say.” Once he’d emerged fully, Boris laid on his back and blew out a breath, staring up at the ceiling before closing his eyes. “That is a small hole.”

“All right, so, at least we figured out what the deal is, mostly.” Holding out his hand for Boris to grab, Travis yanked the technician up to his feet. “Now we just have to explain it to Scott in the best way possible come meeting time. Which means a lot of small words.”

“You think we will have a meeting soon?” Boris asked.

Travis nodded. “Hopefully. I’d imagine so. There’s a lot we have to talk about.”

Smiling, Boris said, “Good! I like meetings. We always leave them so happy.”

As the Russian walked toward the open bay door, Travis set his hands on his hips and stared at him from behind. After a moment of silence, he asked, “How can you be so relaxed right now? We’re the most wanted people on the planet.”

Boris pivoted to face his friend. “It is good to be wanted!”

“Not this kind of wanted.” His expression grew serious. “I mean it, man. What’s up with you?”

“I am happy to be alive. In Cairo, I thought I might not survive the escape. I have never felt so close to…whatever it would have been, death or capture.” His smile widened. “But we escaped. And now we are here.” As Travis approached him, Boris stepped down the rear bay ramp and waited for it to close. “I am not worried about what my family thinks. They know me. They will know that I would not do something that would bring so much dishonor to them or to myself. If nothing else, they will just pray for me or wish me well.” The two trekked across the hangar toward the doorway to Level-3. “All of my life, I have wanted to do something that matters. Now, I get to do that. It may not make any sense to anyone else, but this is exciting to me—this is the first thing I have done that is so important.”

Giving him a look as they crossed the threshold into the base, Travis said, “This isn’t the first thing you’ve done that’s important.”

“Perhaps not, but still nothing compares. This is big stuff! I am proud to be a part of it.”

At that, Travis stopped. Looking at the technician with an expression akin to awe, he simply shook his head and said, “That’s kind of an amazing thing to say.”

Boris tilted his head. “Is it? The world knows our names, friend! I know that in time, they will know that in what we did, we meant the best.” His grin returned. “Then we will stop being infamous and just be famous. Cars and women! Everything we dream for, right?” he asked, nudging Travis with his elbow.

Laughing a bit, Travis answered, “It’s gonna take a lot more than cars and women to make this one feel worth it.”

“In time, we will all be heroes. That is what I keep telling myself, and it makes me feel better. It will make you feel better, too.” Looking ahead again, Boris marched straight on toward the lounge. “I am going to look for a chess board—something to kill the time before the meeting you say we will have. Do you want to join me?”

“I think I’m actually gonna just head to the room,” the pilot answered. “Get my head right, figure out how I’m gonna present all this.”

Slyly, Boris smirked. “You should go visit Tiffany. I bet she would be happy to see you.”

“Pfft. If not for a pair of handcuffs and the need to rip the joystick out of my hand, she wouldn’t know I existed.”

“I bet she would! You two spent much time together. Perhaps it is I who is jealous of you!”

Turning to the elevator, Travis cast Boris a parting glance. “Go find your chess board. I’ll see you at the meeting.”

“I look forward to it!” Throwing his hand up in a haphazard wave, Boris marched away down the hall.

For several seconds after Boris disappeared, Travis stared at the empty hallway left in the Russian’s wake. Sighing quietly to himself, he murmured, “Thanks for the perspective, B. Always good to hear it.” Taking a step backward, Travis turned around and walked toward the elevator.

*

A single set of doors. That was all that stood between Scott and the culmination of his efforts—from everything they’d endured at Cairo, from their initial insertion to their daring escape. From Krasnoyarsk to where they were now at Northern Forge. What lay behind a single set of doors would tell him whether or not everything had been worth it.

Centurion.

Though there were more reasons than just the Ceratopian to visit Northern Forge’s medical bay, the big picture demanded the alien be his primary concern. No one from the Fourteenth had been allowed into the medical bay the night before, when Centurion was in the most dire condition, and Scott hadn’t heard any updates that morning. He needed to know if H`laar’s bodyguard was still alive. Closing his eyes briefly as he drew in a breath, Scott exhaled slowly then reached out to press the door button. The door whisked open, and he stepped inside.

The medical bay was stark, typical of a room of its type with tile floors and white, painted walls. At the far left, just to the side of the door, sat Auric and Catalina. Panning left, Scott spotted Natalie and the rest of Falcon Platoon inside the quarantine cell. They all looked his way. A second quarantine cell was next, containing an alert Ju`bajai. At long last, as Scott’s inspection took him to the far right of the room, he found what he’d gone there to see: Centurion. The massive Ceratopian was lying atop a pair of beds that were pushed together and which looked barely capable of keeping the massive beast in place. Tubes and wires covered the alien’s body and a makeshift oxygen mask partially hid his face. He looked a total mess…but he was breathing. That Centurion had made it this far in as rough a condition as he appeared was a miracle.

There were two individuals inside the medical bay other than the injured and captive—a nurse in her twenties with a dark-brown pixie haircut, and the doctor himself, Gavriil Shubin. Though Scott had met Gavriil briefly the day before, the calmness of the room offered him a better chance to take the doctor in. The doctor was a tall, middle-aged man with short, albeit curly, russet hair. He looked like a doctor, right down to the all-business, there’s-a-good-chance-I’m-smarter-than-you look on his face. Rising from the desk he was sitting behind, the doctor raised an eyebrow. “Captain Remington, can I help you?”

“Yes, actually,” Scott answered. Hobbling across the room, he smiled cordially at the nurse as he passed her. She didn’t bother smiling back. “I was hoping to get an update on everyone.” Briefly, he looked back at the nurse. There was something about her eyes. They were dark blue and callous in a way that was almost familiar. Did he know this woman? His focus returned to the doctor. “Our guys.” Then to Centurion. “This big guy. Everyone.”

Gavriil’s mouth downturned. The only way Scott’s mind could interpret it was almost like a look of disappointment. Sighing in a manner that made no attempt to disguise itself, Gavriil’s eyes shifted from Scott to the nurse. “Marina.” He went on in Russian. “Tell him whatever he wants to know.” Apparently unaware that Scott could understand him, Gavriil returned his focus to Scott and continued on in English. “My nurse, Marina, will assist you.”

His nurse? Casting the disinterested Marina a brief look, Scott focused back in on Gavriil. “If you don’t mind, I’d kind of like to get all this from you. No offense,” he said to Marina, who looked utterly disgusted with him.

Propping his elbow on the desk, Gavriil massaged his eyelids irritably. “Captain Remington, there is nothing I can tell you that Marina cannot. If you cannot see plainly, I am very busy. This,” he said, motioning to the Ceratopian, “is not what I deal with. Please excuse me for being curt, but I am doing what I must do. Marina is an excellent nurse and will explain everything. Thank you.”

And that was it. Scott wasn’t even given a chance to rebut. Gavriil’s eyes went back down to his desk, and he said nothing more.

From behind him, Marina spoke. “What would you like to know?” Her tone couldn’t have been more laced with indifference. When Scott looked at her, he saw that her expression matched it. Still, those dark blue eyes stood out. Where could he have seen this girl before?

“Look,” he said, “I didn’t mean to come across as patronizing. What I mean by that, is—”

“I know what patronizing means.”

Scott’s mouth hung for a moment. “Okay, great.” He didn’t intend for it to sound as sarcastic as it did. “Just give me the rundown, then. You know what rundown means, right?”

If looks could kill, he’d have already been a corpse. Turning away with revulsion, she said, “This way.”

Scott wasn’t trying to come across as rude—he knew that nurses knew their stuff. It was just that in this situation, with so much at stake and so much going on, if Scott had the option of talking to the man overseeing it all, then that’s what he wanted to do. Apparently, however, Valentin Lukin was not the only cold presence in Northern Forge. The doctor was serving up stiff competition.

As she approached the beds with Auric and Catalina, Marina spoke. “Patient one,” she said, indicating to Auric, “has a comminuted fracture of the right patella.” She eyed Scott. “You know what patella means, right?” He didn’t know that or comminuted. It didn’t stop Marina from continuing on. “A patellectomy was performed, which took place last night. He is on heavy pain medication. Patient two,” she motioned to Catalina, who was listening intently to the frosty conversation.

Scott held up a hand. “Wait, hold on. So he had a pallet-what?”

“A patellectomy. Kneecap surgery.” She moved right along. “Patient two has a closed tibia shaft fracture on her left leg.” She eyed Scott as if he was stupid. “She has a broken shin.”

While he didn’t appreciate her smartness, the laymen’s term translations did help him out. The nurse continued.

“A crude splint was put in place, which prevented more extensive damage than what is already present.”

From the bed, Catalina smiled weakly. “Svetlana did that.”

Scott would have guessed. It was no surprise that Svetlana had been a help to the Falcons. “Svetlana is part of the Fourteenth,” he explained to Marina. “She’s our unit medic.”

Raising a brief, yet critical brow, Marina said, “That would explain the crude part.”

At that, Scott reacted. “Hey, now, wait a minute.”

“Patient two will also require surgery, which we will attend to today,” said Marina, going on as if she’d said nothing obtuse. “As you can see, her pain medication is at a minimum.”

No—Marina wasn’t getting off that easily. “First of all,” said Scott, “this is not patient two. Her name is Catalina. And his name is Auric. And what’s up with the smart attitude?” She didn’t have to like the fact that he was there, but there was no reason to project her irritation with him onto other people. “There’s no reason to call what our medic did crude. She’s just as trained in this kind of thing as you or the doctor. “

“With all due respect—”

Scott didn’t believe for a second he was about to receive that.

“—a medic is not comparable to a doctor or a nurse.”

“You’re wrong. They treat us, they do checkups, they prescribe medicine. They’re just like you, except assigned to a unit.”

Marina’s face turned a shade red. Her voice nonetheless stayed controlled. “Do you know what an EDEN medic does when they find a problem with an operative? They call a doctor, and the doctor responds with a solution and a prescription.”

That wasn’t true. Scott was sure of it. He was pretty sure of it. He…thought he was sure of it? Looking away, he tried to recall ever actually seeing Svetlana write out a prescription. He couldn’t.

“I went to school for four years to become a nurse—at Pennsylvania University, the best nursing school your country has to offer.” She raised a smugly informative finger. “Doctor Shubin, as I’m sure you can surmise, has gone much farther. Your medic received two years of ‘training,’ which is essentially learning how to plug a bullet wound and seal up a cut before she can reach a real medical staff, such as the one you have here.” The flushness of her face lightened a touch. “So once again, I say to you, with all due respect: your medic is not comparable to a doctor or nurse—and her splint was crude.”

Scott didn’t know what to say.

“Now,” the pixie-haired, dark brunette said as she stepped past him, “follow me, and we will discuss the Ceratopian.”

Clearing his throat as he looked up from his desk, Gavriil said, “I will take over from here. Thank you, Marina.”

The suddenness of Gavriil’s willingness to help was only somewhat surprising. The back-and-forth Scott had been having with Marina wasn’t exactly discreet. As much as the doctor didn’t want to have to give Scott a guided tour of his office, he probably wanted to deal with snippy attitudes even less. As Marina abandoned Scott without argument and returned to her tasks, Gavriil approached Scott and forced a smile. “You must forgive Marina. She is what you Americans call a ‘pepper.’”

Scott could think of a few other words to describe her.

“Now,” Gavriil said, “the Ceratopian. How much do you know about him, injuries aside?”

“Next to nothing. He was a bodyguard of some sort, we think. That’s about it.”

Walking to the far side of Centurion, Gavriil examined the slumbering beast’s neck wound up close. Leaning away again, he stepped behind one of the many machines attached to it. “He is a strong specimen. I doubt many could survive the extent of injury he received. But one can look at him and tell he is something unique.” He pointed. “There are muscle masses, such as here, and here, that few Ceratopians possess. They are intentional.” He tapped his finger against one of the machine’s displays, its contents unseen to Scott. “I would liken it to what you would expect to find in a professional athlete…or perhaps more appropriately, a gladiator.” Gavriil nodded toward the alien. “He was bred for combat, as his purported role of bodyguard suggests.”

“Aren’t all Ceratopians bred for combat?” Scott asked.

Walking behind another console, the doctor answered simply, “Not like this.”

Crossing his arms and staring at the sleeping giant, Scott said, “We call him Centurion. I guess that name’s pretty appropriate.”

Gavriil glanced Scott’s way and smiled. “It personifies him quite well.”

“You speak good English.” The words just blurted out.

Chuckling softly, the doctor nodded his head. “I got my medical degree from Harvard.”

Scott blinked. “Harvard? In Massachusetts?”

“That is the one. Ice-cold winters, blustery winds. Yet like the tropics when compared to this hellish place.”

“I have to ask,” Scott said. “You went to Harvard, she went to Pennsylvania. What in the world are you guys doing here?”

Stepping away from Centurion’s table, Gavriil strolled toward the quarantine glass where a silent Natalie and the Falcons were listening in. Sliding his hands into the pockets of his white coat, he leaned back against one of the room’s support beams. “Marina has her own reasons. I am here because I was needed,” he said, looking at Scott directly.

Scott didn’t understand that at all. “There must have been a million other places you could have gone, yet you came to the Nightmen?”

“I am not here for the Nightmen. I am here for the poor of Norilsk, many of whom work here in the forge. Norilsk is a forgotten city, captain,” he said, shifting to get more comfortable. “Its days of being a major industrial influence are long over. Times are very difficult, and the Nightmen pay very well—though we will see how that will change, with Ignatius van Thoor dead. But a place like this needs a doctor. In a forge, there are many injuries. This was an opportunity to help the impoverished, and I took it. I feel no shame over that.” His focus returned to Centurion, as he walked to the far side of the medical bay to retrieve a pair of disposable gloves. Sliding them over his fingers, he glanced Scott’s way. “If you will excuse me for a moment, captain.”

“Whatever you need to do.” Watching as Gavriil approached the Ceratopian, Scott found his curiosity piqued anew. Even having spent his final minutes of Cairo and all of the flights thereafter in Centurion’s presence, he still found the massive beast fascinating.

Centurion was the first black Ceratopian Scott had ever seen. Just like humanity had its races, so apparently did the horned warriors. A vast majority of Ceratopians were some shade of tan, enough so that many EDEN operatives never encountered a Ceratopian of a different color during their careers. Supposedly, though, the black ones were more formidable. They were hardy. The black-skins came in two variations: violet markings and green ones. Centurion was the latter. The green streaks and patterns that contoured his body were strikingly bright, almost neon. They looked as if they’d glow beneath ultraviolet lights. In a way, the alien looked majestic.

Positioning himself behind Centurion, Gavriil began to unscrew a series of tanks that were attached to the end of the table where the alien’s head was resting. From these tanks ran a pair of large tubes, which in turn ran to what looked like a massive oxygen mask of sorts. It was a clumsy fit.

Once the tanks were unscrewed, Gavriil carried them to the far side of the medical bay, where a pair of new tanks were retrieved out of a large metal cabinet. The doctor screwed them in place where the previous tanks had been removed. Throughout all of it, Centurion never moved. A minute later, after giving the alien another look over, the doctor removed the disposable gloves and tossed them in a waste bin. “And that is that,” he said, offering Scott a small smile.

“What’s the mask for?” he asked.

Gavriil set his hands on his hips. “For him to breathe properly. Many people do not realize that Earth is not an ideal atmosphere for their species. Ceratopian anatomy indicates that they come from an oxygen-rich world, much more so than Earth. Whereas the other species are able to function well within our atmospheres, Ceratopians tend to have slightly more trouble.” Turning around, he pointed toward Centurion’s helmet, which was sitting on a table in the corner along with the rest of the alien’s armor. “Ceratopians have an oxygen amplifier built into their battle armor. This allows them to function normally so long as they are inside it. But once removed—once their lungs are breathing in Earth air—Ceratopians tire quickly. They can survive, but they are sluggish.”

“What are his prospects for survival?”

“Oh, he will survive,” the doctor answered confidently. “Of that, I am certain. Even to have survived this long in his current state, he has shown remarkable resilience.”

That was the very thing Scott hoped to hear. Their mission—as dire as the consequences might have been for them, personally—had been a success. “Have you had a lot of experience with extraterrestrials, doctor?”

Very faintly, Gavriil frowned. “I would describe my experience as minimal. I know enough to keep him alive and make a judgment on him based on my knowledge of the human body. Certain generalities about the way living creatures are made allow for a degree of comparison.” Walking to his desk, he retrieved a stapled packet. The doctor handed it to Scott. “I am referencing this quite often. It is a collection of Nightman data related to Ceratopians. I am sure EDEN has somewhat of the same, though perhaps not to such…detail.”

Flipping through the packet, Scott realized what Gavriil meant. This wasn’t a biology lesson. It was a photo journal of torture sessions. At several images of skinned Ceratopians, Scott cringed. He had no desire to read any of this in detail. As the doctor approached Centurion again, Scott walked behind the desk to return the packet. “Doc, I’ll be honest. I’m glad I’m not the one who has to read this.”

Gavriil chuckled. “As you should be.”

Placing the packet down where the doctor had retrieved it, Scott was about to turn away from the desk when another paper caught his eye—not because of what it was, but because of a name that was clearly signed at the bottom: Antipov. Doubling back to it, Scott examined the document out of curiosity. What document at Northern Forge would be signed by Antipov? A moment later, he realized that the paper was nothing more than a medical report. Auric’s, in fact. That was strange. How in the world did Antipov sign this if he’s on his way to Chernobyl? And why would he sign it in the first place? His eyes returned to Antipov’s name. There, Scott realized his mistake. It wasn’t “Antipov” that was signed at the bottom of the report. It was “Antipova,” the surname’s feminine form. He finished reading the signature.

Antipova, Marina.

Marina? She had the same last name as Antipov? That was…weird…

Wait a minute…

Still behind Gavriil’s desk, Scott looked up from the document, zeroing in on the nurse. Those eyes of hers. Those striking, uncaring eyes that seemed so familiar. He had seen them before, and he was just now recognizing them. They were the same eyes of Antipov himself.

Marina was the eidola chief’s daughter.

No stinking way.

There was no doubt about it. He could see Iosif Antipov in her face—bits and pieces, here and there. Her eyes just echoed him the most. As the revelation sunk in, Marina glanced nonchalantly in his direction, pausing when she saw him staring at her. Narrowing her eyes with scrutiny, she tilted her head and asked, “What?”

Scott had no idea how he was supposed to react. Was a reaction even necessary? She obviously wasn’t hidden—her name was right there on the paper. That she was at Northern Forge meant nothing in and of itself. It was more the discovery that she existed that had surprised Scott more than anything else. “I just realized who you were.” He stated it matter-of-factly. As soon as he did, Gavriil stopped what he was doing to look their way.

For the first time, Marina looked at Scott with something other than disdain. She looked uncertain, herself. “So you did,” she answered simply.

So many questions shot through Scott’s mind. If she was Antipov’s daughter, did that mean she was like Antipov? Why was she truly there? Was her nurse get-up a cover? Could she know where Svetlana was? Everything in Scott’s mind could be summarized in a single inquiry. How much did Marina Antipova know? If there was one thing for certain, it was this: Northern Forge was safe. As cold and calculating as Scott knew Antipov was, he couldn’t imagine that the eidola chief—a man who knew the value of keeping things hidden—would entrust his daughter to a dangerous place. To do otherwise would go against every fatherly instinct. Even Antipov had to have those. That Marina was at Northern Forge meant Northern Forge was secure.

At least the Fourteenth had that going for them.

The silent stare down between Scott and Marina held for almost ten excruciating seconds before Scott simply said, “Nice to meet you, Miss Antipova.”

Marina’s jaw set anxiously. Ever so faintly, she dipped her head in acknowledgment. Seeming to hesitate for a moment, she looked away from him to return to her work—though he could sense her keeping tabs on him.

Clearing his throat, Gavriil asked, “Is everything all right, captain?”

Nothing had been all right for a very long time. Drawing in a thoughtful and long breath, Scott answered, “I think so.” He was going to talk to Marina—he was going to find out what she knew, if she knew anything at all. Her mere existence was a significant discovery. But the time to talk to her was not now. Scott would catch her when she wasn’t doing her job. Offering Centurion one more glance, Scott turned to make his way out the door.

“Hey.” The word, though not shouted, was spoken to him directly and accompanied by the knock of knuckles against glass. When Scott looked in its direction, he saw Natalie staring at him from her quarantine cell. With his arms still over the crutches and casting a brief look around, Scott hobbled up to the glass. For the first time since the escape from Cairo, Natalie was looking at him with something other than hatred. She just looked tired. “I want to talk to you,” she said quietly once he was close.

Far behind her, Lilan’s ears perked.

Though Scott knew that a conversation with Natalie needed to happen, he hadn’t set it in his mind to have it then. Just the same, if she wanted to talk—really talk, not just hurl accusations or scowl at him—he was more than willing. “Let’s talk.”

“I’d rather do it in private.”

Though Scott’s impulse was to frown with disapproval, he understood why she made the request. Natalie’s issues with him were more than situational. He’d hurt her, deeply. There were things she probably wanted to say that she didn’t want anyone else to hear. He’d respect that. “Doctor,” he said, glancing at Gavriil. “Will you let her out, please?” Despite what seemed like a judgment against his better nature, Gavriil unlocked the quarantine glass to let Natalie walk free. Quietly, Scott gestured for her to follow him outside of the medical bay.

Though there was a measure of risk involved with going anywhere with Natalie privately, Scott had a suspicion that she wasn’t going to try something—and if she did, he was more than confident that he could handle her, even with an injured leg. At the very least, he could beat her over the head with his crutches. But he knew Krasnoyarsk affected her. Seeing Lilan alive affected her. Right now, she didn’t know what to believe. At least she was willing to give the possibility that she wasn’t seeing the whole picture a chance, or so it seemed.

As soon as the door closed behind them and they were standing in the hallways of Level-4, Scott stopped and crossed his arms. “You first.”

“Can we go to a room instead of standing in the hall?” she asked.

Scott shook his head no. “There’s no one in the hall,” he said, glancing behind him to ensure that he was telling the truth. “This is private enough.”

She seemed more resigned to the situation than satisfied with it. Nonetheless, she went on. “Who are you?” she asked him quietly.

“I told you who I was in Cairo. I told you what I was doing and why.”

Biting her lip, she halfway shook her head. She wanted more than that. “The people in that room should be dead.” She was referring to the Falcons. “And you came up in their unit. What’s the connection?”

“There is no connection. It’s a coincidence. After leaving Richmond, I never thought I’d see them again—Colonel Lilan and Donald Bell, at least. Those are the only ones I knew.” He sensed now that there was indeed no ulterior motive in her. She was searching. “Look, you have every reason in the world not to trust me. But if you can’t trust me, Natalie, trust what you see.” He pointed to the door to the medical bay. “They’re alive. They’re here. EDEN’s covering them up, just like they’re covering up a conspiracy.”

“Or EDEN thinks they’re dead,” she said.

Impossible. “Do you really believe that? Do you really believe that EDEN wouldn’t know? If they thought there was a chance they were alive, they’d have said they’re holding out hope, or searching the area, or praying for a miracle. But Judge June never said anything like that in her press conference.”

“I remember exactly what Judge June said.” Natalie’s lips tightened a bit. “She said they weren’t optimistic for survivors. That’s different from definitively stating there weren’t any.”

“Then what about what the colonel said? EDEN landed on the ground. EDEN soldiers came down in Vultures, one of which was ours that we’d sent in for repairs, and tried to kill them.”

Ever so faintly, her eyes narrowed. “Unless Novosibirsk was trying to make it seem that way.”

“Come on, really?”

“I don’t know what to believe,” Natalie said in a way that sounded almost as accusatory as it did honest. “This is your chance to convince me—I hope you appreciate how much you don’t deserve it.”

For as much as Scott pitied this woman, she had a way of being annoying. “Are you sure you want to be convinced? I’m not sure it sounds like it.”

Emerald eyes smoldering, she exhaled a slow breath through her nostrils. “How do you want me to sound? Excited? Allured? That train’s gone.”

At least Scott had that going for him.

“You lied to me, repeatedly. About your identity, about your motives. Hell, for all I know, you were lying about the vecking jar of mustard.”

He sighed. “Come on.”

“The point is this. Regardless of what intentions you had in Cairo, you killed innocent people. People doing their jobs.” The faintest bit of understanding emerged in her voice. “If you were caught in a no-win scenario in a battle for the greater good, I can accept that. But I’m going to need proof. Proof beyond them,” she said, pointing to the door. “If you can begin to show me that, maybe I can begin to—” Biting her lip, she stopped short. After a moment of uncertainty, she said, “Maybe I can begin to reevaluate my anger toward you.”

“Full disclosure?” he asked.

She gestured with her hands. “By all means, let me hear it.”

“I don’t care if you’re angry.”

The moment his words came out, her lips sealed shut. That burning gaze returned.

Scott continued. “You don’t have a clue what I’m dealing with. You don’t have a…” Clue was about the best he was going to come up with. “You want proof? Look around and listen in. Truth is screaming in your face.” Pointing to the medical bay door, he said, “There’s a Ceratopian in there that might hold the key to everything. He was the mission. He was the reason I did what I did.” If she hadn’t soaked up the truth by proximity yet, then she’d never get it. “I would like you to be a part of this, because I think you could make a difference, maybe greater than any difference you hoped to make at Cairo. But I’m not going to grovel for it. You were caught up in a bad situation, and I’m sorry—none of it was by your own doing.” Even that changed nothing. “But we are where we are, now. It’s up to you to decide what you’re going to do.”

There was nothing else that Scott had to say. Natalie was an adult—she was older than he was. It was time for her to start believing whatever it was she was going to believe on her own.

A long pause lingered between them as Natalie scrutinized Scott’s face. Barely visible but undoubtedly there was the faintest narrowing of her eyes, as if something was brewing deep in her mind as she stared into his soul. At long last, she broke the silence with a single word. “Svetlana.”

“Is the woman I love.” That was the answer she was probing for. It was one she needed to hear. “I’m sorry if that disappoints you.”

Closing her eyes, Natalie laughed in the kind of way that seemed a substitute for physical violence. When her eyes opened again, she was almost leering. “Words can’t express how much it doesn’t.”

Hooray.

“So she’s your fiancée,” Natalie said with only partial finality.

She still didn’t get it. “No, she’s not. Svetlana was the one who rescued me when the Nightmen killed my fiancée.” A moment of perplexity came over her. “You may not want to believe it, but everything I told you in Cairo was true except the reason I was there. If you can find it in yourself to get past that, then maybe you can make a difference with us.”

With that, Scott’s part of the conversation was finished. There was nothing more he had to say. For several seconds, he waited to see if Natalie would ask a follow-up question of her own. She didn’t. She closed her eyes, rubbed her temple, then shook her head and turned away, returning to the medical bay door which whisked open to allow her entry. Without the need for a prompt, she walked back to her quarantine cell, which Gavriil opened for her. Out of what felt like obligation, Scott followed her there.

Of all the situations Scott was dealing with, Natalie’s was the easiest to figure out. If she wanted to know the truth, she could uncover it without interrogating him. Centurion was there, Lilan was there…everything was there for her to see, if she was willing to see it. What this was truly about was pride. Could she bring herself to side with the man who’d swept her career out from under her feet then set it ablaze for good measure? If the answer to that was yes, then there might be hope for Natalie Rockwell after all.

As the door to Natalie’s quarantine cell was sealed shut, she faced Scott and said, “You killed innocent people.”

That was undeniable. Innocents had died in Cairo and Krasnoyarsk alike. “Yeah.”

“Does that bother you at all?”

And there it was. The haymaker. The long, hard peer into his soul. The question by which the character of a man claiming to be good could be evaluated for its sincerity. Did he feel bad for the pain he’d inflicted on others? Scott answered the question the only way he knew how. “Every waking minute.”

He lied.

Drawing in a breath through her nostrils, Natalie stared down her nose at him from the other side of the glass—almost as if making a final determination. At long last and without a word, she nodded her head a single time. She looked away.

With nothing further to say, Scott turned away and left.

Does it bother me at all?

If ever a question had an obvious right answer, this was it. The people who fought against them in Cairo, the security personnel, the scientists and contractors who’d died during the opening of Confinement, had nothing to do with Benjamin Archer. They’d simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time. The same could be said about the forces in Krasnoyarsk. The Fourteenth’s pursuers were police officers from the city and EDEN soldiers told only that Scott and his comrades were traitors. Killing or injuring any of those people should have felt horrible.

Yet Scott’s discomfort was only inches above mild. Truth be told, outside of moments of lamenting over the circumstances that led to the who-knew-how-many deaths, Scott had barely thought about them at all. In the midst of the carnage, Scott had willful tunnel vision. He saw only the ends.

Am I wrong because I don’t feel torn up? Is that the mark of a Nightman, or would anyone in my shoes be struggling with this? Those questions and the like all boiled down to one. Am I a bad person?

The religion in him answered, “yes, as is everyone,” but that answer only scratched the surface of what he meant by the question. Was he actively justifying evil deeds? In moments like this one, it sure felt like it. He made the decision right then and there to change. Innocent people shouldn’t die for this. We need to make that our priority. We can’t let Cairo happen again. It may not have redeemed him for everything that took place, but it was a step in the right direction. After so many leaps in the wrong one, he’d take it.

Scott looked at the time on his comm display. The troops needed to be rallied. He, Rashid, and Esther had discussed critical things that the rest of the Fourteenth—and the Falcons—needed to be privy to. And speaking of the Falcons, there was no need for them to be locked up in quarantine. They weren’t in the same category as Natalie. The Falcon survivors knew EDEN was up to no good. It was time to talk to the keeper about that—among other things. I hope this goes better than my first encounter with Valentin. There was no room for attitude now. Major tasks were at hand.

There was no better time to deal with them than right then.

11

Sunday, March 18th, 0012 NE

0944 hours

Norilsk, Russia

TO SAY THAT Scott’s first impression of Valentin hadn’t been positive was an understatement. The keeper was demonizing, hostile, and colossally arrogant. Those traits formed a brutal combination, but unfortunately, they had to be dealt with if Scott wanted to make any progress.

With no clear indication of what was where, Scott was forced to ask around to find out where Valentin’s quarters were. In doing so, he discovered that Northern Forge actually had a fifth floor, aptly named Level-5. Apparently, when the mountain base was first excavated by the NSU, a top-level suite had been reserved for the Soviet president. It was intended to be a place where he could not only find solace, but keep tabs on the entire operation of his emergency facility. Far be it for the Nightmen to leave a good room unused, the president’s suite became the keeper’s. Accessible by a fourth-level elevator that Scott hadn’t even known existed, it was the perfect hideaway for Valentin.

The elevator was at the end of the furthest hallway, far away from regular foot traffic. Scott looked for any kind of nearby speaker so that he could at least let Valentin know he was coming up to talk, but there was no such thing in sight. There was only a button to call the elevator down. With no other options or means to warn Valentin that he was coming, Scott pressed the button in.

Here’s hoping he’s had his morning coffee.

To a certain extent, Scott understood the keeper’s irritation with having Scott and the Fourteenth there. This was a massive wrench in Northern Forge’s gears. But at the same time, Valentin needed to understand that none of this was the Fourteenth’s fault. They never asked for this, they didn’t decide on their own to fly to Northern Forge. The man behind the curtain was Iosif Antipov, and even he couldn’t be blamed. He was just trying to get things done. Hopefully, a good night’s rest had softened Valentin enough to open him up to genuine discussion in a spirit of collaboration. Scott would soon know.

The elevator dinged as it reached Level-5, and its doors slowly pulled open. Ahead of Scott was a medium-sized hallway that was completely stark. At the far end of the hallway was a single, unmarked door. Minimalism at its most striking. Here goes nothing. Drawing a preparatory breath, Scott stepped out of the elevator and strode forward.

In his mind, Scott was rehearsing how he wanted this to go. If Valentin wanted to be the big man on campus, Scott had no problem with that. This was his base, after all. Flattery wasn’t the way to go, not only because Scott outright hated it, but also because Valentin was bound to recognize it for what it was. So Scott just needed to be honest and explain that the Fourteenth didn’t want to be there just as much as Valentin didn’t want them there. “How can my unit accomplish what needs to be accomplished without getting in your way?” That was what Scott needed to convey. He just needed to be ready for whatever Valentin might throw at him—figuratively or literally.

The one thing Scott wasn’t ready for…was music. From beyond the door that led into Valentin’s suite, the doleful wail of violin strings emanated, their distant vibrations reverberating down the hall. Angling his head, Scott stopped for a moment to listen.

It was the saddest, most beautiful music Scott had ever heard. Long, forlorn notes were drawn out then left hanging as if pausing on their way to the guillotine, only to be picked up again and carried along by heavy, lingering drones. It was the last thing he’d ever expected to hear while approaching the keeper’s suite. As Scott took a step forward again, a whirring sound prompted him to look to the corner of the wall ahead, where a small, mounted camera pivoted to face him.

Well, I guess he knows I’m coming.

A click came from the door indicating that it was unlocked. Scott supposed that was the closest thing he was going to get to an invitation to enter. Approaching the door, he reached out to quietly push it open.

With every inch the door swung, the polished tones of the violin grew richer. It was like listening to a recital. The suite that was revealed was far more spacious than any private quarters Scott had been in before. The walls, though made out of the same plaster material as the rest of Northern Forge, were painted in rich latte hues, and the décor was on par with the living room of a house. In the center of the room, a dark red and brown rug framed a wooden coffee table, and before it sat a brown leather sofa. Paintings and pictures were framed on the wall, illuminated by bronze table lamps that sat on the various end tables that were set about. Scott almost felt the need to look behind him to make sure he hadn’t slipped through a wormhole and into some other dimension. All the while Scott stepped forward, the violin music continued, its weeping transitions filling the room with a sad warmth that was unlike anything Scott had felt before. And so, farther inside the keeper’s suite he walked, lured in by the sound despite the fact that Valentin himself was nowhere to be seen.

Scott was halfway into the room when a series of pictures on the wall caught his attention, enough so that he stopped his onward progression completely to lean closer and look. They were pictures of Valentin—and a family. Almost blinking in surprise, Scott scrutinized the photos in closer detail. One was a wedding photograph, showing a younger Valentin wearing a tuxedo and standing next to a black-haired woman in a white wedding dress. In another, a slightly newer capture showed the pair standing side-by-side and smiling widely in front of a wooden fence with mountains in the background, their arms around one another’s waists as three small children—two girls and a boy—grinned cheekily before them. In yet another, a sleeping and shirtless Valentin cradled the also-sleeping boy, who couldn’t have been older than two, against his chest. The photos were so utterly normal. They were heartbreaking.

At the far end of the row of pictures, separated from the rest, was a single photograph in an ordinary frame depicting Valentin in a pre-EDEN military uniform. The kind of uniform it was, though, was utterly shocking.

Valentin had been a military chaplain.

“No way,” Scott said to himself. There was no mistaking what the photograph plainly showed. The keeper had once been a religious minister.

What happened to this man?

Turning from the pictures, Scott surveyed the rest of the room until he locked onto something directly across from him. Recessed into the right-side wall was a gargantuan monitor broken up into dozens of smaller grids, each grid displaying a color-faded but different image. Stepping closer, Scott squinted to get a better look. There was the hangar, with both the Pariah and the Superwolf perched within. There was the small cafeteria, its sparse crowd eating and conversing in silence. There was the forge, the living quarters, the hall Scott had taken to Valentin’s suite, where Scott had seen the camera pivot to face him. Every inch of Northern Forge, from the conference room to the medical bay, was covered. Then, Scott froze.

Their rooms. Their rooms were on the monitors. He could see Flopper lying in the corner of one, Jayden and Becan chatting soundlessly in another. He could see his own room, where he’d thrown his covers off upon waking and left them hanging halfway off the bottom bunk.

Through the warm hues of latte paint and the soothing sound of horsehair, Scott was struck with a chill. Every conversation the Fourteenth was having, every place they ventured…Valentin was watching. Northern Forge and everything in it was at the keeper’s fingertips, mounted conveniently in front of a leather sofa and a coffee table for his viewing pleasure. Total awareness.

Scott’s mind raced to keep track of what wasn’t on the display. We’re safe inside the Pariah. He knew there were no cameras mounted in there. That was probably the safest place for the Fourteenth to converse. Virtually everywhere else was at risk.

Scott looked away from the wall of monitors, his focus shifting toward the direction of the violin music. Though the somber melody continued, it seemed to be winding down, as long, drawn-out chords were released in a slow progression. They were coming from what Scott could only presume was Valentin’s bedroom, which was at the far end of the living room, its wooden door propped open. He had been under the assumption the whole while that Valentin was aware of his presence, but the fact that the keeper hadn’t come out to greet him was starting to cast a shadow of doubt. Walking cautiously toward the door, Scott angled his head enough to peer inside.

Standing in the middle of the bedroom, his shirtless back to the door and supported by an absolutely perfect posture, was Valentin. Cradled in the keeper’s arms was a violin. He wasn’t listening to violin music…he was playing it. In that instant, every preconceived idea he’d had about the keeper went out the window. This entire experience was the opposite of what he’d expected, in every way. It was surreal.

In the middle of Valentin’s back and plainly visible without a shirt to hide it were lash-like scars. They ran from one end of the keeper’s back to the other, as if he’d endured some sort of public punishment. Everything in the scene, and everything Scott had seen in the living room, painted the portrait of a tortured man. In the far corner of the room, set atop a display pedestal, was a set of fulcrum armor, its dark horns spiking toward the ceiling only feet away from Valentin’s bed.

We’re all tortured, Scott thought. None of the Nightmen were immune. Some only knew how to hide it better than most.

Valentin’s solo concluded on a single, long note, at which point the keeper drew in a deep breath. His back still to Scott, but without looking back, he said, “I will be with you shortly.”

Scott wasn’t sure how to reply—for a time, he hadn’t even been sure that Valentin knew he was there in the first place—so he simply nodded his head. Taking a step back, Scott pivoted to the living room to wait.

In the minute that it took for Valentin to appear, Scott tuned his ears completely to the sounds of the bedroom, where he could distinctly hear the violin being placed into a case and a shirt being pulled down over the keeper’s head. When the keeper emerged from his bedroom, he was wearing a long-sleeved white pullover.

“That sounded amazing,” said Scott out of a mix of obligation and genuine appreciation. “Is that something you wrote?”

Valentin eyed Scott flatly. “That is Bach.” The statement was laced with condescension, the implication being that Scott, were he cultured, would have known who the composer was. “Chaconne in D Minor,” the keeper went on. “It is one of the greatest musical pieces ever composed.”

Right.

Lowering himself onto the sofa, Valentin motioned for Scott to do the same in one of the living room chairs, to which Scott obliged. Crossing his legs, the keeper said, “We have much to talk about.” The tone of the statement was almost as if it had been Valentin who’d invited Scott up instead of Scott intruding on his own initiative.

“Yes, we do,” Scott said.

“Antipov has explained to me your situation. You will have our full support.”

Though Valentin sounded less than thrilled, it was nonetheless a relief to know that the eidola chief had Scott’s back. Valentin might not like the idea of playing host to the Fourteenth, but he’d do it. “Look, we don’t want to intrude on anything you have going on here. We’re here because Antipov told us to come.”

“I know,” the keeper said simply. “So what do you need?”

Right down to brass tacks. “One of the guys we have with us is Colonel Brent Lilan, he’s a survivor from—”

“I know about Lilan,” Valentin said. “I know about the Falcons, and the hostage, Natalie Rockwell. There is nothing you need to brief me on. Simply tell me what you need.”

Fair enough. “We want to put Lilan in the media and show the world that EDEN lied about his death. We can do this with a recorded video message. That could turn things in our favor.” Or if nothing else, get the world off their backs, even if for a second. “Best-case scenario, the media investigates and finds out what Archer is up to—do you know about the whole Archer thing, too?”

“Yes.”

“If the right people look in the right places, they might find out what’s going on. That’s best-case, right there.”

Inhaling deeply, Valentin shifted his propped-up leg. “And what is worst-case?”

“I don’t know,” Scott answered honestly. “I think worst-case is still better than our current situation.”

“Worst-case is that Northern Forge is discovered,” Valentin said. “Transmissions can be traced.”

That was easily preventable. “We don’t have to broadcast Lilan’s message from Northern Forge. We set a room up like a studio, we shoot it with a camera, then we ship the file to someone. It could even be someone in another city, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we get it out there. Once it’s out there, it’s EDEN’s problem.”

The keeper nodded his head a single time. “What else do you need?”

So I guess…you’re okay with all that? Scott moved onto the next thing. “We’re trying to find out what exactly this conspiracy is. Our Ceratopian knows, but he’s not in any shape to talk. Esther Brooking, one of my operatives, is going to talk to Ju`bajai, the Ithini in the medical bay, in the hopes that maybe she knows what this is all about.”

“That is not something you need from me.” Valentin’s tone was one of total disinterest. “So what do you need?”

Scott didn’t know how to respond. Though he wasn’t sure why, this was a curtness he hadn’t quite expected, perhaps because it was so outright uncaring. There was nothing inside Valentin that was the least bit concerned for the Fourteenth or their mission. Valentin’s priority was getting Scott what he needed—literally—so he could get the Fourteenth out of his hair. Did this man not realize that the Nightmen were on the verge of collapse?

Belaboring the point would be fruitless. The best thing Scott could do was just go on. “I’d like to see the captives released.”

The keeper narrowed his eyes.

“You asked me what I needed, and what I need is trust, extended from you and given to them. These aren’t convicts; they’re men and women who’ve done nothing wrong. Keeping them in a cage is just going to breed discontent.”

“Their contentment is not my concern.”

At that, Scott raised a finger. “But it’s mine, and I’m the one you’re trying to appease.”

“Not at the risk of my facility.”

Scott leaned forward in an effort to extend understanding. “Look, we need these guys on our side. They may be the only ones on the planet who can vindicate us. We were set up—you know it, I know it. Treat these guys like one of us. There’s no risk in that. As far as they’re concerned, we’re the ones who saved their lives. They’re not about to run back to EDEN when EDEN tried to kill them.”

Lifting his chin slightly, Valentin leaned back on his couch. All the while, his gaze never left Scott.

C’mon, Valentin. See the big picture. Let these people go.

“Released and freed are two different words, Remington,” said Valentin. “I will release the Falcons survivors. But they will not be free.”

Scott knew exactly what the keeper meant. Valentin had a wall of monitors sitting right across from them. The Falcons would be watched in everything they did. “Trust is a two-way street. I’ll let them know that good behavior isn’t optional.”

“Very well. What else do you need?”

With nothing coming to mind, Scott answered, “That’s it. There’s nothing else.”

Nodding, Valentin said, “I will arrange for Colonel Lilan’s message to be recorded and for him and his operatives to be released and given rooms. Please advise them to behave.”

“Thank you,” Scott said.

“Now, if you please,” Valentin said, rising from his chair. “I must prepare for today.”

Scott had intended to ask Valentin about Marina Antipova, just to learn a little bit more about why the chief’s daughter was there—but this didn’t seem like the right time. With nothing else for Scott to discuss, he too rose from his chair. When he was almost to the door that led to the hall, Scott stopped and looked back. “We’re on the same team, Lukin.”

Far behind him, Valentin turned his head to regard Scott. Eyes emotionless, he simply replied, “I am on no one’s team.”

It was an odd thing for a fulcrum to say, but on a certain level, Scott could relate. For a time, he himself had existed on an island with a population of one. Though Scott didn’t know the reasoning behind Valentin’s statement, he could only imagine that it had something to do with the people in the pictures on Valentin’s wall—the family Valentin had lost, or so he could only assume. Maybe the two men were more alike than Scott thought. Without another word, Scott opened the door and stepped into the hall.

Of everything Scott had heard from Valentin, perhaps the most useful piece of information had been that he’d spoken to Antipov, apparently at some great length. Scott had held back on comming Antipov at the risk of being detected, but maybe their situation warranted taking the chance. Scott needed to know exactly where their situation stood, both at Northern Forge and in the world, and Antipov was his best bet to find out. He would also have a chance to check in on Oleg and Svetlana. Perhaps Antipov could even arrange for Scott to talk to her. He needed to hear her voice. He needed confirmation that she was okay. It would put his heart at much-needed ease.

After heading down the elevator, Scott swung by the cafeteria to grab a cup of coffee then head to the hangar. He couldn’t make the call in his quarters, not with Valentin listening. The Pariah would have to do. Stepping through the door that led to the hangar, Scott made his way toward the cursed Vulture.

Despite the fact that the hangar doors were closed, there was an unmistakable temperature drop that came with entering the hangar. Prior to this, Scott couldn’t have imagined a more miserable climate than that of Novosibirsk, but Norilsk took frigidness to a whole other level. It was hellishly cold. Crossing his arms to keep warm, Scott actually saw vapors escaping from his mouth as he hobbled across the hangar with his crutches. It was like passing through a chiller.

Though there were Nightman guards in the room, they gave Scott no grief upon seeing him in an all-black uniform. He was just another member of the family. Opening the ship’s rear bay door, Scott stepped inside before raising the ramp again.

The frequency the eidola chief was using, in the only way Scott would understand it, was very, very secure. Antipov had dropped words like dynamic gateway and eight-layer encryption, none of which Scott knew the first thing about. That kind of techno-babble was best suited for people like Boris who could actually decipher it. All that mattered to Scott was that this was a frequency, or a channel, or a whatever, that he could actually use—even if liberal usage was discouraged.

As soon as the Pariah’s ramp was closed and Scott was sealed inside, he clicked on the cabin light and settled down into a chair. Inhaling a breath to take in that familiar rusted-metal smell, Scott ran his hand along one of the interior cabin’s cracked vinyl wall strips. Plopping down in a seat, Scott adjusted his comm for Antipov’s frequency. He pressed in the side button and sent a communication prompt Antipov’s way.

It didn’t take long to get a reply. “Remington,” Antipov said.

“Hey,” Scott said casually. “We’ve got some things to talk about.”

“Yes, we do.”

And away they went. “I talked to Lukin this morning—he was much more receptive than I thought he’d be. I guess I have you to thank for that.”

“Lukin will give you no trouble. He now understands the severity of the situation. He has also briefed me on Northern Forge’s status since your arrival and of the status of your crew.”

Scott took that as the polite way of saying, “Don’t waste my time talking about all that.” Before he said anything himself, Antipov spoke again.

“What is your current plan?”

“Well,” Scott said, “Esther is on her way to talk to our Ithini captive now, to see if we can find out if she knows anything about this conspiracy.”

Sounding dry but pleased, Antipov simply said, “Good.”

Here came the big one. “We’re also working on getting a recorded video message set up with Colonel Lilan.”

“A video message?”

“That’s right. We have him here, he’s willing to do it…if we can just get that message out, something with him stating that they’re alive and that EDEN is behind all of this, we’re thinking that could turn things around.”

Antipov huh-ed. “Brazen move.”

Hoping for a little more insight than that, Scott asked, “But do you think it’s a good move?”

“How will you deliver this message without being traced?”

Scott rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re just going to record the message—no other voices, nothing in the background. We aren’t even going to broadcast it from here; we’re just going to record it and send it somewhere else. There shouldn’t be anything tying that video to our location.”

“Good,” said Antipov. “I think that’s a good plan. Let me know how everything goes.”

That was it? Let him know how everything goes? Why did Antipov sound so detached? “Will do. How are things on your end?”

There was a pause. That wasn’t good. “It has been a very busy night.”

It must have been, considering this was morning. “Is there anything going on?”

“Really?”

Yeah—that was a stupid question. “I mean, as it pertains to…us—”

“I need to go, Remington,” said Antipov, virtually cutting him off. “I am balancing many things at the moment. Record the message, then lay low. Things may become very active very soon.”

“Do you know something I don’t?”

Distanced from the comm, Scott could hear Antipov say in Russian, “Idiot, that was our exit. Take the next one.” So they were still driving to Chernobyl. Antipov’s voice addressed Scott once more. “Vector has designated a team with the specific task of hunting you down. This information has not been made public yet—they are keeping it quiet in the hopes of catching you off guard.”

If EDEN was keeping it quiet, how did Antipov know about it? Before Scott could ask, the eidolon went on.

“This poses a grave threat to you. You must be diligent in the event they locate Northern Forge. This team is highly dangerous.” Antipov hesitated. “…which brings me to another matter.”

Scott already knew what it was. The shift in Antipov’s tone gave it away. “Your daughter,” Scott said.

Once again, a pause. “So you found her.”

He was tempted to say something smart, as his introduction to Marina hadn’t exactly been friendly. But Scott held his tongue. “If something happens, we’ll take care of her.” This wasn’t the time to play games or leverage. That might have been a play out of General Thoor’s playbook, but it had no place in Scott’s.

“Thank you, Remington,” said Antipov simply.

“So, come on,” Scott said. “Pass some good news to me about the person I care about.” He was yet to hear an update on Svetlana. Even if he could send a message to Oleg’s comm on the same frequency he was speaking with Antipov, that would hold him over. He just wanted to hear Svetlana’s voice.

But what he was hearing now was silence.

Furrowing his brow, Scott rose painfully from his seat in the Pariah. “Antipov?”

A sigh. That was the eidola chief’s response. Scott’s heart began to race. “Are you sitting down?” Antipov asked him.

“No.” The quiver in Scott’s voice betrayed his panic. “What’s going on? Where is she?”

Another breath was drawn on the other side of the comm before Antipov finally replied. “Remington…there is something you need to know.”

*

Ten minutes later

“I vecking knew it!” Rearing back with his uninjured leg, Scott sent his foot slamming into the night stand of his room.

As the piece of furniture crashed into the wall and broke, David leapt in front of Scott and held out his hands. “Scott, Scott, calm down!”

“I don’t want to be calm!”

Before David could say anything else, the door to their quarters swung open. Becan and Jayden rushed inside, where they stared wide-eyed at Scott, who was having a full-blown meltdown. “We got your message!” Becan said to David. “Wha’ the devil is goin’ on?”

Scott was seething. Through his teeth, he snarled at David. “We should have gone after her. We should have never trusted someone else to do the job!”

“Svetlana’s missing,” David said to Becan, standing between Scott and the remaining pieces of furniture. “He just got word from Antipov. Oleg went missing shortly after Novosibirsk.”

“Missing?” Becan asked. “Missing as in, dead or captured?”

The elder operative frowned. “Missing as in, nobody knows.” As the two new arrivals stepped inside, Jayden locked the door behind them. Both of their gazes settled on Scott as David continued. “According to Antipov, contact was lost with Oleg before the convoy ever left for Chernobyl. By default, that means contact was lost with Svetlana, too. Antipov’s been trying to locate them with no success.”

“Here I am,” Scott said, “looking after his vecking daughter, and Svetlana is nowhere to be found!”

Jayden blinked. “His what?”

His frown deepening, David said, “I’ll explain that later, too.”

“Remmy,” Becan said, stepping in front of Scott as he stormed around the room. “Don’t start freakin’ ou’ over this—not yet. For all we know, Oleg could show up today, or tomorrow, or anytime. Sveta’s a smart bird! Even if somethin’ happened to Oleg, yeh know she can take care o’ herself just fine.”

“Antipov doesn’t know where she is,” said Scott, glaring at the Irishman. “Antipov knows everything! And he doesn’t know where she is.”

Becan put his hands in the air. “Tha’ doesn’t mean she won’t turn up. She’s somewhere, Remmy. She didn’t disappear into outer space.”

“Look,” said David firmly, putting a tactful finger in Scott’s face to hold his attention. “We need you to focus. Okay? You’re the guy who’s gotta hold this thing together.”

Hold it together? Not a chance. Not with Svetlana missing. How could he?

“What we need you to do is find your calm,” David said. “In the midst of this storm, find it. We need it. We’ve got big things going on, bigger than any one person—you know that.” He put his hands on Scott’s shoulders. “We’re all dealing with this stuff in one way or another.”

Scott’s eyes focused on David’s calming green ones. For a moment, his rage settled. The older operative continued.

“Nothing has changed. Nothing about what Antipov said changes anything about what we’ve done or what we’re about to do. The only thing that’s changed is that you happen to know more now than you did twenty minutes ago.” He offered a poor smile. “We’re gonna get Svetlana back. I promise you, one way or another. Believe it.”

He wanted to, desperately.

“We’re all in this together, man,” said Jayden. “We’re gonna help you get through it just like we know you’d help us. And we’re gonna get her back, like Dave said.” He looked at the other two men. “Ain’t none of us going to settle for anything less.”

Despite the intense emotions he felt, Scott was calming down. The initial outburst was out of his system. He was angry—furious, but there was no one to blame for it, anyway. This wasn’t Antipov’s fault. He’d just been the messenger. Closing his eyes and rubbing his hands with his face, Scott drew in a deep breath and exhaled.

“Unit meeting, right?” David asked, lowering his head to look at Scott’s eyes when they reopened. “That’s the next thing on the plan. Let’s nail it. One thing after the next—that’s how we’ve gotta be until all this stuff is finished.”

Stuff was such a small word. They had so much to do. “The meeting,” Scott repeated almost mindlessly.

Nodding his head, David said, “The meeting. Let’s get it done.”

“Shall I rally the troops?” Becan asked.

Scott waved the offer off. “Not yet. I want some time alone.” When his friends offered him worried looks, he said, “I’ll be okay. I need to sort this all out in my head. That’s it.” Every word David said had been right. This changed nothing except what information Scott knew. None of this applied to their situation at Northern Forge. “I’ll get you guys in a couple hours. Then we’ll all meet.”

Quietly, the others acknowledged.

So this was how it would be. This was the pressure of the new normal—one stress after the next. He missed the serenity of Room 14 more than anything else.

After David, Becan, and Jayden offered him a pat on the shoulder and filed out of the room, Scott stood alone. He wandered to the bunk and sat down, propping his elbows on his knees. Making an irritated face, he glanced up at the ceiling in the spot where Valentin’s camera was hidden. “I hope you enjoyed that,” he said under his breath. Sighing, he stared blankly ahead.

For almost a full half hour, Scott sat at the edge of the bed, staring ahead as his mind negotiated terms with his heart. The latter had to yield to the former. He had no other choice. Shortly after that, Scott turned to the only other place he knew to fill his cup with peace: to God and prayer. Honest prayer, admitting his mistakes, his doubts, his confessions of love for Svetlana and his fear for her life. He unloaded it all. And in the midst of it, he found something that he’d scarcely found since his fall from grace at Novosibirsk. He found peace. Just a little bit…

…but enough.

They were going to get through this. As dire as their situation was, they were going to get through it. Together—as they had through every trial before. This would be no different.

A unit meeting loomed. A crucial one. This was their chance to find center, to collectively forge an action plan. To turn this thing around.

Rising from the bed, Scott hobbled about the room to mentally prepare.

12

Sunday, March 18th, 0012 NE

0337 hours

Cairo, Egypt

THERE WERE FEW places on Earth that Torokin had never visited. He’d never visited South America, nor Australia’s more sparsely-populated west coast. He’d never been to Italy, something he considered one of the greater injustices in his life. He’d never been to the American Midwest. And of course, he’d never been to Egypt.

Until now.

The Russian judge, along with his nephew, Sasha, and Minh Dang, one of Vector’s two pilots, had been airborne for almost six hours in their blacked-out transport before the stomach-turning rush of descent came upon them. Beneath them and steadily approaching—or at least they assumed, as they had no way of seeing out the windows—was the EDEN base of Cairo. Cairo was one of only two EDEN bases that Torokin had never set foot upon; the other was the brand new facility of Sydney, though he had been to the city it was named after. He’d have much rather been visiting it than the desert base in Egypt.

Cairo was not Torokin’s kind of base. It wasn’t a pillar of strength, as Scott Remington and his band of outlaws had proven. It wasn’t a source of mass production, such as Atlanta and Nagoya. It didn’t even have a notorious reputation, as Novosibirsk had prior to Thoor’s removal. Cairo was a research facility. It was a base run by nerds.

“Nerds” might have been a juvenile term, but it was the only word that came to mind when Torokin considered the Egyptian facility. It was full of scientists and engineers. Though it was true that good things did come as a result of the base staff’s hard work, the process for getting to those results completely bored him. He preferred his company combat-ready.

The three Vector passengers grabbed hold of the handrails as the transport clunked down on concrete. Moments later, the rear door lowered toward the ground. It was almost a quarter to four at Cairo, leaving Torokin and his comrades to be greeted by a surprisingly cool night wind. He could smell the desert sand in the air. It was a scent quite unlike anything he’d experienced.

They were there for one simple purpose: to pick up Lieutenant Logan Marshall and bring him to Berlin, where they would rendezvous with the handful of other Vectors who were to accompany them on their hunt for the Fourteenth. Despite his prejudices against Cairo, there was a part of Torokin that wished they’d have time to view the facility’s damage. But the time they did have was very much of the essence. They weren’t even supposed to get off the plane.

Logan was there waiting for them, as he was supposed to be. With a duffle bag slung over one shoulder and his assault rifle over the other, the Australian ex-mercenary looked every bit the dangerous man Rath had portrayed. He was well-built—nastily built, like a man who’d dished out his fair share of barroom beatings. Between his shaved head and five o’clock shadow were eyes that screamed, let’s get a move on. Torokin liked him immediately.

Dashing up the ramp, Logan grabbed hold of one of the handrails and dropped his duffle bag to the floor. He extended his newly-freed hand Torokin’s way. “Logan Marshall,” he said simply.

The lack of a proper salute was the first indication to Torokin that Logan was in mercenary mode. Accepting the improper greeting, Torokin shook the Australian’s hand. “Judge Leonid Torokin. Behind me are Minh Dang and Sasha Kireev, both of Vector. It is good to meet you.”

“Same to you, judge.”

Stepping away from his handrail, Torokin slapped the rear bay door button. Slowly, the ramp lifted to a close. “Ready to go!” he hollered at the pilot. The blacked-out transported lifted from the ground.

During the flight, Torokin, Logan, Sasha, and Minh went over every detail of Remington’s arrival at Cairo and his assignment to the Caracals. Logan was frank about Remington’s wooing Rockwell, the disdain in his voice apparent. Remington’s accomplices were also discussed, none so much as Esther Brooking, the EDEN scout who’d used the moniker Calliope Lee to infiltrate Cairo and free the Ceratopian. Logan portrayed Scott and Esther as a modern day Bonnie and Clyde, and the rest of their posse—Auric Broll, Jayden Timmons, and Boris Evteev—as lackeys following their orders. Torokin found it striking that throughout the conversation, at no point did Logan give the outlaws credit for anything other than being liars. For whatever they’d managed to pull off in stealing the specimens from Confinement, they hadn’t impressed the Australian at all. Torokin wasn’t sure if that said more about the outlaws or Logan.

In return for hearing about Remington’s team, Torokin made sure to enlighten Logan on the team he was about to inherit—the Vectors. Besides Minh and Sasha, there would be three other Vectors joining the effort: Marty Breaux, Pablo Quintana, and a late addition to the group, Lisa Tiffin, one of the newer Vectors and the first woman to join its ranks since Uta Volbrecht, a demolitionist in Vector back in Torokin’s day.

Of the wide variety of characters who were in Vector, Marty was undoubtedly the most colorful. He was part of a dwindling demographic known as Cajuns, the first and only that Torokin had ever met. Beyond having the strangest speech pattern the Russian judge had ever encountered, Marty was a genuinely good man. He possessed the charm and elite ability that would have been ideal for leadership minus the simple fact that he had no ambition to lead. Marty was content just to do as he was told, which had a certain benefit itself. Beyond his vibrant, at times bizarre, personality, he was as ideal an ally as anyone could have asked for.

Now in his early thirties, Marty had been a relatively new Vector at the time when Torokin was still in the unit. The tanned-skinned, olive-eyed, self-proclaimed “bayou rat” specialized in fortification. He was one of the few men in all of EDEN who could be trusted to singlehandedly protect critical personnel or facilities—he was a human choke point.

Second on the list of pickups was another operative who’d come into Vector Squad at roughly the same time as Marty: Pablo Quintana, referred to most simply as Smiley. There was good reason for the moniker. Pablo had one of the broadest, warmest, most enthusiastic grins anyone in Vector had ever seen. He was positivity exemplified, and everyone loved him.

Pablo’s official designation was that of a combat technician, but like most operatives in Vector, he was quite multifaceted. The spiky-haired Latino, in addition to the Vector prerequisite of being a combat elite, was also a full pilot. Though the brunt of the flying was taken care of by Minh Dang and Vector’s second pilot, Brock Thompson, Pablo was fully capable of taking the reins when a situation demanded it or when either Minh or Brock were on leave.

Then there was Lisa Tiffin. Lisa hailed from Essex, and was not only new to Torokin, but was new to Vector Squad, having entered the unit shortly after Sasha. Much like Sasha, Lisa had entered EDEN through Philadelphia’s Type-1 scout program, designated for tactical combat. Unlike Sasha, however, she had failed.

Most of what Torokin knew about Lisa he’d learned through Sasha. Her reason for failing the scout program hadn’t been due to a lack of skill. It was quite the contrary, actually. Her skill set was formidable, a true jack-of-all-trades who could do just about everything. It was the “just about” that had failed her in Philadelphia. She needed direction to function. In a class of operatives that demanded improvisation on a solo level, a lack of battlefield creativity simply didn’t cut it for a scout. She was demoted unceremoniously to soldier class.

Had that been the end of the story, it would have been a sad one, but in true redemption fashion, she persevered. As it turned out, with direction, Lisa could excel at practically anything. She graduated from the Academy with top rankings in every statistical category but one: improvisation.

Lisa had been assigned to London for all of two months before her commanding officer removed her from his unit because “her talent was being wasted.” He had actually taken a flight to Berlin to pitch her to Faerber, an almost unheard-of gesture for a captain to make, as most held onto soldiers such as Lisa with iron grips. The selflessness impressed Faerber so much that he held a personal tryout for Lisa. She won Faerber over in a span of thirty minutes. Based on her highest Academy score of marksmanship, Lisa was re-categorized as a sniper both to fill a need Vector had and to justify her transfer on paper. By winding road, the failed scout had become a member of Vector.

There was a particular benefit to having Lisa involved in the hunt for the Fourteenth, too, in that she actually knew Esther Brooking. Scout training was a six-year course, by far the most rigorous program in all of Philadelphia. Esther had entered the scout training program at Lisa’s halfway point, giving the two an opportunity to train together for roughly a year, before Lisa’s demotion to the soldier program. They hadn’t been roommates—or friends, for that matter—but they definitely knew one another’s names. It was insight Torokin wouldn’t have otherwise had. He gladly took it.

All in all, this was as diverse a “hunter unit” as EDEN was capable of assembling. The only untested cog, at least in Torokin’s mind, was Logan Marshall. Torokin had spent much of his flight time en route to Cairo going over Logan’s pre-EDEN file, as supplied by Jaya Saxena. His mercenary unit, Chimera Group, was frightfully efficient. There was no question that on the battlefield, Logan was a killer. It was the leadership aspect that was in question. He had been identified as the leader of Chimera, at least for a short time, though Jaya had even warned Torokin that some of her information might have been erroneous. There were no other names even associated with Chimera beyond Logan, a fact that Jaya explained was most likely due to his being forced to reveal his mercenary role when he decided to join EDEN. Every other member of Chimera was a mystery.

Torokin had no idea where the group would go first in their search for the outlaws. That would be everyone’s discussion and Logan’s call, for better or worse. This was already shaping up to be the strangest military operation Torokin had ever been on, and they hadn’t even begun their search.

*

Sunday, March 18th, 0012 NE

0827 hours

Novosibirsk, Russia

NOVOSIBIRSK WAS A wasteland. Mountains of rubble were piled up from where its massive towers had fallen, the physical impacts of EDEN’s invasion visible on every corner on every building. The Machine had not simply been defeated—it had been kicked in the teeth with steel-toed boots. With every step Judge Rath took, his gaze discovered new holes and new wounded.

With Novosibirsk General Hospital inundated with casualties—both EDEN and Nightman alike—EDEN had been forced into setting up rows of infirmary tents across the cratered airstrip that had once beckoned Novosibirsk’s faithful into its hangar doors. It was like a scene out of the Old Era. With bits of shrapnel and debris crinkling under his boots, the Canadian judge kept onward until his cautious strides brought him to the base’s main building.

Well over two hundred prisoners had been taken in the attack—and it was because of that fact that Rath found himself once again on a gopher’s errand courtesy of Archer and Blake. There were three persons of interest from Novosibirsk, one of whom was at the base currently, and the other two, a technician named Matthew Axen and a captain named Tanneken Brunner, at Novosibirsk General Hospital.

As it turned out, Axen was a member of the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk who’d been sent to the hospital by none other than Commander Vincent Hill of Vector Squad himself, officially making Axen the first outlaw taken into custody—though Axen’s condition made that but a marginal victory. He had apparently been critically injured in the attack, having been shot through the neck. It wasn’t even a sure thing that he’d survive. The captain, Brunner, however, had already been met and detained. If nothing else, they could at least squeeze whatever information out of her that they could as they awaited the recovery of Axen—if he recovered at all.

The first person of interest, however, was the reason Rath was at Novosibirsk now. Apparently, a man’s name turned up in two strangely conflicting places at the same time: under an outdated roster of the Fourteenth as an EDEN operative and on the list of Nightman prisoners taken into custody. The man’s name was Oleg Strakhov. Unlike Axen, Strakhov could be spoken to now. It made Rath’s first choice of stops an easy one.

At long last, as Rath approached Novosibirsk’s main building, the officer assigned to meet him became visible. Raising a hand of greeting, the man smiled as the Canadian judge approached. “Welcome, judge,” the Russian man said. “I hope your flight was a pleasant one.”

“I don’t know if it was pleasant or not,” Rath answered. “I couldn’t see out the window. Take me to Strakhov, please.”

His face falling somewhat, the officer bowed his head in acknowledgment. “This way, judge,” he said, motioning alongside the building toward the center of Novosibirsk’s grounds, where Confinement was located. When Rath looked at him quizzically, the officer explained, “Many of the prisoners are being held in the underbelly of the base, in the remains of Fort Zhukov. But when we heard that this was a person of interest, we moved him to the base’s Research Center and into a cell in Confinement. It is the most secure area on site at present.”

“I see.”

“If you please,” said the officer, “follow me.” With no further questions or strange looks, Rath did as requested. Skirting the outside of the main building, the two men made their way toward the Research Center.

Though Rath had been given the potentially high-yield task of investigating outlaw contacts in Novosibirsk, he was by no means the only agent from EDEN Command being shipped out across the planet in search of information. Jaya Saxena was en route to Sydney to speak with Pelican Squad, a unit with ties both to the Fourteenth and to Captain Natalie Rockwell. Numerous officials had been sent to other locations, such as Richmond and Krasnoyarsk, to do poking about of their own. The outlaws’ families were also being rounded up, none so high profile as Mark Remington, who was already working personally with Judge June to bring Remington in. The objective was to leave no stone—or potential source of information—unturned. The global sweep of news-gathering was in full effect.

But no potential source of information was as promising as Oleg Strakhov. It was clear that his involvement with the Nightmen, at least for a time, was of a covert nature. EDEN Command was well aware of the eidola, Thoor’s army of EDEN infiltrators. Every indication seemed to suggest that Oleg was among them. If the nature of the eidola hinted at willingness to be subversive, then perhaps, with Thoor dead and the Nightmen scattered, Oleg could be convinced to betray his prior allegiances in favor of Archer’s. That was the hope.

Relative to what Rath had seen on the main grounds of Novosibirsk, the Research Center seemed to have escaped the attack in relatively good condition. Though there were signs of battle damage to be seen, none of it compared to the devastation the Canadian judge had seen outside. As soon as the officer leading the way reached the doors to Confinement, he stepped aside to let Rath enter.

“Is there anyone else in there now?” Rath asked.

The officer nodded. “There are several guards and some alien specimens in some of the cells.”

Hands clasped behind his back, Rath said, “I’d like the guards removed, please. I’d like to speak with Mr. Strakhov undisturbed.”

“Of course, judge.”

“And I’d like his cell left open.”

At that comment, the officer blinked. Angling his head uncertainly at the Canadian, he simply asked, “Are you sure, judge?”

“Yes, quite sure, please.”

For several long moments, the officer simply stared, until at long last, he drew a breath and shook his head. “As you wish, Judge Rath. I will instruct them to leave the prisoner’s cell open.”

“Thank you, greatly.”

Slipping into the room ahead of Rath, the officer wrangled up the guards at post, ushering them into the halls of the Research Center while Rath waited. Within seconds, the room was cleared of all humans but Oleg. “The captive’s cell has been left open, judge. If you permit, the guards will remain at their post in the halls. Just in case.”

As Rath removed his gloves from his hands, finger by finger, he stated calmly, “That’s fine with me. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Stepping into Confinement, Rath left the officer and his guards behind. The door sealed shut behind him.

It became clear as soon as Rath was inside that whatever wrath the Research Center had managed to escape, Confinement itself had not. There was damage everywhere, items and blood strewn about, despite the time that had passed since EDEN’s invasion. It actually gave the Canadian a moment of pause. Stepping cautiously into the room’s depths, he surveyed the cells about the room. At the far side of the room, a pair of Ceratopian warriors watched Rath in silence, their slow but steady breathing the only indication that either of them were anything but mannequins. Rath’s gaze continued to sweep the room, until he came upon the cell he was after—one directly across from the pair of Ceratopians.

Inside, on the edge of a metal, wall-mounted cot, sat Oleg Strakhov.

It was evident immediately that Oleg had taken his fair share of a beating during the attack, as indicated by the swollen bruise that disfigured the left side of his face. He’d been hit hard there. The whole while Rath approached, Oleg’s cold but curious eyes stayed glued to him, watching the judge as he stepped carefully over the wreck that was the floor of the room, until he came to the precipice of Oleg’s cell. Grabbing the back of a small fold-out chair that was leaning against the wall, Rath simply carried it inside the cell, stood directly across from Oleg, then folded the chair out. The look Oleg gave him seemed to beg the question, “are you crazy?” Yet the bearded captive said nothing.

Lowering himself into the chair with total calmness and just out of arm’s reach of Oleg, Rath cleared his throat and simply said, “Well.”

Oleg, with his elbows propped on his knees and his hands clasped together, simply stared.

“So, you’re a smart man, Mr. Strakhov,” said Rath in his thick Canadian accent, “which means I’m pretty sure I don’t need to tell you who I am. But for the sake of common formality, I am Judge Jason Rath of EDEN High Command.”

Sitting upright ever so slowly, Oleg’s gaze narrowed. Still, he said nothing.

“I need to know everything that you know about Scott Remington.” The moment Rath said Scott’s name, Oleg’s eyes narrowed further. Rath pointed to the subtle movement. “Now, there’s what I’m looking for. That’s what I want to see. You’re a man who can help me. That’s good for me, and that’s very good for you.”

“Why is that good for me?” asked Oleg, his voice low.

Leaning forward in similar fashion as Oleg, the Canadian answered, “Because you’re sitting in a cell two feet away from one of the most powerful men on the planet. So tell me, Mr. Strakhov, was Scott Remington a friend of yours?” The moment the question was asked, Oleg leaned his head back and spat out a laugh. Rath raised an eyebrow. “Or mortal enemy, perhaps?”

Shaking his head, Oleg answered, “Why do you need to know about Scott Remington?”

Faintly, Rath smiled. “I like a man who asks questions. That shows you’re a thinker.”

“Please do not insult my intelligence,” said Oleg. “I may be in a cell, but it is you who needs help.”

This time, it was Rath’s eyes that narrowed. The negotiation was on.

Leaning back on his cot until his back leaned against the wall, Oleg said, “I know everything there is to know about Remington. I know where he’s from. I know who he loves. I know what he likes to eat for breakfast.”

“Lincoln, Nicole Dupree, and it doesn’t matter,” Rath said, unimpressed. “Tell me something I can’t learn by reading a printout.”

Oleg chuckled, then looked away. Drawing in a deliberate breath through his nostrils, he shook his head. “He is not from Lincoln. His love is not Nicole Dupree. But I will give you the breakfast.”

Lifting his chin faintly, Rath waited and listened. When Oleg didn’t speak further, he said, “I’m waiting, Mr. Strakhov.”

“And you will be waiting for a very long time, if you think I would be foolish enough to just give you this information.” He faced the judge again. “So it is I, Mr. Rath, who is waiting on you. What do I get for this?”

Rath made no outward indications concerning Oleg’s words. He simply looked directly at the captive across from him, whose unwavering gaze was as steadfast and stubborn as his. But the judge’s jaw had set.

At long last, Oleg let a hushed laugh slip. “I can sit here all day—”

“And I assure you,” the judge said, nearly cutting him off, “that you will sit there all day, every day, for the rest of your life, thinking about whether or not you should have cooperated with someone who had the power to get you out of that cell when you had the chance. So, by all means, continue sitting and waiting, or start talking,” he said, looking impatiently at his watch, “because I’ve got more people to talk to, and you’re running out of time.”

For a second consecutive time, the two sat in a stalemate—at least, until the Canadian judge moved. In the very same second that Rath rose from his chair to turn away, Oleg spoke. “Remington spent his childhood in Lincoln, yes, but that is not what made him—and I believe it is that that you are most interested in.”

Eyeing the captive coldly, Rath lowered back down.

Oleg continued. “Remington is a fallen saint, overcome with guilt, yet unable to shake his own nature. He has killer instinct. He is aggressive, prone to violence in the wake of his emotions. This is how we took advantage of him.”

“What do you mean, took advantage of him?”

“Why did you ask everyone else to leave the room?”

Rath shook his head. “That question’s not your concern.”

“Does it have anything to do with Archer’s secret alliance with the Golathoch?” The moment the question was asked, Rath went totally still. It was impossible for the abruptness to go unnoticed. Indicatively, Oleg allowed himself to smile. “Now, there’s what I’m looking for,” he said, mockingly repeating Rath’s own words to him a mere minute earlier. “That’s what I want to see. You’re a man who can help me.”

Glancing back to the Confinement’s door, then shaking his head, Rath said, “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Oleg’s tone grew serious. “Do not mistake me for a simple conman, Jason Rath. I am a far more experienced politician than you.” He leaned forward. “I want to know why.”

“Why what, exactly?”

“Why ally with the Golathoch? What is in it for you? What is it that you know that the rest of us don’t?” Oleg’s posture eased as he leaned back again. “Remington was sent to Cairo to retrieve a Golathoch that was trying to relay a message to Earth. ‘The Archer betrays you.’ I doubt he was talking about bows and arrows.” When Rath reacted subtly to the quote, Oleg blinked. The captive’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “You have heard that phrase before.” When Rath opened his mouth to reply, Oleg raised a finger and said sharply, “Before you say anything, remember who you are speaking with. And tell me the truth.”

Another stalemate ensued, though this time the ball was in Rath’s court. After almost ten seconds of dead silence, the Canadian drew in a long breath. “Are you willing to assist us with information about Remington, or not?”

His gaze penetrating the older man across from him, Oleg said, “Everything has its price.”

Outside, in the hallway, the official who’d led Rath inside was standing post semi-casually with the two guards. When the door opened next to them, all three men jumped to attention. The official blinked as Rath stepped out. “Judge Rath,” the Russian said, “did you hear from Strakhov what you needed to hear?”

The judge straightened his garments. “Yes, actually—at least, as much as I needed to. I’m going to need this prisoner taken back to Command with me. He knows more than we thought he did.”

The officer looked surprised. “As you wish, judge.”

“Has he said anything out of the ordinary to you? To any of you?”

After the three men looked at each other blankly, the officer answered, “Not to my knowledge. Was there something we were supposed to have—”

“No, no.” Rath shook his head casually. “He’s just somewhat of a strange one. I was merely curious.” Faintly, he smiled. “Do whatever you need to do to arrange his transfer. Thank you men for your hard work. Make sure you put your names on the transfer documents—all three of you. I want to make sure you all get recognition for your efforts, both with Mr. Strakhov and for arranging our meeting today.”

“Thank you, Judge Rath,” the officer said, offering a small smile, “but that is really not necessary.”

Rath returned the smile with half a one. “I insist. We don’t want anyone’s hard work to go unnoticed.”

Bowing his head appreciatively, the officer simply said, “That is very kind of you.”

“If you’ll excuse me, now, I must leave. Good day, gentlemen.” A hurried salute was exchanged, then Rath made his way down the hall.

Back inside Confinement, Oleg Strakhov leaned against the glass cell. Crossing his arms, he stared at the Ceratopians on the other side of the room. Both of the colossal aliens were looking at him. Sniffing in a deep breath through his nostrils, the ex-eidolon exhaled then rolled his head around atop his neck.

No one spoke to Oleg when the officer and guards came in to prepare for his transfer. Oleg didn’t speak to them, either. He simply followed their words to the letter, offering no resistance as they bound him with chains and filled out their paperwork. Within five minutes of Rath’s walking away, Oleg was taking a walk of his own. A walk to freedom—and to the side that was winning.

And there was no way in hell he was going to resist that.

*

A short while later

Sunday, March 18th, 0012 NE

0455 hours

Berlin, Germany

EMOTION WAS PULSING through Torokin’s veins when the blacked-out transport touched down. The ex-Vector was home. Berlin was not the most aesthetically-pleasing base in EDEN. It was much like Novosibirsk in that way. It was a beacon of power, not of light or hope. It was a “beautiful ugly,” as Klaus Faerber had often described it. Torokin’s time at EDEN Command had unfortunately left him little time to travel, and what time he did have was spent on official business, not leisure. Berlin was a base of model efficiency—one that rarely needed to be visited by a judge. That was a good thing, to be sure, but Torokin still would have loved an excuse to drop in on the base just for old times’ sake. This was the first time since he’d been a judge that an opportunity like that had presented itself.

As soon as Torokin stepped off the transport, Chiumbo Okayo was there to greet him. The dark-skinned Mwera soldier smiled broadly, his rows of gleaming white teeth stretching across his face as he approached Torokin with outstretched arms. With an enthusiastic, “Ahhh,” Chiumbo collided into Torokin, wrapping his arms around his former counterpart. “At last, my good friend!” he said in his thick Swahili accent. “Welcome back to home base.”

“It is good to be back, Chiumbo,” said Torokin, returning the smile. “Just in time to leave, it seems.”

It was impossible not to love Chiumbo—he was a deeply religious man who exuberated warmth and compassion in everything he did. He was much like Pablo Quintana, Vector’s combat technician, in that way. Chiumbo was a lieutenant in Vector and was expected to take over Vincent Hill’s position as second-in-command as soon as Klaus Faerber retired, and Vincent presumably took his place as captain. It was really a no-brainer. Everyone in Vector held the Mwera soldier in extremely high esteem.

Chiumbo had grown up in Ifakara, a rural town in Tanzania that had seen its share of hard times, even before the Alien War. Complete with dusty dirt roads and buildings that more closely resembled fancy huts than New Era establishments, Ifakara was technically considered savanna grasslands. Much of its population had grown up poor, and Chiumbo was no exception. This was one of the chief reasons Chiumbo was so well-liked by his comrades. His positive attitude and humility were infectious. It was hard to believe he was one of the most lethal men on the planet.

“Where is everyone else?” Torokin asked, craning his neck past Chiumbo to see Berlin’s barracks far behind them.

“Dieter is working them.”

Frowning a bit, Torokin released a sigh. “I wish I had time to visit.”

Chiumbo echoed the sentiment, his expression growing serious. “It is surprising that Command would permit such a mission as this.”

“Many things are surprising us today.” Hearing footsteps behind him, Torokin glanced back to see Logan approaching. He stepped aside to introduce the two. “Lieutenant Marshall, this is Lieutenant Chiumbo Okayo of Vector—”

The Australian cut him off. “Are your men ready, sir? We’re losing time.”

Holding back a sharp retort, Torokin simply said, “Minutes will not matter at this stage in the operation, lieutenant.”

“Every minute matters.”

Maintaining his pleasant demeanor, Chiumbo said, “The others are on their way. I was simply a few minutes ahead of them.” As if on cue, far behind the Mwera lieutenant, Marty, Pablo, and Lisa appeared. Catching Torokin’s gaze, Chiumbo turned to see them. “There they are now.”

Torokin had initially hoped to have a good professional relationship with Logan. They were, after all, cut from the same get-things-done mold. But the Australian needed to tone himself down a bit. Stepping past Chiumbo as the new arrivals approached, Torokin smiled half-heartedly in greeting. “Hello, comrades,” he called out as they neared. “I trust that you have all that you need?” It felt a cold greeting, but it was what it was. Under a different circumstance, they’d be chatting over vodka. Or cheap beer, which he recalled was Marty’s preference.

The Cajun was the first to reach him. Grinning broadly, the soldier whipped out a hand slap. “What’s happenin’, chief? Long time no see.”

“Far too long,” Torokin said as he moved on to the next. Pablo—all smiles like always—extended his hand. “Good to see you again, Smiley.” Following in tow was Lisa, who in sharp contrast offered a formal salute, something expected from someone who’d never met Torokin before. The judge returned it in kind, and the dark-haired brunette slipped past him toward their transport. Turning back to Chiumbo, Torokin patted him on the shoulder. “Are you ready for this?”

“Will we be all right under his leadership?” Chiumbo asked, discreetly nodding in Logan’s direction while the Australian wasn’t looking. In a rare moment, the Mwera wasn’t smiling.

Torokin exhaled, then nodded his head. “Yes. Do not forget that he is under my leadership. Our Vectors will be taken care of.”

The familiar smile returned. “Our Vectors?”

“One never truly leaves,” answered Torokin honestly. Frowning a bit, he asked, “Are you comfortable with this, Chiumbo?”

The lieutenant’s smile returned. “You will have no issues from me, my friend.”

“That is not what I asked.”

Several seconds passed before Chiumbo quietly sighed. He looked away briefly. “One does what one must, Leonid. I would prefer to lead an operation like this myself, but that is not what God has chosen. I look at this as God’s way of keeping me humble.”

At least Torokin had his answer. Chiumbo might have been accepting of the situation, but comfortable he was not. At the very least, Torokin didn’t have to worry about him. Chiumbo would take this in stride.

“As I stated,” Chiumbo said, “you will have no issues with me during this operation, nor will Lieutenant Marshall. As I do with Klaus and Vincent, and as I have done with you, I will support Marshall to my fullest.”

“Your day will come, Chiumbo.” It was a statement Torokin meant. “You deserve far more than you receive.”

Faintly, the Mwera soldier smirked. “That is not helping me to stay humble, my friend.” Chiumbo took Torokin’s hand and bowed graciously, a customary gesture from him. “But I thank you for your words.”

With nothing further to discuss, the two men joined the others.

Though Torokin and company had taken a Command transport to Berlin, it was never intended to be their means of transportation for this operation. A Mark-2 Vulture had been reserved for them at the German base; it was intended to be their ride for the duration of their hunt and was fully loaded with the participating Vectors’ armor and equipment. That was why Minh was there with them, to serve as the pilot of their own ship. With only seven occupants, the V2 would be severely undermanned—but that was fine. No one was going to complain about having extra legroom. Consideration had initially been given to using one of Vector Squads’ two specialized V2s for the operation, though it was decided upon Logan’s suggestion that a certain level of covertness might be of practical benefit. The Australian felt it was better to take a ship without the Vector emblem. Torokin agreed.

Barely two minutes after everyone was on board, the transport was hovering over the concrete of Berlin as Minh angled its nose to the east, where their starting point of Novosibirsk awaited. The former Nightman base was also Logan’s suggestion, and it made the most sense. No place would offer more clues about Scott Remington than the place where he’d lived and served. As soon as the flight leveled off, the collection of operatives gathered in the cabin for Torokin to address them.

“For those who have not met him yet, this is Lieutenant Logan Marshall,” said Torokin, leaning back against one of the seats as he motioned to Logan. “He has personal experience with several of the outlaws, including Scott Remington. He has been selected as the tactical leader of this operation, a realm in which he has experience as a former mercenary.” At the mention of his past, Logan’s eyes narrowed faintly. Torokin didn’t care. Everyone on board needed to know where this man came from. “We are all to give the lieutenant our full cooperation. I know it is unusual for Vector to work under the authority of another party, but this is an unusual situation. We will not find a more qualified leader for this operation than Marshall.” Torokin didn’t believe that, but he still had to say it. His focus shifted to Logan directly. “Lieutenant, meet Marty Breaux, Pablo Quintana, and Lisa Tiffin. They will be prepared for anything you ask of them.”

Of the two operatives, only Pablo seemed wholly at ease, not a surprise considering his default personality setting. He could be the most anxiety-ridden person on the planet and no one would ever know it. Marty looked outright skeptical.

“If there is a specific task you wish to accomplish in Novosibirsk,” Torokin said to Logan. “Pablo is the man you want to talk to. Now is your chance.” With that, Torokin offered Logan the floor.

The Australian didn’t miss a beat. “We need to find out where Remington and his men are going, and the only way we’re going to do that outside of finding a person who knows—which isn’t likely to happen—is to find out what and where he’s been transmitting.” Logan’s mouth opened again to continue, but a pair of words from Pablo cut him off.

“TRANSEC key,” the Latino man said.

Logan blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Quietly from behind Logan, Torokin smirked. The judge folded his arm and listened as Pablo replied.

“We need their TRANSEC key—it is how we will be able to track their hopping. If we find their key and apply their checksums, we will be able to track their transmissions.”

“Gotta find a place with a backlog,” said Marty casually, the Cajun’s feet propped up on the chair in front of him.

Pablo nodded. “Some regional Comm-Sats keep historical backlogs, perhaps up to forty-eight or seventy-two hours. If we can isolate the timeframe the outlaws were broadcasting in, we may be able to save a copy of their communication.”

“Like clockwork, baby,” said Marty, winking and pointing his finger at Pablo like a gun.

Lost amid the now-budding discussion, Logan raised his hand. When Pablo looked his way, Logan simply asked, “Can you run all that by me again?”

Smile lighting up his face, Pablo nodded. “Remington is most likely using spread spectrum transmissions—it is one of the easiest ways to achieve LPI and LPD.”

“LP-what?”

“Low Probability of Interception and of Detection—it is the point of TRANSEC, that is, Transmission Security. By using spread spectrum frequency hopping, Remington will be communicating with another party on multiple band frequencies in a pseudorandom sequence.” He glanced at Marty. “Russian cell phones are on 450 MHz digital—that will likely be their primary platform.”

Still, Logan looked confused. “Can you slow that down a couple of notches, mate?”

Logan Marshall, meet Pablo Quintana, thought Torokin wryly.

The Latino technician nodded. “Imagine you are in a hallway with a hundred doors on each side, and you are trying to intercept a message being passed from one door to the one across it. The doors open, the message is passed, then they close again, but you never know which doors are going to be opened next.” He gestured vividly with his hands. “The people passing the message from one side of the hallway to the other, though, have a sequence written down telling them what doors will be opened next, so they always know where to be to receive the next message. Do you follow?”

Hesitantly, Logan nodded. “I think so.”

“With so many doors, you would never know which ones to stand between to intercept their message—but if you had their key, you could change the game. You could follow along and know which doors were going to be opened next, then wait to intercept the message when it comes.” He held his open hands out excitedly. “Now take that concept and apply it to frequency bands. The outlaws are bouncing all over the place, communicating on multiple bands on multiple frequencies. You will never be able to guess where they are transmitting next,” he said, snapping his fingers, “unless you had their key. You follow the sequence, wait, and intercept. Now you are in the conversation.”

Hands behind his head and with his eyes closed, Marty said, “S’all pretty basic stuff, chief.” Very faintly and without looking at Logan, he smirked.

Pablo continued. “Once we have their key, all we need is the right kind of cryptographic device, and we can decipher everything being said. A regional Comm-Sat’s historical backlog would be all that we need. That is,” he explained, “a recorded history of every transmission made over a frequency.”

Seeming to catch on, Logan said, “I think you’re talking about what I was hinting at.”

The Latino technician nodded. “Jīngshén-2 is a Chinese satellite that overlaps Krasnoyarsk Krai’s northern area grid, and it has a historical backlog. If their transmissions were picked up by Jīngshén-2, which they may likely have been as they were last heard heading north, we may be able to tap into it by simply sending a query from a Comm-Sat tower in Krasnoyarsk. The critical thing for us will be finding the key and the device they use to scramble their transmissions.”

“And if we can’t find either?”

“It is still possible to find some of their transmissions without the key. I could examine the frequency bands for subsequent micro increases in background noise, though that would still not allow us to intercept future transmissions.”

Chiming in constructively for the first time, Marty said, “We gotta send a message out to Novosibirsk—get those guys checkin’ things out while we on our way, seein’ if ’dey can’t find whatever cryptographic device the Nightmen are usin’ to chat. But we also gotta find ’dat key. I’m thinkin’ the best way to do ’dat is to find…” Snapping his fingers, he pointed expectantly at Logan. “C’mon, chief, you got ’dis.”

The Australian was less than amused. “Just tell me the bloody answer.”

“We gotta find a comm.”

Picking up where his Cajun counterpart left off, Pablo sat upright. “A comm that was used by someone in Remington’s unit—or someone with the ability to communicate with them—would lead us to the key. Not only would we be able to use that comm for future eavesdropping, we would be able to look at the comm’s usage to determine what frequencies it broadcasted over.” The technician smiled. “Then we compare that to the historical backlog from Jīngshén-2—”

“And we have their entire conversation history,” said Logan, his elevated tone conveying his sudden understanding. “Provided we can decipher it.”

Pablo nodded. “The comm would contain the checksum, but not necessarily the entire cryptographic system. In other words, its programming would inherently allow any transmissions that come after we locate it to be deciphered, but we would still need the cryptographic device they used in order to decipher audio from past transmissions.”

“I like it,” Logan said. “It’s a start, and that’s what we need.”

“Then let us prepare ourselves.” Torokin stood between the group as a whole. “We are three hours out of Novosibirsk. Let us not waste a minute of that.” His focus shifted deliberately to Logan. “Every minute matters.”

Though he said nothing, the subtle nod by Logan was affirmation that the message—specifically to him—had been received. They were all on the same course. This unlikely alliance of mercenary and military had a chance.

And so, the Vector hunters flew out, their sights set for the fallen base once known as The Machine. In the minutes, then the hours, that passed, Logan took time—as per Torokin’s request—to enlighten Chiumbo, Marty, Pablo, and Lisa on the man they were chasing: Scott Remington. The outlaw leader and his crew were discussed just as thoroughly as they’d been discussed by Logan and Torokin prior to their arrival at Berlin to pick up the rest of the accompanying Vectors. No detail was left untouched. Lisa elaborated on Esther, too, at least as much as she’d known her in the little time that their paths had overlapped. For the first time, this felt like a manhunt.

There was no question in Torokin’s mind that Remington would be brought to justice. It was just a matter of waiting for the right moment—finding the right clue that would lead them to the right place. The outlaws might have found Cairo’s security forces an easy obstacle, but that wouldn’t be the case for Vector. A rude awakening was on the way, clad in purple and white.

Novosibirsk couldn’t come fast enough. That first clue couldn’t come fast enough. When it came, there’d be no place for Remington to hide. The best of the best were in active pursuit.

The world’s most wanted were about to be snared.

13

Location: Unknown

Time: Unknown

SVETLANA WAS surrounded by darkness. Her blue eyes peering forward, she saw only the faint outlines of curvature around her, indicative of standing inside some sort of metal tube and staring forward into an unknown that reached far ahead, beyond her field of vision. But she didn’t need to see to know what was before her. This was the path Order and Chaos had chosen.

Her hands clenched, their grip tightening around the metal spear that was clutched between her fingers. Her armor, a sparse interlace of metal and leather, provided only as much protection as was required. Any other protection she needed would be gifted by Uladek. She could smell the war paint on her face, beneath her eyes and on her forehead. The plume of dark feathers at the end of her spear gave notice that she was not to be trifled with. She was one of the priesthood.

Inhaling through her nostrils, Svetlana took in a familiar musk. At the end of the tube, a light emerged that was just faint enough to outline the form of a lumbering beast stalking toward her. The blonde narrowed her eyes as its features came into view.

It towered—it was befitting for someone of her stature. Its massive hind legs clomped one after the other as it neared, its gaping jaws hanging as saliva fell from between its teeth. Its body lowered as it readied to be mounted.

All of a sudden, hands reached out from the darkness and grabbed her. They wrenched the spear from her grasp. They were taking her.

Svetlana screamed out in Russian as they pulled her back, away from the canrassi and into the darkness behind her. A blur of dark colors flew past her vision as the hands pinned her back to a wall, which quickly turned into a floor. Her nose began to burn—a fervent fire that felt like nothing she’d ever felt, like hot coals in her nostrils. Releasing a blood-curdling scream, she felt the heat dig into her face.

“Setana?”

The voice was Tauthin’s. The moment the Bakma spoke, all of the colors faded. The hurricane of motion subsided. The dream melted away. Her chest heaving, Svetlana looked around the room. She was in the brig of the Noboat. There were no hands holding her wrists and ankles at bay—there were only the same metallic clamps that’d been there all along. Staring through the strands of her hair that floated in microgravity, the blonde’s gaze focused on Tauthin. The alien was looking at her in wonderment. It was a look of surprise the likes of which she’d never seen from him before. “What?” she asked him.

Tauthin’s mouth hung open for several seconds before he managed a reply. “Yuu waar ska-reem-angh words.”

She was screaming words. It was a reference to her dream. She must have been acting it out. “It was only a dream,” she said.

The Bakma hesitated. “Yuu waar ska-reem-angh words…een Bakmanese.”

The blonde’s brow furrowed. “What?”

Right then, it hit her: a sharp pain in the center of her face. It came on slowly, then rapidly intensified until its sheer rawness caused her whole face to contort. Svetlana winced, her mouth opening in torment as teardrops formed over her pupils. It was as if knives were stabbing her in the nose. She cried aloud. “My face hurts so bad!” Her mouth open, she panted, “I cannot breathe!”

His head lowering, Tauthin said, “The paeen will saab-side. It ees to be eck-spacht-ed.”

“What?” she asked again, crying out in agony and leaning her head back. “What are you talking about?”

Tauthin looked at her, his dark purple eyes narrowing. “Waat do yuu mean?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked again, forced to draw in another breath through her open mouth. “Why can’t I breathe? I am so cold…” Suddenly blinking in realization, she tilted her head down to look at her body. She was in her undergarments. Gasping, her hands jolted to instinctively cover herself, but the clasps kept her in place. “My God! Where are my clothes?”

The Bakma’s head tilted. For several seconds, he simply observed her. At long last, in the midst of her panic, he addressed her. “Yuu maast remaambar.”

“What?” she asked in horror as she desperately squirmed. “What must I remember?”

“Waat hapeened to yuu.”

Her eyes tear-filled, she whipped her head to face him. “What happened to me, Tauthin?”

For almost ten full seconds, Tauthin said nothing—he only stared at her in uncertain silence. All the while, her stare remained locked. “Nagogg took yuur claths. He took yuu awaee.”

“Took me away for what?”

Tauthin’s eyes drifted away from her, drawn inherently to the far side of the room. Where he’d last seen it floating. It was still there.

Her expression narrowing, Svetlana followed the Bakma’s opaque stare until she too caught sight of the tiny object hovering in microgravity. Squinting to make it out, she asked, “What is that?”

“It is…” he said, his voice trailing off as he watched the object float, “yuur nose.”

Svetlana blinked in confusion. She craned her neck forward to see it more clearly. Then reality hit. The blonde’s eyes widened. She looked down as much as she was able. No blur of a nose could be seen. Within seconds, she was hyperventilating.

Tauthin’s gaze returned to her. “Setana, leesin! Do not paahnic!”

“Do not panic?” she asked in open-mouthed horror. Her whole face contorted. “My God, no! No!”

“Yuu maast remaambar.”

She didn’t remember. She didn’t remember anything. The last thing she remembered was hanging on the wall, then…then the door. The door to the brig had opened. Then everything was a blank.

Her nose. Her nose! Part of what she was, one of the few things about her that she’d always felt was beautiful. It was gone! That explained the pain, that explained the difficulty in breathing. She had nothing there to filter and direct the air. Her throat convulsed. Leaning her head back and closing her eyes, she released a mournful wail.

The Noboat shimmied, its walls vibrating with an almost urgent violence. The discomfort of breathing was set aside as Svetlana drew a sharp breath. Tauthin was quick to calm her. “Nuu feear. Graahvity.”

Gravity? What did he mean? The shaking lasted for several seconds before there was a sudden smoothening, and the familiar sensation of weight swept over her. Her body dropped in the chains as her hair fell in front of her face, the most basic of nature’s forces bearing down on her. It wasn’t quite Earth-like, but it was something that resembled normal. Briefly, her eyes returned to the corner where her nose had been hovering. The amputated protuberance rolled lifelessly on the floor.

“What is happening?” she asked Tauthin. Truly noticing it for the first time, she cringed at the sound of her voice. It was high-pitched and nasal, almost alien to her. It was like someone else speaking.

Tauthin answered, “We haaf creaated graahvity whael. Paart of the riift.”

Gravity wheel? Part of the rift? She didn’t know what any of that meant.

Like every other spacecraft EDEN had encountered, the Noboat was an aerospace vessel—it needed to function just as well in an atmosphere as in deep space, where microgravity reigned supreme. It was a spaceship restricted to an aerodynamic design, with no leniency given to counteract the lack of weight in space. Svetlana knew about the effects of weightlessness on the human body; it had to be the same for the Bakma. Eventually, microgravity caused bone decalcification and muscle atrophy. Every cosmonaut who returned to the NSU from a space operation returned weaker. While that might be okay for a cosmonaut, that could never work for an interstellar warrior.

But gravity was virtually impossible to simulate in space without some sort of centrifuge, and even that was a flawed impersonation at best. The only place Svetlana knew to find gravity was on a planet. Yet there they were, existing in it without one. Gravity wheels, rifts…she didn’t know what any of that was supposed to mean. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter, anyway.

The chains that bound her to the wall were vastly more uncomfortable now. They caused her to dangle helplessly against unforgiving shackles. The more she tried to squirm into a more suitable position, the more they dug into her wrists.

Svetlana’s mind returned to her nose and her near-nakedness. How could she remember nothing? How could there be such an absence of time? The only answer she could come up with was that she must’ve completely disassociated. The experience must have been too traumatic to recall.

Her nose…

Her thoughts were interrupted as the brig door opened. Nagogg. The self-proclaimed chieftain of the Noboat was standing in the doorway, holding his spear at his side like some kind of tribal leader. Behind him stood Gabralthaar and Ka`vesh.

Svetlana felt an initial surge of fear, though it quickly morphed into a sensation she was not used to feeling. It was focused and decidedly more sinister. When her ocean blue eyes settled on the spear, her fingers curled as if wrapping themselves around it. She visualized it piercing Nagogg through the throat. Her blood simmered as she imagined pushing it forward.

The click of an Ithini connection surfaced in her mind. Nagogg’s raspy Bakmanese formed meaning. Angling his head, he asked, “Do you submit?”

“Setana…” said Tauthin from her side, he too linked in the connection. She looked at him. He was afraid for her. Tauthin’s bony brows were arched outwardly, adding even deeper crevices to the wrinkles already in his forehead. His eyes searched hers as if seeking to understand her as much as plead with her. But the plea still came. “Please submit.”

Her eyes turned back to Nagogg. In the midst of her panic—of the horror of discovering that she no longer had a nose—a series of rational thoughts came to her mind. If she submitted, it would be over. The fear, the danger, the pain. The freedom. Submit, and share Tauthin’s fate: to be subservient to a god she could never accept, could never believe in. But even that would not be the end. This religion was radical. It demanded adherence and threatened apostasy with torture, chains, and death. It allowed for nothing else.

Disfigurement or not, she could never submit to that.

Svetlana didn’t even have to say a word. The moment Tauthin saw the defiance on her face, his hopeful body language sank into resolution. There was nothing in her that he could change.

Turning her head to Nagogg, she uttered a single, unyielding statement: “I will never submit to you.”

The angle of Nagogg’s head evened out. Beneath his skeleton’s grin, the Bakma’s jaw set. For the faintest of moments, she thought she saw his face flush. Inhaling through his slotted nostrils, Nagogg tilted his head upward, looking down at the woman whose nose he’d removed—the human who’d matched his battle of wills move for move. The next move, once again, was his.

In the midst of the showdown, though her eyes were locked onto Nagogg’s, Svetlana’s mind found itself in a prayer. I am here because You put me here. If you will me to die today, I will die.

Pointing his jagged finger Svetlana’s direction, Nagogg barked out an order as the Ithini connection was lost. Striding past him, Gabralthaar and Ka`vesh approached the bound medic. Pressing her against the wall, they unlatched her chains and took hold of her. As she was jostled violently toward the chamber door, she cast a look back at Tauthin. He seemed so far away. Just as their eyes met, Svetlana was shoved into the hallway hard, her body slamming against the metal wall of the Noboat’s interior. Behind her, the metal door whooshed close.

In the brief moment that Svetlana had to observe the hallway under her own free will, she saw two other beings present—Ed, the Ithini that Nagogg was using for communication, and a remarkably fit Bakma. Both were standing at a distance in apparent observation. Before she could focus farther, the abusive hands of Gabralthaar and Ka`vesh took hold of her, yanking her to her feet by her blond roots and shoving her ahead. Svetlana held back a yelp, though the pull of her hair made her eyes water.

The air was cold against her skin, though at the moment it was the least of her concerns. Where was she being led? What was next?

This is the direction of the bridge.

As Svetlana neared the corner at the end of the corridor—the turn that led to the antechamber with the Noboat’s side exit ramp—her gaze was able to focus more on the two by the door. She knew Ed. She’d seen the Ithini and felt his presence in her mind numerous times. It was the Bakma beside Ed—the one in peak physical condition—that caught her attention. The alien had no eyes. Vacant sockets stared at Svetlana as she marched, looking directly at her while simultaneously looking at nothing. This is why Nagogg took my nose. They all suffered the same way. Billions of miles away, the impact of General Thoor was still being felt. His torture of his captives had come full circle on her.

Just as Gabralthaar shoved her forward toward the corner, another Bakma unexpectedly emerged from around it. She and the alien collided, stumbling back as they—for the most fleeting of moments—made eye contact. A moment was all it took, as Svetlana’s eyes widened in recognition.

Wuteel. The Bakma she’d treated on a ground mission. Cared for. He was among her tormenters.

The alien’s eyes shied away immediately, and he hurried past her to walk down the hall. Svetlana’s head turned to follow him, but another hard shove from Gabralthaar cut the motion short. In the next instant, she was around the corner, and Wuteel was out of view.

She felt like someone had kicked her in the gut. The betrayal was almost worse than losing her nose. Before her thoughts could develop further, she was pushed through the antechamber and toward the bridge.

It wasn’t until the door to the bridge slid open and she was thrust inside that the shame of Svetlana’s scarce clothing hit her. This wasn’t a narrow hallway—this was an open, circular room. She could be viewed from every angle. She felt completely lacking in dignity.

There were two other Bakma in the room—one sitting in the pilot’s chair at the front of the vessel, and the other standing at a console on the far wall. But though she registered them, they weren’t the source of her most intense focus. That belonged to the canrassi. The brown-furred beast was sitting subserviently beside the captain’s chair, its oversized mouth gaping, exposing rows of razor-sharp teeth. The canrassi’s two spider eyes turned to Svetlana as Gabralthaar forced her toward it.

Svetlana’s heart pounded. No…no! Her knees locked as she tried to push back, but she was powerless against the massive Gabralthaar.

She was about to be eaten alive.

The canrassi released a shrill-like scream as it rose almost completely upright. As Svetlana was shoved nearer, she too screamed in panic. Behind her, Nagogg shouted in Bakmanese, though the lack of a connection kept his meaning lost. Gabralthaar grabbed the back of her hair, thrusting her down to her knees.

“Stop it! Please! I…” The word submit formed at the tip of her tongue. “I…”

She was violently thrust forward, her head forced downward as if bowing to the massive beast, which lumbered closer.

There was nothing she could do. There was nowhere she could run. She was at the mercy of captors who knew nothing of the concept. The canrassi roared savagely. She saw its shadow rear upright before her. She closed her eyes and held her breath.

Everything went silent.

Ever so slowly, Svetlana opened her eyes. The canrassi was gone. Blinking, she looked across the Noboat’s bridge. The consoles were still there, beeping and pulsing as they had been when she’d entered, but there were no Bakma manning them. There was no Gabralthaar, no Ka`vesh. No Nagogg. Every single one of them had vanished. She was alone on the bridge.

Looking down at herself, Svetlana gasped and took a step back, holding out her hands so that she might see herself more fully. She was clothed. From head to toe, she was back in her silver and blue EDEN uniform. It was perfectly pressed and clean. Reaching up, she touched the tip of her nose—a nose that was very much intact.

From the corridor beyond the bridge entrance, a woman screamed. Flinching, Svetlana whipped her head to the sound. It was a terrified, panicked wailing. Like a woman being tortured.

“Kill him.”

It was her own voice that addressed her, though nothing had come from her mouth. On the contrary, the voice seemed to come from every direction, as if both audible and in her mind. Slowly, Svetlana’s head tilted down to look at her right hand, which seconds earlier had been empty, but now most certainly was not.

She was holding Nagogg’s spear.

“Kill him.”

A glow emanated from her hand where the spear was grasped, and from the glow, an intense, fervent heat. It traveled through her veins and up her spine. It burned like fury. Her head raising again as the glow faded, she stepped forward in what felt like slow motion.

The screaming, which she recognized now as her own, continued from down the hall. Walking through the antechamber, she exhaled a breath of premeditated calmness. Deep inside her, a sensation swelled, prompting her to open her mouth and suck in, very faintly, through delicately parted lips.

“He is waiting for you.”

With every step Svetlana took, the feelings grew fiercer. By the time she reached the door to the room where the screaming was coming from, it had completely taken over. Rounding the corner, she looked into the room.

She saw herself lying on a table, her face soaked with blood, her mouth frozen open in horror. Standing above her, holding her sliced-off nose in his hand, was Nagogg. The lipless rider looked up to regard her standing in the door.

All emotion went cold. All anger, all fervency. Svetlana’s blue eyes hardened as she walked Nagogg’s way. She paid no mind to the agonized wails that came from her body on the table. She was not in that body anymore.

Svetlana’s mouth opened wide—twice as far as should have been possible—as she let loose a rage-filled scream at her tormentor. Thrusting forward with the spear, she stabbed it into Nagogg’s belly, as her other hand reached across his face. Her claws dug into him; his face began to cave. Blood pouring from his body, Nagogg gurgled and screamed.

The room went empty. Svetlana was once again alone. There was no other her on the table, no Nagogg in her grasp. Everything was clean. Lowering her gaze downward, she saw a white bucket sitting on the floor, filled to the brim with dark, red blood.

It was Nagogg’s.

There was no voice that needed to prompt her, no sign to indicate what she was to do. She knew what came next on her own. Sinking down to the floor, she picked up the bucket with both hands. Lifting the bucket over her head, her breathing intensified. With eyes closed and mouth open, she tilted it back.

With the warmth of the liquid came the rush of emotion. As it poured down her throat, she felt her tension release. Turning her head to the side and down, she embraced the flow like a lover.

Svetlana’s eyes shot open. She inhaled a sharp breath. She was staring at the floor.

“What…?” she whispered, the word happened never forming. Lifting her head to look, she gasped. Directly in front of her were the massive hind legs of the canrassi. Instinct took over as she tried to squirm away, only to realize in the effort that she was once again restrained by the magnetic clasps, except not on the wall as she had been with Tauthin, but on the floor itself. They were clasped at her wrists, forcing her into a bowed position in front of the beast. Turning her head to the left, she saw the bottom of Nagogg’s captain’s chair.

She was back in the bridge. A chill came over her, indicating that she was again stripped down to her undergarments. Her nose once again throbbed with the pain of the amputation. All around her, the Bakma were at their stations. A look up indicated that Nagogg was seated in his chair. No one was watching her.

How long have I been like this? She remembered nothing. The last thing she’d registered before her bizarre shift in reality was being thrust toward the canrassi as if being offered to it. Now, she was clasped in a bowing position at its feet. She registered a sliminess to her hair, and for a moment, the word blood came to mind. But it wasn’t blood. It was saliva. The canrassi was perched atop her like a dog over its prize. Its gaping jaws must have been drooling from directly above her.

It was the second instance of missing time she’d experienced in as many traumatizing moments. She found herself once again thrust from Point A to Point C, with no memory of what happened in the space between. And those images she’d seen…those feelings she’d felt…

What was that? Who am I to conjure something like that?

It was the second time in a short succession that such a dream had come to her. What was happening? Those images and feelings were not Svetlana Voronova. They were something else, something sick and horrible. Whether a coping mechanism or the beginning stages of insanity, it most certainly couldn’t be something good.

Lifting her head parallel to the floor, the highest angle her neck could crane, she took in the canrassi’s colossal back legs and underbelly. That was the extent of anything she could see—the rest of the beast was towering over her. For all practical purposes, she’d been given a permanent view of the animal’s midsection. She could feel its drool plopping unceremoniously atop her head and sliding down the sides of her hair. Her eyes fixed on the floor beneath her as a pool of thick saliva began to form. In that moment, another smell came to her—something that burned her nasal cavities like acid. It was a musky, horrible stench, as if she’d walked into a room where a cat had…

…had urinated.

Wincing painfully, she clenched her lips. She’d been marked. Like property for an animal. It must have happened while she was out, which was for the best, she thought. There was no benefit to being awake for such an experience, or to knowing where on her body it had happened or to what extent. It was better to pretend all of the wetness was saliva.

She was now their completed piece of artwork, sprawled out and vulnerable on the floor, bowing to a beast that was salivating on her head as if the two of them were part of a living sculpture—one the predator, one being continually christened as its prey. One the master, one the slave.

The feeling that swelled in the pit of Svetlana’s stomach was unlike anything she’d felt before. This was the utter depths of humiliation. Demeaning beyond comprehension. Had Ignatius van Thoor been there himself, she would have clung to his legs and begged him to save her. She could sense her sanity seeping away.

You are being used as an example.

The words in her mind came unexpectedly, as the familiar click of an Ithini connection accompanied them. Ed had connected her to someone. Flinching, Svetlana lifted her head from the floor, shaking it momentarily to sling away drool as it slid down from her forehead. She angled her head to the bridge entrance, one of the few places in view.

There he was. The Bakma she had seen in the hallway—the one with gouged eyes. Despite the alien’s blindness, he stared straight at her from his perch out of traffic. She swallowed, then glanced around to see if anyone else took notice. At least as far as her limited vision could see, they were all preoccupied with the ship. Her focus returned to the Bakma. Why are you talking to me?

The Bakma stood motionless, like a statue. To explain what has not been explained.

To explain? Had he been instructed to do that? Before she could ask for clarification, the Bakma continued.

My name is—

—Kraash-nagun, she interrupted before he could finish.

Kraash-nagun’s head tilted strangely. How did you know?

She didn’t know the answer to that one herself. His name had just come to her. The dreams, the screaming in Bakmanese, knowing the crew’s names…what was happening? Twitching her head in a futile effort to whip her hair from her eyes, she cleared her throat habitually. I am…Setana.

Your name is known.

How can you see me?

Kraash-nagun angled his head slightly. One does not need eyes to see.

Looking away as to not draw too much attention to her staring at the blinded Bakma, Svetlana’s gaze settled on the canrassi briefly before she turned her head around as far as her neck would allow—just far enough to catch sight of the view screen at the front of the bridge. They were still in space. The gravity she was feeling was indeed artificial. Where are we?

At the edge of what we call the Crossing.

It was habit to glance back at the one who was addressing her, but she stopped herself before it became obvious. Her eyes settled once more on the view screen. Did someone tell you to speak to me? She knew the answer to that question already.

I am speaking to you on my own accord. Disclosing our communication would ensure it does not continue.

For what reason are we speaking?

There was a pause in the relay of thoughts. Curiosity.

Her dark blond brows arched. Curiosity?

You are an extraterrestrial. I have never spoken with one.

It was the first time in Svetlana’s life that she’d been the extraterrestrial in the room. It wasn’t a feeling she liked. You said I was being used as an example. What does this mean?

Kraash-nagun shifted. Uladek demands total surrender. You are a warning to the rest of the crew that defiance brings punishment. His vacant eye sockets narrowed. You are wondering why they did not kill you.

She was.

A corpse is easily forgotten. A living example preaches without speaking a word.

So she was a teaching tool, secured to the side of the captain’s chair like a slave for all of the crew to see. Apparently, defiance had its uses. The saliva had ceased its dripping; now her head was just sticky. That uncleanliness, combined with the amputation of her nose and the shame of her near-nakedness, were the worst feelings she’d ever experienced. I doubt many here lack faith in their god, she thought with spite. I am sure they all saw what happened to Tauthin.

Tauthinilaas’s mistake was not his lack of faith—it was his outspokenness and the faulty assumption that time in human bondage would erase zealous loyalties. Not all who are aboard this vessel value Uladek as Nagogg does.

Svetlana’s blue eyes widened. Deep in her heart, the cinders of hope flickered. There are others who do not worship Uladek? Immediately, her mind began scheming. If I can reach them—if I can find out who they are and convince them to—

Though the thoughts hadn’t been meant as communication with Kraash-nagun, he registered them just the same. Do not deceive yourself with false ambition. No one on this vessel will join your cause.

…why not?

Because they see you now.

She knew what that statement was supposed to mean, and she took offense to it. What of you, Kraash-nagun? Are you so easily discouraged?

I do not require discouragement to accept futility. I am blind. I am of no use in a revolt.

His answer left wiggle room for argument. She took it. But you desire a revolt.

There was a pause. I did not say that.

Nor did you deny it. All she needed was one willing participant—one reason to hope. Kraash-nagun, blind or not, could be it. You do not worship Uladek, do you, Kraash-nagun? It was a shot in the dark, but a calculated one. The fact that Kraash-nagun was communicating with her in secret was enough to, at the very least, indicate a willingness to go behind Nagogg’s authority. That he was engaged in civil discussion about the possibility of revolt meant he might even be willing to undermine that authority with the right motivation. It was time to test his loyalties.

At long last, Kraash-nagun answered her. I survive.

He was just like Tauthin. No loyalties to Uladek, only to staying alive by humoring the system. Svetlana could turn him. You can be free, from the Khuladi, from Nagogg! From Uladek. All you need to do is release Tauthin.

Tauthin has no weapons. He would not survive the canrassi. And I am blind.

But I am here also.

You are inconsequential.

Blinking, she shot him a look—she couldn’t help it. After surveying the bridge to ensure no one had caught sight of it, her gaze resettled on Kraash-nagun. Do not let physical appearances deceive you.

Kraash-nagun answered her as soon as the thought was finished. I cannot see your physical appearance, nor do I need to. You were taken by Tauthinilaas because you had been rendered unconscious during an attack. You were powerless to fend off Nagogg, Gabralthaar, and Ka`vesh, all of whom have been tortured and starved for months. You screamed for Tauthinilaas to save you while pleading with your captors for mercy. You were incapable of both fighting and rationalizing yourself out of your current situation, which has left you mutilated, stripped, marked by a beast now considered your superior, constrained to the floor, and begging for aid from a warrior who has lost his sight. Kraash-nagun tilted his head intently. You are of no assistance to yourself. How could you possibly be of assistance to me?

It was a dagger in her heart. Every bit of what Kraash-nagun said was true.

Unlike the rest of Nagogg’s crew, I do not take pleasure in your torment. But I do not pity you. You are the result of inadequacy. It is the opposite of what I strive to be.

Tears of anger brimmed in Svetlana’s eyes. With teeth clenched together so tightly that they threatened to shatter, she replied only with silence.

Svetlana felt the connection remain open for some time, as if Kraash-nagun was waiting for her to resume the conversation. But she made no attempt. Their connection was like a quiet mic on an open radio channel—there was only the silence of mental static. Eventually, the connection was closed. Svetlana was once again alone.

Inconsequential. Inadequate. Both words had been used to describe her. Truth was present in each.

How long have I been so weak?

Despite every part of her that pled for her teardrops to hold their place, it was a battle she was destined to lose. They rolled down her cheeks in quiet torrents, streaking through the stickiness the canrassi had left behind and trailing past the flattened cavity where her nose had once been. All around her, Nagogg’s crew went about their business as if she didn’t exist. There she was, a human being in their midst, anchored down by the side of their captain’s chair, yet deemed not a threat. She was barely worthy enough to be ignored. She pulled helplessly at her shackles; they wouldn’t budge. Ceasing the effort, she simply sat in her place on the floor. Lowering her head, the droplets fell from her eyes, falling through saliva-stained strands of her hair and falling on the metal below.

No more attempts to communicate with Svetlana were made by Kraash-nagun or anyone else on the Noboat, nor did Svetlana make any further attempts to escape or plea for mercy. She only sat in quiet resignation. Though her tears stopped falling, her head remained downcast.

This was her Wall of Mourning. The plight of the Bakma around her had been cast back upon her. She embodied every cruelty they’d faced, bearing the sins of Novosibirsk on her shoulders. It was a penance that, in her mind, she had earned. She was pitiful.

Now, there was only the wait for Khuldaris. The wait for whatever was in store, be it more torment or even death. What little fight had existed in her was gone. A part of her wondered if she’d ever had fight at all. Hope fell victim to the impending inevitable.

It never stood a chance.

14

Sunday, March 18th, 0012 NE

0959 hours

Norilsk, Russia

BY THE TIME Esther walked into the medical bay, the Falcon Platoon survivors had already been released. The sole exception was Catalina, who was still on her cot next to Auric, prepped for her impending surgery. Wheelchairs, folded up in the corner of the room, were already waiting for both of them. Esther took that as a good sign. If wheelchairs were waiting, the two would undoubtedly be free soon.

Then, there was Natalie. The Caracal captain had expressed no surprise upon seeing the release of the others in the midst of her own continued incarceration. She was, after all, an “enemy combatant” in the eyes of the Nightmen. Her release was the last thing anyone thought would happen.

The only other people present were Northern Forge’s doctor, Gavriil, who was sitting in a swivel chair at the far end of the room, tapping away on a computer keyboard, and the pixie-haired Marina. At the sound of Esther’s entry, the doctor’s activities stopped, and he turned around. Smiling cordially, he nodded her way. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Esther said with equal cordiality.

“Esther Brooking, I presume?”

With a blank expression, she answered, “Are you sure?”

Gavriil chuckled. “If you are not Esther, then you have a very unfortunate resemblance. She is quite wanted.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” Esther said. “I need to speak to the alien.” All the while Esther talked, Natalie stood with her arms crossed against the glass watching them. Esther’s eyes narrowed when she noticed, and she snapped feistily, “Mind your own business, tart.” Natalie pursed her lips angrily, but said nothing. Esther’s focus returned to Gavriil. “Chop, chop! The Ithini. I need to see her.”

Smile fading, Gavriil sighed and stood from his chair. “Though I appreciate your enthusiasm, you cannot simply walk in here and demand to see something, let alone one of the specimens.”

“Why not? She’s mine. She practically followed me home.”

“You’re so pretentious, it’s almost unbelievable,” said Natalie through the quarantine glass.

Esther whipped her head to Natalie and glared. “It took all the restraint I could muster not to shoot you in the face, and I’m starting to regret it.”

Approaching the two women, Gavriil raised his hands to quell the spat. “Calm down.” His focus shifted to Esther. “Why do you need to speak to the Ithini?”

The scout glared. “She has a name, you know. The way you call her ‘the Ithini’ is kind of offensive.”

Laughing mockingly, Natalie said, “You literally just called her that very thing, yourself.”

Esther pointed at Natalie through the glass. “In the sodding face!”

“Ju`bajai,” said Gavriil, escorting Esther from the glass. “Her name is Ju`bajai, correct?”

“You’re pronouncing it wrong.”

The doctor went on. “What do you need to speak with Ju`bajai about?”

Tearing herself away from him, she said, “I want to do something new with my hair, and she has good advice. What’s it to you what I speak to her about?”

“Considering I have the power to ban you from visiting this room, quite a bit.”

Esther stopped her march toward the Ithini and glanced back. Her eyes narrowed. “Try it.” Turning back to the quarantine chamber that Ju`bajai was housed in, Esther locked eyes with her. Ju`bajai’s bulbous black ovals focused with concentration.

The connection was established.

Smirking, Esther looked back at Gavriil. “I’m sorry, I suppose I don’t need to speak with Ju`bajai after all. Ta-ta.” Waving at the doctor, she strode toward the medical bay’s exit.

“What’s your problem with the world?” asked Natalie from behind her own glass.

The scout stopped and eyed her. “What’s it to you, Venus?”

“Do you just enjoy being a devil?”

“A devil?” asked Esther, cocking her hips. “A devil? Sister friend, if you think you’ve seen me act like a devil, you haven’t seen a bloody thing.” The connection inside Esther’s mind pulsed. Ju`bajai was prompting the scout to communicate. “Now if the two of you will excuse me, I’ll be on my way.” Without another word, she walked out of the medical bay.

As soon as Esther was back in the hall, her covert conversation with Ju`bajai began. Hey, sprite. Are they treating you well?

The alien responded with an emotionless, I am accustomed to having purpose. At present, I have none.

We’re all accustomed to things being a little bit different than they are now. I need to talk to you.

I am aware of your purpose, Ju`bajai conveyed without prompting.

Her brow furrowing, Esther turned to the medical bay door. What do you mean?

You purpose to inquire about the mission of Centu`vach-Shon and his master. The information you seek, I have ascertained. I will relay all things to you upon my release.

“Sorry, it can’t wait until then,” Esther answered, inadvertently slipping out of thought mode. “We need this now, sprite.” Esther waited for the Ithini to reply, but no reply came. Hands on her hips, she faced the medical bay door and said warningly, “Ju`bajai…”

The Ithini’s words surfaced again. I am willing to provide you with the information you seek in exchange for my freedom from this cell. Until that time comes, the information will remain mine.

“Are you really trying to blackmail me right now?”

You are assigning negative connotations to an act that should be expected in a friendship. You should be happy to barter for my release. Esther opened her mouth to reply, but the Ithini’s thoughts cut her off. Your present location in the hallway is not ideal for this conversation to continue. Please enter the first room on your right. It is unoccupied.

The scout faced the room. “How do you know it’s unoccupied? Can you see through the sodding wall?” Ju`bajai never answered. Approaching the door in resignation, Esther gave it a gentle knock. After several seconds without response, she turned the doorknob and eased in. Indeed, the room was vacant and stark, indicative that no one had lived in this particular room for some time. Locking the door behind her, Esther flicked on the light and walked to the center of the room. “I’m waiting,” she said.

Once again, the Ithini’s thoughts came to her. I possess the knowledge that you seek. Once I am permitted to roam this facility freely, as I was permitted in Cairo Confinement, all things will be made known to you. It is the only condition I require.

“Yeah, no,” said Esther flatly. “That’s not how ‘friendship’ works.”

It is how our friendship works.

The Briton pivoted angrily, glaring at the ceiling as if her conversation was with some celestial being. “We need this information, Ju`bajai! This is important.”

Its importance is known to me.

“Then why won’t you share it?”

The Ithini’s response came without hesitation. Because the solution you seek is not mutually beneficial. I have knowledge that you desire. You are in a position to barter for my release. You are being very selfish, Esther.

“Selfish, my left foot!” Esther said.

You are becoming aggressive. It is not helpful in your current situation.

The scout pointed her finger. “You know what would be helpful in my current situation? If you were sodding helpful!”

It is important that these things are discussed in a rational manner.

Her face twisting angrily, Esther said, “Rationalize this.” She turned for the door. “Consider this connection severed. We’ll find out what we need without your help.”

That is doubtful. Centu`vach-Shon is unable to communicate in his present state. I am the only one able to speak of his and his master’s mission.

“Well I guess we’ll never find out, then,” the scout said.

The alien’s tone grew firmer. I desire to be released. You are the only one who can help me, Esther.

“I’m done talking to you.” Esther unlocked the door as she prepared to pull it open.

Perhaps you would be willing to talk to someone else.

Yanking open the door, Esther stepped across the threshold. She gasped before she set her first foot down. The hallway she’d traversed only a minute earlier—the one that led from Northern Forge’s medical bay to the living quarters—had changed. Gone were the stark halls and unfamiliar smell of the mountainside base. The scout was now staring at something far more familiar. Something she never thought she’d see again. Room 14.

She was staring at the Fourteenth’s bunk room at Novosibirsk.

Turning around in a quasi-panic, Esther reached for the doorknob again, only to find the door replaced by a solid, featureless wall. She was trapped. Spinning around and with her back to the wall, Esther scanned the room as chill bumps broke out across her arms.

It was all there. The sound of the base’s ancient central heating unit. The smells of the shower stalls. The intricacies of each bunk, from the precisely tucked edges of Svetlana’s bedsheets to the haphazardly-strewn comics that sat atop Travis’s bed. Everything was exactly the way she’d seen it before she set off for Cairo. It was like standing in a memory.

Ju`bajai. The Ithini had to have done this. There was no other explanation. Taking a single, cautious step forward, Esther approached the first row of bunks. Her senses perked, and she looked at the opened doorway to the lounge. Noises were coming from it. The clanking of silverware. Objects being handled. Silently, the scout drew near to the door. When she finally came to the corner, she eased her head around.

Halfway through the room, stirring a bowl of porridge as if it was the most normal thing in the world…was herself. From her mocha skin, to her old EDEN scout’s uniform, to the high ponytail falling over her shoulder that she’d sported prior to her Cairo makeover. It was an exact duplicate. Gaping in the doorway, Esther watched as the doppelganger looked at her. The being smiled.

“Hello, Esther,” she said, offering the bowl out. “Porridge?”

The being’s voice, the wry tone it used in the one-word question—even its body language—was all Esther. It was like staring at a clone. As Esther stared in silent astonishment, the being continued.

“Amazing little food, porridge is. So delightfully nutritious when part of your daily regimen. So devilishly enjoyable when smashed in someone’s face, wouldn’t you agree?”

Drawing into the room, Esther hesitated, then asked breathlessly, “What’s going on?”

Her other self laughed gently. “Dear, isn’t it obvious? A little chat with the person you love most in an effort to appeal to your sense of mutual benefit.”

Esther squinted as if trying to see through the guise. “Ju`bajai?”

Clapping, the alien said, “Bravo, Miss Brooking. So, how do I look? I must say, I’m quite pleased with the way this little construct turned out.” Setting the bowl down, she leaned back against one of the tables. “As soon as you’re finished gawking, we can get right to business.”

“Why do you look like me?”

“Because you’re the person you’re most eager to please. I could’ve chosen Scott, but that might have made you…” Ju`bajai hesitated, then licked her lips. “Uncomfortable.”

Esther shook her head fearfully. “This is not right. This is…” No words came to her. “Let me out of here.”

“So quickly?” the alien asked. “We haven’t even had a chance to chat.”

“I don’t want to chat. I don’t want to be any part of this delusion.”

Ju`bajai’s eyes narrowed. “Pity, I worked so hard on it. Unfortunately, you’re not going anywhere until you agree to my terms, and to be honest, they’re really quite reasonable.” She folded her arms. “In exchange for the information you seek regarding Centurion and his master, you’ll petition Valentin for my release. Really, Esther, what’s the harm? How could I possibly derail the efforts of your gallivanting little troupe? If anything, I think you’d find me quite the asset.”

“And you thought holding me hostage in my own head and doing…whatever it is you’re doing, was the best way to convince me of that?” Esther asked. “You’re proper loony.”

Ju`bajai simply stared at her, her construct’s brown eyes narrowing ever so faintly as the once-amused expression on her face shifted into something far less compassionate. At long last, and with far less desire to placate, she said, “You are such a hypocrite.”

Esther tilted her head.

“I thought surely you would see things my way if the words were coming from you,” the alien said. “I chose this form because it’s the most reflective of your own standards and ideals. You are the one to whom you can most easily relate. Surely that must appeal to some part of you.” When Esther said nothing, Ju`bajai growled. “Say something, damn it!”

“What do you want me to say—”

The alien cut her off. “That you’re willing to sodding negotiate! We can help each other, Esther—you and I. We’re kindred spirits, you know.”

Her tone a mix of anger and apprehension, Esther said, “There is nothing kindred about us.”

“Oh, rubbish. What I am doing now is precisely the kind of thing that you do.” Crossing her arms, she rapped her fingers against them. “Please don’t make me recite a list of all your dastardly deeds. We’ll be here for weeks.” Sighing, Ju`bajai said, “The point is, rather than being offended at my approach, you ought to be flattered. I learned this from you.”

“I never taught you to be like this,” said Esther.

Ju`bajai raised a finger. “Perhaps not outright. But this is your nature. And trust me, girlfriend, I know your nature.” She smirked. “You can’t hide from me.”

Sweat drops formed at the back of Esther’s neck. “What exactly is your plan, here?”

“To hopefully help, provided you help me, first,” Ju`bajai answered. “As I’ve said, I can be an incredible asset. But, in the event you’re uncooperative…I am prepared.”

“Prepared to do what?”

Eyes narrowing into slits, Ju`bajai said, “To open the book that is Molly Polyester. You’re a girl with many secrets. They could be,” she paused as if letting the words sink in, “quite damaging. To you. And others. I know about the things that you do, you know. More importantly, I know why you do them.”

Esther remained silent.

“For example, I know that you read your comrades’ mail. You pass it off to yourself as innocent nosiness, but the truth is, deep down inside, you like adding chapters to that little black book in your mind, just in case you ever need them in a pinch.” Her lips curved upward. “Poor Becan. What a difficult position he’s put himself in. And poor, poor David. He’s dealing with so much, and no one even knows. Except for you.”

The scout’s eyes shied away.

“I know what you thought about Nicole Dupree, the all-American sweetheart whose murder shaped your fearless leader. Be honest, now. The day she died was the best day of your life.” Pushing up from against the table, Ju`bajai sauntered in Esther’s direction, sensually brushing back her hair as she batted her lashes. “Those looks you imagined yourself giving Scott. The comfort you longed to give him. ‘Oh lieutenant,’” she said in soft-lipped mockery, “‘if there’s anything I can do to ease your pain…anything at all.’”

“I do not like this,” Esther whispered.

The alien continued as she paced around the scout. “And that morning, right after her death, when you visited his quarters? That oh-so-angry morning when he put your back against the wall. The thoughts that raced through your mind as he stood in front of you, chest to chest, passion to…passion.” She leaned closer to whisper into Esther’s ear from behind. “You burned with lust for that man. His eyes. His hair. His strength.” Her crooked smile curved higher. “If he only knew the things you wanted to do to him that day. But I know…you dirty, dirty girl.”

Esther’s eyes closed. Above a jaw set like stone, she inhaled a trembling breath. “Stop it. Please.”

Ju`bajai smiled softly. “Such a conflicted little heart you have. But don’t worry. I’m sure Jay will forgive you if you slip up and say the wrong name.” Leaning away from Esther’s ear, Ju`bajai strolled away. Her eyes narrowed. “Then came that woman, sweeping in to steal that man who should’ve been yours. That blue-eyed, pathetic little whore who snatched him away in the time it took to make a sodding sandwich.” Arriving back at the table, she leered at Esther again. “You thought of ways to kill her, didn’t you? To sabotage her weapon? To switch out her ammunition? You never acted, of course, but…the thoughts did cross your mind. I can feel them.” Her voice softened. “When the dust settled from Scott’s apocalyptic breakdown, there’d be only one woman left to comfort him. Only one name for him to say.” Dipping her chin, Ju`bajai whispered, “Esther. Esther…” She closed her eyes in pseudo-ecstasy. “Esther…Esther…”

Slowly, but steadily, Ju`bajai’s voice began to deepen, growing more masculine with every utterance of Esther’s name. Transforming. The change prompted Esther’s eyes to open, where they settled on Ju`bajai again. The Ithini was no longer portraying her construct of Esther.

She looked like Scott.

A shirtless, damp-haired Scott who looked like he’d just dried off from a shower. Esther winced painfully, her breaths quivering, as Ju`bajai approached her. The deep, powerful tones of Scott’s voice escaped the alien’s lips. “I can’t do this alone anymore, Ess.”

A shimmer came to Esther’s eyes as she slowly backed away. “Stop this.” She was breaking.

“I need to know you,” Ju`bajai said. “I need to feel you.”

“I’ll do it,” Esther said, closing her eyes again and turning away. “I’ll get them to free you. Just please, stop this right now. I beg of you.”

Silence.

Esther opened her eyes. Ju`bajai was there, once again assuming the look of her formerly ponytailed self. “If you fail me, I will tell them everything,” the alien said. Her eyes narrowed. “What you know. What you feel. What you are…valkyrie.” As soon as Ju`bajai said that last word, Esther’s face paled. “And I will conjure up desires in you that would shame a harlot.” Raising her finger, she said pointedly, “Do not. Fail. Me.” Through dark lashes, she glared. “We’re through.”

The world around Esther flashed. She inhaled a sharp breath. With as little warning as when the dream had first begun, she was standing in the halls of Northern Forge. The scout looked around. She was alone. Slowly, she turned her head in the direction of the medical bay door. The familiar sensation of the Ithini connection was still present in her mind.

Ju`bajai’s words resurfaced. I hope this has not adversely affected our friendship, Esther. I value it greatly. I look forward to sharing the information that I know.

Esther stood motionlessly, the scout’s brown eyes wide and fixed on the door to the medical bay as her heart pounded. She caught her breath as the Ithini’s presence faded away. She was once again alone in her mind.

Turning back to the room she’d just left—the room Ju`bajai had directed her into—Esther hurried inside and closed the door behind her. Locking it, she leaned her back against it then slid to the floor. The scout closed her eyes.

For almost thirty minutes, Esther stayed on the floor, shut out from the rest of the world as she regained not only her composure, but a sense of her own identity. Ju`bajai knew things that Esther had never shared. Feelings that Esther had never conveyed.

The crew needed to know this. Esther needed to tell them what had happened—to warn them—so they might be prepared in case Ju`bajai turned her focus to them. The Ithini was no ally to the Fourteenth. She was playing them like a puppeteer.

Except…

Esther couldn’t tell them. Ju`bajai would know. In the same manner in which the alien had found out the darkest of Esther’s secrets, she would find out that Esther was being subversive. Playing against her.

I wonder if this is how she was permitted to roam Cairo, Esther thought. It was a distinct possibility. Perhaps Giro Holmes had his own deep, dark secrets that the Ithini had used as blackmail against him.

Rising to her feet, the Briton from Cambridge checked herself in the room’s mirror. Though the frazzling of her emotions had been visceral, she was still Esther Brooking. The anguish in her interior was nothing that dark eyes and an alluring smile couldn’t hide.

Walking out of the room, Esther made her way to her own room to prepare for their unit meeting.

*

Now this was different. As David stood with his hands on his hips at the entryway to Level-1, the forge that gave the mountain facility its namesake, he marveled at what he saw. The entire floor was packed. Soot-faced workers bustled back and forth from furnaces, to assembly lines, to material stations, as a sweltering heat blanketed the entire area. During his earlier trek to the forge with Scott, David had seen a place only sparsely populated in the wee hours of the morning. Now that normal working hours kicked in, the place was a veritable Old Era factory. It was like looking in the pages of a history book.

“Whoa,” said William Harbinger, David’s sole companion in the trek downstairs. The massive Southerner looked equally stunned, staring wide-eyed at the crowded room before them.

David laughed. “I think ‘whoa’ about says it all.” Stepping forward with the demolitionist in tow, David ventured forth in search of the forge master.

That it was William who was accompanying David was by David’s own design. William needed this. It had been all of two days since the death of Derrick Cole, William’s best friend and former comrade. Throughout the chaos that David had experienced, from their escape from Novosibirsk, to the rescue of Scott and company on the banks of the Suez, to their firefight on the city streets of Krasnoyarsk, William’s emotional state had been ever-present in his mind.

The demolitionist had now lost two of his closest friends: Joe Janson to the Silent Fever and Derrick to EDEN. The three of them had possessed a bond long before David and his comrades had ever set foot in The Machine. It was a bond that, though the Fourteenth could understand, they could never fully appreciate as William could. Now that bond was gone.

David was worried about William, who had scarcely spoken since they’d left Novosibirsk. There was more than simple grief there—David could see that plainly. William was dealing with something utterly devastating. He was concerned about how the demolitionist would respond. He felt that the Southerner needed to be monitored.

He also just wanted to be there for William. To be a fatherly shoulder to cry on, if the desire was expressed for such a thing. David wanted William to open up and talk about what he was feeling. He just couldn’t outright ask William to. He was hopeful that side quests like these would be enough to spark conversations that would ultimately spark something deeper. Something to begin the healing process. A ray of light to crack through William’s dark clouds.

The forge was as good a starting point as any.

As the pair walked deeper into the forge, the smoldering smell of smoke and cinders clung to their nostrils amid the almost melodic sound of metal striking metal. There was no joy to be found, no work songs sung in unison by the metal workers. There was only a robotic dedication appropriate for an employer nicknamed The Machine.

“They gotta know what happened, right?” asked William quietly.

David had been wondering the same thing. Novosibirsk was defeated, and the Nightmen were scattered. If anything, work should have been at a standstill, or at the very least diminished for the sake of uncertainty. It didn’t make sense.

From across the room, the brawny shouts of authority emerged. David and William turned to see a large man pointing and barking orders in Russian. He was robust—a man of the earth, not of weight rooms and glamour workouts. He had a brown bowl cut that looked nothing short of Medieval and a full beard that covered the entire bottom half of his face. He lorded over the forge like a brutal tyrant; every time his voice boomed out, the workers around him leapt into some sort of action. There was no question in either of their minds: this was their guy. “That’s a forge master if I ever saw one,” said David. Stepping through the workers as they marched back and forth, the two men made their approach.

Within seconds, the large man spied them. Shouting a last-second order to a plodding worker, he then set his sights on David and William, lumbering toward them with his bushy eyebrows narrowed in a grizzled glare. Stopping, arms crossed above his belly, he said, “Valentin told me you would be coming by.”

At least they had that going for them. Extending his hand, David said, “David Jurgen, part of the Fourteenth. Right by my side here is William Harbinger.”

“Artur Pashkov,” the man answered, enveloping David’s hand in his massive paw. “Welcome to the forge.”

Freeing his hand from suffocation, David surveyed the nearby furnaces and workers. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything quite like this. It’s kind of…” Biting his tongue, David let the statement hang.

“Kind of what?” asked Artur bluntly.

The older operative sighed. “It’s kind of Old Era.”

Artur grunted then pivoted to face the room in full. “If you want the pinnacle of technology, go somewhere else. If you want hard work and efficiency, come here.”

“I guess I just never imagined it to be so hands-on.” That was the most polite way David could put it.

“EDEN uses machines,” answered Artur. “My workers craft with their hands. A machine cannot replicate the touch of hammer against anvil.”

Rubbing his forehead, William said, “Anvils, man. That’s crazy.”

David observed the workers as they worked on, manning huge devices that looked like metal presses. The presses rose and fell against the Nightman armor being forged. In the midst of them were actual workers with actual hammers and anvils, pounding away. With every strike of their implements, the dark curves of slayer and fulcrum armor took shape. It was surreal. “I guess I just figured advanced armor took advanced technology.”

“The technology is advanced,” Artur said. “The sweat is not.” He walked past the rows of furnaces, David and William in tow. “It is called high-pressure torsion. The presses,” he pointed, “apply force to the metal, which strengthens it. The presses give the armor strength, while the hammers give it shape.”

“What kind of metal is that?”

Stopping a nearby worker, Artur addressed the man in Russian, seeming to be offering instruction regarding whatever the worker was doing. The worker nodded and hurried away. Artur addressed David again. “Aluminum 7075. Lightweight, stronger than titanium. Perfect for Nightman armor.”

William leaned over a bin filled with discarded helmets. “So that’s not what EDEN uses?”

The large man laughed disdainfully. “No. What EDEN uses would not be pass muster here.” Motioning to a cart that a worker pushed past them, he said, “When we are finished with the armor in the forge, it is taken to Finishing, where the interior is fitted with para-aramid synthetic fiber, for both added protection and comfort.”

“I don’t know what’s more surprising,” said David, “that you run a Medieval forge or that you can explain it so well in English.”

At that, Artur laughed with sincerity. “We do not only supply armor to the Nightmen. We also deal with mercenary and pirate factions. As you know, English is the business language of the world. If you want customers, you must be able to communicate with them.”

So that explained why the forge was so active even with Novosibirsk being captured. Northern Forge had a clientele list. “So are you a Nightman?”

“No,” Artur answered. “None of the people that you see here are Nightmen. Lukin and his guards make up the only Nightman presence. The rest of these people are all civilian workers. Norilsk is a proud and hard-working city, despite what you may have seen when you flew in. These are ‘blue-collar’ people, as you call them.”

“Do these people know that Novosibirsk got taken back by EDEN?”

The massive man nodded. “They are aware, but work will continue. We have several batches of armor to finish, then they will move on to some of our other customers. Even if the Nightmen cease, this place will remain operational.” He harrumphed. “Lukin might even long for that—he has as big an eye for business and profit as he does for serving General Thoor. The late General Thoor,” he corrected.

William rubbed his chin. “And none of you guys have a problem with working for the Nightmen? Y’all know they murder people, right?”

“Say what you will about the Nightmen, but they have been good for our city. Times have been difficult in Norilsk since the energy shift. The Nightmen employ hundreds of people, and they supply our police with armor and weapons at no cost.” Wiping his nose on his sleeve, he said, “This city is better off with the Nightmen than without. It requires us to overlook certain things, but considering what they provide to us…” Artur allowed the statement to trail off, his sentiment understood. After a momentary pause, he faced the pair fully. “But you are not here to talk about Norilsk and its politics. What do you need from me?”

David slid his hands into his pockets. “We could use some armor, Artur. Times have been a little tough.”

“How much do you need?”

“Not as much as you have here,” answered David, surveying the cache of armor being taken off the presses. “I would say about, what?” He looked at William. “Fifteen sets?”

The demolitionist shrugged. “Got no idea, man.”

Nodding his head, Artur said, “Get me some numbers, and I will get you your armor. It is of no consequence to the forge itself. We produce more in a few hours than what you probably need.”

David believed it. He had always wondered how the Nightmen managed to pay for all the toys they owned, and this went a long way in explaining it. No one had considered that as much as they were a military cult, they were also a business. Turning Artur’s way again, he asked, “I don’t suppose you have a women’s line of apparel, eh? We got one or two of those who could use a little armor.”

“Not as a part of our standard stock,” Artur answered. “All of the Nightman armor off our assembly is made for men, and we are contractually forbidden to provide you with any of the wares we sell to our other customers.” The massive man rubbed his chin. “Though I am sure there are some rules that can be bent. This is a unique situation, after all.”

Indeed it was.

Turning David’s way, Artur asked, “Is there anything else that you need?”

“No, I think that pretty much wraps it up. Many thanks to you.”

“It is my pleasure. Come and see me anytime.”

A handshake was exchanged, and the parties went their separate ways.

Halfway back to the elevator, William glanced at David and said, “That felt a little too easy.”

David chuckled and slapped the Southerner on his back. “Well, big guy…I think at this point, life owes us an ‘easy’ or two.”

William agreed, as together, the two men ventured back up.

15

Sunday, March 18th, 0012 NE

0917 hours

In Flight, Russia

“I UNDERSTAND THAT, but that’s a you issue, not an ours.” Comm held against his ear, Judge Jason Rath paced about the transport back to EDEN Command.

Sitting across the cabin and listening in silence was Oleg. The two had nary spoken a word to each other during the flight from Novosibirsk—though plenty of words had been spoken by the judge to his counterparts. Oleg was not privy to the conversations Rath was having, but that didn’t stop him from trying to be. Head angled just enough for his ears to focus on Rath’s words, he listened on.

“Again, that’s not our problem, Jaya. That’s something you needed to take care of before you even left. Benjamin would tell you the same thing.”

As hard as he tried, there was no way for Oleg to hear what was coming out of the comm’s speaker with the device in privacy mode. Drawing a bored breath, he leaned his head back against the wall of the cabin. He stared squarely at Rath, who was oblivious to the eidolon’s spying.

The Canadian ran a hand through his gray hair. “I’m bringing Strakhov in now.” There was a pause. “I did. I just got off the line with them. They’re moving the other one to a secure location. Axen.”

His attention recaptured, Oleg’s eyes narrowed.

“No, Benjamin did. Apparently he called them shortly after I left Novosibirsk and requested he be moved.” Another pause. “No, I wasn’t happy about it. He was my guy as much as Strakhov was. It should have been run through me first, but what can we do? This is Ben’s show.” The transport hit a spot of turbulence; Rath’s hand gripped one of the travel rails. He sighed exhaustedly into the comm. “They flew him out a couple hours ago. I don’t know where. The hospital doesn’t, either—Ben had some of his guys from Command pick him up, so who knows where he is.” The judge sat down. “You’re damn right I’m going to talk to Benjamin. He can’t be pulling these kinds of things out of nowhere. We need to be in the loop.”

After another pause and presumed response from Jaya, the judge shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Look—this is just how he operates.” He pressed his lips together, then said, “Nah, don’t let it get to you. Just do what you’re going there to do. We’ll get back on track.” Several seconds passed, then he laughed. “Right. Yeah, that sounds about right.” The transport rocked again briefly, prompting Rath to glance up in irritation. “Let me go ahead and let you go, then.” Another second. “That sounds good.” Then a smile. “Bye-bye.”

Deactivating the comm, Rath lowered it to the seat next to him and looked forward. Sensing Oleg’s eyes on him, the Canadian judge glanced Oleg’s way. Their gazes remained locked for almost five seconds before Rath asked, “Something you want to say to me?”

The eidolon remained deadpanned. “You seem to be having a bit of a control problem.”

Scoffing, the Canadian closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “I’m not sure that anyone affiliated with the Nightmen should be talking about control problems.”

“I am not affiliated with the Nightmen. I am affiliated with you.”

Rath smirked. “You changed your spots quickly.”

Oleg’s tone remained unfazed. “I know Axen, you know.”

“You were in the Fourteenth,” said Rath matter-of-factly. “I’m sure you know Axen.”

“I know him well.”

Opening an eye, Rath arched an eyebrow. He asked, amused, “And how well do you know Axen?”

“I was the one who put him in the hospital.”

Slowly, the dismissive expression on Rath’s face changed. He opened both eyes and looked at Oleg directly.

The former eidolon went on. “Max—as the Fourteenth calls him—was with a woman at the time that I shot him. Svetlana Voronova. This is the woman that you need to find.”

“Who is she?”

“Scott Remington’s love interest.” At that, Rath looked interested. Oleg went on. “A woman he could kill for—and believe me, he would kill for the right woman. But more importantly to you,” he said plainly, “she is a woman he would turn himself in for. I was sent by Thoor to retrieve her for the very purpose of holding leverage against Remington.”

Leaning forward, Rath asked, “If you were sent to retrieve her, where is she?”

Oleg allowed a huff of bitter laughter to escape his scruffy lips. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but things on my end did not exactly go according to plan.” The Russian went on with his story. “I found Svetlana with Max. This was when I shot him. I had Svetlana in my custody until someone attacked me from behind.” He released a heavy sigh. “I didn’t see who it was, and there were so many Nightmen moving about, it would be futile to try and remember who had struck me. But it was a Nightman.” He leaned forward, propping his elbows against his knees. “You want to know why I am siding with you so quickly? Because I was betrayed. A Nightman would not have attacked me had they not been instructed to, and only a handful of men knew where I was and what I was doing.” He leaned back again. “Have you ever heard of a man named Iosif Antipov?”

Rath shook his head.

“Antipov is the leader of the eidola—the man responsible for the underside of Novosibirsk. In many ways, he is a more capable and dangerous man than Thoor ever was. He and I have not always seen eye to eye. There is no question in my mind that he sent someone to attack me because he did not trust me.”

“Does he have reason not to trust you?”

Very faintly, Oleg smirked. “Of course.” The smirk faded. “But that does not mean I will forgive him.” Leaning forward, he said, “We are yet to discuss the terms of my employment. I understand that you are not the primary decision-maker in this little…effort of yours. That title falls to Benjamin Archer.” Though Rath looked less than pleased with the statement, he remained silent while Oleg spoke. “But it would be a benefit to me if I had some sort of assurance from you that my well-being will not be a concern while I am with you. Archer knows you, and he obviously trusts you. I need you to be my advocate to him.”

The judge opened his mouth to speak, but Oleg continued before he could.

“I am going to offer something to you. A gift, if you wish. It is information that, if nothing else, will assure you that my loyalties to the Nightmen have been severed. I only ask for protection in return—and the assurance that, wherever you and your comrades are going, I will be invited to follow. It should…” he paused as if weighing his words, “…prove my value as a former member of Antipov’s eidola.”

Clasping his hands together, Rath waited for Oleg to continue. His countenance revealed a man who was, while intrigued to a degree, mostly humoring Oleg’s request for an ear. “Go on.”

Quietly and simply, Oleg said, “Chernobyl.”

The Canadian judge looked at Rath oddly. “Chernobyl?”

“It is where they are going. The Nightmen who fled Novosibirsk.” As Oleg said the words, Rath’s eyes slowly widened. “Even now, the surviving Nightmen, Antipov included, are fleeing to the forgotten city. It is their rallying point—a place that has already begun the transformation from ruined power plant to second headquarters.” Lifting his chin deliberately, he said, “Wait a few days, maybe a week. Give them time to arrive, to believe that they are safe from you there. Then destroy it and rid yourself of the Nightmen for good.”

Stroking his chin with his hand, Rath asked, “How established is Chernobyl now?”

“Grigori Saretok, Thoor’s second-in-command, was sent there to oversee the facility’s development. Whereas Antipov is the leader of the eidola, Saretok is the leader of the fulcrums. They are like two branches of government, and in a few days, you will be able to kill them both.” He leaned back. “But be warned: though still under development, Chernobyl is a dangerous facility.”

“How so?”

Oleg answered, “It is the home of a necrilid hive.”

Blinking, Rath asked, “What?”

“A necrilid hive was discovered there by the Fourteenth. I was present during that mission, which was led by Remington. Apparently necrilids had escaped a Ceratopian crash site and fled to the plant, where they flourished.” He paused. “Thoor saw the benefit, if you will, of possessing a necrilid hive. Necrilids are highly trainable, as I’m sure a man of your position is well aware.” Rath crossed his arms in thought as Oleg continued. “If you attempt a ground invasion, you will be met with a force of necrilids. But in the air,” he mimicked a bomb drop, “boom, with no casualties for you. You will easily be able to pick off the survivors on the ground.”

“Unless you’re lying to me,” said Rath, prompting the former eidolon to look at him curiously.

Faintly, Oleg’s eyes narrowed. “If I were set out to do you harm, I would have done so with you in this transport. I am alone with you in this cabin. There is literally nothing to prevent me from killing you at any point during this flight.”

The remark was countered with a harrumph. “Except the knowledge that such an action would be a death sentence.” After a moment, the Canadian went on. “I will have Chernobyl observed for surface activity. After all, time is not exactly of the essence now, is it? We have at least a few days to determine whether or not you’re telling the truth.” He crossed his legs and leaned back. “But if you want my personal opinion? I believe you for no other reason than you want to survive, and you’re smart enough to know that won’t happen with the Nightmen. Sometimes integrity needs to be compromised for the sake of the greater good.”

The subtle snideness was not lost to Oleg. “Is that a philosophy you agree with?”

“Yes,” Rath answered without pause. “Yes, it is.”

“As do I. So we are not all that unalike, you and I.”

At that, Rath shook his head firmly. “Oh, no, Mr. Strakhov. I assure you, you and I are very unalike. We’re just both able to recognize a good thing, and as it turns out, the best thing that’s happened to both of us in this situation is each other.”

A second passed, then Oleg dipped his head. “I would drink to that were I able.”

“I’m afraid that will have to wait,” said Rath. “As will the full offering of my trust. But at the moment, until you’ve given me reason to believe otherwise, I’ll count you as an ally. As to Archer? That’ll be his choice to make.” Settling in his chair, the judge closed his eyes. “We’ll be landing in about an hour. I recommend you get as much sleep as you can before we land. It’ll be in short supply once we touch down.”

His eyes remaining on Rath, Oleg said nothing in response, though his expression—were the judge in a position to see it—was one of mild satisfaction. Settling in his own seat, Oleg, too, closed his eyes.

EDEN Command was over the horizon.

*

Novosibirsk, Russia

A short while later

HE’D BEEN BRACING for it. From the moment Torokin learned he’d be traveling to Novosibirsk, he had been bracing to see the devastation that EDEN had wrought upon the former Nightman facility. But no amount of bracing could have prepared him for the magnitude of what EDEN had done.

Novosibirsk had been laid to ruin.

The base was no stranger to all-out attacks. It had survived the Assault on Novosibirsk handed to it by the Bakma not even a year earlier. But this wasn’t collateral damage caused by plasma fire and high explosives. This was destruction on a wholly different level. Entire buildings were flattened, including the massive communications tower that’d been known as NovCom. The hangar, only recently rebuilt, looked like it’d been hit by an earthquake. The infirmary, the barracks, the main building—they were all in shambles.

Torokin was not the only one to be affected. From the moment Minh saw the base appear in the cockpit window, the Vietnamese pilot had been slack-jawed. Beside Torokin and looking through the same window, Chiumbo asked, “How many EDEN operatives who were stationed here died in this attack?”

The Russian judge didn’t know—the numbers had yet to come in. But one thing was clear: keeping friendly-fire injuries to a minimum had apparently not been a priority. It was supposed to have been. But this looked more like a revenge killing than a surgical strike. The Machine had been hit by a maul.

“I’m taking us down,” said Minh, craning his neck for a clear patch amid the rubble. As the V2’s nose pitched upward for descent, the occupants of the troop bay grabbed hold of the hand rails.

With a clunk, the Vulture touched down, its rear bay door lowering and inviting in a blast of frigid Siberian wind. Wincing inherently at the temperature drop, the occupants of the hunter team proceeded down the ramp onto what was left of the airstrip. As soon as their boots touched concrete, a Russian officer was there to greet them.

“Greetings, Judge Torokin,” the man said, nodding to the Russian judge as well as those behind him. “And members of Vector.”

Torokin caught a partial smirk on Logan’s face, the only member of the group not among the list of greeted. It didn’t look like the Australian mercenary was offended. His expression merely seemed to say, “Typical.”

The officer continued on. “Judge Rath left only a few hours ago. I hope we are able to help you as much as we were able to help him.”

“I am sure you will be,” Torokin said. Stepping aside, he indicated the rest of his team. “We have some very specific goals, not all of which are in the same place. Do you have several people who can take us where we need to go?”

“Absolutely. Where do you need to go?”

Torokin answered, “The underbelly of Fort Zhukov, for one. I understand the Nightmen were using it as a base of operations.”

Nodding his head, the officer said, “The Citadel of The Machine. That is what they called it.”

That sounded about right. “We need to see any place in this ‘citadel’ that might house communications equipment. We would also like to see Remington’s quarters, as well as the room where his unit stayed. From what I understand about Novosibirsk’s layout, those two places will not be in the same location.”

“Correct, judge. There are barracks here as well as an officers’ wing. I can have your team taken to both.”

Logan raised his hand. “I’d like to see Remington’s quarters.”

“I’ll go wit’ him,” said Marty. “If ’dere’s anything to find, between the two of us, we’ll find it.” The Cajun looked at Logan as if to ask permission. After a moment of hesitation, Logan nodded.

It worked for Torokin. “I and Trooper Quintana would like to see Fort Zhukov, so, if the rest of you are willing to investigate the Fourteenth’s room?”

Smiling, Chiumbo said, “Of course, judge.” He glanced back to Sasha, Minh, and Lisa, indicating in his overly-cordial way that they were along for the ride whether they approved of it or not.

“Very well, then,” the officer said. “We will have you all escorted to these locations at once. Is there anything else we can do for you?”

“We will let you know if there is,” said Torokin. “Let us get underway.”

As Torokin was led away, he continued to scrutinize the level of destruction around him. From one end of the base to the next, buildings were broken. Though he and the other judges at EDEN Command had been an active part of the goings on in the War Room, they’d been relying mostly on reports and relatively low-quality imagery to stay abreast of the situation. Had Torokin not been there witnessing this for himself, he’d have never believed the attack was so destructive. This was unnecessary—and that meant a lot, coming from him. If they as a Council were hoping to send a message, they could rest assured it’d been received. He just hoped the cost wasn’t too high.

“Do we have any reports on EDEN operatives injured?” he asked. “Specifically from those stationed at Novosibirsk?”

Frowning, the officer answered, “Not at this time, judge.”

At long last, after several twists and turns through the grounds of Novosibirsk, Torokin found himself and Pablo at the entrance to Fort Zhukov—the Citadel of The Machine. It was behind the barracks, through a set of rusty doors made of metal and wood attached to what looked like a shed. Inside was a dimly lit staircase that descended into darkness. It was among the most chilling things Torokin ever recalled seeing. It was like stumbling upon the lair of a serial killer or cannibal—a hidden, decrepit passageway that no one else in the world was supposed to find. Even Pablo’s characteristic smile was missing, replaced by a look of horrific wonder.

“Right down here, judge,” the officer said, slipping past Torokin to lead him and Pablo down.

As Torokin followed several steps behind, he ran his hand along the stone walls beside him. They were cold and wet to the touch. Passing by flickering torch lamps, the only lighting down the stairwell, he kept his gaze on the officer.

“Everything secret about the Nightmen is located down here,” the officer said as he led them along. “We have found everything from torture rooms, to secret stashes, to a tunnel leading to an underground hangar.”

“An underground hangar?” the judge asked incredulously.

“That is correct, judge.”

“What is in it?”

For several seconds, the officer hesitated. “At the moment, there is nothing in it.”

Catching the pause, Torokin asked the obvious, “But something was?”

“You could say that,” the officer said as they reached the bottom.

Stepping from the last step, Torokin found himself standing in a massive, inwardly curving corridor. EDEN operatives were going to and fro, carrying captured equipment in carts and surveying damage. The same chilling atmosphere existed here as had in the stairwell—the whole place reeked of an era long gone.

Pointing one direction down the corridor, the officer said, “The Citadel is circular, traversable by this long corridor that goes completely around the structure. There are various rooms and smaller hallways that branch off both inwardly and outwardly. Exploratory teams are mapping the interior out now.” He motioned to the two men. “If you come with me, I will take you to the hangar.”

Torokin held out his palm to stop the officer. “Wait. It may be more beneficial if I go to the hangar myself and allow Pablo to continue our true task, here.” He looked at the technician. “Do you need me to go with you to look at their communication equipment?”

Pablo smiled. “Not at all, judge. I am more than able to look at the equipment myself.”

That suited Torokin just fine. The things Pablo would be checking into were beyond Torokin’s comprehension, anyway. Snagging a passing operative, the officer instructed him to escort Pablo where the technician needed to go. As Pablo and the operative departed, Torokin followed the officer into the depths of the Citadel once again.

*

Clasping his hands together, Logan crouched down and stared blankly ahead. He and Marty Breaux were inside the small room identified as Scott Remington’s in Novosibirsk’s officers’ wing. Though the room was noticeably stripped—Scott had apparently packed quite a bit for his “transfer” to Cairo—there were still enough personal artifacts to warrant a thorough search, which apparently had not been done yet. That Scott’s room hadn’t been combed through was nothing to hold against EDEN. They had their hands full just trying to keep the base from falling apart.

“All right, chief,” said Marty behind him. “You start at one end, I start at ’da next?”

Logan offered no reply. It wasn’t an intentional attempt to be discourteous. Truth be told, Logan wasn’t sure where he wanted to begin. Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep, slow breath, as if he were a predator sniffing out his prey. It was mental preparation before he tore the room apart.

Marty wasn’t quite as reverent. “Well, guess I’ll start in ’da bat’room.” Whistling a tune, the Cajun moseyed through the bathroom door at the right side of the room.

Though Logan shot Marty a look of irritation from behind, he nonetheless set out to the nightstand next to Scott’s bed. As he passed by the bed, he ran his hand gently across its surface, pausing to scrutinize the covers with narrowed interest. The bed was made meticulously. The edges were folded under the mattress with care that went above and beyond that of a typical soldier. The cover itself was pulled back at the top of the bed, revealing sheets beneath that almost looked pressed. Even the pillows were precisely placed. “Think the janitors clean the rooms here?”

“Pfft,” said the Cajun from the bathroom. “Ain’t no janitor ever cleaned my room.”

Logan figured as much. “Then he has a woman.”

“Say what?”

“The bed,” said Logan. “No man makes a bed like this.”

The sound of a medicine cabinet opening emanated from the bathroom. “We had to make some pretty crisp beds in Philadelphia, chief.”

Shaking his head, Logan said, “Not the way this one’s made.”

“Well,” said Marty, who inhaled several loud sniffs through his nostrils, “I sure hope he’s got a woman. That, or the guy gets a little kinky by his’self wit’ whipped cream.”

“What?”

Marty stepped back from the sink. “I think someone mighta’ been wearin’ a lil’ whipped cream bikini. Just hope it wasn’t him.” When Logan leaned into the bathroom, the Cajun pointed to the wall, where a small spot of white substance had solidified mid-drip. “That’s what it is, sure enough. Seems a couple days old. Musta missed this spot in the cleanup, ’cause it ain’t nowhere else.” After a small pause, Marty pointed definitively. “Yeah, I’mma choose to believe dat’s a whipped cream bikini. Either ’dat, or he inhales strawberry shortcake while sittin’ on ’da toilet.”

Logan walked back to the bed without comment. Opening the top drawer of Scott’s nightstand, he shuffled through a short stack of papers inside. They were all stock printouts—the kind of little papers and pamphlets that got handed out to all operatives at some point or another. There was nothing personal about them at all. As Marty walked in from the bathroom, Logan moved down to the next drawer.

Jackpot.

A lone tablet sat inside, riddled with pencil scribblings. Picking it up, he looked back at Marty. “Take a look at this, mate.” The Cajun wandered over.

Only the top page was written upon, and by the look of it, about a quarter of its pages had been torn out. Scott probably took notes, then either took them with him or threw them away. Logan inspected the written page.

Words were scrawled everywhere, some of which were circled, and some of which were connected by lines. It was as if Scott was trying to depict a web. At the very top of the page, the words, “The Archer betrays you,” were underlined.

“‘The Archer betrays you?’” asked Marty, reading over Logan’s shoulder. “The hell’s ’dat supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” answered Logan quietly. He read on. There were all sorts of phrases jotted down that Logan had never heard before. War of Retribution. Golathochian Subjugation. All will be judged. The words interference, indication, and allegiance were also there, right next to the word Ceratopian with a question mark. At the bottom corner, under the headline, Unknown Species, were listed Khuladi and Nerifinn. Next to Nerifinn was an arrow pointing up to Khuladi, the word declarers written next to it. Arrows like that were everywhere.

Marty pointed. “Right ’dere. Benjamin Archer.” He pointed to the judge’s name, written in the middle of the page, then up to the headline at the top. “’Dat’s gotta be what he means by ‘The Archer betrays you.’”

“Guy’s a conspiracy nut,” said Logan.

“But wait a minute, now.” The Cajun crossed his arms contemplatively. “If he made this all up, he’s a nut. But if ’dem two species is real…”

Looking back at Marty, Logan asked pointedly, “Then what?”

Unaffected by the mercenary’s tone, Marty answered, “Then he knows something we don’t.”

“And if he knows something we don’t, what does that bloody make him? A hero? A saint?”

“It don’t justify nothin’, you’re right. But at the very least, it means whatever he was doin’—which was undeniably wrong—he was doin’ it with more information than we have.”

Logan dropped the tablet on the bed. “Which doesn’t help us find him.” Setting his hands on his hips, he shook his head. “Nothing on that bloody thing is going to tell us where he is, or what he’s doing with Captain Rockwell, or who his next target’s going to be.”

Picking up the tablet himself, Marty skimmed over the words on its surface. “I know you got a dog in ’dis fight, but ’dis thing here,” he rapped his finger on the tablet, “is exactly the kind of thing we came here for.”

“We came here to find a bloody comm.” He looked at Marty. “Whatever evidence you find, you can hold onto. I’m not here to build a case. I’m here to find Scott Remington.”

Folding his arms and drawing a calming breath, Marty said, “We gonna find him and your captain. I promise. But let us grab important stuff on the way. All right?”

Staring at Marty for several seconds, Logan finally offered a sigh. “All right.” Running his hand across his shaved head, the Australian motioned to the tablet without looking. “You hold onto that, if you don’t mind.”

“Not a prob.”

“Now let’s keep scouring this room.”

Marty affirmed, and the two men continued their search.

*

Room 14 was a treasure trove of miscellaneous junk. Chiumbo, Sasha, Minh, and Lisa rummaged through it, each in different parts of the room and each perusing what could only be described as clutter in their search for some sort of clue about the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk. Beyond chess pieces, the occasional gothic romance novel, and a haphazardly-stacked pile of comics, they’d found little else but a lived-in room no different from any other lived-in rooms in the barracks.

Though there were a decent number of personal belongings at the various bedsides—no doubt a result of the Fourteenth’s hasty retreat during EDEN’s attack—little of significance had been found thus far. Nothing they’d found mentioned anything about Cairo, Ceratopians, Falcon Platoon, or anything related to the nefarious activity that the Fourteenth was involved with. If anything, the unit’s belongings portrayed them as a group that was strikingly normal and of close camaraderie. It most certainly didn’t look like the den of a terror cell.

“I might have something.” The much-needed declaration came from Sasha, who was standing near a tightly-made bunk bed. The scout was carefully turning the pages of what looked like a journal. The others approached him. “It looks like a woman’s journal. Remington is referenced all over it.” He flipped to the inside cover, where a name was scribbled. “Svetlana Voronova.”

“How does she reference Remington?” Chiumbo asked.

Laughing softly, Sasha shook his head. “Honestly? Like he was a love interest.”

Minh squinted curiously. “A love interest?”

Stopping at a particular entry near the end, Sasha raised an eyebrow after reading the first several lines. “This journal is very personal.”

Chiumbo crossed his arms and leaned against the nearest bedpost as Sasha continued reading. “She was not the one with him in Cairo, correct?” the Mwera lieutenant asked.

“I don’t think so,” said Minh.

“No,” said Lisa. “The one in Cairo was Esther.”

Sasha froze, his eyes glued to the page in front of him. “Whoa.” Looking up from the page, he stared at the back wall. For several seconds, he said nothing, until at long last he closed the book in his hand. Drawing a preparatory, but focused breath, he looked at the other two men. “I think we just found a motive.”

*

Torokin’s palms pressed together in front of his mouth as he stood at the entrance to the underground hangar. From a distance, it almost looked as if the Russian judge was praying, though his eyes were indeed open. The officer who led Torokin to the hangar had hinted that what Torokin would find there would be a surprise. The mere suggestion had prompted a flurry of possibilities to pass through the judge’s mind. Suffice it to say, none of them had come close. And now, he stood before it—the object of the officer’s hinting—at a loss for words.

The final resting place of Ignatius van Thoor.

He and the other judges knew the moment that Thoor met his end. Klaus Faerber had commed them himself after the deed had been done. But the where, up until that point, had been an unknown. Though the knowledge that Thoor had died in a secret, underground hangar added nothing to their quest to track down Scott Remington and the Fourteenth, it nonetheless added a level of intrigue to the event as a whole. Where was Thoor going? If this was a hangar, where was the aircraft? Had he been left behind by his own troops? The answers to all of those questions had gone to the grave with the late general.

For Torokin, standing there meant even a little more. He was now in the very spot where Klaus—his best friend—had exacted revenge for the murder of his son. Though the bodies of Thoor and whoever had been with him were now gone, the outlines remained in chalk on the floor, much like a crime scene. It was an eerie sight to behold. The outline of Thoor was so unintimidating. Like he was a normal human being. The truth, of course, was that he’d always been one of those. But the aura of the general had been undeniable. Torokin wondered if, to any degree, Klaus had taken a moment to realize the magnitude of what he’d done in striking Thoor down, right there in that room. He was fairly sure his friend hadn’t.

“So…” Torokin said, half-shaking his head in bewilderment as he scanned the rest of the carved-out hangar, “what was he doing here?”

Walking to a spot on the floor several meters away, the officer knelt down and pointed to an area with dark blood stains. “Everything about this is very odd, judge. There were other bodies here, as well, that apparently had not been killed by EDEN operatives in the attack. They looked like they’d been devoured by a canrassi.”

“A canrassi?” Torokin asked with genuine surprise.

The officer nodded. “Unfortunately, there are no cameras in this room—at least that we have found—so there is no footage to show what actually took place before Thoor was killed.”

“Why would a canrassi be down here? Could it have been Thoor’s?”

Rising to his feet, the officer walked back to Torokin. “If one had been here with Thoor, the Vectors on scene would have killed it. There was no canrassi body here. It is also worth noting,” he went on, “that neither was a ship.”

That made no sense at all. “If an aircraft would have escaped through this hangar, would we have detected it?”

“Not necessarily. The tunnel leads to an area that is on the outskirts of the base. If the aircraft was flying dark and had its transponder turned off, it is possible it would have slipped away in the midst of the attack.” He frowned. “But what Nightman would have done this? To leave General Thoor behind…”

Torokin finished the thought for him. “It would have been a death sentence.” Thoor was practically a god to these people. To abandon him to his death would have put a mark on everyone in that aircraft. But the fact remained that Thoor had been left behind. Could his own Nightmen have actually done that to him?

His thoughts were interrupted as his comm crackled. Logan Marshall’s voice emerged. “Judge, we need to see you as quickly as possible.”

It was the Australian’s tone, not necessarily the words themselves, that indicated to Torokin that something serious was up. Smiling cordially to the officer, the judge stepped away and answered, “Where are you?”

“Room 14. Everyone is here except you and Quintana.”

“Very well. I will get in touch with Pablo. I assume he is needed, as well?”

There was a pause. “I think everyone’s going to be needed for this one.”

The judge’s eyes narrowed. All right, Marshall, you have me curious. Clearing his throat, he said simply, “On my way.” Torokin closed the channel and looked back to the officer. “Thank you for showing me this. This was…interesting.” And it left more questions than answers. The officer bowed in acknowledgment, and the judge left the hangar.

Eventually, Torokin and Pablo found their way into the barracks, where they trudged onward to Room 14. As soon as the two new arrivals entered, the group looked their way. Chiumbo, expectedly, was the first to address them. “Discoveries, my friend,” he said to Torokin. The Mwera’s trademark smile was missing. Very subtly, the Russian thought, “uh oh.”

Then, there was Logan. The ex-mercenary looked downright irritable. Hands on his hips, he stood behind the rest of the group, his stony stare angled toward the floor despite Torokin and Pablo’s approach. Only when the two men reached the veritable circle did his eyes rise to meet them.

“What have you found?” Torokin asked.

“A motive,” answered Chiumbo. Reaching out with his hand, he passed a journal on to Torokin. “Second entry from the last.”

The lack of an immediate explanation was disconcerting. Flipping through the journal, Torokin stopped at the second-to-last written page. Quietly, the Russian judge read.

Today, I learned two things, began the entry, written by a woman of elegant penmanship, both of which involve men that I love. I learned that I was the cause of death for Tolya, the man whom I considered my greatest mistake the day before he died. I also learned that my life may cause a second death, this one so much more painful.

In the midst of the reading, Torokin caught his mind thinking, “et cetera, et cetera.” This was not the kind of reading that interested him. This was the kind of thing that could only be appreciated by another woman. He was ready to just get to the point. It didn’t take much longer.

Thoor threatened Scott with my life. This is why he is going to Egypt. He knows that if he refuses to go or fails, I will be murdered by the Nightmen.

His face hardening, Torokin slowly looked up from the page. Motive, indeed.

“I see you have read what we are talking about,” said Chiumbo.

Before Torokin could reply, Logan pointed at the journal. “I feel obligated to point out that none of that justifies what Remington did.”

Obviously, it didn’t. But it provided context as to why Remington had done it. If this was true—and they had no reason to believe that it wasn’t—then his intention in Cairo was never to be the harbinger of a bloodbath. It was to save the life of a woman he loved. “This complicates things.”

“What the bloody hell does it complicate?” asked Logan, snarling for the first time. “The man did what he did. It doesn’t matter why.”

Looking at Logan exhaustedly, Torokin said, “It does not complicate things for the reason you think. If Remington’s motivation to infiltrate Cairo was to save a woman he loved, then he may or may not know why he was sent there. If this was Thoor’s doing, the true motive behind the act, not necessarily Remington’s part in it, may never be known.” In the seconds that followed the statement, the others in the room eyed one another quietly. Once again, it became apparent to Torokin that they knew something he and Pablo didn’t. “Or am I mistaken?”

Chiumbo handed Torokin a tablet. “Remington’s scrawlings, found in his private quarters.”

Torokin surveyed the tablet. Arrows, circles, terms, and phrases were linked together with lines. It was chaos. Then, something else. As the judge’s eyes came to rest on the words Unknown Species, he held his breath.

Across from him, the others were surveying his expression as if trying to determine whether anything on the tablet was something Torokin recognized. But the Russian’s face was deadpanned. At long last, he offered them words. “What does Remington believe he knows that we do not?”

Chiumbo, eyeing Torokin warily for a moment, pointedly asked, “So these are not things you are familiar with?”

“No, but…” His gaze fixed on the phrase at the top. The Archer betrays you. Benjamin Archer? Their fellow judge in the High Command? What was the basis of this? “And you found this in Remington’s quarters?” The question was rhetorical, though Chiumbo nodded just the same. “Did Remington believe this on his own, or was this something Thoor was feeding him?” He sighed. “And who is this message intended for? The Archer betrays who? And who is relaying the message?”

Crossing his arms, Logan paced behind them. “The ‘you’ is us, and the message is from him. It’s a page out of a vecking manifesto.”

“There are question marks all over the place, chief,” Marty said to him. “I mean literal question marks, on the page, right next to the thing about Archer. All ’dem lines and arrows is him tryin’ to figure things out.”

“And yet none of it changes the fact that he murdered people and kidnapped Natalie Rockwell,” Logan said, eyeing Torokin harshly. “Look, I get that you need to collect as much of this crap as you can. But please be bloody clear. This is a benefit to us not because it sheds light on Remington’s motive, but because it gives us insight into what will catch him.” His face hardened. “He responds to threats against loved ones. We can trap him with that.”

Who doesn’t respond to threats against loved ones? Just the same, Remington wasn’t the one at the forefront of Torokin’s mind in light of all this. Benjamin Archer, a traitor? Where would that thought have even come from? The business of the judges was so distant from the everyday grind of the operatives in EDEN that most of them couldn’t name half of the judges. On top of that, Archer was the newest judge in the High Command—practically a rookie on the Council. How could there even have been time for that thought to develop from Remington?

“Do you think you should bring this up to Judge Archer?” Chiumbo asked. The lieutenant’s eyes were penetrating, curious. He was thinking on the same wavelength as Torokin.

The obvious answer to the question was yes. But Torokin’s answer was not. “No. Not now, anyway. It does not matter.” He looked at Logan. “As Lieutenant Marshall has stated, this does not affect our hunt for Scott Remington. We will deal with this after we have Remington in custody.”

Logan’s jaw set. “Then let’s start figuring out how to use what we know.”

Sasha, seizing the opportunity to contribute, said, “I will continue to examine Svetlana’s journal. Perhaps there are more things of value that could be taken from it.”

“Yeah, I bet ’dere’s more you’d like to take from it,” Marty joked.

Not in the mood to swap casual banter, Torokin said simply, “Read the journal. The rest of you can do whatever you want until we get new info.” Before anyone else could respond, Torokin said, “Dismissed for now.”

It was as abrupt a dismissal as the judge had issued, and its suddenness left the rest of the group raising eyebrows. As they moved on to begin chatting with one another, Torokin made his exit. Within seconds, he was marching down the hall, away from Room 14 through the halls of the barracks.

Something was gnawing deep in his stomach. The Archer betrays you. That was a phrase that shouldn’t have been on Remington’s scratchpad. Benjamin Archer—and it could have referenced no one else—had barely been a judge. He hadn’t been at EDEN Command nearly long enough to warrant a conspiracy theory.

Slinking off into a darkened corridor, Torokin found the furthest corner. Pulling out his own comm, he queued up his fellow judge for a face-to-face call. Within seconds, Archer’s face appeared on the screen.

The British judge looked puzzled. It wasn’t until Torokin placed the call that he realized he was standing in darkness. From Archer’s end, he was looking at a black screen. “Judge Torokin?” Archer asked.

“Yes, sorry,” said Torokin, searching for a light switch near the corner and finding none. “I am in a hallway. I did not think about the darkness.” Getting right to the point, he said, “You used to work in Xenobiology before you came to us.”

Though the statement wasn’t a question, Archer nodded anyway. “That’s correct.”

“Have you ever heard of the Khuladi or the Nerifinn?”

And there it was. The movement was subtle, almost involuntary…but it was there. The lower eyelid of Archer’s left eye twitched. Yes, he had heard of them. The question now was whether or not he’d be forthcoming about it.

“Those were names brought up briefly in some interrogations,” answered Archer, “but not enough to be lent serious credibility. Where did you hear those names?”

“On a scratchpad in Scott Remington’s quarters.” Once again, Torokin scrutinized Archer’s face for some kind of reaction. There was absolutely none. It was like Archer’s face was made of stone. “Are these the names of supposed alien species?”

Inhaling a hesitant breath, Archer answered, “Supposedly, yes.”

“Why have we never heard about this on the Council?” All scrutinizing aside, this was a question that needed to be answered. This was a big deal.

Archer offered a smile that bordered on sympathy. “As I’ve stated, these were merely names mentioned, but not to a point that we in Xenobiology would deem credible. Though we assume those names reference alien species, they may reference gods, or myths, or some other abstract possibility. There’s even the chance that they’re keywords designed to intentionally throw off interrogators.” He angled his head slightly. “That does happen on occasion. We like to know that things are concrete before passing them onto EDEN Command—or,” he made a face indicative of one correcting himself, “that is typically the mindset of those in Xenobiology. As someone who now wears the shoes of both a xenobiologist and a judge, I can attest to the logic in that approach. If every newly discovered word or phrase was passed on to the Council, we’d never talk about anything else.”

Torokin opened his mouth to speak, but Archer interjected before he could.

“Trust me, Judge Torokin. If something from Xenobiology was deemed credible, the judges would be the first to know.”

It was credible enough for Scott Remington to believe. That fact alone suggested to Torokin that this was something the other judges needed to know.

“What else was on Remington’s scratchpad?” asked Archer.

The moment Torokin heard the question, it struck him as oddly toned. Carefully toned. As if asked by someone playing it off as casual curiosity. “Nothing of significance,” said Torokin, aware that his facial expressions were hidden. “Looks like gibberish.”

“Hmm.”

Hmm, indeed.

“Well, I wouldn’t get too bent out of shape over those names. They may not pertain to anything actually real. But, we will discuss this at the next Council meeting, if for no other reason, to explain how the credibility system works in Xenobiology.” Again, the Briton smiled. “That may shed some light on why some things aren’t relayed.”

Torokin had what he’d called for: verification that something was off. Bowing his head cordially, even though his counterpart couldn’t see it, he said, “That would be good, Benjamin. Educational, I think.”

“We’re never too old to learn something, are we?”

Though he chuckled outwardly, Torokin was not amused. “A true statement.”

“I’ll speak to you again when you return to Command. Goodbye for now.”

“Farewell, judge.” Seconds later, the comm channel was closed.

Lowering the comm to his side, Torokin stared off into the darkness of the corridor. The Archer betrays you. Those words resonated in his mind. Scott Remington seemed to believe them, and at the very least, he knew more about the Khuladi and Nerifinn than did the other judges at EDEN Command. And that was credible.

Sliding his hands into his pockets, Judge Torokin once again made his way down the halls.

*

EDEN Command

THOUGH LARGE IN capacity, EDEN Command could not be defined by the word sprawling. On the contrary, most of its rooms and wings were tightly-packed together, favoring functionality over style to take advantage of every nook and cranny. The base itself could be traversed from one end to the next by foot in a matter of fifteen minutes, no time at all when compared to behemoth bases like Atlanta and Nagoya. The judges’ suites were centrally-located on the top floor, allowing the judges relatively quick access to any part of the complex they desired. Typically, a judge could walk to the hangars in seven to eight minutes.

Archer made it in four.

Standing at the hangar entrance and waiting for him was Jason Rath. Several feet behind him, Oleg stared in awe at the building around him. Only when Rath called out, “Benjamin,” did the former eidolon avert his focus ahead. As soon as Archer approached Rath, the Canadian stepped aside and motioned to Oleg. “Benjamin, this is Oleg Strakhov, former comrade of Scott Remington and the Fourteenth.” His voice lowered, though not enough for Oleg to not hear. “I think you’ll probably want to talk to him in private.” Looking indicatively at Archer for a moment, Rath shifted his attention to Oleg. “Oleg, this is Judge Benjamin Archer.”

Extending his hand, Oleg shook Archer’s firmly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, judge.”

“I’m sure it is,” said Archer flatly. He looked at Rath. “We need to talk as soon as you’re able. All of us.” Eyeing Oleg, he corrected, “Almost all. No offense.”

Clasping his hands behind his back, Rath followed as Archer led them down the hall. “A development, I assume?”

“You could say that. How was Novosibirsk?”

“Like it got hit by a wrecking ball. If you can get away, you ought to see it for yourself.”

Archer remained expressionless. “There’s nothing I’d like to witness myself more than that wretched base’s destruction.” Glancing back at Oleg, he said, “Again, no offense.” Jaw setting, he murmured to Rath. “We have a big problem, Jason. A tremendous problem.”

“That doesn’t sound very good at all,” Rath said.

“It most certainly is not.”

As he quickened his pace to catch up to Archer, Rath narrowed his eyes. “On an unrelated note, next time you decide to move someone to a secure location, at least give the courtesy of a head’s up. I had to find out about Axen from the hospital.”

Squinting curiously, Archer slowed down his near-trot. The Briton looked at Rath curiously. “Find out what about Axen?”

“That you moved him.”

The Briton stopped. He faced Rath directly. “I didn’t move him.”

For several seconds, the two men stared at one another in silence, until finally Rath set his hands on his hips. “Yes, you did. You moved him to a secure location this morning.”

“No, actually, I didn’t.” Archer, too, placed his hands on his hips. “Who told you he’d been moved?”

Rath stared at Archer dumbfounded. “The hospital told me! Novosibirsk General. They said you ordered it yourself.”

“I most certainty did not! Why the devil would I move such a high-priority subject without telling you first?”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to know!” After several seconds passed in which neither man spoke, Rath asked, “So you didn’t move him?”

Shaking his head adamantly, Archer answered, “No!”

“And June didn’t move him?”

“Jason, no one here moved him.”

Once again, the two men were locked in a stalemate, both staring at each other pointedly as Oleg observed uncomfortably from behind. At long last, after almost five full seconds of silence, Rath asked the obvious. “So who the hell moved him?”

16

Sunday, March 18th, 0012 NE

1028 hours

Norilsk, Russia

WHAT IN THE…?

The thought struck Scott as he stared ahead at the small group of Northern Forge staffers headed his way. The three workers—all of whom seemed to be some sort of emergency personnel—were not focused on Scott, but past him down the hall. Leaping out of their way, Scott watched them bolt past him toward the hangar.

He was apparently not the only one to notice the commotion, as numerous other Northern Forge occupants craned to see what the fuss was about. Rubbing the back of his neck, Scott caught sight of the doctor, Gavriil Shubin, who was emerging from farther ahead along with Valentin. The doctor and keeper were in the midst of a heated Russian exchange when they came upon Scott. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“The hangar,” Valentin said bluntly, his narrowed glare directed at Scott for a mere moment before he continued on his way.

The hangar? “What’s happening in the hangar?”

“Unexpected arrival!”

It wasn’t exactly an invitation for Scott to go along, but at this point, his curiosity was about as piqued as it could get. About-facing in the hallway, he followed the two men toward the hangar.

Prior to the commotion, Scott had been en route to the meeting room to give a thorough morning briefing to the Fourteenth and Falcons. Today was a big day—a day in which they were not only going to record Lilan’s message confirming his status as one among the living, but also in which the Fourteenth was going to determine its next course of action. It was a day for getting back on track. The irony didn’t escape Scott that he’d managed to get off track before even setting foot in the meeting room. Just the same, if something unexpected was going on in Northern Forge, he figured there was at least a ninety-five percent chance it involved the Fourteenth’s presence there.

Bringing up his comm, he sent a quick message to David. “Guys, sit tight—I’m gonna be late.” The New Yorker acknowledged.

As Scott rushed into the hangar, he realized the heightened sense of action was not restricted to the two men and the trio of emergency workers who’d preceded them. The entire hangar was alive with activity. Nightmen rushed about as several black-uniformed men stood at the hangar entrance, which was open and blowing frigid wind into the room’s open space. It certainly fit the description of “unexpected arrival.” Who in the world were they about to receive?

The loud roar of Vulture thrusters emerged beyond the wind. Outside the mountain base, the transport appeared. As the uniformed men signaled, it slowly made its way inside the hangar, where it hovered to the open space next to the Pariah.

Two days ago, this hangar was empty, thought Scott. Now they’re running out of parking space.

Valentin and Gavriil were both in front of Scott, arguing adamantly about something that Scott couldn’t quite make out as they marched toward the incoming transport. As the Vulture touched down, a final sharp word was given to the keeper by Gavriil before the doctor trotted for the ship, pointing and barking instructions to the emergency crew ahead of him.

Approaching Valentin from behind, Scott asked, “What’s going on? Who’s the unexpected arrival?”

The keeper glared at Scott flatly, as if in some way this was all Scott’s own doing. Looking back at the transport as its rear bay came down, he answered, “One of your crew.”

“One of my crew?”

“The man in the hospital.”

Scott blinked. There was only one member of the Fourteenth who fit that description. “Max,” Scott said in quiet revelation. Could it actually be? Bolting past Valentin, Scott set his sights on Gavriil and his staffers.

Russian words were flying back and forth as the doctor took command of the situation. Casting a sharp eye to Scott as he approached from behind, Gavriil said, “Stand back! We need to get him to the medical bay right away.”

“Get who?” Scott had to have affirmation. He had to know for sure. With Gavriil’s focus on the movement of the patient, Scott slipped into a better position to pry. Out of the transport and down the ramp, a medical bed was rolled onto the hangar floor.

It was Max! Shouting out Max’s name, Scott once again fought to get a better view of the technician, who was covered in tubes as he was rolled past. When Gavriil addressed Scott again, he cut the doctor off before the scolding was complete. “You have to let me see him! I won’t get in the way. You’d want the same thing if he was your friend.”

Growling loudly, Gavriil abandoned his attempt to keep Scott separated. “Just keep your distance!”

Not a problem. If there was anything Scott didn’t want, it was to hinder the medical treatment Max required. Keeping pace with the cart from behind, he tried his best to get a look at Max’s condition. Several paces behind him and also keeping up, was Valentin. “Your crew is beginning to become inconvenient,” the keeper said.

Under normal circumstances, the comment might have earned a retort—but Scott was still in the process of trying to figure this out. How was Max here? Why was he here? The last anyone had heard, he was in a hospital in Novosibirsk. Only one name came to mind.

Antipov.

There was no question that the eidola chief was behind this—he had to be. No one else could have pulled something like this off. There was zero chance that an official transfer of Max had taken place, so this had to be something done under EDEN’s collective nose—and the chaos amid the emergency crew and the staff of Northern Forge spoke to it.

As Gavriil and his emergency staff moved Max into the base elevator, Scott halted his pursuit. His heart pounding with excitement for Max’s return and fear for his safety, he placed his hands on his hips and stood next to Valentin. The elevator door closed, and Scott faced the keeper. “I know it’s inconvenient, but you’ve got to understand—”

“It is you who needs to understand!” said Valentin, abruptly cutting Scott off. “Every time a ship flies into this base, our chance of detection goes up! Do you think we could fend off EDEN if our location was known? Not even Thoor could do that with the might of The Machine at his back!”

“I know, and you’re right.” Scott would give the man that much. “But having Max here—”

“Will accomplish nothing,” Valentin said. He glared sternly. “It will accomplish nothing, except taking up space in the medical bay that could be used for the workers.”

Scott sympathized with Valentin’s anger, but the keeper needed to understand that none of this was the Fourteenth’s idea. “This wasn’t us, Lukin. This has Iosif Antipov all over it.” See the big picture, Valentin. “Having Max here takes him away from EDEN. However he got here doesn’t matter. What matters is that EDEN has one less person connected to us to use and manipulate.” Grabbing Valentin cautiously on the shoulder, Scott turned the keeper to face him. “You need to understand that what we’re dealing with is bigger than us. Bigger than EDEN, bigger than the Nightmen.”

Glowering, Valentin said, “What we are dealing with will mean nothing if EDEN locates and destroys us.”

“I know, and you’re right. But Max here is better than Max there.”

“When was your unit meeting?” Valentin asked bluntly.

Scott sighed. “I was on my way to it when the transport arrived.”

“Please push it back one hour. I wish to be in attendance.”

“I can do that.”

Nodding, Valentin said, “Good.”

“Scott!” a voice called from behind him. He turned to see Esther trotting his way. The scout’s brown eyes were raised with urgency. “What’s going on?”

Turning Scott’s way, Valentin said, “If you will excuse me.”

Scott nodded as the keeper walked away. “One hour, Lukin!” Valentin made a hand gesture from behind indicating that the message had been received. Scott looked at Esther again. “Max is here.”

She blinked. “Max? Here at the base?”

“Yes, here at the base. Antipov must have snatched him from Novosibirsk Hospital.”

For the first time in days, Scott saw a true smile on Esther’s face. “Where is he? Is he all right?”

“They’re taking him up to the medical bay. I don’t know his status other than it doesn’t look good.”

“Can I go up and see him?”

Scott was sure that was going to be everyone’s reaction to the news. But their excitement needed to be tempered. “He literally just got here—his elevator up might not have even dinged yet.” An exaggeration, but it got the point across. “I’m going to try and get an update on his status prior to the meeting.”

She looked at him curiously. “Aren’t we going to the meeting now?”

“Valentin wants us to push it back an hour. He wants to be there, too.”

“Good!”

Well that was exuberant, Scott thought at Esther’s proclamation. “What’s up? Something going on?”

“Actually, there is.” Glancing around in a manner that Scott could only describe as fidgety, Esther took his arm and eased him out of the flow of traffic. Scott followed until the two of them were alone in a hallway. The scout drew a preparatory breath, the pushed back her hair. “I got a chance to speak to Ju`bajai. She’s reluctant to speak.”

Scott tilted his head. “Reluctant?”

“Very much so. And honestly, I can’t say that I blame her. She was a vital part of our escape from Cairo, and we’ve thanked her by sticking her in another cell.”

Before Esther could say anything else, Scott lifted a finger of silence. This was already sounding like a conversation he didn’t want Valentin privy to. “Let’s take a walk.”

She eyed him. “A walk?”

“Yes, a walk. I want to show you something.”

“So are you just cutting me off for no reason, or is there—”

C’mon, Ess, get the hint. “Just come with me.” Placing his hand on her shoulder to lead her away, he pivoted her around in the hall and led her toward the hangar.

After a two-minute walk in which neither he or Esther said a word, Esther found herself being escorted up the ramp of the Pariah. Despite the bewildered look on the scout’s face, she played along, taking a seat inside the empty troop bay and watching as Scott raised the door from inside. A bit nervously, she played with the loose ends of her bob.

Scott exhaled in readiness. Even inside the Pariah, the icy temperatures of the hangar caused frost vapors to escape his lips. “We’re being watched in the base.”

As if she wasn’t quite sure what he meant, she asked, “Being watched? By people? In the hallway?”

“Lukin has a surveillance system in place. I saw it in his suite on the fifth floor. He’s got cameras everywhere, right down to our rooms.”

Her jaw dropped. “He has cameras in our bloody rooms?”

“Yes.”

“You mean he’s been watching me get dressed and undressed? That disgusting pig!” A moment later, she gasped and covered her mouth. “Every room…” she whispered to herself.

Scott caught the action and canted his head. Esther quickly waved him off.

“Nothing, it’s…” For a moment, her voice wavered. “It’s nothing. There are just…things that happen in private that no one should see.”

He had no desire to know what she was talking about. “Whatever we’ve already done or said is done. We’re just going to have to be careful going forward. This,” he said, motioning to the troop bay, “is the only place where I know we’re unobserved. Unless his people installed cameras while we weren’t looking.” Which, come to think of it, was a possibility. Narrowing his eyes faintly, his hazel eyes swept the troop bay. If he did, there’s nothing I can do about it.

Though Esther said nothing aloud, her look told Scott that she was sick of this place. He knew the feeling. “Ready for another shocker? Lukin used to be a chaplain.”

Eyeing him flatly, Esther said, “Get out.”

“Saw a photo in his suite. Before he was with the Nightmen, the guy was a man of the cloth.”

She harrumphed. “Now that’s a fall from grace if I’ve ever bloody heard one.”

“Anyway,” Scott said, getting back on point. “You were saying?”

Crossing her legs and placing her hands on the bench, she swung her fringe out of her face and addressed him. “I think we should petition for Ju`bajai’s release.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of where I thought this was heading.”

She went on. “She’s feeling a bit tentative at the moment, and I can’t say I blame her. Without Ju`bajai’s help, we would have never escaped Cairo. We’d be dead if it weren’t for her, yet there she is, freed from one cell to be placed in another.”

Scott could understand the request—and Ju`bajai’s trepidation. But it all boiled down to two things. One was Valentin. Two was reality. “Ju`bajai is an Ithini, Ess. The Ithini are the enemy.”

“Was Tauthin the enemy?”

“Yes.” If she was looking to convict him by going that route, it wasn’t going to work. “And I never forgot that, regardless of how many times we sat across from each other in Confinement.” He leaned forward across from her. “This is about trust, Ess. Can we trust an alien?”

Ever so slightly, Esther’s chin lifted, almost as if she were eyeing Scott down to figure him out. Though subtle, it was a curious gesture. Before Scott could comment on it, Esther answered, “Do you trust Ju`bajai less than you trust Valentin? Or Antipov? Even Natalie at this juncture?”

Now that…was a good question. The answer was no. Though Scott tried to hide his being semi-blindsided, Esther picked up on it right away.

“You know I’m right, don’t you?”

He frowned, but said nothing.

Leaning back on the bench, she sighed and crossed her arms, arching her back against the Pariah’s interior hull. “Look, I’m not saying we give her a key to the ship and teach her to fly it. I’m just saying that there’d perhaps be a benefit to shortening the leash. A supervised release.”

The next question was obvious. “Supervised by whom?”

There was a long pause—an indicative pause—before Esther answered. She didn’t even make the attempt to disguise her resigned tone. “I’ll do it.”

“That doesn’t sound like it makes you happy—”

“Of course it doesn’t make me happy,” she snapped, “but I’ll do what I must. I always do. I’ll ‘suck it up,’ as you Yanks like to say.” Her stare stayed on him. “I’m not wild about this, Scott, but there’s a tactical benefit to having her on our side and believing in us. I’m not saying I’ll share a sodding bunk with her…”

Scott smirked, not amused. “You know it might come down to that.”

“Like I said, I’ll do what I must.”

“You mean exercise tolerance?”

She smile placatingly. “Humility and patience.”

Humility struck Scott as an odd word choice. Just the same, if she was willing, he would approach Valentin with the same argument she’d given. If a little freedom would provide them with answers—much needed ones—then Scott was willing to try. That didn’t mean he thought this was a good idea or that he trusted Ju`bajai. It simply spoke to their desperation. The ‘worst that could happen’ with Ju`bajai wasn’t much worse than what was happening to them now. “All right. I’ll mention it to Lukin.”

“If possible,” she said, raising a hand in defense, “and I know I’ve already asked for a lot…I think there’d be a benefit to having her freed before the meeting, so that she might attend it. I have a feeling she might be forthcoming on what she knows right out of the gate.”

“I’ll mention the potential benefits of timeliness,” Scott said, each word spoken carefully. “We’ll just see what happens.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Scott.” Pushing up from her seat, Esther glanced nonchalantly around the troop bay, her brown eyes lingering on the four corners of the ship’s interior as a look of peace washed over her. “Ironic, that with all the system failures and glitches this rusty old girl has seen, she becomes our last safe place to sit and talk.”

Ironic, or was it fitting? Glitches weren’t the only things that came to mind when Scott thought about the Pariah. That ship, for all its wear, had always brought them home. Well, almost always. “Yeah, well, if there’s anything we need to discuss of significance, this is probably the safest place to do it. Just be careful. Safest doesn’t necessarily mean safe.”

“Understood.”

Rising, Scott walked to the troop bay door and hit the button to lower it. The Vulture’s gears moaned as the ramp lowered to the floor, the fresh, frigid Norilsk air hitting them through the hangar doors once again. Bitter cold. It was their lot in life. With Esther in tow, Scott walked down the ramp.

The hour that followed felt like three. Scott contacted the members of the Fourteenth, informing them that their meeting had been pushed back to allow for Valentin’s attendance, as well as making them aware of Max’s arrival at the base. Though he’d considered dropping that as a surprise at the onset of the meeting, a desire to hit the ground running and without distraction ultimately won. It was better to give them that extra hour now to get the excitement out than let it impede the progress of what was going to be a critical gathering.

Scott also contacted Valentin, who met his request to free Ju`bajai with laughter. Though Scott made every case and argument that Esther had for him, the keeper was clear that the alien would remain locked in her cell. It wasn’t a decision Scott could rationally argue against. He understood Esther’s reasoning, especially with Ju`bajai possibly withholding information, but the fact remained that the Ithini was an enemy. For a man as paranoid and controlling as Valentin was of Northern Forge, it would have been a shock had the keeper even entertained the possibility of freeing Ju`bajai. Scott relayed the update to Esther, who sounded disgusted to a degree that somewhat surprised him. Just the same, she accepted the answer—or so she claimed. All in all, things felt as positive as they could be going into the meeting.

Walking to the conference room that Valentin had set apart for them to use, Scott began his preparation.

*

Thrusting her palms forward, Esther crashed open the doors of the medical bay. Inside their cells, Natalie and Ju`bajai jumped. Gavriil and Marina’s collective heads whipped in Esther’s direction, and the doctor opened his mouth to speak. The Briton’s sharp words cut him off. “You!” she said, pointing at Ju`bajai in her cell. The alien stared at her expressionlessly. Esther snapped her fingers and pointed to her head. “Get in here, now.” Turning around, she stormed back out of the room, leaving the doctor and Natalie dumbfounded.

Stepping into the same room she’d gone in earlier to communicate with Ju`bajai, Esther slammed the door behind her and locked it promptly. Arms folded across her chest, she tapped her foot and waited. A second later, the construct began.

Esther was once again in Room 14, once again staring at a bunk room in familiar disarray. This time, there was no stopping to take in the view. The scout made a beeline for the lounge. As soon as she rounded the corner that led into it, she saw the ponytailed version of herself waiting.

“Well, well, well,” said Ju`bajai, still stirring her bowl of porridge. “That was a tad brazen, don’t you think?”

Esther never stopped walking. She trekked right across the lounge, slapped the bowl of porridge right out of Ju`bajai’s hand, and grabbed the wide-eyed construct by the collar. Slamming Ju`bajai back into the wall, Esther shrieked at the top of her lungs, “Give me something to work with, you revolting little squid!”

“Have you gone mad?” the alien asked.

“I need something to tell them! Some clear indicator that you’re willing to help, even if to the faintest sodding degree. You can’t demand I not rouse suspicion then place me in a position that begs for it!” Letting go of Ju`bajai’s collar, Esther shoved her against the wall then stepped back. “Regardless of what you do to me, if I don’t succeed, you rot in that cell. Act like that matters.” Setting her hands on her hips, Esther blew the hair from her face. She waited in silence.

Her eyes narrowing, Ju`bajai stared at Esther from against the wall. At long last, she drew a breath and replied. “As you wish, Miss Brooking. A taste—but just a taste. I can still ruin you.”

“Only if I let you,” Esther said.

Lifting her hand, Ju`bajai snapped her fingers. The construct melted away.

Esther was once again standing in the room she’d slipped into from the hallway, right near the medical bay. Room 14 was gone, and there was no additional presence in her mind. Ju`bajai had left her.

But she’d left something behind.

It took a moment for Esther to find it, but surely enough, the new information—the taste—drifted to the surface of her consciousness as it awaited discovery. When her mind seized it, the scout’s eyes opened widely. She inhaled out of shock. “Oh,” she said. “That’ll do, sprite. That will do.” Without another word, Esther unlocked the door and made her way down the hall.

17

Sunday, March 18th, 0012 NE

1130 hours

Norilsk, Russia

GAME TIME. At long last, after fleeing from Cairo on the wings of a prayer and surviving the flight to Northern Forge, Scott was on the verge of actually holding a unit meeting. It felt a million years overdue. The only strange part now was that it wasn’t going to be held in Room 14’s lounge. But the Level-3 conference room would suffice.

The conference room had a distinct Old Era smell to it, a certain agedness, that almost made Scott feel as if he was about to begin a discussion about nuclear weapons or Cold War politics. Just the same, he was grateful for the space, which was more than adequate enough for everyone to have a seat around the table.

The news about Svetlana had been a punch to the gut. Though the time spent alone in his room had been helpful, this wasn’t an ache that was just going to go away. Svetlana was missing. There was no silver lining to that. The best Scott could hope for was that some kind of update would turn up. Press on became the phrase of the day.

There was no trickling in of participants, as had been customary back in Novosibirsk when bullet points revolved more around upcoming workout regimens and determining who would walk Flopper that week. This time they were facing world-altering events. This was a meeting universally recognized as mission critical. Nothing highlighted that more to Scott than the distinct lack of chatter as everyone made their way inside and took seats. With so many people in the room, the level of silence was downright eerie.

Valentin, expectedly, took a position at the head of the table, with Scott to his immediate right and Colonel Lilan to his left, like three heads of state. Scott realized as he sat across from Lilan that he hadn’t even had a chance to talk with his former colonel yet about the events that’d occurred between Richmond and Novosibirsk—most importantly, Scott’s fall as a Golden Lion. There was a lot that Scott needed to say. But that would have to wait.

“Begin when you are ready,” said Valentin in a tone that hinted that Scott needed to be ready now.

Shifting to face the group, Scott began. “As everyone here knows, we have a lot to talk about, and I think we all realize that time is critical. So let’s get right into this.” And right into Max. “I know everyone here has gotten the word already that Max is here.” He briefly looked at the non-Fourteenth members present. “For those who don’t know, Max is our chief combat technician. For everyone in the Fourteenth, I’ll save us all some time and say that I don’t know what his condition is yet—it was quite a scene when he arrived and they’re still working on getting him set up in the medical bay. I hope to get more information on him soon. Until then, though, let’s just pray for him and be glad he’s back with us.”

It wasn’t the most informative little blurb, but it was literally all he knew. The rest, he’d have to get from Gavriil after things settled down. So right on Scott went. Nodding in Lilan’s direction, he said, “I don’t think anyone’s had a chance to formally get introduced to Colonel Lilan yet, so…this is Colonel Lilan.” There wasn’t much else to say. “I think most of you guys know that he was my own colonel back in Richmond, where I myself was in Falcon Platoon along with David, Becan, and Jay.” His focus shifted to the colonel. “Colonel, I know you and I have a lot to talk about, about a lot of different things. For the moment though, just so we can all be on the same page, would you mind sharing with all of us what exactly happened in Falcon Platoon when you guys got shot down?”

Nodding his head, Lilan looked down the table. “Good afternoon to those I’ve met and to those I haven’t.” A quick acknowledgment in Valentin’s direction indicated a special inclusion for the keeper in that statement, which Valentin met with what seemed genuine respect. Lilan continued. “The story from our side is not too complicated. Four days ago, Falcon Platoon got called out on a mission over the Great Dismal Swamp, which is a swamp that runs between North Carolina and Virginia. It was a routine Bakma callout—nothing spectacular. What matters, though, is that shortly after our arrival over the swamp, a squadron of Vindicators showed up on radar, and without communication, engaged us and shot us down.”

For as much as Scott and company had been through, he couldn’t imagine being subjected to an attack as vile as what Lilan had encountered. This wasn’t the Nightmen who’d upended him. This was EDEN, the organization Lilan had dedicated the past decade of his life to. Scott listened on as the colonel continued.

“Shortly after we were shot down, what I can only describe as a sweeper team of sorts landed to look for any survivors. Oh, and they shot at us while we were in the water, too,” he said, pointing for emphasis. “That’s really when I realized this hadn’t been some kind of friendly-fire incident. A mistaken one, I mean.” Craning his neck a bit to see Tiffany, he indicated to the pilot. “Ms. Feathers ended up in one of their Vultures—”

Cordially, Tiffany interrupted. “The Pariah, actually. The one we flew in to get here.”

“Right,” said Lilan, “then she—” Right then, the colonel stopped. Blinking in Tiffany’s direction as if her statement had just registered, he asked her flatly, “Excuse me? You flew here in…?”

“Yes, sir. The same Vulture.”

Well that must have been a surprise. One of the same Vultures that was involved in their attempted murder was the one that’d brought them out of Krasnoyarsk to Northern Forge. Scott wasn’t sure if that was ironic or morbid. It was probably both. Clearing his throat a bit, he said, “The Pariah was actually our Vulture, sir. A few months before any of this went down, it’d been damaged in a mission and shipped off for repair. We got word back from EDEN that it’d been totaled, for lack of a better word, but obviously that wasn’t the real case.”

The colonel eyed him, almost suspiciously. “So your Vulture was one of the ones that engaged us?”

Leaning forward against his elbows, Scott said to the colonel, “This whole time, we were under the impression that that Vulture, the Pariah, was out of commission for good. The way things sound, it seems as if EDEN may have been collecting aircraft from Novosibirsk for the very purpose of setting us up.”

His eyes growing distant, it seemed as if Lilan was putting things together in his mind, right there on the spot. At long last, he slowly nodded his head. “I think the fact that it was Svetlana who came for us tells us all we need to know.”

That it did, and Scott was thankful for the way Lilan phrased it. It was probably as concrete an endorsement as the colonel was capable of dishing out. Looking down the table again, Lilan motioned to Tiffany. “So like I was saying, Ms. Feathers ended up going off in that Vulture, then the next thing we know, here comes Svetlana in a Noboat to save us.”

It was the briefest of closing summaries. Scott could feel that Lilan was working things out in his head. He probably wanted to get his part of speaking over with so he could start connecting the dots in his mind.

“Ms. Feathers, you want to tell us what all happened from your end?” Lilan asked.

The blonde sat erect, whipping some loose strands of hair from her face before speaking. “When I got into the Pariah, it actually took off on autopilot. It wasn’t until I managed to find a comm and talk to Travis that we were able to figure out that it was heading to Novosibirsk. He talked me through the process of regaining manual control, and from that point on it was just surviving to make it to their base. I probably would have been shot down had Novosibirsk not sent a squadron to escort me. I got to Novosibirsk, met everyone…met Thoor, who was a total creeper, then the rest, I think we all know. I sort of hung out with the Fourteenth until everything went down in Cairo.”

Scott felt the need to pick up, there. “We were sent to Cairo to retrieve a Ceratopian—the one in recovery here now. Thoor believed, and I do, too, that this Ceratopian and another who is now dead, were aware of some sort of alien-human conspiracy with EDEN Command. Specifically, with Judge Benjamin Archer.” The presumed mastermind of all this, whom Scott had never even met. “We had encountered these particular aliens before, on that same mission where we lost the Pariah. When I met them, they tried to communicate with me. They kept repeating a phrase that I couldn’t quite figure out. It wasn’t until later on that I realized they were trying to speak to me in German.” Across from him, Lilan raised an eyebrow. “The aliens were trying to tell me, ‘The Archer betrays you.’ That’s what gave us the inkling that somehow, Archer was involved in all this.”

“Why the hell would an alien speak to you in German?” Lilan asked.

“Well, think about it, colonel,” answered Scott. “Do you know any prominent soldiers on Earth who happen to be from Germany?”

Lilan’s brow furrowed, before his eyes opened widely. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

He’s catching on. “We think the Ceratopians were trying to contact Klaus Faerber to tell him about a conspiracy. And if that’s true, then apparently not all of these aliens are on the same page when it comes to humanity. On the Ceratopian side, at least.” It was a big pill to swallow, particularly for an old-school fighter like Lilan. By the look of it, though, that light was coming on. “Thoor found out the alien had been sent to Cairo, which is why we’d been sent there. Actually, I uhh…” He deliberated momentarily whether or not to include the next part. “I was forced into going to Cairo. Thoor used my relationship with Svetlana against me. She would have been harmed if I hadn’t gone.”

His eyes on the colonel, David said matter-of-factly, “Not the first time that stunt had been pulled.”

“Thoor had a penchant for using loved ones as leverage,” Scott said before getting back on track. “We never expected Cairo to erupt the way it did. Our plan was to get in, extract the Ceratopian somehow, then take it back to Novosibirsk. Knowing Thoor, he was going to use Centurion—that’s what we call him—as sort of a big reveal against EDEN. He was probably saving you guys up for that, too.”

“Speaking of people being used as leverage, I’d like to say something,” said Lilan. Scott and Valentin, to whom the statement seemed directed, gave him their attention. “I appreciate that you guys took us out of that cell. Believe it or not, the last time we could all walk freely, we were back at Richmond. As much as we appreciated the Nightman rescue, they weren’t exactly very accommodating—no offense,” he added to Valentin, who seemed anything but offended. “I would like to make a suggestion, though. Consider freeing that girl you guys got up there. There’s no need for her to be held up in a cell.”

Natalie.

“She got wrapped up in this just like the rest of us,” the colonel said. “I think, with a little extension of trust, you guys might find an ally. Who is a lot like you used to be,” he said directly to Scott, semi-quietly.

Used to be? Scott wasn’t sure if the compliment was intended to be backhanded or not. “I don’t think she’s ready, yet. She has a lot of trust issues right now.”

“Go figure,” said David.

“But in the event that she can sort herself out, then yes, I agree with the colonel. She could definitely be an asset.”

Valentin groaned as if annoyed. “Any other captives you would like to release?”

Scott shook his head. “The Falcons and Natalie would be all, I think.” From her seat, Esther fidgeted.

“There is no chance that I will release a potentially hostile combatant,” said Valentin flatly. “End of that discussion.”

As much as he wished he could, Scott couldn’t logically argue—at least not right now.

“What is your next discussion point?”

Turning his eyes upon Esther, Scott said, “I had spoken to Esther about gleaning a little information from Ju`bajai. Did you have any success with that, Ess?”

Sitting upright and clearing her throat quietly, the scout answered, “Yes, I was able to finagle a little information out of her shortly before our meeting.”

That was good to hear.

The scout leaned forward. “In the time Ju`bajai’s spent with Centurion, she’s been able to extract a small bit of information, some of which she shared with me—and it’s considerable. Apparently…he and H`laar’s mission was to deliver a device to Klaus Faerber.”

“H-what?” Lilan asked.

“H`laar,” said Scott.

The colonel shook his head and muttered.

Esther elaborated. “H`laar was who we initially went to Cairo to find. Centurion, the Ceratopian we have here, was apparently his bodyguard.” When none of them looked any more or less informed, her focus returned to Scott. “The device was on the ship that you met H`laar and Centurion in. It contained recorded evidence of communication between the Ceratopians and Benjamin Archer.”

“Hot dog!” said Lilan, looking excitedly at Scott. “That’s what we’ve got to find!”

Scott’s instinct was to say, “Calm down, sir,” but he stifled back the words. His gaze stayed fixed on Esther. “That’s all well and good, but we have no way of knowing where this device is.”

“Well, there were cleanup crews, right?” Esther asked him. “Salvage teams?”

“Yes, but…”

She continued on. “All we need to know is who they were, if it was a person, or a base, or whatever.”

Cutting in, Lilan said simply, “Nagoya.” The others eyed him. “Nagoya has always been a hub for alien salvage. I’d be willing to bet they had a hand in the cleanup.”

Okay, now this was going somewhere. “Nagoya handles all salvage?”

“They handle a lot. I won’t say all of it, but considering the size of that particular incident, and considering it’s on this side of the globe, I’d probably be willing to put some money on it.”

“How much money?” Scott asked, not in jest.

Leaning back in his chair, the colonel answered, “I wouldn’t bet the house, but I’d still put something down.” His attention shifted to Valentin, as if the keeper was somehow their chief decision-maker. “It’s worth taking a look. However, uhh, we plan on doing that.”

Valentin raised a hand as if to deflect any responsibility.

“I’ll contact Antipov after the meeting,” Scott said. “If anyone knows how to get into a facility, it’s him. He orchestrated Cairo, after all.”

“Which ended in a bloodbath,” said David with a half-frown.

Scott gave him a look. It wasn’t untrue. Right onto the next subject: Lilan’s video message. “So, one of the things we’ve been talking about,” Scott said to the group at large, “was the possibility of Lilan recording a message to the world from here—without the location of this place being linked to it, of course.” It was important to get that part in, for Valentin’s sake. “Just so everybody else knows, our plan is to have Lilan record a message stating what happened to him and Falcon Platoon, then we’ll have that message sent to some news outlets.” He looked at the colonel. “Sir, if you want to continue?”

“Sure thing,” Lilan said. He looked down the table. “The minute the world sees that we’re alive, they’re going to start asking EDEN some tough questions. That’s good for us. Hell, for as much as we’re talking about Nagoya, it might just be that video that opens up this whole can of worms.” Faintly, he smirked. “EDEN’s used to being wholeheartedly trusted, but trust me, this is the kind of story the media lives for. It’ll catch on like wildfire.”

“And Archer will be in the crosshairs,” Scott said.

The colonel nodded. “The gist of the message is going to be simple: we’re alive, and EDEN tried to kill us. I’ll be careful not to give the Nightmen too much credit, no offense,” he said, looking at Valentin and the other Nightmen, “as I don’t want it to seem like I’m under duress. This isn’t about EDEN versus the Nightmen to me. This is about what EDEN is versus what it’s supposed to be.”

“I have arranged for the video to be shot in one of our storage rooms,” said Valentin. “It is being cleared out as we speak.”

Clearing his throat simply because he needed to, Scott’s attention turned to the keeper. “So how exactly are we going to get this video out without leading to Northern Forge?”

“Simple drop-off,” Valentin answered. “After it is recorded, someone will fly out of Norilsk to Moscow to have it delivered. Several copies will be left with several news agencies. All will be clean.”

Good enough for Scott. “Moving on,” he said, looking at David. “What’s the word on weapons and equipment?”

Shifting in his chair, David answered, “Will and I talked to the forge master, and it sounds like there’s more than enough Nightman armor here for all the men. They’re gonna work on something specific for Esther.” Looking down both sides of the table, David said, “Everyone else is no problem.” Briefly, he looked at Tiffany. “Just assuming you’re not going to need ground assault gear.” She gave him a thumbs-up.

With nothing further to say in regards to weapons and armor, Scott moved on to the Pariah. “So Travis, what’s the deal with the ship? How stripped is she?”

The pilot frowned. “She’s pretty stripped. Beyond the very basics, and I’m talking pure flight controls, she has almost nothing else. The on-board nav systems are shot, no uplink to the satellite—which is a good thing—no defense system.”

“Defense system?” Scott asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Right, so,” Travis explained, “first-generation Vultures like the Pariah actually had real defense systems installed—flares, chaffs, the works. Now, when I say first-generation, I’m not even talking about all M1s. Even M1s received small technology upgrades over time.” He smiled sadly. “The Pariah was an original, though. Her systems are designed to offset human combatants as much as extraterrestrial. So if we had those systems, it’d be a huge benefit. She’d be a rarity.”

Smirking across from him, Tiffany said, “I think she’s already a rarity, Travis.”

Travis agreed.

Speaking up on his own behalf, Valentin said, “I will speak to Artur after the meeting. It is he who orders all the materials needed for the forge. Perhaps he can order new components for your transport, as well.”

“That would be incredible.” Travis’s smile widened a bit. “I’ll go with you if you want—I can give him a full checklist of everything she needs. There are some external components, too, that could use a makeover.”

Valentin nodded as if the suggestion was acceptable. He looked to Scott again. “Is there anything else before we leave to tend to these things?”

There was—and though it wasn’t something Scott was eager to discuss, discuss it, he would. Everyone in the Fourteenth deserved to know. “One more thing. It’s about Sveta.” As Scott drew a preparatory breath, the others at the table looked at him with concern. “Some of you may have gotten word already, but Svetlana is currently missing.”

“Missing?” asked Esther, genuine confusion coming over her.

“That’s right. Antipov lost contact with Oleg shortly after EDEN attacked Novosibirsk. Right now, he doesn’t even know where they might be.”

The scout leaned forward with a follow-up. “But surely Oleg could’ve just lost his ability to communicate, right? He could be in hiding with her, or…” She shook her head, unable to find another example off the cuff.

“I’d love it if one of those possibilities was true, but by the sound of things, they are genuinely MIA. I mean, this is all coming from Antipov. He’s been giving me insight into Vector, for crying out loud. If Oleg or Svetlana was somewhere on his radar, he’d have let me know.”

Eyes narrowing, Esther asked, “Would he?”

Tightening his lips together then glancing briefly at Esther, Scott answered, “Yes, I think he would.” He hadn’t been sure how or even whether to bring this up—but if he was going to, this was as good a time as any. “One of the nurses here at Northern Forge is Antipov’s daughter.” Eyebrows across the Fourteenth shot up. “Her name is Marina. You’ll recognize her, if you’ve ever seen Antipov. I highly doubt Antipov would feed us too many lies with his daughter here with us.” Not that Scott would ever use her as leverage, but Antipov would still think of those things. “Frankly, Antipov has no reason to lie—and if he was going to lie, he’d probably try and convince us that Svetlana was just fine. For him to tell us this, it’s probably true.

“But the thing I want to say is this: my ability to function will not be compromised. You all know how I feel about Sveta.” Scott looked at the Falcons. “And I’m sure those of you new to this outfit are figuring it out now.” Nodding toward David, Scott made eye contact with several others directly down from him. “David has his wife and kids. Jay, you have your family. Falcons, you guys all have loved ones back home—fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers. No one here owns a monopoly on the pressure that that causes. We’re all suffering in our own way, even though we may not be saying it. So let’s keep that in mind when the stress levels rise—not that they aren’t high already.” He shook his head with disgust. “Then let’s blow the lid off EDEN Command, because those guys sure have it coming.”

“Amen to that,” said Lilan. Several others offered utterances of support.

When Scott paused, Valentin looked at him. “Is there anything else that needs to be discussed in this group meeting?”

Before Scott could answer, Esther chirped, “I think we should consider releasing Ju`bajai.”

Whoa, Scott thought. She was on that train again?

Valentin looked at her scrupulously. “I already discussed this with Captain Remington. That request is absurd and not happening.”

Leaning forward at the table, Esther said, “I just really think we’re overlooking a valuable—”

Pointing to Esther, Valentin looked at Scott. “Is she deaf?”

Scott sighed. “No, she is not.”

“Scott, please,” she said.

“Esther.” The look Scott gave her could not have been more indicative of no. What would prompt her to even ask that here, after he’d already relayed Valentin’s prior answer to her? It was almost a little suspicious.

Closing her eyes in defeat, Esther leaned back in her chair.

“Are there any relevant questions?” Valentin asked the table. No one spoke. “Then we have many things to get started on.” He looked at Lilan. “Colonel, if you will come with me, I will bring you to the room where you will record the video message.” Lilan affirmed. “The rest of you are dismissed.” Without another word, he turned for the door and left. After giving Scott a brief look, Lilan followed the keeper out.

As the operatives began to dismiss, Scott’s attention went to Esther. “Ess, go talk to the forge master. The sooner he can get you in some tactical armor, the better.”

“Yes, sir.”

Scott snagged her as she tried to hurry past. “Hey.” She blinked her brown eyes at him. “Is there something going on with you and Ju`bajai?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“The way you asked for her release after I already told you what Lukin said. It was almost…” When she offered nothing back, he just shook his head. “Go get that armor.”

The scout lowered her chin. “Yes, sir.” Quickly, she left the room.

So this was it—the beginning of an operation. If the evidence that could blow this thing open was in Nagoya, then that’s where they’d go—someway, somehow. Despite his last conversation with Antipov, Scott was eager to speak with the eidola chief again. He was fairly certain Antipov would be equally eager, if for no other reason, to receive assurance that the Golden Lion hadn’t suffered some emotional break upon hearing about Svetlana. Slipping out of the room, Scott made his way to his quarters before anyone could intercept him.

As Scott knew it would, the conversation with Antipov went smoothly. The eidola chief confirmed what Lilan speculated: that Nagoya had in fact been the facility to receive the salvage from the Interspecies Conflict. Though Antipov had no initial ideas as of how to infiltrate Nagoya, he made it quite clear that there were some agents of his that had access—albeit limited. He requested that Scott give him a day or two, during which his resources would be tapped into from afar and a concrete plan could be formed. Scott was more than happy to hear it.

The only other business to tend to was business that wasn’t Scott’s responsibility. Shortly after his conversation with Antipov concluded, Scott was informed by Valentin that Lilan’s video message had been recorded. Not wanting to waste time by requesting that he review the video, Scott gave Valentin his blessing to send the video off to Moscow, trusting Lilan’s judgment to have done the job correctly.

Things were moving. The Fourteenth—and the Falcons—had direction. All compasses pointed to Nagoya. Soon, the truth would be unveiled, and the crimes of EDEN against its own would come to light.

Until then, it was time to start taking care of things at home. Or at least, their temporary home at Northern Forge. And for Scott, there was no better place to begin than with Max Axen.

*

Needless to say, this wasn’t what Scott had hoped for. Upon arriving at the medical bay on Level-4, Scott, David, Becan, and Jayden found themselves denied access to the room entirely. No update had been given to them regarding Max’s condition, and they hadn’t even spoken to Gavriil at all. All they knew was that work of some sort was in progress to get the technician “admitted.”

It was as helpless a feeling as Scott had felt in a very long time, at least as it pertained to someone being in the hospital—or a room that was the equivalent of one, anyway. It harkened back to the day Galina Lebesheva died, a victim of Scott’s blind fury and recklessness. That Max wasn’t Scott’s fault—at least, not directly—didn’t make the situation feel much better. More so than Galina, though, this reminded Scott of his parents.

It was a wound that rarely reopened. He was a teenager, barely old enough to make a good decision on his own, when he’d lost them to a drunk driver. His mother had been killed instantly in the almost-head-on collision. His father died several hours later at Lincoln General Hospital. He didn’t remember every detail of that night, as it seemed more like a blur than anything else, but he recalled being at the hospital, waiting to hear something. Anything.

Then wishing he’d heard nothing at all.

Prior to the events at Novosibirsk, it had been the worst night of his life and a subject of much bitterness until he’d learned to accept it. He never dreamed it would be a night that would prepare him for the rest of his life. Nicole. Sergei Steklov, the young man he murdered. Galina. Svetlana was only the latest victim.

But Svetlana was still out there.

Sighing deeply, Scott leaned back against the wall and waited. At some point, they’d have to hear something. Gavriil’s crew knew they were out there. It was just a matter of time before the door opened with news.

The door opened. As all four of the operatives leapt upright, Gavriil himself walked through it. “Well, I have news.”

About vecking time.

“Your friend is in stable condition,” the doctor said, much to the relief of Scott and company. “That was not a given, considering the way he was removed from Novosibirsk Hospital and secretly transported here. But, he is okay.”

“Can you elaborate on that?” Scott asked, echoing the question on all of their minds.

Gavriil nodded. “He seems to have received a bullet wound right here,” he said, pointing to a spot on the right side of his throat. “I have seen some forge workers who received injuries such as these from one means or another—very few of them survive. Your friend is lucky.” He crossed his arms. “As far as the details of his condition, I am afraid I will not be able to tell you as much as you’d like to hear. We are receiving him post-treatment for his wound.”

Not wild about that opening statement, Scott listened on.

“He has a tracheostomy tube in his neck to support his airway due to the injury he sustained. He is attached to a ventilator, which is helping him breathe, so we are keeping him sedated. The last thing we want is for him to start ripping things out. We will likely try to ween him slowly off of sedation, but…no offense, we would rather not have any of you present while we do that. He will likely be very disoriented and not even himself. Even after he is awake, he still may require medication to keep him calm. Think days for this process, not hours.” The doctor sighed. “He also has a chest tube, meaning he must have had a lung collapse, but that has also been dealt with by whoever treated him. I am hopeful that that can be removed soon. The tracheostomy tube may or may not be permanent, too. Sometimes they are only needed temporarily.” Smiling sadly, he said, “And that is all that I know.”

It wasn’t much, but Scott was thankful to hear it all. It was better than not knowing anything. “What’s his prognosis?”

“His prognosis? I am confident he will survive.”

That was good. “Do you think he’ll be able to recover fully?”

For several seconds, Gavriil simply stared, the emotionless expression on his face indicating that the answer they were about to receive was not one that they wanted. Drawing a breath, the doctor said simply, “I do not know. We will have to observe and see. We are receiving him after the fact.” Seeming to judge by the looks on the others’ faces that his answer wasn’t as informative as they’d hoped, he said, “Speaking, eating, drinking. All of these things become part of the challenge when you have a tracheostomy tube in your throat. He will have to relearn them to some extent.” He frowned. “Unfortunately, we do not have a resident respiratory therapist.” When the group looked at him despondently, he sighed. “Please listen and understand. Your friend is very, very lucky to be alive, let alone stable right now. He must have been treated relatively quickly after sustaining the gunshot wound. If not for that, I am positive he would have perished. We are not in a perfect position to know the exact road he must face to recovery. It does not appear that he suffered any brain damage from the limited chart information that came with him, but it will be easier to assess this once he is awake.”

“Can we at least go in and see him?” asked Jayden.

The doctor hesitated just enough to prompt the others to echo the request. At long last, under mounting pressure, he bowed his head in acquiescence. “I will allow you in to see him. He is sedated, so he will not know you are there. And please do not touch him. But yes, I will let you go in, for a brief visit.”

That was all any of them could have asked for. Standing behind the doctor as he turned to enter the medical bay, the four transfers were escorted inside.

As prepared as Scott thought he was to see Max up close, nothing could have prepared him for the reality of Max’s condition. Besides having the obvious tube in his neck, Max’s face looked outright beat up, bruised and bloodied. He looked swollen. Yellow.

More than anything, he simply looked weak.

Casting a quick glance to his comrades to see if they were as affected as he was, Scott saw that they were. None of them had been ready to see this. Max looked worse off than Centurion.

His gaze wandering briefly, Scott locked eyes with Ju`bajai, then Natalie, both of whom were looking directly at him. Both were expressionless. Natalie, at the very least, didn’t look pleased with Scott and his comrades’ horror. That had to count for something.

“Your friend?” asked a woman’s voice to Scott’s left. When he glanced that way, he saw Marina. She, too, seemed at least partially affected by Scott and his friends’ concern.

Scott nodded. “Yeah.”

“I am sorry. I am sure he will be fine.” Casting a brief look to Gavriil as if to see if the comment was permitted, a stern look by the doctor advised her that it wasn’t. Giving Scott a sad smile, she turned away to return to her other momentary duties.

His focus shifting to Gavriil, Scott asked the doctor, “How long will he be out, again?”

“A few days,” answered Gavriil. “There is no reason to wake him earlier than that—not while everything is the way it is. We will begin weening him off of sedation, but that will be gradual. I will let you know when he becomes fully aware and in his right mind.”

I wonder what his last memory is, Scott thought. Max was liable to lose an entire week’s worth of consciousness. This is crazy.

“All right,” Gavriil said, “it is best to move on out. He needs to rest.”

Scott stepped back into the hall behind the other three men, all of whom were rubbing the backs of their necks, unsure of what to say. The sentiment was shared and understood. The Fourteenth was so far removed from its traditional condition. But at least Max was there with them.

You’re next, Sveta.

Not entering a state of panic over Svetlana’s whereabouts was one of the hardest things Scott had ever tried to do. First, she was with Max. Then, she was going to be picked up by Dostoevsky. Ultimately, she ended up with Oleg. Until he lost her.

I’m gonna find you, girl.

The waiting for things to happen was going to be hard. It was also unavoidable. For as much as Scott loved forward motion, until Antipov gave him a plan about Nagoya, Scott was stuck going sideways. But that would end. The trick was to be ready when it did—and to be prepared for forward motion again, particularly if it happened right away.

Time would tell, as it always did.

18

Location: Unknown

Time: Unknown

STANDING FRONT AND center in the Noboat bridge, Nagogg clanged the end of his chieftain’s spear against the vessel’s metal floor. As his crew turned their heads to regard him, he spoke. “Lu-kash tah kaitol,” the alien said in his unmistakable lipless rasp. “U`vash kutaaree, Khuldaris.”

Still clasped to the floor beside Nagogg’s chair, Svetlana could only listen as Nagogg addressed his crew. Though she couldn’t understand his words without an Ithini connection, which there hadn’t been since her emotional discussion with Kraash-nagun via Ed’s connection, she could tell by his tone that he was issuing a new command. She distinctly heard the word Khuldaris at the end of his statement. Whether or not that meant they were bound for the Khuladi homeworld now or in the near future, there was no question in her mind that it was their next destination.

The time spent on the bridge had done little to quell the sense of hopelessness that had overcome her since communicating with Kraash-nagun. Since the blinded elite had called her inconsequential. Inadequate. Despite having no emotional attachment to Kraash-nagun, his dissertation of her shortcomings had been among the most brutally honest evaluations of her, not only as a human being, but as an organism that lived and breathed. Even the canrassi, towering over her as a vulture would its meal, seemed of greater value. There were fewer words that could be spoken that Svetlana could ever envision cutting her more deeply. Kraash-nagun’s verdict was not the result of passion. It was clinical—a statement declared in the aftermath of objective observation. It was scarring.

The Bakma rose from their various consoles about the bridge. Even the canrassi was being prepped for some sort of disembarking, as the giant Gabralthaar took the reins of the animal. All Svetlana could do was observe as best she could, her clasps not even allowing her to push up to her knees to get a proper view.

Her hair was still sticky with canrassi drool, which seemed never-ending in its slimy christening of her. Thankfully, the beast had made no more efforts to mark her as part of its property. Though she’d grown mostly accustomed to the cold against her bare skin, goose bumps still occasionally broke out across her body, usually followed by a bout of brief, but intense, shivers. At the very least, the open skin where her nose had been no longer hurt, her nerves there having long given up on warning her of impending doom. It was the scarcest of comforts, but she would take what she could get.

Gabralthaar yanked hard at the canrassi’s reins, causing the massive beast to yelp—a sound Svetlana had never heard before from the animal. “Ein-kish,” the Bakma commanded as he pulled it along.

Not even your pets are safe from your anger, she thought. Her attention was averted as the other member of Nagogg’s personal guard, Ka`vesh, approached her. Unlocking her clasps with a small cylindrical device, he grabbed her under the arm and pulled her violently to her feet. Ed’s Ithini connection emerged in her mind, and she and Ka`vesh were linked.

“Time to eat, rat,” Ka`vesh said, tugging her along. “Even animals like you need a meal.” He shoved her forward, the medic stumbling before reaching out to snag one of the bridge’s support railings. Ka`vesh grabbed her behind her neck. “Walk or be dragged.” His gnarled fingers tightened, the squeeze causing the top of Svetlana’s spine to burn with fire. She was forced ahead.

Ahead of Svetlana, the rest of the Bakma troupe walked single-file toward the dining hall. Every Noboat possessed one. The rooms were simple and practical, with several benches built around a pair of tables, all of which was attached to the floor. Various compartments, half of which were refrigerated, were set about the room atop the equivalent of counter space. Svetlana had no reason to believe this Noboat’s dining hall would be any different. It appeared, however, that while the dining hall was the destination of the Bakma before her, it was not her destination. Ka’vesh yanked her neck sideways as she passed the first Noboat chamber on her right, shoving her inside it.

The room was dark, and unlike the other rooms, possessed a smell that was both unique and utterly foul. The acetic, vinegar-like odor was still present, but it was layered beneath something much more gamey and muskier. It was the smell of a canrassi.

This was a pen.

Some Noboats possessed them and some didn’t. The forward chambers were always somewhat customizable, able to be fitted for whatever purpose that particular crew required. This Noboat apparently had a pen and a brig, which was a rare combination, but not unheard of.

Thrusting Svetlana to the floor, Ka`vesh stepped aside to allow Gabralthaar and the canrassi to enter. As soon as she looked back and saw the massive beast approach, Svetlana’s heart pounded. “Wait!”

“All animals eat in the same room,” said Gabralthaar. The giant Bakma shoved the canrassi in hard, then pointed to a metal trough at the far end of the room.

Svetlana’s head whipped back to the trough, which was filled to the brim with the most disgusting brown slop she’d ever beheld. She would be far more appetizing to the canrassi. She leapt to her feet, but a turn in her direction by the canrassi locked her in place.

Gabralthaar angled his head. “Call upon your Earthae god. Surely he will save you.” Without another word, the giant stepped back. The metal door sealed shut.

“No!” Svetlana screamed, making a quick and instinctive half-step in the door’s direction. The moment the move was made, the canrassi’s jaws spread widely. A deep, threatening growl emerged behind the animal’s glistening teeth. Even in the low light of the pen, she could see the saliva dripping down. Her breathing growing shallow, she pressed back against the wall.

God, save me.

No movement came from the beast. It simply stared at her, its pair of black spider eyes fully dedicated to her body.

What little Svetlana knew of the animal’s actual nature, she’d learned in the Academy. If facing a canrassi without a weapon, remain calm and hold your ground. It was the same concept applied to bear encounters. Except this wasn’t a bear. This was an alien carnivore with thick hind legs and almost vestigial-seeming forearms. A tyrannosaurus rex with fur. As technically “correct” as standing one’s ground might have sounded, with her heart beating out of her chest, it was easier said than done.

The canrassi remained motionless in the center of the room, its stare unwavering. The only movement from the beast at all was the slow and steady motion of its chest as it breathed through its baseball-sized nostrils. As if it was waiting for something to happen.

It had felt so differently on the bridge, despite the fact that she’d been literally a foot away from the creature. On the bridge, she’d been surrounded by Bakma, including Nagogg, the canrassi’s master. However it viewed her, there was no doubt it was subservient to him. It exercised obedience and restraint. But here, there was nothing between her and it.

Her eyes had been locked on the beast almost the whole while she’d been there and it hadn’t advanced. She dared not take her eyes away at the risk that something might change. If she had to stare at this beast for ten solid hours, she would do it to avoid being eaten alive. Of all the fates that potentially awaited her, she could think of nothing more terrifying than the thought of the beast’s teeth clamping down on her leg, or her stomach, or her head. In her mind, she heard the sound of her bones snapping, her organs rupturing. She could almost taste the blood in her throat.

Suddenly, the canrassi huffed, its throat inflating as its whole body seemed to grow. It was about to lurch for her. Everything Svetlana had learned about canrassi nature at the Academy went right out the window. Closing her eyes, Svetlana drew in a sharp breath.

The shift happened instantly; even with her eyes closed, she could feel it. There came a sound like the rushing of a great wind, followed by a silence that itself was almost deafening. The strands of her hair—clean strands, untouched by the stain of canrassi saliva and urine—swayed under the gentle caress of a breeze. In her hand, held fast by the grip of her fingers, was the spear.

Svetlana opened her eyes. The metal walls of the brig were gone. She was standing on a grassy hill under the light of a Siberian moon. It was a hill she knew well. It was her uncle’s. He owned a farm in Zenkovo, a dwindling little town in the Kemerovskaya Oblast. Svetlana had spent many a summer night there in her childhood, chasing his chickens around their pens and watching the horses in his stable. Though she was far from a country girl, those memories had stayed with her throughout her adult life. But this was not that life, and that farm had long since been sold. What she was seeing was not real.

Behind her, the sound of a large animal’s gait emerged. Turning her head, then her body, Svetlana beheld a canrassi as it charged straight for her. The moment she made eye contact, the animal’s charge shifted into slow motion, and she was able to take in everything about it. Its massive paws as they kicked up dirt and grass with every gallop toward her. Its gaping maw as it breathed in, then out, then in again. The bristled furs on its back. In that moment, in the midst of what she knew must have been a dream, she found herself caught up in the animal’s beauty.

“Take him.”

The voice, once again, was her own. Without needing any further prompt, Svetlana found herself extending her hand forward, her open palm facing the oncoming beast. All fear of the creature—all uncertainty as to its intentions—melted away.

So did the hill. The first thing to disappear was the moon, its illumination fading from the night sky as it was replaced by a dull, all-encompassing blue hue. Then the grass beneath her feet, drawing into the ground until nothing remained but dirt, then metal. Then the breeze, then the stars. Then everything that was not real.

She was back in the Noboat’s animal pen. Ahead of her, as it had been in the dream, the canrassi was charging as if in slow motion. And just like in her dream, her palm was extended forward. The word just came to her. Flatly, in a voice that was as monotone as it was authoritative, Svetlana issued the command.

“Do`shaan.”

The canrassi’s gallop slowed; its heels dug into the metal beneath it. It drew to a stop barely a foot from her hand. Angling its head curiously, almost like a dog uncertain of a sound, its spider eyes watched her.

Svetlana barely thought before the word came again. “Do`shaan.”

The canrassi puffed out a breath. Its hind legs shifted. The massive beast sat.

The moment of realization was hair-raising. The canrassi had just listened to her command. Not her suggestion or her pleas for mercy. Her command. A command she had no business knowing.

The dreams she’d been having, the visions…they were more than just that. They were relaying knowledge to her that she hadn’t possessed beforehand. They were revealing. Nothing about it felt spiritual—this didn’t feel like a series of revelations from God. This felt…

…natural.

“Ein-kish,” she said, lowering her hand. It was the Bakmanese command for a canrassi to rise. The beast obeyed. “Do`shaan.” It sat again.

Tauthin had said that during her first vision, the one in which hands had reached out from the darkness and grabbed her, Svetlana had screamed in Bakmanese. That shouldn’t have been possible. Svetlana didn’t know Bakmanese. Of course she knew the basics, such as grrashna, but that was a far cry from the commands she was issuing now, with both the confidence and correctness for a canrassi to obey her without the slightest hesitation. That wasn’t her. But if that wasn’t her, who was it? There was no connection in place to relay this knowledge to her, at least not one that she felt. This was all coming from her own mind. But where had her mind learned it?

The canrassi continued to sit in subservience, waiting for her to issue her next command. A flood of commands came to her. Orrakish. The command to follow. Tu-kaash`nakon. The command to wait. Sho-kai-chaw. The command to attack and devour. For the time being, she settled on a more docile one.

“Iv’rrish,” she said, motioning to the trough of slop. It was the command allowing the canrassi to eat. Snorting, the beast’s knees straightened out, bringing it to its feet. It trundled over to the trough, where it began to lap up the vile slop.

It was not necessarily a surprise that a human was able to give this canrassi commands. After all, it had come from Novosibirsk Confinement. The beast had spent more time around humans than Bakma as of late, and though it obviously had an affinity for the species that had trained it, it no doubt had the capacity to learn and adapt to new masters. Even with that being said, she had a hard time imaging the scientists at Novosibirsk addressing the animal with the calm she was addressing it with now.

As she watched the canrassi eat, Svetlana’s mind sought out answers. On three occasions now, she’d experienced the visions. The first time, it had been during the amputation of her nose. The second, when she was thrust on the bridge in front of the canrassi. This was the third, after having been left alone with the beast, seconds before its charge reached her. Each time had been a time of intense emotional trauma. Each involved, to some degree, missing or displaced time. She knew from her studies what those symptoms pointed to. They were textbook disassociation.

But if she was disassociating—detaching from her own sense of the here and now as a coping mechanism for fear—how was she gaining knowledge? It made sense that she would be able to pick up some things, even in a disassociated state, simply due to the fact that, disassociated from traumatic experiences or not, her mind was still physically present for them. But those things would fall along the lines of seeing the knife, or whatever Nagogg used, when he cut off her nose. Or hearing his raspy, lipless insults. Or some other aspect of what had been physically experienced. Not Bakmanese canrassi commands.

Then there were the images and feelings themselves. Standing in some metal tube, seeing a canrassi in multiple visions, feeling an almost sensual sense of violence and aggression. What did she have in common with any of those things?

That sounds more like Nagogg than me.

At that thought, she blinked. It did sound like Nagogg. Frighteningly like Nagogg. She’d even held a spear and been adorned in the armor traditional of Bakma riders in one of the visions. The way she’d seen the canrassi in the most recent one, it was almost as if she’d been the beast’s master. Then there was her gruesome assault on Nagogg in the earliest vision and the fact that she’d baptized herself with his blood. These were sick, sick experiences. Almost religious experiences.

Her posture straightening, she raised her hands and slowly slicked her hair behind her head. It didn’t matter that it was canrassi saliva that was allowing her hair to be smoothed—the very act of not caring was almost liberating by itself.

The truth of the matter was, she wasn’t afraid of this canrassi at all. Not in the least. In the span of a single vision, or an episode of disassociation, or whatever it was that was going on, her fears had been made null. They were changing her. From her persona to her ability to speak and understand languages, they were changing her.

But into what? And who was behind it?

There was only one way for her to have picked up the Bakmanese language, and that was for someone to have taught her. She had no recollection of that ever happening, so she knew it must have happened quickly. Perhaps even instantaneously. There was only one way she knew of for knowledge to be planted and siphoned in such a way: an Ithini connection.

Ei’dorinthal.

The moment the thought of the Ithini struck her, she knew he was the answer. There was no other plausible explanation for this kind of knowledge to be implanted into her, and Ed was the only one on the ship who possessed that kind of ability. He was the answer. He had to be. She needed to find out what he was up to. Whatever it was, it had been a benefit to her thus far, even if in a strange way. She was alive and commanding a canrassi. That was better than having been devoured.

Svetlana was starving, and the more she watched the canrassi eat, the more she remembered just how long ago it had been since she herself had eaten. At some point, she would need some kind of sustenance. She just couldn’t bring herself to taste the slop her canrassi was eating. Her canrassi.

He needs a name.

Svetlana’s mind flipped through the pages of her childhood, searching for anything that might trigger a sense of attachment. It didn’t take her long, as the words of a familiar Russian nursery rhyme came to her mind.

Mishka the clumsy bear was roaming in the woods, picking up cones, singing songs. A cone sprang back and hit the bear right on his forehead. Mishka got angry and stamped his foot.

When recited in Russian, the rhyme had a pleasant, sing-song beat. She remembered it being one of her favorites. No other name would do for her now.

“Mishka,” Svetlana whispered, her eyes settling on the beast once again. The canrassi looked anything like a “clumsy bear,” but the name would work. It was disarming. It could immediately be embraced. As Mishka trundled toward her, his meal consumed, she ran her fingers through the fur atop his head. For the first time ever, she heard a noise emanate from the beast that she’d never heard a canrassi make before—not even in the presence of the Bakma on the bridge.

Mishka purred.

Smiling a bit, she scratched the canrassi behind the ears. “Good Mishka,” she said quietly. The beast leaned into her fingers as she dug them in.

Drawing a breath, Svetlana considered her next moves. Nagogg and his brethren couldn’t be allowed to know what was taking place. Whatever Ed was doing, he had to be doing it alone. Relaying beneficial knowledge to her would in no way, shape, or form be condoned. And so for her, the role of feeble captive, though humiliating, was necessary. It could possibly even be used to her advantage.

During the whole time that she’d been captive on the Noboat, her fear had acted as a roadblock. That roadblock was starting to crumble. She needed to know what Ed was up to. She needed to know the Ithini’s endgame. Perhaps he wanted to escape. Perhaps it was she, not one of the Bakma, who could serve that need most effectively. She would certainly be the last one her captors would expect to lead a revolt. But if there was a revolt to be led, she was ready to take the reins. The damsel in distress was dying.

As far as Svetlana was concerned, it was good riddance.

*

The dining hall reeked of calunod. The slimy, seaweed-like substance was collected in several containers atop the counter area, where the members of the Bakma crew had filed past to place spoonfuls of it on their food trays. Gathered at the tables, engaged in loud, jovial conversation, were the seven Bakma: Nagogg, Gabralthaar, Ka`vesh, Uguul, Nik-nish, Kraash-nagun, and Wuteel. Present but disengaged at the far end of the table was Ei’dorinthal. Bakmanese was flowing freely, the brash utterances of deep laughter reverberating from the four corners of the room.

The calunod was stale almost beyond edibility, but none of the Bakma complained. It was something familiar, and that was all that mattered. Despite its semblance to Earth-based seaweed, calunod was not a water plant. On the Khuladi homeworld of Khuldaris, calunod was part of the marshland ground cover. Heavily packed with protein and water, and with a tremendous shelf life under normal conditions, it was the perfect long-term travel food. Though not the most flavorful of dishes, it was considerably filling. The Bakma that the Khuladi selected as warriors—a large portion of the Bakma population—were fed calunod almost exclusively. To them, it was little more than fuel for the body, a meal to be ingested and then converted to energy. The enjoyment aspect of consumption was a human characteristic.

Banging his fists on the table before him, Nagogg brought silence to the other members of the room. With every pair of opaque eyes on him, the lipless chieftain rose to his feet. His eyes settling on his engineer, he asked, “What is the status of our vessel, Wuteel?”

His black, bulbous eyes surveying his comrades, Wuteel tentatively stood. “We are at full functionality, lord. Our fuel cells are recharged. All systems are operational.”

Nagogg lowered his head slightly, a gesture indicative of a thought process far deeper than being solely concerned with the operability of the ship. He continued. “And our weapons systems?”

“Weapons are at full capacity, lord.”

The edges of Nagogg’s gnarled mouth curved upward, widening his skeleton’s grin, though it was impossible to determine if a smile was actually intended. “Suppose that we were to deviate from our present course to Khuldaris and instead traverse into the Akaarist Quadrant. Could we manage such a deviation?”

The other Bakma in the dining hall sat upright, several swapping looks of sudden confusion.

Wuteel’s mouth hung open, though for several seconds, the engineer didn’t reply. At long last, he bowed his head in affirmation. “We could manage, lord, with but two or three added stops to recharge jump drives. If I may ask,” said Wuteel, his bow lowering further, “what would be the purpose of such a deviation? The Akaarist Quadrant is unknown to us, as it is to the Khuladi. There would be a degree of jump uncertainty we would be forced to account for.”

With all eyes on him, Nagogg lifted his chin—an indication of implied dominance. “That it is unknown is the purpose.” As his crew looked at him puzzlingly, he said, “Long we have sat under the weights of the Earthae. Long we have waited to journey back to Khuldaris. We are close to that time now, but it has not yet come.”

From both sides of the table, the Bakma eyed one another. Nagogg continued.

“We do not wish to settle for merely returning to the Khuladi. We wish to return and be elevated to the highest positions of honor. To do this, we must return to Khuldaris with something—a boon to curry the favor of Uladek. We will not curry favor by bringing the Khuladi an infidel and an Earthae female. We must bring them something more. Something unlike anything they possess.” His gaze swept the table. Drawing a deep breath in through his slotted nostrils, he said authoritatively, “We will bring to them a specimen from an unknown species.”

Silence abounded from the crew, as a mixture of excitement and apprehension rose in the air.

“I have been in deep prayer with Uladek to grant us this request—that we might honor Order and Chaos with such a gift to their anointed, the Khuladi. I was answered with a vision clearer than any I have received. My request has been answered.” His skeleton’s grin stretched. “The gift awaits us. Ours is but to claim it. For this act, we will be elevated by the Khuladi and reborn as gods in the Eternal.”

At the far end of the bench, his vacant sockets angled down at the surface of the table, Kraash-nagun drew a discreet, but deliberate breath. The blinded elite tilted his head to take in the subtle sounds of those around him—the breaths, the emotional indicators. There were none.

Almost ten seconds of quiet held in the dining hall before something broke it. Rising from his seat, the clanging of his black sentry armor permeating the silence, Gabralthaar locked eyes with Nagogg. The Bakma surrounding the giant turned their gazes on him as if unsure as to what his reaction would be. Finally, Gabralthaar’s gesture came to completion, as his helmetless head bowed in Nagogg’s direction. “To bring this gift to Order and Chaos would be an honor, lord. We will rule as gods in the Eternal together.”

As Nagogg growled in dark enthusiasm, the other Bakma at the table, too, rose to their feet—the lone exception being Kraash-nagun, whose head was still angled to listen. All at once, the other Bakma chanted loudly, their brash howls reverberating through the dining hall in unified zealotry.

It did not take long for the exception to be noted, as Nagogg’s head turned in Kraash-nagun’s direction. The chanting died as the Bakma followed Nagogg’s gaze. The lipless rider spoke. “Kraash-nagun, do you share our commitment to this quest?”

His head turning in Nagogg’s direction, Kraash-nagun’s vacant sockets fixed on the lipless rider. After a pause that was so long that it almost prompted Nagogg to speak again, Kraash-nagun finally rose to his feet. The blinded elite bowed. “The quest you have set before us is most devout, lord. I only ask to be remembered when the time to receive our gift has come.”

Though Kraash-nagun couldn’t see it, Nagogg smiled. “You will not be forgotten, Kraash-nagun. You will be included in the effort, that you too may reign in the Eternal.”

“Uladek speaks,” Kraash-nagun said.

His focus returning to the group at large, Nagogg continued, “Prepare yourselves, my brethren. Our elevation awaits!”

Pounding their fists on the table, the other Bakma present let loose with a resounding clamor. The voices, proclaiming their god in unison, traveled out of the dining hall and echoed down the Noboat’s main corridor. Their fervor was electric.

All except for Kraash-nagun. Sitting in silence, he’d been promptly forgotten by his comrades in the midst of their celebration. The blinded elite’s vacant eye sockets peered through the table. At long last, he turned to address Nagogg. “I will bring food to the prisoners, lest they starve.”

“Let them starve!” interrupted Ka`vesh.

Nagogg silenced the eager warrior with an outstretched hand, returning his gaze to Kraash-nagun. “What you suggest is wise. Why allow tribute to waste away? Do as Uladek leads.”

“Thank you, lord,” answered Kraash-nagun. Stepping away from the table, he signaled for Ei’dorinthal to accompany him. Loading a tray full of calunod, he proceeded out of the dining hall.

*

It had been a long time since Tauthin had felt the need to open his eyes, let alone hold his head upright. With his arms and ankles firmly in place in their metallic clasps, the former Bakma leader had no task to do other than dangle helplessly. There was no one to talk to, no one to wait for. There was only the wait for the inevitable—a return to the empire that he’d longed to escape from: the Khuladi. Despite his fatigue, Tauthin resisted sleep at every turn. He wanted nothing to hasten the process of returning to Khuldaris, even if only in the perception of his mind. This was a journey he had every intention of dragging out.

The opening of the chamber door prompted Tauthin to turn his bulbous eyes toward it. He fully intended to see Nagogg or one of his henchmen, Gabralthaar or Ka`vesh. When Kraash-nagun and Ei’dorinthal entered, Tauthin canted his head.

Stepping fully into the chamber, Kraash-nagun reached his hand back blindly to feel for the door release while his other hand balanced the tray of calunod. Pressing in the button, he brought the chamber door sliding down in his wake, sealing him and Ei’dorinthal inside. Walking farther inside, Kraash-nagun knelt and set the tray on the floor.

Tauthin growled. “Do you feel yourself to be in some great service now, Kraash-nagun?”

“I am in service to nothing,” Kraash-nagun answered, prompting a curious look from Tauthin in return. Angling his head slightly to listen to the door, Kraash-nagun spoke again once their privacy was ensured. “Nagogg intends to take us into the Akaarist Quadrant.”

“The Akaarist?”

Diverting briefly from the conversation, Kraash-nagun looked at Ei’dorinthal. “Release him.” Once the Ithini complied, Kraash-nagun addressed Tauthin again. “He wishes to secure a boon for Uladek in the form of an unknown species. He claims to have sought this in prayer.”

Tauthin watched as Ei’dorinthal unlatched his ankle clasps. The wrist clasps followed, and Tauthin dropped to the floor, landing in a crouch. For a moment, the Bakma’s muscles tensed.

“Before you consider an escape,” said Kraash-nagun, “consider your Earthae friend. She has been locked inside the stable with the canrassi. One word from Nagogg will find her devoured.”

His eyes widening, Tauthin stared at his blind counterpart. “What harm have they done to her?”

“She has been set as an example to the rest of the crew as to the price of defiance.”

Tauthin snarled. “Against Uladek or against Nagogg?”

The blinded elite spat. “Are they not one in the same?” He motioned to the tray of calunod. “Eat, quickly.” Doing as he was told, Tauthin knelt by the tray, grabbing a handful of the slimy substance and bringing it to his lips. With his very first bite, he closed his eyes and exhaled with vigor. Kraash-nagun continued. “Why is this female of such importance to you? She is of no outward value.”

“Ironic words when spoken by one who is blind,” Tauthin answered, bits of calunod dripping from his teeth. “It is not the outward that binds me to her. Her spirit is one of compassion.”

“I sense only cowardice.”

Tauthin scoffed. “She is away from her planet and alone, tortured and brought to shame. Which one of us would not play the coward in such a state?” Lowering his head again, he voraciously consumed another piece. “Setana is like soft wind against sun-scorched skin. I have met no other capable of such compassion, even to those she would call enemy.” He snarled. “Wuteel should know this, for she tended to him on the battlefield after his capture. His treachery is worse than Nagogg’s.”

Laughing with a single breath, Kraash-nagun lowered to a crouch. “Wuteel is also a coward. He is not so devout as he would wish Nagogg to believe.”

“I presume the same would be said about you, or you would be hanging by my side in this chamber.” Kraash-nagun’s sockets narrowed as Tauthin continued. “What is your intention?”

Feeling down to the tray, Kraash-nagun claimed a piece of calunod for himself, ripping a chunk of it off with his jagged teeth before answering, “We know nothing of the Akaarist. It is a foolish quest on the part of Nagogg.”

“It is not foolish in the eyes of a zealot.”

“Nonetheless, it is foolish,” said Kraash-nagun. “He places this entire vessel in danger to appease his god.”

Several seconds of silence passed. Kraash-nagun’s sockets aimed down at the tray while Tauthin consumed his final piece. As soon as he finished swallowing, Tauthin exhaled in finality. “Maintain your guise, Kraash-nagun. You will be exalted on Khuldaris, regardless of what you truly believe. My time to exist has come and gone.”

Kraash-nagun lifted his head to face Tauthin. “You can still feign repentance. There are some who would accept you.”

“Nagogg would not,” Tauthin answered, “and his is the only voice this crew hears. Uladek speaks,” he said mockingly. “That is what they believe comes out of his mouth. I will die by his hand. There is no escape.”

“And Setana?”

Grunting in disgust, Tauthin looked away. “She will not be regarded as a boon. The Khuladi already possess Earthae females. She will be isolated for breeding and little else.”

Kraash-nagun’s head lowered. “What you say is true.”

“Encourage them to lend her mercy. That is all I can ask.”

The chamber fell quiet as the two Bakma stayed face-to-face. At long last, Kraash-nagun rose. “I applaud you for what were your intentions. We were close to being free.”

Shaking his head, Tauthin answered, “We were never so close as we hoped.” Staring down at the tray, which had several pieces of calunod still atop it, he said, “Bring what remains to Setana. She deserves better than to eat from a trough.”

Kraash-nagun acknowledged.

No further words were said between the two. Returning to his spot on the wall, Tauthin set himself in position for the clasps to be reattached. With Ei’dorinthal’s assistance, the magnets engaged.

Seconds later, the Ithini and Kraash-nagun exited the chamber.

*

Svetlana’s fingers disappeared beneath Mishka’s bristly, brown fur, her nails running down the side of the canrassi’s head just behind its ears. She had been doing that since the beast had finished its meal, whispering its name all the while in an effort to elevate their relationship from master-and-slave to that of a companionship. Mishka seemed happy to oblige, whatever predatory inclinations it had initially possessed having been curbed almost instantaneously upon Svetlana’s addressing it in Bakmanese. The beast had been trained to listen well. Perhaps too well—at least for Nagogg.

For the past fifteen minutes, half of which had been spent stroking the canrassi, Svetlana had explored the new information in her head. The nature of the information was striking. There was virtually no need for her to concentrate to bring the canrassi commands to the forefront of her mind. It was like they’d been there since her childhood. Sit. Stand. Follow. Eat. Attack. Devour. Heel. Protect. Judging by the amount and type of information she possessed, it seemed that canrassis were equal to dogs when it came to intelligence. It was strange, but even the way she viewed the creature had shifted from fear and uncertainty to familiarity. She had not the slightest bit of concern that Mishka would do anything but follow her commands. It only strengthened the notion that the Ithini had done something to her.

Footsteps emerged behind the metal door to the pen. Someone was coming. Quickly, she looked Mishka in the eyes. “Do-kash’to,” she said. The command to rest. Obediently, Mishka backed away and trundled toward the corner, lowering its massive body to the floor with a heavy flop. Seconds later, she heard the input commands for the door to open.

In the moment of solitude Svetlana had left, it dawned on her just how difficult the feigning of feebleness would be now. She didn’t feel feeble. Not at all. Whether ingrained in her from Ed or a part of her growing confidence, she was ready to fight whoever it was who came through that door. What was stopping her was logic. As courageous as she felt, she wasn’t going to singlehandedly overpower the Bakma. She also knew she couldn’t rely on Mishka—for all she knew, the canrassi would follow the Bakmas’ commands as obediently as it was following hers. She had no choice but to bide her time.

The door opened, and Svetlana turned to face it. Much to her surprise, it was not Nagogg or one of his henchmen. It was Kraash-nagun and Ei`dorinthal. It was impossible for Svetlana to disguise her immediate interest in the Ithini’s presence. There was no better time than now to find out what it had done to her. Or at least, once Kraash-nagun was gone. Forcing thoughts of her recent experiences from her, she prepared herself for the inevitable Ithini connection linking her to the blinded elite. A moment later, it came.

Stepping into the room, Kraash-nagun knelt and placed a metal tray on the floor. Calunod. As Svetlana eyed the tray suspiciously, Kraash-nagun addressed her.

“This will serve you better than food meant for animals,” the Bakma said, his words translated in Svetlana’s mind.

Despite her best efforts, it was impossible not to think about certain aspects of her situation even as Kraash-nagun spoke. Tauthin had said that she’d screamed in Bakmanese, and clearly she knew some Bakmanese words, though she couldn’t understand anything from Kraash-nagun now without the help of Ed. The inconsistency of the whole thing bothered her. “That is calunod,” Svetlana said, once again focusing all of her energy on the conversation at hand as opposed to her rampant thoughts, “correct?”

Kraash-nagun nodded. “Yes. You may not find it pleasing, but it is nourishment.”

For a moment, she eyed him. “Thank you,” she finally said. Her blue gaze settling on the tray, she took in the calunod’s odor. Even with her sense of smell diminished, it was disgustingly pungent. But Kraash-nagun’s words were true. She needed nourishment, regardless of how it tasted.

“I have spoken with Tauthinilaas—he greatly regrets your situation and expresses his sympathy.” The Bakma’s vacant sockets appeared to scan the room. “Has the canrassi harmed you?”

“No,” she answered quickly. “It has not.” Canting her head slightly, she considered the fact that Kraash-nagun—a nonbeliever in Uladek—was the one delivering her food. His last conversation with her had been less than encouraging. She wondered if he’d mulled over his own thoughts toward her. It was worth prodding to find out. “How many does it take to make this spaceship function?”

Immediately, she sensed disapproval. That answered her question. “Do not dream where there is no hope,” Kraash-nagun answered. “Tauthinilaas and I have resigned to our fates, as you would be advised to do with yours.”

Her stomach twisted angrily. “There is hope. If you would only allow yourselves an opportunity to act—”

“There is no hope here, Setana.”

Coward. The thought came to her suddenly; it couldn’t be restrained. Kraash-nagun sensed it, as evidenced by the subtle angling of his head.

“You question my courage?” the alien asked. “Curious, from a specimen like yourself. What validation do you have for such an insult?”

“I have not given up,” she said, shaking her head. “If we work together, this vessel can be taken. You must trust me in this.”

Kraash-nagun scoffed. “Such brazenness is easy when not confronted by your enemy. We shall see if your courage upholds when Gabralthaar has your neck in his grasp.” Hesitating, he said, “But I envy your spirit, misguided as it may be. Were you of greater significance, I might entertain your thoughts of rebellion. As it were, however, you are of no threat to Nagogg or his crew. Therefore, I cannot offer my assistance.”

That was all she cared to hear. “You may leave now,” she said flatly. “Thank you for the food.”

Narrowing, his vacant sockets zeroed in on her. Raising his chin slightly, the Bakma said, “You are different.”

A span of silence passed between them as Kraash-nagun stood in the doorway. The connection still lingered—she could sense the Bakma’s newfound intrigue. She purposefully kept her mind blank. At long last, Kraash-nagun stepped back and away from the door, leaving the tray of calunod on the floor of the stable. He was leaving.

Finally.

The second before Svetlana sensed their connection was about to sever, she projected a simple thought: Ed. Her intention was for the word to be subtle enough to be ignored by Kraash-nagun, but distinct enough to the Ithini to prompt him to let the connection linger between him and her. Behind Kraash-nagun, Ei’dorinthal’s head cocked ever so slightly. Message received. Kraash-nagun’s presence left the connection as the door to the stable shut, leaving Svetlana once again alone with Mishka.

Silence. Her blue eyes jumped faintly, as if searching for something in the labyrinth of her own mind—for another presence. Ei’dorinthal had reacted physically to his name. Surely he would have lingered behind.

“Ed, are you here?”

A moment later, the Ithini came through. Yes.

She asked without hesitation, “What have you done to me?”

A sensation of confusion came from the unseen Ithini. I do not understand.

“Do not play games with me,” she whispered, turning to pace about the stable. Though her stare was downcast, her focus was purely on the connection. “You put things in my head. Bakma words, canrassi commands. Why?”

Explain.

Pointing her finger with fervency, she said, “I will not explain things to you! It is you who must explain things to me.”

The Ithini’s confusion deepened. I cannot explain what has not been revealed.

“Revealed by whom? Who put you up to this? Was it one of Nagogg’s crew?”

Revealed by you. You state that I have placed words and commands in your head, yet I have not. You must explain.

Now, she was getting angry. “Listen to me, Ithini. Ever since I awoke from the removal of my nose, I have had experiences. Visions, dreams. Words have come to me in the Bakmanese language, commands to make the canrassi obey me.” This was a waste of time—Ed knew full well what was going on. He had to. “I did not know these things before. The only being on this ship capable of implanting such things in my head is you.”

Though faint, a sensation of agreement came to her. You are correct.

“So now tell me why.”

I cannot.

She was about to rip her hair out. “Why not?”

Because I have done no such thing to you. Just before Svetlana could fire back a retort, the Ithini went on. You are correct in that I am the only being on this vessel capable of implanting unknown information. Yet I have not.

Shaking her head, she said, “That’s impossible.”

Once again, agreement came to her. I concur.

“So if you did not put these things into my head, who did?” Setting her hands on her hips, she stopped pacing. She could feel her blood pressure rising. “It was you. It must have been you. If not you, then who? Or what? Was it a ghost?”

I do not know.

She cursed. Greater than any feeling of confusion now on the part of Ei`dorinthal was an overwhelming sense of curiosity—one that felt genuine. That didn’t make Svetlana feel better. She had captured his attention to get answers, not to be bombarded with an avalanche of questions. Yet questions were all that she had.

It was simple arithmetic, so far as Svetlana was concerned. She was experiencing an outcome—visions and language—that could only be accomplished by the sum of two parts: her mind and something else’s. Was this a miracle? Had God intervened and just given her bits of the Bakma language? If that were true, then He’d also given her those nightmarish visions of clawing open Nagogg’s face and showering herself with his blood. Nothing about that felt like God. That part felt more like the devil. What was going on?

There was a distinct pulse in her mind. Ed was digging. “What are you doing?” she asked.

Answering without hesitation, Ei`dorinthal said, You are more than you.

“…what?”

You are one with another. Two minds have coalesced. How did you do this?

Exasperated, she pressed back her sticky, yet drying hair. “I am one with who? I don’t know what you mean.”

Part of you is Nagogg.

Part of her was…what? Chill bumps erupted on her skin as she asked, “What do you mean?”

You have siphoned, yet you have not. You have become. You are fractured, multi, yet one. His digging was going deeper. An answer is within.

“Wait,” she said quickly, Ed’s probing was starting to cause physical pain. “Stop, you are—”

You are unexplainable without causation. This will hurt.

Her eyes widened. “Wait! I don’t want you to—” A piercing pain struck her mind, as if a knife had cut into the depths of her subconscious. Clutching the sides of her head, Svetlana fell to her knees and screamed.

Blackness. All around Svetlana, there was nothing but blackness. Sounds became muffled as moments of memories came into her awareness, only to disappear into the void moments later. Like a deck of cards being shuffled, Ei`dorinthal was flipping page after page of Svetlana’s past through her head. Spans of time collapsed as the timeline of the search narrowed to the present, then the immediate past, then a past that was slightly farther. Colors appeared, blurring past her field of vision. Blues, reds, yellows. Then dark colors. Metallic colors. The colors of a corridor.

When Svetlana’s awareness leveled off, she was standing in the Noboat’s central hallway. Nagogg was there, as were Gabralthaar and Ka`vesh. They were forcing her against the wall, tearing at her clothes. She heard herself cry out for Tauthin. No answer came back.

Fabric was rended. Their gnarled fingers gripped her, pinning her body against the cold metal wall with violent disregard, giving no mind as to what they touched as they controlled her. Their claws were on everything. It was like being violated. When the last piece of her uniform was cast aside, they wrenched her from the wall and shoved her forward.

She felt like every eye in the universe was on her—there was nothing she could do to hide her shame. Onward, she was thrust.

“Where are you taking me?” she shouted. No one answered. Her panicked eyes looked ahead. A room was on the left. Her destination. She was yanked around the corner and shoved inside.

The room was barren and small, save a small elevated table in its center. Grabbing her arms, they shoved her toward it, picking her up and off her feet. She squirmed to escape, she screamed at the top of her lungs. All efforts were futile. The next thing Svetlana felt was cold metal on her backside as she was slammed down atop the table with cruel force. Gabralthaar and Ka`vesh’s claws pressed against her arms and her legs. With one hand, Nagogg grabbed her forehead. Her blue eyes focused on his other hand. They widened as they saw the blade.

It was coming for her nose.

No. No! Her mind sought to rationalize what she was seeing. The blade drew closer—she shrieked like a banshee. No contortions could free her. She could no longer keep the blade in her focus. It was about to touch her skin.

This is not real.

It was at that moment—in the instant that her mind rejected the reality before her—that the break came. All sound distorted. Her mind detached from her body. Her consciousness was ejected by fear.

Disassociation.

But something was wrong. Another presence was there—a connection that hadn’t been severed. Her consciousness drew to it, whipping around it like a slingshot, fleeing into the other mind it was attached to. A mind that knew nothing of mercy, or of sympathy, or in that moment, of fear. A mind that felt the opposite of what she was feeling now. A “safe” mind in which to hide.

Nagogg’s.

The scene disappeared.

Svetlana winced from her position on the floor, where she’d crumpled to her knees in the midst of Ed’s probing. Her fingers were dug into her scalp, clutching the sides of her head as if trying to keep her brain from exploding. Slowly, the pulsing of the Ithini’s digging began to subside.

Lifting her head slightly, Svetlana opened her eyes. Mishka was standing several feet away from her, the canrassi’s own spider-eyed gaze observing her with trepidation. Her inhalations and exhalations still sharp, Svetlana outstretched her hand to push herself up. Above shaky limbs, she swayed to a stand.

She understood now. She understood where the Bakmanese had come from, where the sick sense of bloodlust had originated. Under normal circumstances, when faced with such reality-shattering trauma, she would have simply blanked out. Repressed everything in a sort of unconscious, out-of-body experience. But during the torture, she’d been under an Ithini connection. Her mind and Nagogg’s had been linked through Ed. Instead of disassociating, as a normal human would’ve, her mind had outright evacuated somewhere else—to the next nearest mind that could handle the stress. She’d followed Ei`dorinthal’s trail right into the mind of the very Bakma who was tormenting her, turning it into a temporary residence until it was safe to return home. And when the return came, she dragged some of Nagogg back with her.

That was why she knew some Bakmanese, particularly when it came to canrassi commands. Nagogg was a rider. Those visions she’d had of herself standing in the cylinder, beholding a canrassi before her. They were her own memories mingled with Nagogg’s. Ed had nothing to do with this. He just happened to be the Ithini who was connecting them.

What you have done should not be.

The thought came from Ed. She could sense his wonderment—his fear. The Ithini continued.

We call this a siphon—the extraction of information from one mind into another. Yet no siphon was executed. Your fear ordained the intrusion.

“My greatest weakness,” she said quietly to herself. Her mind was racing. This new revelation opened new possibilities. “Can this be done again?”

There was a hesitation before Ei`dorinthal answered. Your mind has made it clear that it can withstand a siphon. I would advise a more guarded approach.

What did that mean? Ed must have sensed the confusion, as a follow-up explanation ensued.

Identify the information you desire to me. I will target that information for relay into you. With precision, the siphon will occur. Be forewarned: your mind is different. It has experienced a siphon in a way that should not be. An unknown precedent has been set. Repetition will produce unknown results.

In other words, she’d already crossed the line as to what was normal. Her mind had experienced a siphon in a way that even Ed was unfamiliar with. There was no telling what it would do if she tried to do this again, even with intent and an Ithini’s expertise behind it.

But the possibilities!

She could siphon everything. Ship operation from the pilot. Combat from Kraash-nagun. Tactics from Tauthin. Now that she’d had a taste of siphoning, there was no limit as to what knowledge could be gained, provided Ed was willing to keep granting her connections. A sense of danger flooded her mind. It was coming from Ed. You are overambitious. You risk overreach. Negatives to you may outweigh potential gains.

“What do you mean?”

You have experienced personality fracture. You are you and Nagogg. You are different, inseparable. Original identity has been overridden with conjoined presence. Additional siphons may result in stronger fractures.

He was warning her that if she attempted another siphon, she could find herself becoming less Svetlana and more Nagogg, or Nik-nish, or Kraash-nagun, or whoever’s brain she and Ed were tapped into at the time. Ed wasn’t sure if it’d be worth the risk. Was she?

As it stood now, what little hope she had was a direct result of the siphon she’d experienced with Nagogg. Because of it, she was able to face Mishka without fear. She was able to command him, make him her own. Prior to the siphon, Svetlana had been…

…Svetlana.

She had been who she had been. It was the only version of her she could ever relate to—the only version of her she’d ever lived. She realized in that moment just how great a decision this was for her. She could potentially lose herself. Lose Svetlana Voronova. To have her replaced with the imprint of a Bakma’s mind. She was already feeling the impact of her first siphon, even beyond changes such as knowing Bakmanese commands.

She was more aggressive. She had a bloodlust. Genuine bloodlust, turned on by the mere thought of mutilating Nagogg in her vision. She was fearless. Or was she? She was feeling fear now. Or at the very least, extreme trepidation. Was there an ebb and flow to Nagogg’s imprint in her mind? Was it sometimes harder to resist than others? Did it “kick in” at certain times, such as when she felt threatened?

The three times she’d blanked out and experienced visions had all been during times of duress: the removal of her nose, being thrust before Mishka on the bridge, then being thrown into the pen with him. There was no denying it: disassociation was coming more easily. It dawned on her in that moment that, during those periods of disassociation, she really didn’t even know what she’d been doing.

Ei`dorinthal must have sensed the uncertainty, as he addressed it without prompt. Consciousness remained. Fracture was unseen. When your mind retreated, you remained.

In other words, there’d been no discernable difference in her behavior to the Bakma. Everything had been in her mind. “So in my moments of fear…I have been retreating into what I pulled back from Nagogg?”

That is correct.

Nagogg’s echo in her was simply a temporary shelter during the storm. Remnants of him—and pieces of her—were moving back and forth between the fracture. During her visions, she’d felt moments of her own past sprinkled in. During her time in reality, parts of Bakmanese had surfaced. She had no control over either.

That was what it all boiled down to. In furthering the fracture, was she surrendering control of herself? The answer, at least to a certain extent, seemed to be yes. It only made sense that if she continued to dabble in siphons, more and more control would be lost. Svetlana would, eventually, become lost in her own shuffle. She’d be an entirely new being.

Right then, her decision was made. She’d benefited from siphoning once. That was enough. Despite her self-depreciative mindset, she did possess some courage. She’d stood up to Nagogg initially. She’d stood up to others before in the past, too. Dostoevsky, Esther, Scott when he needed to be confronted.

Upon reflecting on their names, a sadness came over her. What if she lost them in the fracture? What if she forgot their names or that they even existed? Or worse, what if she simply stopped caring, a side effect of having Nagogg’s imprint in her mind?

Nothing was worth that.

“Can what has been done be undone?” she asked.

Unknown. The effort would require great focus. Current situation disallows.

But he hadn’t said it was impossible.

Svetlana now knew her plan. She would use the knowledge that she’d gained to the best of her ability, and that was it. It wasn’t worth the risk of losing the people she loved by digging deeper into the minds of her captors. Siphoning was one and done.

A pleased sensation came to her mind. Ei`dorinthal agreed.

And so her plan was set. She would keep the knowledge of what she had done secret. That effort would go far beyond simply not disclosing it. With the possibility of Ed linking her mind with any of the Bakmas’ at a moment’s notice, she would have to guard her thoughts as well.

Once again, the Ithini sensed her concern. I am the link. No connection will be established with you without your foreknowledge. To make Nagogg privy to your thoughts of rebellion would go against our purpose.

“Our” purpose. Ei`dorinthal was taking some sort of ownership in this. But of what exactly? “What are your intentions?” she asked.

There was no hesitation in Ed’s reply. I have been the servant of both Khuladi and Earthae. Neither master is desirable. But you are different. My intention is to serve you.

“So you do not worship Uladek?” she asked.

Uladek is a created justification. There is nothing to worship.

The bluntness of the statement struck her. Immediately, the question as to whether or not Ed believed in her God came to her mind. She quickly tucked the thought away. She didn’t want to know his answer. Rerouting her mind’s path, she asked, “Why do you wish to serve any master? You could be free.”

My instinct is not to survive—it is to serve. I must have a master to have purpose. Any purpose that allows for personal creativity is desirable.

So it wasn’t that Ed wanted to serve. It was that he needed to—to survive. Svetlana wondered how many humans would be able to deduce their own insufficiencies with such logic and precision. Drawing a slow breath, she dipped her head respectfully, despite the alien’s inability to see it. “Then if you must have a master, I will strive to be the best master you have had.”

That status has already been attained. What is our next course of action?

Svetlana’s gaze drifted to Mishka, who had since returned to his trough to eat. The coalition of the willing was now up to three. That wasn’t much, but it was still better than two. “I must eat,” she said, looking at the tray of calunod that Kraash-nagun had left behind for her. Bar none, this was the least appetizing meal she’d ever set her eyes on. But it was still nourishment. Kneeling down next to the tray, she said, “Leave me alone with my thoughts. We will reconnect when I am returned to the bridge. I trust our next course of action will make itself known.”

A feeling of acceptance swelled. As you wish. Moments later, their connection was severed.

Her attention returning to the tray, Svetlana inhaled through her exposed nasal cavities. Even with her sense of smell diminished, the distinct foulness of the calunod was inescapable. Perhaps it is just as well that I do not have a nose. I might not be able to stomach this if I were able to smell it properly. Closing her eyes, she bowed her head to pray.

She stopped halfway through the effort.

Why had she been afraid to ask Ed what he believed about her God—or any God? The question had been there at the precipice of her mind, yet she’d remained silent. In fact, she’d purposefully hidden it. Whether she’d succeeded in that effort was unknown, but whether by choice or unawareness, the Ithini hadn’t answered. Was it because she didn’t need his answer? Was her faith strong enough to support its own weight without the need for third-party affirmation? She wished that was the case.

Svetlana hadn’t asked Ed because she was afraid he would have offered the same bluntness he’d offered about Uladek. She was afraid that the Ithini, a creature of vastly superior intellect and logic, would have called her God a justification as well. The truth was, if indeed Ei`dorinthal didn’t believe in the existence of some sort of God, then either he, Tauthinilaas, and Kraash-nagun—all beings of greater universal knowledge and awareness—were ignorant, or…

…or she was wrong.

I am alive. I have hope. God has given me these things, even in the midst of my adversity.

Or the right dice had fallen her way, as they sometimes did in everyday life. Was everything evidence of a divine plan? Was her siphoning a result not of God, but of the science of psychology in an unprecedented medium? Was she in her current predicament simply…because she was?

No, she thought firmly. Fight this. Fight the doubt. Fight the possibility that this was not ordained—that she hadn’t been put in the place that she, Svetlana, needed to be. Fight the fear.

Bowing her head, Svetlana prayed.

There was nothing emotionally redemptive about eating the calunod; it was not food for the soul. It was, however, nourishment—as slimy and unsavory as it might have been. And so without complaint, Svetlana ate all that was before her, ignoring the gelatinous textures and rotten seaweed flavor that comprised the Bakmas’ customary in-flight meal. She simply ingested.

As she knew they would be, Svetlana and Mishka were eventually retrieved, Svetlana by Gabralthaar and Mishka by Ka`vesh. She gave special care to ignore the canrassi for the sake of maintaining the guise of subservient species. Though Mishka’s aggression toward her was lacking, it was apparently not enough to clue in the two Bakma henchmen. She and the beast were once again led into the bridge and shackled.

No one on the bridge paid Svetlana any mind as they went about their business, occupying the various consoles. But inside Svetlana’s head, the gears of revolution were already turning. The ends were preparing to be justified by the means. Nagogg would be removed by her hand. She just needed time.

No connection was attempted between Svetlana and Ei`dorinthal. No attempt to communicate with her was made by anyone at all. That suited Svetlana just fine.

The time for them to hear her would come soon enough.

19

Tuesday, March 20th, 0012 NE

1149 hours

Norilsk, Russia

Two days later

SCOTT WAS RUMMAGING through Northern Forge’s weapons cache when Antipov commed him. “Remington, we have a problem!”

Scott went full alert. “What is it?”

“Rally the Fourteenth and get to a transport! I will explain en route.”

Get to a transport? This is bad. Heart pounding, Scott bolted out of weapons storage, foregoing his crutches and wincing as his thigh reacted with a painful throb. “I’m en route! What the hell is going on?”

“You are on the verge of being traced.”

Traced? How? Punching the button on the elevator to send it upward, Scott waited with pulsing adrenaline for the elevator light to ding. “How are we about to be traced? We haven’t done anything!”

Antipov answered, “I just found out that Vector has been trying to find a historical log of your comm chatter from Krasnoyarsk. When they do, it will be traced to Jīngshén-2, a Chinese satellite that covers Krasnoyarsk Krai!”

Scott blinked in confusion; the elevator door opened. “What?”

“Pablo Quintana!” The eidola chief sounded frantic. “He is attempting to trace your comm signals from when you were in Krasnoyarsk.”

Who the hell was Pablo Quintana? “And that’s bad, right?”

“If he locks onto your signature, he will use every bounce off Jīngshén-2 to trace you all the way to Norilsk. They will find Northern Forge, if they have not already!”

Tapping the elevator door impatiently from within, Scott asked, “So how do we stop him? Who is this guy?”

“Quintana is a combat technician with Vector. As far as you are concerned, he is the most dangerous man on the planet. If he has set to seek you out, he will find you.”

Vector was all Scott needed to hear. This was bad. The door to Level-3 opened; Scott tore out of it toward the hangar, nearly crashing into a wandering Becan in the process.

“Wha’?” The Irishman said, gaping when he saw Scott run past him toward the hangar. “Remmy?”

“Call everyone—Valentin, too!” Scott shouted, waving back at him. “All hands on deck, in the hangar, go!”

Eyes widening, Becan pulled out his comm and queued up the unit.

“Listen to me, Remington,” Antipov said as Scott lowered the Pariah’s rear bay door, “this mission is the most important one you have ever been tasked with. You cannot fail, or our cause is lost. We will not survive an attack on Northern Forge.”

Flicking switches in the Pariah’s cockpit, Scott began the process of bringing the Vulture to life. “What do we have to do?” Outside the cockpit window, he saw bewildered sentries rush toward the transport to investigate.

He could hear the eidola chief draw a breath. “There is a mountain range to the northeast of Hami, in China. Built into the southern slopes of the mountains is a massive satellite array.”

China? They were about to go to China? “Whoa, hold on a minute!”

“It is a hub for all of the ground stations that communicate with Jīngshén-2. It must be destroyed!”

“Wait, wait, wait! China?”

Antipov answered with exasperation. “You cannot express a concern I am not already aware of. You are the only chance we have to cut off Quintana before he traces you to Northern Forge. Once he finds you there, there will be nothing I can do to stop him.”

“How do you even know all this?”

The eidola chief went on. “Upon reaching the station, a ground team needs to infiltrate the facility and plug into their mainframe. The hacking kit I gave to Evteev—make sure he brings it! He must download all of the entry codes for EDEN’s global network of satellite hubs.”

Behind Scott, Becan ran into the troop bay. “Everyone’s on their way, Remmy!”

Snapping his fingers and glancing back, Scott said, “Get the Falcons, too! We’re gonna need ’em.”

Huffing in exhaustion, Becan nodded and ran back out.

“Gaining access to EDEN’s network will allow us to cut off any further attempts at this by Vector or anyone else, as well as give us access to their global tracking map. Once the codes are downloaded, destroy the facility and leave immediately. As soon as Hami Station reports that they are under attack, EDEN will send forces to intercept you.”

Terrific.

“Relay all of this information to the Fourteenth when they arrive to you. I will contact Valentin myself to ensure you are properly equipped.”

At least they’d have that going for them. “Roger that.”

“We will speak again, soon.”

As the channel closed, Scott looked out of the Pariah’s cockpit window. Members of the Fourteenth were running into the hangar. Rising from the cockpit seat, Scott ran back into the troop bay to meet them. Picking Tiffany out of the crowd, he pointed at the Superwolf. “Warm up that fighter—go!” Abandoning the rest of the operatives, Tiffany bolted for the Superwolf. “Everyone else, listen up! Vector Squad is in the process of tracking our communication from Krasnoyarsk to here. If we don’t stop them, we are found, and we die.” There was no other way to put it. “Boris, do you have that hacking kit of yours?”

The technician pointed to the troop bay. “It is in there!”

“Good. We need to land at a hub station, download a series of satellite codes from its central computer,” or whatever it was, “then destroy the facility as we quickly leave!” He was met with a barrage of exhausted looks. “I know,” he said defensively, “but this is critical. Travis, get in the cockpit and get ready to fly.”

As the pilot bolted through the troop bay past Scott, David raised his hand. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Hami, China.”

Skidding to a stop behind Scott, Travis spun around. “Wait, we’re going to China?”

“I know, Travis, it’s bad!”

“There are levels of bad,” Travis replied, leaping into his cockpit seat. “This one’s the worst!”

Pointing to the troop bay, Scott said, “Everyone get in and gear up if you can! More armor and equipment are en route.”

Get your head right, Scott. Get your head right! Scott was putting on his fulcrum armor as quickly as possible. All the while, his hands were shaking. There’d been urgency in Antipov’s voice that Scott had never heard before. The eidola chief was not the kind of man to get flustered. If this had him trembling, this was as desperate a mission as a mission could be.

As he slid on his right thigh guard, Scott winced. His wound hurt like hell. Adrenaline had gotten him to the Pariah quickly, but there was no way he’d be able to function at full capacity with his leg as tender as it still was. This was going to be a rough one.

Around the corner of the ramp and charging up it came Esther. The scout was wide-eyed. “What’s going on? Are we going on a sodding mission?”

“You’re not!” Scott answered. “Get out of here, Brooking—you’re no good with that shoulder.”

“And you’re no good with that busted leg!”

Sliding on his helmet, Scott’s field of vision was replaced by his heads-up display. “You’re off this one,” he reiterated, his voice amplified by the helmet. “That’s an order.”

Jaw setting, Esther backed away from the ramp. As she did, Valentin jostled past her, nearly knocking the scout over as he stalked up the troop bay. The moment Scott’s eyes settled on the keeper, he blinked.

Valentin was in his armor.

“What are you doing?” Scott asked.

Clamping on his own helmet, Valentin answered, “Doing as instructed.”

So Antipov had ordered Valentin on the mission? This was even worse than Scott thought.

Looking back at a collection of sentries with carts of weapons and armor, the keeper shouted to them in Russian. “Load everything up, go!” He turned back to Scott. “There is enough Nightman armor here for your entire unit.”

That worked for Scott. “Everyone, find slayer armor and strap it on!”

Lilan, Donald, Javon, and Tom appeared behind the sentries, dodging past them to move for the ramp. “You boys sure know how to crank things up!” the colonel said.

Lilan had no idea. “Get your team geared up and ready, colonel,” Scott said.

“You heard the man!” Lilan said to his three men. “Grab some of that armor and get ready to roll!”

Pyotr Alkaev was in the middle of strapping on a chest plate when David noticed him. “Hey,” the older man said, “who let the kid in?”

“I will be very helpful!” Pyotr replied. “You will see.”

Outside the transport, Esther pointed accusingly at the young slayer. “Oh really? That little twerp gets to go, but I’m staying behind?”

Scott counted a total of fifteen operatives ready for action, counting himself and Tiffany in the Superwolf. The only ones not present were the injured Rashid himself, the wheelchair-bound Auric and Catalina, and Esther.

Looking around in his slayer’s helmet, Tom King moved his arms about to test the suit’s range. “This armor’s crazy, man!”

Next to him and donning the bulky armor of a sentry was Donald Bell. The demolitionist awkwardly hoisted his hand cannon. “Gotta get used to this, that’s for sure.”

“How you supposed to tell who is who?” Tom asked, looking around at the collection of operatives in the troop bay. “You can’t see no one’s faces!”

“Jus’ follow the guys with the spikey horns,” Becan answered from beside them, “an’ shoot anyone who doesn’t look like yeh.”

“How we looking over there, Feathers?” Travis asked over the comm.

The blonde’s voice emerged over his helmet speaker. “Reading the instruction manual as we speak!”

Travis laughed under his breath then closed the channel. “Oi.”

Scott leaned into the cockpit. “We ready to go?”

“Ready as we’ll ever be, sir.”

“What’s the status of the landing gear?”

Travis shook his head. “Still out.”

“How much is that going to affect us?”

“We’ll manage, sir!”

Scott turned back to Valentin. “Lukin, we getting those hangar doors opened, or what?”

“Opening now,” the keeper replied.

Behind the Pariah, the massive hangar doors to Northern Forge creaked open. As the blasting wind hit Esther, the scout’s mouth dropped open in shock. She dashed for the warmer safety of the Level-3 hallway.

A terrible knot was forming in Scott’s stomach. Everything about this felt rushed—it felt wrong. They needed to be laying low, not flying out to strike at some satellite facility in China. He snatched a guard rail as the Pariah lifted from its perch, its rear bay door rising with a tired groan. There was only so much more this transport would be able to take. “All right, ladies and gentlemen, here’s the sixty-second summary!” As the nose of the Pariah swung around, the operatives faced Scott to listen. “Vector is in the process of tracking our comm signatures! The only way we can stop them is to destroy the satellite hub facility near Hami, China. But there’s more to it than that.”

Valentin made his way awkwardly through the throng toward Scott as he spoke.

“Before we destroy this facility, we need to get inside it and download some kind of codes—Boris, do you know what I’m talking about?”

The technician nodded. “Access codes for all of EDEN’s satellite hubs!”

That sounded like it. “The instant we get those codes, we’re falling back and destroying the base on our way out!”

“We have high explosives on board,” Valentin said. “Demolition teams will set them in place on the satellites while your technician gets the codes.”

“Can you lead that effort?” Scott asked. “I don’t trust this banged up leg on the battlefield.”

Valentin answered without hesitation, “Da.”

“Boris, you’re going to go in with him. Dave, I want you in there, too.” The former NYPD officer gave Scott a thumbs-up. “I want two other guys with you, but that’s all we can spare. We’re going to need some heavy-hitters waiting outside when people find out what we’re doing.”

Raising his hand, Javon Quinton spoke up. “I can go with them!”

“Good man,” said Scott. Let’s get your hands dirty, Falcons. “You’re in.”

“I will also go!” This time, it was Pyotr who spoke up.

Now that, Scott wasn’t so sure about. Before he could put up an argument, though, the young slayer went on.

“I have done things like this many times before!”

I bet you have. “Fine, you’re on.” The slayer thrust a fist into the air. So that put Valentin leading an infiltration team consisting of David, Boris, Javon, and Pyotr. This was going to be interesting, to say the least. “Outside team, that’s going to be Colonel Lilan, William, Donald, Tom, Feliks, Becan, and Jayden. I’ll coordinate things on board the Pariah with Travis.” With his bum leg, he would only make things worse on the ground. For this mission, he needed to trust his team.

Ahead of the Pariah, Tiffany’s Superwolf drifted out of the hangar then took off into the mountain valley. The Pariah moved out right behind it. Closing his eyes, Scott whispered a prayer behind the privacy of his helmet.

Back in the main corridor of Northern Forge, Esther watched as the massive mountainside doors sealed the hangar back in. They closed with a metallic clunk that reverberated throughout the hangar. All at once, the whipping wind of the mountains outside melted into a muffled howl. The Fourteenth was gone without her.

Exhaling in frustration, Esther ran her hand through her hair. The scout looked at her left shoulder—the one that was keeping her from the battlefield. It didn’t hurt now. She didn’t feel anything there at all. Holding her breath, she raised that arm up.

The pain was immediate. Esther grimaced, closing her eyes as they watered. She put her arm back down. When her eyes opened again, the defiance in them was gone. It was what it was.

Turning around, silent and alone, Esther wandered down the hallway with no particular place to go and no way to monitor the progress of her comrades. She would find out what happened when they returned. If they returned.

Shoulders sagging, the scout wandered away.

*

Two hours later

THE PARIAH’S TROOP bay was silent. The rush of the callout and the haste at which the operatives had gathered in the hangar to disembark had long since passed as the minutes, then hours ticked on. The Fourteenth had no contact with Antipov—the eidola chief went radio dark shortly after the Pariah left Northern Forge. There was only the rumble of the transport’s engines as it soared low over the landscape of Krasnoyarsk Krai, then Mongolia, as it continued on its journey to Hami Station. With their speed reduced and their typically smooth ride slightly less smooth by the inability to raise their landing gear, the crew of the Fourteenth was experiencing a ride unlike any they’d had in the cursed transport. It was as physically uncomfortable as it was generally unsettling.

As had been the case leaving the city of Krasnoyarsk, the only chatter that persevered was the occasional back-and-forth communication of Travis and Tiffany, the latter of whose Superwolf was flying directly in front of the Pariah, leading the way to Hami Station and acting as lookout for the internally-stripped Vulture.

The two ground teams had segregated to different sides of the troop bay, though their initial “huddling up” and discussing their tasks had long given way to the uneasy silence of anticipation. There was nothing left for them to do but arrive.

“ETA fifteen minutes,” said Travis from the cockpit.

Scott blew out a nervous breath behind his helmet, which had stayed on along with everyone else’s throughout the duration of the flight. The keeping on of armor had been by design. Operatives who weren’t accustomed to wearing Nightman armor—Fourteenth’s included—needed to get used to seeing each other in it. They needed to be able to pick out the intricacies of one another beyond what they could typically see through a sky-blue EDEN visor. Heights, builds, body language. These were all things Nightmen were used to. It was imperative that the others get used to it, too, and quickly.

Looking up to the cockpit, Scott asked, “Any contacts on radar?”

“Negative,” Travis answered. “Looks like no one knows we’re coming.”

Not that they should have, but it still made Scott feel better. Rising to his feet, he stepped in front of the group. “Listen up, guys. Let me have your attention.” The group complied. “This isn’t going to be much of a pep talk. Few of us have fought side-by-side before, and we’re flying into a situation with zero intel. This is not going to be ideal.” It was the understatement of the year. “Give everyone your best, and they’ll do the same for you. Let’s get in, get what we need, then get back to Northern Forge in one piece.”

The acknowledgments Scott received were not vocal, rather a chorus of silent head nods.

“Get your minds right,” Scott said. “This thing’s about to begin.”

Antipov had discussed an estimated time of events during his last communication. At first notification by Hami Station, it would take EDEN forty minutes to arrive from their nearest locations via Vulture transport. For Superwolves, that time would be cut down to fifteen minutes, provided the aircraft were scrambling from a nearby base, such as Hong Kong. Tiffany was going to have her hands full, but the pilot was armed and ready.

Though the blonde had left a lasting impression on everyone with her heroics in the Pariah, Scott knew that an element of surprise had been in play in that case. She wouldn’t be taken lightly again. Tiffany was an ace—that much they knew. But she’d be up against pilots who were aware of that now. She was going to have to earn this one outright. At the very least, she was more prepared now. Tiffany had taken it upon herself to fly her Superwolf through the canyons of the mountain ranges that Northern Forge was located in. With sharp turns and undetectable in the valleys, the mountains became the perfect place to get accustomed to her new fighter. She’d taken advantage of it. Now it was time to put her new Superwolf skills to the test.

Stretching his arms, Scott waited for some kind of an update from Travis. His decision to stay in the Pariah and act as mission commander from the air was not one he enjoyed, but he knew it was the right call. He would slow things down too much on the ground. This was a case when pride had to be set aside. If the situation got dire enough that they needed him, he’d drop down to the ground in a second. For that reason, he decided to keep his armor on.

“Hami Station incoming!” Travis said, looking back into the troop bay. “Coming over the mountains now.”

“This is it!” said Scott. “We all know what we have to do. Let’s get it done!”

Once again, Travis beckoned Scott to the cockpit. “Just so you know, the moment we come over those mountains, they’re going to know we’re here—that clock starts ticking then, not when we get on the ground.”

Scott actually hadn’t known that.

“They may not know who we are or what we’re doing, but we’ll be too high to be concealed. They’ll definitely look.”

“Then get us on the ground quickly,” said Scott.

The pilot nodded. “Will do.”

Swinging back to the troop bay, Scott surveyed his rag-tag collection of operatives. The members of the Fourteenth would be fine—they knew how things operated. The Falcons were combat-ready but had never done something like this before, particularly as part of a unit led by Nightmen. Feliks would be fine. Pyotr terrified Scott, who still wasn’t entirely sure who this kid was or why he was there. Way to pick up an orphan, Esther. What if this kid’s a nut? There was no question about it. This was going to be one for the books.

The Pariah’s nose tilted skyward as it aimed for the rest of the mountain range. Scott grabbed hold of a support rail to maintain his balance. Hami Station would be on the other side. Once more into the fray.

“Touchdown imminent,” Scott yelled. “We’re coming down fast!” Turning around, he set his sights on the cockpit window. As the Pariah soared over the mountain crest, its nose angled downward. Scott’s stomach flipped as the descent vector began and the grounds of Hami Station came into view.

There was no doubt that this place was a hub. There were rows upon rows of massive, white radar arrays jetting out of the mountain and onto the desert grasslands below. In the center of all of it was a large, white complex. Stepping forward into the threshold of the cockpit, Scott pointed to the building. “That’s it! That’s got to be where we need to go.”

Tiffany’s voice emerged over the comm—the blond pilot’s Superwolf descended in front of the Vulture. “I’m gonna start wide orbiting the site! I’ll let you know if I get any contacts.”

“Roger that,” said Travis, reaching for the troop bay speaker. “Coming down on the target. Get ready to drop!”

Scott gripped the guard rails tighter; the Pariah’s downward angle straightened. Within seconds, its vertical thrusters, thankfully, engaged. The rear bay door opened as it came meters from touchdown. “Good luck, everyone,” said Scott. “Go!” The moment the Pariah’s jammed wheels hit sediment, the disembark began.

The first two to hit the ground were William and Donald, whose task it was to secure the landing zone and prepare to breach the facility. Right behind them came the infiltration team: Valentin, David, Boris, Javon, and Pyotr. As soon as the landing site was secured, William and Donald each took to a side of the white building’s sole door, which was locked by what looked like a digital hand sensor much like the ones EDEN used. The only way through the door would be to blow it wide open.

The layout of Hami Station seemed barely a “layout” at all. Besides the actual radar arrays themselves, there was only the central, white building, which looked perfectly square. There were no other buildings on the site to investigate—what they were looking for had to be there. Though the building was two-story, it didn’t look terribly large, all things considered. Barring some sort of odd internal layout, it was something the infiltration team would be well-equipped to explore quickly.

The job almost looked easy.

As Valentin and the infiltration team backed off, William knelt down to secure an explosive for entry. Giving the signal that it was set, he quickly rose to his feet and distanced himself along with Donald. Placing his finger over the detonator, William prepared to press the button.

This was it. The moment that explosive went off, Hami Station would know beyond all shadows of doubt that this was a hostile takeover. Holding his breath from the cockpit threshold, Scott whispered a prayer again. God, keep us safe.

Boom!

The explosive detonated. The door was blown off its hinges. It was time.

Simultaneous with the explosion came the blaring sound of a klaxon, heard both outside the facility and from the halls within. As William and Donald took position outside, Valentin and the infiltration team moved inside, weapons raised as they disappeared through the door. Behind them all, Lilan and his operatives secured the perimeter.

From the cockpit, Travis looked back at Scott. “You want me up or down, sir?”

“Up,” Scott answered. “Give us some height—I want to see what’s coming before it sees us.”

As the Pariah’s rear bay door lifted, the Vulture rose from the ground.

Inside the station, Valentin was leading the charge. With his E-35 raised, the keeper of Northern Forge strode forward down pristine white walls that led to a central, four-way intersection. Despite the constant wail of the klaxons from their wall-mounted speakers, the sound of humans shouting in Chinese could be distinctly heard up ahead.

“Contacts ahead,” said Valentin through his helmet mic. A split second later, a pair of workers in white overalls appeared from around the corner. The keeper didn’t hesitate, pulling the trigger of his assault rifle and peppering the two workers across their chests. As their bodies were riddled, they were thrown back and to the ground.

Behind Valentin, David shouted, “Hey! Those were workers!”

Ignoring the comment, Valentin stalked ahead, moving into the intersection and rotating in the two directions that’d been out of his view—the last of which was occupied by another worker, frantically running for a door. Once more, the Chinese man was cut down. The moment the others caught up to him, Valentin turned to find Boris. “What are we looking for?”

“I don’t think you heard me,” said David, grabbing Valentin by the shoulder and yanking the man to face him fully. “You’re gunning down innocent civilians!”

“I do not have time to engage in a discussion of morality with you,” Valentin said, his seething amplified by his fulcrum’s helmet. “A worker can relay information to EDEN. A worker can implement protective measures. We can afford neither.” The keeper returned to Boris. “Now tell me, what are we looking for?”

*

Dashing to the nearest satellite dish, William slid to a halt and unzipped his demolitions bag. Behind him, Becan was urging him on. “Come on, come on, fast!” In the opposite direction, south of the complex, Tom was mirroring Donald as he did the same thing.

Pulling out a high explosive, William set it down at the base of the dish and synced it with the remote detonator. “Explosive set, move to the next one.” Leaping to his feet, the demolitionist ran full speed for the next satellite in line, the Irishman hot on his heels.

“What’s your progress inside the complex, over?” Lilan asked through his helmet comm. As he waited for a response, he kept his eyes on the two demolitionists as they worked their way from one satellite dish to the next.

David’s voice crackled through. “En route to where we need to be now.”

“We heard gunfire—you guys gettin’ some kind of resistance?”

Tone indicative of his disgust, David answered, “We’ll talk about that later.” The channel closed.

Shouldering his E-35, Lilan looked at the road leading to Hami. “Stay crisp, men! We’re liable to get some action here pretty soon.”

*

FLYING LOW IN HER Superwolf and circling in a wide orbit, Tiffany’s focus was a constant switch between the view outside of her cockpit window and her radar screen, which showed zero contacts. Queueing up the Pariah, she said, “Guessing we have, like, ten or so minutes before we start getting customers.”

“You getting the hang of that thing?” Travis asked.

She smirked behind her helmet. “ATFs, Vultures, crop dusters…they’re all the same, right?” On the other end, Travis chuckled. “I’m gonna widen my orbit, as long as that’s okay with the chief.”

Scott’s voice emerged. “I’m assuming I’m the chief?”

“Totally are!”

“Widen away.”

Easing her stick, the pilot veered her Superwolf into a wider orbit.

*

EDEN Command

THE WAR ROOM WAS bustling with activity when Benjamin Archer marched in. Bypassing the holographic globe completely, he walked straight for one of the supervisors as they leaned over a radar screen. “What’s going on?” the judge asked.

The officer stood erect. “A report is coming in from one of our hub facilities—Hami Station, in northern China.”

“What kind of report?”

“Numerous alarms have been triggered, both automated and by the staff. It’s some sort of hostile assault.”

The judge looked totally perplexed. “Is this one of our stations?”

Shaking his head, the officer answered, “No, sir, but our comm satellites use it as a relay. It’s one of the primary hubs of the region.”

“Who’s making the assault?” Archer strode toward the globe.

“We’re still waiting on confirmation.”

Resting his hands on the guard rail that surrounded the globe, Archer’s amber eyes narrowed in thought. Without looking back, he asked the officer, “What would be the effect of losing this station?”

Behind Archer, the officer raised an eyebrow. “In that region, significant—not only for us, but for the world. There’d be a blind spot on Earth.”

“A blind spot on the Earth,” Archer repeated quietly to himself. Ever so faintly, the judge’s nostrils flared. “Contact Hong Kong. I want air and ground forces sent to Hami Station immediately. And contact Torokin.” His lips twisted into a sneer. “Tell him we’ve found Remington.”

“Right away, sir.”

Inhaling sharply, Archer lifted his chin and stared down his nose at the holographic globe. As the pulsating dot over Hami, China, came around to his side, the judge’s glare fixed on it. “You’re desperate,” he whispered. “And we’re coming.”

20

Tuesday, March 20th, 0012 NE

1332 hours

Novosibirsk, Russia

LOGAN AND MARTY were in the middle of a cafeteria meal when Torokin burst through the cafeteria’s double doors. Both men lurched upright, rising from their chairs to face him at his sudden entrance. It took only three words for the judge to capture their attention. “We have Remington!” All around the cafeteria, other operatives stopped eating to observe.

Swapping a fleeting, shocked look, the two men threw their utensils down and took off out of the cafeteria. Running full speed to keep up with the judge, Logan shouted out after him, “Where is he?”

“China!”

Logan blinked. “China?”

“His unit is attacking a satellite station!” As the trio turned for the airstrip, they ran into the other members of Vector, all of whom were responding to the call. Forming up, they made a beeline for their V2.

“Did you say a satellite station?” Pablo asked as he caught up to Torokin.

The judge nodded. “They are attacking a station in Hami! That is all that I know.”

A sense of urgency came over Pablo. “We must stop them before they destroy that facility!”

“Why?”

“Because if that facility is destroyed, it will erase all my efforts to communicate with Jīngshén-2. I will have no way of tracking the outlaws’ communication in Krasnoyarsk!”

Marty shook his head fervently. “Forget ’dat part of it! ’Dis is our shot to actually nab the suckers. We ain’t gonna have to worry about trackin’ Remington if we got him in a six-by-eight cell!”

Dashing up the ramp of the Mark-2 Vulture and toward the cockpit, Minh said, “I can have us there in twenty minutes!” Behind him, the rest of the hunter team strapped in.

Logan looked at Pablo crossly. “What reason would Remington have for attacking that facility on his own? Does it offer any other tactical advantage?”

“EDEN will lose comm traffic, but only for a short while until things swap to an auxiliary system.” For once, the technician wasn’t smiling. “The only lasting impact destroying Hami Station would have is in how it affects us with Jīngshén-2.”

Speaking to Torokin, Logan asked, “You know what I’m wondering, don’t you?”

There was no hesitation from the judge. “Yes, I do.”

“What are y’all wonderin’?” asked Marty, who was strapped in next to Lisa on the other side of the troop bay.

The Australian looked at him. “I’m wondering if Remington knew what we were trying to do.”

Torokin looked at the group at large as he stood at the bottom of the ramp. “I cannot go with you. I have been forbidden from engaging in combat. If I go on this mission, I will engage.” Spoken like a man who knew himself. No one argued the point. “Good luck, gentlemen. I will await your return here.” He looked at Logan. “This one is yours, comrade.”

Nodding his head, Logan said, “Lock and load—let’s get airborne!” He gripped the handrail as the V2’s rear bay door went up, giving a final look to Torokin before the door was closed. The transport rose from the ground.

*

Hami, China

DEEP INSIDE HAMI Station, Valentin and the infiltration team were desperately searching for the room Boris needed to download the access codes from. Though there were only four hallways to explore, they’d already gone down two of them and found nothing but break rooms and kitchens. With each minute that passed, the group got more anxious.

Despite David’s warning to the keeper, Valentin had taken several more shots at workers in the station—though fortunately for the workers, they’d managed to duck into rooms without getting slain. For whatever it was worth, Valentin didn’t waste time pursuing them for the sake of killing them. The keeper’s mind was one-tracked on progression.

“Tell me you have found something!” Valentin asked as he followed Boris into a room the technician darted into.

Boris was standing before a massive row of computer consoles in what looked like some sort of server room. His eyes darting in every direction behind his slayer helmet, he stood almost in a trance of some sort. At long last, his gaze widened, and he rushed toward one of the consoles built into a rack. “This is it! This is what I need.” He looked at his followers and pointed to it. “This is the kind of hardware places like these use to—”

“I don’t care about the history—download the codes!” said Valentin.

Without a word and with trembling hands, Boris opened up his hacking kit.

*

Hovering above the facility in the Pariah, Scott’s attention was glued to the radar, despite knowing that Tiffany’s Superwolf would detect any incoming aircraft far sooner than the Pariah would. Addressing the infiltration team on his comm, he asked, “What’s the status down there?” Time was getting critical, and he was yet to hear any news of progress. They needed to get those codes and get out of there.

“We found what we need!” answered David. “Boris is working.”

Behind his helmet, Scott was sweating. “What about you, colonel? How are those explosives?”

Several seconds passed before Lilan replied. “They’re getting it done. Probably about a third of the way finished now!”

A third. That wasn’t bad.

“Or maybe a quarter,” Lilan said.

Scott half-frowned. Not quite as good. Looking up from the radar screen, Scott watched as the Superwolf streaked across the Pariah’s horizon line, far ahead. At any minute, she was going to announce that she’d spotted a contact. Scott was just waiting for it.

*

“Okay,” Boris said, fidgeting with his helmet. “We have a little bit of a problem.”

“What kind of a problem?” snapped Valentin, his gaze focusing for a moment on Boris’s adjusting. At long last, as if making a conscious decision, he stepped forward and twisted the helmet off. “Use your real eyes for this!”

Boris’s black mop of hair was dripping with sweat. “They are using outdated software. Before I will be able to connect with it, it must be updated.”

Leaning into the room from outside, Javon said, “You kiddin’ me? You gotta update their computer?”

“Yes,” said Boris, exasperated despite his fingers flying across the keyboard. “Log onto the internet, find the software, download the software, install the software…”

“Come on, man, for real?”

The technician nodded. “Then restart the computer…”

Snarling as he spun around and approached Boris again, Valentin said, “We do not have time for this!”

Boris snapped. “What do you want me to do? It must be done! You are yelling, and I do not like it!”

“Hey—hey!” said David, grabbing Valentin before he could enter Boris’s personal space. “Let the man work.”

Valentin relented and said nothing. Tucking Boris’s helmet away, he retreated back to the doorway.

Assault rifle fire erupted from the hallway, prompting all four men to spin that way. Leaning in from where he’d been out of view, Pyotr offered them a wave. “It’s okay! I was just killing that guy down there.”

The group stared at Pyotr for several seconds before returning their focus to Boris. Leaning in close to David and with his voice hushed, Javon said, “I ain’t a real big fan of how these guys operate.”

David shook his head in disgust. “Yeah, you ain’t the only one.”

*

“How’s it looking down there, colonel?” Scott asked.

After a burst of interfering static, Lilan answered, “Got about a third of ’em, now!”

Now it was a third? They had to move faster than this.

“Contact!” Tiffany announced over the speaker.

Behind his helmet, Scott’s face paled.

“Two Superwolves out of the southeast, coming in at Mach-5! They’ve gotta be from Hong Kong.”

“Two Superwolves,” Scott said, looking over at Travis. “She can handle two Superwolves, right?”

Travis shook his head. “Those are probably the first two out of fifty.”

Well, that wasn’t good. “How fast is Mach-5?”

“Fast.”

*

COMING AROUND IN her orbit, Tiffany placed her hand atop the throttle. “Permission to intercept?”

“Do you think that’s the best thing to do?” Scott asked over the comm.

“Lemme put it to you this way. If I don’t intercept, you guys are probably all gonna die. If I make a beeline for them, I can keep them far, far away from what you guys are doing here. If they’re too busy fighting me, they can’t come here to fight you!” She glanced at her radar as more contacts appeared. “Four more, same heading—all from Hong Kong.”

There was a pause. “Intercept.”

“Intercepting.” Breaking the Superwolf out of its orbit pattern, Tiffany pointed its nose to the southeast, pinning the throttle down as the fighter’s engines burst with power.

*

“TICK, TICK, TICK,” said Boris nervously as he watched the software update with agonizing slowness.

Scott’s voice crackled through the comm. “Team, we’ve got enemy Superwolves en route! What’s the status report?”

The group stared at Boris as he winced. Lifting his comm to his lips, he said, “We are almost ready to begin, in about ten minutes.”

“Did you say begin in ten minutes?”

Boris covered his face and cursed in Russian.

Picking up where the technician left off, David said to Scott, “We’ve got to update some kind of software, man. This might be a while.”

*

Scott wanted to slam his comm against the wall. “We don’t have a while, we have Superwolves inbound!”

“Umm,” said Travis from beside Scott, reaching sideways with his hand to tap Scott on the shoulder. When Scott looked, Travis pointed to the radar. “That’s not all we’ve got inbound.”

Scanning the radar screen, Scott could clearly see multiple aircraft appearing at the far end of the Pariah’s detection range. “What are those?”

“Vultures,” Travis answered, “three of them, all Mark-2’s, all coming from Novosibirsk.”

Novosibirsk. Fantastic. “Ground team, get ready,” he said to Lilan. “You’re about to get some company.” As soon as he was back off-comm, Scott asked Travis, “Are those V2s going to come after us in the Pariah?”

“I don’t know.” Travis shook his head with uncertainty. “We definitely can’t outgun them if they do.”

That wasn’t what Scott wanted to hear. “Do you think they can see us, yet?”

“I doubt it. We’re low and we don’t have a transponder. They probably won’t see us until they come within visual.”

As good as that news was, it still didn’t tell Scott what he was supposed to do next. Pulling off his helmet, he dragged his hand down his face. “Okay,” Scott said, despite having nothing to follow it up with. He was making this up as he went. “All ground teams, we’re going to take the Pariah into the valley on the other side of the mountains.” It felt like cowardice, but it was the only way Scott could give the Pariah a fighting chance. If the Pariah fell, every member of the ground team would be doomed to death or capture. “We’ll come back in to get you when you’re ready for extraction. Work fast!” Their only hope was that, by the time the ground team was ready to be picked up, Tiffany would be back in her Superwolf and able to cover the Pariah.

“That’s the right call,” said Travis.

Scott was glad to hear it. “Get us behind those mountains.”

*

MINH DANG GLANCED back from the cockpit of his Mark-2 Vulture and into the troop bay, where the collection of Vectors and Logan Marshall were armed and ready. “Coming in fast, ETA two minutes!” The Vector Vulture was at the front of the small V, two Vultures of standard operatives from the takeback of Novosibirsk tight in formation behind them.

Walking to the center of the troop bay, Chiumbo addressed the crew. “If any of you see Remington, he is to be taken alive!” He looked sharply at Logan, who was giving him a look of dissatisfaction. “Alive. Understood?”

“Alive,” Logan said with reluctance.

“It’s your show,” the Mwera lieutenant said to him.

The Australian didn’t hesitate. Stepping in front of Chiumbo, he faced the operatives before him. “These blokes are more dangerous than you think, particularly Remington and Brooking! What they did in Cairo wasn’t luck.” Pointing to Lisa, he said, “I want to put you somewhere you can get some height. Do you need a spotter?” Behind her visor, the sniper from Essex smirked. “Didn’t think so,” said Logan. He pointed to the overhead map of Hami Station that was on the troop bay monitor. “There are two entrances to this facility—the main one in the front and a smaller maintenance door in the back. Okayo,” he said, indicating to Chiumbo, “Breaux and I will approach the main entrance and draw some fire, assuming that’s where the Fourteenth breached! Between us and those other boys, we should give them a serious bloody push.” His attention shifted to Sasha and Pablo. “I want you two going into the back—see if you can cut them off. Quintana, I want you being a nuisance in that facility. Seal them off, take over whatever systems you can—give them a reason to panic.”

The technician already had his kit ready.

“Don’t underestimate what these guys can do! They’re the world’s most wanted for a reason. Any questions?” No one had any.

From the cockpit, Minh yelled, “Coming down!”

“Coming down,” Logan repeated. “Let’s catch these guys!”

*

AS HE WATCHED the trio of Vultures from Novosibirsk descend, Lilan barked into his comm, “Demolition boys, take cover behind those dishes! Incoming, incoming, incoming!” He looked back at Jayden and Feliks—the only two men with him. Pointing at the blown-open hole where the front door had been, he said to Feliks, “You and I are gonna take cover on each side of this door! Timmons, fall back into the building and take shots from down the hall. Deal some damage, son!”

“Yessir,” said Jayden, dashing into the main building with his sniper rifle. Feliks got into position on one side of the doorframe, Lilan mirroring him on the other.

Signaling to Feliks, Lilan asked, “What’s your name, again?”

“Petrukhin!”

“All right, Petrukhin. Show me what makes you guys special. Let’s light ’em up!” Aiming with their E-35s, the two men waited for the Vultures to touch down.

*

“Hey, man!” said Tom, snatching his massive cousin by the shoulder guard. Donald turned around to see him. “We ’bout to get smacked in the mouth!”

Looking at the three Vultures as if becoming aware of them for the first time, Donald took cover behind the dish he’d just finished setting for detonation. The demolitionist readied his hand cannon. “Not today, we ain’t!”

“This ain’t our job, man! We done enough for these guys—we gotta run!”

“I ain’t runnin’ and neither is you.”

Focus switching rapidly between Donald and the Vultures as if panicked, Tom finally took cover on the side opposite his cousin, frantically pulling out his assault rifle as he took a lazy aim. “This is bad news, man.”

On the opposite end of the array, William and Becan had already taken cover behind the dish they’d been working on. Just like Donald and Tom, the Irishman and Southerner had their weapons ready to attack.

“Do we have anny kind o’ actual plan?” Becan asked. Approximately fifty meters in front of the main entrance to the complex, the three Vultures kicked up dust as they came down.

“I’m gonna shoot the moment the near one’s rear door comes down,” said William, already aiming. “Take out as many as I can with shot number one. You got my back for the others?”

Becan nodded. “Aye. I gotta admit, though, I’m not sure how good I feel abou’ this!”

The demolitionist’s eyes narrowed. “I feel damn good about it.”

*

“Installation complete!” said Boris, thrusting his fists into the air before his fingers returned to the inputs. “Restarting the system so the update will take effect.”

“What’s our time frame, man?” asked David frantically. “We’re about to get some serious company in here!”

The technician’s fingers were practically blurring as they flew from one key to the next. Hitting a final command, he set the system to reboot. “Two minutes to reboot, two minutes to connect with my kit—”

“All those ‘two minutes’ add up, Boris!”

“I know, I know!” His fingers tapped nervously as he waited for the system to cycle back on. “Seven minutes total, maybe eight!”

Turning back to the corridor, Valentin stared down the hall in both directions, stopping when he saw Jayden setting up in the intersection. Motioning to Javon and Pyotr, he pointed to the Texan. “You two, go and assist him. The rest of us will stay here to protect the technician.” The two men acknowledged and dashed toward Jayden’s intersection. Valentin got on the comm. “Seven minutes,” he said to Scott.

“Or eight!” Boris said, looking back.

Turning his head slowly to face Boris, Valentin said, “Seven.”

Boris blinked. Swallowing deeply, he turned back to his kit. “I can do seven.”

*

Jayden had just set up at the edge of the intersection when Javon and Pyotr came rushing to join him. “Hey guys! What are y’all doin’ here?” the Texan asked.

“Helpin’ you!” said Javon. The soldier looked at Pyotr and pointed in the direction behind Jayden. “Watch the six, man. Keep my boy safe.”

“There’s another way in?” Jayden asked as he watched Pyotr set up in the opposite direction.

Javon nodded. “Maintenance door all the way in the back. Nice way to get ambushed from behind. We on top of it though!”

*

“Here they come!” shouted Lilan from the facility’s front entrance. Far ahead of him, the three Vultures touched earth. The colonel looked across the hallway at Feliks. The slayer was statuesque with his E-35 raised and ready. Lilan’s steely gaze returned to the transport. All at once, the three Vultures’ rear doors opened.

*

William’s hand cannon unloaded, sending three orange streaks soaring toward the Vulture nearest them, at the back corner of their triangular landing formation. Just as the first cluster of operatives emerged, the three blasts impacted them. There was a fiery explosion, and EDEN soldiers were rocketed through the air. Even from a distance, frantic shouting could be heard coming from inside the troop bay.

From the Vulture at point, three men emerged—two of whom wore the distinctive purple and white armor of Vector. His eyes widening, Becan shot a panicked look to William and pointed. “Vector!”

The demolitionist was unfazed. Popping around the corner again, he fired another three volleys at the same Vulture he’d just bombarded. Ducking back again and without looking at the Irishman, the stoic Southerner said, “Vector bleeds like everyone else.”

Leaning out with his assault rifle, Becan took aim at the oddball who’d emerged with the two Vectors—the only one not in purple and white armor. Laying down on the trigger, he fired a sporadic volley that peppered the earth around them. As the Vector’s Vulture lifted from the ground, leaving the three men behind, they ran for the cover of the satellite dish nearest them.

“See?” asked William, reloading his hand cannon after taking several more shots. “They run for cover just like us.”

*

Lilan and Feliks were firing continuously from the corners of the corridor as several distinct groups emerged from the Vultures—a scattered and disorganized group from the Vulture William had decimated, the trio of operatives from the Vulture belonging to Vector Squad, and a nearly unaffected group of what looked like two dozen soldiers from the Vulture on the far end. All in all, the Fourteenth and Falcons were about to be faced with, at bare minimum, three dozen hostiles.

Within seconds, the return fire from the EDEN operatives began. The two men ducked behind the corners of the metal door for cover as bullets ricocheted around them, zinging past them and pinging off the metal exterior—and occasionally interior hallway—of the facility. It was a full frontal assault that suppressed Lilan and Feliks completely.

Suddenly, a shot rang out from behind them inside the building—a single, deafening pop that was unmistakable in its identity. The two men could almost feel the sniper rifle’s bullet flying past them, opposite the tidal wave of E-35 rounds. Glancing behind him, Lilan watched as Jayden worked the bolt-action of his weapon. “One down,” the sniper said through his comm.

“Atta boy, Timmons,” said Lilan. “Do that about three dozen more times, and we’ll call this one a day!”

*

Behind the satellite dish they were using for cover, Logan, Chiumbo, and Marty readied their weapons for first charge. Peeking his head around the satellite dish, Logan scrutinized the facility entrance, ducking back again as wild suppression fire impacted the ground around him. “Looks like the building is just being held down by two men!”

A loud whiz flew past them, and all three men instinctively ducked back. A split second later, the projectile smashed against the side of the Vulture behind and to their right—the only untouched Vulture of the two that remained on the ground. Whipping his head in the direction from which the projectile originated, Chiumbo caught sight of two operatives behind a dish in the far distance. “Two more on this end, one with a hand cannon!”

“They got some heavies wit’ ’em!” said Marty, the Cajun angling around the corner of the dish with his X-111 chaos rifle. “Well, look’a dat.” Narrowing his eyes through the scope, he took aim at the operative in fulcrum armor at the front of the facility, whose shoulder was barely discernable. “Pop goes the leader.” He squeezed off a single shot.

*

Lilan was in the midst of shouting to Feliks when the chaos round struck him in the shoulder. The shoulder guard of his armor was blown off as blood burst forth. He screamed and toppled backward, his E-35 flying from his grasp as he landed on his back. Clutching his dysfunctional right shoulder with his left hand, he rolled back into cover.

“Colonel!” Feliks moved to assist the fallen Lilan, until Lilan held out his hand to stop him.

“No!” Lilan said, waving the slayer back into cover. “Stay back, stay back!” Speaking weakly through grimaces, he said, “Keep ’em at bay or you’ll be the next one on the ground.”

Another sniper shot rang out, followed by a pair of footsteps—Javon. E-35 ammunition dinging off the edges of his armor, the Falcon soldier grabbed Lilan by the good shoulder and pulled him out of the brunt of the fight. “Coach! You all right?”

“They got something different out there!” Lilan said as he scrambled to his feet. “That wasn’t no E-35 round.”

“I got it,” said Javon, pushing the colonel behind him. “Go back and help cover the sniper, coach. I got your boy, up here.”

Nodding as he hobbled back in pain, Lilan said, “Watch yourself, Quinton!”

Sliding into the colonel’s place, Javon leaned around the corner and fired a round toward the mounting advance. He looked across at Feliks. “This ain’t no little offensive!”

Feliks ducked back into cover after releasing another barrage. The slayer turned to Javon. “We alternate, you, then me, then you. We keep them under constant suppression.”

“You got it,” said Javon, kicking Lilan’s assault rifle in Feliks’s direction. “You gonna need that more than me!” As Feliks bent down to retrieve the weapon, Javon leaned out as instructed and laid down suppressive fire.

*

“Boris,” said David, “please tell me you’re making progress with that thing!”

The technician nodded as his fingers flew across the command console. “We are only minutes away! The system is rebooted and I am locating the files.”

“I am going into the fight,” said Valentin calmly. “Ensure he continues to work quickly.”

“Hey,” Boris said, whipping his head around, “where is my—” Valentin was already gone. “Helmet.” Sighing, he returned to the console.

*

“SO, WHAT’S DA plan, chief?” Marty asked Logan from behind the dish. All three of the men had been taking sporadic shots into the fight since landing, the bulk of the offensive temporarily left to the EDEN soldiers from the Vultures behind them, all of whom had spread out across the battlefield.

Turning his head skyward, Logan watched as Minh’s Vulture drew near to a radio tower at the far corner of the site. “Let’s get our pieces in play. We’ll go in as a unified effort.”

“Y’know, if you wanted to, you could jus’ let Chiumbo and I take ’em all out. We could do dat whole competitive thing where we all keep a kill count, and the one wit’ the least kills buys the other guy a drink.”

Ducking back after firing an effective round of suppression toward one of the demolitionists, Chiumbo chuckled. “I do not drink, my friend.”

“I know! Makes it kinda a win-win for me.”

“Look,” Logan said, pointing at the Vulture, “they’re putting Tiffin up now.”

Chiumbo and Marty followed Logan’s indication toward Minh and his V2.

*

Holding onto one of the rear bay door lift shafts, Lisa eased toward the end of the ramp as the Vulture floated toward the radio tower, the Essex sniper’s ponytail flapping in the wind. The tower drew nearer and nearer.

“Do you have enough room over there?” asked Sasha from behind her.

Lisa answered without looking back. “Plenty!” Letting go of the lift shaft, she charged to the end of the ramp, leaping out of the Vulture and snagging the tower’s lattice-like metal frame. Swinging around the tower, she set her feet down on what little foot space existed under her, gripping the tower with one hand as she unslung her sniper rifle with the other. Putting her weight against the tower, she swapped the sniper rifle into her other hand, grabbing the tower with her front hand then using that arm for the rifle’s support. Her helmet visor retracted upward, and she pressed her open eye against the scope.

From the front of the Vulture, Minh looked back into the troop bay. “She on there all right?” Pablo offered the pilot a thumbs-up, and the transport eased away from the tower, veering to approach the facility from behind.

Looking down at the metal framework beneath her, Lisa coiled her back leg around the beam nearest it for extra support and steadiness. Once again, she peered through her scope. The battlefield came into view.

From her vantage point, she could clearly make out the two operatives in black armor nearest her. Their backs were to her, completely oblivious to her presence. She observed them through the scope for a moment before gently easing it over, where she could see the front of the facility. None of the outlaws inside the entranceway were in her field of vision. Once more, she glided the scope upward, peering far across the battlefield at the other demolitionist and his counterpart, far away from where she was now. Despite their cover, enough of their bodies were visible to make them easy targets.

Into the microphone, the Briton said, “All four outside targets are in sight. Shall I engage?”

*

Speaking through his helmet comm, Logan answered Lisa, “Hold your position for a moment—can you verify whether any of these targets could be Remington?”

“Negative,” the sniper answered, “all four are in Nightman armor, though none appear to be fulcrums.”

Chiumbo looked at Logan squarely. “There is no reason for her not to—she could end this part of the fight very quickly. The likelihood that Remington is among those in the outside defense effort is low.”

There was no hesitation from the Australian. Jaw setting, he brought the comm to his lips. “Engage.”

*

“Engaging,” Lisa said. Eyes narrowing over the first of her targets, the demolitionist on the far end, the sniper narrowed her eyes and placed her finger on the trigger.

*

TOM WAS IN THE middle of slamming in a new magazine when he heard the impact, loud and ringing, from directly behind him. Whipping his head back, his eyes widened when he saw Donald topple backward like a tree, his cousin’s body slamming limply to the ground as his hand cannon fell from his grasp. “Don!” Abandoning his defense effort, Tom scrambled to the demolitionist’s side. Donald’s sentry faceplate was blown clear apart, the large black man’s face caved in in the center of his forehead. There was no room for question. “Veck, he’s dead! My cousin’s dead!”

Spinning around, Tom darted for the cover of the dish’s base. Another gunshot rang out, and the ground behind Tom exploded a split second after he’d dashed from it.

*

William and Becan had both heard the sniper shots, and both men halted their efforts to pinpoint the source. By the time the second shot rang out, they knew it was coming from behind them. “Will, the tower!” Becan pointed, and William swung around with his hand cannon, raising it just in time to put it between the sniper’s line of sight and his face, his attempt to counter fire inadvertently becoming his saving grace. The bullet struck the hand cannon, blowing the weapon clear apart and knocking the demolitionist on his backside.

The Irishman didn’t bother to aim. Leaping in front of William, he aimed for the only structure high enough to give a sniper that kind of angle: the radio tower. Pulling the trigger, he sent a barrage of scattered suppression fire toward the top of the structure.

*

“VECK!” SAID LISA as bullets zinged beneath her, pinging and ricocheting against the tower mere meters below her feet. Resituating herself, she peered through the scope to take aim again.

Her targets were already on the run.

*

BECAN AND WILLIAM were bolting to the next dish over, taking a sharp angle that put the frame of the dish between them and the sniper. Another shot rang out, this one slamming into the frame of the satellite scaffolding, followed by another that whizzed so closely past Becan’s head he could swear he felt his hair move inside his helmet. The dash had also attracted the attention of the EDEN operatives nearest him, from the Vulture that William had decimated at the onset of the fight. Bullets flew past the two men from both directions, some clanging against the corners of their armor while other shots zinged past against the satellite.

Pointing frantically, Becan yelled, “Up the stairs! Into the dish!” Built into the satellite framework was a zigzagged stairwell on the side opposite the sniper’s angle. Though they’d still be under fire from the EDEN soldiers, the sniper—undoubtedly the greater threat—would have no line of sight on them.

“Get up, get up, get up!” Leaping onto the stairwell, Becan flew up, followed closely by William. More bullets struck Becan, one of which caught a clink in his armor just on his hip, though it only clipped a part of his skin. Running to the short ladder that led to the dish, he hurried up its semi-protective circular mesh, zooming up the ladder rungs as he reached up to open the dish’s trap door. As soon as it was open, the Irishman scrambled up and into it.

William was right behind him, the massive Southerner barely squeezing through the hatch as bullets continued to pelt his sentry armor. There was no doubt that had either man been in their standard EDEN armor, they’d have been felled long before reaching the dish. Just the same, they were not without injury. Though Becan had escaped with a graze, the moment William was through the hatch, he fell flat on his back and cried out, blood oozing from a wound in his torso.

Scrambling to the hatch, Becan slammed it shut then searched for some sort of hatch lock. When he saw there was none, he readied his assault rifle and took a position just to the edge of the hole, aiming downward as he shot a quick glance to William. “Will, you all right?”

Moaning in pain, the demolitionist rolled over. “I’ll live.” Removing his pistol from his holster, he looked toward the rim of the dish. The sniper once again had no angle. Falling to his knees, William buckled forward and groaned.

*

“Tom, get outta there, now!” shouted Javon through the comm, leaning out to fire at the collection of EDEN operatives headed in the soldier’s direction.

Quickly, Feliks intervened. “No! Stay where you are. You will not make it two steps with a sniper present.” Dropping back, he reloaded his weapon. “We will keep them from you until you can be retrieved,” he said to Tom.

Tom’s broken voice continued through the comm. “They killed him, man! They killed him!”

“Stay put,” said Javon, “so we don’t end up sayin’ the same thing about you!”

Farther back in the hall, Lilan pulled out his handgun and sat down next to Jayden, his breathing heavy as he leaned against the wall. Just to his side, Jayden continued to fire down the hallway and onto the battlefield, stating when a target was down and cursing when he missed.

Exhaling a hard breath again, Lilan looked back at Pyotr, who was still covering the rear. For the moment, Lilan had nothing to do. Sighing, he went still. “We may not survive this, Timmons.”

“We been through worse than this, colonel!” the Texan said following another ear-piercing sniper shot.

Lilan looked at him. “Worse than this?”

“Just wait and see, sir! We’ll get everyone out of here. Donald, too.”

The colonel said nothing.

*

BY THE TIME TIFFANY was within thirty miles of the first pair of Superwolves, six more aircraft had launched from Hong Kong—four more Superwolves and a pair of Vindicators, all of which were following the same trajectory, straight for Hami Station. Beneath her flight suit, the blond pilot was sweating bullets. Just the same, her hands were controlled on the joystick and throttle.

The lone advantage that Tiffany had was that she was undetectable from a transponder standpoint. Though she would undoubtedly appear on their radars when she increased her altitude in what was an impending dogfight, at the very least, her low-flying approach would come as a surprise. The enemy fighters knew she was somewhere—if Hami Station had informed EDEN about the attack, they surely would have informed EDEN that both a Vulture and a Superwolf came over the mountaintop. The question of where Tiffany was located would be the unknown.

Angling her Superwolf away from straight-on contact, Tiffany began a preemptive loop in anticipation of coming up behind the first two Superwolves. EDEN’s staggered attack worked in her favor, even if she was outnumbered. She could handle a pair of fighters. It was getting hit by all eight at once that would turn an already difficult feat into an impossibility.

Soaring over the Gobi desert in her wide arc, she caught sight of the first two Superwolves, both of which appeared as miniscule streaks far up in the sky. Based on their straight-line pattern, they indeed seemed to not notice her far off to their side. It was time. Turning the stick hard in their direction and pulling the nose of the fighter up, Tiffany curled up and around to come up at their rear. The moment her altitude rose above would-be treetop, the two Superwolves reacted, each breaking hard in opposite directions, forcing her to pick one of them. The immediacy of the maneuver made her wonder if they had seen her—or at the very least were prepared for the possibility that she could show up at any moment. Opting for the fighter that’d broken on her side, Tiffany had no trouble following his turn. The speed of her Superwolf was almost daunting. It was far faster than the older-model Vindicator. As Tiffany came in behind the fighter, a voice came over the universal comm frequency.

“Outlaw pilot,” said the Chinese-accented man, “land your aircraft immediately.”

“Okay,” Tiffany said, guiding her targeting reticule directly over the Superwolf she was pursuing. The red missile lock indicator flashed, and she launched one of her short-range missiles ahead. The enemy Superwolf veered, to no avail. The missile struck, and the fighter exploded into an orange plume of smoke and debris.

Superwolves had space in their missile bays for eight missiles: two long-range, four short-range, and two air-to-ground, the latter of which would be of no use to her in this fight. Because the Superwolf she was in had used one of its long-range missiles in its confrontation with the Pariah, it only had one remaining, and being that she’d just used a short-range missile, she only had three shots remaining of those. For all practical purposes, she had four missiles of any variety left in this battle: one long and three short-range. She intended to use every single one.

Seconds after the first Superwolf exploded, the second swooped in behind her for an attack run. Tiffany pulled back hard on the stick, bringing her fighter up and curling away as streaks of orange flew past her. Not two seconds later, a short-range missile was fired.

Superwolves were not designed to combat other Superwolves, a characteristic that worked both for and against Tiffany and the pilots she was up against. They had no built-in missile defenses—no flares or chaffs or any other kind of countermeasures. They were designed strictly for the highly evasive maneuvers required to avoid plasma fire from Bakma Courier fighters. In that effect, Superwolves became their own greatest weakness, relying on sheer pilot skill instead of technological countermeasures to avoid missile strikes. And that was where the benefit fell to Tiffany.

EDEN short-range missiles, called trident missiles, were designed to be highly maneuverable, just like the Couriers they were designed to destroy. Tiffany knew this. If she tried to lose the missile with evasive action, she would suffer the same fate as the pilot she’d just downed. She needed to beat the missile not with changes in direction, but with changes in velocity. Slamming down the throttle, Tiffany sent her Superwolf soaring ahead, the sudden change in speed pinning her back into her seat. The missile matched her, as did the other Superwolf pilot.

Eyes narrowing behind her visor, Tiffany watched the missile draw nearer. “Come on!” Her hand tensed on the air brake. She waited for it to get just a little bit closer.

Close enough.

Pulling back on the stick, Tiffany yanked back the throttle and applied the brake, veering just as the missile closed the gap between them. It streaked past her, mere meters away from a direct impact.

The blonde shouted in triumph, banking the Superwolf hard in an effort to shake the pilot behind her. The trident missile looped around to make a second approach. Another missile lock, and for a second time, the Superwolf at Tiffany’s six sent a trident streaking her way. Gritting her teeth, Tiffany barrel-rolled to the left, slamming her stick hard right and hitting the airbrakes again after the last of three spins. The second missile, too, streaked past her to begin its looping second approach.

Enough was enough. Angling downward, Tiffany sent the Superwolf screaming toward the dunes that stretched across the desert surface. The Superwolf stayed in hot pursuit, weaving back and forth as its pilot continually attempted to gun her down with his cannons. Staying one turn ahead of him at each burst, Tiffany increased her speed as she approached a higher dune. All the while, her focus shifted from the pilot to the two tridents now streaking straight toward her from ahead. Weaving right then breaking hard left, the blonde turned into a desert valley at an angle just too sharp for the approaching-head-on missiles to match. They collided with the desert dunes just behind her within seconds of each other—but the rival Superwolf stayed hot on her heels.

Leaning back on the stick and going balls to the wall, Tiffany pointed the Superwolf’s nose to the sky for a straight vertical climb. As anticipated, the other pilot followed. Her hazel eyes narrowing, Tiffany held the stick steady as her Superwolf climbed.

If she could maintain this climb longer than the other pilot—which she was betting everything that she could—she could force him to follow her on an inverted loop pattern that would bring them both heading nose-first toward the ground at the end of the maneuver. She couldn’t go too high or too low, but at exactly the right height to end the loop at a point that was skimming the desert. It was dangerous, but that was the appeal. She didn’t believe the other pilot could do it. If it all worked out, he would either break off at the last minute or die trying to match her. Even if the pilot broke off in the attempt, she would immediately be placed in the role of aggressor. All she needed to do was loop around and get behind him.

Her missile lock indicator beeped again in mid-loop. Eyes darting to her tactical display, she saw two dots appear from the edge of her radar range. Javelins. Long range missiles. The other four Superwolves were in firing range. “Geez’um, Petes!” she said, refocusing on the task at hand in completing the inverted loop. She’d deal with the javelins when they got closer.

Pulling the stick back more, Tiffany went inverted. As the ground became her sky, her stomach threatened to upheave. Fighter ace or not, she hadn’t performed acrobatics like these at such intense velocities since the Academy—and she was one of the few pilots even permitted to try them. Behind her, the rival Superwolf stayed on course.

Time to do the deed. Continuing on her angled course to the ground, Tiffany watched as the sky gave way to desert hues of yellow and gold. Within seconds, she was doing a complete nosedive. In her mind, she wanted to scream to the other pilot, “Stay with me!” but the words couldn’t come out. Yellow hues became more defined as the shadowed peaks of dunes revealed themselves. She was getting close enough to the ground to make out details. For a split second, she thought she’d cut it too close.

She hadn’t. Just at the point where an impact seemed inevitable, the blue of the sky appeared at the top of her cockpit. The Superwolf’s nose turned up, and at a distance that couldn’t have been more than thirty meters from the ground, the fighter leveled off and began its ascent.

Checking the Superwolf that’d been tailing her, she saw that it’d broken off shortly after the first downward turn. Yanking the stick to the right, Tiffany hooked her Superwolf around at as close to a hairpin turn as the fighter could manage. As she came around, her opponent—also attempting a quick turnaround—came into view. But Tiffany had the edge. Guiding her reticle over the Superwolf, she launched a trident the moment she achieved missile lock. There was nothing the other Superwolf could do. Despite a quick attempt at evasive action as it came out of its turn, the Superwolf was struck on its underbelly, exploding as its burning remnants rained onto the desert.

Releasing a desperately held breath, Tiffany’s focus returned to her radar screen, where the two long-range javelin missiles were growing closer. Letting loose with a loud, “Ugh,” the pilot once again prepared to shake off impending death.

*

FROM THE COPILOT’S seat of the Pariah, Scott commed Lilan on their secured channel. “What’s going on over there?” No updates had been sent his way since they’d fallen back over the mountain. He and Travis needed to know the strike team’s status. Their ability to retrieve them and leave depended on timing and rapid action. This was already taking longer than he’d anticipated.

After several static bursts, Lilan’s voice crackled through. “—busted up pretty bad! Bell is down—” More static ensued.

“Colonel?” Scott asked, waiting several seconds to see if a reply came. “Colonel?” Slamming the microphone down, Scott shouted, “Veck!” He looked at Travis. “We need to get back there.”

Shaking his head, Travis said, “I think that’s jumping the gun. They’re gonna call us as soon as things get sorted out—”

“Listen to the comm, Travis!” Scott’s blood pressure was through the roof. “We’re barely getting anything over these mountains! For all we know, they’ve got the job finished now.”

“That is highly unlikely.”

He didn’t want to hear it. Pointing back at the mountain, he said, “Bring us back over the top. It was a mistake to fall back like this.” They’d left everyone in the Fourteenth behind.

Still, Travis argued. “That’s going to completely give us away.”

“They already know it’s us!” That wasn’t even a question anymore. “Get over that ridge and get to our soldiers now—that’s an order.”

With bitter obedience, Travis raised the Pariah’s nose back up the mountainside.

*

“Tom, how you doin’?” Javon asked over the gunfire around them. Though he and Feliks had managed to hold their own up to that point, ammunition was becoming a major concern. Neither man could afford to stop firing without giving EDEN a chance to advance—their suppression had to be constant. They simply didn’t have the resources to maintain that kind of defensive pressure.

On the other end of the comm, Tom was almost hysterical.

Firing off another round then ducking back, Javon shook his head and said, “You gotta calm down, man, I can’t even understand you!”

“I said they comin’ in, man, what do I do?” Tom finally yelled.

“Can he use the dead man’s hand cannon?” Feliks asked Javon without looking.

It took a moment for the thought to register. “Yeah!” said Javon. “That’s it, man.” He got back on the comm. “Tom, use Don’s hand cannon—give ’em something to fall back from.”

“I can’t use that, man!”

“You got to!”

*

Scrambling half-panicked to Donald’s body and with his eyes glued to his cousin’s imploded face, Tom pried the demolitionist’s weapon from his rigid grasp. Scooting quickly back into cover, Tom looked the hand cannon over. Two shots were already loaded—all he needed to do was shoot. Inhaling a sharp breath, he closed his eyes, prepared himself, then leaned quickly around the corner of the dish’s base.

EDEN was in mid-move toward Tom when he appeared. By the time the frantic soldier fired the first of his two subsequent shots, there was nowhere for the oncoming assailants to retreat to. EDEN operatives dove in every direction as the projectile soared at them, striking a soldier at the back of the group dead in the chest. The explosion that resulted sent his comrades flying.

Tom fired off the second shot, this one toward some of the operatives who’d fallen. The shot struck the ground, the flames from its eruption enveloping the desperate operatives who tried to flee on the ground. In one fell swoop—and a vastly unexpected attack—Tom had taken out a majority of EDEN’s second Vulture crew. Dashing back to Donald’s body, he hurriedly collected the rest of his cousin’s ammunition.

*

Thrusting his hands triumphantly into the air, Boris shouted, “I have the files!” The technician ripped the connective wires from the back of his hacking kit. “We can go.”

“About doggone time,” David said, lifting his comm to his lips. “Boris has what he needs! How we looking, demolition team? Tom, can you operate Donald’s detonator?”

After several seconds, Tom’s shaking voice replied. “I got it! I can do it.”

“Fall back to the facility, we’ll pick you up—”

“Man, I can’t fall back to that place!” Tom said.

A second later, Javon chimed in. “There’s no way he can make it here, man, and we’re runnin’ out of ammo to protect him! Y’all’s ship gonna have to pick him up.”

David fought back the urge to scream. “All right,” he said simply. “Scott, you reading this?”

“Yeah,” Scott answered. “We’re on our way back to you guys now. Where can you meet us?”

This time, it was Valentin whose voice emerged. “There is an exit at the back of the facility. We will rendezvous with you there after you pick up Tom.”

“Affirmative,” said Scott. “En route to pick up Tom now.”

Closing the comm channel, David looked at Boris. “Good work, B. Let’s get back to the Pariah and get the hell out of here.”

“Sounds good to me!” the technician said. Tucking the kit under his armpit, he followed David out of the room, stopping briefly to search for the helmet that Valentin had taken from him. It was nowhere. “Typical,” he muttered, abandoning the server room for good.

Just farther up ahead, Valentin motioned for Pyotr to join Javon and Feliks in their defense, telling the young slayer, “Help them hold off EDEN until the Vulture arrives!” Pyotr affirmed, bolting down the hall toward the front of the facility. Valentin looked at the injured Lilan, then at Jayden. “As soon as they retrieve the soldier outside, we will—”

The lights around them went out. The three men were thrust into darkness. Jayden leapt up as Valentin looked around in all directions.

“What just happened?” Jayden asked.

A loud, piercing ring emerged as amber emergency lights flashed throughout the halls. Above their heads, a row of ceiling sprinklers descended from their housings. Water rained down from above them. Though protected from the wetness in their Nightman armor, the spray created a veritable fog down the halls. Footsteps emerged from the south as David and Boris appeared. “What is going on?” Valentin asked the technician.

Boris shook his head desperately, wiping his soaked hair back and out of his face. “I do not know. Someone has accessed the facility’s emergency systems.” Flipping the hacking kit open, he tried to access the base systems himself.

“Is that thing waterproof?” asked Lilan.

“Yes! The sprinklers were on when we left Cairo.”

Yelling through the noise, Jayden said, “You and those dumb sprinklers!”

Boris’s voice was frantic as he looked at the kit’s screen. “This was not me! Someone else has entered the system from outside. They are taking over facility controls!”

“Who?” Valentin asked.

From the veil of flashing yellow light and sprinkler spray behind them, weapons fire emerged. David and Boris were struck before either man could react—the former in his left leg and the latter in the left shoulder, the metal plating of their slayer armor flying off as both men were cut down, howling in pain as they collapsed to the floor. As Boris fell, his hacker’s kit flew from his hands, sliding down the hall in the direction of the gunfire.

Without sparing a moment to think, Jayden dove toward the kit, snatching it from the floor as Valentin unloaded down the hall with his assault rifle. The Texan scrambled back to cover with the kit just as another round of weapons fire emerged, missing the five men as they took to the two corners of the intersection.

Valentin yelled in his comm, “We have attackers from the east! They are inside the building!”

*

The Pariah had just gone over the mountainside when the message from Valentin came through. Slapping his hand on the dashboard, Scott yelled to Travis next to him, “We’ve got to go! We’ve to go!”

“I’m going!” snapped the pilot back angrily. A moment later, he pointed to the facility. “Look! There’s a V2 dusting off from the back of the building. They must’ve dropped someone off back there.”

Another voice crackled through the comm—Becan’s. “Sir! I see yeh comin’ over the field now! Can we get a quick evac?”

Everything was spiraling out of control. Rescue Tom, extract the infiltration team, evacuate Becan and William. Scott’s head was spinning. “How dire is your situation?”

“We’re abou’ to get reefed!”

As they came over the battlefield, Scott could see what the Irishman was referring to. He and William were taking shelter in the dish of one of the satellites, with EDEN forces rapidly closing in. If they didn’t get extracted immediately, they weren’t going to make it. The same applied to Tom on the other side of the battlefield. This is out of control. “Pick ’em up, Travis, fast!” Returning to the comm, he radioed Becan. “We’re coming down to get you—be ready to hop on!”

“Umm, captain?” said Travis, pointing off into the distance. When Scott followed the pilot’s indication, he saw three V2s coming around in attack formation. “We’re about to get some serious company.”

There was no way the Pariah was going to hold off three Mark-2 Vultures. The V2s were faster, more heavily armed, and well…not a rundown piece of machinery like the Pariah. This was about to get ugly.

“We’re not gonna get to them in time,” Travis said, his tone dour.

“Get to them in time,” Scott said steadily.

Shaking his head, Travis said, “We’re about ten seconds away from them opening fire.”

“Then drop her like a brick.” Bolting out of the copilot’s chair, Scott dashed through the troop bay, snagging onto support rails to keep himself upright while the Pariah came down. As soon as he was at the rear bay door, he slapped the button. Creakily and as the transport whipped around, the rear door opened.

Before the door was even halfway down, Becan and William leapt toward it, grabbing at the edge of the bay door as the Pariah hovered. That was all the time they could be given. “Go, Travis! Go, go, go!”

Screaming in pain, William pulled himself up and into the transport as the Irishman scrambled up beside him, then helped the injured demolitionist in. The Pariah rocketed before the rear door could even be lifted, as all three men—Scott, Becan, and William—grabbed hold of the support rails as momentum threatened to blast them through the air. Reaching out frantically, Scott slapped around the bay door mechanism, finally hitting it just as the transport shot upward. Against the force of a rapidly-increasing wind, the door began to lift.

“Bollocks!” Becan said, tearing off his helmet and collapsing before shooting a desperate look back to William. “Will! Are yeh okay?”

The Southerner was bleeding badly—Scott could see it pouring out of his armor. “Will, get out of that armor!” he yelled. “Becan, patch him up.”

Becan’s eyes shot wide open. “Yeh want me to patch him up?”

“Last I checked, Sveta wasn’t in the ship—patch him up!”

Growling loudly, Becan stumbled William’s way as the demolitionist tore off his sentry armor.

Fighting against speed and sharp turns in mid-air, Scott made his way against all odds back into the cockpit. Slamming into the copilot’s chair and strapping in, he looked at the pilot’s radar. “What we got?” In tune with Scott’s question, streaks of orange flew past the Pariah’s cockpit. The stinging sounds of bullets hitting the hull reverberated as Travis desperately turned the stick to the side.

What could they do? What could they possibly do? They were not going to outrun or outgun these three V2s. The only way they were going to get out of this would be to have an ace up their sleeve—but what?

It came to Scott in that instant. “Travis, loop around and buzz the battlefield!”

Behind his flight helmet, the pilot blinked. “What?”

“Buzz the battlefield!” The whole while they talked, bullets flew past, some striking the hull even as Travis brought it rapidly around. “Buzz the satellites as closely as you can, on William’s side!” Looking back into the troop bay, Scott cried out, “Get ready with that detonator!”

Travis seemed to get the plan, quickly snapping the stick back in the other direction and weaving the Pariah around in a tight loop, the three V2s hot on their tail. As more bullets struck the ship, several of the Pariah’s console indicators flashed. “What’s that?”

“Damage!”

I knew that, you idiot!

Slamming the throttle forward as the battlefield came into view, Travis sent the Pariah screaming ahead at maximum speed. It wasn’t enough to lose the approaching Vultures, but losing them wasn’t the plan. The Pariah would take some damage, but in the end, if it could just stay in one piece, they could strike back in the only way they could: fire and fury. Looking back again, Scott yelled to Becan, “Do you have that detonator?”

“Wha?” Becan answered. “I’m patchin’ up Will!”

“Take care of Will later, get that detonator ready now!”

Becan was exasperated. “Bleedin’ hell!” Scrambling for the detonator, he snatched it up with a single hand. “Got the detonator!”

“Get ready!” The Pariah was passing by the first set of satellites. The Vultures were behind them and gaining fast. They don’t know what we’re doing here—they don’t know we’re going to blow the place to smithereens. They’ll never know this is coming. His plan was simple: lead them into the blast radius, then light the three V2s up, all at once. It was their only hope. As the transport was about to zip past the final row of satellites on the near side, Scott yelled, “Detonate, now!” He looked at Travis. “Make a beeline for Tom!”

The Pariah soared past the satellites. The Vultures fired behind them.

Becan pressed the button.

The rows of satellites exploded like mini nukes, each one erupting in rapid sequence with so much force, they could feel it in the Pariah even as they left the satellites behind. Behind them, the three Vultures were engulfed. “Tom, now!” Scott said.

“On it!” Travis replied. The Pariah hit the brakes as the EDEN soldiers on the battlefield scattered, some knocked backward by the explosions, some in sheer panic. Descending near the satellite by Tom and Donald’s body, Scott once again left the copilot’s seat to scramble to the back.

*

ON THE BATTLEFIELD below, Logan, Chiumbo, and Marty were blindsided by the blasts. Even with some distance to the satellites that detonated, the three men were blown backward by the shock waves, their weapons flying from their hands as they landed backward in the dirt, meters away. Groaning in pain, Logan rolled onto his stomach. Through the roar of continuous eruptions from the satellite dishes, he heard Minh shout over their Vulture’s comm.

“I am going down! Repeat, I am going down!”

Turning their collective heads up, Logan, Marty, and Chiumbo watched as the three Vultures that’d been caught in the blast streaked overhead, each one heading for fiery crash landings. From the Vulture at point—Minh’s—the explosive plume of an ejection from the cockpit could be seen. Minh’s seat and harness rocketed skyward as the V2 flew toward a crash landing.

“What in da hell was dat?” Marty asked, looking wide-eyed at Chiumbo, who was dirt-covered and coughing.

Logan’s focus shifted to the Pariah, which was coming down by another dish on their side of the battlefield. The Australian’s face was struck by dread. “Whatever it was, I think it’s about to happen again!”

The two Vectors behind him followed his gaze, catching sight of the Pariah picking up the lone operative and dead body from behind the satellite.

“Run!” said Logan, scrambling to his feet and taking off in the other direction, Chiumbo and Marty right there behind him.

*

“UP! UP!” SAID SCOTT, slamming the rear bay door button as soon as Donald’s body was dragged on board. Without a moment’s hesitation, Travis brought the nose of the Pariah up again. Scott looked at Tom, who didn’t need to be told a thing—the soldier’s finger was already on the detonator’s trigger. With rapid acceleration, the Pariah cleared the row of satellites.

*

LOGAN’S FEET WERE moving as quickly as his legs could make them, moving away from both the satellites and the facility. He wasn’t even concerned with the direction he was heading or if it made tactical sense. All that mattered right now was sheer distance.

“Hey!” Marty hollered from behind him. “If we’re gonna run, we need to run toward da—”

The Cajun never had time to finish the statement. Just as had taken place on the other side of the battlefield, the row of satellite dishes exploded, the force of the blast once again sending the three soldiers—and every EDEN operative around them—soaring through the air as the shockwave slammed into them. As they crashed onto the ground a second time, the men groaned in aching pain.

Dust and debris were falling everywhere, some smaller pieces hitting the dirt around them while larger pieces that could have killed them crashed into the ground near the burning dishes. Hami Station could no longer be seen through the smoke and dust. Coughing as he staggered to his feet, Chiumbo called out to the interior team through his comm. “Pablo, Sasha, come in!”

*

The inside of Hami Station was chaos. The firefight between the two Vectors, who’d entered from the rear of the building, and the outlaws in the intersection slammed to a halt with the first round of explosives, which shook the very foundation of the facility. Both men had heard Minh’s comm call, though neither had seen the Vector pilot eject. By the time the second explosion registered, they were backtracking rapidly out of the building, their pursuit of the outlaws halted by the urgent drive to survive. The way Hami Station was groaning, it sounded like the entire building was on the verge of collapse.

“What is going on out there?” asked Sasha as he and Pablo dashed out of the rear door and looked around. Debris littered the ground in every direction as waves of billowing smoke rolled past them, darkening the sky as if a violent storm was on the horizon.

Chiumbo’s voice wheezed over the comm, “The satellites have been detonated.”

“We are seeing that now,” said Sasha, coughing alongside Pablo as they ducked back to the door frame of the building simply to get out of the smoke. “This entire building may come down.”

“Do you have the outlaws?”

Frowning, the Russian scout answered, “Negative, lieutenant. They are inside the facility.”

*

Crawling to their feet, Chiumbo, Logan, and Marty peered through the fog of war for their weapons, the surviving EDEN soldiers doing the same. Each man withdrew his handgun. Spitting sand out of his mouth, Chiumbo said to Sasha through the comm, “They cannot be allowed to escape! There are only two ways into this building. Stand post at the rear and we will press forward toward the—” The Mwera lieutenant’s words were cut off by the sudden thrust of Vulture engines. Looking skyward through the dust, the three men beheld a lone transport lowering at the front of the building, its nose—barely discernable through the smoke—pointed in their direction. The burst of vertical landing thrusters resounded. “They are landing at the front of the building!” Chiumbo hollered as he, Logan, Marty, and the soldiers around them scampered to their feet to move forward. In the next second that followed, the spinning sound of a nose-mounted cannon emerged.

“Everyone move!” shouted Logan. As the remnant of the frontal assault team sprinted out of the line of fire, the Pariah’s front cannon erupted with firepower.

*

“GET ’EM ON BOARD!” Scott shouted at the top of his lungs, waving on his comrades as they ran up the hallway of Hami Station and toward the waiting Pariah, its rear bay door open against the open front door of the facility. Ahead through the smoke and sprinklers, the shapes of the interior team could be seen desperately making their way forward.

Yelling through the cabin speaker, Travis said, “I don’t have infinite ammo up here, get them in fast!”

Many from the ground team were heavily injured, namely David, Boris, and Lilan, all of whom were screaming in pain as they were being assisted by their comrades toward the Pariah. It was impossible to make out the extent of their injuries, but blood was everywhere. Scott had never seen Nightman armor torn through like that before. Whatever weaponry had struck them was well beyond the capability of standard E-35 assault rifles. This was something new.

Grabbing David by the shoulder as Valentin led him in, Scott assisted his friend to a seat. The former NYPD officer’s thigh was a mess—the bullets that had hit it had torn through his leg guards like a hot knife through soft butter. What were these weapons?

There was no time to truly wonder. The instant the last of the interior team was inside, Scott yelled to the young slayer, Pyotr, who was standing closest to the rear bay door button. “Raise the door!” As the slayer complied, Scott shouted for Travis to take the Pariah up. “Dust off, now!”

“With pleasure,” Travis said, engaging the vertical thrusters again as the cursed transport lifted from the ground.

Moving awkwardly through the troop bay, Scott cried out to everyone present. “Strap in and get ready to take off! Travis, what’s the status of Tiffany?”

Through the console comm, Travis called for the Superwolf pilot. “Tiff, where are you?”

*

TIFFANY WAS IN THE middle of a dogfight when Travis’s comm call came through. “I cannot talk!” the blonde screamed, yanking the stick and kicking back the throttle in a desperate attempt to yet again shake a hot-on-her-heels aggressor.

The Valley-Girl-turned-Superwolf-ace had spent the past ten minutes in the midst of an aerial melee, dodging javelin missiles, trident missiles, and the incessant spraying of cannon fire from her adversaries.

At the onset of this particular sky battle, the blonde had been outnumbered six-to-one, facing the additional four Superwolves and two Vindicators from Hong Kong. Against every odd, she’d managed to take out half of her opponents, downing a pair of Superwolves and one Vindicator, leaving her with the same number of both aircraft left to deal with. The battle, however, was not without blemish. Not only had she depleted her missile supply, but her Superwolf had taken its fair share of cannon fire. Though it wasn’t enough to knock out any critical systems, it was a brutal reminder that despite her abilities, she was not immune to being hit.

Just the same, for the first time in the entire battle, she felt like she was on the verge of having the upper hand. She’d used the dunes of the Gobi Desert below to outmaneuver the missiles that’d been fired at her, and despite the difficulty she was having shaking this one particular Superwolf from her tail, she’d slowly but surely been gaining momentum in the fight. Eventually, though, one of their shots would ring true, and the commandeered Superwolf would find itself spiraling out of control much like the ones she’d shot down herself.

As she went vertical yet again in an effort to lose the Superwolf behind her, Travis’s voice crackled through once more. “We’ve picked up the ground team! We’re on our way back to base now.”

“Roger that!” Tiffany shouted, yanking back on the stick and turning it to barrel roll and level off. Weaving left and right, she finally managed to shake the fighter at her tail. “Finally!” Switching to the enemy pilot’s frequency as she maneuvered herself to tail him, she screamed with rage, “You are totally dead!” Pulling the trigger, she peppered the Superwolf’s fuselage with bullet holes before it, too, weaved out of her sights.

*

“ALL RIGHT.” TRAVIS swung the Pariah’s nose to the north. “Hold on, everyone, we’re about to fly!”

Thank God. As he held on tightly to a guard rail, Scott’s mind raced to grasp their situation. Donald Bell was dead. Lilan, David, Boris, and William were all seriously injured. But Hami Station was destroyed and they had the access codes for EDEN’s satellite network. That was the mission. That was what would keep their hopes alive. This had been a bloodbath—but it was about to be over. Considering what they’d just done and who’d they’d been up against, they were almost getting away easy.

Soon, they’d be home free.

*

LISA TIFFIN HAD SEEN everything unfold. The explosions of the satellite dishes, the engulfing of the three V2s, the catastrophic unraveling of a mission that, for Vector Squad, should have been easy. Despite her relatively new status as a Vector, she had never seen the elite fighting unit as caught off guard and flummoxed as this. Had she not been desperately trying to find a shot through the smoky haze below, she might have even found time to be embarrassed. But there was no time for that. Vector had been sucker-punched—but this fight was far from over.

The sniper had seen the Fourteenth’s Vulture dip down into the fog. She knew they were picking up their ground team. She knew the transport would rise again. Her sniper rifle was ready.

Lisa’s eyes were glued to where the Vulture had descended—looking for any sign that the transport was lifting off the ground: a landing light, the movement of smoke, the sound of a vertical thruster engaging. Anything that could be picked up from her distant perch. At long last, that sign came.

Emerging nose-up above the smoke, the Fourteenth’s transport rose like a phoenix, its vertical thrusters blasting fire beneath it as it came to a hovering standstill some forty meters off the ground. Just enough to let the ship’s pilot see through the fog. Just enough for a Vulture that was flying blind to get its bearings.

The Pariah pivoted in her direction, its shimmering cockpit glass reflecting what little sunlight could penetrate the smoke and dust. In mere seconds, it would blast off straight ahead, leaving Hami Station behind to burn as the outlaws slipped through Vector’s fingers. In mere seconds.

She’d have to be quicker.

Raising her sniper rifle, Lisa free-handed it from her perch on the tower. Her aiming eye peered through the scope, a second to spare to find its most vulnerable point. The one weakness that every Vulture possessed. The one thing that, if taken out, would slam the brakes on the outlaws’ escape.

As her crosshairs found her target, Lisa held her breath and squeezed the trigger.

21

Tuesday, March 20th, 0012 NE

1619 hours

Hami, China

“JAY, SECURE THAT hacking kit!” Scott yelled, pointing back into the troop bay from his seat next to Travis. “If that thing breaks, we just did all this for—”

Crack!

Scott jumped as the sound rang out. Small pieces of some kind of debris tattered against his faceplate and body armor. Withdrawing his hand and whipping his head back around, he searched frantically for the source of what sounded like a very bad sound. It took but a half-second to find it. It was the windshield. Square in the center of the pilot’s side of the cockpit glass was a small, circular hole, cracks spindling out from its center. “What the hell is that?” he shouted. “Travis,” he looked at the pilot, “did someone just—”

The words shoot us never came out, for the moment Scott looked at Travis Navarro, he went rigid. Travis’s head was slumped over, the faceplate of his helmet shattered inward. Behind him, staining the entire back of the pilot’s seat, was blood and brain matter. Time stood still.

That blood is Travis’s. Travis just got shot in the head. Oh my God…

…Travis is dead.

The gravity of the moment lasted barely a moment before realization and emotion gave way to a horrible reality. Travis was dead. Their pilot was dead. No one was flying the Pariah!

“Oh my God!” Unlatching himself, Scott dove into the pilot’s seat—or at least as much as he was able—forcing himself into a position where he could awkwardly grab the controls.

Joystick moves, throttle goes!

That was all that Scott knew. Pulling the stick to the left, Scott’s stomach turned as the Pariah’s nose aimlessly rolled that direction. Behind him in the troop bay, the collective of operatives fell toward one side of the ship.

From the troop bay, a pained David yelled, “What the hell’s going on up there? Are you guys doing a barrel roll?”

“I need someone else in the cockpit right now!” Scott yelled. Get higher. They had to get higher! Vertical thrusters, vertical thrusters! Where are the vertical thrusters? He had no idea. Leaning over Travis’s body, Scott pulled the joystick back, sending the Pariah’s nose pitching skyward. Good enough! Punching the throttle, the Pariah was suddenly sent rocketing ahead. Once again, the occupants in the back shouted in unified surprise.

*

AS THE FOURTEENTH’S Vulture burst with forward thrust and took off into the distance, Lisa pulled her head back from the scope and watched it streak away. There was no question that her shot rang true—she could tell by the drunken way the transport was swaying. Queuing up Chiumbo on her comm, the sniper from Essex said, “I just took out their pilot. The Fourteenth are flying lame.”

*

THIS WAS NOT GOOD! Contorting his body to clumsily unlatch Travis from the pilot’s seat, Scott kept one eye on the sky and one on the joystick. With every second that passed, Scott found himself fighting to course correct in order to keep the ship going in a straight line—and each correction seemed a bit too much. All he knew was that they were going up at about a forty-five degree angle. Again, he screamed back into the troop bay, “I need someone up here—now, now, now!”

It was Becan who burst through the cockpit door. “Wha’ the hell is goin’—” When the Irishman saw Travis’s body, he gasped.

“Get him out of the seat, get him out the seat!” Scott said, shoving Travis’s body to the side as best he was able.

Snatching Travis by the armpits, Becan dragged him out, freeing up the pilot’s seat. For the first time, he was able to look ahead as Travis would’ve. The very first thing he saw—and felt—was the bullet hole. Wind was whistling through it at speeds the glass probably wasn’t designed for. I have to go slower or this glass is going to shatter. Gripping the throttle again, he said, “Hold on!” He pulled it back to the halfway point, as the forward thrust of the transport immediately dropped off—fast. Becan was flung into the clean part of the glass with Travis’s body, while Scott once again tried to level the ship off.

“Wha’ the bleedin’ hell happened?” asked Becan as he struggled back to a stand with the fallen pilot. “Is he dead?”

“Yes, he’s dead!” Scott pointed to the copilot’s seat. “Get his body in the back then sit in that vecking chair!”

Becan sounded outright panicked. “Oh, God!” Nearly falling back through the cockpit door, he released Travis’s body at the precipice of the troop bay entrance, where the ship’s forward momentum took over, sending the pilot’s corpse flying back into the masses.

“Holy veck!” said Jayden. “Is Travis dead?”

As soon as the Texan said it, Boris’s head spun in that direction. “Travis?” When he saw the pilot’s body, the technician inhaled sharply. “Travis!”

Scott shouted to Becan, “Shut the door and sit!”

Slamming the cockpit door shut, the Irishman did as he was told, practically falling into the copilot’s seat as he struggled to strap in. “Wha’ the hell happened?”

“Someone shot him! A sniper, someone. They shot him in the head!” They were wasting time on the already-known. “We gotta fly this ship!”

Becan started, then stared at him. “We?”

“Who the hell else is gonna fly it, Becan?”

“But I don’t know how to fly a bleedin’ Vulture!”

This felt like they were stalling. Were they stalling? What exactly was stalling? “I don’t either, but if we don’t figure out, this is gonna be a really short flight!”

Becan searched frantically across the control panel. “Wha’s what in here? Is there an autopilot?”

“I don’t know! I don’t even know if it works.” The Pariah had been stripped of virtually every internal component by General Thoor. Scott had no idea what the ship could or couldn’t do. “Look in the glove box. Grab the instructions!”

Looking in every direction, Becan asked, “Does this thing have a glove box?”

Scott spared a glance to Becan’s seat, where indeed there was no glove-compartment-equivalent to be seen. “A sleeve, a pocket, an anything where Travis might keep the instructions!”

“I don’t think Travis needed to read the bleedin’ instructions!”

“Veck! Find something. Figure something out!”

Reaching forward, Becan pressed one of the buttons on the console. Several indicator lights started to flash, and he jumped back.

“What the?” Scott looked between the sky and the console. “What did you do?”

The Irishman threw his hands up. “I don’t know what I did!”

This was insane. “You can’t just blindly hit buttons on a flying transport!”

“Yeh said to figure things ou’. That’s how I figure things ou’!”

This was going to end badly. Easing the joystick down, Scott angled the Pariah’s nose back toward the ground. He wasn’t sure if he was getting the hang of flying properly or getting used to flying improperly, but at least he felt a granule of control. “I’m going lower, I’m getting close to the ground.” He scanned the mountainous horizon. “We’ve gotta go north. That’s north, right?”

“Why the hell do yeh wanna fly close to the ground?”

“Because we won’t be detected! Right?”

A second of silence passed. “Are yeh askin’ me or tellin’ me?”

“I’m asking you. I’m telling you. I don’t know—that’s just what Travis said!” The ground was approaching quickly, and once again, Scott found himself pulling back on the throttle as he pulled the nose up. “I think we’re going too slow. How does stalling work? Do you know that?”

“I am literally cryin’ righ’ now.”

Tiffany! They needed to contact Tiffany. If there was one person who could get them through this—one person who could direct Scott on what he was supposed to do, even from afar—it was her. The Valley Girl just became their only hope. Grabbing the Pariah’s console comm—the one component on the transport he knew how to operate—he queued in the Superwolf pilot. “Feathers, come in, now!”

*

ROLLING WITH THE Superwolf’s nose low, Tiffany dropped into a steep slice, cutting off the last Vindicator mid-turn. As she guided her targeting reticle over the enemy fighter, Scott’s call came over her helmet speaker. The blonde pulled the trigger, and the Superwolf’s nose cannon sprayed the twin tail engines of the Vindicator. Its pilot ejected moments before the Vindicator exploded.

Snarling into the comm angrily, Tiffany said, “What part of ‘I can’t talk right now’ didn’t you understand?” Orange streaks flew past her cockpit, and the pilot looked back through the canopy. The two remaining Superwolves were on her tail, one playing wingman to the other.

“This is Scott. I’m flying the Pariah—Travis is dead!”

Tiffany’s hands tensed. Behind her visor, the brown-eyed blonde blinked. “Come again with that traffic?”

“Travis Navarro is dead! I am flying the Pariah. I do not know what to do!”

“Travis is dead?”

There was a burst of static. “Dead, dead, dead, as in dead! What in the hell do I do to fly this ship?”

A lump rose in Tiffany’s throat—even as the Superwolves behind her fired on, and even as she pitched and yawed the fighter in full-on guns defense mode. For a moment, her hands moved on pure autopilot. Swallowing the lump, she snapped back into reality, pushing down on the stick to dive into a defensive spiral. As the ground became her new view, she held her breath.

“Tiffany! Are you there?”

Travis was the reason Tiffany was alive. If not for him—if not for that cursed transport—she would have been blown out of the sky after leaving the Great Dismal Swamp. Jaw setting as her stare narrowed into a deep, burning glare, Tiffany pulled out of her spiral early and slammed the throttle forward. “Fly north and stay low. I’ll be on my way soon.”

Behind Tiffany, the two remaining Superwolves descended to pursue her. Leading them to the Pariah wasn’t an option. The Fourteenth needed to survive, and having a pair of Superwolves in the area wasn’t going to help them. She had to take out these two first—preferably before reinforcements were sent from Hong Kong. There was no doubt that with as many casualties as EDEN had faced already at the hands of the blond pilot, they were going to up the ante hard.

Pulling back on the throttle and hitting the air brakes, Tiffany curled the Superwolf up and around on a hairpin turn so tight, she wasn’t entirely sure the aircraft would be able to pull it off. But it did. Dropping out of maximum thrust, her Superwolf cut the corner tighter than both of the fighters behind her. As they turned on a wider angle, she brought the Superwolf around like a corkscrew. The next thing the two enemy pilots knew, Tiffany was tucking in behind them in what was now a defensive vertical spiral. They were hers for the taking. Pulling the trigger on her joystick, the Superwolf’s cannons erupted with fury, catching the left wing of one of the fighters—the one that’d been serving as wingman. The wing was blown into pieces as the fighter spiraled toward the ground.

Guiding her reticle over, she repeated her attack on the last enemy flying, and just like that enemy’s wingman, she peppered her target’s wing until it began to explode into pieces. Its pilot bailed out as the Superwolf spun.

No time for celebration. Looping around sharply, Tiffany dropped in altitude until she was flying just over the desert’s surface. Pushing the throttle to the wall, she went supersonic toward Hami Station.

*

BORIS WAS A WRECK. The whole while the Pariah flew, the technician was screaming Travis’s name from his seat. On several occasions, he fought with his good arm to unstrap himself and run to the corpse of his friend, but on both occasions, Jayden was there to pin him back and keep him in place.

“Travis!” Boris yelled.

“There’s nothing you can do, man!” The Texan grabbed Boris again from his own seat, slamming the technician back into his and fighting to hold him there. “If you start movin’ around, you’re gonna get killed, too!”

In the sealed-off cockpit, Scott and Becan were still trying to figure out how to fly. Low altitude was proving a challenge simply because objects on the ground—and mountain ranges—needed to be avoided. Nothing they were looking at looked familiar. If this was the same topography they’d flown over to get to Hami Station, it certainly didn’t look like it.

The Irishman was frantically trying to identify the various buttons and switches on the console, most of which had either partially or entirely peeled labels. There was no way that someone without intimate knowledge of Vulture controls would be able to figure things out. “Okay, I think this section is for troop bay lights!” When he pointed at the indicated section, Scott flinched to knock his hand away.

“Don’t touch it!”

Becan threw his hands up in defense. “I was just pointin’ it ou’ to yeh!”

“If nothing comes after us, I think I might have this,” said Scott. He was moderately low, or at least what he considered low, and he had decent control over the throttle and joystick. The problem was speed. Though the Pariah had been slowed in general by its nonfunctioning landing gear, Scott was outright terrified to even match that with the hole in the glass. Though unaffected by the wind for the most part in his fulcrum armor, it was still vibrating and whistling like it was on the verge of coming to pieces. What would happen if the crack expanded? Would the entire canopy break apart? Would he and Becan be sucked out? Would they be completely unable to control anything at all? These were all things he needed to know desperately.

“But wha’ if somethin’ does come after us?” Becan asked.

Scott just shook his head. “Then, to be perfectly honest, we probably die.”

The comm channel cracked. Tiffany’s voice emerged. “I’m coming in fast! What’s your location?”

Looking down out of the side of the window, Scott answered, “We’re over a bunch of trees.”

“I don’t think tha’s goin’ to be helpful,” said Becan.

By the sound of Tiffany’s voice, it wasn’t. “Trees? I need coordinates, vectors!”

“Don’t worry about Vector! Vector is behind us.”

“No, not the—ugh! Look at your compass, give me a heading.”

At least that was easy to find. “Okay, we’re heading, uhh…like, straight north.” He looked at Becan. “That’s a direction, right? Straight north?”

“Yes, north is a direction.”

“I mean to a pilot!”

Tiffany answered, “Okay, I’m going to try and avoid China.”

That sounded like a good plan.

“What I’m gonna need you to do is relay your actual coordinates to me. I can’t track you because you don’t have a transponder.”

Snapping his fingers to catch Becan’s attention, Scott pointed at the console. “Find our coordinates.”

Becan stared at the console. “Uhh.”

“How hard is it gonna be to land this thing?” Scott asked Tiffany.

There was an unsettling pause before Tiffany answered. “On the ground, I could probably talk you through it. But, like…” Scott already knew where she was heading. “Okay, being totally honest, you’re not gonna be able to park that thing in Northern Forge by yourself, even with me telling you what to do. It’s actually kinda tricky.”

Scott figured as much.

“Okay, once I find you, I’ll follow you somewhere where you can land on the open ground. I’ll park next to you, then come aboard and fly the Pariah myself.”

“What about the Superwolf?”

Tiffany answered, “The Superwolf has autopilot. It has the route to Northern Forge already programmed—it’ll land by itself.”

“God, do we ever need autopilot back in here,” said Becan.

The blonde continued. “Wait till I find you, then we’ll find a landing spot together. Vertical thrusters can be kinda tricky, too.”

So much about this thing was “kinda tricky.” Scott was realizing just how much more Travis knew than what they’d given him credit for. “We’ll do whatever you say.”

Silence came over the line, though the sound of the open channel could still be heard. At long last, Tiffany said in a voice as heartfelt as it was solemn, “I’m gonna get you guys home.”

Even with the distance between them, and even in the midst of the chaos, her words carried warmth into the cockpit. They were what Scott and Becan, both wholly outmatched behind the joystick of a Vulture, needed to hear. The Pariah had saved Tiffany’s life. Saving it and its crew in return would mean something. I’m so glad she’s with us.

“Hey Remmy, look!” Pointing at the radar display, the Irishman’s tone raised almost jovially.

Scott followed Becan’s gaze to the display, where a dot appeared at the very bottom. Tilting his head, he gazed at it curiously. There was no doubt about it—it was another aircraft.

“We see yeh, Feathers!” Becan said through the comm.

Something churned in the pit of Scott’s stomach. There was no way Tiffany had made it back to them that quickly. They’d only been on the channel with her for a few minutes. “I don’t think that’s her,” he said ominously. “Hey Tiff, are you coming up behind us right now?”

“Huh? No, I’m like, nowhere near you guys, yet.”

Oh no. Scott’s heart rate increased. “That’s another ship.”

“Yeh gotta be kiddin’ me…”

“That’s another vecking ship.”

Tiffany’s voice crackled through again. This time, the Valley Girl’s volume high with urgency. “Did you say you guys saw another ship?”

“Yes!”

“What’s the identification on it?”

Peering at the new dot, Scott read the number atop it. “VM2733.”

“That’s a Mark-2 Vulture,” Tiffany said. “They musta called in reinforcements!”

“That’s great—now what do we do?” There was no immediate answer from Tiffany. This was bad.

At long last, the pilot responded. “Are they coming straight for you or just in your general direction?”

Next to Scott, Becan shook his head. “Tha’ looks like a dead line straight to us, if yeh ask me.”

Scott was forced to agree. “I think they see us.” They’d crossed a mountain at one point. Had they gone too high and been detected?

“Okay,” said Tiffany, “I need you to listen and do exactly what I say.” Scott had no problem with that. “Strap in completely. I mean, like, the full harness, not just the safety straps.”

Reaching up to pull down his harness, Scott slid it down atop his body. Though he’d never seen Travis actually use it, he was aware that it was there. Thankfully, it slid right into place.

Tiffany rattled on. “You’re gonna have to increase your velocity to stay ahead of the V2! Has the bullet hole in the wind screen shown any signs of cracking at all since you started flying?”

“It looks like maybe a little bit, yes!”

“Okay.” A dreadful pause followed. “You’re probably going to lose the canopy.”

Behind his faceplate, Scott blinked. Did he hear that right? Turning his head to look at Becan, he saw that the Irishman was already staring at him. He could only imagine the look on his counterpart’s face behind the mask. “Did we just hear you say we were going to lose the—”

“Increase to six hundred knots, now. Don’t wait, do it!”

Scott’s hands were sweating bullets in their gloves as he slowly pushed the throttle forward. The Pariah’s thrusters grew louder. Next to him, Becan gripped the sides of his seat and went rigid.

“Listen and listen carefully,” Tiffany said. “At some point very soon, the hole in your wind screen is going to start cracking. When that starts happening—”

It was already happening. Scott’s eyes widened as the cracks spiraled out, shaking the entire canopy with every inch they rapidly grew.

“—you’re like, seconds away from the canopy blowing off. You’re going to be okay. Just keep the cockpit door locked so no one opens it from the troop bay!”

Becan was already on it, slapping his hand out to engage the cockpit door’s bolt lock. The wind screen was practically dancing.

The blonde went on. “The important thing is that you don’t get flustered and you don’t—”

Eruption. There was a deafening sound like a torrent as the wind screen shattered, its shards tattering against Scott and Becan’s armor as the canopy literally blew apart in the span of a single second. Scott’s eyes widened in abject horror as he was exposed to wide open sky. He couldn’t even scream.

The occupants of the troop bay were shaken violently as the entire hull of the Pariah shimmied, the roar of wind in the cockpit drowning out what little background noise there had been. From one end of the troop bay to the other, operatives grabbed hold of support rails with fervent urgency.

“What the hell just happened?” David yelled, his voice barely audible over the sudden cacophony.

From farther down, Lilan shouted at the top of his lungs. “They just lost the canopy!”

David did a double take. “What?”

“They just lost the canopy! They’re flying without a windshield!”

Forcing his head down against the onslaught of wind, Scott stared at his hands on the controls. Despite the beating his upper body was taking, his hands were almost entirely shielded, firmly in place on the joystick and throttle even as his shoulders and biceps were pounded. He could literally hear nothing—not Becan, not Tiffany, not a thing beyond the incessant roar of the pummeling wind. Focusing on the airspeed indicator, he saw a reading of five hundred and fifty. He wasn’t even going as fast as he was supposed to be going. As Scott eased the throttle forward just a fraction more, he spared a glance at the radar. The V2 was still gaining.

In the midst of the drubbing his ear drums were taking, he could hear the faint sounds of a voice screaming. Tiffany. Releasing the throttle, he quickly turned the volume of his helmet speaker up to full blast.

“—are they still gaining?”

“Yes!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, though not even that was enough to make his voice rise above the roar. He couldn’t even hear himself. “Yes, they’re still gaining!”

Even with the volume all the way up, he could barely hear Tiffany’s voice as she addressed him. “I said how fast are they still gaining?”

He looked at the radar again. “Not as fast!”

“Get as low as you can and follow the terrain!”

Follow the terrain? Looking down against the wind, he saw the ground beneath them, the clear view pristine and untainted without smudged cockpit glass to distort it. Get low, Scott, he thought to himself. Easing the joystick forward, he angled the nose of the Pariah down ever so slightly. As difficult as it had been to control the Vulture before, the controls were horrifyingly touchier now. The catastrophic failure of the canopy had undercut whatever aerodynamics the flying brick had. Between that and the landing gear, which was still stuck down, the Pariah was rattling all over the place. Briefly, he glanced at Becan. The Irishman was totally rigid. Was he unconscious or just terrified? It didn’t matter. Focusing on the ground again, Scott pulled up the joystick to awkwardly level off. He was overcompensating with every movement. How did pilots do this?

Breathe! You’re not crashing. You’re in total control. As long as the nose keeps pointing forward, you’re going to be okay.

Out of the corner of Scott’s eye, several streaks of orange flew past the Pariah. He inhaled sharply. The V2 was firing at them. “Veck!”

“What’s wrong?” Tiffany asked.

“They’re shooting at us!” Scott jerked the stick to the left to veer the Pariah away as the orange streaks swept its way, the rapid motion of the unanticipated maneuver sending the transport completely on its side, then beyond. Before Scott could even rationalize what was happening, the Pariah was going inverted.

In the troop bay, arms and legs flailed in every direction as the entire transport spun upside down, weapons, equipment, and Travis and Donald’s bodies falling from the floor to the ceiling as the entire world flipped. The operatives collectively cried out as the wildly inconsistent rotation continued.

Upside down and still spinning, the threat of the V2’s cannon fire took a dire second place to the sheer panic of suddenly being in the middle of an unintended barrel roll. Scott had no idea what to do—all he could attempt was just to keep the nose forward and stay in the turn until they leveled off. But they were dropping. Fast. They were about to hit the treetops.

The Pariah rolled on to its side. The rapid descent paused. As Scott gritted his teeth and desperately tried to stay straight, the transport finally came out of the roll and leveled off again. Pulling the nose back, Scott sent the Pariah soaring back up to safe heights.

Scott looked in both directions for the sweeping orange streaks of the V2 behind them. He didn’t have to look far. The streaks appeared again, this time moving in from the opposite side of the ship—and this time, impossible to avoid. Pulling the stick almost as hard to the right as had sent him barrel rolling to the left, Scott managed only to send the troop bay occupants flailing in futility. Though the sounds of bullets hitting the hull couldn’t be heard over the roar of wind in his face, he could certainly feel them. The Pariah shimmied, then shook, then jolted hard, as if something had snagged the transport in mid-air. On the Pariah’s console, a row of indicators flashed bright red.

Scott knew it was damage of some sort—he just didn’t have time to lean in and identify it. The V2 behind them was still firing. More red lights flashed. They were getting pummeled. A console panel on Becan’s side of the cockpit exploded in an array of sparks and smoke that were almost instantly extinguished by the torrent of air. Out of the corner of Scott’s eye, he could see Becan waving his hand instinctively as if it would serve some sort of purpose. Pushing forward on the joystick and yanking back on the throttle, Scott sent the transport on an abruptly slow descent with no inclination as to whether or not the maneuver would do anything at all.

It did! Seconds after the Pariah nosedived and eased back, the startlingly close silhouette of the pursuing V2 flew overhead. Scott and Becan both looked up, where the transport’s underbelly rocketed past them. Slapping Scott on the shoulder and pointing as if revealing something new, Becan indicated to the passing transport.

“I know!” Scott yelled. Pulling up on the stick, Scott pushed the throttle forward again. The Pariah’s engines burst with fury as the feral dog churned ahead.

But they were still going down.

What in the world? Scott pulled back on the joystick again, and again, nothing happened to alter their course and bring the Pariah back skyward. Eyes widening behind his helmet, Scott stared at the quickly-approaching ground they were steadily angling toward.

This didn’t make sense! Why wouldn’t the Pariah be pulling up? He was pulling back on the stick, he was doing everything he was supposed to do. Why wasn’t it working now?

Once more, Becan slapped Scott on the shoulder and pointed—but this time, Scott followed along. Becan was pointing at the damage indicators. Scott leaned close quickly to see.

Vertical Thrusters.

Lift Control.

Sitting back upright, Scott stared wide-eyed at the ground. Vertical thrusters and lift control. The Pariah couldn’t rise. He was about to slam them into the ground. Panic struck as Scott pulled back the joystick for all it was worth. Slowly—ever so slowly—the transport’s nose began to lift.

No mind was paid to the V2, where it was, or where it was going. The only thing Scott saw was death as they barreled toward it in a Vulture without a canopy being flown by two men who knew nothing about flying.

Treetops whizzed past them, their details becoming more defined with every passing second. Still, the Pariah slowly pulled up. But it didn’t feel like nearly enough.

Scott did the only thing he knew to do: pray. Tightly sealing his eyes, his mind spat out the most desperate prayer he’d ever prayed in his life. Let me fly this thing, let me fly this thing, let me fly this thing, let me fly this thing, let me fly this thing.

There was no rhyme or reason to the request beyond fear and the worst kind of adrenaline he’d ever felt. This couldn’t be how they ended. Not after they’d come so far. Not after they’d finished the job they’d been sent there to do. Please, God, please, God, please, God…let me fly this thing! Opening his eyes, Scott almost had a heart attack right there.

They were going to hit the trees.

Turning his head, Scott continued to pull back as the slapping sound of treetop branches slammed into the Pariah’s nose—he could feel pieces of the small treetop branches hit him. Then…

…air.

The Pariah leveled off, its nose tilting up just enough to bring the cursed transport back over the treetops. The slapping stopped—the sky became their dominant view. As if something on the transport just clicked, the Pariah burst forward with newfound vigor, its velocity noticeably increasing as a granule of control turned. Had they not been flying at some five hundred knots, Scott would have leapt up and shouted.

Scott quickly looked behind him then at the radar. Where was that V2? The blip that was the enemy Vulture was farther away now, but undoubtedly looping back and around to attack their rear again. Scott had to circle them—to keep them having to loop farther and farther to come around. He had no idea if that tactic was even valid. It just felt like all he could do.

“Hey, are you listening to me?”

The screaming voice in his headset almost made him jump. It was Tiffany. In the middle of the rush, he’d blocked her out completely. Screaming back at the top of his lungs, he said, “I am now!”

“Where the heck have you been?”

“We got shot! We almost crashed!” He stared at the radar again. He couldn’t tell if he was circling the V2 or not. This thing was almost impossible to read when Travis wasn’t there to decipher what he was seeing.

When Tiffany spoke back, she sounded shocked. “You got shot? Bad?”

“I think we’re okay!” Scott answered. “We’re still flying!”

“What got damaged?”

He looked at the console again. A third indicator was flashing: Pilot Assist. “Vertical Thrusters, Lift Control, and Pilot Assist!” A long pause ensued. When Tiffany spoke again, her words weren’t even audible. Scott shook his head. “I can’t hear you, speak up!”

“I said repeat what you said!”

“Vertical Thrusters, Lift Control, and Pilot Assist!”

Again, silence, though this time, it was starting to get unsettling. At long last, the blonde spoke. “That’s bad!”

Bad? “Define ‘bad!’”

“You’re not gonna be able to land!”

That was bad. “If we can’t land, how are we going to get you on board?” The roar of the wind was starting to physically hurt. It was like the constant rush of a freight train in his head. Looking at the radar again, Scott blinked when he saw the V2 wasn’t there. It had vanished totally off the screen. In a panic, he said to Tiffany, “The V2 is gone!”

“I know,” she answered. “He just bugged out when I showed up on his radar! I climbed high to make sure he could see me.”

Relief struck. At least they didn’t have to keep contending with that. Straightening out the transport again and easing it toward the north, he asked, “What are we going to do?”

Tiffany answered with no hesitation. “If you try to land yourself without any of those things, you’re going to crash and die!”

“I just did a barrel roll!”

“What?”

He tried to explain his thoughts. “I think I’m getting the hang of this thing! I think I might be able to land it.”

“You just did a barrel roll right now?”

“No, earlier, in combat!”

She sounded beyond exhausted. “That’s probably because you had Pilot Assist! It’s like a mini-autopilot that lets you do things smoothly. But now that’s gone!”

A mini-autopilot? He looked at Becan, who was still obliviously looking ahead, body quivering in the never-ceasing wind. “Are you trying to tell me,” Scott asked Tiffany, “that everything I did was because of a mini-autopilot?”

“Yes!”

“Fantastic!” Scott couldn’t believe it. What he’d been through certainly hadn’t felt like autopilot. Was he so bad at flying that even something like Pilot Assist couldn’t smooth him out? If so…

…this was indeed very, very bad.

“I uhh…” shouted Tiffany as uncertainly as he’d ever heard her. “I might have an idea! But it’s nuts!”

In light of his current option of crashing and dying, “nuts” wasn’t sounding so bad. “What is it?”

“Can you go up at all?”

Pulling up on the stick, Scott was able to get the Pariah to indeed lift—but only after the joystick was pulled completely back. “Barely!”

“What about down? Try that out, but very slowly!”

Scott pushed the joystick forward as instructed. To his surprise, the transport had no trouble whatsoever going in that direction. The dipping of its nose was so startling, it almost scared him. Yanking back again, he brought the Pariah back up to even keel. “Yes! I can go down fine!”

“Good! That means your elevators still work in one direction! Start climbing to about twelve thousand feet, but don’t go any higher! If you do, you’ll put everyone in the troop bay in danger!”

Twelve thousand feet? That had to be above the detection zone—the Pariah was supposed to be staying low to keep hidden. “Are you sure?”

“You don’t have time to argue! Do it now!”

“All right!” Pulling back on the stick again, the Pariah slowly began its upward ascent. “What’s the plan?” he asked, watching the altimeter as their altitude increased.

There was a pause. “I’m going to come aboard!”

Scott blinked. He looked at Becan, who was completely removed from the conversation. His focus returned forward. “What did you say?”

“We’re going to climb to twelve thousand feet together, side by side! Then you’re gonna nose dive, kill all thrust, and deploy the Pariah’s emergency parachutes! I’m gonna hold position over you, open my canopy and, umm…dive to you…”

She could not be serious. “Tiffany, that’s not possible!”

“It is! I’ve actually seen it done!”

Seen it done? By who? “Pilots do this?”

“I saw a stunt person do it!”

A stunt person? “You’re not a stunt person!”

“No, but I am a skydiver! And I’m like, really good!”

This took “nuts” to new heights. “There has got to be an alternative!”

“You’re not gonna be able to land that plane! You’ll die trying!”

“Can’t I just softly crash land somewhere—”

She cut him off sharply. “We’re doing this! I’m already picking you up on radar! I’ll be alongside you shortly!” There was another pause. “This is going to work!” she said. “If we do it right, it’s going to work! Trust me! Those are my friends in there, too!”

This made even the wildest of his battlefield feats seem like playground material. But if she was right, and if he truly wouldn’t be able to land the Pariah anywhere with his limited flying ability…blowing out a nervous breath, he half shook his head. “All right, Feathers! This is all you!”

“We’re totally gonna do this! The two of us will be famous!”

“That’s great! Maybe they can build a monument where they peel us off the ground!” He checked his altimeter again. Five thousand feet and climbing. “Let’s do this, then!”

It didn’t take long for the Superwolf to appear as an unidentified blip on the Pariah’s radar as it approached rapidly from the rear. All the while he watched Tiffany zoom toward them, they went over the plan in full detail. Tiffany would park her Superwolf over the Pariah and enter an inverted hover, opening her canopy and simply allowing herself to fall out while the Pariah nosedived downward. The Pariah would then deploy its emergency drag parachutes—which, to Scott’s knowledge, had never been used—slowing its fall just enough for Tiffany to dive down to it and leaving her Superwolf to fly back to Northern Forge on autopilot. As crazy as the plan sounded, it was within the realm of physics, and according to Tiffany, done by a number of stunt skydivers. It had just never been attempted by her. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

There were only two seats in the Pariah’s cockpit and three people who needed to be fully strapped and harnessed in, once Tiffany was inside. There was only one option available: Scott would have to unharness himself, allowing Tiffany to slide herself into his lap, at which point they’d harness themselves together as one. At least Tiffany was slender. If all else failed, Scott knew it would be up to him to relinquish the harness, hold onto something tightly, and just pray for the best. If he flew off into the sky for a freefall rendezvous with Planet Earth, so be it. At least his team would have a fighting chance to survive.

The other issue they had to contend with was the leveling off of the Pariah without fully-functional elevators to assist with lift. That, ironically, was the easiest solution. Tiffany wouldn’t try to lift the Pariah’s nose. She would continue dropping the nose until they came out of the freefall inverted, at which point she would simply roll it upright.

Despite the constant need to shout over the rushing of wind, the discussion was as thorough as any regular mission brief, with questions back and forth, references to the laws of gravity, and assurances from Tiffany that this plan would—not could—work. By the end of the conversation, Scott was believing it. This would go down in the Fourteenth’s annals of insanity, but it would work. It had to work. They were literally banking everything on it.

The only order of business left was to inform the rest of the crew, if not of the entire plan, at least that some intense aerial maneuvers were about to be made and that there was no need to panic. As Scott told David through the comm, everything would be “under control.” That was the most Scott felt the need to elaborate. Becan, on the other hand, was given the full rundown. The Irishman’s response to the entire explanation was one word: “Bollocks.”

As the conversation came to an end, Tiffany pulled up directly on the side of the Pariah, offering Scott a thumbs up. Staring at Tiffany in the cockpit of the Superwolf, it struck Scott for the first time how brave this young woman was. She was sitting pretty in a safe cockpit. Nobody told her she had to do this. She was risking her life by leaping out of an aircraft on her own. Scott was fairly confident that not even he had that level of courage.

“You ready to do this?” Tiffany asked over the comm, the blonde’s voice already scratchy from the excessive amount of screaming required to hold a conversation.

Looking across at her, Scott shook his head. “Not at all!”

“We’re gonna do it!” she said with as much confidence as she could muster. “Just do what I tell you to do and trust me that it’ll work! It’s like, the ultimate trust fall!”

That about summed it up. Blowing out a hard breath in his helmet, Scott prepared himself. His hands were soaked with sweat inside their gloves. He felt like he was the one about to leap into the sky. Finally, he gave her the word. “Ready when you are!” It was a one-hundred-percent lie.

Tiffany hesitated.

Oh no…she’s freaking out.

“Dive when I say to!” Her voice cracked. She was crying! “Dive, now!”

Scott obeyed without even thinking, pushing the stick forward. As the nose of the Pariah downturned and the force of the wind against him and Becan shifted, Scott felt his stomach turn on its end. The sky gave way to ground, and the next thing Scott saw was the Earth coming straight toward them from twelve thousand feet in the air.

And he panicked.

Becan pressed back against his seat both from the force of the wind pressing him back and his own urge to back away. The Irishman was totally paralyzed.

Scott, for all of his bravado, was on the verge of tears. There was nothing but ground taking up his view. This was not how planes were supposed to fly. His freak-out was interrupted by Tiffany’s voice yelling at him again. “Pull back on your throttle! Kill all your thrust! Deploy the parachutes!”

Scott yanked back on the throttle; the Pariah’s thrusters died. Gravity took over. They were in a total freefall. Reaching out, he slammed his hand on the button to release the emergency drag parachutes. To his utter relief, they deployed. There was a noticeable jolt as the Pariah’s downward speed slowed ever so faintly.

“Keep the nose pointed down!” Tiffany yelled. “If you don’t, we all die! Dropping now—see you in a bit!”

See you in a bit. Like she was swinging by his place for a date. Scott’s voice was shaking almost uncontrollably. “Got it!” He didn’t have it—not at all. Fighting with the stick, he did his best to maintain a straight downward course.

From her inverted and hovering Superwolf, Tiffany released from her harness. The next thing she felt was the rush of open air as gravity pulled her down. The blonde’s hair and flight suit were getting pummeled. Gaining control of her limbs, she rotated her body until the Pariah was in her sights. Tucking her arms in, she entered a dive position and made her rocketing descent.

The reversal of Scott’s stomach felt imminent. Though they were still far above the ground—his altimeter read ten thousand feet—it was growing larger just the same. This was like a horrible dream.

Scott had no idea if this was going to work. Though Tiffany could presumably communicate to him from her helmet, he dared not try to contact her during her dive. She needed to be solely focused on the drop. The drop. As the reality of what they were doing registered, Scott felt lightheaded. Turning his head to the side, he searched as much of the sky as he could see. He couldn’t find her anywhere. Come on, Tiff. Get over here.

Tiffany’s eyes narrowed on the Pariah as she grew ever nearer, coming in at an angle that would take her right for the side of the transport. It didn’t matter if she nailed the cockpit with a bullseye. The most important thing was that she made physical contact with the transport at all. With every second, the Vulture grew closer. Repositioning her body, she prepared to make contact.

Scott’s heart rate was through the roof. He felt like he was about to have a stroke. Where was she? Was she even close? Had she missed? On the verge of a prayer, the blonde caught his eyes. Sliding down the edge of the Pariah’s hull on his side, Tiffany’s arms desperately tried to snag part of the open canopy structure. But she was going too fast. To Scott’s horror, she slid right past the nose and toward the ground before he could even reach out to grab her.

Oh no.

This was not what they’d planned. This was not what needed to happen. This was…

The inclination struck Scott immediately. Drop the parachutes! Slapping his hands on the parachute release, Scott sent them flying off into the sky as gravity pulled the cursed Vulture with all its might. The distance between Tiffany and the Pariah’s nose stopped growing. Thrust! Grabbing the throttle, Scott eased it forward. Slowly, the Pariah sped to catch up with her.

It wasn’t what they’d planned…but it was working. Tiffany was “falling upward” toward the Pariah, drawing within meters. If he could keep the nose pointed straight down, and if she could keep herself moving in a straight line…

…she was doing it!

Scott looked at his altimeter, and all hope was turned on its end. Six thousand feet! They were halfway to the ground.

Just stay straight. You can do it, Tiffany. Just stay straight!

Tiffany turned her head to line up the Pariah’s cockpit. The next thing Scott knew, she was at the transport’s nose.

I have to catch her.

Lifting his harness, Scott let go of the joystick. At this point, with Tiffany already sliding up the nose, there was no need to keep the Pariah steady. The Valley Girl was already there.

Just don’t turn around, Tiffany! Don’t start spinning out. I’ve got you. Reaching out with his arms as far as he felt comfortable reaching, he snagged the pilot’s ankle as she floated up to him. A second later, he wrapped his arms around her.

It worked. Of all the crazy, irrational, harebrained ideas they could have come up with, this one actually worked. Tiffany Feathers had just skydived from one airplane into another.

The moment Tiffany maneuvered herself onto his lap, her hands flew to the joystick and throttle. Reaching overhead, Scott pulled the harness down atop both of them. Against all odds, it fit over them both, latching into place with a click that Scott felt.

The Pariah had a pilot.

Tiffany pushed the throttle forward and slammed down the joystick. Scott looked at the altimeter again. Three thousand feet! Scott peered over her shoulder to get a look at the ground. When he saw it, his eyes widened.

A new burst of thrust came from the Vulture’s engines as the downturn began, and again, the force of wind shifted. But Tiffany was doing exactly what she said she was going to do—she was rolling the Pariah upright, but inverted.

Two thousand feet. They were a quarter of the way upright. Seventeen hundred feet. He could make out individual trees. Fourteen hundred.

At that moment, Scott decided to close his eyes. Through the queasiness, he forced a breath of calm. There was no benefit in watching the ground until they smacked into it. He didn’t need to see that. What he needed, more than anything, was to pray.

Pull us up, God. Let her pull us up.

Though he had no idea what their altitude was with his eyes closed, he could still feel the Pariah leveling off. He knew that every degree closer to level they came, their rate of descent would lessen.

We’re in Your control.

There was a noticeable shift in wind. Once more, he found himself pushed straight back by an oncoming gale. But it was a gale that felt familiar. With semi-reluctance, Scott opened his eyes.

They were level! The sky was below them, the ground above them, but they were level. Easing the joystick to the side, Tiffany executed a barrel roll as smooth as anything Scott had felt in a Vulture—she made it seem effortless.

They were flying normally.

Leaning his head back—a feat made easy by the force of wind—Scott exhaled a long overdue breath of relief. Resituating himself in a way that allowed Tiffany to sit more comfortably, Scott wrapped his arms around her waist to hold her in place. The act might not have been necessary with a harness there, but it felt natural. If nothing else, it was assurance that he had her. Leaning close to her ear, he hollered, “Are you all right?”

Tiffany didn’t answer out loud. She only nodded her head quickly, almost as if the question wasn’t even something she wanted to think about. She’s not all right, Scott thought, no matter how she responds right now. What she had just done was…indescribable. Had he not seen it, he wouldn’t have believed it—and he still wasn’t sure this was all real. This one would take time to sink in.

At least time was now something they had.

*

HAMI STATION WAS a smoldering wreck. As Logan Marshall stood there, soot-faced and shell-shocked with the other members of Vector, his impassioned eyes took in the pillars of smoke and strewn bodies that constituted EDEN’s attempt to wrangle in the outlaws. Three lost V2s. At least twenty dead soldiers. A major satellite station destroyed.

With every passing second, Logan’s breaths grew more brooding and intense. His jaw was clenched so tightly, he could have snapped an iron bar between them. It was taking everything inside him to prevent himself from going ballistic.

It wasn’t enough.

Snarling loudly, Logan raised his broken chaos rifle, spun around, and slammed it into the dusty ground.

“Hey!” said Marty, several feet away. The Cajun marched toward him. “Watch ’dat thing, those things are expensive!”

Pointing to the burning facility, Logan erupted. “Remington was here and we let him bloody disappear!”

“We do not know that Remington was here,” said Chiumbo, nearing them from the direction of several injured soldiers from another Vulture. “We do not know that any of the soldiers on the ground here were Remington. No one verified it.”

“That’s really going to help me sleep better tonight!” said the Australian.

Running his hand through his tussled brown hair, Marty sighed in exhaustion. “Look, chief, they got us today—there ain’t no doubt about ’dat. But ’dere’s gonna be other days. We already know ’dis guy is good. He wouldn’t have been able to pull off what he did at Cairo if he wasn’t.”

It did nothing to calm Logan down. “Meanwhile, your world-renown pilot flies into a bloody explosion—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Marty, eyes narrowing as he raised a hand. “Watch y’self now, chief.”

“It’s my fault, all right? The buck stops with me!” Logan snarled. “I wasn’t perfect, which means we weren’t perfect, which means Remington is high-tailing to wherever it is he’s hunkering down! I’m sorry, but I don’t plan on handling that well.”

Stepping between them, Chiumbo focused on Marty. “We forget what Marshall has seen. Someone he respects was kidnapped by this man, Remington. Was Captain Faerber not emotional at the death of his son?” Marty’s glare remained, though he drew an intentionally calming breath. The Mwera lieutenant went on. “An angry outburst is to be expected, and we will not hold it against him.” Before anyone could interrupt him, he continued on. “This is war. Everything here,” he motioned all around them, “all that you see, is a trench. We are in it. The acknowledgment of failure is not to be run from, it is to be learned from—and learn, we must.”

“Yeah, we’ll bloody learn,” the Australian answered flatly. When the other two men eyed him suspiciously, he went on. “I mean that, gentlemen. We’ll bloody learn. It starts with me.”

“That is good to hear,” Chiumbo said, pausing for a moment. “Now, let us go and retrieve the rest of our team then wait for another transport to return us to Novosibirsk. We regroup, and we pursue again.” His expression grew stern. “This was not a victory on Remington’s part. This was a ‘lucky break.’ His luck will run out.”

Leaning past Chiumbo, Marty held a fist out to Logan. “Hey. We gonna get ’dis guy. All right?”

After a moment of reluctance, Logan bumped the fist with his own. “Right.” His positivity was forced, but it was there.

Casting his eye skyward toward the radio tower, Chiumbo queued up Lisa. “Can you see anything up there, Tiffin?”

“Smoke and dust,” the sniper replied.

“Well, then,” Chiumbo said, looking at Logan and Marty once more. “One of us must go search for Minh on his own.”

Logan raised a hand. “I’ll go.”

The Mwera lieutenant raised an eyebrow.

“No, I’ll be fine,” said Logan, sensing the wariness. “I’ll go track him down.”

“Very well.” Chiumbo looked at Marty. “Go check on Sasha and Pablo.”

The Cajun bellowed sardonically, “Check on ’dem? ’Dey oughta be checkin’ on us!”

As if on cue, a voice from the other team—Sasha’s—cut through the conversation. “Comrades, are you all right?”

“We’re fine,” answered Marty. “Get your butts back in front. Time to regroup and reload.”

There was a pause. “I think regrouping and reloading might have just gotten easier,” Sasha said.

The three men up front swapped glances. Chiumbo lifted his comm. “What do you mean?”

Through the comm, Sasha inhaled a breath. “Pablo just found something the outlaws left behind—and it’s big.” Logan, Chiumbo, and Marty looked at one another. “I think we just found the break that we needed.”

22

Tuesday, March 20th, 0012 NE

1749 hours

Norilsk, Russia

THE RIDE BACK to Northern Forge was uneventful, which was a very good thing. EDEN knew the Pariah’s last known whereabouts and the direction it was heading. Scott almost expected more Superwolves to cut the cursed transport off somewhere, though thankfully such a cut-off never came. For all practical purposes, they were home free, even if the process of actually landing at home was going to be a bit more complicated.

Landing the Pariah without vertical thrusters wasn’t something Scott was concerned about. After all, Travis had done that once already. What concerned Scott was Tiffany’s mental state. The blonde was frazzled—he could see it and feel it in her rigidness. As chatty as her default status seemed to be, for the Valley Girl to not say a thing after doing what she’d just done spoke volumes. This one would take a while to recover from.

And so Scott simply enjoyed the view in a way he’d never done before: without a glass canopy to protect him. It was strange how after the aerial feats they’d just pulled off, flying without a canopy almost felt serene, particularly as daylight gave way to dusk. It was like flying a convertible under an orange and purple sky. With every minute that passed, the fear that’d gripped him so terribly dwindled. They were going to get out of this. They’d all have their feet on the floor of Northern Forge again.

Except for Travis and Donald.

It wasn’t until well after they were underway with Tiffany at the helm that thoughts of the deceased entered Scott’s mind. Travis was dead. Travis Navarro, their comic-book-reading pilot, was dead. The heaviness that hit his heart was a deep one. It went far beyond the loss of just the Pariah’s pilot, and in a sense, its advocate. This was the loss of a dear friend. A loved one for them all.

How is this going to affect Boris?

The Fourteenth had gotten used to surviving. The last death they’d faced that had impacted them to any degree was Captain Clarke. No unit was supposed to lose their pilot—not this way.

As Scott leaned back in the pilot’s seat with the wind pressing against him, memories of Travis drifted through his mind. He’d always been an endorser of Scott in the unit, even when Scott was new and hadn’t rightfully earned the trust of everyone else. Travis was a dreamer—and oftentimes a day dreamer. He’d been accused by some of being lazy, and perhaps that was true to an extent, but no one could question whether or not he was dedicated. Travis was the reason the Pariah was still running, long before it’d been shipped off—supposedly—to Atlanta for repairs. The Pariah was Travis’s faithful companion. His feral dog. Who could claim ownership of the Pariah now?

His arms tightened instinctively around Tiffany’s waist as they hit a spell of turbulence. Right then, he had his answer. Tiffany was alive because of the Pariah. That cursed transport had flown her to Novosibirsk and saved her and her comrades’ lives on its own. Perhaps no one else was supposed to claim ownership of the Pariah. Maybe choosing an owner was the Pariah’s decision. Could a torch choose who it got passed to? If so, the onus was on Tiffany to decide whether or not to accept it—whether or not to truly become a part of the Fourteenth, even if only by circumstance. He’d honor whatever decision she made.

Donald…

Of the Fourteenth, only Scott, David, Becan, and Jayden had known Donald from Richmond. The demolitionist’s death wouldn’t impact the other members of the Fourteenth as traumatically as Travis’s would, but Donald was a friend to Scott and his fellow transfers. He was Scott’s “offensive lineman.” He was a good person. Scott may have been closer to Travis due to proximity, but he refused to let that diminish the death of Donald Bell.

Scott didn’t know Javon or Tom terribly well—at least not as much as the Fourteenth had gotten to know Tiffany—but he knew what they must have been feeling. Donald hadn’t been gunned down by the Bakma, or crushed by a Ceratopian neutron blaster, or bitten in half by the gaping maw of a canrassi. He’d been killed by someone wearing an EDEN uniform. What Falcon must have been feeling was the same thing Scott was feeling now in regards to Travis.

Unless the Falcons blame us for Donald’s death…

But how could they? If anything, the Fourteenth had come through for them, rescuing the Falcon survivors from the Great Dismal Swamp on their own accord. While their circumstances certainly weren’t pleasant, it wasn’t because of some injustice served to them by Scott and his comrades. The anger Falcon already felt toward EDEN for shooting them down in the first place would only grow stronger.

Lilan needs to harness this anger. He can use it.

Scott shook his head, ejecting the thought from his mind. Now wasn’t the time for that. What Lilan needed to do was be there for his operatives. That was the only thing that mattered right now.

I still think like a Nightman.

Scott had Thoor to thank for that.

As Scott’s thoughts transitioned from one train to the next, the terrain beneath the Pariah transitioned, too. In a span of several hours, the forests grew denser, then snow-covered, then sparse again as they approached the global tree line. The farther north they traveled, the more the temperature dropped. Even with Scott’s heater on full blast, he was shivering. He couldn’t imagine how cold Tiffany must have been. The blonde was shaking constantly. It was an aspect of flight he hadn’t thought about, and he was fairly sure she hadn’t, either. It made him wish his heaters were external—at least that way, some warmth from his armored suit might seep through to her. As it stood, though, she was protected by her flight suit and nothing more. At least she was handling it—at least for now.

In time, the familiar mountainous terrain of northern Krasnoyarsk Krai showed itself. Norilsk was just around the corner. Easing the stick forward, Tiffany brought the Pariah’s nose down for what Scott presumed was a run at the valley where Northern Forge was located. The temperature was even more blustery there, with fresh snow slamming into their faceplates as they neared the valley, forcing Tiffany to wipe the residue from her flight suit’s visor. The blonde was getting pelted hard.

At long last, the mountain face of Northern Forge was revealed. Her hand shaking in the frigid air, Tiffany pulled back on the throttle. The rate at which the Pariah slowed down was almost jolting. Reaching for the cabin’s comm, she brought it to her lips to presumably warn the base of what was imminent, though fell shakily silent once the comm was by her. She was too frozen to talk.

“Do you want me to tell them?” Scott asked.

Tiffany nodded without words and put the comm up, missing the holder and causing the cord and microphone to whip back through the air. Scott snagged it. Queuing up Northern Forge, he said, “This is the Pariah! We’re coming in without vertical thrusters! Open the door and clear the hangar!” Upon releasing the microphone button, he asked Tiffany, “That all right?” She nodded silently again.

The channel crackled as a Russian accent replied to Scott. Scott couldn’t understand a word, the man’s voice lost amid the roaring of wind. In the event that the man was asking Scott to repeat himself, Scott relayed the message a second time.

As the mountain base came into view, Scott could see that the hangar doors were already open. Parked in place right where it’d been before the mission was Tiffany’s Superwolf. The autopilot worked. The good fortune almost felt alien.

Scott cast a quick look at Becan as the Pariah made its turn for approach. The Irishman was still sitting rigid, his head down as if zoned out or unconscious. As the transport drifted slowly through the open hangar doors of Northern Forge, Scott felt Tiffany’s body finally relax. Even before the Vulture clunked down in place beside the Superwolf, she seemed to almost sink into him. This was a broken, decimated girl.

Welcome to the Fourteenth.

The Pariah fell onto the concrete, its already-deployed wheels bouncing harshly as it came to a rest. Along the back of the hangar wall stood a row of wide-eyed technicians, each one staring at the vacant space where a canopy was supposed to be. In the midst of them, an operative emerged, pushing her way through the crowd of larger men as her dark, inverted bob bounced in place. As soon as Esther’s brown eyes locked onto the cockpit, she gasped.

Tiffany leaned her head back, resting it atop Scott’s shoulder as her entire body slumped. Reaching forward, Scott pulled off her helmet as strands of her sweat and ice-soaked hair rose with the helmet then fell.

“Hey!” Scott said to her, his voice instinctively booming until he realized he no longer needed to scream. When he addressed her, Tiffany quickly sat upright. Grabbing the harness, she detached it and lifted it up into its housing. Standing shakily up from Scott’s lap, the tattered Valley Girl reached out her hand to steady herself. Rising up exhaustedly behind her, body swaying all the while, Scott pulled off his own helmet and tossed it to the cockpit floor. His focus went straight to the gathering crowd. “We need the doctor, we have wounded!”

“What happened?” Esther asked, calling out from below the Pariah’s nose as the others acknowledged Scott’s orders. “Where’s Travis? Where the hell is your windshield?”

The scout’s questions went unanswered as Scott moved to Becan’s side, freeing the Irishman from his own harness then pulling off his helmet. The smell that resulted made him convulse. Vomit. The Irishman had spewed it out in his helmet—his entire face was covered. Tiffany opened the cockpit door that led to the troop bay. The stench of throw-up intensified tenfold. Covering her mouth with her fist, Tiffany stepped back, knelt down, then threw up the contents of her own stomach in reaction to it. For a second consecutive time, the occupants of the Fourteenth’s Vulture had thrown up in-flight.

“I’m sorry,” Tiffany said to Scott, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her flight suit before lurching forward again and releasing a second wave. Tears formed in the pilot’s eyes as she lowered her head down, attempting futilely to keep the tips of her hair from floating in the freshly-reeking pool.

Though Scott heard her, his focus was on Becan. Shaking his friend, he asked, “You all right?” The Irishman looked dazed—but he was conscious. Silently, Becan nodded his head once. That was all Scott needed to see. Stepping back from Becan, he made a beeline toward the cockpit door.

“What happened?” asked Esther again with more urgency. “Where’s Travis?”

“Travis is dead,” Scott answered, not bothering to look back as he slid past Tiffany and into the carnage of the troop bay.

On the ground below, Esther went motionless. With her mouth hanging open, the scout stared gut-punched at the Pariah’s canopy-less cockpit.

The troop bay was a disaster. Blood was everywhere. Vomit was everywhere. The only sounds Scott heard were groans of pain coming from every direction, but with helmets on half the heads present, it was impossible to tell where the groans were coming from. The face of every single operative without a helmet was dripping with vomit—Scott could only imagine that when all the helmets came off, it would only get worse. With squishing wetness under every step, Scott danced through the mire to reach David. “Hey, man, you all right?”

Head rolling back, David’s eyes fixated on Scott. Weakly, his older friend answered, “Yeah.” Scott unlatched David, who staggered in place. “We home?”

“We’re home, man,” Scott answered quickly, touching David’s face to upright the man’s head.

Seeming to snap out of it, David looked at him and said, “I’m all right, man.” Taking a single step forward, David suddenly screamed in agony the moment his left leg touched the floor. He collapsed and Scott quickly caught him.

It was right then, for the first time, that Scott saw David’s leg. David’s slayer armor was ripped open with a savageness Scott had never seen before—like he’d been shot by a running chainsaw. Eyes widening, Scott pulled David up on his shoulder. “Medic, in here, now!” Only when Scott looked up to see if a medic was anywhere nearby did he realize the extent of the unit’s injuries. They were widespread like the Fourteenth had never experienced.

Travis’s body was slung up against the back corner of the troop bay, his limbs gruesomely twisted in ways they weren’t supposed to go. Donald’s body was leaning in similar fashion against the opposite wall. Released from his harness by Tiffany, William fell limply to the floor. Only when Tiffany knelt beside him and pulled off the his puke-filled helmet did Scott know that William was even still alive. Lilan was clutching his arm and moaning. Boris, his shoulder socket grotesquely bloodied and out of place, looked a total physical and emotional mess. Everywhere Scott looked, he saw blood and despondence.

Then, secured inside a cargo harness on the far side of the troop bay, Scott saw it: the hacking kit. As one of the base’s nurses rushed into the troop bay and in Scott’s general direction, he passed David onto her then set his sights on the kit. Weaving through the traffic, he removed the kit from the cargo mesh and held it in his hands. In the midst of the death and devastation that surrounded him, two words came to Scott’s mind.

Mission accomplished.

It wasn’t the proudest thought he’d ever had, but that didn’t make it untrue. They had gotten out of Hami Station with everything they’d wanted—crippled EDEN satellites and a download of their data. They had something they could use.

After what it’d cost them, Scott had every intention of holding onto it.

Running up the lowered troop bay ramp, Esther searched frantically for Jayden, calling his name as she drifted past the bodies of Travis and Donald. When she reached the top of the ramp, the Texan answered her. The pair moved in on each other quickly, meeting in the middle of the troop bay and colliding into an embrace.

“Are you okay?” Esther asked, pulling away to stare at him.

Jayden nodded, head tilting to the floor. “I think I’m the only one in here that didn’t hurl.” When the Texan lifted his head again, his good eye looked past her into the corner.

Esther followed the stare, where Travis’s body came into view again. “What happened to him?” The scout lifted her fist to her mouth, biting down as if to stop herself from either breaking down or throwing up.

“He got shot through the cockpit,” the Texan answered solemnly. “He was killed by a sniper.”

The scout said nothing. Her eyes simply stayed on the body of the fallen pilot. Slowly, her countenance succumbed to the pain, and she could look no further. Though no tears fell, Esther buried her head into Jayden’s chest, grabbing hold of his sleeves with clenched fists. Hair dangling in front of her face, she said, “Had I been there…”

“Then we mighta’ lost you, too.” Esther looked up at him. Before she could say anything in response—not that she even appeared on the verge—Jayden eased her off of his chest and backed away. “C’mon,” he said, motioning with a turn of the head to the rest of the troop bay. “Let’s help these guys out.” Affirming in silence, Esther followed behind Jayden as they set out to assist the wounded.

While operatives were being assisted out of the Pariah, Tiffany stayed behind in the Vulture’s cockpit. Slumped back in the pilot’s seat, she stared despondently at the hangar wall, though she truly was staring at nothing. The stench of vomit no longer affected her. Between the amount of expelled fluid on the floor, on her sleeves, and soaked into the tips of her hair, immunity to the foul odor came quickly. Now nothing affected her at all.

Closing her eyes, Tiffany pressed her palm to her face, her fingers sliding lethargically into her hairline, where they met her matted and sweat-soaked tendrils. She felt a mess. She looked worse. But she didn’t have it in her to care.

She could hear every sound behind her. Every groan of agony from one of the wounded. Every offering of help by those who’d made it out unscathed—at least physically. Every cough, every wet squeak of boots on the floor. Every utterance of disgust. She wanted to help. To rise up out of the pilot’s seat and walk into the troop bay. Even if there was no one she could physically aid, she would at least be there. For them, who right now, needed anything good to cling to. She wanted to help so badly.

But nothing happened. No muscle moved, no neck turned back to see. There was no motion on her face at all—just the blank stare of a disheveled mannequin beauty queen. She looked dead.

“Tiff!”

The voice cried out to her from the hangar, its raspy distinctness—its familiarity—finally garnering something physical from the pilot. Flinching slightly, Tiffany leaned forward, staring through the gaping void where a canopy had been. Just through the hangar entrance and staring up at Tiffany was Catalina. The raven-haired rocker—her best friend—was staring from her wheelchair, her leg sticking straight out in its plaster cast.

“Are you all right?”

For several seconds, Tiffany didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Then, at long last, she just shook her head.

That was all Catalina needed to see. “I’m coming up there!” Hands gripping the rubber tires on her wheelchair, the Canadian propelled herself forward. She barely made it three feet before Tiffany stood and yelled back.

“No!” Below, Catalina stopped, looking up at her friend in the cockpit again. Shoulders hanging, Tiffany said, “I’ll come down.”

“I can go up there myself—”

The Valley Girl gently cut her off. “No…you can’t.” There was no offense in Tiffany’s tone—only the understanding that Catalina was offering more than she should have been expected to supply in her recovering state. Brushing her hands through her hair, Tiffany slipped out of the chair and turned for the cockpit door.

Then something caught her eye.

It was a small, silver object, crammed into a space in the back corner of the cockpit. That it seemed stuck in place must have been the only reason it’d stayed there during the open-air flight. Pausing for almost ten seconds, Tiffany finally approached it, her body language akin to fear. As if she didn’t want to know what the shiny object was. But she knew.

Handcuffs.

Only one cuff was visible, the other cuff and its attached chain jarred beneath a crack in the Pariah’s rear cabin wall. Sinking to her knees, she reached out with trembling hands to pull it free. After a small amount of jostling, the handcuffs broke loose. The key was still in them from when Tiffany had last unlocked it.

For the first time, Tiffany’s eyes shimmered. As she cradled the handcuffs like a delicate piece of jewelry, the pilot’s face twisted. Emotion finally poured out. Lowering her head against one hand, she broke down.

“Tiffany?”

Once again startled by the sound of her name, Tiffany lifted her head quickly and looked to the troop bay. It was Becan. The Irishman, removed from his Nightman armor, was standing in the mob, head canted in her direction.

“Yeh all righ’, girlie?”

Sucking in hard and without taking a moment to think about it, she answered him, “I’m fine.”

His viridian eyes surveying her, he drew in a breath and nodded a single time. “Tha’s good. I’m not.” As Tiffany’s head lowered, Becan looked at the handcuffs in her hands. Silence fell between them. At long last, Becan broke it with a somber voice. “I am too numb to cry, but I will. I loved tha’ man, as did we all.”

Again, tears fell from Tiffany’s eyes, visible despite the pilot’s attempts to hide them. So she covered them while Becan spoke.

“I know he would’a—” Becan caught himself. “I know he is…so thankful to yeh for savin’ his crew. An’ for savin’ his ship. I may never wrap me head around wha’ I saw yeh do, but I’m alive. I’m busted in me brain, but I’m alive. Every person who made it back to this place has you to thank for tha’.” Forcibly, he smiled. “So thank yeh, Tiffany Feathers.”

“Tiff?”

Again, Catalina’s voice echoed from the hangar floor, where she was waiting for Tiffany out of view. Tiffany angled her head only slightly upon hearing it.

Taking a step back, Becan said to her, “Now get up off tha’ floor, pilot. I got a funny feelin’ we’re not done yet.” With that final word, the Irishman turned around and shuffled away.

Sucking in hard through her nostrils, Tiffany shouted out with a trembling voice, “I’m coming, Cat!” By the time she looked back in Becan’s direction, the Irishman was gone, having disappeared through the crowd of those sorting through the troop bay. Slowly, she looked at the handcuffs again.

Travis’s crew. Travis’s ship. Travis’s life, given in his best efforts to save both. Tiffany had stepped in in Travis’s place, doing what he would have begged her to do had he had a voice in which to plead: become the pilot of the Pariah.

Tiffany knew exactly what she needed to do.

Giving the handcuffs a final gaze as she ran her fingers over their shiny surface, she lifted them with her right hand and pressed one cuff gently against her left wrist until it latched onto her skin, not so tightly. Taking hold of the other cuff—the one that once belonged to Travis—she wrapped its chain around her wrist, too, then latched it in place right beside the other one. The two cuffs hung like bracelets. Exhaling a slow, steady breath, Tiffany rose from the cockpit floor. Taking a moment to collect herself, she turned to make her way through the troop bay to meet her friend.

*

Shortly after

The medical bay was chaos. Natalie watched wide-eyed from her quarantine cell, her face and hands pressed against the glass as if that would somehow improve her view, as bleeding operative after bleeding operative was brought into the room.

In the middle of them all was Gavriil Shubin. The Northern Forge doctor looked overwhelmed, barking orders in Russian to Marina and another nurse present. In the cell next to Natalie’s, Ju`bajai watched with keen interest, the Ithini’s opaque, oval lenses focused on the action.

Motioning for several onlookers to step out of the way, Gavriil cleared a path for two fold-up cots to be carried in. While the injured operatives—Lilan, David, Boris, and William—waited painfully on the far side of the room, the two cots were set up. Combined with the three beds that were there previously, the cots gave the medical bay room for five patients. Had Auric and Catalina not been given wheelchairs, thus freeing their beds for occupancy, not even the cots would have been enough to house everyone.

As one of the nurses assisted William onto a bed near Natalie’s quarantine cell, Natalie asked, “What happened?”

After putting William on the bed with assistance from another staffer, the nurse answered Natalie quickly. “They just came back from a mission.”

“What kind of mission?”

“The painful kind,” William answered with a wince.

The nurse looked at Natalie and frowned. “I do not know. I only know that they came in hurt. I am afraid you must ask someone else if you wish to know what happened.”

As it happened, that someone else came. Across the room, capturing Natalie’s attention the moment he walked through the door, was Scott. Focusing on Scott’s words as best she could through the noise, Natalie tried her utmost to eavesdrop.

“Do you guys need help?” Scott asked the nurse as she hobbled with David toward one of the cots. When it became apparent that his words went unheard, he looked elsewhere. Seeing Gavriil furiously washing his hands at the sink, Scott trotted to him, dodging his injured comrades all the way there. “Hey, is there something I can do?”

Drying his hands and snatching a pair of rubber gloves, the doctor answered, “You can get out of the way and let us work.”

“Do you have enough people to handle this? If not, I’ll help however I can.”

Gavriil glared. “This is not what we do, Captain Remington. We were never intended to be a military facility! I will do what I can do, but I make no promises.”

“I wasn’t asking for any promises—”

“I know what you were asking. The answer is ‘no,’ there is nothing you can do.” He stopped briefly, only to point. “You can leave through that door. That is the only way you can help me.”

Though his shoulders sagged, Scott backed out of the way. Pressing his back against the wall in the far corner, Scott watched and listened to as much as he could take in. William was getting the most attention, though Lilan was getting the full focus of one of the nurses, no doubt because of his age. They were all so messed up. What kind of weapons had done this? Scott had never seen Nightman-caliber armor shredded so effortlessly. As Gavriil, a nurse, and two random staffers surrounded William, two on each side, Gavriil gave a three-count in Russian. When the count ended, the four hoisted the demolitionist’s body, transferring it awkwardly from a stretcher to the top of the operating table. William was let down with a heavy thud and the doctor cleared the staffers away.

William was hurt. David was hurt. Boris was hurt. Lilan was hurt. Travis and Donald were dead. Not to mention the emotional damage that people like Tiffany and Becan had experienced or the fact that the Pariah was a total wreck. They’d gotten their tails collectively handed to them. And this was a win.

According to those on the ground, members of Vector had been part of the ground assault. That spoke volumes. That meant that EDEN was ready to send their best at a moment’s notice. Wherever they went now, if they were seen, they’d have to contend with the most elite of EDEN’s military. Not that they were going anywhere, anyway—not with the Pariah the massive paperweight that it was.

Whatever we got from Hami Station better be worth it. Antipov had better be happy. Scott was sick of this. Sick of combat, sick of the straw they’d all drawn. Vector. Countered by freaking Vector. It was hard to imagine their situation getting any worse. I wonder if they know what they did to us. They surely must have known they’d taken out the Pariah’s pilot. The moment Scott took the controls, the Vulture was flying as if it was inebriated. There was no doubt in Scott’s mind that they knew.

Wherever you are, you wait. You’ll get what’s coming to you. Turnabout is fair play.

It was in the aftermath of that thought that Scott stopped.

This isn’t Vector’s fault. They think they’re the good guys in this. They have no idea what’s happening on this side of things.

What he would have given for a ten-minute audience with Klaus Faerber—preferably with impact glass between them. If he could only show them that what he and his comrades were doing was unavoidable and for the greater good…

…but killing the innocent staffers at Hami Station wouldn’t help that perception. Valentin had gunned down Hami Station’s workers like they were the targets. No wonder the Fourteenth looked like the villains.

As if on cue, the keeper of Northern Forge walked through the door of the medical bay. The moment Scott saw him, the words slipped right out. “What in the hell were you doing?”

“Excuse me?” Valentin asked.

“You killed civilian workers.” Grabbing the keeper by the collar, Scott slammed him back against the wall, knocking over instruments from a nearby shelf. “Why in the hell were you killing civilian workers?” So calamitous was the eruption, the whole of the room turned to face them. Even Natalie, in her cell, flinched at the outburst.

Snarling, Valentin shoved Scott violently with his palms. Every making of a fight seemed on the verge of breaking out. “My sentries should have executed you the moment you arrived. You will be the ruin of this facility—of all of us!”

Pointing off into the distance as if it meant something, Scott continued his tirade. “This isn’t their vecking war! You gunned them down like you enjoyed it.” He’d heard all the gory details from Jayden. Had he been there, he might have put Valentin down himself.

The keeper snapped. “This is everyone’s war!” Stepping up to Scott, he stared the American fulcrum down face-to-face. “You said those very words yourself—see the big picture. That was the big picture!”

“The big picture doesn’t involve killing innocent people. If we do that, we’re no better than EDEN!”

“We have already killed innocent people!” Valentin boomed. He dug his finger into Scott’s chest. “Look at the armor you wear now. Look at mine! We have already crossed that bridge.”

The keeper was right—but that didn’t have to be the end of it. “We made mistakes, but that doesn’t mean we’re damned to make them the rest of our lives. We have a choice. Next time, choose better.”

Calmly and steadily, Valentin said, “Do not ever tell me what you think I should do.”

Scott felt his heart hardening. Whatever happened that turned Valentin from chaplain to killer, it’d dug itself in deep. The only option Scott had—at least at this point in time—was to turn and walk away. So he did.

Casting a final look to the room and its occupants, almost all of whom had been watching the confrontation, Scott pushed past Valentin and limped for the hall. No one made any attempt to stop him—their focus simply returned to their former tasks. Except for one person.

Still standing against the glass wall of her quarantine cell, Natalie Rockwell watched Scott as he exited. The former Caracal captain’s face remained stoic, though her emerald eyes showed something different from the disdain they’d echoed toward him previously. She bore the look of a woman lost in thought. At long last, as the chaos of the medical bay returned in full form, Natalie turned around, slid down the wall, and stared ahead into nothingness.

Scott needed to get away. From the medical bay, from the hallways, from everything. Travis Navarro and Donald Bell were dead. With the urgency of immediate survival behind Scott, that new reality could sink in. Both men’s bodies were in the hangar, laid out across the floor and draped with white cloth. Scott didn’t know what the plan was in regards to their place of burial, but he intended to be a part of that conversation. Were it up to Valentin, the keeper would likely just throw their bodies out of the hangar and let them bounce down the mountainside into oblivion. And if that happened? Valentin would be the next body to get thrown out—Scott didn’t care how many of the keeper’s sentries he had to fight through.

But right now, the only place in Northern Forge that was calling him was his room. With David in the medical bay, he was assured of privacy. Scott entered his room, closing and locking the door behind him. Shutting off the light, he sat back against the wall in the far corner, next to the crutches he hadn’t been using, and closed his eyes, sliding down the wall until he hit the floor. Inhaling a deep breath, he released it slowly to savor the mere ability to do so in peace. His sense of sound still hadn’t returned in full, though the echo of the roaring wind in his face was gradually being replaced by the sounds of footsteps in the hall and overheard Russian conversations. It was a welcomed change from the cacophony of sound in the Pariah.

Scott did not find sleep; it wasn’t a part of his search. After sitting in silence for almost an hour, his mind awash with everything from situational summarization to grief from the loss of two friends, Scott finally gathered his willpower and rose to go shower. Next to the dose of peace and quiet, cleanliness was the next thing Scott wanted. He could only imagine how those who’d been on the battlefield must have felt.

Just as no one had knocked on Scott’s door all the while he sat in his room, no one dared to look him in the eyes as he groggily trundled, this time with his crutches, toward the showers on Level-3. There was no question that word of what had occurred was passing around Northern Forge, if for no other reason than because the base’s own keeper had been a part of it.

The amount of things that had transpired over a short span of time astounded Scott in the worst possible way. What would the rest of the week bring? He didn’t want to think about it. The only thing Scott Remington wanted to think about was water, soap, and shampoo.

And each one was wonderful.

*

EDEN Command

At the same time

“DO NOT SIT UNTIL you find where he is!” Benjamin Archer yelled into his comm before he slung it from his hands into the wall where it shattered. Standing beside him in his suite in uncomfortable silence was Malcolm Blake. Glaring at the president, Archer pointed his finger for emphasis and said, “This is derailing everything we’ve worked for!”

Archer had just gotten off the comm with Jaya Saxena, who’d given him a report of the events that’d taken place at Hami Station, as it’d been reported to her by Judge Torokin. That Vector had done some damage to the Fourteenth was no consolation for the fact that the Fourteenth had both destroyed the satellite facility and escaped. Sweeps of the area around Krasnoyarsk Krai, where the Fourteenth was now suspected to be hiding, revealed nothing. The British judge’s last nerve was utterly frayed.

Clearing his throat quietly, Blake said, “What exactly did destroying Hami Station accomplish for Remington?”

“Quintana was attempting to ascertain a direct location for him based on outlaw transmissions from Krasnoyarsk. The satellite they were using to trace those signals got its signal directly from Hami Station. Hami Station was the link, and now it’s gone.” Archer’s face was red like a beet. “They cut Quintana off at the knees.”

“How did they know?” Blake folded his arms. “Do you think they have someone working for them on the inside?”

“Of course, someone is working for them.” Striding back to the wall where he’d slammed the comm, he bent down to collect its broken pieces. “It had to be someone from Novosibirsk. Someone must have heard Quintana’s plan and relayed it to Remington in secret.”

There was a knock at the door. Calling out without hesitation, Archer asked, “Who is it?”

“Chief Mendoza!”

“Hector,” Blake said, as if further elaboration was needed.

Stepping past the president, Archer opened the door to allow his security chief to enter. “What is it?” Archer asked once the door was reclosed.

Mendoza almost looked embarrassed. “Captain Faerber is looking for you. He sent me to find you.” The Hispanic chief frowned. “He intends to ask you about Todd Kenner.”

“Dear God,” said Blake painfully, rubbing his eyes with his face as he lowered himself onto Archer’s couch. “Pauling picked the right time to retire.”

Scowl deepening, Archer focused on Mendoza. “Inform Captain Faerber that, despite the severity of our current situation, we will not require the services of Todd Kenner—not now, not ever.” The amber-eyed judge exhaled. “He is simply too great a risk.”

Dipping his head in acknowledgment of both men, Mendoza said, “I will inform Captain Faerber at once.” The security chief took a step back and paused as if waiting for one of the judges to say something else. When neither did, he opened the door and stepped from the room.

Alone with Archer once again, Blake sighed. “Remington is turning out to be quite the headache.”

“I want his head on a plate.” Chewing on his tongue, Archer said, “After I interrogate him.”

“Well,” said Blake, meandering to the door, “I supposed I’d better prep a statement about what just took place.” Archer said nothing in response, and Blake placed his hand on the doorknob, turning it in preparation to pull the door open. He looked back at his counterpart before he did. “Is this going to be worth it?”

It took a moment for Archer to even indicate that he’d heard the question. When he did, the look he gave Blake was almost appeasing. “Yes. I assure you, it will be.”

It was enough to draw out the faintest of half-hearted, weary smiles from the president. Without a word, he opened the door and stepped out, leaving Benjamin Archer in silence.

Archer stood motionless, eyes glazed over in the direction of the door from which Blake had just exited through. Running his hand through his champagne-blond hair, he blew out a long breath then closed his eyes to stretch his neck. Rolling his head in a circle, he brought it level again and resumed his forward gaze, reaching briefly for his comm to make a call before realizing that he’d shattered it minutes before. Looking at its remnants as they rested on his countertop, an irritated frown formed on his lips. Striding forward, Archer walked out of the door and into the hall.

*

Novosibirsk, Russia

One hour later

TOROKIN WAS WAITING on the airstrip when the Vector hunters touched down. Having been briefed by EDEN Command on everything that’d taken place, his task was simply to wait for his comrades to arrive—in whatever condition they were in. With his hands shoved into his pockets beneath a blisteringly cold wind, the Russian judge approached the back of the transport as its rear bay door whined down. Standing at the back of the V2, packed in like sardines with the other stragglers retrieved from the ground at Hami Station, were Logan and his soot-faced team. Torokin had fully prepared himself for expressions of disgust, but when Logan and Chiumbo approached him with borderline smirks on their faces, the Russian judge angled his head curiously. “What?”

Neither Logan or Chiumbo said a word. They simply stepped aside, allowing Torokin to walk past Minh, Marty, Sasha, and Lisa. Arms crossed confidently, and with a look far more sinister than could be dubbed “Smiley,” Pablo was waiting at the far end of the transport, past the rest of the survivors who’d been picked up in China.

Torokin glanced back to the others behind and around him before he said, “You all look quite pleased for having just lost Jīngshén-2.”

“We may have lost Jīngshén-2,” said Logan, marching up behind him then motioning to Pablo with a head nod. “But we found something else.”

Taking the cue, Pablo stepped aside, allowing Torokin to see what was hidden on the seat behind him. Upon the revelation, Torokin’s initial reaction was a confused stare—but it didn’t take long for the shift to come. Eyes widening ever so faintly as he stared down at the object, Torokin lowered his chin as a dark stare of focus emerged on his face. Voice almost grave, the Russian judge asked, “Are they going to use that?”

Behind Torokin, the edge of Logan’s lips curved upward. “They already have, mate.” Pablo held up his hacking kit, leaving its digital screen in front of Torokin to view. As soon as the judge saw it, the arch of his brow lowered. “We’re going to get him,” said Logan with finality.

After a moment’s pause, Torokin took a single step back from Pablo, turned around, and walked out of the transport—past the miscellaneous survivors, past Minh, Marty, Sasha, and Lisa, and even past Chiumbo. At no point did his jaded stare meet anyone else’s—at no point did they do anything but stare through the ground. As the occupants of the troop bay watched him, he marched several paces, very slowly, out onto the airfield. Ever so faintly, his head angled to the side, until at long last, he turned back to face the operatives fully. Drawing in a breath and returning his gaze to even keel, he spoke. “My comrades…it is time to catch an outlaw.”

*

EDEN Command

ARCHER WAS IN the middle of shaving when the pounding came to his door. Abandoning his efforts, the British judge hurried to it, pulling it open to see Malcolm Blake on the other side. The bald, black Briton was almost out of breath. Looking bewilderedly at his counterpart, then glancing both directions down the hallway to see if anyone was present, Archer asked simply, “What is it?”

There was no pause from Blake. With the traces of a grin emerging from the midst of his panting, he answered, “You’re not bloody going to believe this.”

PART III

23

Tuesday, March 20th, 0012 NE

1833 hours

Norilsk, Russia

“EXCELLENT WORK, Remington.”

The words from Antipov didn’t bring much comfort—but they brought some. As Scott leaned back in his chair in the conference room alone, he raised his comm to his lips to give a response. “What exactly are we going to be able to do with this intel we brought back?” The extent of what he knew about whatever it was Boris had retrieved from Hami Station was that it had access codes that had something to do with satellites. He was yet to get an explanation in plain speak—not at the fault of Antipov or Boris. There simply hadn’t been time to give one in the rush of the operation.

“What you have brought back are access codes to EDEN’s satellite network—that is, their global network, not simply the area in Krasnoyarsk Krai. With these codes, we will be able to track EDEN’s movement across the planet. This gives us a major strategical advantage, particularly when the world is searching for us.”

That was all Scott needed to hear. In a game where avoidance was key, the benefit of such information was obvious. “I’m glad what we brought back is going to help.” It wasn’t exactly a break they’d caught—they’d certainly paid the price for this—but it was something good they hadn’t possessed before. In their current situation, that counted for a lot.

“As am I,” Antipov said, “which brings us to our next order of business: Nagoya.” Scott’s ears perked. “I have spoken to my contacts in Japan, and they have arranged for transfer of salvage parts to a workshop in Tokyo. To EDEN, it will simply look like these parts are being inspected, by familiar contractors, even. There will be no reason for them to suspect otherwise.”

“So we’re going to Tokyo, now?” Scott shook his head. By the time they were finished with this, they’d have traveled the whole world.

Antipov hesitated. “Not exactly. A bullet train will be bringing the salvage parts. Your job will be to intercept that train en route, take the equipment, then return.”

Now that raised an eyebrow. “We’re hijacking a train?” The term outlaw might have been appropriate for them, after all. This was a page out of the Wild West.

“More or less, yes. But I must warn you—this train will be heavily protected. The salvage parts being brought to Tokyo are considered sensitive. Not even I can diminish that security level.” The whole while Antipov spoke, Scott’s frown grew deeper. “These will be highly-skilled individuals protecting this equipment. Though I hope it is not the case, be prepared to take casualties.” The eidola chief paused. “I know you have already suffered some close to you, and for that, I apologize. You are in a pitiable position.”

To hear words like that from a man whose skill was telling people what they wanted to hear was depressing.

Antipov went on. “I am sending you the timeline of the Tokyo-bound train now, as well as information on the car that the salvage parts will be in.”

Scott nodded his head absently. “Sounds good.”

“We have fought hard to come to the precipice of where we are now, Remington. At all costs, our mission must be fulfilled. Are you committed to fulfilling it?”

“Yeah,” Scott said, thinking the question a bit strange. “Of course, I’m committed. I’ve been committed so far, haven’t I?”

When Antipov answered, it almost sounded like he was smiling. “Yes, you have. You have exceeded every expectation set before you. Now do it once more.”

Once more. One final time more. If this device was all it was cracked up to be, that Tokyo-bound train held the key to everything.

“Good luck, my friend and comrade,” Antipov said. “I will be going radio dark as we set up in Chernobyl—I suggest you do the same. I am now entrusting this operation solely to you, for you are there, and I am not. Are you comfortable as operations commander?”

He was. “You know it.”

“Remember, Remington. That train holds our future. You must reach it, whatever the cost.” Drawing a breath, the eidola chief said, “Antipov out.” The channel closed.

Leaning back in the chair, Scott blew out a breath as he ran his fingers through his hair. Operations commander. It was no surprise that Antipov had relayed and entrusted complete control of the operation to him. After all, as the eidola chief said himself, Antipov simply wasn’t there. Who else was going to lead this thing? Valentin?

Scott’s comm chirped, indicating that Antipov’s transmission had come through. Putting his feet back on the floor and leaning forward, Scott scrutinized the information on the display.

Tuesday, March 27th, 2214 local time.

Car NP 469759 (red).

This was really happening. There was something about seeing that information on the display—those words—that brought the entire situation home for Scott. They were going to hijack a bullet train in Japan. God, what in the world do You have me doing? Is this even Your doing at all? Things were so crazy now, it was hard to know what was what. And this wasn’t even touching on the Svetlana side of things. Where in the world was she?

Survive this week. Intercept that train. Prove that Archer is a traitor, clear the Fourteenth’s name, then you’ll have all the time in the world to find Svetlana.

At that thought, an unexpected one came to him. I wonder if Lilan’s video message ever got to the media? It felt strange not to have heard anything on it thus far. Antipov hadn’t even mentioned it in their final conversation. I wish I had thought to ask—I have so much going on. That message getting out was critical. He made a mental note to ask Valentin about it the next chance he got.

Rising from his seat, Scott made his way toward the door. There was so much that had to be done in the upcoming week. There was so much that had to be done today. A meeting with the able operatives of the Fourteenth and Falcon Platoon was needed. They needed to know where they stood—where this operation stood. They needed to know that things were going to be okay.

Convincing himself of that first would be a good place to start.

*

Clean.

Never in her life had a feeling been so appreciated. Never before had it been so relished. For almost an hour after returning from Hami Station, Tiffany stood under the showerhead of one of Northern Forge’s bathrooms. Despite Catalina’s offer to act as lookout, Tiffany insisted—at least for that time being—that she be alone. As much as blood and sweat needed to be washed from her, so did the mental and emotional trauma she’d faced at not only the death of someone who’d been her saving grace after the Great Dismal Swamp, but at a parachute-less freefall that was affecting her more the more she thought about it. With the rush of adrenaline gone, the blond-haired Valley Girl was, quite simply, shaken. Though sixty minutes of warm water on her scalp wasn’t a cure-all, it was a therapeutic step in the right direction. It was a good place to start. What a shower couldn’t do for her, Tiffany knew Catalina would—and so that was where she went next. She needed her best friend.

For the hour that followed, Tiffany sat on the bottom bunk in her room, her hair air-drying in a loose ponytail as she talked in an almost stream-of-consciousness manner. She talked about her father and the ramifications of his death in how it indirectly had saved Falcon Platoon’s life. She talked about flight patterns and tactical maneuvers, little to none of which Catalina could understand, though she acknowledged as if she did. She talked about Richmond, and Philadelphia Academy, and the day she decided to enlist.

Despite the Valley Girl persona Tiffany exuded, she prided herself on being hard-working and diligent. They were character traits Catalina could attest to, as there was rarely a time at Philadelphia when Tiffany wasn’t doing something scholastically-oriented. She studied like no one else. She, indeed, worked hard. Neither of them could ever have imagined that it would pay off like this.

And so inevitably, the conversation transitioned from the past to the present, in how it pertained to EDEN’s betrayal of Falcon Platoon, the events of Novosibirsk, Northern Forge, and Hami Station, and ultimately, the losses of Donald Bell and Travis Navarro. As for the former, everyone liked Donald. Despite the tension created by Tom in what were essentially segregated camps, Donald’s personality was so laid back and agreeable that it was impossible not to consider him a friend as much as a comrade. Donald never met a stranger, even if he said little. He was the big brother of Charlie Squad. That they would never hear his deep voice greeting them again was gut-wrenching.

Then, there was Travis. Despite the bickering between them during their handcuffed time together, Tiffany liked Travis. Not romantically, per se, but as a person. As a harmless, affable sidekick of sorts who could give it almost as much as he took it. In the midst of the turmoil, Travis had been a dash of—as best it could be described—fun. But now, only turmoil remained.

It was in the midst of that particular observation that Tiffany lowered her head and broke down, much as she had in the Pariah shortly after their return. The only difference between then and now was that, now, she had a best friend to hold her. Catalina was more than happy to play that part. Pushing herself forward slowly in her wheelchair, Catalina set her hand on Tiffany’s knee and simply was there.

“I have to fix that ship.” The words could barely be made out between the blonde’s quiet heaves.

Shaking her head in confusion, Catalina asked, “What?”

“The Pariah. I have to fix it.”

Catalina looked at Tiffany as if unsure of how to respond. “Tiff, that’s the last thing you need to be worried about.”

“No,” Tiffany said adamantly, despite the tears. “It’s the thing I need to be worried about. That’s the Fourteenth’s ship. That’s Travis’s ship.” Taking a deep breath, she searched the area for something to wipe her nose with, to no avail. The Valley Girl used her sleeve. “No one else is going to look after it.”

“Okay, so what?” Though Catalina tried to smile, it came out as forced as her question sounded incredulous. “That thing probably needs to be retired, or broken down for scraps—if the scraps are even good. I mean God, Tiff, it doesn’t have a canopy.” Concern crossed her face. “Trying to fix that ship isn’t going to bring Travis back.”

Tiffany eyed her friend sternly, almost as if she was offended. “That ship is Travis. It was his reason. All he ever talked about while we were handcuffed together was that ship, and how happy he was that I’d brought it back, and how he’d been flying some other ship, but it wasn’t the same.” She wiped her eyes again. “That ship was to him like your favorite guitar is to you.”

Though she made a face, Catalina understood the analogy. She still didn’t accept it. “Except my favorite guitar isn’t going to help me here, just like that ship isn’t going to help you—or anybody.”

“Cat!”

The Canadian raised her hands in defense. “All right, all right. We’ll fix the ship. Or, we’ll try, at least.”

Tiffany shook her head and looked away. “I need to talk to Boris. He and Travis were really close.”

“Tiff…”

“What, Cat?”

Frowning, Catalina said, “I think you just need to worry about yourself, right now. You’re worried about everyone else. These aren’t even your people.”

Tiffany looked at Catalina in disbelief. Slowly, her eyes narrowed. “My people? What in the hell do you mean by that?”

“Come on, Tiff, you know what I mean.”

“Back at Richmond, you were all crazy about being in Remington’s old unit, and now here you are, in his unit now, able to help his comrades, and you don’t even care.”

Catalina eyed Tiffany flatly. “I’m competitive. You know that. Remington was a challenge bar.”

“The Fourteenth is more than a challenge bar to me.” Tiffany’s eyes reddened. “They became my friends, as much as Charlie Squad. I saw these guys living together, I lived with them. They’re just like us.”

“You’re totally misunderstanding what I’m saying.”

Pushing up from her bed, Tiffany stepped past her friend as Catalina wheeled around in her wheelchair to keep pace. “I’m gonna fix that ship, and I’m gonna help the Fourteenth. They need a pilot, and I am one.”

Making a loud ugh sound, Catalina said, “Do you even care that Donald’s dead at all?”

With her back still to Catalina, Tiffany froze. Slowly, she pivoted back around.

“I’m sorry,” Catalina said quickly. “I didn’t mean that.”

“How dare you…”

Wheeling forward, Catalina reached out for her blond counterpart again. But Tiffany pulled her hand back. “Tiff, come on, you know I didn’t—”

“I was Donald’s friend, all right?” Tears shimmered again, though this time they were of anger. “Yes, I care that he’s dead! Did you really just ask me that?”

“Tiff…”

Tiffany pointed to herself. “I just spent days handcuffed to a man who saved my life, and now that man is dead. I’m sorry, I’m a little affected right now!” Her voice grew louder with every word.

“Okay,” said Catalina, “I think we both need some time to chill. Things are crazy, we’re both stressed.”

“You don’t even know what stress is! Did you lose your dad? Did you just jump out of a freaking plane?”

Jaw setting, Catalina looked away.

“My life is a hell!”

The Canadian erupted. “Everything isn’t about you!”

At the comment, Tiffany blinked as if caught off guard. When her friend’s words finally sunk in, her expression fell heavy.

“This is not our team!” said Catalina, eyes shimmering as she pointed toward the far wall as if indicating something very distant. “We left our team in the Great Dismal Swamp. I’m talking about Major Tacker, and Frank, and Leslie, and Mark.” At the mention of Mark Peters’ name, her voice broke. Through trembling lips, she said, “Do you think you’re the only one dealing with loss? You lost someone you’ve known for a couple days. I lost…” Catalina made a fist, placing it against her mouth as if trying to hold herself back. Her unfinished words hung in the air.

“Cat…”

“I lost someone who meant a hell of a lot more to me than Travis could ever have meant to you.”

Tiffany closed her eyes and lowered her head.

“Not once have you asked me how I was doing in all this, how I was dealing with things. It’s been the Tiffany Feathers Show. And now I have to sit here in a wheelchair because I may never walk again, listening to you talk about how awful things are for you?”

“Cat, I—”

Catalina pointed at the door. “Go!” The volume of her voice made Tiffany jump. “Go fix your damn ship. I’ll just hang out here in my stress-free life.” Rolling back in her wheelchair, Catalina turned away.

Kneeling down on the floor, Tiffany covered her face with her hands. “I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean it.”

“Just go.”

For several seconds, Tiffany stayed crouched on the floor, hands slid over her mouth as she stared at Catalina from behind—though the Canadian never made an effort to look back. Tears still shimmering, Tiffany said weakly, “I’m having a hard time right now. I’m sorry. I love you.” Looking down as her expression twisted, Tiffany waved her hand in front of her face, as if to stave the tears away. Standing up silently and without words, she hurried for the door.

“I love you, too,” Catalina said quietly.

Tiffany paused at the precipice of the door, her hand on the knob just as she was about to pull. Glancing back, she saw that Catalina’s head was still facing the other direction. But her awareness was felt. Tiffany said no more words as she pulled the door open and stepped out into the hall, closing it behind her with a quiet click.

She walked away alone.

*

Tom King stared down at the massive body bag before him. Though Tom’s dark eyes were glazed and reddened, his tears had long ceased falling, replaced by a silence that was as solemn as it was declarative. The soldier was angry. Angry at EDEN for betraying them. Angry for his cousin’s death. Donald deserved more than this. They all did.

The Alien War had never been of interest to Tom, despite the obvious ramifications that it held for humanity. And though he’d enlisted with EDEN years earlier, spending two entire years feigning things such as obedience and dedication, his military career was one more intended to keep him out of trouble and provide him with some sort of path than to actually serve. It was also not his idea, but his grandmother’s—and one did not, at all costs, go against g-maw. The law had been laid down, and the next thing Tom knew, he was donning a flashy silver and blue armor with “King” etched into its nameplate. Life could have been worse.

Tom knew he was selfish. From his perspective, there was only one person he’d ever met who was worth serving. Himself. He knew, to an extent, that he was a fake. To have made it this far, playing the right role for the right people was a necessary part of the game. But the game had always been just that—a game. Until now.

Unlike the others around him who’d found themselves in the predicament of Northern Forge, Tom wasn’t concerned with what his family would think when word of Falcon Platoon’s aligning with the Fourteenth broke out. At worst, they’d shrug their shoulders and swap quips about how they weren’t surprised that he’d landed into trouble, or how they’d seen it coming a mile away. At best, they might find it in some deep, dark corner of their heart to care to the faintest degree. But Tom didn’t care. Not about them, or what they thought, or how this affected them. Tom cared about Tom—and this had affected Tom deeply.

“Hey, man!”

Looking behind him, Tom watched as Javon approached, trotting through the hangar to where the young soldier stood.

“What you doin’?” Javon asked. “Been lookin’ all over for ya.”

There was no need to answer, and Tom didn’t. He simply returned his gaze to the body bag. Walking to Tom’s side, Javon went on.

“Hey—look at me, man.”

“I don’t want to look at you.”

Javon made a tsch sound. “Yeah, you do. Turn your head.” Tom complied reluctantly. “You know we gonna get ’em, right?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Tom said, “It ain’t gonna bring him back.”

“I ain’t said it was gonna bring no one back. But it’ll seal the deal wit’ you.”

“They shot him, man.” Tom shook his head in a manner that made it seem like he’d only barely accepted the words. “They shot him in the veckin’ face.” The fact that EDEN had shot Donald in return for Donald’s firing on them first was of no significance, at least not to Tom. A wrong was a wrong, regardless of the action that’d prompted it. “Man, what I’m supposed to do? You know he kept me straight.”

Looking down at the shorter soldier beside him, Javon paused for a moment, then said, “So keep yourself straight. Don’t you see what this is all about?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“We at war.” As the words sunk in and Tom’s lips pressed tighter together, Javon went on. “These boys we rollin’ with now, the Fourteenth…they got this all figured out.”

Tom shot Javon a stupid look. “Man, what you gonna learn from the Fourteenth? You ain’t seen what they got goin’ on? They in a worse place than us.”

“Hey,” said Javon, putting his hand on Tom’s shoulder and pivoting the soldier to face him. “We in this together, now. It’s you, and me, and them. Ain’t no one else left from the crew.” He punched Tom in that same shoulder. “We the pain, baby. Now it’s time to bring it.” The slender, afro-haired soldier nodded with assurance. “I get this Remington cat. He’s tryin’ to bring it all to the light. That’s what we gotta do.”

“Man, so what if we bring it to the light?” Tom asked. “It ain’t gonna bring Don back. It ain’t gonna bring Knight back, or Mott back.”

Javon only shook his head. “I ain’t said it would. But it’ll give their deaths meaning—and that means somethin’. But I’mma need you, King.” He held out his fist. “I got you?”

For several seconds, Tom offered no response. He simply stared down at the body bag, as he had for so long before Javon walked into the hangar.

“C’mon, T, don’t leave me hangin’.”

Looking almost resigned, Tom hit Javon’s fist with a lazy one of his own. “You got me.”

“Look at me.”

“Why I always gotta be lookin’ at you?”

With a voice that was completely focused, Javon said, “It’s time to be men.”

Turning his head ever so slowly, Tom looked his friend in the eyes. After a moment of stillness, the shorter soldier nodded his head. “All right.”

“Training begins now,” Javon said, taking a step backward as his departure began. “Let’s bring ’em somethin’.” Pivoting around, Javon made his way toward the double doors and out of the hangar.

For a final time, Tom turned his eyes upon the bag containing Donald Bell. With his reddened eyes gone and his emotions poured out, he had nothing left to give his cousin other than purpose to his death. Purpose to his name. Sucking in a long, steady breath through his nostrils, Tom placed his hand against the bottom of the bag, where the demolitionist’s foot could be felt beneath it. “I love you, cuz.”

That was the extent of Tom’s eulogy for his fallen. There were no prayers, no spoken reflections, no vows of vengeance. Just a parting expression of love. Donald would be the only one receiving Tom’s love for a long time. Taking a step back, Tom broke his gaze away from the body bag and focused on the double doors through which that Javon had just disappeared. Without looking back, Tom followed the same path.

*

Out.

That was the only place Catalina wanted to be. Out. From the moment Falcon Platoon had been shot down over the Great Dismal Swamp, the girl her teammates called “Hellcat” had been a girl confined—literally and figuratively. The loss of function in her left leg, when combined with the time spent in a prison cell in Krasnoyarsk, then the medical bay at Northern Forge, had given the Canadian rocker the worst case of cabin fever she’d ever felt. The sudden need for beds in the medical bay for those injured at Hami Station had been somewhat of a blessing, tragedy of the dead and injured aside. It meant that Catalina, regardless of the progress of her recovery, was forced out of the medical bay by necessity. As far as Gavriil was concerned, Catalina had a wheelchair and a plaster cast. She was good to roll away.

And roll, she would.

Despite the outward severity of her conversation with Tiffany, their spat wasn’t something that was hanging heavily on her mind. She and Tiffany had gotten into heated arguments before—such was life with a roommate, as they’d been at Philadelphia Academy. That this brief one had been among their most cutting was a testament only to the high-pressure situation they’d suddenly been thrust into. She and her bestie would be fine.

And so out Catalina went, not in search of Tiffany or anyone else in particular, but simply to roam the base that she’d been living in for several days but had yet to explore to any real degree. It was nice to get out and about, even if it wasn’t on two legs. She was already in terrific shape, handicap aside, so pushing the wheelchair along was something she quickly became accustomed to. As long as her extended leg stayed out of harm’s way, she could speed right along.

Her exploration began on Level-3, the heart of Northern Forge, with its auditorium, conference room, cafeteria, and lounge—among other small rooms sprinkled here and there. It was fascinating, but busy, and she quickly found herself more an obstacle for others to dodge than a carefree, free-wheeling explorer. She didn’t linger there, quickly opting to take the elevator down to Level-2, base storage. It was there, somewhere in the middle of the grid-like labyrinth of storage rooms, that Catalina became lost.

For as simple a layout as Level-2 was, with rooms clearly identifiable as for armor, weaponry, general storage, and other things, it was surprisingly difficult to gather one’s bearings after several turns had been made. With no clear signs pointing to the elevator, Catalina found herself on several occasions passing one of the same rooms she’d seen, with no idea how she’d looped back around to it. Too embarrassed to ask for directions—and not entirely sure she’d be able to decipher the Russian answers, anyway—she opted to wander until she found the right way to go. It wasn’t like she had anything better to do.

It also didn’t help that Level-2 was deceptively large. It seemed much larger than Level-3, which, despite its variety of rooms, was pretty straightforward. And so the Canadian rocker wheeled on, half-exploratory, half-panicked, keeping her eyes peeled for both new things and the elevator, which she intended to make a beeline for when she found it.

Though Catalina and Tiffany’s exchange would be mutually forgiven, the swelling of Catalina’s emotions to the surface of her heart—particularly as they pertained to Mark Peters—would be difficult to shake. It had been five days since Mark had been killed along with so many of their other teammates over the Great Dismal Swamp. Five days since he’d been sucked out the back of their Vulture in an explosion of fire. There’d been no meaningful last words between them—no lingering, final look into his eyes from afar. One second he was there, and in the next…

…in the next, she was rolling around in a wheelchair in Northern Forge. There’d barely been enough time between then and now to breathe, let alone grieve. Besides the tears that’d fallen as a result of her leg injury, she’d scarcely cried any at all. She’d just been numb.

Mark had been more than a teammate to her. The two of them had had something. Was it special? She didn’t know. But it’d been theirs. She’d never called it love, even when Mark had asked her outright about it. But it wasn’t just lust, either. They pushed each other physically and emotionally. Truth be told, had she wanted to take their relationship further, into the realm of the definable, Mark probably would have gone for it.

Of course, none of that mattered now. Mark was gone. Life had changed. Thinking about what could have been—what perhaps should have been—was of no benefit in her current situation. Instead of facing those feelings, she tried to block them out for the sake of moving on.

Tried to.

At least she still had Tiffany.

Catalina had never envisioned herself as a sidekick, yet in the duo that was she and Tiffany, that was what she’d become. While Catalina had never been one to demand the spotlight or put herself in a position to be the center of attention, she exuded more than enough confidence to slide naturally into the role. People went where she wanted them to go. People did what she wanted them to do. People wanted to know what she was up to. Or at least, that’s how things had once been.

Simply put, Catalina had been upstaged by a mall rat.

That was putting it crudely, and any effort her mind made to describe things in such a way was met by immediate self-chastisement. She was no more special than Tiffany, and most certainly no more deserving of the perceived limelight. She just wasn’t used to being forgotten. It didn’t anger her. More than anything, it made her reflect. Perhaps she wasn’t the wildcard she’d always thought she was. Maybe Catalina Shivers was part of the backdrop. Somehow, she couldn’t accept that—yet there she was, rolling around on her own, lost on Level-2 of Northern Forge, with no one seeking her out or asking for her input on anything. Had they, she’d have gladly given it. No, this operation was Tiffany’s, the new adopted sister of the Fourteenth, led by the man Catalina herself aspired to emulate at Richmond—to the point where maybe, just maybe, Catalina was a little bit bitter about it. But friends didn’t get bitter. Or, at least, they weren’t supposed to. Perhaps she wasn’t as good a friend as she thought she was either. Had she been a neutral third party observing her own behavior, she’d have dubbed her mindset, “self-pity, party of one.” But she knew that thought was silly.

This wasn’t a party at all.

At long last, the sound of something new caught Catalina’s ears. Though it wasn’t the dinging of the much-sought-after elevator, its strangeness drew her toward it. It was grunting, coming from a room just ahead of her. Deep grunts, followed by heavy breaths, repeated over and over. There was no mistaking what it was: someone was working out. But on Level-2? Did Northern Forge have a gym that she didn’t know about? As things turned out, the base did, tucked away in the middle of rooms dedicated to foodstuffs, clothing, and boxes of ores. The room wasn’t a genuine gym—it was as makeshift as one could be. This was empty space that’d been repurposed with weights, mirrors, and a handful of workout machines, just slightly less elaborate than one would expect to find at a mid-rate hotel. But that a gym existed in the labyrinth of Level-2 wasn’t what surprised her the most. What surprised her was who she found in it. There, in the middle of the room, sitting in his own wheelchair with weights in each hand, was Auric Broll.

“Auric?” she asked from the doorway.

Stopping in mid-curl, the facially-scarred German slayer turned his head in her direction. When he saw Catalina, he smiled. “Hello.”

Of all the members of the Fourteenth, Catalina had come to know Auric the best, by proximity. The two had been side-by-side, literally, during their entire stay at Northern Forge. Though she wouldn’t have described her knowledge of him as “well,” she nonetheless had exchanged a decent amount of small-talk with him in the medical bay over the course of their time there. He seemed genuinely nice, for what little she knew. She’d referred to the two of them as, “Team Cripple.” He’d laughed at it.

That was the extent of their friendship.

The raven-haired soldier rolled toward him. “What are you doing? Should you be doing that?”

Laughing deeply, the sweat-covered German answered, “That is why they are fifteens.” He lifted up the weights.

“Fifteens, or not,” she said, giving him a look that was part wry, part wondering if he was crazy, “you just had major knee surgery. I…kind of can’t even believe you can do that.”

“Do not let your backup see the field,” Auric said. When she gave him a strange look, he chuckled. “I learned that from the captain. It is, umm, American football term, I think? I must show that I am useful, or I will be replaced.” As Auric thought about it, another small laugh escaped. “Ironic, I think Remington was a backup.”

As Auric exhaled and set the weights down on the rack, Catalina wheeled up to him. “Just, you know, don’t hurt yourself. Your knee’s being held in place by plaster, not titanium.”

“Oh, yes, I know.” He smiled. “It hurts.”

Catalina eyed the German curiously as silence fell between them. At long last, she tilted her head and asked, “You’re kind of like a human battery, eh?”

“I am sorry?”

“You just go, and go, and go. Even in the medical bay, you were fidgeting the whole time. You just…you have to be doing something.”

Nodding his head, he looked down almost sheepishly. “Oh, yes. Yes. I like to work.” He stretched toward the rack for a towel and wiped the sweat from his face. “You came here to work out?”

“Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no, no.” She smirked. “I actually value my recovery. I’m here because I’m lost.”

“Oh?” At that, Auric laughed. “Lost, okay. Umm, where were you trying to go?”

She didn’t have an answer for that. “Honestly, I just wanted to get out on my own. I’ve been cooped up so much—you know the feeling. But I guess, uhh, now I’m looking for the elevator.”

“Ah. Okay.” Pointing toward the doorway, he motioned to the left. “Follow this hall, right there, to the third-to-last intersection. Go left, it is in the middle of that hall.” He shook his head and gave her a funny look. “It sounds harder than it is.”

Watching him for a second, Catalina nodded her head. “Well, all right. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

As the Canadian slowly wheeled backward a few feet, Auric turned back to the weight rack, reaching for the pair of fifteens he’d just set down. Only when he was on the verge of resuming his curls, did she speak to him again. “Okay, what’s the deal with you?”

“I’m sorry?” Auric asked, huffing and setting the weights back again.

“I feel like we should know each other better. We’ve been side-by-side for days. What’s your story?” she asked, going on with more questions before he could answer. “Where are you from? Why are you here? How’d you get the scar on your face? Stuff like that.”

Eyes widening a bit at the mini-barrage of questions, he laughed and half shook his head when she was finished. “Well, the face is easiest. I was shot by a plasma bolt.”

Catalina’s jaw dropped. “In the face?”

“Yes.” Auric motioned around his neck and shoulder. “Interspecies Conflict. Bolt hit here—boom. It splashed up and got my face.”

“And you’re not home, with your feet propped up, slamming a beer?”

Auric shook his head, his pleasant expression remaining. “No, I couldn’t.”

“Gotta keep working, eh?”

“I don’t drink.”

Staring him down as if waiting for him to laugh, Catalina narrowed her eyes when he didn’t. “You don’t drink?” she finally asked.

“No.”

“Everyone drinks.”

Now, his smile widened. “No, not true. There are a few in the unit who don’t. The captain, myself…Sveta, the commander—at least, not anymore.”

“You strange, strange folk.”

“But, to answer your question, no, I could not have left Novosibirsk, even after the plasma bolt. I have nothing else to do.” After a momentary pause, he motioned to her. “Will you leave? Now that you have that?”

Her jester’s smirk widened, and she nodded her head. “Sure. I’ll just retire, nice and quietly. ‘Dead girl returns home.’ I’m sure that wouldn’t make the news.”

“Well, you know,” Auric said, “if you want to go home, you will find a way. As I will find a way to make this leg work again, to put on armor, and to fight once more. It is what I really want to do.” When Catalina offered him no real change of expression, the German said, “You are not happy.”

“My leg is destroyed, I’m rolling around in a wheelchair, and I’m lost in the middle of a secret mountain base in Russia. I don’t have very many reasons to be happy.”

He indicated to her nonchalantly. “But you are alive.”

Her face remained unchanged. “Yes. I am alive.”

“But it is not about any of the things that you said. You are sad in a place much deeper.”

“Is that a statement or a question?” Silence prevailed between them as Auric didn’t respond. At long last, Catalina released a long, weary sigh. Rolling a floor tile closer, she said, “Everyone knows what they want. You want to get better so you can fight—you live for this, it’s obvious. Tiffany wanted to fly for her father, now she wants to fly for Travis. Captain Remington, I’m sure he has passionate reasons for doing what he’s doing.” Though Auric nodded, he remained quiet. “Then, there’s me. I’m not here for a grand purpose, Auric,” she said with self-depreciative smugness. “I’m here because I was bored. Ta-da, look at me.”

Auric made a deep, mmm, sound.

“I could be the lead singer of a rock and roll band.” Her tone retained its almost sing-song matter-of-factness. “But I was like, whatevs, and got the wonderful notion to enlist with EDEN, so I could get shot out of the sky by EDEN, to end up here, sitting in a wheelchair talking about life’s futility with you. Wow, I have certainly gone astray.”

Despite the mocking irony in her voice, the look Auric offered her was not amused or eager to placate. Rather, he simply looked sad.

Leaning back in the wheelchair, Catalina bit her fist for a moment before going on. “Do you know how good I was, for that brief moment in time, in this career path I chose because I had nothing better to do?”

“How good—”

“I was damn good, Auric. I was like…” She pressed her lips together tightly as if searching for the right word. In the end, she just shook her head in disgust.

Again, a quiet came over the gym, as Auric’s eyes drifted between Catalina, the weights on the rack, and the floor space between them. Only when it became clear that she wasn’t going to say anything else did he speak. “You have fire in you.”

The Canadian scoffed with laughter. “Did you even hear one thing I said? I was bored, Auric. Bored.”

“One does not get so upset about things they are not passionate about.

“That is…not correct.”

He shook his head. “No, it is correct. You simply have not discovered what that passion is yet. You think that it must be for this, for being a soldier.”

Looking at him stupidly, she asked, “If I’m not here to be a soldier, why am I here?”

“To be significant.” The moment he answered it, her expression changed. She now looked at him strangely. “Maybe, I don’t know. To be noticed in a different way? Perhaps to show yourself that you can do it.” The German motioned to her leg. “And now you are not sure. You think that maybe things for you are over, but they are not—not unless you want them to be. I got shot in the face, I got blown out in the knee…but I will be back.” He smiled. “So will you.”

Even Catalina had a hard time identifying the look she was giving him. Her quintessential jester’s smile was still there, but it felt forced—shrouded in embarrassment. She felt herself looking uncomfortable. To Auric’s credit, he didn’t point it out or ask her to say anything. Had he, she wouldn’t have known what to say. He’d nailed her motivations.

Turning his wheelchair back to the rack of weights, Auric said, “If you wish to join me, please feel free. If not, I understand. I hope something I said helped.”

If by helped, he meant, made things unbearable, then yes, he’d helped. But he’d pretty much described her to a T. As Auric reached out for the fifteen-pound weights again, Catalina simply observed him as he lifted and lowered them with heavy breaths and loud blows. There was physical pain in the German’s face. This workout—as it was expected to—hurt. But he never slowed down.

Eventually, sitting there and watching him workout began to feel awkward, at which point she knew she had two possibilities: leave or accept his invitation. So she gave in. Pushing the wheels of her wheelchair forward, Catalina drew near to the weight rack. “So, what do you think for me? Tens?”

Blowing out a hard breath at the end of a curl, he said, “Fives. Start with fives.”

“Thanks for the show of confidence.”

Auric laughed between huffs. “I mean, look.” Motioning to himself, then to her, he left unspoken the insinuation that he was simply stronger than she was. It was true, to be sure—but that didn’t make it cool to say.

Narrowing her eyes with the faintest glimmer of mirth, Catalina said, “Tens, it is.”

“As you wish. Try to keep up!”

Rolling up beside him with a ten-pound weight in each hand, Catalina took in a deep breath, then began her curls. The moment she started, her leg hurt—affected by muscles that ran from the top of her body to the bottom. She had to bite her lip down to keep from yelping. But the more she did it—the more she got used to it—the less things seemed to hurt. Maybe it was the release of endorphins. Maybe she was just learning her limits. Or maybe, just maybe, it was something else. Something deeper. Something more than a desire to simply entertain boredom. Maybe she wanted to best the man who’d just laid down the challenge—good-naturedly, of course. Maybe she wanted to show herself that she could. Maybe she was wondering how it would feel to actually envision a future in which she could walk again on her own two feet. To be “Hellcat” again.

Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t through yet.

*

That night

It was the quietest Tiffany had seen the medical bay all day. As she slipped through the door and into the darkened room, she cast a brief glance at the night nurse, who after an initial look of surprise, offered Tiffany an ever-so-slight smile that almost felt welcome. Tiffany returned it before her focus shifted to the medical bay’s many inhabitants.

Updates about the condition of those in the medical bay had been few and far between, understandably so. The medical staff at Northern Forge was dealing with a far greater number of injured than was typical at the forge, and offering updates that were of no practical benefit to anyone was simply something Gavriil and his nurses did not have time to do. Tiffany understood, even if it left her wanting. And so the Valley Girl decided to take a chance and slip into the medical bay on her own accord to check on the status of the wounded from Hami Station. It felt like the kind thing to do.

Of no surprise to her, every single bed-ridden operative was fast asleep, presumably recovering from the various procedures and surgeries they’d had immediately after arriving. Despite the various tubes that were in them, all of which seemed to be IV tubes or the equivalent, they looked like people who were sleeping normally—with the exception of the one the Fourteenth called “Max,” whom Tiffany had not formally met. She took the relative normality before her as a good thing. Everyone who’d made it back to Northern Forge seemed stable. Little blessings.

The sole exception to this was Natalie, who’d apparently been awoken by the hall light that’d cut into the room upon Tiffany’s arrival—though the former captain from Cairo offered little more than a sleepy squint before laying her head down again. Padding quietly across the room toward the nurse, Tiffany whispered, “Is everyone gonna be okay?”

The nurse smiled, then said in her thick, Russian accent. “Everyone will be okay. Are you in their unit?”

For a moment, Tiffany didn’t answer the question, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to interpret it. Finally, she nodded her head. “Yeah, I am.”

“It is nice of you to visit them.”

“How is, umm…how is Boris?”

Craning her neck to look across the room, where Boris was laid up with his left shoulder in a hanging sling, the nurse answered, “His shoulder is very hurt. He is—” She bit her lip as she appeared to find the right words to say.

“He’s what?”

The nurse offered an apologetic frown. “It is not my place to say. Doctor Shubin does not like us to give long-term prognosis.”

Placing her hand at the edge of the nurse’s desk, Tiffany said quietly, “I won’t say anything to anyone. I promise. Please, tell me something.”

At long last and with a sigh, the nurse answered the question. “He is lucky. Though hurt bad, he was hit on the outside of the shoulder,” she pointed to her own shoulder to help visualize it, “right here. If it had gone a little more in or down, maybe few inches, then we would have very different story.”

“So he’s gonna be fine, then?”

The nurse winced. “I do not want to say that. As I said, he is hurt very bad. There was some nerve damage, which may affect his hand. There are neurological deficits that come with such things.”

Angling her head as if she didn’t understand, Tiffany asked, “Neurological deficits?”

“Using his shoulder, closing his hand. Using his hand at all.” The nurse’s frown deepened somewhat. “These are things that he may face.”

“I thought you said he was lucky…”

Raising an indicative eyebrow, the nurse answered, “It is better to face such things than to die, is it not?” Allowing her gaze to drift to the injured at large, she went on. “They are all fortunate to be alive. The bullet that struck Mister Jurgen, the one shot in his thigh, came within one half inch of damaging his femoral artery. He also experienced nerve damage. Mister Lilan’s injury is similar to Boris’s, but perhaps not quite as severe.” She then motioned to William. “And the big one, he is most fortunate. He was wearing thick armor which prevented the bullet from going deep enough to hit any vital organs. Though his midsection was penetrated, had he been in anything less sturdy, it could have been significantly worse.” Offering a faint smile that barely classified as reassuring, she said, “These men are all alive because of their armor—but even with it, these injuries are bad. The armor that the Nightmen use is much, much stronger than EDEN armor. That their armor was damaged so is a testament to what they faced.” Her eyes again drifted to William. “He will make a full recovery—of that, I feel…confident, though please do not repeat this. As for the other three?” Shrugging uncertainly, she said, “Time will tell. I would not make such a guarantee for them.”

Tiffany’s own gaze trailed briefly to the floor as she looked in the wounded’s general direction, lifting them moments later to focus on each man, individually. The one she stopped at was Boris. “Thank you,” she said to the nurse, glancing back briefly to offer a smile that she tried her utmost to make look sincere, despite its grim subtleties. “What was your name?”

The nurse smiled warmly in return. “Inna.”

“Thank you, Inna.” Tiffany turned back to the operatives. “You said they were all sedated?” Inna nodded. “Is it okay if I go up to them?”

“Absolutely. They are quite out. You will not disturb them.”

Nodding her head, Tiffany stepped away from the desk, quietly making her way across the room and toward Boris. Her gaze scrutinized Lilan, David, and William as she passed them on her way to the technician, giving each man a look of concern and well-wishing before finally reaching her destination. Crouching down at Boris’s beside, she looked at the moppy-haired Russian’s face.

Tiffany did not know Boris particularly well. The whole while she was at Novosibirsk in the care of the Fourteenth, Boris was off with Scott and company in Cairo. What little she knew of him she knew mostly from Travis. She knew enough to know they were inseparable.

Despite the fact that Boris’s injury was to his shoulder, his face had not been spared a shadow of ill. Everyone in the medical bay looked that way. Tiffany wondered how she must have looked after her flight from the Great Dismal Swamp. Maybe the Fourteenth at Novosibirsk saw the same thing reflected on her that she saw in Boris now.

Touching Boris on his uninjured shoulder, the blonde leaned in close to his head and whispered, “I’m so sorry about your friend, Boris. He was my friend, too.” As soon as she made the statement, her lashes flickered with guilt. Her friendship with Travis couldn’t compare to Boris’s, just like it couldn’t compare to Catalina’s friendship with Mark Peters. It was like comparing a minute to a century. Swallowing, she looked at him again. “I’m gonna fix that ship, I promise. When you get out of here, I want you to help me.” She offered his good shoulder a squeeze. “You’re gonna get through this. I’ll be here to help.”

Boris made no indication that he was hearing anything—not that she’d expected or even desired it. But Tiffany hoped, even if on some deep, subconscious level, that he could hear her. It would have made the effort feel so much more worthwhile.

Withdrawing her hand, Tiffany quietly rose to her feet. She looked in the direction of Inna to offer her a parting smile, only to see that Inna’s focus was entirely on whatever was atop her desk. And so, with no one else to address, she stepped back from Boris’s bed, turned around, and began to make her way to the door.

“Tiffany?”

Natalie’s voice called out to Tiffany just as she was reaching out to open the door. She stopped and turned around. Natalie was standing against the glass, eyes tired, but nonetheless focused on the pilot. Without the need for another prompt, Tiffany approached the outer glass of the cell.

As ill as the injured looked, Natalie looked equally as bothered. She looked ill for a different reason. She looked lost. As soon as Tiffany was across the glass from her, Natalie addressed her once more. “You weren’t with the Fourteenth. Before Cairo.”

Though not phrased as a question, Tiffany answered it just the same. “Yeah.”

“Do you…” Cutting her own words off with silence, Natalie tiredly reworded them. “Why do you trust them?”

Tiffany required no effort of thought to answer. “Because they’re good.” Seeing the internal conflict on Natalie’s face, Tiffany went on. “I would be dead if not for the Fourteenth. They…Travis…helped me make it to Novosibirsk alive. And I know I don’t know the others as well—the ones you met in Cairo—but the ones I trust, from Novosibirsk, trust their captain. Remington.”

As soon as Scott’s name was mentioned, the ill on Natalie’s face grew darker.

“You have every reason to not trust them,” Tiffany said. “After what happened to you and your unit, no one would blame you. I know I totally wouldn’t.” Her hazel eyes drifted downward for a moment before she looked up again. “But they aren’t terrorists. They’re just the unluckiest people in the world.”

Making a quasi-irritated face, Natalie asked rhetorically, “Then what exactly does that make me?”

“That makes you lucky.”

Natalie looked at her strangely. “How does that make me lucky?”

“Because they put you in a position to make a difference.”

At that remark, Natalie’s expression changed. She looked confounded.

“What we went through brought us here,” said Tiffany. “And I’d rather go through hell to find the truth than live comfortably in a lie.” Briefly, she looked down. “I don’t know you a whole lot, ma’am, but I know you musta been hot stuff to get where you were in Cairo. You musta really impressed a lot of people. So if you decided one day that you wanted to try trusting these guys, which I know is a whole lot after all you’ve been through…I just want you to know that I’d back you up.”

“Trusting them,” Natalie said, pressing her palms hard against her eyes, “would be the hardest thing I’ve ever asked myself to do.” Releasing a heavy sigh, she lowered her hands and looked at Tiffany with fatigue. “But I’m considering it. In the face of everything I’ve seen, with you guys being alive, and with…with every testimony I’ve heard from everyone not named Scott Remington or Esther Brooking…I’m considering it.”

Ever so slightly, a weak smile appeared at the edge of Tiffany’s lips.

“Would you be willing to do something for me?” Natalie asked. “I mean, tonight. Right now.”

Tiffany nodded.

Drawing in a breath as if she were about to dive off a cliff, Natalie looked at Tiffany through the glass and said, “I think I might be ready to give trusting a shot.”

24

Tuesday, March 20th, 0012 NE

2257 hours

Norilsk, Russia

WHAT A DAY. As Scott lay down on his bed, arms folded behind his head and staring at the bottom of the bunk above him, the entirety of the day’s events replayed through his mind. Lying there by himself in his room under the dim illumination of an old desk lamp, things felt almost surreal. In a strange way, it felt like his first day at Michigan, being a freshman in a new school and not knowing what the future had in store. Like hitting a massive reset button on life.

We lost two comrades today—one old, one new. And here I am, alone. Even in his own mind, the statement registered as vague. But the loneliness, regardless of its primary cause, was real. He was alone in his room, alone in life. Alone in every sense of the word. A part of him felt that if EDEN smashed through his door right then and there, he’d surrender without giving a fight. He was just flat-out tired.

This was all part of the danger of nighttime reflection. Night brought out the darkest. The worst. He was ready for it all to just end.

Scott missed Svetlana terribly. In the midst of the literal chaos around him—both at Northern Forge and in the battlefields of Krasnoyarsk and Hami Station—she had taken a backseat to the need to survive. It served little purpose to think of love and relationships in the middle of a gunfight. But in the stillness, the thoughts were there.

I should have told her that I loved her. What was I thinking to not have? Have I lost her forever, now? As premature as the thoughts may have seemed on the outside, with the span of time that Svetlana had been missing, there was reason to be concerned when Iosif Antipov didn’t know where she was. Svetlana was important. She was the leverage over him. She was as high priority a target as a snake like Antipov could have wanted. Yet, he’d lost her. How in the world was Scott supposed to find her?

That he could care for someone who wasn’t named Nicole so deeply was telling not only of the way Scott had changed, but of all he’d been through since his decision to leave college for Philadelphia. It had been a faith move, made in a time of his life when he had far more faith than he did now. Was he just young and stupid then? Or was that how he was now? Could that eager-eyed kid out of Lincoln have had things right? If so, then he’d fallen quite a ways. Yet he couldn’t help but believe that, in some strange, twisted way that could only come out of hurt, he was wiser in his faith now than he was then. Back then, God was in control, and everything was destined to be great. Except things hadn’t been great. Things had been tragic beyond belief. So what was the lesson there?

“Praise Him in the good, praise Him in the bad.” It was a catchphrase he’d heard all his life, stereotypical of the down-home churches in his region of the country. But what was one to do when their own actions prompted the bad? Scott had screwed up so many times between then and now, it was hard to feel spiritual at all. Was he supposed to praise God for deciding on his own to be a hero in Chicago? Was he supposed to praise God for the lustful seed he’d allowed himself to plant that night in the lounge at Novosibirsk? Was he supposed to lift his hands in praise for murdering Sergei Steklov in a misguided attempt to avenge his fiancée’s murder? These didn’t seem like reasons to praise anyone. They seemed like reasons to give up on trying. For a while, he had. So what was he to do? The correct answer was, of course, to give it to God. If only he knew what that actually meant.

You let me do some pretty rotten things to bring me to this point. You let a lot of people get hurt. Closing his eyes, more in exhaustion than reverence, he sighed. If this was all for some greater good, I really need to start seeing it.

The thoughts didn’t feel jaded. They felt honest. They were the kind of thoughts—prayers—that he’d been incapable of making back in Philadelphia, when cookie-cutter philosophies with no substance were what drove him. He was realizing now that God’s task wasn’t to give His children good lives. It was to comfort them through painful ones.

Sitting up from the bottom bunk, Scott slowly pushed up to a stand. His thigh still hurt badly. He had a feeling it’d be a while before it felt right. At least he was alive. Running a hand through his hair, Scott limped across the room.

When I see you, Sveta, I’m not even going to say a thing—I’m just going to grab you and kiss you. He’d actually dwelt on that thought for some time now. In much the same way he’d fantasized about moments with Nicole, he now did the same with the woman who’d taken her place. He imagined looking into Svetlana’s eyes—those deep, ocean-blue eyes—and placing his hand behind her head, cradling the back of her neck under her golden strands of hair as he drew her in and took her breath away. He’d make her melt right then and there. He would be hers to do as she pleased with. To kiss him, to wrap her arms around him. To be with him, body and soul. Svetlana Remington. Even now, he longed for that name. Who else was he ever going to meet to rival her? They were meant to be. Destined in a way that only God could have ordained.

Just like Nicole had been.

Scott was on the verge of a depressing thought when a knock at the door interrupted it. Casting a curious eye its way, he grabbed his crutches and made his way over. Reaching out for the door, Scott turned the knob and pulled it open.

It was Tiffany Feathers.

She must have known immediately that of all the people he could have expected to knock, she was at the bottom of the list. The almost apologetic frown on her face gave it away. “Heya,” she said quietly.

It didn’t even register as an improper introduction. It just sounded like Tiffany. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he said, “Hello, Tiffany. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she answered quickly, nodding her head as if to reassure him. “Can you, umm…take a little walk?”

“Take a little walk? To where?”

The apologetic frown remained. “To the medical bay. Someone there wants to talk to you.”

Someone must have woken up. Could it have been Max? What a boost in morale his presence would be.

Before he could pontificate on it too much, Tiffany ended the suspense. “It’s Captain Rockwell.”

Scott blinked. “Captain Rockwell.”

“Yes, sir.” The apology in her smile faded, leaving the traces of something genuine in its wake. “I think the conversation’s gonna be good.”

Natalie. What in the world does she want this late at night? What does she want at all? As Scott followed Tiffany down the hall to the medical bay, those questions circulated in his mind. The conversation he’d had with her before—the one in which he’d implored her to trust—had been somewhat positive, despite Natalie’s obvious and understandable misgivings about him. But he was still surprised to have her call upon him at this hour. Had something happened to change her mind?

Stepping into the darkened medical bay, the first person who caught Scott’s eye was not Natalie, but the night nurse, who was dutifully standing in front of Natalie’s quarantine cell. Stepping between Scott and the nurse, Tiffany smiled. “Scott, Inna. Inna, Scott.”

Scott and Inna swapped formal smiles. Let’s get on with it, then.

“So, my friend Inna here is just going to hang,” said Tiffany, “and I’ll be here for moral support.”

“I want to go in the cell.”

The moment Scott said it, Tiffany and Inna raised eyebrows. “Excuse me?” the nurse asked.

Scott motioned to the glass separating Natalie from the rest of the room. “I want in there. If she wants to talk, we’re going to talk face-to-face.”

“You can talk face-to-face through the glass,” Inna said. “I am sorry, but—”

“I didn’t ask for your permission.” He didn’t have the time or patience for this.

Inna’s jaw set. For several seconds, she stared at Scott with a mix of fear and disapproval, before lowering her chin and stating quite coldly, “As you wish. I will not be held responsible for—”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Scott said. “And if it does, I can take her. I’ll beat her with my crutches. Lock me in there if that makes you feel better.” Looking back at Tiffany, he said, “I appreciate the offer for moral support, but this is something that needs to be done just me and her. You can stay in the room, but just let us talk.”

The pilot nodded without argument. “You’re the boss.”

Stepping past Inna, Scott made his way for the cell. With extreme reluctance, Inna followed him, reaching out to unlock the quarantine cell door as Natalie watched with a raised eyebrow. “You’re coming in?” Natalie asked through the glass.

“I’m coming in,” answered Scott. If nothing else, it would show her that he was willing to have this conversation person-to-person rather than captor-to-captive. He hoped. Inna pulled the door open, and Scott stepped inside. Natalie stepped backward to allow him plenty of room. The moment Scott crossed the threshold, Inna closed and locked the door behind him. On any other day, Scott might have found the act humorous. But finding humor right now just didn’t quite feel appropriate. “You wanted to see me?” Scott asked, leaning his crutches against the wall as he looked at Natalie across the cell.

For several moments, Natalie simply scrutinized him, her emerald eyes boring deep into him almost as if sizing up a challenger. At long last, her tension eased up. Drawing in a deep breath, she finally said, “I get it.”

Angling his head curiously, Scott asked, “Come again?”

“As much as it pains me to say it, and believe me, it pains me…I get it. I’ve talked to you, I’ve talked to some of the others.” Briefly, Natalie’s eyes drifted to Tiffany. “Miss Feathers and your former colonel, most notably. Everything points to you being in an unwinnable situation.”

A shimmer appeared in Natalie’s eyes. It took Scott a moment to realize that it was anger.

Sucking in and with her expression hard, Natalie said, “I am so angry at you for what you did. I am so…” Her fists trembled. “I am so livid. Please appreciate how hard it is for me to do this, when I hate you like I’ve never hated a man.”

She was on the verge of turning. She was actually on the verge. Come on, Natalie…you can do it…

“I believe…” Her voice shook. “…that you are not a villain by choice.” As the first tear fell, Natalie’s face twisted horribly in rage. Whatever she had prepared to say went flying out the window. Looking back at him and tear-filled, she pointed at him from across the cell. “Why did it have to be me?”

The eruption was ear-piercing. It actually made him jump.

“Why did it have to be my life, my career?” Biting down on her fist, she dropped into a crouch and bowed her head. He could see her teeth biting into her hand. Rising again, she shot daggers his way. “I did everything anyone ever asked of me! I worked hard, I paid my dues. I sold out to this job with pride!”

The rest of the room was silent.

“I worked so damn hard to get where I was,” she said, slamming her fist sideways against the glass behind. “I have nothing. You have left me…with nothing. So please…” Closing her eyes, she swallowed to regain herself. “Please appreciate how very hard this is, when you made me look like a fool.”

All the while she spoke, Scott said nothing. He could feel the tension of Tiffany and Inna outside the glass. This moment was Natalie’s. More than she may have needed it, she deserved it.

At long last, she managed to say the words. “What can I do to help you find the truth?” The moment Natalie spoke, her face reddened, and she looked away. She was humiliated.

Taking a step in her direction, Scott said, “Natalie…”

“Don’t,” she said, holding up a hand without looking. “Don’t ‘Natalie’ me. Just tell me what I can do.”

Ceasing his approach, Scott returned to the wall. Without saying anything, he nodded his head a single time. So, here we go. “There’s a Ceratopian device that’s being shipped on a train that runs from the EDEN base of Nagoya to Tokyo. We need to intercept it. H`laar,” he said, motioning to Centurion, “that is, the Ceratopian this big guy was assigned to protect, had recorded evidence of Judge Benjamin Archer conspiring with other Ceratopians. Those are the only details I know, but I can only assume that he’s selling out Earth, or something along those lines. If he’s doing that, there must be something in it for him.” The whole while he spoke, her simmering gaze stayed fixed on him. “We need to get that device, then get it out there for the world to see. EDEN is the good guy, but all signs from our end point to Judge Archer being a bad seed. If he’s working against Earth, then he’s more dangerous than the aliens.”

“You need to hijack a train,” she said. “To get all this evidence, and to bring it to the light, you need to hijack a train.”

Scott nodded. “Pretty much, yeah.”

Very briefly, her gaze drifted to his leg. She returned it to his face. “When is this going down?”

“Next week. Tuesday.”

“Your leg won’t be healed by Tuesday.”

Scott chuckled humorlessly. “Yeah, I know.” Right then, and suddenly, he caught what she was insinuating. Eyes narrowing ever so faintly, he was suddenly the one scrutinizing her. “Are you…” He left the question out there for her to finish. When she didn’t, he did it himself. “Are you offering to be a part of this?”

“I’m offering to lead it.”

His eyes widened. To lead it? Had he heard that right? Her emerald stare was still locked, still simmering. She was serious. “You’re offering to lead it?”

“I was the captain of the Caracals for a reason. You saw me operate in Luxor. You don’t have anyone more qualified than me.”

“Now, hang on.” Even with his preparation for an uncomfortable conversation, this was something he never expected. Natalie Rockwell, leading the Fourteenth?

Before he could say anything further, she stopped him. “You owe me this. You owe me the chance to see the truth for myself.”

“But you’ve basically been a hostage. If I put you in charge of an operation…how are my guys supposed to trust you?”

“Do you believe my offer is genuine?”

Scott set his hands on his hips. Briefly, he looked away. “Natalie…”

“Look at me,” she said, her stare holding its ground as he looked back. “Look me in the eyes. Do you believe my offer is genuine?”

Despite her demand, he found himself sighing and looking to the floor. Rubbing the back of his head, he shook it. There was no other way for him to answer. “Yeah, I do.” He knew this wasn’t a façade. Her intensity was honest. “Let’s say, hypothetically, that I entertain this. How do I sell this to my crew?”

Behind him, Tiffany cleared her throat. “I’d support her.”

Come on, Tiff. He found himself shooting her a look. “You’re coming at this from the outside. There are a lot more people in play here.” He looked back at Natalie. “Esther, for one, wouldn’t buy into this for a second.”

“Let me handle Esther,” said Natalie firmly. “Believe me, nothing would bring me more pleasure than to ‘handle’ Esther.”

“You say that, but she’s not the kind of girl you want to be enemies with.”

Natalie’s expression remained focused. “If she gives me a problem, I’ll handle it. But I’m extending to you my trust that you’ll sell the idea yourself.”

“That’s a heck of a lot of trust.”

“Maybe I’m in a trusting mood.” Flatly, she said, “Maybe I want Esther to call me Venus one more time.”

Scott rubbed his eyes. “That’s guaranteed to happen.”

“I hope it does.”

There was no doubt in Scott’s mind that, emotional turmoil aside, there was no one more able to do this than Natalie. All this time, he’d wanted her to come to their side. Now, she was offering it. How could he not try to sell it? Exhaling a long, but quiet breath, he said, “All right. But listen, you’re really going to have to follow my lead, here. These guys will buy into you, if…” Biting his lower lip, he sought for the words. “If you buy into them.”

“Asking you for this is humiliating,” Natalie said. “Personally, professionally. In every sense. If I’m willing to endure that, don’t you think I’m willing to buy into your crew?” Closing her eyes with intention, the former Caracal captain’s voice softened. “Listen. I signed up for this war to make a difference. To help save this planet.” Her eyes reopened. “If everything you’ve said, and that the Falcons have told me, is true…then I may very well have done the same thing you did in Cairo had I been in your shoes. I would like to think that I’d have extended you more trust than you extended me there, because I would’ve come with you had you told me the truth then, but I wasn’t the one in that position. I was on the side that, for all you know, could have blown your operation apart. And had you told me, and I hadn’t believed you,” she drew in a breath through her nostrils, “I think I know what you would have had to do. And so for that, with as much dignity as I can possibly muster, and though it revolts me to say it, thank you.”

For not putting her in a position where he’d have had to kill her. That was what she meant. And she was right. There was something that happened during their escape, in Cairo’s hangar, that Natalie didn’t know about. Scott decided right then and there to tell her. “I issued the order to kill you in the hangar.” Her eyes squinted curiously. “You had Boris as a hostage right outside the transport. The rest of us were coming in with EDEN hot on our heels. We had to get out or die.” She needed to know this. Before she heard it from someone else, she needed to hear it from him. “I gave Jayden the order to hang back, just out of your view, so he could put you in his sights. When you wouldn’t relent…I told him to pull the trigger.” It was the worst order he’d ever given. “You’re alive because he hesitated. When he finally said he was taking the shot, that’s when Ju`bajai attacked your mind. Had Jayden not hesitated, and had Ju`bajai not acted, you’d be dead now.”

Turning her head in the Ithini’s direction in the cell beside her, Natalie allowed her eyes to settle on the being. Ju`bajai was looking right back at her. Looking back to Scott with curiously narrowed eyes, Natalie asked, “Why would you tell me this?”

“Because you deserve to know. How important this mission is, to what extent we’d take it. Full disclosure, unlike what you got in Cairo.” There was another reason. “And because if you join this fight, you yourself might have to make a hard decision. Start readying yourself now for that.”

“I’m…insulted?”

Scott shook his head. “Don’t be. You’re as good a captain as they come. In a lot of ways, you remind me of how I was when I came into EDEN.” Things were so much simpler back then. “You’re above my lecturing you on anything, so don’t take this as that. I’m just saying, be ready. Things have a way of going badly.”

Nodding her head intently, Natalie said, “I know.”

Yes, she did. Sighing heavily, Scott pushed up from against the wall. Limping across the cell toward her, he extended his hand. “I’m Scott Remington, leader of the ‘Outlaw’ Fourteenth. It’s nice to meet you.”

Natalie hesitated. Looking him over in the same manner in which she had when he’d first entered—almost seeming to be sizing him up—she finally reached out to shake his hand. “Natalie Rockwell. I don’t know who the hell I am, and to be perfectly frank, things haven’t been too nice so far.” Ever so faintly, almost too faint to even see, the corner of her mouth snuck a smirk.

He’d take it. In a heartbeat.

“Yay!” Scott and Natalie flinched, looking behind them to see Tiffany clapping her hands and jumping. A split second later, the Valley Girl stopped, placing her hand over her mouth and wide-eyed as she stared at the sleeping injured around her. “Sorry,” Tiffany whispered, looking back at Scott and Natalie.

At least Natalie knows that Tiffany is on her side. Giving a brief look to Inna, he nodded in the direction of the cell door. With reluctance, the nurse opened it. “Let’s get you set up somewhere other than in a quarantine cell,” Scott said to Natalie.

“I’ll stay here,” she answered. “I get the impression that you and the ‘keeper’ aren’t exactly best friends.”

“You’ll come with me,” Scott said, giving Natalie a sharp eye, “and if the keeper gives flack over it, I’ll knock his teeth out the back of his head.” Antipov gave Scott control—the mere fact of that would be more than enough to make Valentin hold his tongue, even if he didn’t fancy doing so. In many ways, Valentin was to Scott as Esther was to Natalie. They all mixed like oil and water. Pausing as a thought came to him, Scott looked back at Natalie, who was tepidly stepping from the cell. “By the way, try ‘Polyester.’”

Raising an eyebrow, Natalie said, “Pardon?”

“If Esther calls you Venus again, try calling her Polyester. Just trust me.” Yes, revealing that little nugget was somewhat treasonous. But if it ended the rivalry without fists flying, it was worth it. “Now, come on. Let’s get you a room.”

“She can stay with me and Cat,” Tiffany said.

Canting his head in Tiffany’s direction, Scott considered the suggestion. It wasn’t bad. With two operatives in the room with her, that was two sets of eyes to make sure Natalie didn’t try anything funny—not that Scott believed she would. “You only have a bunk in there, right?”

“I could sleep on the floor. Captain Rockwell can have my spot.”

Scott looked back at Natalie. “You all right with that?”

“Are you kidding?” Natalie asked. “I’ve been sleeping on the floor of a quarantine cell.”

Good point. “All right, Feathers,” Scott said, stepping aside to allow the pilot to take the lead. “Lead the way.”

There was no doubt in Scott’s mind that he would have to address this with Valentin before the keeper found out on his own accord. Despite Scott’s bravado in talking about knocking Valentin’s teeth out, he knew that just as he’d given away Esther’s much-maligned nickname to Natalie in an effort to prevent physical confrontation, Scott needed to make an attempt to defuse the situation between him and Valentin through dialogue rather than a fight. Despite he and Valentin’s misgivings, it was in everyone’s best interest if the two of them got along, particularly with tensions already high from their situation. Scott already intended to have a unit meeting tomorrow to get the team back on track. It was also going to serve, now, as Natalie’s introduction as a working member of the group. He needed to talk to Valentin before all that happened.

Moving ahead of Scott and Natalie to crack open the door to her room, Tiffany poked her head into the darkness within. “Okay,” she whispered as she withdrew her head out, “Cat is sleeping, but you oughta be able to slip into the top bunk without waking her up. That girl sleeps like a corpse.” Natalie nodded her head.

“Thank you,” Scott said to Tiffany. “For everything. You’ve been more helpful than you ever needed to be.” More than the Fourteenth deserved.

“No problem!” she whispered with enthusiasm. Stepping aside, she allowed Natalie to enter the room ahead of her.

As soon as Natalie was out of view, Scott made a psst sound. Tiffany raised an eyebrow, leaning close to him. “Sleep in front of the door,” Scott said. “Just in case.”

Making a face, Tiffany said, “She’s not gonna try and leave. She’s totally cool.”

“She’s still technically a captive.” At least, until Valentin heard about this. “Just do it for me.”

The pilot gave Scott a brief look of disappointment before offering a thumbs up.

“Thank you.”

Without further words, Tiffany snuck inside the room and eased the door shut. Scott was left alone standing in the hall.

Well, this certainly wasn’t what I expected tonight. Nonetheless, it was very, very good. The Fourteenth’s numbers had dwindled. With so many of its members in the medical bay, they were at the point where they simply needed warm bodies. Natalie certainly counted as one of those.

Glancing both directions, he saw no one else present in the hall. He looked at his watch. It was well past the turn-in time for the occupants of the forge. That meant it was turn-in time for him, too. Again.

Scott made his way back to his quarters and bed and once again slipped under the covers. Tomorrow would be a day of refocus—of righting this ship that seemed perpetually off course. If everything went well, their next destination would be their last. There was a train in Japan with their name on it.

It was time for the outlaws’ last ride.

25

Tuesday, March 20th, 0012 NE

2310 hours

Norilsk, Russia

THE V2’s INTERIOR lights were off, its rear door locked from within as Jayden and Esther stood alone in the center of the troop bay. The scout’s mocha shoulders were covered in small chill bumps. Even as she exhaled, thin vapors of frost escaped her parted lips. Closing her eyes lazily, she rolled her head to the side as Jayden pressed against her back.

Simply put, they needed this. It was more than an act of affection. It was stress relief. The events of Hami Station had hit both of them, as they’d hit everyone. For Jayden, it meant the loss of a friend to a sniper. To someone like him. For Esther, it meant not being there to prevent it. And so, as night fell on Northern Forge, the young, budding couple snuck away to a place they knew wouldn’t have cameras on them: the troop bay of the V2 that’d delivered Max.

Under normal circumstances, the pair might have slipped into the Pariah. But after all that ship had been through—and with the thought of dead friends in the cursed transport’s troop bay—there was just no way they could have found any semblance of intimacy there. The newer model transport would have to do.

With his arms wrapped around her waist, the Texan’s lips touched Esther’s neck. Jayden inhaled the fragrance of her skin’s perfume through his nostrils. The scout softly moaned.

There was tension in both of them, both in their bodies and minds. Even as Jayden worked his way down her neck and behind her ears, the tightness in her shoulders remained. Nonetheless, she leaned her head back, allowing the bangs of her bob to slide over her still-closed eyes. Turning around, she lifted her hand and reached back to trace his hairline with her fingers.

Whatever fears had existed between Jayden and Esther that their relationship would be derailed by circumstance were dashed every time the two looked at one another. There was more want in the Texan’s one eye than in anyone who’d looked upon Esther with two. As for Esther’s deep brown irises, they met that want with need, willfully exposing her vulnerabilities each time their gazes met. Even through the cold vapors that penetrated the transport’s hull from the hangar, his body made her feel warm.

Prior to their sealing themselves in the V2, a set of ground rules had to be established to satisfy both Esther’s desire to be physically intimate and Jayden’s desire to go slow. Clothing had to stay on—though the level to which that had to be the case was left intentionally vague. Touching was restricted to the upper body, though sensuality was encouraged. Lines couldn’t be crossed, but teetering was allowed provided everything stopped when someone said the word. It was a system Esther could live with—for now—and one Jayden felt comfortable skirting the edge of.

As Jayden brushed her bangs from her eyes, she looked up at his face. The look he gave her—that look—made her weak. For as headstrong as Esther Brooking made herself out to be, there was cradled deep within a desire to surrender. Standing on her toes and reaching her mouth for his, she closed her eyes as their lips tightly locked. She met him harder as his hands pulled the small of her back.

Laying Esther down atop the transport’s side bench, Jayden came upon her, the Texan’s outstretched arms keeping the weight of his body off her as he kissed her neck and chest. His scent—one of the earth—filtered through her nostrils. As her fingers dug into his back, she arched her neck and lifted her chest, exposing the skin above her bosom. When his lips found it, she cried out in rapture. Her white flag arose.

It was everything that in that moment, she desired—to have her dominance suppressed by the hold of a man. To lose to his will. Jayden Timmons was in control. On the prelude to a release, Esther called out his name.

The Texan’s hold on her remained a moment longer—then it stopped. With her face flushed and her eyes still closed, Esther revealed more of her body for him to take. Lips parted, she waited for his warmth to grab hold of her again. But no warmth came.

Esther opened her eyes, reaching up to brush her tussled hair from her face. Peering up at the Texan, still poised above her, she beheld the expression on his face. He was glaring in disbelief. As Esther’s ecstasy receded back into the ocean, she blinked at him with sudden concern. “Wha—?”

“Seriously?” he asked, his drawl thick with disgust.

Confusion struck her. “Seriously, what? What did I do?”

“You just called me Scott.”

The bottom of Esther’s arousal fell out. She stared at him wide-eyed. “Wait, what? No I didn’t!”

Stepping crisply off her, Jayden said again, “You just called me Scott.”

The scout quickly sat upright, a look of loss and confusion washing over her. “Jay! I swear, I didn’t. You must’ve heard something wrong!”

“I’m out.”

“Jayden, wait!” Panic struck her as she remembered calling out Jayden’s name. Wasn’t it Jayden’s name? How could she have thought one name but said another? “Don’t leave, please! I can…” Before the word explain could leave her mouth, the thought came to her—as did the memory of a distinct threat. A bargaining chip for a certain captive’s release. “Ju`bajai,” she said under her breath. Esther’s hands shook. She looked up as Jayden punched the bay door button. “Jay!” Running behind him, she winced in pain as a blast of cold air hit her. Her eyes moistened. “I can explain this!”

Jayden faced her, rage in his good eye. “I can explain it, too, Esther. You wish I was him.” As her tears of coldness transitioned to tears of desperation, the Texan pointed in her face. “You want him? Go get him. Have fun dealin’ with Sveta when she comes back.” Without another word, Jayden turned around, strode down the ramp, and disappeared from view. Esther was left alone in the middle of the troop bay, hair mussed about her face as she stood slack-jawed and shaken. Pushing her fingers through her bob, she pushed it back in disbelief.

Jayden was gone.

Five minutes later, Esther was marching down the hallway of Level-4, her brown eyes burning holes through the door to the medical bay as she drew near to it. No care was given to the disheveled way that she looked, or the fact that she looked like she’d just gone a few rounds with a man. She stormed forward with reckless abandonment. Slamming her palm against the medical bay door panel, she waited for the metal door to slide open. When it did, she marched right through the doors and inside.

The moment her feet crossed the threshold, she was pelted with a flurry of ice and snow.

Shielding her eyes and shrieking back, Esther ducked down as violent blasts of wind threatened to blow her clean off her feet. Against the burn of subzero Siberian temperatures, the scout looked around her. Neon red blasts of neutron were flying past her, met by the tatter of assault rifles. Two rows of buildings surrounded her; she was standing in the center of a wide, unpaved street. Through the whipping of snow flurries and explosions of ice and ammunition, she could make out EDEN soldiers diving for cover. She recognized the place instantly.

Khatanga.

Whirling around, the scout looked in the opposite direction, where a horde of Ceratopian warriors were creating a stronghold. Far past them, almost entirely out of view, another unit of EDEN operatives was moving into position to surround the beasts. The Eighth.

“Look familiar, Molly Esther?”

Esther spun back around, coming face-to-face with Ju`bajai’s construct of herself. The ponytailed doppelganger was clad from head to toe in EDEN armor, only the lower half of her face and her ponytail exposed, the latter of which was flapping in the wind. Ju`bajai sashayed calmly toward Esther.

“We are mere moments away from your first royal disaster. You’ve grown quite accustomed to destroying everything you touch, haven’t you?”

Blindsided by the suddenness of Khatanga, Esther stared blankly at the construct. Her heart pounded in her chest.

Flipping out her comm from her belt, Ju`bajai held it nonchalantly at her side. “It’s a beautifully simple device, really. Only a fool could mess it up.”

“Why are you doing this?” Esther cried through the snowstorm.

“Ah, ah,” said Ju`bajai, holding up her palm to silence Esther. “Time to shine.” Lifting the comm to her lips, she pressed the button and said, “Their attention’s away from you, engage now!”

Esther stared horrified as a voice she recalled all too well emerged from the other end of the line. “Are you sure?” it asked.

“Yes!” Ju`bajai said. “You have to engage now.”

“We are going.”

The corners of her lips curling upward, Ju`bajai’s brown eyes practically twinkled as she winked at Esther. “Showtime.”

Esther knew what was coming next. Turning back around in the middle of the street, she watched as the Eighth engaged the Ceratopians—who were right there waiting for them. The EDEN forces ran into a wall of neutron, the energy beams crushing in the attackers’ armor as the massive Ceratopians mowed them down. The carnage was as real as she remembered. Every detail was accounted for. Behind them all, in a fit of desperation, the Fourteenth joined the assault.

“Do you realize,” Ju`bajai asked, “that none of your comrades in the Fourteenth have ever incorrectly used a comm? Only you managed to pull off something so catastrophically stupid. And that was after you bragged on yourself so very, very much. What a silly little thing you turned out to be.”

As the Ceratopian onslaught continued around her, Esther’s knees weakened. She stared at Ju`bajai haplessly. She had no fight left.

Eyes narrowing, Ju`bajai marched closer. “You embarrass everyone. You lose to everyone. And ultimately, you destroy everyone.” Pausing a single pace away, she asked, “What would Scott Remington have ever seen in you? You never had a chance.”

There was a great gust of wind, and Ju`bajai vanished. Esther flinched as the construct appeared behind her, whispering in her ear.

“All this will end when I am freed. Until that day comes, you will not rest, you will not have peace, you will not have a secret to your name; I will reveal to everyone everything. You will stand before them humiliated, stripped naked of every security like a quivering child in the rain.” As Esther spun around to face Ju`bajai, the construct was gone. Only its voice remained, echoing amid the wind, “Reveal me to your friends, and they will suffer.”

Turning back in the direction she’d just faced, Esther’s eyes widened as she beheld Scott violently approaching. Tearing his helmet off as he neared her, he yelled, “What in the hell was that?”

“Can I help you?”

Esther blinked, the world of Khatanga fading away. Inhaling sharply, she refocused ahead.

From beside the medical station, Inna the night nurse eyed her curiously. “Miss Brooking, is everything all right?”

She was back in Northern Forge, standing at the threshold of the medical bay, where she’d last been. Her flustered gaze found Inna. Swallowing sickly, she murmured, “Everything is fine.” Her attention turned to Ju`bajai’s cell. The Ithini was staring at her.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Inna asked.

Esther stood silently for several moments before answering weakly, “No, not at all.” Taking a wobbly step back, she reached out with a trembling hand to hit the door button. The metal door slid shut. Propping her hand against the wall, the scout leaned over.

The hall felt like it was spinning. It took Esther almost a full minute of standing there to regain her balance. Sliding a hand over her head, she pushed her hair back. Her stare was despondent.

Esther made no further attempt to enter the medical bay. Stepping away from the door, she uneasily turned around and went back down the hall. Her eyes met no one else’s.

26

Wednesday, March 21st, 0012 NE

0858 hours

Norilsk, Russia

The next morning

THIS WAS GOING to be interesting. As Scott stepped out of the elevator on Level-3, Natalie in tow behind him, all he could think about was what the reaction would be when operatives saw the former Caracal captain walking into the conference room with him. He honestly had no idea how it would go. Ready or not, here we come.

Scott had awoken at five o’clock, something which struck him as odd considering the hell they’d all been through the previous day. Nonetheless, it proved an unexpected blessing, allowing him time to start what felt like the first proper morning he’d had in ages. Quiet time with God, a cup of hot coffee in the cafeteria, then time to simply sit back and mentally prepare for what was to come.

Though the unit-wide meeting was destined to be uncomfortable, it wasn’t his first tense encounter of the morning. That honor had gone to his meeting with Valentin Lukin. As soon as 0800 rolled about, Scott made a beeline for the keeper’s suite to relay the news of Natalie’s release. It went about like Scott had expected. Shouts were exchanged, saliva was spewed, and a chair was hurled across the keeper’s suite by the keeper himself. In the end, though, priority won, just as Scott knew it would. Like it or not, Antipov had given Scott operational control. If Scott wanted Natalie on this mission, it was in his grounds to arrange it. As infuriated as Valentin was—and he was—he knew better than to cross the chief of the eidola. All it took was one remark from Scott about his needs not being met and it would be Valentin’s corpse bouncing down the mountainside, never to be seen again.

Not surprisingly, Valentin wanted no part of Scott’s meeting with the Fourteenth and Falcons. He wanted no part of Scott at all, other than to keep as much distance as possible between the normal, everyday affairs of Northern Forge and the operation Scott was running. That was fine with Scott. If minimal communication between the two of them meant minimal confrontations, then it was all the better.

After talking to Valentin, dealing with Natalie was easy—almost a joy. When Scott knocked on her door to retrieve her, he found her showered and dressed in full Nightman uniform—something he never thought he’d see, despite the lack of any alternatives at the base. But he liked it that way. It made Natalie feel in line with the rest of them. She looked good in black.

More importantly than how she looked was how she came across, and that was controlled. Though she and Scott would likely not be friends anytime soon, she was at minimal cordial. Considering all they’d been through and how he’d betrayed her, cordial was lightyears ahead of where he thought they’d ever be.

And so the two of them set off in Tiffany and Catalina’s wake, lingering behind just enough to give them an elevator ride down in private to do some last minute prepping for the meeting. For all practical purposes, Scott was treating Natalie like his XO. Though the irony struck Scott that this was exactly the opposite of how things had been presented in Cairo, when he showed up as commander to her captaincy, he dared not mention it. He was sure that had crossed her mind already. Her humility shamed him. He wasn’t sure he’d have been able to summon up the courage to approach this in the way she was approaching it now. Scott was fairly certain that made her a better person—and leader—than him.

Nonetheless, they were in as much of a sync as was likely possible. The only unknown now was the unit’s impending reaction.

The moment the pair walked into the conference room and Scott saw the operatives gathered, reality struck him. It took mere seconds to perform a head count: thirteen. There were thirteen operatives gathered, including Scott and Natalie. From the floor by the door, Flopper lifted his head to look at Scott, the jingling of the dog’s collar drawing Scott’s attention.

Okay, fourteen.

That Flopper needed to be counted at all only highlighted the major problem with which Scott was faced. They were decimated. Of the operatives that were there, only seven were unscathed and could be considered truly combat ready: Becan, Jayden, Tiffany, Javon, Tom, Feliks, and Pyotr from Krasnoyarsk, who was looking like a better pickup by the second just for the increased body count he provided. I’m banged up, and so are Esther and Rashid. Auric and Catalina are sitting here in wheelchairs. Again, he looked at Flopper. And you’re a dog—no offense. Another dawning realization was that, of every single person present in the room, only Scott, Esther, Becan, Jayden, and Flopper were from the Fourteenth. Less than half.

The collective shift of focus from Scott to Natalie was dramatic. There were almost gasps. And instantly—as Scott had feared—his Type-2 scout rose to her feet. “What in the bloody hell is she doing here?” Esther asked, pointing at Natalie while she gaped at Scott.

Inhaling through her nostrils as she stood by Scott’s side, Natalie lowered her chin and said nothing.

“Sit down and calm down,” Scott said, raising a palm to Esther, who settled back into her chair. Drawing a breath of preparation, Scott broke the news. “I don’t need to introduce Captain Rockwell to any of you—we’re all quite aware of how she got swept up in this.” And here it went. “Having had time to soak in everything going on around her, particularly as it pertains to the big picture of what we’re doing, the captain has selflessly decided to lend us her trust. From this stage onward, and under supervision,” he said, giving Natalie as much of a stern look as he had the shamelessness to do, “she will be joining us as part of my command staff.”

Esther’s eyes went flat. “You…are joking.”

“I am not joking, and you will comply with this, Miss Brooking.”

“Miss Brooking? Since when am I sodding ‘Miss Brooking?’”

Scott was on the verge of saying something regrettable when Natalie cleared her throat. “If I may,” she said, glancing at Scott as if asking for his approval. When he offered it, she turned back to the operatives at the table. “No one is more shocked to find me standing here before you than I am. Yet, here I am.”

As he listened, Scott marveled at her composure. Her voice wasn’t even shaking to the faintest degree. It was right then that the difference between the two of them as leaders became striking. Scott led with passionate intensity—he was an adrenaline machine. Natalie was pure professionalism. I should have told her what was happening in Cairo. That failure will always be mine.

“As much as I would love to condemn you for your actions,” Natalie said, looking specifically at the spare members of the Fourteenth present, “what I cannot deny is that Falcon Platoon is, contrary to what EDEN claimed, alive—and that according to every single Falcon I had the privilege of sharing a quarantine cell with, a victim of EDEN betrayal. Those revelations were enough to make me consider the possibility that what happened in Cairo was the result of a well-intentioned operation going poorly.”

Well-intentioned? She was letting them off easy. Or at least, that was the hand she was showing.

“I want one thing: to know the truth. EDEN has a lot to explain to me. Your captain and I are going to discuss an operation this morning—one that will go a long way in satisfying my desire to know that truth.” She paused. “At the end of the day, either you’ll have deceived me twice, and I’ll have been blind enough to fall for it twice, or the organization I dedicated my life to serving will have betrayed us all. There is no good answer there. But I know there is an answer. And that’s what I want to find.”

The operatives’ reactions were as stunned as they’d been initially, but no one outside of Esther looked horrified. That partially made sense. Half of the people in this room had no part of Cairo at all. As far as Falcon Platoon was concerned, Natalie Rockwell was as innocent as they were.

“There will be trust issues,” Natalie said, “of that I am certain. Whatever rules I am forced to operate under, I will comply with—if it means finding the truth. I don’t particularly look forward to working with anyone here, which I hope is understandable considering what I’ve been through. But I will do what I must. Until this operation reaches a conclusion, I will lend you my trust. I only ask for yours in return. You don’t have to like me, but I do want you to work with me. I aim to make a difference.”

“You’re already making a sodding difference,” Esther spat. She glared sharply at Scott. “You stupid fool.”

And that was it. “If you don’t want to be a part of this, Esther, you can leave,” Scott said.

Without hesitation, the scout rose from her chair. “I will not follow this woman. Not onto a ship, not on a ground mission, not even in a sodding cafeteria line. I’m gone.”

“Esther,” Natalie said, eyes showing her rapid loss of patience, though her voice stayed controlled. “Please allow me to—”

“Bugger off, Venus.” Esther’s glare pivoted to the others in the room. “Anyone who follows this woman is a buffoon.” Slamming her chair back in place, she marched straight for the door, past Scott and Natalie without so much as a glance at them. The tension in the air was thick.

As the door swung back shut behind the scout, Natalie eyed Scott sidelong. “Polyester, huh?” she murmured quietly.

Scott was fuming—fuming enough to want to storm out of the conference room, grab Esther by her neck, and shake the living idiocy out of her. Way to make our whole outfit look dysfunctional, Ess. And where in the world was Jayden during all this? He and Esther hadn’t been ‘dating’ long, but as her boyfriend, shouldn’t he have stepped in to at least try and calm her down?

It was right then, for the first time since walking into the room, that Scott realized Jayden and Esther hadn’t been sitting together. Quite the contrary, they were about as far away from each other at the table as two people could get. As Scott finally set his gaze on his one-eyed sniper, he was surprised by the total lack of compassion on Jayden’s face—in any capacity whatsoever. He looked just as irritable as Scott felt.

Without the need for any kind of prompt, Jayden shook his head and said, “Don’t look at me.”

How was Scott supposed to respond to that? By not responding at all. Clearing his throat and trying to not look wholly humiliated, he just went right on. “So as Venus—” Biting his lip hard, he actually growled at the slip. Next to him, Natalie looked at him with slowly narrowing eyes. “So as Captain Rockwell said,” Scott said, offering her an apologetic frown and whispering, “Sorry,” before continuing on. “A lot of trust is going to have to be extended to her during this mission.” Ess, when I get my hands on you… “What we should all keep in mind, however, is that the trust we’re to extend pales in comparison to the trust she’s already lent us. I’m being honest when I say it’s one of the most admirable gestures I’ve ever seen someone make.” It wasn’t flattery—it was the outright truth. “The two of us will work in tandem, and you’re to treat us both as your superior officers during the operation we’re about to talk about. Does anyone else here have a problem with that?”

At her seat at the table, Tiffany cleared her throat. Before Scott could raise an eyebrow, the Valley Girl said, “Cat and I talked about this a bit on the way here, and we just want to say that we’re both like, super excited to be working with the captain. You’re like, a total super-chick.”

Scott’s instinct was to slap himself in the face, though he somehow stifled the urge. A super-chick. Fan-freaking-tastic. Glancing briefly at Natalie to gauge her reaction as the blonde prattled on, he was surprised to see, lo and behold, the faintest of wry smiles creeping out.

“And if we call you ‘Venus,’ totally don’t take offense to it, ’cause we both think it’s, like, the most totally rad nickname in the world! So if you ever wanna call us, like, Sapphire and Hellcat, that’s totally cool, too, ’cause that was gonna be my callsign after I graduated as a fighter pilot, and—”

“Tiff,” Catalina murmured, shooting Tiffany a panicked look.

The blonde went right on. “—everyone used to call her Hellcat, because when she did something awesome, they’d say, ‘Hell, Cat!’”

“Tiff!” Punching Tiffany in the arm, Catalina shot her daggers. The Valley Girl’s lips abruptly sealed shut. At the far end of the table, Javon shook his head and tried to hide a chuckle.

The silence that followed was deafening. Once again, Scott found himself sighing in defeat. “Right. Thank you, Miss Feathers, for that heartfelt endorsement.”

“Ain’t got no problem wit’cha, Vee,” said Javon, nodding in Natalie’s direction.

What, she’s ‘Vee’ now?

“S’far as I’m concerned, you always was one of us.”

Across from Javon, and notably more subdued, Tom said, “I got no problem.”

“Lookin’ forward to workin’ with yeh, captain,” said Becan, offering Natalie a supportive nod, as did several others. The lone exception was Rashid, which wasn’t surprising. She’d be a hard sell for an old fulcrum like him.

Just the same, it was good to see Becan filling the role of professional among the Fourteenth. Scott was proud of him. Sneaking a peek at Natalie’s expression once again, Scott was pleasantly surprised to see her actually convey a level of comfort. That almost half of the group consisted of Falcons had to contribute to that. Taking advantage of the lull, Scott steered things back on track. “So I’m sure you guys are wondering about this operation we keep talking about. I think everyone in this room is aware by now that the answers we seek are at Nagoya. This has been confirmed by Iosif Antipov—he’s basically the Nightman equivalent of EDEN’s Intelligence department.” There was no need to go into any more detail than that. “Unfortunately, infiltrating Nagoya is a non-option. Not only are we unfamiliar with it, there’s no way that EDEN would allow this to happen again after what took place in Cairo.” And that was as much as he wanted to reference the worst experience in Natalie’s life. “Antipov has arranged for the device we’re after to be transported via bullet train from Nagoya to Tokyo as a transfer for the purpose of research. This train is what we’ll be intercepting.”

“We’re hijackin’ a bleedin’ train?” Becan asked, the Irishman’s eyes widening. Others bore similar expressions.

“That’s right.” Approaching one of the monitors along the wall, Scott inputted the memory chip from his comm that contained Antipov’s data. Seconds later, the information appeared on the screen. “As you can see, the car we’re looking for will be a red one with the identifier, ‘NP 469759.’ It will leave Nagoya at 2214 local time on Tuesday. This is the car that we must intercept.” He offered them a somber look. “There are no bones about it. This is our whole reason for being, right now. If we fail to retrieve the device inside that car, we might as well turn ourselves in.” And likely, hand Earth over to Archer and his alien conspirators. “This one’s a must-win.

“Captain Rockwell and I have not yet discussed the actual plan for pulling this off, but it likely won’t be very complicated. We’re not going to be able to hop on at the train station. This is going to boil down to landing a transport—presumably the V2 that’s sitting in the hangar—on top of the car we’re after.” Max’s arrival was paying new dividends. With the Pariah in such poor condition, they’d be up a creek without that extra transport. “While Tiffany provides air support in her Superwolf, a team will gain entry to the car, obtain the device, and get back on the ship. Our angle of approach is going to be critical, and I’m sure it’ll be discussed in full. EDEN’s going to know what’s up the moment we touch down on that train, so this will be a fast in-and-out operation.” Hesitating, he finally said, “This should be easy.”

Becan rubbed his face with his hands and murmured, “Bollocks.”

“I know,” said Scott, raising his hand to quell the impending sense of doom. “Hami Station was supposed to be in-and-out, too. We did the best that we could—and we’ll do that again on the train. Let’s hope for the best and be prepared for the worst.”

Speaking for the first time, Rashid asked, “What is the worst?”

“The worst would be getting detected before we land—anything that cuts into our allotted time. This needs to be fast. But we can do it.” They had to do it.

An air of seriousness coming over her, Tiffany asked, “If I’m in the Superwolf, who’s piloting the V2?”

Scott actually had a simple answer for that. “The same pilot who flew it here. And no, I don’t know who he is. But he’s going to be ‘voluntold.’” Very faintly, Scott smirked. “Not I, nor Becan, will be flying this transport, if that’s what you were wondering.” Becan scoffed, while Tiffany offered a smirk of her own. “What I want us to do for the remainder of the week and over the weekend is get to know each other. We’re accustomed to working with each other in the Fourteenth, but as you can see if you look around, those from the Fourteenth are a minority here.” And he certainly wasn’t going to factor Esther into the equation. “The camaraderie that we have can’t be constructed in a weekend, but we still need to try. You get to know people well enough, and you can tell just by their tone of voice what their situation is. That familiarity will be necessary—at least to whatever extent we can achieve it.” Looking at Natalie, he asked, “Is there anything that you want to add on that?” Keep her involved, Scott. Make this her mission, too.

Looking surprised to have been called on, Natalie quickly cleared her throat. “Not at this time, no. I’m sure I’ll get a chance to talk to each of you at some point or another.”

Nodding his head, Scott addressed everyone again. “I know everyone here is curious as to what will happen to Donald and Travis’s bodies.” As the two were brought up, a growing-all-too-familiar hue of somberness arose. “Keeper Lukin is arranging for them to be taken into Norilsk today to be buried. I don’t know where, but he has assured me it’s going to be in an actual grave in an actual cemetery. I know that isn’t the ideal way we wanted to see them laid to rest, but it’s all that we’ve got.” His frown deepened. “Obviously, we won’t be going to a funeral, so pay your final respects today—soon. I’ll be going right after this meeting, so anyone who wants to join me can feel free. If there is a good thing that can come out of this, I hope it’s that it makes us all realize how serious this situation is. The line we’re walking is razor thin.” It felt too thin. “Let’s get our hearts right, then our minds right, then our bodies right.” Every part of them needed to be in as close to top form as possible—particularly those recovering from injury. “You’re dismissed.”

As could have been expected, ending the meeting on such a solemn note, there was a distinct lack of post-meeting chatter amongst the operatives. Scott was certain that overall unfamiliarity with each other contributed to that, but more so, he knew everyone was thinking about Travis and Donald. It was no surprise to him at all when, as everyone filed out of the room, they made their way quietly en masse to the hangar, where their comrades’ bodies were laid out.

Though pleased, Scott was not surprised to see Natalie join them. For her part, she was doing everything right, particularly for the odd set of circumstances with which she’d entered the unit. There was still the faintest part of him that wondered if this was all a setup of some sort—treachery from the one he had personally betrayed in Cairo. But for the life of him, she didn’t strike him as that kind of person. Were this only the Fourteenth, then he likely wouldn’t have released her at all. But Natalie had chosen Tiffany as her ambassador to retrieve Scott the night before, and Tiffany had nothing to do with Cairo. Tiffany and the Falcons were innocent victims in all of this. Unless Natalie had truly taken a turn for the bloodthirsty, he couldn’t imagine her willingly lying to them, particularly if the endgame was to bring EDEN’s wrath down on them all. She was being driven by genuine curiosity. She’d picked up on the talk, and she, herself, had to know what was going down. Scott couldn’t blame her.

As the group circled around the pair of body bags containing Travis Navarro and Donald Bell, there was a distinct lack of parting words spoken. Everyone was just quiet, their eyes downcast—some tearing up—as they stared down quasi-numbly at the reality before them: that any one of them could meet their end today, tomorrow, or any day from there forward. It was a chilling reality, the inevitability of death. Scott and his comrades had become comfortable via survival. But death loomed. It was hunting them. And one day, be it by these events or another, it would catch them. Scott just hoped they all had a little more time.

Scott wasn’t sure how long they’d all stood around the bodies, but it didn’t feel like a terribly long time. It was likely that everyone wanted to move on. No one seemed more ready than Tom, who was the first to leave the hangar after what couldn’t have been more than five minutes. He left alone, leading Scott to believe that the soldier must have already told his cousin goodbye. Tom would be an interesting one in all this. He had an intensity and a volatility to him that Scott hadn’t encountered in very many people. He wasn’t sure anyone from the Fourteenth could compare. Truth be told, everyone in this new outfit would be interesting, in their own way.

So this was it. This was the final week leading up to whatever was ultimately in store for them. He’d have never imagined when he’d signed up for EDEN so many years ago that his most significant operation would be the hijacking of a train. In any other less-dire situation, it might have been a little bit exciting. But more than anything, Scott just wanted to get it over with. He was sure everyone else felt that way, too.

It was time to get ready. It was time to get everyone in this band of outlaws on the same page. Destiny loomed in the Land of the Rising Sun.

Whatever else loomed was yet to be seen.

*

Face buried in her hands on the floor of her room at Northern Forge, Esther Brooking cried silent tears, her back butted up against the furthest corner of the room. Faithfully at her side, Flopper stared at her with scared, confused eyes, his head tilted in concern. Though she’d locked her door from the inside to prevent anyone else from interrupting her, the dog was welcomed company—the only company that was allowed. With a stare that seemed to plead, “Let’s play, you’ll feel better,” Flopper nuzzled his nose between her legs as if trying to encourage her to rise from her pit of despair.

An occasional, quiet, “Stop it,” was all he received back.

Though there was an element of logic to her protest against Natalie teaming up with them, Esther knew there were other factors at play. Emotional factors. The kind of factors that, try as she might, she’d never been able to control. Not as a teenager, not as an EDEN cadet, and not as a love-stricken member of the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk. Esther was, quite simply, Esther—for better or worse.

But this was much, much worse.

Esther was living in a nightmare of her own creation. Ju`bajai’s influence on her—the crux of her turmoil—was a direct result of the person she’d been to everyone else. Sneaky, manipulative, the jealous author of a little black book of secrets and countermeasures. The Ithini had said it herself: this was learned behavior. There was no one but Esther to blame. For the first time in her life, she was tasting how it felt to be the friend of Molly Polyester. There wasn’t much “friend” to be found.

Like a horrible chain reaction, Ju`bajai’s influence on her had spread to her personal life with Jayden, which spread to her lack of composure when it came to dealing with other annoyances, like the sudden acceptance of Natalie Rockwell as part of the tribe. But even in that, Esther had only herself to blame. There was no logical reason for her to despise “Venus” so deeply. There were more reasons to pity her. Natalie was a victim in all of this; yet, she received Esther’s contempt. Natalie was the new Svetlana.

How Esther wished that Svetlana was there.

Then, there was Jayden. The mere thought of the Texan brought a gut-wrenching ache to Esther’s stomach. It was easy to pin the blame in her own mind on Ju`bajai for the “Scott” slipup. But truth be told…that slip might have been all Esther’s. There was no evidence that Ju`bajai had been in her mind in the V2, and though the Ithini had slipped things into Esther’s mind before—like the vision of the Ithini’s origin while Esther was at Cairo—this didn’t feel anything like that. Scott’s name had just come out naturally, as if Esther had whispered it a thousand times before. She had fantasized about Scott Remington in ways that shamed her to her core—fantasies with no basis in reality other than to entertain the lusts of a woman who felt entitled to a man. Whispering Scott’s name was habit. Ju`bajai was not the one to blame for that. Leaning her head back against the wall, eyes red and face tear-streaked, Esther blindly rubbed the top of Flopper’s head. This, like so many other things, was her mess to clean.

A knock came to her door.

Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark!

Flinching at the sudden eruption from Flopper, Esther scowled as the dog scampered for the door. Pushing lazily to her feet, the scout said, “All right, all right. Can it, dog.” Making her way across the room and shoving Flopper away from the door with a gentle nudge of her foot, Esther unlocked and cracked open the door. Peering inside from the hallway was Scott. Blowing out a breath that made no effort to hide its sense of dread, she opened the door fully to face him. “Hey,” she said quietly.

Scott barely had a moment to say, “Hey,” back when Flopper assaulted his knees, leaping against them as if the dog was trying to bowl Scott over. “Hey! Come on, calm down.”

Bark! Bark!

“Okay, fine.” Kneeling down to satisfy the animal’s exuberance, Scott rubbed Flopper’s back as Flopper leaned sideways into him, tail wagging and tongue hanging dopily. Looking up at Esther, Scott said, “They’re going to take Travis and Donald to a graveyard in Norilsk soon. I thought you’d like to know. This’ll probably be your last chance to say goodbye.” Angling his head strangely as he looked at her, he asked, “Have you been crying?”

Rubbing her temple with her hand, Esther answered, “I’ll go see Travis in a bit. I just need a few minutes.”

“No, you’ll go see him now.” When Esther gave him a flat look, he said, “Travis has been a part of your life for almost a year. You’ll never forgive yourself if you get there and it’s too late.”

“Fine. Let me just freshen up.”

Scott took a step back into the hall. “Now.”

Rolling her eyes at him, Esther said, “Yes, master.” Abandoning all efforts at retreat, the scout stepped out into the hall with him.

“And while we walk, you can explain what the hell just went on in the conference room.”

“Ugh. Must we?”

Scott nodded. “Yeah, I’m afraid we must.”

That was the last thing Esther wanted to talk about, and Scott was the last person she wanted to talk about it with. Begrudgingly stepping into the hall, Esther took to Scott’s side with all the enthusiasm of a naughty child in line for a scolding.

“So what in the world is going on?” Scott asked. “I feel like this goes beyond Captain Rockwell.”

“What if it doesn’t? Am I allowed to just not like the woman?”

He eyed her. “Why weren’t you sitting next to Jayden?”

Stopping in her tracks, Esther stared at him. “My personal life is none of your bloody business.”

“The point is,” said Scott, “you’re not acting normal.”

She resumed her pace in order to keep up with him. “And what exactly is normal?”

This time, it was Scott who stopped. Turning to give Esther a sharp eye, he said, “Stop with the act—and yeah, I’m calling it an act.” She pursed her lips, but said nothing. “You’ve got a barrier up as thick as the Hoover Dam. What is going on with you?”

Staring at Scott with an almost calculating glare, Esther set her hands on her hips as if digging in to the trenches of defiance. At long last, though—and when it became apparent that Scott wasn’t budging—her face softened. Sighing, she put her hand back down and walked past him. “Did you know that I struggle with things?” she asked almost nonchalantly.

Walking again, he followed behind her. “We all struggle with things. I struggle, Dave struggles, Jayden and Becan struggle. Everyone here is struggling.”

“Yeah, well there’s a big difference between ‘everyone’ and me.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

Pivoting to face him, the scout answered, “Because you’re all good people.”

Scott cocked his head in confusion. “What do you mean—”

“I mean you’re all good people. I’m not.” Her jaw tightened. “That’s the difference between everyone else and me. You’re fighting your circumstances, while I’m fighting my sodding self. And I’m realizing right now how much I don’t enjoy it.”

“I’d be lying if I said I was following any of this,” Scott said, “but do you not realize who you’re talking to? I’m a fulcrum, Esther. I’m a Nightman.”

Esther drew in a breath and said, “So am I.”

Scott’s brow furrowed. “So you’re…what?”

As if suddenly debating whether or not to continue, Esther finally succumbed to inevitability. The intensity in her words faded away. “I’m a Nightman, Scott.”

“I’m talking literally, Ess. Not some figurative thing, where you feel like a—”

“I’m a valkyrie.”

Scott stared dumbfounded as she went on.

“Antipov approached me before the Cairo mission—before my ‘makeover.’ He wanted me to be something new. A prototype.” The whole while she spoke, Scott stared with utter bewilderment. “He used Alexander Nijinsky as my rite of passage. He asked me if I wanted to be something no one had ever seen before: the world’s first female Nightman. And I accepted it for the stupid motivation of one-upping you.” She spread her hands out as if mockingly revealing herself. “So here I am, Molly Esther Brooking, valkyrie of the Nightmen—your sister in arms. Now tell me how you’re so much more fallen than me.”

Peering at her as if trying to see through her, Scott simply asked, “Really?”

“How do you think Rashid knew to arrive when he did? Do you think we all just lucked out while Cairo was raining down on us? Rashid knew to come because I commed Antipov while I was escaping alone.” She set her jaw as if awaiting a confrontation. “I was Antipov’s eyes. On the mission, on you, on the entire operation. When things were falling apart, I was the one who called for our extraction.”

With a look that seemed to be putting pieces together, Scott angled his head down to the floor in thought.

Esther inhaled slowly through her nostrils. “So as you can see, I am truly, truly struggling. With my choices, with my place in life, with the person I bloody am. I am not terribly impressed with myself.” The scout’s eyelashes flickered downward. “I destroy everything that I touch. You’re right in that Jayden and I weren’t sitting together in that meeting. It’s because he’s the latest casualty.” Her lip quivered ever so faintly, but she maintained her composure. “I hurt him so deeply. Had someone hurt me…humiliated me in the way that I humiliated him…I would never forgive them. I lost him, Scott.” Shaking her head in disgust, she said, “I lost him when I’d barely vecking had him. So that is the story of me. Aren’t you so proud of your Type-2 bloody scout?”

Setting his hands on his hips, Scott’s gaze remained downcast in thought. For several long moments, silence lingered in the hallway. At long last, head looking up to regard her again, Scott gave her his reply. “I’m not even sure what to say.”

She ran her hands through her hair and sighed. “Of course, you’re not.”

“‘Valkyrie’ is a really cool name.” Caught off guard by the casualness of the remark, Esther eyed him. “I mean it,” Scott said. “I’m going to be totally honest—it’s kind of hot.”

“Oh God, really, Scott?”

Raising a hand of good intent, Scott went on. “I think you’re waiting for me to be appalled, so let me go ahead and end the suspense. I don’t care that you’re a Nightman.”

Esther looked at him warily.

“I got my blowup out of the way when I found out you killed Nijinsky, so, I’m good on that,” he said. She only vaguely reacted to the sarcasm. “If there was anyone on the Fourteenth that I’d have picked out to become a Nightman—who wasn’t already one, of course—it’d have been you, even being a woman. Not because of what the Nightmen are, but because of how incredibly exclusive that club is. You were born to be a VIP.” He sighed exhaustedly. “And so no, Ess, I’m not all taken aback and ready to punch you, or however you thought I’d react. I can relate to the self-loathing. It’d be incredibly hypocritical of me to pile on you for going down the same path I went down myself.” Faintly, he laughed. “Okay, so maybe the woman thing is kind of weird. So I guess, technically, you’re a Nightwoman?”

“I’ve honestly not given it much thought.”

Scott shrugged and went on. “So, big deal. Welcome to the club. It is literally the worst club ever.” Esther half smirked, half frowned. “What I’m more concerned with, though, is what you said about yourself. You’re not a bad person.”

“Oh, come on, Scott. I killed Alexander Nijinsky. I tried to move in on my commanding officer.” She exhaled, exasperated. “I shoved porridge in your poor girlfriend’s face.”

“In all fairness, I shoved a pie in her face.”

Esther eyed him. “You know what I mean.”

“Esther, what do all three of those things you mentioned have in common?”

At the question, Esther raised a curious eyebrow. “Umm, nothing?”

“They’re all crimes of passion.” Esther’s eyes narrowed, as if she was considering that answer for the first time. “I can spot that right away,” Scott said, “because I’m that way, too. We are not that dissimilar. And I think that’s why we’re attracted to the people we’re attracted to.” Lifting his hands from his hips, Scott folded them across his chest. “Are Sveta and Jay not two of the most reserved people we know? In their own ways, of course, but just the same. They balance us.

“Look, I don’t know what you did to Jay, but whatever it was, if you talk to him, I’m willing to bet he’ll forgive you for it. That’s who Jay is. You’ll never find a better man than him—I mean that as a testament to him, not a knock on you. He’s one of the truest, most faithful guys I’ve ever known. So talk to him.”

Esther shook her head. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Maybe it is simple. Maybe people like you and I make things harder for ourselves by assuming everything has to be dramatic to reach a resolution.”

Though her eyes stayed on him, Esther said nothing.

“But whatever you do, don’t wallow in a bad attitude. That’s not going to get you anywhere. Talk to Jayden, be honest, and see where it takes you.” He scrutinized her. “Does he know about the valkyrie thing?”

“No,” answered Esther quietly.

Scott frowned. “He needs to know that, too. Don’t keep those kinds of secrets. Just tell him and see what happens.” Pausing for a moment, Scott said, “And after you’ve talked to Jayden, talk to Captain Rockwell.”

Instantly, the scout rolled her eyes. “You had me locked in, then you had to bloody ruin it.”

“Why don’t you like this woman?”

“I don’t know! She’s annoying? I just don’t like her, Scott—I don’t care that she’s the victim, here. She and I will never be friends.”

Scott shook his head. “You don’t have to be friends. But you need to be able to work together. For the purpose of this mission, for the purpose of moving forward in an uncomfortable situation for everyone involved. Will you try?”

“That is asking a terribly lot. I don’t trust her, Scott.”

“Should anyone trust you?”

The Briton angled her head ever so slightly. Brown eyes distancing for a moment, they refocused on him when they found an answer. “No. I suppose they shouldn’t. All right, fine—I’ll try.” She crinkled her nose. “Don’t get so clever, Scott Remington. I don’t particularly enjoy it.”

He smirked in response. “I can live with that.”

“I’m sure.” Turning away from him, she resumed walking to the hangar. “So what did I miss in this little meeting of yours?”

“It might have been brief, but there was nothing little about it. It’s a shame you had to miss it.” When she sighed, he went on. “Antipov has arranged for the device we want to be transferred from Nagoya to some place in Tokyo on a special bullet train. We’re going to hijack it.”

Raising an eyebrow, Esther remarked, “We’re going to hijack it?”

“That’s right.”

“Can’t say I expected that.”

Esther rounded the corner for the straightaway that led to the hangar, Scott following in step. “We land on the train, we get the device, we get out—preferably fast.”

She glanced back at him. “You say that almost as if this’ll be easy.”

“Yeah, well, easy ain’t happening. Everything has to go seamlessly, which we’re definitely capable of, but…it would be bucking a trend. We also need to coordinate this without the use of comm traffic, as Antipov thinks we need to go radio dark. So, yeah. This should be real simple.”

Emerging into the hangar space, Esther paused as she saw the pair of body bags. As if registering what they meant for the first time, the scout inhaled a small breath.

“You okay?”

After a short hesitation, Esther nodded. “Yes. Which one is him?”

“Far-side one.”

Taking a step in Travis’s direction, Esther stopped and looked back when she realized Scott wasn’t following. “Aren’t you coming?”

Scott took a step backward. “I already made my peace. I took you here for your sake.” Sliding his hands into his back pockets, he said, “Tell your friend goodbye.” Without another word, Scott turned and made his way out. Esther was left standing alone.

It took barely more than a few steps for the heaviness to hit. As Esther drew within meters, then feet of the black body bag with Travis inside, the air in the room become suffocating—despite the bitter, dry coldness of the gusting mountain winds outside. Eventually, even as her pace slowed, she found herself standing in front of Travis’s body. The scout’s brown eyes lingered on the black fabric. She said nothing.

Death. Not even the speed of a Vulture could outrun it. Death was always a little bit faster, always a few more steps ahead, ready and waiting to pounce when it was least expected. It was the ultimate hunter in that, with rare exception, no one saw it coming. And it had taken their pilot. Kneeling down in front of the bag, Esther rested her hand atop it. She felt Travis’s head underneath. She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, then exhaled.

How easily the bullet that struck Travis could have struck Jayden—not that the Texan’s life was any more valuable to the universe. Just the same, Jayden could have been taken away in the blink of his one good eye. Who was to say that it wouldn’t happen tomorrow? They were all on borrowed time.

Resting her hand atop the bulge where Travis’s forehead was, Esther smiled softly and said, “You were always such a nerd.” A cold silence came after the statement, as did a slow, ugly twisting of her face. It was hitting her now, just as it must have hit the others as they’d stood around him earlier. There would be no more mess of comics strewn about. No more animated monologues about Steller Man or his nemesis, Commander Kill. No more good-natured ribbing through the Pariah’s comm about operatives having to go out in cold or wet weather. No more Travis. Sucking in a breath through nostrils that were a little less clear, Esther managed to squeak out the words, “But you were our nerd,” before lowering her head and letting her emotions go. Staring at the hangar’s floor through watery eyes, Esther let out a moan of aggravation before looking up and wiping the tears away. “You got shot by a sniper! That’s ridiculous.” Blowing out a breath, she looked at the bag and said, “I am going to miss you.” Leaning forward, she placed a soft kiss where the top of his head was. “Fly fast up there, Navarro. I love you.”

Rising slowly to her feet, Esther let her gaze linger on the bag for a moment longer before she stepped back, turned away, and made for the hangar exit.

Scott was right. Wallowing in a sea of self-loathing was going to solve nothing. If she wanted Jayden back—if she wanted her dignity and sense of control over her own life back—she was going to have to make concessions. She would have to do the thing she hated the most: admit she wasn’t good enough.

She wasn’t good enough at being pure—at least not enough to avoid making slips of the tongue as she’d made with Scott’s name. That had been a dreadful mistake, and it could very possibly happen again. She needed to reiterate to Jayden, as she had at Route 66 in Cairo, that she had literally been a fool for Scott. She was still a fool now. Though her cravings for Scott were no longer at the forefront of her mind, their echo was still there. That would take time to go away. She needed to ask Jayden to be patient with her as she would desperately try to be a good girlfriend.

She wasn’t good enough at being honest. Jayden would know that for sure when she’d bring up her position as valkyrie—which she would. She would tell him that secrecy and misdirection were parts of her nature that she wanted to be rid of, horribly. She wasn’t good enough to change on her own. She needed the Texan’s help.

She wasn’t good enough at being calm. That was an Esther trait of which everyone was well aware. She was a firecracker. It was part of her that made her who she was. It was a big reason why she needed Jayden for that balance, as Scott had accurately claimed. Jayden was the yin to her yang—a calming breeze in the hurricane of her heart. He could teach her how to control that passion of hers that got her into trouble.

And last, but not least…Esther simply wasn’t good. The realization of that had been the most painful part of all this. She was not a good person—but she was trying to be. Jayden was a big part of that. She wanted to be good for him. He deserved a good woman. Why couldn’t that be her?

Why…couldn’t that be her?

In the midst of a new, unexpected thought, Esther stopped in the hallway. Despite the stillness around her, she felt her heart suddenly flutter. As a swell of lightheadedness hit her, she found herself bracing against the wall with the palm of her hand. “What are you thinking, Molly Esther?” she asked herself quietly. A fear—and an anticipation—was hitting her. Briefly, she looked back at the hangar entrance far behind her, where she’d just said goodbye to one of her comrades. One of her comrades whose life was over. Whose tomorrows had run out. As her breathing grew heavier, she said, “You’re crazy, girl. You are out of your sodding mind.”

But she didn’t feel so crazy. And all of a sudden, the troubled scout knew what she had to do. She knew there was only one solution to all of this. A solution that defied everything about who she’d always been.

She could be that woman.

Feeling on the verge of hyperventilation, Esther blew breaths, in and out, until she could stand up straight again. She needed to talk to Jayden. She needed to tell him everything, and then some. She needed to grab hold of that whirlwind before it passed.

But first…she needed to solve something else. A nagging problem that’d been a thorn in her side for days. A problem that had the potential to derail everything.

As fate had it, Esther happened to have a solution for that, too.

*

Scott had been in his room for barely five minutes before the knock on his door came. Opening it, he was surprised to see Esther standing eagerly on the other side. Raising an eyebrow, Scott simply said, “Yes?”

“Antipov wants you to go radio dark,” Esther said, “yet you need to coordinate this perfectly. You need to communicate without the use of a comm.”

Hesitating for a moment, Scott slowly nodded his head. “That’s the gist of this, yes.”

Lifting her chin, Esther said with total confidence, “Ju`bajai.” Scott looked at her curiously. “Start getting the Falcons accustomed to Ithini connections. Use her as a mental comm of sorts. Everyone will be able to communicate without saying a word.” Leveling her head again, she said, “And there’s your radio dark coordination.”

Deep thought evident on his face, Scott fell silent for several moments before responding. “That’s actually…a very good idea.”

“I know,” she said, smirking just a bit. “I came up with it.”

Scott’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been on a crusade for Ju`bajai’s release. There must be a reason.”

Her smirk disappeared as, very slowly, a smile took its place. “Not anymore.” Without further word or elaboration, the scout turned and walked away.

Closing the door after she’d gone, Scott stepped to the middle of his room with his hands on his hips. “Ju`bajai, huh?” he asked himself aloud. Nodding his head as if pleased, Scott grabbed a pen and paper to work out the details.

*

Freedom. At long last, Esther could taste it. It pulsed in her veins, and with every step she took closer to Jayden’s room, the feeling grew stronger. By the time she arrived at his door, she was riding a wave of unbridled, unadulterated liberation. She didn’t need confirmation that Ju`bajai would indeed be freed and that her captivity in the being’s mind would finally end. Her idea was valid. If Scott had the power to free Natalie Rockwell, he’d have the power to free the Ithini, too. However he worked that out was his problem—not hers. Esther’s problem was behind an old, wooden door. Reaching up to it with her hand, the scout bit her bottom lip and closed her eyes. Drawing in a preparatory breath, she finally knocked.

It was the Texan who answered, and a quick glance past him ensured that—as she’d hoped—his Irish roommate was not present. As her eyes flitted back to his, she beheld his disapproving stare. Beneath that black eye patch, it only seemed that much more menacing. She tried to smile just the same. “Hi, Jay.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

Holding her open palm out and before anything else could come out of his mouth, she said, “I was addicted to him.”

Jayden squinted with his good eye.

“I was addicted to Scott for so long. I thought of him every hour, every waking moment. But you mustn’t think these habits are representative of how I feel toward him now…or toward you.” Swallowing deeply, Esther waited to see if a retort of some kind would come. One didn’t. Angling her head a bit and wincing, she asked, “May I come in?”

Initially, there was no reaction at all from the Texan—he simply stared at her as she stood awkwardly albeit hopefully in the hall, waiting to see if he’d clear the way. At long last and with a sigh, he did. “Come in.”

She exhaled with relief. “Thank you, Jay.” Slipping inside as he stepped aside, Esther walked to the center of his room. Only when she heard the door click shut did she turn back around to face him. “I owe you an apology.”

“You think?”

“I don’t deserve you, and I know it. That I was…that I am the weak link in this relationship is not unknown to me. You do me grace simply by calling me a friend, let alone your girlfriend.” Gently, she brushed the fringe of her bangs from her forehead. “And if I were you, I would dump me in a heartbeat. But I am not you, and I hope you hear me out.”

Folding his arms across his chest, but not aggressively, Jayden nodded a single time. “I’m listenin’.”

Though Esther smiled faintly at his willingness, she quickly tucked the emotion away. Clearing her throat, she began. “I have been enduring some things lately that no one knows about. They are deeply personal things. Painful things.” The scout played with her fingers. “I don’t say this to make an excuse, but I do hope they provide some context as to why I’ve been…why I’ve been the way I’ve been.” It was the least crass way she could say it. “Many of my past mistakes, my past failures, have been coming back to haunt me. From Khatanga, to mistakes I’ve made with comrades, to my propensity for narcissistic idiocy…I’ve come face-to-face with some realities about myself that have left me humbled, in the way that no one likes to feel humbled. They’ve made me feel humiliated.”

“Esther,” Jayden said, breaking into her monologue, “if you’ve been dealin’ with all this stuff, why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because they are difficult to discuss with myself, let alone with anyone else, let alone with you—a man of character whose affections I am completely unworthy of. But what you need to know is that I have dealt with these things. I am ready to move on—which brings me to you.” Her dark brown eyes locked on him. “I beg of you to forgive me for the mistake I made with you. You have every right to ditch me for it, but it would break my heart, as you are the one it longs for, regardless of the lies my tongue may have told. I want you, Jay. You and no other.”

Rubbing his eye with his hand, Jayden looked down at the floor. “Man…”

“Please forgive me, Jay. I really, really need you to before I go on.”

“I forgive you,” he said, looking up at her again. “If you mean all the things you’re sayin’, if you really did just slip up, then yeah, I forgive you.” His expression shifted warningly. “But I don’t want to be competin’ with Scott.”

She looked at him flatly. “There is no chance that you’re competing with Scott. The woman Scott is meant to be with is Sveta, and she with him. They have their own ‘white knight saves damsel’ love story going on. That is, as soon as he finds her again.” Brushing back her hair again, she said, “The love story I want to talk about is our own.”

“Like I said, I’m listenin’.”

“Good,” Esther said, smiling warmly, “because I have a lot to say.” Her smile slowly faded. “Before coming here to your room, I said goodbye to Travis. And as I stood there, staring at that black, faceless bag he was in, all that struck me was how incredibly short our lives are, and how utterly perilous this situation is that we’ve all found ourselves in. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Travis was alive.” She shook her head in wonderment. “And just like that, in the blink of an eye, his life is extinguished. Right there, in the cockpit of the Pariah, the place where he felt most secure. Jay, that could be us.” Echoing her solemn countenance with his own, Jayden listened quietly. “EDEN could find out about Northern Forge tomorrow. At any moment, we could die. So I don’t want to waste a moment.” For the first time, the scout’s voice began to tremble. “If this were any other time, any other place, what I’m about to say would be ridiculous. But, for the life of me, Jay, right now it’s the only thing that makes sense. Let us not waste another minute.”

Eyeing her coyly, the hair on Jayden’s arms stood on end. When the scout slowly dropped to one knee, that same eye opened wide.

“I do not know much about true love,” Esther said, “but I know I want to learn about it with you. Before the world ends, before we are the next recipients of our comrades’ eulogies…” Ever so faintly, Esther’s eyes shimmered. “…might you accept me as your wife?”

“Whoa…”

No more words. With her chest heaving, and her glistening eyes on the Texan, Esther quietly waited for his reply. She did not have to wait long. “Are you serious?”

“I’m on sodding bended knee, Jay. Yes, I’m serious!”

“You’re serious?”

The scout looked utterly panicked. Her mocha skin paling a shade, she stared up at the Texan like someone waiting to hear their own verdict. At long last, the verdict was read.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Jayden looked at her and said, “Man, why the hell not?”

Esther’s eyes widened suddenly. “Is that a yes?”

“That’s a yes.”

“Is that a bloody yes?”

Jayden laughed and nodded his head. “That’s a bloody yes!”

Hopping up to her feet, Esther bolted across the Texan’s room. He wrapped her up in his arms. “I will make you so incredibly happy!” she spouted out as they kissed. “I will be everything you ever imagined. I will make you mustard sandwiches every sodding morning!”

“Whoa, now,” he said, laughing as they kissed again. “I might have to rethink this.”

“Not on your bloody life,” she said, grinning.

Putting her at arm’s length briefly, Jayden said quizzically, “But hang on. How in the world are we gonna get married here? Don’t we need, like, a priest?”

“Lukin,” she said, still grinning from ear-to-ear. “The keeper. He was a chaplain.”

Jayden blinked. “That guy was a chaplain?”

“Yes. He’ll do it—trust me.”

“How do you know?”

Looking away briefly, the scout hesitated before her eyes turned back on him. “I actually have a bit of a card to play.”

“What the hell kind of card do you have to play against Lukin?”

Esther’s head tilted downward, though she kept her gaze steadfast on him. “One that I should probably tell you about. Jay…you might have to sit down.”

*

Rubbing his closed eyes with his thumb and pointer finger, Valentin released a long, resigned sigh as he sunk into his couch. In a voice as defeatist as could have ever been imagined coming out of his mouth, he said, “If that is what you deem necessary, that is what you will have.”

Scott stared almost bug-eyed. “Really?”

“Yes,” answered the keeper without looking. “Assign her to one of your crew. I will prepare a statement for the staff here, requesting they please not shoot the alien in the halls. Make whatever arrangements you and your operatives need to house the Ithini. I will have her release set for Saturday. This will give the staff at the base time to…ready themselves.”

Not knowing what to say, Scott only stared down at the solemnly silent fulcrum as he remained still on his couch. To say this was not what Scott had expected was the understatement of their whole stay at Northern Forge. Upon making his trek up to Valentin’s suite, Scott was mentally preparing to dodge a thrown violin. But for Valentin to approve the release of Ju`bajai without so much as a question? It was more than clear that this was not what the man wanted. He looked downright ill. For Scott, that only meant one thing. Almost with a tinge of pity, he asked, “Antipov got to you, didn’t he?”

Inhaling a breath through his nostrils that seemed to take forever to fill his lungs, the keeper released it just as slowly before answering. “I sent him an encrypted message this morning regarding the release of Natalie Rockwell. He sent a response that informed me that, should your mission fail and I did not provide you with all the assistance you required, I will be held personally responsible.”

It was confirmed. The keeper had been neutered. “And that scares you even when Antipov is all the way over in Chernobyl?”

Though Valentin’s jaw stiffened, he said nothing.

Scott wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say—he honestly hadn’t expected the question of releasing Ju`bajai to be entertained, let alone granted. He almost felt the need to apologize for the ease of it all. In less than a week, Valentin had seen all of his influence over Northern Forge stripped away. Scott might as well move into the suite, himself—at least until the train heist was finished. Sliding his hands into his pockets, the only gesture that felt natural, Scott said, “Look, man, for what it’s worth, I get what it is you’re going through.”

“You have no concept of what I am going through,” Valentin said quietly, fingers still pressed down over his eyes.

There was so much brewing under the surface of the man. He emanated tense energy. Scott almost expected him to snap. “Well, I know this may not come as the most welcomed offer, but if you want to talk about anything…” He left the statement hanging for Valentin to pick up, should he have chosen to. He didn’t. Sighing quietly, Scott took a step back and raised his hand lazily to wave. “Then I’ll see you around.” The message! Ask him about Lilan’s video message. “Oh, one more thing, before I forget. Have you heard if Lilan’s message got to anyone, yet?”

For several seconds, Valentin said nothing, until at long last, he shook his head. “No. I have not heard.”

Well, that was…disappointing. Upon realizing that the keeper wasn’t going to say anything more on it, Scott turned to make his way for the door.

After their confrontation in the medical bay—the one in which Scott went toe-to-toe with Valentin over the killing of workers at Hami Station—Scott had come to view Valentin as his antithesis at the base. But the sheer despondency that permeated the air around the keeper was starting to alter Scott’s perception. Not his perception toward what had happened at Hami Station. That would never change. But seeing Valentin in this powerless state was actually hurting Scott. He almost wanted to call Gavriil to have the keeper put on suicide watch.

As Scott passed the picture frames that adorned Valentin’s walls, he once again found himself momentarily captivated by their shocking normalcy. Before he realized it, he was standing still in front of them, staring at them again as if Valentin wasn’t even in the room with him. There was just something about the pictures that was so hard to believe. At long last, his curiosity won. Turning his head in Valentin’s direction, Scott asked the question that’d been on his mind since he’d first seen the keeper’s suite. “What happened to them?” What happened to you? He didn’t care if the question threatened to make things awkward. Things were awkward as it was.

It was as subdued a silence as Scott could ever recall experiencing. There was no thickening of the air, no sense that his question was pushing Valentin off whatever ledge he was clinging to. There was just…silence. At long last, Scott received an answer. “If you are smart,” the keeper said distantly, “you will run when you have the chance.”

That was it. No explanation. No context. Only the unsettling response of a man whose story was as ambiguous as his mental state. Perhaps more frightening than anything, it was a response that sounded more genuine than anything the keeper had told him at Northern Forge thus far. It chilled Scott to the bone.

A whirring emerged behind Scott that he recognized as the camera on the other side of the suite door, in the short hall that led from the elevator. It must have detected motion. Along with a distinct dinging sound, the massive wall of screens flashed, the many displays replaced by a single, humongous image from the camera. When he saw who was approaching, Scott raised a curious eyebrow. It was Jayden and Esther. Looking up for the first time since he’d sat down, Valentin observed the couple as they knocked. “Unlock,” he said quietly. A click came from the door, as the blown-up image of Jayden and Esther was replaced by the many camera views.

A voice-activated room. That was how he must have unlocked the door when I came that first time. The keeper hadn’t been in the living room then. He must have simply anticipated that it’d be Scott who was coming to visit. Hell of a gamble for the keeper to take. Not that he was in any way threatened by anyone there, anyway.

When Jayden knocked on the door, Valentin said, “You may open it.”

What in the world were Jayden and Esther doing there? They must have been looking for him, for some reason. Approaching Valentin’s door, Scott pulled it open. When the hand-in-hand couple laid eyes on him, they blinked in surprise.

“Oh,” said Esther.

Scott looked at her oddly. “Oh?”

“I don’t think we expected you to be here.” The scout looked at Jayden, almost as if for approval to say the words.

They didn’t expect him to be there? Who in the world had they gone up there to see, the keeper?

Jayden poked his head in as Scott stepped out of the way. “We were actually lookin’ for the keeper.”

Well, that answered that.

As soon as he was indicated, Valentin turned to face the new arrivals, looking as perplexed as Scott did. Much as Esther had just looked at Jayden, Valentin looked at Scott as if to determine whether or not this was some kind of event Scott had ordained. Upon clearly seeing that it wasn’t, he narrowed his eyes and scrutinized the Texan. “Can I help you?”

Still holding hands, Jayden and Esther slipped past Scott into the room, a tad timidly, Scott thought. They were looking at each other—looking at him—as if neither of them were sure how to proceed with something. What in the world was going on?

“Mister Keeper, sir,” said Jayden in as reverent a voice as the Texan sounded like he could muster, “we know you were…” Jayden’s good eye caught the row of pictures, where his focus suddenly shifted. Seeming to hover over one picture in particular, he finished the thought, returning his singular gaze to Valentin, across the room. “We know you’re a chaplain, sir.”

Valentin shook his head. “I am not a chaplain.”

“You’re ordained,” said Esther, glancing at Jayden briefly. “That’s all that matters to us.”

Right then, a lump emerged in Scott’s throat. There was only one reason Scott could think of for Jayden and Esther to be searching for someone in the priesthood together. No way… Angling his head suspiciously, he waited to hear what would be said next.

“We were, uhh…” Jayden looked at Esther, then Scott, then Valentin again. “We were wonderin’ if you might marry us, sir.”

And that was the reason. Though Scott’s ears heard the words, his mind scarcely registered them. Jayden was wondering if…what?

Before the equally caught-off-guard keeper could scrounge for a response, Esther addressed him. “We don’t need anything fancy. We don’t want to be inconvenient. We just…” Her brown eyes settled on Jayden, who offered the faintest of affirming smiles. “We just want you to say the words.” She looked at Valentin again. “We want it to be real.”

“Hang on a minute.” Stepping to them, Scott stared at the pair dumbfounded. “Are you guys serious?” They gave every indication that they were. “Do you really think now is the time to—”

“Yeah,” Jayden said, cutting Scott off. “We do. And yeah, we know we’ve only dated for a little while.”

This was insane. “A little while? Jay, you can count the days on one hand! This isn’t how you go about this.”

“With all due respect, and you know I respect you immensely,” Esther said, “if we went about it the way you did, we might never live to see a wedding.”

That stung.

“Scott, man.” The Texan frowned almost sympathetically. “There ain’t nothin’ you can tell us that we don’t already know, and that we ain’t already talked about. No one gets married after a couple of days. But Esther and I have known each other for a lot more than a couple of days.”

“Yeah, but—”

Jayden went on. “We know enough to know we’re the best things that ever happened to each other. And we know that, on any given day from here on out, a bullet could take that away.” He sighed. “We ain’t fooled, man. This ain’t how it’s done. But look at where we are, look at what we’re doin’.” The earnestness in his voice was impossible to ignore. “It ain’t like I’m gonna take her to the movies anytime soon. Ain’t gonna go skinny dippin’ in the creek. This is it, man,” he said, holding out his hands as if to reveal to Scott the very room he stood in. “I want to love someone before I die, and she does, too. We each want that person to be each other.”

“But…” Scott couldn’t find the right words. He just had nothing.

“There ain’t no ‘but,’ man. If we’re still alive ten years from now, we can all talk about how stupid this was. But as it stands now, we might not make it to next Wednesday.” His resolve was unbendable. Looking at Esther again, the Texan squeezed her hand tighter. “We’re doin’ this. You can either support it or you can’t.”

What was Scott even supposed to say? Turning to the keeper, he looked for someone else to insert common sense that was desperately lacking. What he found, instead, was yet another surprise.

Nodding his head thoughtfully, Valentin said, “I will do it.”

Oh, come on!

“Did you want to do it now? Here?” Valentin asked.

Her smile brightening, Esther answered, “We were actually hoping we could do it in the medical bay. We know that’s a little strange, but many of our friends are there. We would hate for any of them to miss it.”

This was happening. This was actually happening. Scott’s sniper was about to marry his scout. Scott’s blood was boiling. This was like a bad dream. Jayden and Esther were out of their minds. Support them? How could he possibly support them? How could he support this ill-thought-out foolishness? He was so mad at them for even thinking it up. He was practically livid. He was…

…he was so incredibly jealous.

“If you wish that I perform this in the medical bay,” Valentin said, “I will do so.”

How could they be on the verge of this after a few days, when Scott had dated Nicole for five years before even popping the question? All that time dating, all that time courting. All that time trying to do things the right way.

And then Nicole died.

Jayden and Esther were practically beaming. “Thank you so much,” the scout said, looking like she was about to start jumping up and down. “This is the most wonderful day of our lives!”

In that moment, Scott realized that he and Nicole were exactly what Jayden and Esther were trying to avoid. Nicole’s death had crushed him—changed him forever. He never got to experience her the way he’d wanted to. Given the situation that Jayden and Esther were in now, Scott was beginning to understand.

“Let’s go get everyone,” Jayden said exuberantly. “We gotta round ’em up! How long you think we’ll need, an hour?”

“How about two?” Esther asked, smiling sheepishly. “I might see if Tiffany can do my hair.”

The Texan nodded. “Okay, cool. I might go take a shower or somethin’.”

“Sounds good! I’ll see you in the med bay in two hours.” She looked at Valentin and smiled. “We’ll see you in two hours!”

Valentin nodded without a word. In the next second, Jayden and Esther were gone, the pair practically skipping away like overjoyed children. Scott and the keeper were left behind in silence.

Scott felt the need to say something—to find some word to break the unsettling quiet. But he found none. Rubbing the back of his neck, he turned to look at Valentin.

“I will need all of these two hours,” the keeper said stoically. “I will see you in the medical bay. Please inform Doctor Shubin of the Ithini’s release.” Without another word, Valentin walked out of the living room and into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Now alone by the keeper’s door, there was literally nothing for Scott to do there. Stepping out of the suite, and with a heart as unsettled as it was envious, he made his way for the elevator that led to Level-4.

Esther Timmons. Was that really going to be his scout’s new name? Though there’d be nothing official about this, at least in the realm of legal documentation, they were about to be verbally wed by a man of the cloth. In the eyes of God—at least in the perception of those there on Earth—that would be enough to make this legitimate. Why wouldn’t she take Jayden’s last name?

That was going to take getting used to.

As Scott filed away to his room, all he could think about was the life he’d been denied. That he’d denied for himself. He hadn’t gone about things wrongly with Nicole. There was no reason to regret the long dating and courtship process they’d undertaken. But there was no reason to question Jayden and Esther’s whirlwind pace, either. There were different approaches for different circumstances. Maintaining etiquette wasn’t easy when you were being chased by everyone on Earth.

Sitting on his bedside, Scott closed his eyes and bowed his head. There was no way he’d make it through a wedding ceremony—as brief as it was liable to be—without the comfort of God to hold him together. It’d rip him apart too much, as fair as that may or may not have been for all parties involved. As difficult as this was going to be, Scott was going to support it. He was going to support his friends. He just needed a little support through it, himself.

The two hours passed faster than Scott thought they would, and before Scott knew it, he was making his way down the halls of Northern Forge for the medical bay to see two of his comrades get wed. Only when he arrived there—only when he saw the smiles on the faces of Jayden, Esther, and all of their gathered comrades in the room—did the surreal nature of the situation fade. What replaced it was joy.

As she’d stated she would, Esther must have visited Tiffany. Her disheveled inverted bob had been remolded into a wavy form that would have dazzled on any catwalk. Returning to her tattered, albeit clean little black dress with the pearl earrings and necklace, she looked utterly splendid despite the contrasting conditions of her hair and clothes. She looked ready.

Jayden, wearing a nameless Nightman uniform, simply looked clean—but that was always good enough for a man.

Every member of the Fourteenth and Falcon Platoon was there and alert, with the lone exception of Max, who was still sedated. Even Natalie, much to Scott’s surprise, showed up to witness the ad-hoc ceremony, though Scott was fairly certain it was more out of curiosity than genuine well-wishing.

As predicted, the wedding was not long, with most of it consisting of Jayden and Esther explaining to their comrades in the Fourteenth why this was happening. They explained everything. How life was short. How any day could be their last. How they wanted to live before they died. Most meaningfully, they confessed that neither of them knew what true love was—but that they were eager to find out about it together. It was an honest plea for understanding in the midst of a turbulent time. And it was that honesty, that humility, that won over the Fourteenth. No objections were brought. Jayden asked Becan if he’d be his best man, to which the Irishman joyfully accepted. Esther, in a move that would have been shocking mere weeks ago, named her maid of honor Svetlana, in absentia.

And so right there, beneath the fluorescent lights of Northern Forge’s medical bay, in front of witnesses and the dutiful supervision of the base’s resident chaplain and keeper, Jayden and Esther Timmons came into being with a kiss. There was something about the simplicity of it all—the lack of flowers, and photographers, and wedding cake—that almost felt refreshing. It felt surprisingly right.

The sole souvenir from the experience was a single photograph, courtesy of Gavriil Shubin, snapped by a camera with an asset tag. It was anything but formal, with every able observer crammed into the shot between those restricted to medical beds—but the photograph captured them all. Svetlana was even there in spirit, represented by a jar of mustard held up whimsically in Esther’s free hand. It was an informally fitting moment for the hastiest, yet somehow sweetest wedding Scott had ever seen. Jayden and Esther were headed off together into the unknown. There was just something magical about that.

And then, it was over. The bride and groom departed, leaving the merged family of the Fourteenth and Falcon Platoon to go about their business as anything-but-usual. The only thing bearing any semblance to an off-color remark was made after most of the crowd had departed, as Natalie said to Scott rather dryly, “I don’t understand you people at all.”

Scott simply answered, “Give it time.”

Thus, the evening of Wednesday, March 22nd came to a close. It was the first day Scott could imagine that Northern Forge had hosted both a wake and a wedding. It was a day about saying goodbye and about starting new chapters. It was a snapshot of death and life. A full circle.

But where was Scott’s circle leading him?

As much as the revelation of Jayden and Esther’s “engagement” had made Scott think of Nicole, the only person he could think about as he’d seen them actually get wed was Svetlana. There was irony in that Esther had been the one to proclaim her the future Svetlana Remington. If anything, that name felt more natural than Esther Timmons. But Esther Timmons was there, now.

Where was Svetlana?

As Scott returned to his room to retire for the night, thoughts of the blond medic—his love—stayed present in his dreams. He longed for her. He missed her. Watching Jayden and Esther get married made him miss her more than ever. Maybe the sniper and scout weren’t so crazy after all. Maybe they had this exactly right. Maybe, just maybe…he and Svetlana would be next.

Stranger things were happening every day.

27

Location: Unknown

Time: Unknown

“TU-SHINNA`KA,” said Nagogg from his captain’s chair. The Bakma chieftain’s raspy voice split through what for some time now had been an eerie silence. Affirming in action only, the Noboat’s pilot, Nik-nish, decelerated the spacecraft until it had come to a full stop—discernable only by the quieting of the Noboat’s engines. Rising slowly from his chair, Nagogg’s sunken eyes narrowed.

From her vantage point on the floor against Nagogg’s chair, Svetlana could only partially make out the actions of the Bakma leader and his crew. Though she knew he had risen, the object of his attention was unknown to her. Straining to turn her head to the side as much as she was able, she tried with little success to see anything on the view screen beyond the blackness of space. Lowering her forehead again, she surrendered to her limited state. Whatever was going on around her, she would have to decipher with her ears.

“Pi’vash targ-nassa!” Nagogg said, excitement pulsating in his voice. Stepping forward, the rider pointed to the view screen with widened eyes.

Again, Svetlana turned her head, and again, she could make out nothing. Lifting her chin from the floor and flinging her hair from her face, she fixed her ocean blue eyes on Ei`dorinthal. The Ithini angled his head toward her. A moment later, the click occurred. Svetlana didn’t even wait for the being to acknowledge her. What is happening?

We have arrived at the Akaarist Quadrant.

The Akaarist Quadrant? Was that where the Khuladi homeworld of Khuldaris was located? Before she could purposefully pose the question, Ed answered for her.

The Akaarist Quadrant is a region of space that has not been fully explored by the Khuladi.

Above Svetlana, Nagogg barked out enthusiastic orders to his crew—orders she desperately wanted to understand. In that moment, she realized a weakness: she was wholly dependent on Ed to understand Bakmanese. At least, to the extent where she could understand it when spoken fluently. She needed to learn that language.

Sensing her thoughts, the Ithini addressed her. You are tempted to siphon once again.

A fear of irrelevance overcame her, not from herself, but from Ed. He was sensing her concern—that she sought the one ability he possessed that kept him crucial: the ability to translate. She sought to replace him.

I need this, Ed. I need to be able to understand what the others are saying without the need for you to be present. At the core of the Ithini’s being was the desire—the need—to be directed. To serve. It was a desire she was sensitive to. You must have a master. This, I know. I will still be your master after I know Bakmanese, just as I am your master now. But I need to understand them on my own.

Nagogg seeks to capture specimens from a species the Khuladi do not yet know, relayed Ed. He believes this will curry favor from Uladek.

Ed was ignoring her. He was trying to be useful in the hope that she’d move on from another siphon. It wasn’t going to work. If you truly desire a master, you will adhere to the one that you have. Allow me to siphon again—just once more. She was well aware of the risks that accompanied another siphon, but this was something she needed. If anything happened to Ed, she would be hopeless. She needed independence from him on the language front. Project me into the mind of Tauthin or Kraash-Nagun. They will be safer.

The Ithini looked squarely at her. I do not know how to. Your first siphon was unintentional. It was you who determined your destination.

Her frustration was building. Must I siphon at all, then? Can you implant the Bakma language into me? You said before that this was something you could do.

There exists too many intricacies. Such a feat would require subconscious reprogramming, of which I am incapable.

Then frighten me! Do something to cause me to flee. Do whatever it takes!

There was a pause. Again, you forget—it was not I who prompted the initial action. I cannot replicate something I did not do.

Now she was catching on. A siphon such as the one that took place with Nagogg couldn’t be done on command. Her mind had to have a reason for disassociating. It had to be terrified beyond comprehension. I was only linked to Nagogg once, wasn’t I?

That is correct. The initial siphon took place when he removed your nose. All other experiences have been independent.

That meant her other experiences were all from her retreating into her own mind, where the echo of Nagogg lurked. This was beginning to make sense. Angling her head a bit, Svetlana listened as Nagogg continued to address his crew.

They are beginning their search for alien signatures, said Ed.

Though she knew the answer to the question, she asked it anyway. Can you allow me to hear them without their being aware of it?

I cannot.

This was why she needed to siphon again, by whatever means she could. She needed to hear them independently of Ed.

Her mind was suddenly awash with the pulse of realization—realization that was not her own. Moments later, Ed came to her again. There may be a solution.

I cannot wait to hear it, answered Svetlana, half-sarcastically.

You may not require a siphon to attain what you seek.

Narrowing her eyes curiously, Svetlana locked eyes with Ed and cocked her head to the side. What do you mean?

Recall your first awakening.

After they…?

Ed answered without the need for her to elaborate. Correct.

Svetlana’s eyes sunk to the floor. Her first awakening had been at Tauthin’s side in the brig after Nagogg had sliced off her nose. She remembered the vision well. She was standing in some sort of cylindrical, metallic tube. A canrassi was there. Nagogg’s ride. Moments later, she was pulled back to consciousness by hands and dark shadows. It was the kind of thing nightmares were made of.

You are recalling the vision, said Ed. Recall the awakening.

I just awoke. I was screaming. Tauthin calmed me.

Tilting his head ever so faintly, Ed said to her, Recall your screaming.

I cannot. I don’t remember what I was screaming. It was all in— Right then, it dawned on her. It was in Bakmanese. Everything she screamed was in Bakmanese. She hadn’t been connected to Nagogg or to anyone. The Bakmanese had all come from her.

She already knew it.

Confusion washed over her. Her breathing increased. But wait…if I was speaking Bakmanese then, how is it that I do not remember it now? Or ever?

Additional exploration required.

“Oh, God,” she said disgustedly under her breath. Eyes widening at the realization she’d just spoken aloud, she glanced about discreetly to see if any of the crew noticed. None of them seemed to. Her focus shifted back to Ed as their mental conversation resumed. By exploration, do you mean you must explore my mind?

Affirmative.

Will it hurt again? The last time he’d done that, she’d screamed. Now that, the crew would most certainly hear.

A sense of extreme caution came from Ed as the Ithini answered her. The more you welcome me in, the less it will hurt.

Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep, albeit quiet breath. She exhaled slowly. I am finding my calm. There was no sense of impatience coming from the Ithini. That was helping.

Gently, Ed addressed her. Recall your companions on Earth. Name them.

Eyes still closed and breaths still steady, Svetlana thought of the first name to come to mind. Scott. Instantly, as if Scott’s name itself was a calming elixir, a feeling of peace and familiarity came over her. Almost like he was there.

Tell me about Scott.

She smiled. It was like returning home. Scott is…a better man than he thinks he is.

You love him.

Though the phrasing was intended as a statement of acknowledgement, she answered it like it was a question. I love him.

Recall your best memory of Scott.

Her best memory? It doubled as her saddest. My best memory was…seeing him realize who he was. The first time he’d stood up to Saretok in the Pariah, donned in his black armor with the golden collar. He was unafraid, confident. He’d come to peace with the fact that he was a murderer. Even if he refused to embrace it. The man she’d first met in the lounge of Room 14 was gone forever—but that was okay.

The tone of Ed’s communication changed—the Ithini became more commanding. You are ready.

It actually took her a moment to realize what he was telling her, but when she did, she took special care to mind the feelings she was feeling. The warmth, the familiarity of thinking about Scott. That was the calm Ed required to enter her mind painlessly. That, she could cling to. Let’s do this. Eyes still closed, Svetlana focused on her breaths.

A sharp pain came to her—she inhaled.

Calm, Ed relayed.

Though her breathing intensified, Svetlana remained focused. If the pain didn’t increase—if it stayed at the level it was at now—she could handle it. Slowly, her calmness returned.

Ed was there. She could feel him. There was no way to describe the surreal feeling, the physical feeling, of having her mind explored in such an intimate way. She could only compare it to someone wandering through an empty house that wasn’t their own. She could sense the Ithini’s footsteps.

Moaning softly in pain, she winced as she felt him dig deeper, disturbing forgotten memories of her mind like the muddy bottom of a shallow sea. They drifted aimlessly, some colliding with other memories while others drifted to the surface. She remembered being stumped by a geography question on a test in secondary school. The musty smell of her uncle’s wine cellar that she and a forgotten friend had snuck into to play hide and seek. The first time she tasted an orange. Those smells, those tastes, they all came to her again. Ed was digging through memories she didn’t know she had.

As hard as she was able, Svetlana walked a fine line of ignoring Ed while allowing him to roam. But this wasn’t comfortable. Not at all. Just when she was on the verge of asking him how much longer he would be, she felt his presence ease off. The muddy bottom settled. His footsteps disappeared.

It is over.

Sighing quietly in relief, Svetlana opened her eyes, fixing them on Ed as she relayed to him the question, Did it work?

You already possess that which you seek.

The Bakma language. Ed continued.

In your mind, there is a great gulf. On your conscious side, you are yourself. Beyond the gulf, you are another.

Nagogg, she thought. Faintly from a distance, Ed nodded. How can I take from him what I need?

She was struck by a severe sense of trepidation. You have already traversed the gulf. With each journey, you have retrieved what your subconscious sought to know.

In a bizarre way, he was making sense. There was no better example than Mishka. She’d needed to know canrassi commands to stop him from devouring her—and her subconscious had retrieved them. But this was her subconscious. How could she control that?

Ed answered without prompt. You mind is incapable of understanding your subconscious as it exists in reality. What you wish to do cannot be done in the manner in which you seek to accomplish it. However…

That there was a noticeable hesitation in Ed brought her no comfort.

…I can overlay your subconscious with realities your mind can interpret. You can traverse the gulf as you would in reality. This is the only means by which you can retrieve what you desire.

Then let us do it. She didn’t need to understand how this all worked. She simply needed it to work.

Ed answered her matter-of-factly. Though I can lead you to the gulf, I cannot accompany you across it. To do so would risk a siphon of Nagogg’s echo into my own subconscious, much as his echo now resides in yours. You must cross the gulf on your own.

It was an easy decision. Then so be it. This must be done. If it must be done alone, then I will do it alone.

I warn you: your mind has already been fractured. The further into Nagogg you traverse, the larger the fracture may become. I do not recommend that you do this.

She had to do it. She needed to bring her knowledge of Bakmanese to the surface. She needed to know what was going on around her without Ed’s help. She needed to be solely in control.

There was no need for Svetlana to convey her decision to the Ithini. Ed already knew. I cannot interpret what lies beyond the gulf. You must decipher its meaning on your own. Do not approach what you do not wish to bring back with you. You may choose the time at which you awaken, but do not awaken on Nagogg’s side of the gulf—to do so would alter your psyche in unforeseen ways.

I understand.

The Ithini hesitated. You do not.

Of all the warnings Ei`dorinthal had given her, it was those three words that chilled her the most. But there was no turning back now. What must I do?

Close your eyes.

Doing as told, Svetlana waited for the next command. I am ready.

Calm your mind.

Nodding absently, Svetlana replied, I am calm. She could handle this. She knew she could handle this. This wouldn’t be Ed rummaging through her mind—all of the rummaging would be done by her. Take back only what she needed from Nagogg. Approach nothing else. Two easy steps. Very subtly, she could feel Ed’s touch on her mind. It was time.

You are going to get wet.

Furrowing her brow curiously, she asked, I am going to get what?

The plunge came suddenly. Cold water—frigid water—enveloped Svetlana as her eyes shot open from beneath it. Screaming in horror, air bubbles poured out of her mouth as she looked every which way. In every direction, she saw blackness. An awareness of up came, and she frantically propelled herself toward the surface, her legs kicking in panic as a flash of lightning illuminated the water’s surface then disappeared. She was almost there. With a final push, she popped her head above water and gasped loudly for air.

It was storming. Stinging rain pelted the top of her head and the water around her. She wiped her hair back and looked in all directions. With every flash of lightning and crack of thunder, she saw only an endless expanse of black ocean. No signs of land on the horizon. No floating debris in the water. Just a black ocean.

“Ed!” she screamed, pivoting in the water as her legs and arms kept her afloat. Her lips shivering, she screamed his name again. Very faintly, her eyes caught sight of her nose. It was back on her face once again. Abandoning the momentary revelation, she tried to make out the Ithini’s voice—his presence—somewhere in the expanse. There was nothing to be heard but thunder and rain.

This was not what she’d expected. It wasn’t what she’d prepared for. Was this the “gulf?” Was she supposed to swim it? There was nowhere to swim to as far as the eye could see.

From the depths, a hand grabbed her ankle—shrinking back on the surface, she shrieked and kicked herself free. Heart pounding in her chest, she was grabbed a second time, this time more firmly. Before she could scream again, she was dragged beneath the water.

As the hands pulled her down, she felt them climbing up her body—two of them. Squirming and screaming, she was powerless to push herself away. Before she knew it, she was staring at her attacker face to face.

It was Scott.

Eyes widening, Svetlana stared into her love’s hazel eyes. Placing his hands gently on her shoulders, Scott brushed her drifting hair from her face. For a moment, it felt like time stopped. The storm and the waves melted away.

Scott released her shoulders, drifting away from her as she gazed at him in awe and maintaining eye contact until the very end. Looking down, the soldier flipped himself upside down and propelled himself not up, but into the icy depths below. Within seconds, he was gone.

Propelling herself back to the surface, Svetlana sucked in a hard breath and whisked back her hair. Again, she looked in every direction. There was nowhere for her to go. Nothing to swim to. There was only one way she felt the overwhelming desire to go.

Straight down.

There was no doubt in Svetlana’s mind that the image of Scott had been Ed in some capacity. Holding her breath, she bowed her head and lowered her face into the water in an effort to discern something—anything—below. She saw only darkness. Lifting her head again, she wiped the water from her face and drew in a breath.

Hyperventilate. That was the only thing she knew to do in preparation for a dive. Inhaling and exhaling a series of deep, fast breaths, Svetlana sucked in hard, clamped her mouth shut, and plunged beneath the waves.

Svetlana was not a swimmer. The water was a world dominated by people like Esther Brooking, not the blond medic. Yet the further down she dove, the longer she held in her breath, the more natural the experience became. With every pulling-down breaststroke, her muscles felt less and less fatigued, with every second, her oxygen less and less scarce. Within thirty seconds, she wasn’t aware of them at all. It was like she belonged there.

All at once, flickers of memories flashed through her mind. Scott laughing sweetly at one of her jokes. Galina holding her on the day Svetlana left Novosibirsk. Esther christening her with a bowl of porridge. Everything she’d experienced in the past year—the good, the bad, the traumatic, the worthwhile—blurred past her like she was swimming through a roller coaster tunnel. Slapping Dostoevsky, calling for Flopper at Chernobyl, yearning for that one kiss from Scott then feeling utter defeat when it didn’t come. It was all there. It was all her.

Far below, for the first time since her plunge, something appeared. It was faint at first—a dim, violet glow that was barely discernible amid the darkness. But the harder she swam, the further she propelled herself downward, the more visible it became. There was no question in her mind that this was where she was supposed to go. Downward she continued, downward she dove, until subtly, almost naturally, down became up. She was no longer diving down into the depths. She was rising to a new surface.

It was right at that moment that a realization came to her: all of the memories, all of the things that made her who she was, were gone. She couldn’t even pinpoint an exact moment when they’d disappeared—they’d just been sucked from existence. Not even Ed was present. She was alone. Truly alone, as if no other being in the cosmos existed. As if there was no one else.

This was not the world she knew. She didn’t even need to reach the surface to be certain of it. She’d just crossed the gulf.

As Svetlana drew closer to the surface, the violet grew more intense. She could see the water rippling from her vantage point beneath. Pulling and propelling herself upward, she prepared to hit the surface.

Head breaking above water, Svetlana gasped and fought to stay afloat, the sudden sensation of oxygen deprivation hitting her hard. She felt like she was on the verge of death. Buckling over, she collapsed to her knees and rested her forehead on…

…on something solid. Not entirely solid, but definitely not the ocean. Lifting her head and slicking her hair back, she stared at the ground before her. It was wet, mushy land. Blinking, she looked back to where she’d resurfaced only moments before. The ocean was gone. She was kneeling in the middle of a bog.

The pungent odor of decaying vegetation struck her nostrils, and she pushed up to her feet. Looking up into the nighttime sky, the medic froze when she saw a planet. A ringed planet, streaked like Jupiter but in varying shades of purple. It was stunning—beautiful. Its dark glow illuminated the whole bog. All at once, a name came to her: Vasvuul. The planet was called Vasvuul.

If this was Nagogg’s echo, then this must have been something Nagogg had seen. Was this Khuldaris? Wrapping her bare arms around her body as much out of trepidation as coldness and wetness, she looked in every direction. A distant tree line surrounded her. Was she supposed to go to it?

Suddenly, a realization struck her. The ocean—the gulf. It was gone! Panicked, Svetlana fell to the muddy ground cover and felt everywhere for some sort of hole to dive back into. There was none. Ed had warned her not to awaken on Nagogg’s side of the gulf—he’d warned her that such a thing could prompt an unpredictable change in her. But how was she supposed to return? Punching through the moist undergrowth, her hands found only mud. Heart pounding, Svetlana sunk to her knees again, pressing her hands atop her head in desperation, then sliding them back down to her sides. She was stuck there.

“There is a way out,” she said quietly. “There must be a way out.” This was not the mind of Nagogg. This was his echo in Svetlana’s own head. She controlled all of this, regardless of how alien it might have looked. The way home would appear when she was ready for it. Rising again, Svetlana surveyed the tree line. “Let’s go, then,” she said, lifting her feet from the mire to start trudging ahead.

Had she not known that this was a dream state of some sort, Svetlana would have sworn she’d just been teleported across the galaxy. Everything felt so real. The wind, the humidity, the stench of the bog. That she was able to experience all of this was a testament to something, be it the depths of the human mind or the power of the Ithini. Even the dirtiness on her skin was real.

Peering ahead, Svetlana kept her eyes on the tree line. It still seemed so far away. She could only press on.

Despite the strangeness of the bog and the purple glow of Vasvuul, it was not those things that struck her as the most alien. What was the most alien was how she felt. There was a hopelessness here, a despair. Yet in a manner she couldn’t quite grasp, there was also a fervency. She could think of no other way to describe it other than being enveloped by a singular purpose that directly conflicted her sense of belonging in the universe. It was the opposite of being at peace.

Slowing to an uneasy stop, Svetlana scrutinized the tree line again. It still wasn’t getting closer. They were trees, not mountains. She could see their tops swaying. She should have been drawing near to them. Pivoting around, she squinted at the tree line behind her. It was the same distance away. In all that she’d walked, she was still in the dead center of the bog. She’d gone nowhere. Svetlana turned back around to face the direction she’d been walking.

Barely ten feet in front of her stood a Bakma. Gasping, Svetlana stumbled back in surprise, losing her footing on the moist terrain and falling backward on her rear. Slinging muddied tendrils of hair from her face, she stared up at the alien.

It was Nagogg. The Bakma rider was anything but emaciated, and his face was complete and perfect, no trace of the torture he’d endured at Novosibirsk to be found. The lipless skeleton’s grin was gone. Nagogg was clad in the same black and brown, metal and leather armor Svetlana had worn in her first vision, and his chieftain’s spear was standing upright, held in place by one hand. Beyond his breathing, Nagogg was motionless, staring straight ahead, not at Svetlana herself, but seemingly past her. Like a living mannequin.

Pushing up again, Svetlana cautiously drew near to him, angling her approach to see if he would indeed follow her with his head. He didn’t. Running her fingers through her damp, dirty strands, she circled around him.

There was a power to him—an allure that she couldn’t quite pin down. Though he was indeed a prime physical specimen, as lean and well-defined as any Bakma she’d seen, the attraction to him wasn’t physical. There was something deeper there. Something pulling her in.

Purpose.

It was undeniable, inescapable purpose. There was no hope in it—not an ounce—but Nagogg was satisfied with that. The Bakma rider did not seek to be redeemed. He sought to be devout. To bring honor to the one he served. Uladek. That determination, that clarity of existence…she envied it.

“What are you looking at with such adoration?” she asked quietly. No answer was expected, which only surprised her more when one was given—not audibly, but by the distinct arrival of another presence. Following Nagogg’s steadfast gaze, Svetlana saw standing before her a solitary, humanoid being. Drawing to it, Svetlana took it in.

It was unlike anything she’d ever seen before. Its skin was like black sapphire, so black it was almost blue, and its body was sparsely covered by violet armor, much like the color of the gas giant above them. Its abdominal muscles were symmetrical and tight. It was built the way a human would envision a god. Physical sublimity.

There were no visible features on its face, save two oval bulges where eyes should have been and a pair of vertical slits where there should have been a mouth. It was hairless—clean. Everything from its posture to its look of unbridled readiness was…was perfect. There was no other way to describe it. This was a beautiful, perfect creation.

This was a Khuladi.

A Khuladi…the species responsible for the Alien War. The ones ordained to bring Uladek’s judgment to the Ithini, the Bakma, and now the Earthae—humanity. The true villains.

They looked every bit the part.

Ed’s warning to her echoed in her head. Do not approach what you do not wish to bring back with you. But just the same…this was a Khuladi! If anything needed to be brought back, it was the knowledge of them. Was there an obligation on her part to approach it?

Standing between Nagogg and the Khuladi, Svetlana found her focus shifting from one to the other. She needed them both. With Nagogg, she had no choice. Retrieving Bakmanese from the depths of her subconscious was the reason she was there in the first place. The Khuladi would be up to her.

“Get what you came here for,” she whispered to herself. Casting the Khuladi a final glance, she turned away from it and approached Nagogg. “I need your words.”

“Tu`shak Vahn! Tu`shak Kan! Grii-vaash Rak!” The words were shouted from Nagogg suddenly, the Bakma rider’s entire body remaining motionless save his mouth, which uttered the three statements over and over again, his voice unaltered by a lack of lips with which to enunciate. Though startled initially, Svetlana drew closer.

The three statements continued, unchanging in their vehement inflection as if part of some military mantra.

“Tu`shak Vahn! Tu`shak Kan! Grii-vaash Rak!”

A tingle came to Svetlana’s lips. They parted, as her tongue slowly found itself mimicking what came from Nagogg. “Tu`shak Vahn. Tu`shak Kan. Grii-vaash Rak.” Though her volume was lower, she spoke the words with Nagogg in perfect harmony. The tingle traveled to her neck then up to her ears.

“Tu`shak Vahn! Tu`shak Kan! Grii-vaash Rak!” And again. “Tu`shak Vahn! Tu`shak Kan! Grii-vaash Rak!” Then again. “Tu`shak Order! Tu`shak Chaos! Grii-vaash Eternal! Tu`shak Order! Tu`shak Chaos! Grii-vaash Eternal!”

Slowly, the words’ meaning became clear. “Bringer of Order! Bringer of Chaos! Keeper of the Eternal!” She was saying the words right along with him. It was a tribute to Uladek. A chant of worship. Once more, the overwhelming sensation of singular purpose washed over her. Order, Chaos, the Eternal. Like a trinity.

The significance of the Khuladi became more defined. They were not only the chosen of Uladek. They were the guardians of him. Only through the Khuladi—only by honoring them and them alone—could one hope to gain Uladek’s favor. For all practical purposes, they were Uladek. To wish to escape them was to reject Uladek altogether. The Eternal—the place where Order and Chaos converged into the infinite—would be out of reach. Nothing but reaching the Eternal mattered. Nothing but bringing honor to the Khuladi.

Singular purpose.

The chant stopped, Nagogg’s words replaced by the sound of the wind in the distant trees. As Svetlana looked to them, she realized that in the midst of the chanting, three more beings had appeared, each spaced equally apart from one another alongside Nagogg, and all facing the Khuladi. An Ithini—its black, bulbous eyes staring blankly ahead. Next to the Ithini, there was something else—another being she’d never seen before, pale-skinned with long, black hair and sharp facial features that she could only describe as rodent-like, minus the fur. It was hideous in its foreignness, yet in an unsettling way, almost graceful. She wasn’t sure whether to be revolted or allured.

“Dishan,” Svetlana said softly. It was their name. She just knew.

Her attention shifted to the next being, which stood in stark contrast to the one she’d just seen. This one was four-legged and towering. Powerful. It was a creature—no, a monster—of great ferocity and strength. Dark green skin with a face that looked a mix of reptile and fish, with slanted, almost glowing blue eyes and a wide mouth framed with elongated fangs. It looked like something dragged from the depths of Earth’s deepest ocean trenches, armor-plated and primal. Yet despite the grotesqueness of its body, the creature emanated prominence. This was a being of elevated status, not to be trifled with. A female of its kind.

“Nerifinn,” Svetlana said. Stepping back slowly, Svetlana observed the four beings. The Bakma, the Ithini, the Dishan, and the Nerifinn. The slave species of the Khuladi. But the portrait was incomplete. There was one being she had not yet seen.

All at once, the four beings bowed down, the Nerifinn falling on its front knees like a centaur. Each one lowered their heads in reverence. Turning around, Svetlana’s gaze sought the Khuladi once more. What she found made her step back in awe.

Lowering to the bog behind the Khuladi was a spaceship roughly the size of a Noboat, if not larger. The ship was bulky and a dark, metallic gray, with various black indentations running all along its surface. It looked to be in two parts—an upper half that was flat and streamlined and a lower half that seemed more a massive cargo hold than part of anything designed for aerospace flight. Beneath it, four thrusters blew water and dirt from the bog. Blocking the light of its flames with her hand, Svetlana squinted in an effort to see.

The cargo hold shifted, its massive bays opening as four long, heavy objects began to flower out at the ship’s four corners. As they protruded, they expanded, growing longer as distinct bends began to form. Svetlana’s blue eyes widened as the realization struck her. These were legs—legs with the equivalent of feet and knees. This was not a spaceship.

The four feet crashed upon the bog, shaking the ground beneath them as the machine settled in a series of whirs and motions. The indentations and panels across its surface slid open. Massive cannons emerged—some at its nose, two large ones where arms should have been. A panel at the top of the machine elevated, revealing a singular, elongated weapon slot that was larger in sheer scale than all of the others combined. By the time the machine finished, it was as tall as a six-story building. This was more than simply a robot. This was a war machine.

“Annihl,” Svetlana said.

This was it. The family portrait was complete. These were the forces of the Khuladi Empire. All at once, a wash of understanding came over her. Turning back to the row of beings behind her, she looked upon each of them as their roles came into shape. The Ithini were research and development—driven to conjure up whatever the Khuladi wanted. The Dishan were the personal servants, the Bakma the ones who prepared other species for judgment by initiating ground warfare. The Nerifinn declared the Khuladis’ coming, preceding them as they and their created Annihl rained upon their target worlds like battle-ready locusts.

Five implements of war—four captured, one created. But something was missing. There was still a species that, at least in the mind of Nagogg, was supposed to have been there. Svetlana could sense it.

At the far end of the line, past the Nerifinn, a whimper emerged. Her ears perking, Svetlana stepped back to locate the final piece of the puzzle. The moment she laid eyes on the one at the end of the line, a dark coldness came over her.

It was a woman. A human woman, an Earthae woman, stripped almost entirely of her clothes and trembling in terror. She had blond hair cut just past her shoulders—just long enough to put into a ponytail, should she have so desired. She was not a peak physical specimen, but she was slender just the same. As Svetlana drew nearer to her, she could see the woman’s ocean blue eyes, crowning the place on her face where a nose should have been, but where instead was a sawed-open pair of nasal cavities.

It was her.

Hand sliding over her mouth, Svetlana approached the replica of herself. Her real self, not as she envisioned herself in her own mind, but as she was seen through Nagogg’s. There was no impartiality there, no benefit of the doubt. As had been the case with Kraash-nagun, this was the cold, clinical dissection of a woman who was utterly helpless. As Svetlana stood face to face with her reflection, she gaped in horrified awe.

What a weak and pitiful creature.

This was Svetlana Voronova, shivering in terror with tear-filled eyes and a look of total subordination. Unable to muster even the slightest bit of dignity in spite of her state. Ready to fall over and die.

Svetlana couldn’t sense whatever role it was that she was supposed to play there, or even if she represented humanity to any degree in Nagogg’s head. But whatever she was supposed to symbolize, it wasn’t something to be proud of. Standing beside the towering Nerifinn female, Svetlana looked downright insignificant.

Not lost in her self-reflection was the fact that, indeed, this confirmed the Khuladi’s intention to adopt humanity into its ranks, just as it had done with all of the other species before them. They were the next slaves in line, yet to be captured, though capture was a foregone conclusion. If the Khuladi won this war, this was the future of the human species. Though Svetlana was aware of those things, they still paled in comparison to the dose of reality that she was staring right in the eyes. The big picture gave way to the personal.

“Who did you ever think that you were?” Svetlana asked her reflection. “Were you always satisfied being this?” It was no mystery now why Nagogg held her in such disregard, even before she’d been taken by Tauthin into the Noboat at Novosibirsk. Svetlana didn’t blame him. This woman she was looking at was a punch line.

No.

Shaking her head, Svetlana slowly backed away from herself. This could not be who she was destined to be. This woman—this coward before her—was too willfully weak. There was more to Svetlana Voronova than that.

…or was there?

A new sensation began to brew deep inside Svetlana’s heart. An anger, a burn. How had she fallen so far? Had she not, she might not have needed to be rescued by Tauthin in Novosibirsk in the first place—she might have fended off Oleg, done something courageous. She might still be on Earth. She might be something.

Her gaze returned to herself. Her true self, stripped of her dignity and with her face bludgeoned, with the stink of saliva and urine in her hair. This was what she was going to return to when this dream ended. To utter humiliation, chained to the floor and helpless next to Nagogg’s captain’s chair.

Do not approach what you do not wish to bring back with you.

She wanted to bring back no part of this woman. No part of this inferior creature before her. She wanted to kill her.

Looking to her hand, Svetlana saw that firmly in her grasp, appearing from a place unknown, was Nagogg’s chieftain’s spear. Her fingers were curled around it; her knuckles whitened. She was ready to thrust. Raising the spear, she aimed its pointed tip toward her reflection’s throat.

One strike. That was all it would take. One strike, and this shell of a woman would be gone forever. One strike, and Svetlana Voronova as the universe knew her would be dead.

This is wrong.

For almost sixty uninterrupted seconds, Svetlana stared into her own ocean blue eyes. Those scared eyes, those shimmering eyes stared back at her all the while, the stammering whimpers of terror and surrender escaping her self’s quivering lips. Everything in Svetlana wanted to strike her down. But that wouldn’t be fair.

To reprogram herself—to wipe away the only her she’d ever known—was to break the rules. That wasn’t growing. It was wiping a life clean and starting anew. What was one ever supposed to learn by doing that? While it was true that this woman represented the body she would return to, it didn’t have to represent the woman she would become. That was an area in which Svetlana held total control.

She didn’t want to forget this woman. She came from this woman. It was time to own up to it. Svetlana, missing nose and all, was there to stay.

But someone else wasn’t.

Turning her head down the row of species, Svetlana saw that all of them had disappeared save Nagogg, who was once again standing in reverence despite the fact that the Khuladi and Annihl had also disappeared. Walking away from her self-reflection, Svetlana walked toward the Bakma rider. Her blue eyes saw red.

This was the one that didn’t belong there. This was the intruder. Svetlana didn’t hesitate. Thrusting the spear forward, she sent its tip piercing into Nagogg right through his throat. Nagogg didn’t fight back—he simply gurgled blood and fell to his knees. Pulling the spear back out, she watched as the rider fell face-first into the bog. The execution was complete.

There was a crackle of thunder from the skies above as dark clouds formed and gathered together, blocking out Svetlana’s view of Vasvuul. One by one, fat raindrops began to fall on her scalp. The droplets increased in size and quantity, and within ten seconds, the bog was blanketed with a sheet of heavy rain.

Svetlana didn’t need someone to interpret this for her. She had just slain Nagogg’s presence in her mind. The Bakma’s world and Khuldaris were falling apart. For a moment, she embraced the water on her skin. This was more than a symbol—this was a cleansing. Through dripping lashes, she turned her head to her true reflection, still standing at the end of what once had been a row of species. Her reflection was staring back, unfazed by the storm over her. For a moment, they simply locked eyes.

Behind Svetlana, the bog opened up, its muddy bottom giving way to a hole of water. The gulf. It was time to return.

There was no hesitation from the blond medic. Dropping the spear, she walked into the water until she reached the precipice of its depths, turning around only to bid the surface of Khuldaris a final farewell. Closing her eyes and holding her breath, Svetlana sunk down until her head went underwater.

Svetlana’s eyes opened. Blinking several times, as if coming out of a trance, the blonde turned her head to take in her surroundings. She was on the bridge of the Noboat, shackled to the floor beneath Mishka’s salivating maw. Inhaling a breath out of instinct, she looked in Ei`dorinthal’s direction. The Ithini was staring at her. The connection was still in place.

How long had she been out in real time? Judging by the fact that no one seemed to be paying her any mind, she couldn’t believe it was very long. A minute? Seconds, perhaps? Had everything in her head been done in an instant? Aware of her thoughts, Ed answered the question for her.

No time has passed for this crew. The mind is not restricted by the confines of reality.

That was good to know. Gathering her senses, she opened her mouth to ask the Ithini if everything had worked—until something strikingly different captured her ears.

“Beginning sweep of the gateway, lord,” said Ka`vesh from his navigation station. The Bakma soldier faced Nagogg’s chair. “There are numerous systems with multiple planets in their habitable zones.”

Nagogg rasped in response, “Focus on them and be prepared to jump.”

“Yes, lord.”

She could understand them. She could understand every word that they said. Eyes widening, she lifted her head to look at Ka`vesh as he operated the Noboat’s navigational controls. The warrior’s gnarled fingers flew over the control panel. “We are prepared to jump upon your order,” the Bakma said, his head turning to view the bridge’s main screen.

She understood it all, down to the inflection of every syllable. The nuances of the Bakma language—everything. Deep in her stomach, something swelled.

Ed’s thoughts interrupted her epiphany. Something has changed in you.

Something had indeed changed. She had figured out her inadequacies and vanquished them. She had taken everything from Nagogg then put a spear through his throat.

I sense it, the Ithini added. Nagogg has been removed.

The whole while Ed addressed her, her focus was on the bridge. She watched Gabralthaar, the titan, as he stared at a computer screen that seemed to show a system of planets. She watched Uguul, the starved warrior, seeming to have nothing better to do at his station than wait for something to happen. Her ears picked up Nik-nish, the pilot, relaying information about approach vectors to Nagogg. She not only knew their words, she knew them. Every single one of them. She knew them as well as Nagogg did. She knew them as if they were her crew—their weaknesses, their vulnerabilities. Every means by which she could exploit them. She knew it all.

You are altered beyond the removal of Nagogg, Ed said to her. I detect subtle changes to your core identity.

In that moment, a feeling came over Svetlana that she’d never experienced before: that of being underestimated. She knew something about the Bakma that they didn’t know about her. She could speak their language, spy on them from right there in front of their faces. They wouldn’t have a clue.

Everything Svetlana had seen in the vision stayed with her. The Nerifinn, the Dishan, the Annihl. The Khuladi. All of it was in her head, ready to be accessed like any other piece of common knowledge her brain had stored in life. Everything was there.

Her mind began racing, even as Nagogg barked out the order to Gabralthaar to take her and Mishka back to their pen. Her eyes flickered to the titan briefly as Gabralthaar’s partner in crime, Ka`vesh, released her clamps with his magnetic key. As soon as Svetlana was free, Gabralthaar grabbed her by her blond roots and yanked her to her feet. Despite her new sense of strategic power, she couldn’t stop herself from yelping in pain. Through watering eyes, she was forced ahead with a solid push.

“Time to go, rat!” Gabralthaar shouted. She and Mishka made their way out of the bridge and into the hall. Her connection with Ed was lost.

Prior to the vision, Ed had warned her about the dangers of manipulating her own psyche—of inadvertently taking something back with her. The warning had resurfaced in her mind the whole while she was on the surface of Khuldaris, beneath the violet glow of Vasvuul. For the most part, she felt she’d adhered to the advice well. There was no denying, though, that something felt different.

She was still herself. That was the most important thing. But beneath the many layers of Svetlana Voronova, a seed of defiance had been planted. Even as Gabralthaar forced her oppressively down the hallway and back to the pen, she could feel its tiny sprout emerging. To feel that wasn’t like her. Svetlana was many good things. She was compassionate, charitable, and dedicated to being a professional. She was even willing to evolve, taking calculated strides to soften her serious side to the point where she was actually okay with being an object of self-depreciation for the sake of garnering a laugh. But one thing she’d never been was a fighter. Not in the angry sense. There was no chip on the shoulder of Svetlana Voronova. It wasn’t in her nature. But something was stirring, now. Had she felt the way she felt now back when Esther slammed a bowl of porridge in her face, she’d have leapt across the table and ripped the scout’s ponytail clean out of its roots. This was beyond anger. She was feeling retaliatory.

Placing his massive hand on her back, Gabralthaar shoved her hard through the door of the pen. Stumbling forward, she fell to her knees on the floor, wincing as they scraped against the pen’s metal grating. Rolling over, she clutched them. Blood oozed past her fingers as she clamped her teeth together in an effort to hold back tears of pain, to no avail. That hurt. Her eyes shot to Gabralthaar, her brows narrowing into a glare. So vitriolic was the display, that it actually prompted Gabralthaar to angle his head from the doorway. After releasing a deep chuckle, the Bakma smirked.

“Cute.”

Seemingly satisfied with his one-word remark, the titan stepped out of the doorway and into the hall, activating the door mechanism and sealing Svetlana and Mishka inside.

The anger swelled again. “Cute,” she mocked. “It will be cute when I ram Nagogg’s spear through your genitals.” Almost as soon as she said it, she covered her mouth. Shame, Sveta! What was that? Even in the situation she was in, properness still had its place. But still…that thought was so satisfying.

Pushing herself up from the floor, Svetlana inspected her knees again. “Terrific,” she said in Russian, repeating the word in Bakmanese just for circumstantial emphasis. Every moment she spent on the bridge was spent on her knees. This was a wound that was going to linger. Just another battle scar.

Sitting on her rear end, Svetlana placed her palms on the floor behind her and leaned back on them. As she did so, Mishka lowered himself onto his haunches several meters away. The canrassi looked at her expectantly.

“Eat,” she said, waving half-heartedly at the trough of slop. “Don’t wait for me, trust me.” Glancing back at the trough, she blinked as she realized it was sealed shut—obviously a measure preparatory for microgravity in the event they were actually in it. Shoulders sinking a bit, she pushed up to her feet and walked gingerly toward it. “All right, come on.” She waved Mishka toward her. “I will get this off for you and you can eat.” Sliding the trough cover into its slot in the wall, Svetlana stepped back as Mishka charged the trough to eat. Burying his nose in slop, the beast chowed down with vigor. Making a face at the pungent odor of the slop, Svetlana stepped away to lean back against the wall.

“How are we going to get out of here?” Sliding down the wall, Svetlana ended up on her rear on the floor. “How are we going to take back this ship?” She smirked at the canrassi, just slightly. “I am open to your suggestions.”

There was no question that Svetlana was in a better position now than she’d been even only hours before. Just the same, she was still a captive who was, by all practical definitions, powerless in the environment. She couldn’t break free from her shackles—they held her firmly on the floor next to Nagogg’s chair. She couldn’t fight off the Bakma. They were almost all, with the exception of the emaciated Uguul, physically superior. She had no weapons.

How was she supposed to get out of this?

Pressing her fingers into her hairline, she thought. There were moments when she had freedom, though they were always when Gabralthaar was coercing her down the hallway. Overpowering him was a non-option; it just wasn’t going to happen. But Mishka was always with her.

Eyes settling on the beast as it ate, Svetlana pondered the canrassi’s loyalties, which had always existed blurrily in her mind. When faced with competing orders by her and its Bakma masters, which side would it choose to follow? There was no question that she had earned Mishka’s favor to an extent that none of the Bakma had even attempted to gain. The time might come soon to put the canrassi to the test. There was no better time to try that than when she and Mishka were being escorted by Gabralthaar, who would be forced to fight off the beast singlehandedly.

The only other option Svetlana had for freedom was to somehow gain access to Ka`vesh’s magnetic key on the bridge and attempt to free herself there. For obvious reasons, though, this was the less desirable of the two options. For one, the bridge was the last place she needed to gain freedom. She’d be surrounded by Bakma on all sides. On top of that, she had no idea how she was supposed to get the magnetic key in the first place. She would have to rely on someone like Ei`dorinthal or Kraash-nagun to steal it for her, then somehow get it to her or free her themselves. That just wasn’t realistic. Of the two possibilities, getting Mishka to attack Gabralthaar while en route to the pen was the better alternative by leaps and bounds. Just the same, having two options was better than having one.

Lifting its giant maw from the trough, Mishka looked at Svetlana and huffed loudly. Svetlana smiled a bit, though she had no idea what the gesture was supposed to mean. Perhaps it was wondering if she was going to eat. “The answer is no,” she said with a faint smile, just in case. “That is your trough. I will gladly eat calunod.”

Sputtering with its tongue, Mishka returned to its meal.

Svetlana sighed. So this was what it was like to be a prisoner of war plotting her escape. She was as confident as she could be that she would figure this out, despite the plethora of challenges that she faced. Tauthin and Kraash-nagun might have been comfortable abandoning all hope, but Svetlana had no intention to. Come hell or high water, she was going to get her freedom. Then, she was going to get back to Earth—wherever it was. Having that long-term goal was important. It gave her something to hope for.

Until that time came, however, there was little that Svetlana could do. Ultimately, her options would be limited to what the Bakma gave her, be it by their own arrogance or by simply underestimating her and slipping up. She was ready to take advantage of either.

Lying down on her side, Svetlana closed her eyes and exhaled a long breath through her exposed nasal cavities. Her face didn’t hurt at all now—her body having adjusted to the mutilation it had experienced and the beating it’d taken during EDEN’s attack on Novosibirsk. The biggest threat for her now was infection—but that would be tackled when it would be tackled. It wasn’t like there was a hospital in driving distance. She’d pray for her body to be strong then leave it to God. Despite Tauthin and Kraash-nagun’s urgings, she still believed in Him. Despite everything around her that screamed the contrary, she still believed He was working some kind of plan. He’d gotten her this far—He could keep her health intact for a little while longer.

Svetlana had no trouble falling asleep on the pen’s metal floor. As exhausted as she was, she could’ve probably fallen asleep on a bed of nails. No dreams of Nagogg haunted her mind as she slumbered. Quite the contrary, she had a bona fide dream of Novosibirsk. It was as welcome a reprieve for her mind as rest was for her body.

She held onto it as long as she could.

28

Friday, March 23rd, 0012 NE

2004 hours

Norilsk, Russia

Two days later

THE CALL CAME to Scott just as he was getting ready for bed. Though brief, it was enough to prompt Scott to scramble to his closet, sling on his uniform, then bolt down the hallway to retrieve Becan. The frenetic nature of it was almost mission-like—but this was far more desirable.

Max was waking up.

Though the Fourteenth had been keeping tabs on the technician’s progress, visits to the med-bay specifically to see Max became less frequent each day. The sad truth was that, by and large, no one in the unit could bear to look at Max for any extended period of time without becoming depressed. To see him comatose and covered in tubes was gut-wrenching and emotionally deflating—and deflation was the last thing any of them needed to feel with the train heist looming over the horizon.

Gavriil Shubin had warned Scott the day before that he would start weening Max out of sedation—Scott just didn’t expect it to happen at eight o’clock at night. He was sure there must have been a reason and was eager to find out what it was. Right now, though, that didn’t matter. What mattered was that his friend was coming to—and that was worth leaping out of bed for.

The past two days had effectively reclassified what the Fourteenth—and Falcon Platoon, for that matter—considered to be normal. From the Falcon side of things, their thankfulness just to be alive and free to roam a place morphed into a growing sense of restlessness and bitterness that that place was Northern Forge. This was a unit that didn’t belong there. There was an ironic solace in knowing that their loved ones wouldn’t be interviewed on television alongside the families of the Fourteenth, but only because their loved ones thought they were dead. After all, the final resting place of Falcon Platoon was still the Great Dismal Swamp. For all they knew, their obituaries were already in the newspaper. But from top to bottom, their demeanors were miserable. Budding camaraderie with the Fourteenth only went so far in offering them a sense of calm. Simply put, they were getting fed up with being there.

In no member of Falcon Platoon was that more evident than in Tom King, who had even gone so far as to begin picking fights with some of Northern Forge’s staffers. The sense that Tom could be trouble had arisen in Scott’s mind the moment he met the man, but the last thing any of them needed was to fall out of the already-not-quite-good graces of the base. It was a long drop from the hangar doors to the bottom of the mountainside.

From the Fourteenth’s side of things, the unit had handled their sequestering at Northern Forge surprisingly well. Stronger than the pain of seeing their loved ones urging them to “come home” on the television was their determination to see this operation through to its completion and, ultimately, to clear their names. Though none of them had asked to be in this situation, none of them blamed each other for it. If nothing else, the two days of relative inactivity had given many in the unit a renewed sense of confidence. They were still alive. Something had to be going right.

Little had been seen of Jayden and Esther since their wedding. Valentin had cleared out a room for them at the far corner of the living quarters, from which the newlyweds had sparsely ventured. All in all, as shocking as their sudden marriage was, things seemed to be going well with it. The only negative was how it had affected Scott. He missed Svetlana more than ever.

Antipov still had heard nothing of Oleg and Svetlana’s whereabouts. As far as anyone knew, they’d just vanished. Scott didn’t understand it. With every day that passed, Scott’s heart grew heavier and heavier. He was starting to believe that the last moment he’d spent with her—that ridiculous moment in his suite, when she’d made a fool of herself for him only to be rejected—might have actually been their last. It was tortuous to even think about.

Though Scott was naturally excited about the prospect of having Max back with them in the land of the living, he was also acutely aware that Max was the Fourteenth’s last verifiable link to Svetlana. Prior to Oleg having her, she’d apparently been with Max to some extent. Scott didn’t know how much Max knew, but anything was better than nothing. He needed to find some kind of reason to hope.

Gavriil was standing outside the medical bay door, waiting for Scott and Becan as they approached. Despite the exhausted look on the doctor’s face, his countenance was not the first thing the two men noticed. What they noticed was the blood. His scrubs were covered in it. Immediately, a sense of dread came over Scott. What had happened?

Seeming to note their alarm, Gavriil held up his gloved hand. “This blood is not your friend’s—do not panic. A forge worker lost a hand today. It was a ‘gusher.’”

Scott sighed in relief.

“Before you go in there, there is something you need to know. Your friend is very scared. He is confused.” A frown crossed his face. “I did not call you here out of the goodness of my heart. I called you because, if he does not see a face he recognizes, I fear he may become aggressive.” The doctor hesitated. “Your friend is…stubborn.”

That was Max, all right.

Gavriil continued. “Please come in and help us calm him.”

“We can do that,” Scott said, looking at Becan as if waiting for him to offer the same assurance. “We’ll get him calm.”

The doctor nodded. “He will be unable to talk, so any effort on his part to do so will likely only frustrate him. He is only now realizing that he has a tracheostomy tube in his neck.”

Scott nodded. “Understood.”

“All right, then. Let us go.” Turning the doorknob, Gavriil stepped aside to allow the three men to enter.

A pair of nurses were at Max’s sides, each attempting to calm him as he fought against soft wrist restraints. The look on his face was pure panic. It was heart-wrenching. Scott glanced briefly about the room, his gaze passing over Centurion and Ju`bajai, the latter of whom was slated to be released the next day, before returning to Max. Let him see you. Sliding past another nurse, Scott stopped at the foot of Max’s bed. As soon as the technician saw him, his terrified stare stopped. It shifted from fear, to confusion, to slow realization. Max inhaled sharply through his nose and started to sit up. He was about to call out Scott’s name.

“Don’t even try,” said Scott, holding his palm out quickly but firmly. “Your throat is busted up—you can’t talk yet.” The technician listened, though the look of confusion remained. “You were…” There was no other way to say it. “You were shot in the neck.” Max’s expression was unchanged as Becan moved behind Scott and into Max’s view. Looking over to Gavriil, Scott said, “Get him a pencil and a tablet.” One of the nurses removed Max’s wrist restraints upon Gavriil’s order. His handwriting wouldn’t be pretty, but he’d still be able to write. Nodding, the doctor complied. Scott’s focus returned to Max, who was still staring in total loss. This was going to be hard.

“There’s a lot that I’m going to need to explain,” Scott said, “but before I say anything, I need you to promise to stay calm.” For Max, that would be a tall order—but the technician didn’t have a choice. “Nod that you understand.”

Hesitating for a moment, Max finally nodded once.

“Okay. Good.” At least he was cognitive. Now came the hard part. “This is going to be hard to believe, but you’re not in Novosibirsk. You’re in a base called Northern Forge, in the mountains next to Norilsk.” Squinting, Max cocked his head back in what looked like disbelief. At the same time, Gavriil placed the tablet and pencil close to his hand. Max looked at him briefly before turning his gaze back to Scott. “Novosibirsk was attacked. EDEN assaulted the base while my team was still in Cairo. It was a surprise attack meant to catch Thoor off guard.”

Fumbling around for the pencil and tablet, Max’s gaze broke from Scott as he awkwardly tried to scribble. The whole while Max wrote, frustration grew on his face. When the tip of his pencil snapped, he slammed it onto the floor.

“Calm down, man,” said Scott, moving to Max’s side to retrieve the notepad. When he looked at the words the technician was trying to scribble, his eyes narrowed with befuddlement. “Were…R…Geg?” What the? “Were R Geg?” Scott shook his head as he tried to decipher it. “Weave R…Glig?”

Rolling his eyes, Max wheezed in a way that seemed to want to say, “For the love of God.”

Perhaps I might be of service.

As the voice emerged in Scott’s mind, he blinked and stepped back with surprise. It took him a moment, but he realized where it was coming from. Ju`bajai. Looking behind him at the Ithini in the quarantine chamber, Scott saw that the being was staring directly at him. He hadn’t even heard her connection click. Nodding enthusiastically, Scott said, “Yes! Absolutely.” That would sure beat the left-handed chicken-scratch of a confused man. Scott looked back at Max. “Ju`bajai—umm, the Ithini here—is going to connect us. Let her do so.”

Max leered at the Ithini for a moment before hesitantly nodding his head. Drawing in a breath, he closed his eyes, only to open them suddenly a moment later. The connection was in place. There was no hesitation—Max’s disembodied voice came to Scott’s mind instantly. Where is Oleg?

Blinking, Scott cocked his head. That was the last thing he’d expected Max to ask. “Wait, what?”

Where is Oleg? Does he have Sveta?

“Hang on a second. How do you…? How did you know that Oleg had Svetlana?” Hadn’t Max been shot before Oleg ever came into the picture?

The technician’s eyes narrowed. Because he’s the dregg that shot me.

Scott’s mouth fell open. Oleg shot Max? As in…Oleg Strakhov? Was that why Svetlana had been in his custody? Because she’d been taken by force?

Upon seeing Scott make the face, Becan cleared his throat tactfully. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“He says Oleg shot him,” Scott answered without looking back. Becan’s eyes widened.

Gavriil shook his head. “He may be speaking of some dream he had while under sedation.”

Glaring at the doctor, Max said, Tell this sack of scat I ain’t dreaming. I remember every vecking thing.

Ju`bajai’s voice resurfaced. The fault may be mine. Scott looked at her. I spent time in his mind, searching his memory banks for the event that caused his injury. I may have inadvertently returned it to his awareness. What he says happened is what happened.

“If you knew that’s what happened, why didn’t you tell us?” Scott asked Ju`bajai angrily.

She simply stared back. I did not know this was information you sought.

“Wha’s goin’ on, now?” asked Becan.

Again, Scott answered him. “Ju`bajai’s been jogging his memories. Snooping in them, basically.” He didn’t have time to recap every single thing that was said. “Can you just include everyone in on this?” Scott asked the Ithini, pointing back to Becan. “Becan and the doctor?”

Certainly.

“Get ready, guys,” Scott said. A moment later, the connection expanded.

Gavriil’s eyes widened as he took a step back, his face paling. “What is…?”

“It’s an Ithini connection,” said Scott. “You ever had one before?” Still gaping, the doctor shook his head. “Grab a bucket to puke in.”

A brief lull ensued, after which Max eyed his comrades. Sveta and I were in the infirmary—I was just keeping watch over her, like we were supposed to do after we found out Thoor was using her as leverage. EDEN attacked, and we fled. We were halfway to the Fourteenth when Oleg showed up.

Darting to a garbage can at the medical bay’s entrance, Gavriil bent forward and heaved. Though the others glanced back at him, they did so briefly, returning to the mental conversation with Max. Still connected, Gavriil doubled over onto his knees and covered his eyes, blindly reaching up for a towel with which to wipe his mouth.

Max continued. The first thing Oleg did was attack me. He hit me, then made a beeline for Sveta. That’s the last thing I remember. He turned his head toward Ju`bajai. It must have been the last thing I was conscious for. A sensation of sudden confusion emanated from Max as he looked around. Wait a second, where the hell are we, again?

“Norilsk,” Scott answered, though his mind was on Max’s revelation. The way Antipov had made it sound, Svetlana and Oleg had come together, at the very least, cordially. But to kidnap her that way? Did Antipov know this? He continued with his recap. “This place is called Northern Forge. It’s a secret Nightman facility built into the mountains here. It’s where they get their armor.”

Huh. Angling his neck again, Max winced, then nearly gagged. Eyes narrowing in disgust, he asked, Can they pull this piece of junk out of my throat?

Scott looked at Gavriil, who was still buckled down on the floor by the garbage can. Connected to the conversation or not, the doctor was going to be of no meaningful contribution now. Scott considered ordering Ju`bajai to sever him, despite the benefits the prolonged connection would provide. Ultimately, the thought was ignored. “I don’t know.” Max still didn’t understand his full condition. “Look…I need to tell you what you’ve been going through. What I need you to do, though, is stay calm.” Here came the news. “You have a tracheostomy tube in your neck because, for lack of a better way to put it, your throat got messed up bad.”

Blinking, Max canted his head. Can you elaborate on ‘messed up bad?’

“‘Messed up bad’ as in, you could have died.”

Again, there was a pause. Max’s eyes stayed on Scott in a manner that looked partially disbelieving and partially accusatory. So you’re saying…

“I’m saying there’s a lot you’ll have to relearn. How to talk, eat, drink. Right now, you’re physically incapable of all of those things.” He bit his lip. “You have the tube in your neck, a collapsed lung, and probably other issues that I don’t even know about. The road to recovery is going to be rough, but you can do it if you pace yourself and listen to what the doctor and his staff tell you. We need you back, man. But you’ve got to do it right, or you won’t be back at all.”

There was nothing Max could say to rebut. He was in a medical bed with a tube in his throat and another in his chest. With reluctance and a long exhale through his nostrils, he said, I’ll do what they say.

“Good,” Scott said. “That’s what we need to hear, man.”

So, said Max after a slight pause, what’s the word with Sveta?

Scott shook his head. “We’re trying to find her right now, but we haven’t had any leads. We knew she was with Oleg, we just didn’t know the circumstances until you just told us. We suspected that Oleg got captured by EDEN. If that’s what happened, then there’s no telling where Svetlana could be—if she wasn’t captured, too, that is. We don’t feel like she was or else Archer would be using her as leverage.”

The confused look remained on Max’s face. Leverage? Archer? What the hell is going on, man?

Frowning, Scott motioned to Max’s left. “Turn your head a bit and take a look over there.” The technician did as asked. When he caught sight of Centurion lying on the medical table, his eyes grew wide. “That’s the Ceratopian we were sent to extract. We got him, but it was a hell-ride. We had to fight our way out of Cairo.” How in the world had they pulled that off? It was still hard to grasp. “The whole world is after us. As in, after us. We’re the world’s most wanted unit.”

What happened to Thoor?

“Thoor is dead.”

Max’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. So…Novosibirsk is gone?

“EDEN smashed it. The base is still there, and from what I understand EDEN is reoccupying it, but half of the base was destroyed.” He wondered how Room-14 turned out. “The Nightmen fled in every direction. Some came here, some went to Chernobyl—that’s where Yuri and Varya went, as did Antipov. Antipov is in charge. By the way, you can thank him for getting you here. Somehow, he had you extracted from a hospital in Novosibirsk. If not for him, you’d be in EDEN custody. Antipov’s daughter is here, by the way. Her name’s Marina. She’s a staff nurse. You’ll see her soon enough.”

Once again, confusion emanated from the technician. How did I get out of Novosibirsk in the first place?

Oh, boy.

Nostrils flaring, Max’s body tensed slightly up. Oh, boy, what?

Casting a harsh look at Ju`bajai, Scott said, “Okay, how does this work? Some things people hear, some things people don’t? What’s the rule?”

What do you mean, oh, boy, Scott? Max asked again.

Averting his attention from the Ithini, Scott looked at Max and sighed. This part wasn’t going to be good. Scott sought for some way to say it without saying it, but nothing came to him. The truth was simply the truth. Raising his hand in a gesture, Scott said, “Before I say anything, remember what I told you. Calm is how you need to stay.”

The technician’s glare deepened. What do you need to tell me, Scott?

Here we go. “You survived because of Ann. She went after you, she found you. She was the one who got you the medical attention that got you to the hospital.” The moment Tanneken’s name was mentioned, Max’s expression changed. He looked eager, tense. He was waiting to hear what else there was to it. There was no way to avoid it. “EDEN has her. They took her into custody while she was with you at the hospital.”

Just as Scott feared, Max immediately started to sit up. Pushing back on the technician’s shoulder, Scott pinned him back down as nurses rushed to assist.

“Calm down, man! You can’t help her like this!”

Where the hell is my Annie?

Shaking his head emphatically, Scott said, “I don’t know! I mean, she’s with EDEN, somewhere, but she’s a card they haven’t played.” In the midst of that statement, Scott made a realization: that Svetlana hadn’t shown up on the news didn’t necessarily mean EDEN didn’t have her. Tanneken had barely shown up on the news either, other than the brief mention of her arrest. After that, there was nothing. Could EDEN have Svetlana? His focus returned to Max. “Wherever she is, she’s safe—that much, we have to believe. She survived Novosibirsk, which is of no small significance. It’s not like EDEN’s going to kill her—she was never a part of our unit, and we’re the unit they’re after.” That she wasn’t a part of the Fourteenth really didn’t matter. EDEN would use whoever they wished to capture Scott and his comrades. Max just didn’t need to hear that. “I just thought about this,” he said, looking back at Becan, “but EDEN very well could have Sveta. They haven’t revealed Tanneken. Would they necessarily reveal Svetlana before they were ready?”

Becan frowned. “I don’t mean to bust tha’ bubble, Remmy, but I don’t think they’re in the same category. No offense to Ann, but she’s not goin’ to help them catch you.”

It was a valid point. Just the same, Scott was open to any possibilities that existed. Turning back to Max, who lay still but was far from calm, he said, “We’re trying to get everyone back. Ann, Sveta, Yuri, Varya. We’re a fragmented unit. But we’re gonna do it.”

I want out of this bed as soon as possible, whatever it takes. I want on the front lines.

“Whoa,” said Gavriil, still connected and looking Max’s way from the garbage can. “Do not get ahead of yourself—”

Cutting him off, Max said, I am not getting ahead of myself.

“You are a very long time from being combat ready, if you are ever combat ready again at all. We are not talking days, or even weeks. Months could be a quick recovery.”

Max blinked. Wait, wait, wait. Months?

Rubbing his face with his hand, Scott waited for the inevitable.

You expect me to be here for vecking months?

The doctor frowned. “You have a serious, serious injury. Can you be up and about soon? Sure. Possibly. But front lines, as you put it?” He shook his head. “We are very far from even discussing the possibility of that.”

Max looked at Scott in disgust and disbelief. Dude…

“He’s the doc,” Scott said, holding his hands up.

Closing his eyes, Max laid his head back. Of all the vecking miserable lives. Somebody tell me something good.

“Jay an’ Esty got married!” said Becan.

Max’s eyes shot open. What? He looked alarmingly at Scott. How the hell long was I out?

Even Scott could find the faintest humor in that. Placing his hand on Max’s leg, he answered, “A week. Just a week. Jay and Ess did something that was very…unorthodox.”

You’re kidding me. Max was serious, as he looked from Scott to Becan. You guys are kidding me. Jay and Esther aren’t married. They’re not even dating!

Sliding his hands into his pockets and smiling, Becan said, “There’s a lot ’o things we could joke abou’. Tha’s not one ’o them. They’re really married.”

Of all the things Max had heard, this seemed to stun him the most. What the hell, guys? Have they been secret lovers or something? Did they find some mountain church? Were there freakin’ flowers, and bells, and—

“Bells?” Scott raised an eyebrow.

I don’t know. Church bells. Don’t people do that kind of thing?

Scott laughed. It felt good. “No bells were involved. The keeper of this base, Valentin Lukin, did a little private ceremony. I don’t think the marriage is like, legal, or lawful, or whatever, but yeah. They’re married in the eyes of God, or their friends, or whatever makes them sleep at night.”

Come on, said Max with finality. Really?

“Least of your problems, buddy. You need to get well.” Very faintly, Scott’s smile grew wider. “It’s good to have you back.”

Shaking his head, Max said, I don’t feel back. But I’m gonna get there. The determination in his eyes vouched for it. And I’m gonna get Ann, and you’re gonna get Sveta, and we’re gonna have this wonderful freakin’ married community after we blow Archer and his EDEN cronies to the other side of the moon.

“Now we’re talking,” said Scott. Reaching out for Max’s left hand, Max met the gesture with a bro shake. “Or, we’re thinking. Or whatever you can do now.”

Smirking, Max said nothing.

It was right then, as Scott was clutching Max’s hand in the silence of the medical bay, that the inclination struck him. The smile faded from his face as his countenance took on something far more solemn. Behind Scott, and unbeknownst to him, Ju`bajai canted her head, the Ithini seeming to pick up on the sudden shift in Scott’s focus.

“Can I, umm,” said Scott, hesitating for a moment before semi-awkwardly continuing on. “Can I pray for you?”

Becan’s eyes trailed soberly to the floor, remaining open as both men seemed to stare into the nether. Neither moved or spoke.

For several seconds, Max stared up at his counterpart—his one-time rival. Drawing in a slow, almost surrendering breath, the technician replied. Can I tell you something?

Scott nodded.

When I was young, I was an altar boy.

An altar boy? Max, who’d taken every opportunity to lash out at Scott for his faith? Acutely aware of the surprised look he was offering Max, Scott canted his head and half smiled. “Really?”

The technician nodded a single time. Yeah. My family was big into that stuff. I just did it because. Again, a moment of stillness came. It was never about God with me, Scott. I just didn’t like you.

Deep in Scott’s heart, something stirred. A simple question—could he pray for Max—was all he’d asked. He never intended to prompt the technician for this.

I know we’re cool, and I know we’ve been cool for a while. And I think I might have apologized once, or…whatever, for the rough time I gave you.

Scott couldn’t remember it.

But I love ya. Brother to brother. Man to man. Though his mouth wasn’t moving, Max’s words resonated with intensity. If you want to pray for me, that’s all right with me.

To say that wasn’t what Scott expected was an understatement. But it was vastly appreciated. Nodding his head a single time and clutching Max’s left hand a little tighter, Scott closed his eyes and bowed his head.

It wasn’t the fanciest of prayers Scott had ever prayed. It wasn’t even the smoothest. There were moments of awkwardly-spaced silence throughout his petitions for Max’s healing and the well-being of Tanneken—among others. There were moments where Scott was completely winging it, complete with all the discomfort that sometimes came with it. But no one said a word about those moments. They just listened as Scott prayed.

It was almost hard to remember now how it felt to leave Michigan for Philadelphia—to feel such a strong sense of calling that it warranted leaving everything else behind. That passion had long since been buried by choices and circumstances. It felt as if those days of fervent internal fire were lost forever. But in moments like these, clutching his former rival’s hand and praying for his recovery, Scott felt something rekindle. It might not have been a flame—or even a spark. But it was most certainly a reminder. Whether he felt right with God or not, God had put him there, in Northern Forge, for a reason. God had put him in the place he needed to be. As hard as it was to feel that, he knew damn well that it was true. It was time to start living like it.

As the prayer concluded and Scott opened his eyes, he noted that Max’s remained closed. No thoughts were being relayed through the connection. Perhaps whatever Max was thinking wasn’t meant for them. Only God—and quite possibly, Ju`bajai—knew. When Max finally did open his eyes, a good thirty seconds later, he looked if not at peace, at least somewhat quelled. For someone who was receiving scheduled medication to keep him calm, that was as good as anyone could have asked for. Releasing Max’s hand, Scott took a step back and gave Becan a look. Max needed some rest, now, as did they. It was best for all of them if they retired for the night.

Just before Scott gave Ju`bajai the order to sever the connection, Max’s voice timidly emerged again. Hey…

Turning around, Scott raised an acknowledging brow.

Subtle, but there, a slight nervousness was felt from the technician. Whatever he was about to ask, he seemed almost afraid to. Did, umm… Again, Scott waited. Did Flopper make it?

Warmth. As warm as he’d felt since he was under the Egyptian sun, Scott felt warmth. He couldn’t stop his smile from growing. “Yeah. Flopper made it.”

Is he…?

“He’s here.” Scott already knew what Max was going to ask. He looked over at Gavriil. “Can we bring him his dog?”

The look Gavriil shot him was not one of approval. When he saw that he was outnumbered, though, his hardness fell away. Sighing, he answered, “I have stressed the importance of Mr. Axen’s staying calm. You know the risks. And…” Trying as he might to stop himself from smiling, a faint one creeped out. “And you know the rewards. Decide what is best for your friend. The patient is stable, and my night nurses are in charge. I am going to bed.” Giving Ju`bajai a look that was as blatantly a request to be disconnected as there could be, Gavriil turned to start walking out of the room. His presence left the minds of the others.

“All righ’,” Becan said once the doctor was gone. Smiling, he moved for the door. “Sit tigh’, Max. I’ll bring in your little buddy.”

The whole while that Becan was out of the room, Scott and Max remained quiet. Though still connected by Ju`bajai, there was no transmission of thought or emotion—there was only a deliberate silence, as if the whole of them were bracing for an impact. Barely two minutes after Becan walked out, the need to brace was no more.

The instant Flopper entered the room, his four paws dug out on the linoleum. There was no need for Max to make a sound, nor for any of the other men to lead the East Siberian Laika to him. Flopper just knew.

Leaping clear onto Max’s bed in a moment that made everyone in the room go rigid, Flopper lay next to Max’s uninjured side as the technician’s arms wrapped around him. Max’s chest held its own as the dog’s tail whipped violently back and forth, thudding against the bed’s armrests as his tongue attacked Max’s face. Flopper looked so…so happy. So unabashedly, exuberantly happy. He looked like he’d found his best friend.

In that moment, the rest of the world faded away. In that potentially reckless moment, the only thing that mattered was what the bystanders beheld. His eyes closed, Max leaned his head forward as much as it was able in its tube-laden state, and he tightened his hold on the dog. Within seconds, he was shaking with silent tears.

Scott was tearing up, too. He couldn’t help it. It was impossible not to get pulled into this along with them. Looking briefly at Becan, Scott saw shimmers in the Irishman’s eyes. It was the same with the nurses.

Though Ju`bajai’s connection with them had long-since been severed, the group didn’t need the Ithini to know what Max was saying to his pointy-eared friend. Each choked-back sob, each tremble of emotion that surely would have made Gavriil Shubin cringe was, I love you.

For almost five full minutes, Scott and his friends allowed Max and his dog to have their time with one another. As risky as it might have been—and it most certainly was—the sight of Flopper’s excitement and Max’s uninhibited outpouring made the risk worth it. This was what Max needed, more so than any medical treatment. Maybe this was what the rest of them needed, too. Flopper was taken from atop Max without protest from the technician, as Scott and Becan led the dog out of the room together.

While en route to their respective quarters, Scott and Becan said little besides brief and insignificant observations on the obvious. Though both men were tired, their relative quiet went beyond that. They were affected. Lost in thought. And that was okay.

Nagoya was coming. Antipov already had the mission’s gears turning. A meeting would invariably be held. A mission would inevitably be run.

This was a planet worth fighting for. It took nothing more than to see the love between a man and a dog to see it more clearly than ever. This was the human experience. This was Earth. If hijacking a train was what it took to defend that, then so be it. They were already wanted by the world. What more could EDEN possibly do?

It was time to start winning this war.

29

Sunday, March 25th, 0012 NE

2106 hours

Norilsk, Russia

TIME.

It was so funny, the way time worked. Years—half a life—could pass in the blink of an eye. Yet when something critical loomed over the horizon, it felt as if time utterly stopped. Such had been the days leading up to their final mission.

Scott and the remnant of the Fourteenth and Falcon Platoon had spent considerable time together, discussing the events that had taken place and what was to come and getting to know each other as best they could in such a circumstance. Yet even with the exploration of this newfound camaraderie, time came to a crawl. Now only two days away from their scheduled train heist, Scott was waiting for the blur to kick back in. It had yet to do so.

The slowness wasn’t due to a lack of things taking place. It almost seemed as if every day brought some kind of new adventure—albeit, not the kind with explosions and weapons fire. There’d been the marriage of Jayden and Esther, which was feeling more like the right decision every day. So undeniable was the chemistry between the sniper and scout, it left many wondering why it had taken this long for them to couple up in the first place.

Though the first few days for “Jester,” as they insisted on being called, saw them understandably keeping to themselves in their room, the days since had been surprisingly normal. They ate with the group, they hung out, they discussed the upcoming mission. Scott was thankful that Jayden and Esther amalgamated back into the fold quickly. All hands were needed on deck—even those holding the hand of another.

That same amalgamation counted for the injured operatives from the Fourteenth, too, all of whom were slowly getting back into social form as the days passed. One by one, David, Lilan, Boris, and William were released from the infirmary. Though handicapped by various devices such as crutches, wheelchairs, and arm slings, they were, nonetheless, able to return to rooms of their own, though Gavriil instructed that they be rooms right next to the medical bay so his nurses could make proper checkups. Though the full recovery process would be long—and in some cases uncertain—for all of them, they could find comfort in standard quarters.

As far as Max went, no amount of medication could compare with the positive boost Flopper had given him. The dog practically lived in the medical bay, much to Gavriil’s chagrin, though there was little he could do about it. Every time the poor doctor attempted to shoo the dog out, he was rebutted with a dangerous growl and the baring of sharp canines. Flopper, affable pooch or not, was not leaving Max’s side without a fight. With the dog’s presence wholly defended by the nursing staff, Gavriil found himself on an island of hopeless protest. As long as Max was there, the dog was going to stay.

With Max unable to speak, the crew continually turned to Ju`bajai to provide a mental doorway into Max’s thoughts. The Ithini was pleased to oblige. As Scott had requested, Ju`bajai was finally given freedom that weekend to leave the confines of the medical bay, with one caveat: the medical bay was still her home. A cot and several pieces of furniture were moved into her quarantine cell, which looked more like a house of glass now. Ju`bajai was ordered to make checkins to the medical bay at regular intervals, which the alien was happy to do considering the freedom she’d been given to wander.

The entire ordeal of Ju`bajai’s release had actually gone more smoothly than Scott anticipated. Not one complaint had been raised nor one hostility exhibited. Of course, there was a good reason for this. While the denizens of Northern Forge might have wondered about the dangers of Ju`bajai, there was no wondering when it came to the dangers of Valentin Lukin. Scott had read the release sent to everyone on base by Valentin in regards to leaving Ju`bajai alone. It hadn’t minced words. The punishment for approaching the alien in any hostile way was promised to be severe.

For her part, however, Ju`bajai did well. Despite the freedom she had in wandering the base, she spent a lot of her time on Level-3, simply observing the cafeteria. But even with those excursions, the biggest surprise was where Ju`bajai elected to spend most of her time.

The medical bay.

By the look of things, the only thing the Ithini truly wanted was the freedom to leave her cell, not necessarily actually leaving her cell. Beyond short trips here and there, a typical day for Ju`bajai was sitting in a chair in the same place she’d been quarantined, except with an open door that allowed her to leave whenever she pleased. It was a best-case scenario all the way around. Had Ju`bajai chosen to go wandering about people’s quarters and openly probing into their minds, Scott was sure there’d have been a lot more drama. If Ju`bajai’s freedom was to serve as a litmus test for the eventual freedom of Centurion, then Scott was pleased with the results.

But even with weddings, recovering comrades, and free-roaming Ithinis, the biggest surprise of all involved the reason they were at Northern Forge in the first place: Centurion. Simply put, the Ceratopian’s recovery was remarkable. With every day that passed, the massive beast grew stronger and stronger, until one day—with no prompting of the doctor or warning from Centurion, the Ceratopian rose from his bed, yanked out his tubes, and stood. Thankfully, the event occurred during one of Ju`bajai’s checkins, allowing her to coax Centurion back onto his bed before he injured himself, though the event prompted an immediate visit from Scott and Valentin. Upon their arrival to the medical bay and seeing Centurion for themselves, there was no denying it: within days, H`laar’s bodyguard would be back on his feet.

It was everything Scott could have hoped for. It justified everything they’d done. With Centurion up and able to communicate, they could learn everything they were meant to learn from H`laar. Gavriil did insist, however, that any serious questioning be delayed until the alien was back at full form, simply to avoid overtaxing him during the recovery process. Ju`bajai confirmed that this was a good idea, insisting that most of the relevant data had already been pulled from the Ceratopian, by her. As the Ithini explained, nothing gleaned from Centurion would tell them more than the contents of the device they were set to retrieve. There was no sense in prodding the alien’s brain too much—Centurion was exhausted enough as it was. Scott had no issues with this, and so Centurion was given full clearance to rest his mind until the device was recovered.

All in all, things were looking up, despite the monumental task that was ahead of them. After all they’d been through, the series of good events was downright invigorating. They’d all take it.

As for Scott personally, the week had given him plenty of time to reflect on a number of things, from the scope of the big picture to his own personal battles. No personal battle was harder to deal with than not having Svetlana. Though he was managing things as best he could, the marriage of Jayden and Esther made it incredibly difficult not to think about her. He found himself longing to be with Svetlana constantly. He was ready for the ambiguity of their relationship to end. He was ready to take her in his arms and kiss her. He was ready, quite simply, to find her. So much time had passed since she’d gone missing, and there were no leads anywhere. With Antipov going radio dark, getting updates from him was impossible. He only hoped that sometime during that stretch of time, the eidola chief had located her and somehow gotten her into the caravan headed to Chernobyl.

David, as he often was, was instrumental in helping Scott through it. During his numerous daily visits to David’s room next to the medical bay, Scott often found himself recanting to David his stressor of the day, only to have the older operative offer wisdom to help Scott deal with it. It was wonderful to have David back as a friend and father figure. The only disappointment was that it’d taken them so long to get back to that level. Yet delayed progress was still progress, and Scott wouldn’t complain.

Despite the improvements in his comrades’ recoveries, the lack of able-bodied operatives had left Scott with few people from the Fourteenth to associate with in what little free time he had. And though Jayden and Esther weren’t receiving medical treatment, Scott didn’t quite feel right about intruding on a recently-married couple. For this reason, Scott’s partner-in-crime to pass the time had become none other than Becan McCrae.

Truth be told, it was good to spend time with Becan on a one-to-one level. Since his promotion to captain of the Fourteenth, Scott’s time with the Irishman had greatly diminished. Time just became too rare a commodity. But here, with so little to do while planning wasn’t ongoing, Becan was the perfect counterpart. The feeling from the Irishman seemed to be mutual, so it was no surprise when two days before the train heist, Becan knocked on Scott’s door to gauge his interest in some mission preplanning. What kind of responsible leader would say no?

With tablets and pencils in hand, Scott and his Irish comrade sat against the walls in Scott’s room, scribbling down lists of various things, such as equipment lists and potential personnel groupings—sometimes collaboratively, sometimes quietly on their own. It didn’t matter that much of their time was spent in silence. It was just good to have someone else there to do something with. One of the “four transfers.” An original. Becan was, quite simply, the best company Scott could have hoped for.

“I have a son.”

As soon as the Irishman said it, Scott blinked. Setting down his tablet, he looked at Becan. “What did you say?”

Becan was staring at the wall across from him, his expression numbed as he repeated the words. “I have a son.”

“Okay, hang on. What do you mean, you have a son?”

Looking at him flatly, the Irishman said, “It means wha’ it sounds like it means. I have a kid, Remmy. He just made four months.”

How was that even possible? “How do you—”

“Natasha,” Becan answered. “Natasha Valer. From Charlie.”

“Natasha Valer?” Of course, Scott remembered Natasha. But when in the world did Becan and Natasha have time to—

Right at that thought, Scott’s mind hit rewind, tracing back to the beginning of the previous year, before Novosibirsk was even a part of their lives.

“Anyway,” Henry said, “I think I can do good in EDEN. All I need is a chance to prove myself.”

He was cut off as Natasha pushed up from her chair.

“You’re leaving?” asked Scott.

“Yes…” she said as her gaze lingered on Becan. “I feel like going for a swim.”

“Yeh want some company?” Becan asked.

Natasha curved up the corners of her lips. “Sure.”

“Class.” Becan rose from his chair and glanced at the other three men. “I’ll talk to yis later.” Before anyone could respond, the couple slipped through the tables and out of the room.

Scott watched as they disappeared out of view. “Is what just happened what I think just happened?”

“Amazing.” David laughed.

“Just like that, huh?”

Just like that. “Huh,” said Scott as his eyes returned to the Irishman. He didn’t know what to say.

“I don’t know when it happened,” said Becan. “We, umm…yeah, a couple o’ times. Hell, I was almost late to the bleedin’ bug-hunt ’cos o’…yeh know.”

Scott shook his head. “Becan.”

“I know, I know.”

“When did you find out?”

A flat laugh escaped Becan’s lips. “The day I found ou’ we were comin’ here. Righ’ after we talked to Tacker. Tha’s why she told me.”

“Well, holy hell, B. Umm, congrats?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

If his son was four months old, that meant Becan hadn’t even been there to see him born. Before Scott could ask the question, Becan addressed that very issue.

“’Tasha kept me up to date on everythin’, sendin’ me letters an’ photos o’ her tummy. I saw photos o’ when he was born.”

“Why the hell didn’t you go see her?”

The Irishman shook his head. “I tried, I was just…” His words trailed off.

“You were just what?”

Exasperated, Becan answered, “I was bloody terrified, all righ’? I wasn’t supposed to be a father, not yet.”

Eyeing him, Scott asked, “Wasn’t that the reason you and Natasha had those little encounters?”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t serious. We had protection, or, we thought we had protection. Trust me, no one was as surprised as the two o’ us.”

No one was as surprised? That meant someone else knew. That meant multiple people knew. “Who else knows about this?”

“Well,” he answered with a heavy sigh, “Molly-Polly knows, but only ’cos the little vixen opened my mail.”

“She opened your mail? Becan, that’s a felony.”

“Yeah, ’cos havin’ Esty arrested would’ve been great for morale.” He slumped back. “She doesn’t even know tha’ I know. She tried to be all stealthy abou’ it, steam openin’ the envelope an’ whatnot, but I could smell her perfume on it.”

That was surprising for an entirely different reason. “Esther wears perfume?”

“Midnigh’ Lust,” he answered. “She only wore it when she was tryin’ to lure you in.”

Wow. Midnight Lust. Really, Ess?

“Yeh migh’ not want to mention the fact tha’ yeh never noticed.” For a moment, a quizzical expression came over him. “Not tha’ tha’ matters anymore, anyway. Good for her for findin’ Jay.” He smirked a bit. “Not goin’ to lie, Remmy. I thought you two migh’ have a chance. She’s kind o’ smokin’, yeh know. An’ she’s like, wearin’ a swimsuit abou’ sixty percent o’ the time.”

“Enough about Ess. Why in the world didn’t you tell me about you?”

Becan set his tablet down on the floor. “Yeh had your own life goin’ on. Wha’ was I supposed to say, ‘Sorry abou’ your fiancée, by the way, I’m havin’ a kid?’ I did tell Jay, though.”

This truly bothered him. “How is it that everyone knows all of my business, but I apparently don’t know the major events going on in peoples’ lives?”

Looking at him flatly, the Irishman answered, “I mean this in the best possible way, but yeh have pretty dramatic business. Like, exceedingly dramatic business.”

“Okay, point taken.”

“Livin’ with you is kind o’ like livin’ in a soap opera.”

Scott’s eyes narrowed. “I said point taken.”

Becan allowed himself a faint smile before he slumped back again. “Jus’ know you’re not the only one with things goin’ on.”

Never had that been more apparent than right then. “It just makes me wonder what else is going on that I don’t know about.”

“Dave got divorced.”

Scott slammed down his tablet. “Dave got divorced?” he asked matter-of-factly, glaring at his Irish companion. “Really, B?”

“Don’t say anythin’ to anyone. It’s a secret.”

His tone lowering, Scott asked, “Are you telling me the truth? Don’t mess with me about this.”

“I’m not messin’ with yeh,” answered Becan. “Sharon apparently filed for it after he got transferred here. Well, I don’t know if they’re divorced yet, but it’s in process, or somethin’.”

“And he just felt completely comfortable telling you, of all people?”

He half-smirked. “Actually, I found ou’ from Esty. She read his mail.”

Scott threw his hands up.

“Yeh got to admit, she’s pretty crafty.”

Crafty wasn’t the word Scott would have used. “So you have a kid, and Dave’s getting divorced. What the hell else don’t I know?”

“Listen, no one’s tryin’ to keep secrets from yeh. Like I said, I don’t even know if Dave has told anyone.” He sighed. “An’ as for me, it’s just…it’s hard to talk abou’ this. I only talked to people when I needed to, when I couldn’t not talk abou’ it, yeh know? I don’t feel like I’m good enough to be a da.”

Shaking his head in frustration, Scott said, “Becan, you’re going to be an incredible dad. You are an incredible dad.”

“Yeah, ’cos incredible da’s miss their kids’ births.”

“Sometimes that happens. You’re not the only man in the military to miss a childbirth. It comes with the territory.” Looking ahead, Scott sighed and picked his tablet back up. “What’s your son’s name?”

At the question, Becan smiled. “Callum.”

“That,” Scott said, “is an awesome name.” He’d never heard it before. It sounded Irish.

“Callum was me grandda’. He raised me after me parents died.”

That made the name even better. Scott offered a hand to the Irishman. “Congratulations, McCrae.”

Becan shook it. “Thanks, Remmy.”

Scott was happy, genuinely, for Becan’s news. He remembered well the Irishman’s plight about having no one to pass on the McCrae name. That wouldn’t be an issue now. Had it happened in the best way? No. Was it a mistake? If judging by the means, yes. But the end result was Callum McCrae, a four-month-old somewhere in America who was passing on Becan’s lineage. It was hard not to be excited about that.

As for what David was dealing with—that wasn’t nearly as easy to process. Scott’s friend was hurting in a way that Scott had never realized. But what affected Scott more was that David had never told him. While it was true that David technically hadn’t told anybody, Scott would have still hoped that, of all people, David would have trusted Scott with the news of his impending divorce. It left Scott with a vexing dilemma. Now that he knew, should he mention it?

The emotion in him said yes. He needed to talk to David, to comfort him—to tell him his unit had his back, regardless of what happened and in spite of the global firestorm enveloping the outlaws and presumably their families. It was probably fortunate that the Fourteenth and Falcon Platoon had been relatively isolated from the media there in Northern Forge. They’d missed the interviews with their family members, the tears, the pleas for them to turn themselves in—all of which Scott knew had to be out there in bushels. David needed to know he had support.

But emotion wasn’t the end-all. David hadn’t told anyone about this. For all David knew, no one else even had an inkling that he and Sharon had been having problems. If Scott suddenly brought it up to David, it might embarrass him. Scott was sure that avoiding embarrassment was probably a motivation for David to have kept his mouth shut. He was the Fourteenth’s father figure. How would it reflect on him if the Fourteenth’s father figure was fighting a divorce? Though Scott didn’t believe the Fourteenth would be bothered aside from hurting for the man, it was still not Scott’s place to open that can of worms himself. This issue was David’s to mention or keep a lid on. And so despite the yes that his heart screamed, his mind kept his emotions in check.

Scott would say nothing.

As the evening grew later, and Scott and Becan’s scant preplanning came to a close, Scott simply bid his Irish friend farewell and prepared to go to sleep—this time, for real. Tomorrow was huge. Tomorrow, the core of operatives behind this operation would meet to discuss their plan of attack. Having gathered as much information as possible over the course of the past week—about the weather, about radar ranges, about bullet trains—it was time to put that newfound knowledge to good use. Falling quickly to sleep, Scott found momentary peace in the realm of dreams.

30

Location: Unknown

Time: Unknown

SVETLANA BOLTED upright from her slumber as the metal door to the pen whisked open. Gabralthaar and Ka`vesh stood in its archway. The titan marched toward the medic to yank her to her feet. “Come and behold, Earthae!” Grabbing her by her blond roots, Gabralthaar jerked her upright before she could stand fully on her own. Yelping in pain, Svetlana was forcefully shoved out of the room with Mishka. “Our time for tribute has come!”

While Gabralthaar addressed her, oblivious that she understood every word he was saying, Ka`vesh hurried to the back of the pen to cover the trough of slop. That meant the Bakma were going back into microgravity. They must have found what they were looking for, Svetlana thought. Ed had informed her that Nagogg’s intention was to locate a new species to bring back to Khuldaris as a boon for Uladek and the Khuladi. Based on the exuberance of the two Bakma henchmen, there was no doubt that that’s what they’d found. Svetlana stumbled awkwardly down the hall and into the bridge.

For the briefest of moments as she was being thrust toward Nagogg’s chair, Svetlana caught sight of the view screen. It was in a constant state of flashing and changing. Stars were appearing, then course information, then engine status reports. So many things were happening at once—it was impossible to fully absorb all of it.

Gabralthaar shoved Svetlana onto the floor next to Nagogg’s chair while Ka`vesh prepared to slap on the magnetic clamps. Before the deed could be done, Nagogg intervened. “Make her face the front!” Ka`vesh looked up at him. “I want her to witness this.” The warrior acknowledged, turned Svetlana around to face the front of the bridge, then activated the magnetic clamps. For the first time, Svetlana was able to lift her head and fully see what was going on.

“Connect us!” Nagogg rasped to Ed. Moments later, the click came to her mind.

For the faintest of moments, a panic struck her. What if Nagogg found out what she knew through the connection? Before the fear could fully consume her, an assurance came from the Ithini. The depths of your mind are hidden from him. He is only using this to communicate. Relieved and ready to play ignorant human, Svetlana listened as Nagogg spoke.

“Behold the gifts Uladek gives to those who seek him!”

Her eyes on the view screen, Svetlana watched as Bakmanese text appeared—and again, she was able to decipher all of it. Galactic coordinates were at the top corner of the screen, which was zoomed in on a star. Beneath the star were the words, “Communication signal detected.” As the Bakma crew worked furiously at their respective stations, jump coordinates appeared.

Behind Nagogg, Ka`vesh shouted, “We are ready, lord!”

Nagogg activated the ship’s comm to the engine room. “Prepare to shift us, Wuteel! It is time.”

Svetlana watched as the bridge crew slid harnesses across their bodies in their respective chairs. Moments later, the sensation of gravity—as natural as it had felt all this time—faded away. They were in microgravity again. Why now?

“Shift!” said Nagogg.

The Noboat’s lights shifted to dark blue as the air in the bridge crackled like lightning. The Noboat was going invisible. The static-sounding pops lasted for several seconds before they subsided. The shift—as much as Svetlana understood it—was done.

“Jump!”

The chieftain’s order was followed, as the view from the screen shifted to a true front view, as if they were looking out of a massive cockpit window. There was a shudder indicative of a jump, then the center of the screen was taken up by a spacecraft. The moment it appeared, Nagogg’s opaque eyes widened in awe.

It was exactly what Nagogg had been searching for—something none of them had ever seen before. Something from a species unknown. The spacecraft was shaped like an arrow and of considerably larger size than the Noboat, painted in vibrant colors that made it look more a piece of art than a spacefaring vessel. Its wings, indicative of an aerospace design, were fanned out like the wings of a bird. Surrounding the ship was a giant centrifugal ring that was clearly an attachment rather than a part of the vessel.

The view screen split, with the camera taking up one half while the other showed an overlay of the star system, complete with both the Noboat and the unknown alien spaceship’s location. They were along the star system’s outer rim, somewhere between the orbit of what looked like two gas giants. The star system realigned itself on the screen to show each of the planets, of which Svetlana counted seven. On four of the planets, all of which were in the system’s inner zone, pulsing green indicators blinked.

Radio signals. Over half of the star system was colonized. Goosebumps erupted on Svetlana’s skin as the ramifications of this came to her.

Nagogg’s attention, however, was on the spacecraft. The camera side of the split screen expanded until it once again took up the entire view. The chieftain pointed. “Leave the Zone and activate the wheel! Place them in the updraft and prepare for attack.”

The wheel? Place them in the updraft? Svetlana didn’t know what any of that meant. Wuteel acknowledged through the speaker system as the Noboat’s cabin lights shifted from dark blue, to red, then to white. Svetlana remembered that sequence well: they’d just materialized.

“The wheel, the wheel!” Nagogg said, rasping loudly into the comm. “Activate now!”

There was a shimmy, then the familiar pull of gravity kicked in. Svetlana’s hair fell in front of her face as she looked up at the view screen. What was happening?

“They are in the updraft!” said Nik-nish.

Nagogg shot a look to Gabralthaar. “Aim for the thrusters, but only fire a single shot—I do not want to risk the spacecraft being destroyed.” His eyes narrowed.

Acknowledging, Gabralthaar engaged the Noboat’s tactical computer. A target reticule appeared on the camera, sliding across the screen until it appeared near the spacecraft’s thrusters. As soon as it was in position, it pulsed red.

“I am prepared to fire, lord,” said the titan.

“Nik-nish,” said Nagogg, “prepare docking clamps.”

Docking clamps? Svetlana wasn’t aware that Noboats even had such a thing. The chieftain continued.

“Perform a scan of the spacecraft.”

Turning back to his controls, Nik-nish’s fingers tapped on his chair’s side panel. Moments later, an overlay of the ship appeared. “The crew is congregated around the center of the vessel, lord.”

“Bring us atop that location.”

Nik-nish acknowledged. “Yes, lord.”

“Prepare to fire and dock!” Raising his hand into the air, Nagogg signaled to the screen. “Fire.”

Svetlana watched as the Noboat’s forward plasma cannon erupted, a single shot flying toward the unidentified spacecraft and smashing against its hull right ahead of its thrusters. The spacecraft was rocked to the side, the glow of its thrusters fading as it began a flat spin. Immediately, Nagogg rose from his chair.

“Materialize and dock! Ka`vesh, Gabralthaar, prepare to board! Use the Earthaes’ weaponry to take as many as you can, then return.”

At the mention of Earthae weaponry, Svetlana raised an eyebrow. It could only have been a reference to pistols or assault rifles. Glancing behind her at the sound of weapons behind handled, her assumption was affirmed. Each henchman was now holding an E-35.

“Kraash-nagun,” Nagogg said, “prepare the brig for the arrival of new subjects.”

Hesitating for a moment, Kraash-nagun dipped his head. “Uladek speaks.” The blinded elite walked out of the door.

All at once, the reality of the situation came to her. She was about to lay witness to the ambush of an unsuspecting alien species. These beings, whoever or whatever they were, knew nothing of the Bakma—at least not judging by Nagogg’s claim of the Akaarist Quadrant being unexplored. Her heart rate increasing, she watched the view screen as the Noboat drew closer.

The angle of their approach changed. The alien spacecraft drifted out of view as the Noboat’s nose pitched to the starboard. The view screen shifted, a camera view from the side of the spacecraft taking up the screen. The alien spacecraft appeared again, drawing closer and closer as the Noboat neared it. Over the screen, a rapidly shrinking reticule appeared, growing smaller with each meter the Noboat drew near. They were lining up to dock.

A torrent of new knowledge poured into her mind, her connection with Ed pulsing as the specifics of what was happening were relayed. Seconds later, Svetlana knew exactly what was going on.

This was how the Bakma ambushed their prey. The same antechamber door that EDEN operatives stormed countless times in Bakma Noboats was the same one the Bakma warriors would storm the alien vessel through. A part of the hull would extend and attach itself to the spacecraft, then it would bore a hole through the hull. The end result would be a walkable bridge. When the operation was finished, the bridge would close and retract, leaving the hull of their victims’ ships compromised. At that stage, though, it didn’t matter—at least not to the Bakma. They’d have whatever prize it was that they sought.

Turning her head, Svetlana watched as Gabralthaar, Ka`vesh, and Uguul prepared to disembark. Marching toward the bridge exit, the three warriors disappeared from view. Svetlana watched the bridge view screen shift from a view of the alien spacecraft to one of the antechamber itself as the three Bakma drifted into it. Readying themselves against the antechamber wall, they waited for the external bridge to expand.

Again, the camera split, one half of it showing the bridge as it drew steadily nearer to the alien spacecraft’s hull. Nik-nish appeared to be guiding it from his pilot’s seat, his gnarled fingers manipulating a tiny joystick built into the console. With each subtle twitch, the angle of the extending bridge changed ever so slightly. At long last, it impacted the hull, resulting in the faintest of vibrations in the Noboat. “We are attached, lord,” he said to Nagogg. “Cracking the hull.”

Nagogg rasped through the Noboat’s speaker system. “If there are discernable males and females, take at least one of each!”

That was exactly what the Khuladi would want—a male and a female to control breeding. With just one pair of whatever this alien species was, they’d be able to begin breeding servants. Why Nagogg was so hell-bent on capturing these specimens was becoming clearer and clearer. This wouldn’t just be a boon to offer to Uladek—this would be something that could fundamentally change the Khuladi family of slave species.

“Hull opened!” said Nik-nish.

Rising from his chair, Nagogg walked forward until he was floating just behind the pilot, his bulbous eyes locked onto the screen view of the antechamber, which shifted to take up the whole monitor again. “May Chaos guide you, brethren,” he said.

Svetlana fidgeted in her clasps. If there was ever a moment where escape would be feasible, it would be now. Three of the warriors were out of the bridge, and Nagogg’s attention was somewhere else. If only she could budge, even to the faintest degree. But it was no use. The clasps held her firmly to the floor.

The magnetic key. If she could get her hands on that—if someone like Ed or Kraash-nagun could bring it to her—a jailbreak could happen. Glancing behind her as far as her neck was able to turn, she locked eyes with the Ithini. Ed, bring me the key! Now is our chance to escape. Where is it?

They key was in the possession of Ka`vesh. Its current location is unknown to me.

Then get in Ka`vesh’s mind and locate it. You must do this, Ed. This is our chance.

The Ithini’s eyes widened with focus. Ka`vesh is strong-minded. He will detect the siphon.

At this stage, it didn’t matter. There was no chance the warrior would abandon their “ordained” assault on the alien spacecraft to investigate a siphon. This was go time. Do it now, Ed. If he detects it, so be it.

A sense of acknowledgment came to Svetlana, and the Ithini’s eyes widened ever so slightly. He was making the attempt.

Closing her eyes, Svetlana prayed. Please let this work. God. If this is our moment, let the whereabouts of the key be made known. Opening her eyes, Svetlana’s attention returned to the camera. The antechamber door opened. Amid a flurry of weapons fire from inside the alien spacecraft, the three Bakma charged.

The siphon has failed, Ei`dorinthal conveyed. Ka`vesh is out of my range.

Her heart sinking, Svetlana stared helplessly at the monitor. There was not going to be a better time than this, when three of their warriors were gone. The only enemy combatants left were Nagogg and Nik-nish. She, Ed, and Kraash-nagun outnumbered them—if the blinded elite could be contacted while he was preparing the brig. Even Mishka might turn to their side. They had to get that key now. There had to be a way.

The rattling of the assault rifles reverberated from beyond the antechamber, as did the pulsing sound of another kind of weapon—one that sounded vaguely projectile itself. Beat them, she thought to the unknown aliens. Beat back these vile creatures. Fight them with all the ferocity you can muster. Again, her attention shifted to Ed. Her mind refocusing on her Ithini connection, she addressed Ed again. Can you link my mind with Kraash-nagun’s?

Though I can maintain a connection at a distance, I cannot initiate one unless he is present.

Under her breath, Svetlana cursed. You must find that key, Ed. You must! Look at his console. Walk over to it and see if it is there! I can keep my eyes on Nagogg. The Bakma chieftain was thoroughly invested in the view screen. He wouldn’t even think to look back at Ed.

A sensation swept over Svetlana that was not her own, though she recognized it well. It ran deep inside of her—it was almost stomach-turning. Looking back at Ei`dorinthal, she saw that the Ithini was standing rigidly in place.

He was afraid.

Svetlana’s heart pounded as she observed the alien. Ed, you can do this. It is easy. Go walk, then see.

Detection will lead to termination. Nagogg will not be merciful.

It was the first time that Svetlana had been in the position of encourager for something like this. She had to convince him to do it. She had to give him that courage. This is for our future, Ei`dorinthal. For yours, and for mine, and for Kraash-nagun and Tauthinilaas’s. This is for all of us who yearn to be free. The alien was thoroughly vexed—his emotions were bouncing around her heart. She had never imagined that an Ithini could feel them so strongly. Feel fear so strongly. But she knew he could do it.

I cannot do this.

You can. You must! The gunfire in the antechamber grew louder; she looked back to the view screen, where plumes of gun exhaust drifted. They’d be back soon—the time to act was right now. Svetlana whipped her head back to Ed. Do this now, Ed! I am your master. You will obey me.

Turning his head to Ka`vesh’s console, the Ithini hesitated.

Do this, Ei`dorinthal! Do this before it is too late. You will not fail, I promise you.

It happened almost too quickly for Svetlana to register—so quickly that she actually blinked. In one second, Ei`dorinthal was rooted timidly into the floor. In the next, he was walking across the back of the bridge toward Ka`vesh’s console. Before she registered that he was actually doing it, the Ithini was standing directly behind the very controls that Ka`vesh had been manipulating, his oval eyes poring over the console with reckless obsession. Closing her eyes again, Svetlana prayed.

Let him find this, God. Use this Ithini. Save Your child who yearns for You.

Adrenaline swelled within her as she stared back at Nagogg, then at the view screen, where the shadows of the Bakma warriors could be seen through the haze. Their time was almost up. Looking back at Ei`dorinthal, she waited for his moment of discovery. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that it was about to happen.

Ed stopped. The Ithini placed his hands on the edges of the console, then gravely set his eyes back on her. The message was relayed. The key is not here.

Svetlana’s face fell. That was impossible. The key had to be there. She hadn’t seen Ka`vesh go anywhere else. Every time Nagogg asked him to release her clamps and Mishka’s, he went straight from that console to them. There was no other place the key could be. Unless…

…unless it was on him.

Her heart sank. Was the key actually on Ka`vesh? On the alien spacecraft that the warrior was assaulting? It was the only possibility there could be. All of a sudden, her desire for the unknown species to kill the Bakma was turned on its head. The Bakma warriors needed to be victorious—at least enough so for Ka`vesh to make it back to the Noboat. If he died there—if Nagogg was forced to detach and leave him behind—Svetlana was doomed. She’d be clamped to that metal floor until she reached Khuldaris.

Ed slunk back to his spot in the back of the bridge, Nagogg completely unaware of his little side mission. Despite Svetlana’s new sense of panic, she could feel the Ithini’s relief at not having been caught. Staving off her negativity for a moment, she found it within herself to commend him. You did all that you could, Ei`dorinthal. I thank you.

Ed didn’t reply. He simply stared ahead blankly as if he’d just survived a plane crash. The Ithini’s little heart was taxed.

Svetlana turned back to the view screen. Flinging her hair from her face, she watched as movement came to the antechamber. Something—Bakma or alien—was coming on board. The blond medic held her breath.

A body was flung inside the Noboat. Moments later, there came another, rolling along the floor like a lifeless corpse until it moved completely out of view. Amid the spark of weapons fire, two Bakma figures emerged, backtracking into the antechamber as glowing white projectiles flew around them from inside the alien spaceship. Their body types made them instantly recognizable. It was Gabralthaar and Uguul. Ka`vesh was nowhere to be seen.

Oh my God, Svetlana thought. No…

A third Bakma appeared. It was Ka`vesh. Through rapidly clearing smoke, he flung a third alien body into the antechamber then dropped to a knee, whipping up the assault rifle to return fire.

Svetlana’s body collapsed with relief. Ka`vesh was on board.

As she stared at the view screen, Svetlana noted for the first time that Gabralthaar was cringing in pain. He’d been shot. As Ka`vesh and Uguul covered him, Nagogg rasped from the front of the bridge. “Detach from the vessel, now!”

Nik-nish’s fingers once again worked the controls. As the three Bakma sunk into the safety of the antechamber, the extended bridge sealed itself from within. With a noticeable jolt, it detached from the alien spacecraft.

“Move away and into firing position,” said Nagogg, back-stepping hurriedly to his chair. “Destroy the vessel before it can retaliate!”

The view screen switched from the docking bridge to deep space. As a sense of mass and motion returned, Svetlana watched the stars glide across the screen until the Noboat’s nose was once again facing the spacecraft. Bits of debris flew from the open hole where the Noboat had attached itself. Svetlana fell motionless as she realized what she was about to see.

There was no hesitation from Nik-nish. The Noboat’s plasma cannons unleashed their fury, and the colorful, arrow-shaped vessel erupted into short-lived, silent flames in the vacuum of space. Its fanned wings broke apart; its centrifuge spun off into space. In an instant, the artistry of an alien species that none of them had ever met was willfully destroyed. A crew, a mission…extinguished. Turning her head to look up at Nagogg, Svetlana could see just enough of his face to make out that skeleton’s grin. To see a total lack of remorse.

To see her future, if she didn’t escape.

Footsteps emerged from the hall beyond the bridge—right outside of the antechamber. She could hear the Bakmas’ blustering loud and clear. “Move forward, creature!” said Ka`vesh, the fiery zealot’s voice laced with condemnation. A second later, to the thumps of stumbling footsteps, they appeared. The three alien “creatures,” for all the crew to see.

They were resplendent.

Humanoid and slender, they looked more like beings out of an angelic vision than extraterrestrials. Their skin was light and smooth like porcelain, their hair airy like down feathers yet in vibrant shades and color patterns. They had tall, rounded ears—almost fox ears—that were pivoting in every direction like prey surrounded by predators. Atop sharp, canine noses were dark-lined eyes with pitch-black irises. Their lips were full, their cheeks freckled. Whiskers twitched wildly beneath their nostrils.

As alien as the Bakma, Ithini, and Ceratopians looked, these beings looked like they could have been borne of the creatures of Earth. There were elements of humankind, elements of dogs, cats, foxes, all topped with feathery hair that would have shamed a peacock. They were instantly relatable. Instantly alluring.

And in Svetlana’s mind, instantly allied.

Each being was adorned in a wardrobe that looked unique. There was nothing militaristic or standardized about them. On the contrary, they were free-flowing weaves of various shades, some brightly colored, some borderline translucent. They made the beings look free. Free to express, free to be. Free in every sense of the word except the situational. For now, they were not free at all.

Ka`vesh and Gabralthaar shoved the beings forward violently until all three of them were standing in the middle of the troop bay. There looked not an ounce of fight in them. They looked terrified—stunned. They looked like they had no idea what’d just happened. Their black eyes shifted from the Bakma, to her on the floor, to the canrassi. Their whiskers and noses twitched with revulsion. They were smelling that acidic vinegar stench for the first time. Then, seemingly all at once, they looked at the view screen.

Far in the distance that’d been placed between it and the Noboat were the clearly-defined remnants of the vessel from which they’d come. The broken centrifuge was still spinning. Pieces of the vessel’s fanned wings were floating in the dead of space. What had once been their home was now a shredded wreckage.

Its mouth opening, the tallest of the beings—a being with shoulder-length, fiery orange hair—uttered, voice trembling, “Itash’la…itash’la…”

It was registering. All of it. Whoever they’d known on that vessel—whoever they’d cared for or loved—was dead.

Deep in Svetlana’s veins, the temperature of her blood rose.

“Bring him forward,” said Nagogg, pointing with his spear to the one that’d spoken—the one that looked, if appearances were indicative of anything at all, like he might have been a leader. Shoved forward by Ka`vesh, he fell to the floor.

It was clear that among the three of them, two were male and one female. Their faces and figures were wholly indicative of their genders, which were as recognizable as a human’s, despite the wild diversity of their hair—particularly that of the female, whose long, straight strands were lustrous black with teal streaks.

As he pushed up on his hands, the orange-haired being looked up at Nagogg. The chieftain was poised above him, spear in one hand while his three warriors held their E-35s at the beings’ backs. His lipless grin widening, Nagogg spoke in Bakmanese. “A lesson in authority.”

A lesson in authority? What was that supposed to mean?

Rearing back with his spear, Nagogg thrust it forward, straight through the being’s neck. Svetlana gasped; the two other beings shrunk back in horror. The body of the impaled alien contorted in shock, his mouth hanging open as dark red blood—as his life—spilled onto the floor. Ripping the spear out as violently as he’d inserted it, Nagogg stepped back as the being collapsed forward. After several more gurgles and twitches, the alien’s body went still. It was dead.

The two remaining beings cried out, their wails of distress indiscernible but unmistakable. Their nightmare had begun. Right then, the black and teal-haired female shot a glare of pure hatred in the direction of Nagogg. Svetlana watched in shock as the female’s black eyes literally turned red, as if crimson dye had been dropped in the centers of her irises.

“Hang them beside the infidel,” said Nagogg. “They know now to fear.”

Grabbing the back of the beings’ wardrobes, the two Bakma warriors jerked them out of the brig and toward the hall.

“Bring the canrassi with you,” said Nagogg. “He will inspire cooperation.”

Turning back to Nagogg, Ka`vesh said, “Uladek speaks.” While the other two Bakma held the beings at bay, Ka`vesh produced the magnetic key from a slit in his tattered wardrobe. Svetlana’s eyes fixed on it.

That was where the warrior kept it. Right there, attached to himself—where the only way to get it was through him. So be it.

Kneeling next to Mishka, Ka`vesh unlocked the beast’s clamped legs. The canrassi obediently followed, spewing saliva as it snarled viciously in the beings’ direction. Terrified, they were led out.

Can you connect me to them? Svetlana asked to Ed, their connection still there. Before they are too far away?

The Ithini looked squarely at her. I have never connected with this species. I do not know their tolerance for such an intrusion. There may be resistance.

There was no time to speculate on it. Svetlana needed to talk to one of them now. Take the chance—I must address them, to let them know they are not alone.

As you wish. Please remain as calm as possible.

Get on with it!

For the faintest of moments, Ed gave Svetlana a look that she could have sworn was disparaging, though it quickly transitioned into the focused stare of a connection attempt. Closing her eyes, Svetlana lowered her forehead to the Noboat floor. The calm was getting easier and easier to find. Drawing in a breath, and having no idea what kind of “resistance” she and Ed might be on the verge of facing, Svetlana waited for the arrival of the unknown third party—provided Ed could break through. Clinging to her calm, Svetlana waited for that uncanny click. That indicator that someone new had joined the mental discussion. That unmistakable feel of a new Ithini connection.

Click.

Fear. Anger. Panic. The three feelings slammed into her like a tidal wave—her blue eyes opened as she drew a sharp breath.

Something was wrong. The emotions being fed into her mind, they were more than a connection. They were a torrent of unprotected vulnerability. In the wake of the unknown extraterrestrial’s panic, Svetlana found her own self kicking into fight or flight. Yanking mindlessly against her clasps, she writhed to no avail to break herself free. Then she looked up. Ei`dorinthal was convulsing like he was having a seizure, every part of the Ithini’s body flailing as he slammed back against one of the consoles. All at once, every Bakma on the bridge spun to look at him.

The connection severed. Svetlana’s panic dissipated. Gaze steadfast on Ed, she watched as Nagogg, the closest one in proximity, rushed to the alien to grab him. As the Ithini fell lifelessly forward, the chieftain snatched him before he hit the floor. “What is happening?” Nagogg asked, looking around at the other crew members, none of whom offered anything more than a blank stare of confusion. Nagogg looked at Ed again. “Ei`dorinthal? Are you awake?”

None of the crew had noticed Svetlana’s part in this. Their focus must have been fully absorbed by the seizure-induced Ithini. Her brief fight-or-flight response had gone unnoticed.

But what was happening to Ed?

It was the closest thing to panicked that Svetlana had seen Nagogg—the chieftain looked downright desperate as he looked around for assistance that wasn’t coming. The only two other Bakma in the room were Nik-nish and Kraash-nagun, neither of whom were going to be of any help in this situation. Nagogg was on his own with the Ithini.

Though the rush of feelings she’d received had subsided, she could still sense their echo—and for the briefest moment in time, she could swear she felt equal panic from Ed. Whatever happened when the Ithini tried to connect to the captured aliens, it had caught Ed just as off guard as it had Svetlana. Had it been a defense mechanism of some sort? Had the Ithini stepped over some kind of mental tripwire? Only he could answer that—but he was nowhere near in a condition to do that now.

A fear suddenly struck her as she watched Nagogg shake Ed’s body. What if the Ithini was…dead? What if this killed him? She would be alone. As she watched Nagogg shake the Ithini, she could only hope and pray to see her co-conspirator’s life return.

As if on cue, it did just that. Ed’s head jolted upright, the alien’s arms flailing as Nagogg jumped, startled, then pulled the Ithini up to his feet. Then, Svetlana saw Ed do something she’d never seen an alien do before. He threw up. His frail stomach heaved, his neck bulged, and the elevator in his throat went full reverse as a handful of half-processed calunod was ejected onto the floor in a series of heaves. Even without nostrils, the stench was enough to sting Svetlana’s sense of smell. It, combined with the fresh smell of death from the alien Nagogg had impaled, was almost enough to make her vomit.

For the next five minutes, Svetlana watched as Nagogg tried with little success to get something out of Ed. It wasn’t long until Nagogg was joined by his henchmen, returning from their task of chaining their new arrivals up in the brig, at which point all of the Bakma present gathered around Ed to try and get some kind of communication from him. At long last, after whatever discombobulation the Ithini was feeling started to dissipate, he gave them an answer.

Svetlana, thankfully, was not part of it.

Listening in on the conversation, she heard as Ed explained to the Bakma that he’d attempted to establish a connection with the captives, only to receive some sort of violent mental feedback that not only short-circuited his mental abilities but essentially robbed him of bodily control. The Ithini claimed that he was going to probe into their thoughts to learn more about their identity and homeworld, an explanation Svetlana figured was the only one Nagogg and his crew were likely to accept at face value. They did. Instead of chastising Ed for the effort, Nagogg actually commended him on being proactive in his desire to please Uladek. Ed’s claim also accomplished something else—having seen what happened to the Ithini, there was virtually no chance that Nagogg or anyone would attempt a connection with the new aliens. The prospect of being thrust into uncontrollable seizures, as it turned out, was quite the deterrent.

But was all of this true?

Svetlana had an uncanny feeling that it wasn’t—at least, not totally. And so she waited for Nagogg’s interrogation of Ed to come to an end, at which point she was certain the Ithini would connect with her mind. She was right.

It took about fifteen additional minutes of waiting, but sure enough, that oddly comforting click from Ed came to her mind again. The connection felt somewhat hesitant, almost as if the alien was trepid about using his powers again. After what had just happened, Svetlana didn’t blame him.

Several seconds after the connection was established, Ed addressed her. Something unexpected happened.

The impulse to be sarcastic was so strong, Svetlana had to bite her lip.

There were no barriers to overcome, said the Ithini. I prepared to break through walls that did not exist. Truth was relayed without reservation.

Looking at the floor to avoid queuing the others in on the fact they were “conversing,” Svetlana replied, I’m not sure I understand.

A sense of stillness and uncertainty was relayed to her. Ed was figuring out how to better explain it. With other species, such as yourself and the Bakma, truth must be ascertained and sometimes deciphered. With this new species, truth is freely given. Reservation is nonexistent.

So they are…truthful?

They know nothing else. Though the deceit concept must exist, it has no bearing on their emotion. I was not prepared for such a free-flowing exchange.

She was still confused. So when you connected to them, their…truthfulness…stunned you?

Ed searched her mind for something to compare it to. She could sense his mental fingers. I was prepared to pry open a door. I popped open a cork.

Well, that worked. So does this mean we will not be able to connect with them?

Incorrect. Connectivity with this species is far more sensitive than connectivity with others. If we do not restrain ourselves, we will receive far more than we may have prepared for.

So we can try it again?

She didn’t even need to wait for his answer to know what it was. The Ithini’s enthusiasm was evident in their connection. He was practically giddy. This presents a new opportunity—further experimentation is highly desirable.

At least he was motivated.

I will inform Nagogg that I wish to eat. I will take your connection with me down the halls of the Noboat, at which point I will attempt a second connection with the new species when I am in closer proximity. I anticipate differing results.

Smirking, she responded, You’d better hope you get differing results, for your sake. You don’t want to be passed out in the hall.

Agreed. Without a shred of hesitation, Ed approached Nagogg’s chair to make the query.

So this was going to be something new. It was easy to forget, with their vastly differing appearances, how similar humans and Bakma could be on an emotional level. They shared similar feelings, right down to laughter and zeal. Now, Svetlana was about to communicate with a species that was, for lack of a better way to comprehend it, overwhelmingly honest, at least emotionally. Why were they this way? Was it just the way they were raised? A result of traditions and customs? Were their minds incapable of emotional dishonesty? She had no idea what to make of this—but she knew she was about to find out.

Granting Ed’s request to be excused, Nagogg returned his focus fully to the bridge while the Ithini walked out of the door. Closing her eyes again, Svetlana waited.

Second attempt imminent, Ed relayed.

Conveying her approval, Svetlana waited for the click to return. She didn’t have to wait long. Once again, simultaneous with the unmistakable feeling of shared consciousness, came a sudden urge to flee—that flight-or-fight response that bordered on sheer panic. Svetlana’s heart beat faster. Her adrenaline levels ramped. Just as it had the first time, the tidal wave of emotion threatened to overtake her.

Then, there was a pull.

She sensed it, not from the untapped alien, but from Ei`dorinthal again. The Ithini was pulling away from the three-way connection. Not pulling out—just putting some distance between them. He was building up barriers of his own.

Exhaling quietly, Svetlana waited as the flight-or-fight subsided. As her stress level decreased, she took a firmer and firmer grasp on her own emotions—her own fear, her own desire to break free from the shackles that bound her. Her desire to go home. The rush from the connection had churned all of those desires up from the depths of her ocean. For as advanced as this new species was—as it must have been—this was a vulnerability the likes of which Svetlana couldn’t comprehend. To be totally unguarded. How could one live that way?

As the peace came back to her, so did Ed’s voice in her mind. Entry has been made. I am grasping her subconscious.

Her. Ed had connected with the female. Though gender roles meant little to nothing when dealing with a new alien species on what may have been the other side of the galaxy, there was something comforting about the prospect of Svetlana talking to another woman. She missed that—even if the closest woman to her on Earth, Esther, was also her biggest rival.

They are not unlike you, said Ed. Their minds are of similar construct to both the Earthae and Bakma. Communication will not be difficult.

Svetlana hadn’t considered any other possibility, though the thought struck her then that perhaps she should have. To be connected to a completely unrelatable being. How would that have been? Does she know you are there?

She is convulsing.

Blinking, Svetlana asked, Convulsing?

She is a vulnerable specimen experiencing her first connections. You and your comrades have had similar experiences upon your firsts.

The thought of an Ithini connection making one sick was almost strange to her, though Ed was right. First-time connections were head-spinning, nauseating. Only through time and exposure did those feelings subside to the point that Svetlana had reached now. Now there were no side effects at all.

The Ithini’s voice surfaced again. She is aware of my presence. She is panicking. You will not feel it.

Thank you, Ed.

I am attempting to soothe her while processing her language. Please be patient.

If it meant being able to communicate effectively with this alien, Svetlana had no problem being patient at all. Take whatever time you need. A sense of affirmation came, and Ei`dorinthal went to work.

As she waited for Ed to process the alien’s language, she thought back to her own experience as a human discovering that she—that humanity—wasn’t alone in the cosmos. Svetlana was eighteen when the attack on Hong Kong took place. Compared to the experience she had today, she was just a child. Beyond the obvious fear caused by the attack, there was an inherent fear that simply came with seeing an extraterrestrial for the first time. It was terrifying. The Bakma were hideous as much in their similarities to humans as their differences. Until that moment, mankind had always held a monopoly in sentience—yet here was something else from a place far away. That they existed at all was more frightening to her than the obvious threat of alien invasion. It meant her species didn’t know as much as it thought it did.

She remembered being more frightened of the Ithini than the Bakma. The Ithini, from a distance, looked almost like starving children, until they turned and gazed at you with those oversized, black eyes, and that hairless, oval head. The way they stared, it was like they were looking into your soul. They were straight out of a night terror.

That was a long time ago, and the fear of simply seeing an extraterrestrial had long-since vanished. Having dealt with monsters like the canrassi and necrilid had a way of mentally preparing one for the possibility of seeing anything and everything. Even these new captive beings didn’t instill a feeling of fear so much as they did curiosity at just how many sentient species were out there among the stars. Though not immune from a fear of the unknown—for the potential of going to Khuladi was utterly horrifying—she was not fearful of what she’d see so far as what she’d experience.

But there was no mistaking what she’d seen in the eyes of the captured aliens that Nagogg’s henchmen dragged onto the bridge. They had never seen a human, or an Ithini, or a Bakma, or a canrassi. The looks in their eyes, alien or not, were of abject horror. This was their night terror, coming to life.

Svetlana needed to be sensitive to that. She needed to be mindful of the fact that, in the scope of the conversation they were about to have, it was she who was the visiting species. She was the extraterrestrial making contact. If she didn’t hold tight to that understanding, she could overwhelm these beings even more.

Ei`dorinthal’s voice reemerged in her mind. I am prepared to open the door for you to speak. Further processing requires experience. There may be inaccuracies.

She could live with that. She thought. Just don’t confuse my, “hello,” with, “I’m going to eat you.”

I will try.

From her spot on the bridge floor, Svetlana smirked.

Opening the door.

Bracing for whatever it was that was going to come next—for first contact with a new species—Svetlana held her breath and thought a prayer. Please let this work. The connection widened. She could feel the new presence merge into it. The fear was still there—it was still strong—but it wasn’t panic. Ed had done his job.

Svetlana went still. Everything around her seemed to go quiet, as if she were walking in the middle of the forest and all noise had suddenly stopped. As if the other animals knew they weren’t alone.

She wasn’t alone.

The third presence manifested in her consciousness. She sensed it coalescing with her thoughts and those of Ei`dorinthal. The three of them were now merged. With no formal training on how to approach such an encounter, Svetlana simply did what felt natural—to begin in the only way she knew how.

Hello.

There was a shrinking back—a startled reaction from the other being. Svetlana quickly followed up.

Do not be afraid. I am a captive here, like you. All she knew to do was to communicate in the same way she did with the Ithini and Bakma she’d held connections with and hope that it worked. Though Ed warned of inaccuracies, she wanted to keep them to a minimum. This exchange needed to be kept as simple as possible.

A loud reverberation came forth, echoing violently in Svetlana’s mind as it swirled—like many languages being merged into one. It was almost discombobulating. A voice emerged amid the maelstrom. Unseen voice.

Ed addressed Svetlana quickly. She is speaking these things aloud in the brig. She believes you are there.

That could be bad. Hurriedly, Svetlana addressed the being again. Do not speak out loud. I am not in the room with you. I am speaking through your mind. Confusion emerged. The being didn’t understand. This was going to be harder than Svetlana thought.

Again, Ed spoke. Though she is aware of another presence in her mind, she does not know there are two of us. She believes she is communicating with a single entity.

It was probably best to keep it that way. The last thing Svetlana wanted to do was overwhelm this poor creature even more than she knew it already was. For now, keep yourself hidden. I will reveal you when she becomes more used to this.

As you wish.

Focusing her thoughts on the being again, Svetlana continued in her attempt to communicate. I am speaking to you through telepathy. So much for keeping it simple. Do you understand this term?

The swirling of language returned, echoes of voices she’d never heard before phasing in and out of her awareness, trying to surface. The noise ended without a response from the being.

Frowning a bit, Svetlana returned to basic concepts. Do not speak. Only think.

Briefly, the noise in her mind returned, though it faded quickly into the background of the bridge. Though no words were spoke to her, a feeling was conveyed. The being understood.

Now, they were getting somewhere. Again, Ed cut through the connection. Vocal processes may be difficult to maintain until I have further acclimated to her language.

That’s okay, Svetlana answered. As long as I can feel what she’s feeling, I believe I will be able to say what I need.

As you wish.

Again, she focused on the being. My name is Setana, and I am a human. In the galaxy, we are known as the Earthae. Even that term—Earthae—was growing more familiar. So far as referring to herself as “Setana,” Svetlana hadn’t even noticed that she’d done it. I was stolen from my planet, Earth, and imprisoned here, as you have been. I am not your enemy. Her words sounded simplistic—at least to herself. She hoped the alien understood.

There was a delay, but a second feeling of understanding came to her.

Svetlana smiled. Progress. Communicating effectively with this being was going to be a challenge, that much was certain, but at least it didn’t seem insurmountable. If this level of slow and steady pacing was what it took to effectively communicate, then this was what she’d maintain. She kept right on. The species that attacked you are called the Bakma. The moment she spoke of them, a feeling of heat swelled within her. The being was angry. I am sorry for what they did to you. I could not stop them.

Suddenly, a mental image came to her mind. It was vague, more like a memory and nowhere near as striking as the visions she’d received from Ed courtesy of Nagogg, but it was still there. It was an image of her—Svetlana—bound to the floor on the bridge. The recollection lasted but a moment before fading.

Svetlana wasn’t sure if the transfer of the mental image was intended, but she knew what was going on: the being was trying to recall Svetlana from its experience on the bridge. It was trying to figure out which one she was. Though there seemed little doubt in the moment, Svetlana acknowledged just the same. Yes, that is me.

A peace came over her. The being understood.

I was tortured here—they… She stopped herself. The being didn’t need to hear this. That would do little more than frighten it further. It was better to go in a different direction altogether. Not all of the Bakma are bad. There is one imprisoned in the room with you. His name is Tauthin—he is good.

Hesitance. Perhaps the first hint of suspicion. The being wasn’t ready to believe that.

You need not worry about him. He is of no threat to you. At least that much, the being couldn’t argue with—not so long as Tauthin was chained to the wall. Some of the crew are loyal to their leader, while others think he is wrong. I am trying to get them to work together with me to free us so that we can escape. It must have seemed a pitiful hope to cling to, with Svetlana clasped against the floor of the bridge with little room to even lift her head and look around, let alone rise up and lead a revolution. She almost hesitated mentioning that at all, at the risk of being laughed off as she’d been with Tauthin and Kraash-nagun. As it turned out, however, she was received quite differently this time.

An energy pulsed through the connection—an excitement. Her words had not been taken lightly. The being was…hopeful. Perhaps it didn’t know her well enough, yet. Perhaps it didn’t judge her by outward appearances. Whichever was true, to have her intentions taken seriously was a pure relief. It was about time. Please give me time. I will do what I can, I promise.

Yigôzien, invoker of custom, fel’dinstra Viil-Astrul.

Svetlana blinked. The words were as clear as daylight in her mind, as if they’d just been spoken to her like in any other connection. The being’s voice was…beautiful. Almost melodious. But what did her words mean? She didn’t need to ask it out loud; Ei`dorinthal answered it for her.

I believe that is her name.

Her name? Invoker of custom? Was that one of those inaccuracies Ed warned her about? It sure hadn’t sounded like one—and frankly, it didn’t matter. Inaccuracy or not, Svetlana had just been given a greeting. That was something to be happy about.

Kalar. Kalarael.

Yigôzien’s words drifted through her mind like a wind, delicately touching the medic’s sense of understanding. It was her homeworld, her species. The Kalarael. Their introduction was complete. Thank you, Yigôzien. The sense of acceptance returned—the Kalarael acknowledged.

More than ever now, the sense that an escape was inevitable was strong in Svetlana’s mind. This was not chance. These beings were here for a purpose—they’d been placed there, for Svetlana to find, for a purpose. Even on the other side of the galaxy, even with every odd stacked against her on a ship whose crew reviled her belief in the “Earthae God,” God was there.

Yigôzien could sense Svetlana’s thoughts. Though the intricacies of religion were surely too advanced for this still-developing connection, the Kalarael could no doubt sense that the anticipation in Svetlana was swelling. Yigôzien returned that feeling with her own.

It is difficult to maintain this connection, said Ed, the Ithini’s exhaustion palpable. My mind tires.

Inadvertently, on the bridge, Svetlana nodded. Thank you, Ei`dorinthal, for what you have done. Rest your mind—I will tell Yigôzien that this connection must close.

As you wish.

Returning the focus of her mind on the imprisoned Kalarael, Svetlana said, I will connect with you again, Yigôzien. We will be free.

The Kalarael’s voice returned. For my people, revenge.

Ever so faintly, Svetlana’s eyes narrowed. Revenge. It was perhaps the most basic of concepts—the desire to strike back at one who wronged. She could scarcely think of a more befitting situation than the one she and the two Kalarael prisoners were in now. Closing her eyes as she lowered her forehead to the Noboat’s metal floor, Svetlana waited for Ed to close the connection. Moments later, it was done.

Svetlana’s own head felt fatigued—she could only imagine how taxing this connection must have been for Ei`dorinthal. In the midst of everything happening around her, the Ithini’s faithfulness to their escape plan—or at least, the process that was working its way toward one—stood out as a rare bright spot in the darkness of uncharted space. More so than Tauthin, more so than Kraash-nagun, Ed had earned Svetlana’s admiration. The Ithini was doing his part when few others seemed inclined to take action. She would always remember him for that.

Though Ed was “recharging” and out of range, she knew the time would come again for them to communicate and coordinate. He had requested time in the kitchen to replenish his strength, and Nagogg would expect him to take it. Svetlana was already eager for his return.

An uprising was coming. What Nagogg had done—what he and his crew of zealots were doing now—would be repaid in full. If there was any justice in the mind of God, that vengeance would come by her hand. She was ready to deliver it.

Resting her own mind, Svetlana succumbed to the background noises of the Noboat bridge and fell asleep. There were no visions of Khuldaris in her head, no meetings with Nagogg or encounters with the essence of him that had once been in her. Svetlana was wholly her own.

That was all she would ever need to be.

31

Monday, March 26th, 0012 NE

0734 hours

EDEN Command

“COMING!”

Benjamin Archer marched across his suite, where the knock of his anticipated guest had emerged moments earlier. Opening the door, he came face-to-face with Hector Mendoza. Standing just off to the side of the Hispanic security chief was Oleg. Though Archer’s eyes met Hector’s briefly, they soon shifted past him to the captured Nightman informant.

“I bring you Mister Strakhov, judge,” said Hector, bowing his head indicatively.

Archer gave Hector a sneer. “I know who he is, you buffoon. We’ve met.” Smiling at Oleg, he motioned for the bearded Nightman to join him. “Please, come in. You too, Hector.” As soon as the two men were inside, Archer quietly closed the door and faced them. “Can I offer you something to drink?” he asked Oleg. “Tea, perhaps?”

Waving his hand cordially, Oleg said, “No, judge. I am fine.”

“Well then, please, have a seat.”

As Oleg walked into the living area, his scrutinizing eyes surveyed the various conch shells along the wall in Archer’s nautically-themed room. Archer followed behind him, lowering himself onto his couch even as Oleg semi-wandered about. “You have a nice room,” Oleg said.

Archer smiled, pleased. “Thank you. I try to maintain a certain air of dignity in the décor.”

“It is quite dignified.”

Casting Hector a brief look, Archer motioned with a subtle head nod for the security chief to sit down. Hector complied. “I thank you for your patience with us, Mister Strakhov—”

“Oleg. Please, call me Oleg.” The former eidolon sank into a chair across from the other two men.

“Very well. Oleg, then. I thank you for your patience with us—quite frankly, there were several things we needed to verify, both about you personally and about the information you provided.”

Oleg nodded, but said nothing.

“You’ll be pleased to know that everything has checked out.”

“I knew it would.” Stiffening his posture, Oleg leaned back into the chair, sinking into its cushions. “But I am pleased that you discovered my words truthful.”

Entwining his fingers, Archer said, “We are fair here, Oleg—and so because you were willing to help us, we feel it only right to offer you something in return. Consider it a gesture of gratitude.”

“Or a bribe for my silence.”

Though initially there was no reaction on Archer’s face, very subtly, his amber eyes narrowed. “You are quite brazen for a man in your position.”

“Am I wrong?”

Archer twisted his lower jaw as if chewing on the answer, before finally he said, “No.”

“Then if you are vying for my silence, you must give me more than whatever it is you are offering.”

“But I haven’t told you what I’m offering.”

Oleg’s eyes locked onto him. “Was it to reveal to me the truth?” When Archer looked as if he didn’t understand, Oleg elaborated. “I know what you are doing. I understand that you are working to undermine something—possibly EDEN itself. What I fail to understand is why.”

“Does why matter?” snapped Archer.

“Yes,” Oleg answered with a firm nod, “it most certainly does.”

Archer’s chin lifted. “Might I remind you that you are in no position to request anything from me. That I’m willing to offer you something out of gratitude is more a prize than you deserve.”

“There is a record of my transfer here,” Oleg said, “which means you cannot be rid of me—especially after you lost the only other member of the Fourteenth left behind, Matthew Axen. Were I to go missing, the media would not take kindly to you.” He leaned forward in the chair. “But let us not exchange idle hostilities. I wish to know why you are doing what you are doing. This means more to me than whatever it is you were going to offer.”

“Revenge, Oleg. I was going to offer you revenge.”

A soft chuckle escaped Oleg’s lips. “Revenge is a desirable offer, but shortsighted. I accept any offer at revenge, though not at the expense of information.”

Silence prevailed in the room as the two-man stare-down carried on, with Hector playing awkward third wheel to the entire conversation. At long last, drawing in a deep breath through his nostrils as if to finalize his position, Archer answered, “I will tell you this: we are humanity’s best hope for survival. That is our motivation.”

“That does not answer my request.”

“I cannot answer your request.”

Oleg ran his finger along the side of the chair. “Then I am afraid I cannot guarantee the silence from me you seek.”

“Damn it, man, are you daft?”

“Something is happening very soon,” Oleg said. “I sense the urgency in you. You need me to cooperate, this much is clear—and I will be glad to, provided I know what I am cooperating in.”

Pushing up from the couch, Archer stalked across the living area toward the wall. Bracing his palm against the wall and leaning into it, the British judge’s narrowed gaze bore straight ahead. He spoke without turning around. “Have you heard of a species called the Khuladi?”

Oleg nodded. “Yes.”

His tone unfazed, Archer then asked, “Do you know what they’re doing?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know that they cannot be stopped. That their capture of Earth is inevitable.”

Raising an eyebrow and harrumphing, Oleg said, “Every opponent has his weakness.”

“We’re going to take it away.”

For a few short moments, Oleg stared at Archer quizzically as if trying to figure out how the judge’s statement related to what he’d just said. It was then, however, that he realized the judge wasn’t responding to him. Oleg’s statement had been wholly ignored. “Wait,” the fallen eidolon said, leaning forward with renewed interest. Beside him, Hector looked down in silence. “‘It.’ What exactly do you mean by ‘it?’”

Archer’s amber eyes stayed fixed on the wall, seeming unsure as to whether or not to proceed further. At long last, he made his decision. Inhaling slowly through his nostrils, he lifted his head just enough to stare into the soft glow of the nearest conch lamp. With a low, deliberate voice, the Briton said, “Hector, please leave us.”

The security chief looked at him oddly. “You do know, my judge, that I am aware of—”

“Leave us!”

Rising promptly, Hector bowed his head in Archer’s direction. Casting Oleg a brief look, the Hispanic man stepped past the sofa and toward the suite’s door. Moments later, he was back in the hall, the door clicking shut in his wake.

Several seconds after their privacy was ensured, Archer addressed Oleg without looking. “I want to make myself clear. I don’t care who you are, what you’ve done, or what you think you’re capable of. If you cross me, you will lose.”

Oleg glanced around, almost as if unsure whether or not the two of them were truly alone. When he saw no one else in hiding, he looked back at the judge.

“If I tell you what you feel you need to know,” Archer said, “it will forever change our relationship. You will no longer be working with me. You will be working for me.”

Eyes narrowing with trepidation, Oleg listened on.

Archer faced him. “Be forewarned: there is no turning back from this. I am giving to you, right now, something few others have had. A way out.” Taking a step forward, he gestured to the door. “The door is right there. If you wish to continue living your life having a semblance of personal freedom, then I implore, no, insist, that you rise from your seat and leave through that door.” Lifting his chin, he said, “But if you don’t…if you wish to become a part of what we’re doing, understand that it is a commitment that cannot be rescinded. It will become your life, or it will cost it. That is the one choice you will be free to make.”

“You threaten me as if—”

“I threaten you as a man who knows the truth and is offering it to someone who’s barely scratched the surface of earning it.” Stepping closer, Archer came between the conch lamp and Oleg, the lamp’s warm hues silhouetting him with orange light. “I threaten you as the one man on this Earth capable of revealing to you the reality in which we all live. That, my friend, is the truth.” The Briton’s voice fell low. “And so once more, I offer you the choice. Stay seated, or walk through that door. I suggest…that you do the latter.”

For almost a full minute, Oleg sat there, staring up at the judge who seemed to be towering over him—whose mere presence was keeping him in check. At no point did Archer move, nor did he make any indication that he was giving Oleg a time limit for his answer. The judge seemed content to let the Russian contemplate his choice. At long last, after staring ahead with a look that seemed lost for self-direction, Oleg shifted his wary gaze back to Archer. Ever so faintly, the Russian’s lower eyelid twitched.

The choice had been made.

*

Stepping out of Benjamin Archer’s suite and into the hall, Oleg blew out a shaking breath and ran his hand over his head. He then looked around to see if anyone else was present to see him. No one was. Running his hands down his face, the Russian swallowed and bent down. Closing his eyes, he whispered something under his breath. He made no other sound.

When Oleg opened his eyes again, a new look was found in them. Forced away was the trepidation, the uncertainty. They were replaced by renewed focus.

Turning down the hall, the fallen eidolon set off for his room.

32

Monday, March 26th, 0012 NE

1025 hours

Norilsk, Russia

IT ALL CAME down to this.

Scott was standing at the front of the auditorium on Level-3 of Northern Forge. The projector screen behind him was illuminated with a blown-up image of the bullet train car they would soon be infiltrating. All that was left was for the other members of the review team to join him.

This was not to be a unit-wide meeting. The more opinions that became involved, the less cohesive the operation would become. For something as important as this, the planning was best left to a few.

At the forefront of that planning effort was Natalie. The addition of her as part of the outlaw core had gone, for lack of a better way to put it, quietly. While she didn’t exactly fit right in, she at least played the part of willful participant, which was a far cry from the angry role she’d been in as hostage. Scott was pleased with the way things had worked out, even if her transition into their ranks was messier than Falcon Platoon’s. He knew how important this mission was for her. Her desire to know whether or not the organization she’d dedicated her life to was betraying her trumped her resentment toward him and the Cairo team. Scott only hoped that the end result of the bullet train heist would vindicate them. If it didn’t, the wrath of Natalie Rockwell would rain down on them all—and he wouldn’t be able to fault her.

The other critical piece of the puzzle was Tiffany, whose addition to the ranks almost felt destined. The Valley Girl fighter ace had earned the Fourteenth’s trust in both attitude and action. If somehow the Fourteenth became exonerated through all of this, Scott could easily imagine Tiffany joining the crew at Novosibirsk. The reality was, the days of sleeping and living in Room 14 were long gone, regardless of the outcome of the bullet train. But the feeling still remained in regards to Tiffany. She was one of them in full. With the importance of their approach into Japan, Tiffany would be a crucial part of the planning phase. Whatever she advised, he would trust.

In addition to Tiffany, Scott had invited Javon Quinton to be a part of the preplanning. Though Scott’s experience with Javon was solely what he’d experienced at Hami Station, the soldier’s teammates respected him highly. Scott wanted to involve a Falcon other than Tiffany in this. It would send a loud and clear message to the rest of the Falcons that they were as big a part of this as the Fourteenth. Scott needed their loyalty.

The final piece of the puzzle was Rashid. Though Scott had no intention of including the veteran fulcrum on the actual operation—particularly with his injured arm—he valued the Turk’s wisdom greatly. Rashid was salty. He spoke his mind without reservation, often with a tone that bordered disdain. Others might have seen a curmudgeon, but Scott saw someone who’d been there, done that, and didn’t care what anyone else thought. If there was a glaring weakness in their plan, Rashid would point it out without reservation. As far as Scott was concerned, the Turk was a must.

One by one, the four planners made their way into the auditorium, notepads in hand as they took seats side-by-side in the front row. Scott had actually taken efforts to clean up prior to the meeting, shaving away what had transitioned from five o’clock shadow to minor beard in an effort to feel the part of proper mission lead as opposed to renegade. There was no one else other than him in the meeting who was actually from the Fourteenth. He wanted there to be an air of formality.

Drawing in a deep breath, and with all eyes expectantly on him, Scott began. “We are about to discuss the most important operation any of us have ever undertaken.”

That was as far as he got. The door to the auditorium opened, halting Scott in mid-opening as all heads turned to the unexpected arrival. For a split second, Scott was aggravated—until he saw who was coming in. Walking straight for the front row, his right shoulder tightly wrapped with his arm in a sling, was Colonel Lilan. Caught off guard, Scott could only stare as Lilan meandered toward the next empty seat. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Uhh.” Looking curiously at the others in the front row as if to see if any of them had arranged this, Scott saw that they were just as surprised as he was. He looked at Lilan again. “I’m sorry, colonel. I didn’t know you wanted to be a part of the planning.”

“To hell with the planning,” Lilan said, giving Scott a stern stare. “I’m going on this damn thing.”

Going on it? What in the world was he talking about? “Colonel, with all due respect, you’re not in any kind of shape to—”

“Let me explain something to you, son.” As the colonel spoke on, the abruptly-cut-off Scott had no choice but to listen. “No one in this room has given more to EDEN than I have. Not one person. Hell, to me, you’re all kids.” Briefly, he looked at Rashid. “Mostly.” The fulcrum offered no reaction. “Come hell or high water, I am going on this mission.”

Scott rubbed the back of his head. “Colonel…”

“It’s non-negotiable. I outrank you, and I will pull rank; I don’t care what frozen Nightman fortress we’re in.” He waved to the place at large. “A man can live his whole life fightin’ for something, but at the end of the day, he just wants to know that what he fought for mattered. So let this matter for me. I don’t have many more rodeos left.”

Come on, Colonel…don’t make this hard.

Looking at Scott earnestly, Lilan said, “I gave you Chicago, Remington. I gave you Cougar Platoon and that Bakma Carrier when every odd was against you. Give me this.”

Despite whatever justifiable grounds Scott had to keep the colonel out, it was hard to counter those words. Everything that had happened to Scott over the course of the past year, be it good or bad, was due to Colonel Lilan giving him a chance in the Battle of Chicago. As Scott stared at the colonel from the stage, he found himself slowly shaking his head. “This is an operation based on speed, colonel. We have to get in and get out.”

“I don’t need to be on that train. I just want to hold that device when you bring it back on board the transport. That’s all I’m asking.”

If that was all Lilan was asking for…then it was something Scott could do. Sighing in resignation, he offered his former commanding officer the slightest of smiles. “Then welcome to the team, colonel.”

No “thank you” came from the older man—he simply offered Scott a nod in kind. Quiet appreciation. It meant more than words.

“All right, then,” Scott said. Time to get back on track. “As I said, this is the most important operation any of us has ever attempted. From approach to ground implementation, we need to do this perfectly to have a chance at getting out alive. EDEN already knows we can strike fast.” Hami Station proved that. “Once they know we’re there, they’re going to bring everything they’ve got. With Nagoya as close as it is, we’re going to have a fraction of the time we had in China to get the job done.” Turning around with his clicker, Scott pressed it, transitioning the blank open screen of the presentation to a map of Japan. “Before we do anything on the train, we have to get to the train.” He looked at Tiffany. “Miss Feathers, you’re in charge of our flight path. Tell us what you’ve got.”

Smiling in a way that was only slightly subdued from her bubbly norm, Tiffany rose from her chair and walked up to Scott, claiming the clicker and laser pointer from his hand. Scott stepped aside to observe as the blonde began. “So I’ve been thinking a lot about this, and even with the satellite hole Hami Station left in Krasnoyarsk Krai, it’s just not realistic to expect to outrun Superwolves all the way across Russia and back to the base. Once we’re busted, we’re busted. In our case, busted means dead.”

Folding his arms across his chest, Scott chewed on his knuckle.

“The approach isn’t what’s gonna get us. We can make it to the train from literally any direction without being picked up, so long as we stay low with the lights off. I mean, we just did that all over China. The question is, how are we gonna escape?” She paused. “I think I might have an answer.”

By all means, Tiffany, please share it with us.

“I’m gonna fly somewhere else.”

At that, Scott angled his head curiously.

Tiffany lowered her chin and pointed with the laser. The dot appeared at the bottom edge of the map. “So you can sorta see the outline of Australia down here. While you guys are flying to the train, I’ll make my way down there. Basically, I’ll make myself visible just as you guys are about to land.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Scott saw where this was headed, and he didn’t like it.

“Nagoya will scramble, they’ll think I’m doing something between them and Sydney, and they’ll send everyone after me while you guys get the device. I’ll make ’em chase me while the operation unfolds, then I’ll lose ’em and get back to base. A V2 can’t outrun them over Russia, but I totally can in my ’wolf.”

Javon spoke up immediately. “Ain’t no way we goin’ for that. Change the plan, come up with something else, ’cause leaving you on your own isn’t an option.”

“I’m going to vehemently agree with Javon,” said Scott, though vehemently was putting it nicely. “You trying to survive on your own isn’t going to work with us.”

Cocking her hands on her hips, Tiffany said, “You guys don’t understand. A transport is an anchor.”

An anchor? Scott listened on.

“If I’m with you guys, that means I can’t just fly. I have to always stay close to you, I have to be careful not to stray too far off, which will take away from my dogfighting ability. You guys will basically, like, hold me back.” She pointed back to the screen. “But if I’m down here, I can do whatever I need to do without worrying about whether you guys are protected. Everyone’s gonna be flocking over to me, so you guys will totally be on your own. You won’t have anyone in immediate pursuit, which will give you a big time head-start through Russia when it’s time for you to bug out.”

“Okay, I get that,” Scott said, “but—”

The blonde shook her head. “No ‘buts.’ This is a must-do. I can outfly these guys, guys.”

This time, it was Natalie who chimed in. “I don’t think it’s your flying ability that anyone doubts. We just…”

When Natalie failed to follow through, Tiffany asked, “You just what?”

The Caracal captain sighed and settled back. “It’s just a very risky plan. For you, for us, for everyone involved.”

“I totally mean this in the most shiny-happy way, but this is like, already a very risky plan.”

To that end, she had a point.

“I’m telling you guys, I’ve gone over all our options. If we stick together, we get stuck together. I’ll be stuck trying to waste the guys coming after me while you guys are stuck trying to outrun supersonic fighters—not happening!” Running her hands through her hair, she sighed. “Look, I know you guys are used to sticking together, and I’m totally all about that, but this is one instance where I’m best on my own. I can keep them preoccupied enough for you guys to finish the mission—and this is all about finishing the mission, right? Trust me, I got this.” She put the laser pointer back on the screen. “So you guys come in from the west, low and slow, all the way through these mountain ranges to the train. The only people at risk to spot you are people who are out at night, and with these mountains and all, that’s not gonna be a lot of people. I checked the weather, and it’s also gonna be cloudy and raining, so that works in your favor.”

It was hard to think of rain as a good thing, but the point was valid. Just the same, this cold and wet business was getting old. “Tiffany…” How did Scott want to word this? “If you tell us this is the only way, then—”

She didn’t even let him finish. “It’s the only way. I’m being serious.” From his seat, Javon muttered in disgust, earning a sharp eye from the pilot. “C’mon, J, don’t make this hard for me!”

“You’re making it hard for yourself!” he said.

Scott didn’t like the sound of this any more than anyone else, but there came a point where he simply had to trust the girl who’d twice saved them from the clutches of death in the air. Scott sighed. “If you tell me this is a must…”

“Must,” she said. “Must, must, must.” She held up four fingers. “That’s four musts. And I think I even had a must from earlier.”

“All right.” What more could Scott say? That he knew better than she did? Not in the sky, he didn’t. “We don’t like it, but if you say we have to do it, then we’ll trust you and do it. But Tiffany…”

Javon said it before Scott could. “Be careful. You’re our little flygirl.”

“Totally got this,” she said to him, winking and giving him a thumbs-up. “Totally.”

From his seat of relative silence, Lilan cleared his throat. “Feathers. If I can say something?”

“Fer sure, sir!”

“You’re the ballsiest young woman I’ve ever met.”

The Valley Girl blinked, her expression morphing into an uncertain combination of bewilderment and gratitude. “Umm.” She tried to smile. “Thank you, sir?”

Clearing his throat, Scott said, “Now something to keep in mind is the fact that we’re going radio dark for this thing—that means no communication between parties, not on the train, not from wherever you’re flying that Superwolf to us in Japan. If things go south, and by that I mean go bad, we have no way of letting you know.”

For the first time, a look of hesitation formed on Tiffany’s face, though it lasted merely a moment. “We could time everything. Make sure you guys and I are in sync throughout the whole thing.”

“Understand what that means, Tiffany. That means you make yourself visible at a certain minute, that means you abandon the effort and fly back home at a certain minute, regardless of whether we’re finished or not. Most importantly, it means if you find yourself in trouble, you can’t bug out early. You’re going to be in there for the long haul.” Then, the hardest part. “It means you find out whether we failed or succeeded when those hangar doors open for you.”

“I understand, sir.”

Scott nodded. “Then it’s settled. We’ll have our V2 pilot take us low and slow to the train, while you divert EDEN to the Pacific. But do not get shot down, Feathers. That is the highest of orders.”

She made a clicking sound and shot him the A-OK sign.

“Who is our V2 pilot?” Natalie asked, casting Scott an uncertain look.

“Jakob Reinhardt,” Scott answered. “He’ll be taking us to and from the site. From the little I got to chat with him, he seems like an all right guy.” Scott had spoken with the German pilot earlier in the weekend, prepared to give a passionate argument as to why this mission was critical. Much to Scott’s pleasure, no argument was needed. Jakob accepted the assignment without hesitation. A professional through-and-through. Scott was somewhat excited to get to fly with him.

Upon seeing that Natalie was satisfied, Scott said, “Moving on, then.” Tiffany returned to her seat as Scott took back control of the presentation, advancing it to the next slide. It was a zoomed-in map of Japan’s eastern coast. In the middle of the topographical display, the train’s route was highlighted. “This is the Izu Peninsula, located in Japan’s Shizuoka Prefecture. It’s right here,” he pointed with the laser, “just before this nineteen-kilometer, narrow span between the cities of Atami and Tagata, where we’ll intercept the train. This will give us about twenty-two minutes before we reach Tokyo, which needs to be enough time to find the device.”

He advanced the slide again, the map replaced by the picture of the train car. From their seats, Natalie and Javon sat more erect. “The car containing the device will look like this. This is an exact image, so there shouldn’t be any surprises.” There’d better not be. “As you guys may or may not know, a vast majority of bullet trains are passenger only. It’s actually somewhat of a rare thing to get a car like this moving, so it shouldn’t be hard to locate. We were able to take a look at the train schedule, and there aren’t many cars to this thing—four, to be exact, none of which are passenger trains at all. This all works in our favor.”

He moved the laser pointer to the top of the train, where a circular hatch could be seen. “This hatch will allow us to enter the car from above. These are all two-story cars, so when we come through here, we’ll be on the top floor. The hatch is manually-operated, so all we’ll need is a little bit of muscle to crack it open. If we land here,” he moved the pointer ahead of the hatch, “we should theoretically be able to open the rear bay door away from the wind, then use the V2 as a wind shield of sorts while we get that hatch open.

“If this looks easy, it’s because it should be. Though there are a lot of moving parts to this operation, the actual infiltration of the train car is fairly linear. Land here, open this hatch, then we’re inside. At this point, though, things threaten to get difficult.” He advanced the slide again. The color image of the train car was replaced by a photograph of a small, cylindrical, black device. At the device’s far end was a trapezoid-shaped block, its surface aligned with various inputs and buttons. On the verge of an impact statement, Scott held his breath. “This…is the device.”

Immediately, the five observers’ ears perked.

“With Ju`bajai’s assistance, we were able to get a concrete look at the device we’re searching for. This is straight from Centurion’s mind, as siphoned by her. We allowed Ju`bajai to connect with Artur, the forge master here, to relay to him exactly what the device looked like.” Scott was actually quite proud of this part. “What you’re looking at is an actual photograph. Once he had the device in his mind, Artur was able to create a replica out of materials he had here at the forge. It’s in his office, and we’ll actually pass it around to everyone going on the mission before we disembark.”

“Well, hot dog,” said Lilan quietly.

Hot dog, indeed. “This is the device we’ll be looking for. Finding it, however, is easier said than done. Though we know exactly what the device looks like based on Ju`bajai’s siphon, we don’t know where it is in the train car. It could be in a container all its own, it could be in a box full of other things…these are all unknowns.” At the most critical juncture of the mission, no less. “Unfortunately, we are going to have to search through both levels of this train car to try and locate this thing. That’s going to take time, and so for this, we need all hands on deck.

“What I had intended to do was break the group into four teams: two for each level. Those teams start at both ends of both floors and literally tear the place apart trying to find the device.” This was the only part of the operation that truly concerned Scott—at least, on the ground side of things. “This has the potential to really bog us down.”

Rashid raised his hand, drawing Scott’s attention. When Scott nodded in his direction, he began. “Are all of the train cars connected from the inside?”

So far as Scott knew, they were. “Yes, why?”

“It might be wise to send a team forward, through the cars, to the front of the train. If things go too slowly, we may need to isolate the driver and force him to stop the train before it goes into Tokyo.”

Scott hoped things wouldn’t take that long, but it wasn’t a bad idea. “I think we should be able to do that. With that said, if it’s taking us that long to find this thing, we’re going to have some other problems—namely, Tiffany’s friends altering their course and heading our way.” That would effectively erase whatever head start Tiffany was supposed to be buying them. “I like that idea, though. There’s no reason we can’t do that.”

“I got that,” said Javon, the black soldier dipping his head in Scott’s direction. “Me and King can take care of the driver.”

Not a fan of that particular wording, Scott asked, “Now, by ‘take care,’ do you mean…?”

The soldier chuckled faintly. “Take his train. That’s all I mean. We not into killin’.”

That was what Scott figured. “All right. I like it. We’ll do it.” His focus returned to the others. “Which leaves the rest of us to try and locate the device.”

“What about security?” Lilan asked. “Is this thing gonna have a security detail?”

Natalie answered, “Yes. Or at least, we assume. I was going to touch on that after Scott finished up.”

“By all means,” Scott said, indicating for her to do so.

Rising from her seat, Natalie walked to the front of the presentation area then looked at the colonel. “Despite the non-passenger nature of this train, we expect security to be heavy. The moment we land, two things will happen: we’ll be engaged, and the security detail will contact EDEN.” She half frowned. “There’s nothing we can do to avoid that. But what we can and must avoid are more civilian casualties.”

Scott had discussed this part with Natalie earlier in the week. That aspect of the operation—the sparing of the innocent—meant as much to the Caracal captain as obtaining the device itself. He had no qualms in turning control of that side of the operation to her.

“We will be going into this operation with nonlethal rounds,” Natalie said, prompting an immediate raising of the eyebrows from Rashid. The others simply listened. “Though confrontation is unavoidable, deaths aren’t. We need to do this cleanly.”

“I wholeheartedly object,” said Rashid.

Raising his hand, Scott said bluntly, “She’s not finished.”

Natalie went on. “What we have to keep in mind is that these won’t be security details in EDEN or Nightman armor. Nonlethal rounds should work well.”

“Now, by nonlethal rounds,” Lilan said, “we’re talking about what? Rubber bullets?”

“That, flashbangs, stun grenades…there are a few things we’ll be able to use, all of which are here at the forge. Fortunately, not all of the forge’s customers are interested in killing.”

That went along with what Scott had already heard, that in addition to serving the Nightmen, Northern Forge also served Norilsk law enforcement—among others.

“Our first task,” Natalie said, “before we even start the search, will be to isolate the security team that’s in place. I will be in charge of that particular effort. Once we have them down, we’ll begin clearing the car.” She glanced up at the projection screen. “One area of uncertainty is where exactly in the train our target car is. There are four cars total here, not counting the engine. If our car is between two others, we need to be prepared for security personnel to move in on us from the adjacent cars.” She looked at Javon. “This might make your moving up to the engine more difficult, so I’d advise you make your team bigger. You guys might be fighting through a stronghold to get to the train driver. Depending on the strength of the opposition, it may not even be worth trying to make a run for the engine,” she gave Rashid an acknowledging nod, “though I admit, it’s a good idea if possible.”

“We could try asking one of those guys on the train if they’ve seen that device,” said Lilan, pointing. “We’re planning on bringing that model of it with us, right?”

Scott shook his head. “No, actually. As silly as it may sound, I don’t want anyone accidentally mistaking the model for the real thing and having us leave with nothing. But we will have some photographs with us.”

Lifting her chin, Natalie resumed. “I do agree that talking to the security guards is the right way to go, once we have them isolated. They may not be very inclined to cooperate, but if we can get one to talk, and they know where the device is, it could save us a whole lot of time.”

From his spot on the presenting floor, Scott smirked. “Also, they’ll probably only speak Japanese.”

“Well, yeah,” said Natalie, giving him a look. “Then there’s that.”

“Good overall plan of action, though.” Lilan leaned back in his chair. “I like it.”

It was good to hear the colonel say that. The more Scott thought about it, the more he wished he’d have thought about inviting Lilan to the planning meeting himself, without the colonel having to show up unannounced. “There’s actually not much more to the plan than that. This isn’t rocket science—it’s a smash and grab.”

“Preferably without a lot of smashing,” said Natalie.

“Well, yeah.” Point taken, Natalie. “But that’s it. We hold off security while we find the device, then we get out of Dodge. It’s not hard, there are just a lot of moving parts.” Moving parts that had to work together seamlessly. But this could be done. For a second time, Rashid silently raised his hand, garnering Scott’s attention. “Go ahead, Faraj.”

Clearing his throat, the Turkish fulcrum leaned forward. “The alien you are bringing on this mission—the Ithini.”

Scott nodded.

“I understand the advantages of having her involved, particularly with the avoidance of radio traffic, as you mentioned earlier. But are you certain there are not alternatives?”

He was talking about Ju`bajai, whose help—and freedom—Esther had adamantly bartered for. “I know having an Ithini work with us is a tough sell for some, but look at things from her point of view. She was a captive with EDEN, and now she’s free with us. Even if she was malevolent, I think it’s simply more a personal advantage for her to stay on our side.” It was just the smart decision. “We’ve had people connecting with her all week, and so far every experience has come back positive. Or at the very least, not negative.” There was a not-so-subtle difference, there. “Using her wasn’t my first choice, but considering all she did for us in Cairo, she makes sense. Without her help, there wouldn’t have been a team there for you to extract.”

“I understand, captain. I am simply…”

Rashid didn’t even have to finish the statement. Scott knew what he was saying. “I know. Believe me, I know. But I think at this juncture, it’s best to consider her more a blessing than a danger. Whether that changes is dependent on her.”

Nodding his head as if quasi-satisfied, Rashid said nothing else.

Brushing her hair behind her ears and looking up from her tablet, Natalie said, “I’d like to discuss the groupings for this operation—at least with everyone else, here.”

With multiple teams working in conjunction, putting people in the right groups was pivotal. The two of them had done quite a bit of preliminary work in that department, as had Becan with Scott. “Sure. You want to talk about it or should I?”

“I’ll talk about it.”

“Be my guest.” Allowing Natalie to take front-and-center, Scott fell back into the role of listener.

Coughing gently to clear her throat, Natalie began. “So as we all know, we don’t exactly have a great deal of operatives to work with, here—at least not healthy ones. Mister Lukin has allowed us to take a small force of his soldiers on this operation—”

She meant slayers.

“—but this is still our operation. Here is the list of able-bodied operatives who we currently have as a ‘go’ for this.” Her emerald eyes focused on the tablets. “Not counting ourselves—those of us who are going, at least—we have: Becan McCrae, Jayden Timmons, Esther Brooking, Feliks Petrukhin, Pyotr Alkaev, and Tom King.” She sighed. “And that’s it. Oh, and of course, Ju`bajai…” Eyeing Scott, she asked, “Did I pronounce that right?”

“Close enough.”

She smirked. “So with all of those names counted, including ourselves, that’s twelve. Add in the soldiers on loan from Northern Forge, and we’re looking at eighteen total. The thought that Remington and I had was that Lukin’s men could clear the initial car, as they’re far and away the best rested out of everyone.”

Scott had selfishly liked that idea. It would lessen the chance of anyone from the Fourteenth, Falcons, or other team in their particular circle from getting injured on the front line—with the exception of himself and Natalie, of course. This was their operation. They had to be among the first in.

Natalie went on. “Once everyone is in, we’ll spread out to search the car that supposedly has the device. The teams we had jotted down were Remington and Petrukhin, Timmons and Brooking, then McCrae and Alkaev with me. So that’s three groups. I’d love to have an even four, but I’d rather not have someone go solo on this.”

Raising his hand, Lilan said, “I can go.” When several operatives looked at him with skepticism, he went on. “Look, I’m happy to stay in the ship, but if you need me, you’ve got me. I can dig around boxes with one hand.”

Eyes settling on him for a minute, Natalie replied with kindness. “You can come with me, colonel. I’ll leave McCrae and Alkaev on their own, and the two of us can start somewhere else in the car.”

Though Scott didn’t react, on the inside he was somewhat uncertain. This was all about speed. He had no issues with Lilan being on board the V2, but as a part of the actual ground op? If Natalie was okay with it, Scott wouldn’t object. He was just glad she was the one who’d volunteered to take him.

“Thank you,” Lilan said, bowing his head with respect. “I won’t slow you down, I promise.”

“I didn’t think you would,” said Natalie. She returned her focus to the group at large. “That works out, then. Four pairs to search the car while Quinton and King take the engine, maybe bringing a few of Lukin’s soldiers with them to help. The rest of Lukin’s soldiers can act as defense.” She looked at Scott. “And there’s our ground op.”

There was their ground op, indeed: a plan so simple it seemed too much so. It paled in technical comparison even to the Battle of Chicago. In light of what they’d been through lately, he’d take it.

“Well, then,” Scott said, standing by Natalie’s side as the final slide in the presentation was clicked off. “We all know the plan, we all know what’s expected. Let’s fine tune this thing.” Looking at the blond pilot, he said, “Come show us where exactly you were thinking about going in that Superwolf.”

For the next hour, they went over everything. They discussed Tiffany’s low trajectory over the Philippines and her plan to reveal herself to radar just north of Australia’s Gold Coast. They discussed the ever-critical synchronization of time, not only for Tiffany, but for those in the ground op. They discussed their method for entry—who would throw the first flashbang and who would bring up the rear. They discussed the various types of storage crates they might encounter. They discussed it all.

But more importantly than all of that, they discussed why this was the most crucial mission any of them had ever undertaken. The stakes were rehashed, then rehashed again, to no one’s complaint. They needed to beat that one to death. At no point could anyone afford to forget the big picture.

Then, they dismissed. With the final mission almost thirty-six hours away, it was time to start readying the troops. If they succeeded, the world would be changed. Regardless of what happened to them afterward, their purpose would be fulfilled. The dawn of destiny had long sunk over the western horizon. What faced them now was a whole new day.

Over the course of the day and a half that followed, the operatives of the ground op team spent time tying up loose ends. Beyond going over the plan, again and again, sometimes alone, sometimes with Natalie or Becan, Scott spent time talking to his comrades in recovery. He talked to Boris and William, reminding both men that in spite of their absence in this operation, they were both a tremendous part of what was going on. He expressed to them that if not for their actions, they’d have never gotten this far to begin with. He spent time with Max, who was just learning many of the details of what was about to take place. Scott made it abundantly clear to the technician that their next priority after the train heist was to locate and secure Svetlana and Tanneken.

Then, Scott spent time with David. Though he was aware of what David was going through with Sharon, Scott made no mention of it. This was David’s secret, not Scott’s to share, even with David himself. There was no benefit in letting his recovering friend know that the cat was out of the bag. As fate had it, none of it mattered, anyway.

That was because David told Scott.

The confession came suddenly in the midst of a lengthy conversation on life and what had led them all to this point. It was told to Scott with urgency, then relief, as if the topic had been an ache in the older man’s chest for some time. David expressed fear that Scott would think less of him for his troubles, particularly in light of the hard time David had given Scott over the his fall to the Nightmen. Scott assured David—and he meant it—that none of that mattered.

For the first time, Scott saw David’s emotional wall break down, as his older friend was overcome by fear that his children would grow up believing that their father was not only a lousy husband but a terrorist. It was a difficult moment for Scott, who had spent most of his time with David as the recipient of wisdom and sympathy, not the one who needed to give them. But he did his part, to the best of his ability and with the help of a quick, silent prayer for God’s guidance.

Ironically, Sharon’s desire for a divorce was motivated by a desire to “get her husband back” from the sojourn he’d taken to Russia. It was a threat intended to bring him home, not to be followed through with—or so David believed. As it turned out, David’s tenure with the NYPD had ended on a sour note for him professionally. Though David opted not to go into detail on the particulars of whatever it was that happened, he did reveal that innocent lives were indirectly lost because of it. An early retirement was offered to him, quite frankly, to push him out. David’s pursuit of EDEN was not for the betterment of mankind, but for personal redemption. It was better to retire an honorable soldier than a disgraced police officer.

It reminded Scott of David’s first encounter with General Thoor, when the late general made mention of David’s “mediocre” run at law enforcement. Thoor must have been privy to whatever details Scott lacked. Though Scott hoped that one day David would choose to share whatever it was that’d taken place, he knew it would not be today. All in all, despite the double heaviness that set in with both David’s disclosure and the realization of what loomed ahead for the team headed to Japan, Scott’s conversation with David was a good one. It was a needed one. It brought a small touch of humanity to a situation that had grown more numbing by the day.

Scott was not the only one with much to do prior to the operation. Upon the mission details being relayed to them, the other members of the ground op spent time with their respective partners on the mission, discussing both vague strategies and specific practices that might benefit them when the first gunshot rang out. And no partnership discussed their situation more intensely than Jayden and Esther.

The husband-and-wife, sniper-and-scout team ran each other through every potential scenario that could occur during the mission. What they’d do if the V2 was shot down before reaching the train. What they’d do if train security overwhelmed them. How they’d handle it if they simply couldn’t find the box with the device. They wanted to leave no possibility to chance. The goal for the two of them was simple: make it out alive. Make it out together. Don’t let their one week of bliss be their only one.

Despite Scott’s imploring Esther to make amends with Natalie for whatever wrongs the scout felt she’d endured, Esther waited until the evening before the mission to speak with her, in that way that was all her own. She apologized for her reaction to Natalie in Natalie’s first meeting with the unit. She explained to Natalie that she’d “never stop seeing” her as a “tart,” and that she’d continue to call her Venus as much as she “damn well sodding” pleased. Tit became tat as Natalie played the Polyester card, to which Esther only narrowed her eyes and glared. But at the end of the quasi-tense conversation, Esther assured Natalie that while she would certainly never like her, she wouldn’t outright try to murder her.

Progress was progress.

As for the rest of the “Outlaw Fourteenth,” as they had taken to calling themselves, their time not spent in preparation was spent simply in camaraderie, laughing and sharing what little time they had before the final mission began. Hours passed like minutes—and minutes occasionally like hours—as each operative watched the clock at his or her own pace, waiting for zero hour to arrive. Waiting for the end.

It could not come quickly enough.

33

Location: Unknown

Time: Unknown

SVETLANA WASN’T SURE how much time had passed since she’d fallen asleep next to Nagogg’s chair. Time in general seemed far less defined—and far less significant—in the vastness of space. Squinting tiredly as she awoke from her most recent slumber, she stretched her muscles as much as her clasps allowed.

The body of the slain Kalarael had been removed from the bridge shortly after the being’s murder, though Svetlana wasn’t sure what’d been done with it. Mishka had still not been returned to the bridge, leaving Svetlana to believe that the beast must have been back in its pen. She made a mental note not to look for extra blood stains or carcass parts when they sent her back to it. If Mishka had worked his jaw muscles on the slain Kalarael’s bones, Svetlana didn’t want to know.

A slight shuffling emerged from the hallway, behind the bridge door. Looking in the door’s direction, Svetlana watched as Ka`vesh walked Gabralthaar inside. The Bakma titan was wincing noticeably from the injury he’d sustained on board the Kalarael spaceship. As Gabralthaar leaned against a console, Ka`vesh approached Nagogg’s chair.

“There appears to be a projectile embedded in his left forearm,” Ka`vesh said, as Svetlana listened in carefully. “I attempted to remove it, though it only resulted in more pain.” The warrior looked back at Gabralthaar. “I hesitate to hurt him too much more.”

Nagogg grunted lowly in contemplation, though said nothing.

“Wuteel says that the Earthae female,” said Ka`vesh, nodding to Svetlana, “tended to one of his wounds on the battlefields of Earth. Perhaps she can tend to Gabralthaar’s wound, as well.”

A knot formed in the pit of Svetlana’s stomach. Tending to any of these monsters’ wounds was the last thing she wanted to do. It was quite the contrary: she wanted them to suffer as much as possible.

Rising from his chair, Nagogg pointed to Ei`dorinthal. “Connect us, slave.” The click came, and Nagogg walked around and knelt in front of Svetlana’s face. “Our warrior, Gabralthaar, is injured. You will treat him.”

The inclination to spit came, but she quickly thought better of it. For all she knew, it would be the Kalarael and not her that Nagogg would punish—for if the warrior was good at anything, it was finding a way to get his point across. There was little else the chieftain could take from her. Though she said nothing in reply to Nagogg, she didn’t challenge him. That was enough to prompt the chieftain to motion for Ka`vesh.

It was right then, as Ka`vesh was kneeling down with his magnetic key to unlatch Svetlana’s wrist and ankle clasps, that the thought popped up in Svetlana’s mind. The key. She was right there, looking at it as Ka`vesh released her. If she could see where he put it, she could…

…she could steal it.

Even as the idea came, the whispers of doubt began in her head. This was a task more befitting Esther, not Svetlana. How could she do it without being noticed? With scarcely any clothes, where could she even hide it? Stealing this from the clutches of Ka`vesh as he was right there with her, and while all of the other Bakma on the bridge were viewing her, was an idea that was utterly insane.

But what if she could do it? As Ka`vesh pulled her up with one hand, Svetlana watched the magnetic key out of the corner of her eye. The Bakma warrior placed it in a tuck of his tattered wardrobe—a makeshift pocket. It was right there.

Ka`vesh shoved her toward Gabralthaar, and she stumbled at the titan’s feet. As she hit the ground, it came to her. She knew exactly how this was going to work. Forcing her mind from the makings of the plan, she turned her blue eyes on Gabralthaar. Taking a step closer, she reached out for his arm. “Let me see,” she said.

Gabralthaar stared at her for several moments—almost as if weighing whether or not he could trust her—then slowly extended his hand for her to take. He breathed in uncomfortable silence as she moved her hands up his massive forearm until she reached the wound. It looked similar to a standard bullet wound. That meant the Kalarael used some sort of projectile weapon, like humanity did. Apparently, it was strong enough to cut through Nightman sentry armor. Interesting.

And easily treatable.

She knew the action she needed to initiate to have a chance at snatching the key from Ka`vesh. She knew how to go about doing it. The only hard part was physically pulling the act off. It was time to play the fool. Placing her hands close to the wound, she prodded around it ever so slightly—just enough to cause a wince from the Bakma titan. Just enough to make him wonder how much this would hurt.

Showtime.

“Okay,” she said nonchalantly, placing two fingers around the wound as if holding it open. Gabralthaar winced harder. “This is going to hurt.” She didn’t even wait for the titan to respond—she slid two fingers into the hole hard. The massive Gabralthaar roared. Withdrawing his wounded arm, he shoved Svetlana back with his good one.

Bait taken.

Stumbling backward in the kind of exaggerated way that a klutz would, Svetlana turned at the last moment to fall face-first on the floor by Ka`vesh’s feet. From the pilot’s chair, Nik-nish laughed.

“Pick her up!” shouted Nagogg, who spun to glare at Gabralthaar. “She was warning you that it would hurt—can you not endure a weak Earthae female?”

Bending over, Ka`vesh grabbed Svetlana violently by her shoulders. Clutching his garments, she counteracted his movements with her own fledgling ones. In the midst of the brief—albeit frenzied—struggle to stand, her fingers slipped into the warrior’s makeshift pocket.

So many things had to go right for this to work. Her fingers would have to find the magnetic key. They’d have to close around it hard enough to pull it out. None of the onlookers could notice. And all of it had to happen in the span of about two seconds.

Starting now.

Sliding into the pocket, the tips of Svetlana’s fingers immediately touched something metallic and cold. That was it! It was the only thing that Ka`vesh had in the pocket. Darting ever-so-slightly deeper, she pinched the key with her index and pointer fingers. Flicking it up into her palm, she closed her hand around it. Ka`vesh hadn’t felt any of it. The key was in her possession.

A cold panic struck her as she drew the key out. She couldn’t hide it on herself—she was almost completely stripped. She couldn’t toss it somewhere for Ed to retrieve. Even if they didn’t notice the toss, which was wholly unlikely, they would surely hear the key clanking across the floor. In the split second that she had to make a decision, she chose the only route that came natural: hold onto it and hope they didn’t notice. Keeping her right hand half-cupped—not too loosely that it’d fall but not so tightly as to become obvious—she stood erect to face Gabralthaar again. The titan was glaring at her, his left hand clasped firmly over his right forearm.

For a second time, though much more timidly, she approached him. “Relax.” The word was just as much for her as it was for the titan. Her heart was beating like it was about to burst from her chest. That cold, metal key stuck out in her hand—she could feel every part of it. It felt ten feet long. What was she going to do?

Crash!

The cascade of falling objects came from across the bridge, as every member of the Bakma crew and Svetlana turned their heads to locate it. Fumbling over a pile of fallen assault rifles and pieces of sentry armor, Ei`dorinthal looked wide-eyed and frozen at the collection of onlookers. The equipment was scattered across the floor by the Ithini’s feet. Before Nagogg could speak, Ed said aloud in Bakmanese, “It was an accident.”

Simultaneous with the statement, the thought was conveyed to her. Throw the key by Nagogg’s chair.

It was a diversion. Just as Svetlana had used a guise of clumsiness, so had the Ithini. He must have known by her thoughts what she was doing.

“Clean them up!” rasped Nagogg irritably. As he and the other Bakma turned back to Svetlana, Ei`dorinthal grabbed a handful of the weapons, their barrels and frames clanging together in a manner that was so loud and obnoxious that it once again drew the crew’s momentary attention.

With their focus in mid-shift, Svetlana flicked the key toward the chair, its clanging along the floor lost in the ruckus created by her servant. It landed squarely against the side of the chair, in plain view for anyone who was looking—but no one was.

Turning to Svetlana as Ed cleaned up the mess, Nagogg stepped up to her from behind and shoved her toward Gabralthaar. “The Ithini does not require your focus! Tend to Gabralthaar.”

Nagogg hadn’t noticed the toss. None of them had. Ei`dorinthal’s diversion had allowed her to get away with it, scot-free. She couldn’t believe it.

Scowling down at her, Gabralthaar waited to be treated.

The actual act of tending to the titan’s wound was not difficult. Much as would have been the case with a human, removing the bullet was a matter of digging into the hole and pulling it out. Though she lacked medical supplies, her fingers were slender enough to reach in, grip the object, and extract it. Though Gabralthaar groaned in agony throughout the process, Svetlana was careful to avoid needless pain. It had served its purpose the first time—there was no need to have the titan shove her again. Within two minutes, the bullet was removed.

It was a strange piece of ammunition. Though similar in overall shape to standard projectile ammunition on Earth, it was streamlined with light blue indentations and curves along its surface. Whether the designs were decorative or served a purpose, she didn’t know, but judging by the design of the Kalarael spaceship and the wardrobe of the Kalarael themselves, the latter was most certainly a possibility. Any chance to examine the bullet in-depth were cut short, however, as Nagogg snatched the bullet from her fingers to stare at it himself. Pointing at Svetlana absently, he said to Ka`vesh, “Return her to her chair. Servant, sever the connection.” As Ka`vesh yanked her away from Gabralthaar, the Ithini connection was closed.

This was the moment that would determine whether or not her efforts would succeed. The magnetic key wasn’t required for Ka`vesh to attach the shackling clasps to the floor—there was no need for him to go digging into his pocket to find it. The better question was, would he notice the key lying on the floor?

He didn’t. Shoving Svetlana’s head down, Ka`vesh positioned her body in the same bowing-down posture she’d assumed throughout her time on the bridge, slamming the clasps to her ankles and wrists without a second’s observation or care. He never even looked at the floor by Nagogg’s chair. Now that Svetlana was back on the floor, she could slide her body into a better position—even if just slightly—to block the key from view.

It was done.

She couldn’t believe it. This had actually worked. The key was in her possession—or at the very least, out of Ka`vesh’s. She still needed to figure out a way to reach the key, now that her hands and feet were once again bound. Just the same, though, she had some time to figure that out.

Eyes returning to Ed, who had finished putting the weapons and equipment back into place, she waited for his connection to return. As soon as it did, she allowed herself to smile. Thank you for what you have done for me.

Though the gesture was subtle, Ed dipped his head. You are my master—it is my role to serve.

I am not your master. You are my friend.

The Ithini looked at her oddly, prompting her to go on.

I will continue to offer you direction—I know how important that is for you. But no being deserves to be slave to another. You are free from obligation to me. He deserved it. I would rather be your friend than your master—for a master must be followed, but a friend follows a friend because he or she chooses to.

Friendship is a human condition, said Ed. I will not offer the same level of companionship you have grown accustomed to on Earth.

Very faintly, she smirked. You would be surprised at what I can grow accustomed to. The loss of her nose. Shackles and vulnerability. Drool in her hair. The toughness of Svetlana Voronova was growing by the hour.

Though a tremor of uncertainty was felt from Ed, a measure of appreciation did find its way through. Your intention has worth.

On Earth, we say, “thank you.”

His oval head tilted subtly. Thank you.

It wasn’t the most comfortable-sounding of acknowledgments, but at least it was a start. Open yourself up to new possibilities. You might be surprised at what you can grow accustomed to, too.

As the Ithini took the words in, Svetlana’s mind ventured somewhere else. Turning her blue eyes to the far side of the bridge, she focused on Kraash-nagun.

The blinded elite had made no attempts to connect with her since remarking that her behavior seemed different in the canrassi pen. Her dismissiveness had caught him off guard. It was a moment she’d somewhat enjoyed.

What would you think of me now, if you knew what I was doing? she imagined herself asking him. Would you think me weak and helpless? Would I still be “inconsequential?” There was spite in her words, even in her mind. Or will you, at long last, give me a chance?

There was no question in Svetlana’s mind that Kraash-nagun’s involvement would be a plus. Blinded or not, he was an elite Bakma warrior. If nothing else, he would be another distraction. She would take all of those she could get.

It was time to try and lure him again. Connect me with Kraash-nagun, she said to Ei`dorinthal. A sense of acknowledgment came, and the Ithini initiated the three-way link. Almost seeming startled, Kraash-nagun looked in Svetlana’s general direction.

In that moment, a feeling came over Svetlana—one she hadn’t expected upon asking Ed to link her. It wasn’t from Kraash-nagun, nor was it from the Ithini himself. This was something stirring that was all her own.

She knew the Bakma language. She’d befriended Nagogg’s interpreter. She’d secretly earned the trust of his canrassi. And now, she was within a hand’s grasp of the key to her freedom. Svetlana had done it all with the initiative of no one. There was no need for Kraash-nagun’s vote of confidence. The gears of motion that were turning had all been set in motion by her. Kraash-nagun’s role in all of this was…

… inconsequential.

Like an open-air microphone, the connection stayed silent. Kraash-nagun was still looking at her. He was still waiting. It was time for him to hear. Furious in their resolve, her ocean-blue eyes sharpened their focus. You were wrong about me.

Ever so faintly, Kraash-nagun angled his head. The elite still said nothing.

I have been tortured. I have been humiliated. I have been relegated to the role of an animal and told that I was of no consequence. That I was no threat.

She knew now what Scott had felt when he charged into the necrilid hive at Chernobyl. What Esther must’ve felt when she climbed aboard that snowmobile in Krasnoyarsk to deliver it to her and Scott, so that they could save Max. She understood the anger. She understood knowing when enough was enough. Long ago, she herself had charged across a battlefield to die with the man she thought she was meant for. But anger hadn’t been the emotion driving her boots forward that day. It had been fear. Fear of being alone. Of being forgotten. Of not having someone there to save her when things got difficult.

That was a fear she would never feel again.

Very soon, she said to Kraash-nagun, I will take this vessel. This is not bluster. This is a promise—and my promises, I keep.

There was no room for Kraash-nagun to interrupt. The medic’s words were not open to debate. The elite listened on.

There is nothing that I need from you. There is nothing that you can do for me. But if you wish to be free—if you wish to break the yolk of your zealous masters—you will soon have your chance. Drawing in a slow breath, her eyes stayed on him. It is the only chance you will be offered.

Boldness. Total belief in what she could do—what she was going to do. Destiny.

When the time comes, you will know, and you may join me. The decision will be yours.

There was nothing further for Svetlana to say. Shifting her eyes from Kraash-nagun to Ed, she offered the Ithini the faintest of nods. A second later, the connection was closed. She was alone in her mind again.

It was coming. She could sense it. Right now, when Nagogg and his crew looked upon her, they saw a helpless human female with a cut-off nose. They saw a creature that should have been ashamed. That was fine with her. For soon—very soon—they would see Svetlana Voronova.

She would be the last thing their eyes would ever behold.

PART IV

34

Tuesday, March 27th, 0012 NE

1823 hours

Norilsk, Russia

THERE WAS SOMETHING about the cold. As Scott stood in the open hangar of Northern Forge, the gales of icy wind pelting his face and uniform, the word “home” kept coming to him, again and again. It had nothing to do with the mountain base itself, nor the city of Norilsk, to which Scott held no allegiance. But there was just something about those frozen whips of wind that felt warm. Perhaps it was because he’d spent so much time at Novosibirsk. Perhaps it was because he’d operated in such a climate for so long. Or perhaps he’d simply gotten used to the hostility of life itself—that relentless, uncompromising brutality that had tracked his every move since being transferred from Richmond to Novosibirsk. He didn’t enjoy it, not in the least of ways. But he thrived in it. It was where he lived.

With sixty minutes until zero hour, Scott had gone into the hangar and requested the hangar door be opened to allow the mountain’s incessant flurries to drop the hangar’s temperature. Though the request was received strangely by the hangar guards, who complied nonetheless, it made sense to Scott. He wanted everyone on this mission to feel that coldness the moment they stepped into the hangar. He wanted them to know that this was real—to leave no sense of comfort behind. That walk from the hallway entrance of Level-3 to the troop bay of the V2 they were taking into Japan needed to be hell. No one needed to feel it more than he did.

If we fail tonight, we die.

It wasn’t being overdramatic. If this mission went awry—if they somehow didn’t return with the device containing evidence of collaboration between Benjamin Archer and the Ceratopian government—then the clock to their inevitable doom would begin ticking. With no next step to take, with no new Hami Station or bullet train to go to to advance what they were doing, the Fourteenth and Falcons would be forced to simply hide until they were found, at which point EDEN would either kill or imprison them for the rest of their lives. Not bringing back that device meant the end of life as they knew it. And if this entire conspiracy proved to be true, it could very well be the end of everyone on Earth, in some nebulous way, shape, or form that they were yet to fully understand. And so Scott needed that coldness—that instant understanding that this final mission would not be easy, or kind, or forgiving to the remotest degree. As far as he was concerned, this was the only mission that had ever mattered. If it cost half of their lives, but they returned with that device, then it would be a success.

At forty-five till, Jakob Reinhardt made his way into the hangar. Scott had spoken with the V2 pilot earlier that day, rehashing the various aspects of the operation that needed to work and making sure that he was aware of its many moving parts. For as much as Scott could determine, Jakob understood. As he strolled past Scott to warm up the V2, he offered a salute, which Scott returned in kind.

There was something about all of this that, in a strange way, reminded Scott of his football days. Scott would always arrive at the field early on game day, alone if possible, to take in the atmosphere. The breeze, the sounds, the silence. Seeing the field wake up was almost a religious experience. Maybe getting there before the noise was a quarterback thing. Maybe it was a leader thing. Regardless, it was the very thing he needed to feel right then. Throughout his entire career with EDEN, this was the very first time that a ground op had been planned this way. In a career where the job description was to respond, there was rarely time to take things in before they began. He wanted to take advantage of every minute.

“Hiya, captain.”

The greeting came from behind him, quietly escorting him out of his reverie and back into the living world. Sliding his hands from his pockets, Scott turned to see Tiffany Feathers approaching. The blond-haired pilot must have been there early to begin prepping her Superwolf. Smiling slightly at her, Scott dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Feathers.”

Within seconds, Tiffany was crossing her arms tightly across her chest, wincing as the wind from the open hangar tossed about her hair. “Kinda chilly, don’cha think?”

“Yeah, well. It’s my fault.” As she came to his side and stopped, he looked forward again. “I told them to open it. Guess I wanted everyone to feel the cold.”

“Mission accomplished, sir!” she said, teeth chattering together. Scooting a foot closer to him, she hip-bumped him. When he gave her an odd look, she said, “We’re totally gonna rock this tonight. You know that, right?”

It took a moment for Scott to realize that this was just the Valley Girl’s level of comfort with him. Though a hip-bump from Travis would have undoubtedly raised eyebrows, for some reason, it was okay when she did it. It felt like a Tiffany Feathers move. His wall of intensity cracked a bit as he offered a small smirk in return. “I know we’d better.”

“Yeah, we’re totally gonna rock it.” The blonde stared at her parked Superwolf for a moment before her gaze drifted to the other side of the hangar, where the canopy-less Pariah sat in abandonment. The eager expression on her faded.

Scott caught sight of all the subtleties that crossed Tiffany’s face. Even as new as she was to the unit, there was an attachment there to that cursed transport that he’d only seen before in Travis. The Pariah had a way of doing that to people. Nodding his head in the Vulture’s direction, he said, “She’ll fly again.”

“Yes, she will,” Tiffany whispered near-stoically. The Pariah had truly become hers. Releasing a long sigh, she looked back to the V2, then to Scott. That bubble-gum smile crept back out. “Let’s get ready to fly.”

“Let’s.” As Tiffany turned to resume her trek to the Superwolf, an urge came over Scott. Shake her hand. Considering the thought for a moment, Scott went with it and called out the pilot’s name. When she stopped and turned around, he approached her. “Take care of yourself out there. We want you back safe.” As the stirring had prompted, Scott extended his hand.

Raising an eyebrow and perhaps caught off guard by his seriousness, she reached out to take his hand and shake it. “I will, sir.” Scott offered a nod in return, releasing Tiffany’s hand as she turned to walk away.

Closing his eyes and lifting his head to the heavens, Scott slid his hands back into his pockets. Bring her home safely. She’s already given more than most of us. His hazel eyes returning to the V2, Scott waited for the rest of his team to arrive.

The wait wasn’t long. Within minutes, the other members of the ground op started to trickle in. Natalie was the first of them, followed by the six slayers on-lend from Valentin. Then came Becan, then Jayden and Esther, then the Falcons, Feliks, and Pyotr. With the exception of Natalie, who offered no salute and nary a greeting to Scott, the others all approached him to formally report for the operation’s onset. It was a striking level of formality to Scott, who’d grown used to the family-like atmosphere of the Fourteenth.

The final piece of the puzzle to arrive on-scene was Ju`bajai. The Ithini was flanked by Artur, and it was instantly apparent as to why. Covering Ju`bajai’s entire body was a skin-tight bodysuit. Cerulean hexagons were patterned over its otherwise stark, white base in subtly varying shades, masking an almost indistinguishable hidden zipper line running up the front of the outfit. Almost taken aback by the sight of it all, Scott found himself blatantly staring. As Ju`bajai stared back at him with her emotionless, oval eyes, Artur stepped forward. “Hello, Captain Remington.”

Even as he addressed the forge master, Scott found himself unable to tear his eyes away from Ju`bajai. As much as an Ithini could, she actually looked stylish. “Hello, Mister Pashkov…”

“I suppose this speaks for itself.”

“I am…still processing it. Did you make this entire thing yourself?”

Nodding with a sigh, Artur answered, “Yes, at the alien’s request. I used some of the unused materials in storage. I always have different things like that on hand.”

“She asked for this?”

The gruff forge master grunted. “Yes. It is not what I would call typical of what I do, but she was quite adamant. She wanted to look…” He pressed his lips together uncomfortably as he searched for words. “Accentuated.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Accentuated was the word she used?”

“The word she actually used was sexy.”

Oh, boy.

“So you see,” Artur said, gesturing to Ju`bajai’s suit, “I took careful steps to heighten her femininity and form. Ithinis do not really have, ehh,” wincing, he formed a “boobs” gesture with his hands, “so I could only do so much with her, there. Honestly, I don’t want to think about it.”

Neither did Scott.

“But it works for her. She is happy. I think.” He pointed to Ju`bajai’s chest. “This material is Kevlar spandex, not too different from what you might find with someone in the Olympics. The problem with her is that she is not very physically strong, so she cannot support very much weight. This means true armor is impossible. And though I tried to make something for her head, she did not like the idea of that.”

In other words, she threw a fit.

“So this is the best I could do.” As if happening upon a realization, he touched Ju`bajai on the shoulder and turned her around. “There is also this, here,” said the forge master as he pointed. There, on the back of the Ithini’s collar, the number “14” was etched into the fabric.

And that was what did it. Genuinely surprised, Scott stared wordlessly at the number. She’s one of us. Ju`bajai is really one of us. Deep beneath his human exterior, a small wave of pride swelled. Of all the unexpectedness that had accompanied Ju`bajai’s little makeover, it was that little number that meant the most. The Ithini was a part of their team. Unsure of what exactly to say, Scott rubbed the back of his neck and released a soft chuckle.

“Is that acceptable?” Artur asked.

To Scott, it was. But Scott’s opinion wasn’t what mattered. “Is it acceptable to her?”

Ju`bajai angled her head toward him. The mental pathway opened, and the Ithini responded. It is what I requested.

What she requested? Wow…

“I believe so,” answered Artur, oblivious to the mental exchange that took place.

“In that case, I like it.” How could Scott not? If Ju`bajai’s desire was truly just to be included—if this was what she’d chosen with her newfound freedom—it would be foolish for Scott to complain. He would gladly accept her. “Welcome to the Fourteenth, Ju`bajai.” As expected, the alien offered no visible response. Motioning toward the V2, Scott said, “Go on aboard, then.” With the faintest tilt of the head, Ju`bajai acknowledged the order. Sliding past Scott, the Ithini made her way toward the indicated transport.

Crossing his arms, Artur watched as the alien walked away. “You are quite a unique team.”

That didn’t cover half of it. Patting the forge master on the shoulder without looking, Scott simply said, “Thank you, Pashkov.” He wasn’t sure where else to go with all this. Stepping away, Scott made his way toward the V2 in Ju`bajai’s wake.

At the front of the V2’s troop bay, Esther was checking over her weapons and equipment. With a pistol in each tactical gear holster and an assault rifle over her shoulder, just in case, the big challenge for the scout became finding places to hold ammunition. With train security expected to be heavy, and after everyone’s experience in Krasnoyarsk, there became no such thing as too much ammo. Next to Esther and checking over his sniper rifle was Jayden. The Briton and Texan were almost synchronized in the speed of their preparation. Like they were one in the same.

“I have M-19 ammo I can’t carry,” Esther said, holding it up for Jayden to take. “Do you need it?”

The Texan didn’t answer.

“Jay, do you—” Looking in Jayden’s direction, the scout’s brown eyes blinked. Everyone in the troop bay was gone. Jayden, the operatives around him, Valentin’s slayers. They’d all vanished without a trace. As her senses of clarity and familiarity sunk in, Esther went still. Even without looking, she could feel a presence behind her—in the direction of the V2’s open rear bay door. Though she turned in its direction, there was scarcely the need. The scout knew who she was going to find.

There, standing alone on the ramp with her arms crossed and with a satisfied smile, was Ju`bajai’s ponytailed construct of Esther, clad in the same hexagonally-patterned bodysuit she’d worn while entering the hangar. Esther watched as the construct uncrossed her arms and strolled toward her. “Oh, Esther. We’ve been on quite a journey, haven’t we?”

With narrowed eyes and her breath almost held, Esther managed to ask, “What do you want?”

Ju`bajai halted her approach at the question. “We haven’t spoken since your marriage—and congratulations, by the way. I thought it only proper to give you and the hubs a little time to yourselves.”

“How incredibly gracious.”

“Now, now,” said Ju`bajai, holding up her palm. “I’m not here to fight. Quite the contrary. I’d like to thank you, Esther.” Ever so faintly, Esther angled her head. “I am happier than I’ve been in a very long time. Long before Cairo, even before I was taken captive by the Khuladi. For the first time in many, many years, I’m a part of something because I choose to be.” Stepping forward again, she drew close enough to angle her body away from Esther and point to the “14” on the back of her collar. “Look at that, ey? Not too shabby, if I may say. Artur is quite the seamstress.”

Voice totally flat, Esther said, “So you’ve got a ‘14’ etched on your back and suddenly you’re part of the team? Is that how this works?”

The construct’s eyes met Esther’s, where they lingered. Ju`bajai’s joyous expression faded. “I can tell you’re upset. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you had to go through what you went through.”

“Had to go? Do you even hear yourself?”

Ju’bajai looked down and sighed. “Esther, please understand.”

“It’s you who needs to understand!” said Esther, raising her voice for the first time as she pointed. “Do you really think you can waltz back in here and undo everything you did to me? That you can sprinkle your mental fairy dust and suddenly all is forgiven?”

“I consider you my friend, Esther.”

The scout’s jaw hardened. “I consider you my mortal enemy.”

Again, silence fell between them, until Ju`bajai released a long, drawn out sigh. “That makes me sad. I wish I could change your mind. Honestly, I mean.” For a moment, the alien paused. “But I suppose one reaps what they sew.”

“Yes, they do.”

Ju`bajai’s eyes lingered on Esther after the scout’s answer. They squinted with intent. “Spoken like a woman who has sewn much.” Though Esther stared back, she offered no reply. Smiling crookedly, the construct said, “There will be a time when you need me, Molly Polyester. I just want you to know that when that time comes, I will be there for you, as you were there for me. Thank you, Esther, with sincerity.” She raised a simple hand of farewell. “Until we speak again.”

Pressing her palms against her eyes in frustration, Esther growled. “Why do you have to make every sodding thing so vecking—”

“I’ll take it,” Jayden said.

Lowering her hands from her face, Esther blinked at the sound of his voice. The Texan’s hand was extended with expectation, as all around him, the operatives in the troop bay continued their gear-up. The silence of her connection with Ju`bajai was replaced by the sounds of lockers opening and weapons being handled. For a moment, she didn’t know what to do.

Jayden stopped what he was doing and looked at her. “You gonna give it to me or not, babe?”

“Uh.” Snapping out of it, Esther looked at her hand, where she was still holding the M-19 magazine she’d extended to Jayden prior to the construct. Instinct kicked in, and she held it out again for him.

As soon as Jayden took it, he eyed her with his good eye. “You all right?”

Esther’s focus drifted over Jayden’s shoulder, where she caught sight of Ju`bajai at the far end of the troop bay, standing in the midst of the organized chaos around her. The Ithini’s opaque, oval eyes were fixed right back on her. For a moment, the scout’s mouth hung open. “Yes,” she said finally. “Yes, I’m fine. Just caught a little dizzy spell.”

Looking at her with concern, Jayden said, “Do you need to—”

“I’m fine.” A smile was offered to compensate for the abruptness of the interruption. “I mean it. I’m fine.” Readjusting her E-35, she snagged onto a support rail. “Just ready for this bird to fly.”

“I hear you, there,” the Texan said, his attention returning to prepping his equipment.

Trotting up the V2’s rear ramp, Scott scanned the activity in the troop bay. Everyone was gearing up. Everyone was readying themselves. This was truly it. Making his way through the crowd, Scott shouted, “Get ready, people! We’re about to kick this thing off!” Snagging Javon on the shoulder as he passed him, Scott said, “You ready for this, man?”

The black soldier smiled and hit Scott’s fist with his. “We got this, captain.”

Craning his neck past Javon to see Tom behind him, Scott addressed the shorter, feistier soldier. “Tom King! You ready?”

The look Tom gave Scott was striking in its sternness. “I’m ready,” he said quietly.

Nodding his head, Scott gave Javon a look as soon as Tom’s focus left him. “He’s gonna be all right?”

“Yeah, man,” answered Javon, his voice lowered. “He’s gonna be all right.”

If Javon said it, Scott believed it. Offering the soldier a final pat on the shoulder, Scott continued past him toward the cockpit. All the while he slid through the crowd, he made eye contact with the soldiers he passed. Feliks and Pyotr. Becan. Jayden and Esther. Lilan, Natalie. The six slayers on-lend from Valentin. He was searching for that look in their eyes that would tell him they were ready. He was looking for their game faces. It was present in each and every one of them.

Stepping through the cockpit door, Scott lowered into the copilot’s seat. Looking at Jakob, Scott asked, “You ready for this, man?”

“Ja, captain,” the German answered. “Ready to go.”

Through the cockpit glass, Scott saw Tiffany working the controls of her Superwolf. He had intended to give her a final thumbs-up before takeoff, however her sole focus seemed to be on the fighter—as it should have been. The time on the V2’s dashboard read 1911, one minute until zero hour, local time. One minute until those two aircraft lifted from their perches, drifted out of Northern Forge’s hangar, and took off toward the Land of the Rising Sun. One minute.

1912.

Go time.

“Let’s do it,” Scott said. Reaching up for the cabin mic, Scott pulled it down to his mouth. “Hold on, everyone. We are launching now, I repeat, we are launching now.”

Jakob blew out a breath. It looked like nerves. Pressing a button on the console, he set the rear bay door to close. Seconds later, the V2 was rising from the hangar floor as the sound of landing gear retracting whined beneath them. Tiffany’s Superwolf was doing the same. Once again, he looked at the fighter. This time, the blonde was looking back. A thumbs-up was offered, and she returned it.

That thumbs-up was going to be the last bit of communication between them until the mission was over. Wherever Tiffany was and whatever she was doing would be a total unknown. Whether or not she survived would be a total unknown. The same applied to her as it pertained to them. This entire operation hinged on timing and trust.

The V2’s nose swung toward the open hangar; the nighttime flurries of Norilsk’s neighboring mountains came into view. Tiffany’s Superwolf hovered into open space ahead of them, then pivoted and set off. His heart pounding, Scott leaned back and tried to stay calm.

Easier said than done.

The nighttime troop bay lights kicked in, illuminating the operatives beneath a deep, red glow. And just like that…they were off. The V2 drifted out into the night, settling into the low valley formed by the mountain ranges. With the transport’s TCV screen activated, Scott could see everything outside in false color, despite the darkness. A feeling of motion kicked in and the transport flew ahead.

There was a two-hour time differential between Norilsk and Japan, which meant the flight would last almost an hour, on the dot. It was more than enough time for everyone to get mentally prepared, but not quite enough for them to settle down. That was for the best, Scott felt. Just like having them experience the frigid blasts of snow from the mountains, Scott didn’t want any semblance of comfort to touch this operation. He just wanted readiness. To that end, Scott rose from the copilot’s seat to keep his own blood flowing. Stepping back into the troop bay as the ride smoothed out, he began the process of checking over his gear.

Scott had never fought with nonlethal rounds before, and there was something inherently disconcerting about loading them into his rifle. Just the same, he knew they were the right decision, and he credited Natalie for her adamancy in using them. Glancing Natalie’s way as she entered his mind, he was surprised to see her already staring at him and making no attempt to hide it. Rising from her seat, she gripped one of the handrails and walked to him. Though Scott assumed it was to say something, he was somewhat caught off guard when she didn’t. Eyes averting away from him as she came to his side, she simply scanned the rest of the troop bay in silence.

She and I are the commanding officers for this thing—she wants to make sure she’s seen with me.

Clearing his throat a bit, he broke the silence and asked, “How are you feeling?”

The captain inhaled softly through her nostrils. “Like I don’t know nearly as much as I used to think I did.”

He knew the feeling.

Looking Scott’s way again, Natalie said, “You do know that if we get there and nothing’s there to be found, I’m going to kill you?”

There was zero casualness in the statement—not a trace of jest. This was more than a threat. This was her giving him her word. He respected that. “If there’s nothing there, I won’t stop you.”

Her emerald eyes remained stoic.

“What if you find out everything I’ve said is true?” he asked.

Natalie hesitated. For a moment, she seemed to be searching him. Peering into him. Trying to figure out how she was going to answer. At long last, she did. “Then I guess I’ll apologize for what I did to your face.”

A soft laugh escaped from Scott’s lips. Feeling his cheek, where her fingernails had scarred him on the banks of the Suez, he said simply, “I look forward to it.”

“This an open meeting, or is it invite only?” The question came from Lilan, as the colonel made his way toward them.

Of all the people going on the operation, Lilan, Natalie, and Esther were the only ones not donned in Nightman armor. The fact was purely circumstantial, as Lilan couldn’t wear the black, full body armor with his arm in a sling, and there was simply no Nightman armor fitted for women. Instead, the three wore black tactical gear from Norilsk law enforcement.

“All visitors welcome,” Scott said in response to the colonel’s question.

Lilan nodded his head quietly. “Actually, umm,” he said, glancing at Natalie before casting his full attention on Scott. “I was kind of hoping to have a minute with you before everything goes down.”

A minute for what? “Sure thing,” Scott said, looking at Natalie briefly.

“Sure,” Natalie said with more resignation than resolve. “I’ll be here if someone needs me.” Stepping away from them, the Caracal captain returned to her seat, leaning her head back against the hull and closing her eyes beneath the red lights.

Scott’s focus returned to Lilan. “What is it, colonel?”

“I never really got a chance to talk to you, son—not since you bailed us out of Krasnoyarsk. It kind of feels like you’ve been avoiding me a bit.”

Unable to look Lilan in the eyes, Scott looked away and sighed. He didn’t even know how to answer.

“So, have you been?”

Looking back at Lilan, Scott said, “I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been meaning to talk with you, I just honest to God haven’t had time.” But there was a granule of truth to Lilan’s words. “With that said, though, yeah…maybe a part of me feels a little ashamed.”

“Son…”

Shaking his head, Scott said, “I’m not your son. And I’m not your Golden Lion. The task you gave me—to uphold whatever it was I was supposed to uphold—I’ve failed.”

“I’m gonna beg to differ with that assessment. What you’ve done, and I’m not talkin’ about the killing—that’s life, and that stuff happens when you get dealt a bad card—is to be highly commended. In spite of what happened to you and what you went through, you serve as the captain of a damn fine unit. And you are the only,” he pointed at Scott’s chest for emphasis, “the only man on God’s green Earth who could put together an operation like this, pulling together people like this, getting this all planned out. I mean, hell,” he said, looking back at Natalie, “it wasn’t too long ago when you took that girl as your hostage, and now she’s fighting for you.”

Scott wouldn’t go so far as to say that. But he caught the colonel’s drift.

The colonel looked at him again, just as Scott lifted his head. Sternness emanated from the old veteran’s steely eyes. “I am proud of you. What you’re doing, right now, is everything a Golden Lion would’ve been expected to do. You’re doing the hard thing. And whatever comes out of it, you’ve earned my respect.”

Hearing Lilan tell him that felt better than Scott thought it would. At the end of the day, Scott wanted to do the right thing. He wanted to make a difference in the right way. Though he’d failed more than he felt he’d succeeded, having the colonel tell him that gave him reassurance that there was hope for him. The world didn’t see that now—they saw a terrorist. But maybe someday that would change.

As the colonel patted Scott on the shoulder then returned to his seat, Scott looked at the golden horns of his fulcrum collar. Svetlana had done that for him to remind him that he was still someone whose heart was good. That he was still capable of good things. He would always be a fulcrum. He would always be a murderer. The taking of a life was too serious to simply write off and forget about. But he didn’t have to define himself as just a Nightman anymore.

Sitting back down in his seat, Scott mulled over the colonel’s words as the V2 continued to soar. It was time to stop living with the guilt. It was time to stop apologizing for who he was and what he’d done. It was time to be who he was capable of being—not only in deed, but in the heart. He wasn’t who he’d always been, but who he was now wasn’t bad. Sometimes he just needed to be reminded of that.

Leaning back against the V2’s inner hull, Scott closed his eyes. It wasn’t fatigue—just a momentary escape from the visual world. Time alone to seek clarity of purpose for an operation that demanded it. Physically, he was ready to go. It was time now to get his mind right. Japan was just over the nighttime horizon.

The destiny of the Fourteenth was right there with it.

35

Tuesday, March 27th, 0012 NE

2209 hours

Shizuoka Prefecture, Japan

ANY TIME NOW.

Those were the words Jakob had spoken to Scott only minutes earlier. For the past fifteen minutes, the transport had glided through a mountain valley in Japan’s Nagano and Yamanashi Prefectures, cutting straight through the crescent-shaped country toward the Izu Peninsula. Beyond simply being the most direct route to the peninsula, the Nagano Prefecture offered the advantage of being highly mountainous and sparsely populated. If this operation went awry, it wouldn’t be because they came into it recklessly.

As the forecast predicted, a violent rain was falling outside the transport, tattering hard against the windshield and hull as the transport rocketed onward. Scott understood that there was a benefit to this, but it was hard to not shake that ominous feeling that accompanied the weather.

“Shizuoka,” Jakob said.

The Shizuoka Prefecture. Their target region. Inside Scott’s fulcrum armor, his palms were sweating.

Blowing out a nervous breath, the pilot looked sideways at Scott. “Three to four minutes.”

That was Scott’s cue. Turning out of the copilot’s seat, Scott stepped through the troop bay door. Beneath the dark red glow of the V2’s nighttime running lights, the operatives turned their heads to look at him. “Three to four minutes,” he said simply. There was no need to raise his voice or hype the moment. The crew knew what was about to go down. Scott slid his fulcrum helmet down over his head with a click. Behind the camera-fed visor, the red hues of the hull were replaced by TCV illumination. Silently, the others began doing the same, clamping on helmets and standing with readied weapons. Turning back to Jakob, Scott said, “I’m shutting this door.” The pilot nodded, and Scott closed the door between the cockpit and troop bay.

The truth was, Scott didn’t want to see the approach. He didn’t want the full scenery to come into view. He wanted to hear that clunk, to see that bay door come down, then to open that hatch that led into the train. He wanted surgical focus.

A swell came to Scott’s mind. Judging by everyone’s sudden pause and curious looks, it had come to them, too. Scott raised his hand to catch their attention. “It’s all right. It’s just her.” At the far end of the troop bay, Ju`bajai was sitting silently, her opaque eyes widened with focus. Narrowing his eyes hesitantly behind his helmet, he thought, That is you, right?

Affirmative. All participants are connected.

And there was their solution to radio dark. Scott was thankful he’d had the opportunity to get everyone connected with the Ithini leading up to the mission, else the whole of the cabin might be keeling over and passing out. From what Ju`bajai had explained to Scott, she would be able to not only relay information through a wide-area connection, but also to ascertain who the messages’ intended targets were. That was important. Scott definitely wanted to be able to communicate with the alien privately if need be.

The V2’s velocity shifted abruptly, prompting Scott to grab hold of the support rail again to stop himself from falling over. They were making their move to intercept. Scott closed his eyes. Let us do this, God. Let us get this thing and get out with no one hurt. Keep Tiffany safe wherever she is, too. If the Valley Girl had stuck to the plan, then she’d already appeared on EDEN’s radar screens and was drawing their fighters away. Despite the confidence he had in her, he was worried sick—as he was certain the others were, too. If they made it back to Northern Forge and there wasn’t a Superwolf there waiting for them…

…he didn’t want to think about that.

Another shift in velocity came as the V2’s forward speed slowed dramatically. Its nose swung.

“Veck, man.”

The words were uttered by Tom, who was staring out of the porthole window nearest him.

“Here it comes,” Tom said.

Scott didn’t want to see it. Closing his eyes and holding the support rail with an iron grip, he waited for the landing. Another shift came, this one upward and accompanied by a burst of descent thrusters. Everyone in the troop bay was rocked in the same direction, but they held their own. Beneath them, muffled behind the hard tattering of rainfall, a new sound emerged like a mechanical roar. The train.

Close enough. Opening his eyes, Scott stormed through the troop bay to the back door, weaving through operatives with his hand on the rail to support him. This was his mission. He wanted to be the first outside when that door came down. Settling in between the pack of slayers—the first of the operatives going through the hatch—he waited for the clunk.

Another person fell in line beside him, jostling into him slightly as the V2’s vertical thrusters adjusted themselves. Natalie. Her chestnut ponytail dangled behind her tactical helmet as she glanced at him through her ballistic goggles before setting her sights on the door. Her assault rifle over her back, she waited with equal fervency.

His mission? She would probably challenge him on that one. That was all right with him.

The vertical thrusters disengaged. The transport dropped. Cl-clunk! Holding his breath, Scott waited for the jostling to stop. They were down.

“All right!” Scott was trembling. He hoped it wasn’t evident in his voice. “Let’s go!” Reaching out, he slammed the bay door button.

What Scott saw in the seconds that followed was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. They were on a bullet train. They were literally on a bullet train. Rocketing at a speed that had to be close to two hundred miles per hour, what little scenery Scott could see was blurring past them at frightening speed. This was not a smooth ride. Whether it was due to the rain or the V2’s presence, the entire train felt like it was inches away from shimmying off the track. The shape of the transport was cutting into the rain, leaving a virtual tunnel of dry air behind it.

Lightning flashed as Scott’s eyes focused on the hatch. It was right where it was supposed to be, mere feet behind the transport. Their landing had been spot-on. It was time to move.

It took all of two steps to make Scott rethink the whole plan.

Even with the pocket of air created by the transport, walking atop the bullet train was not simply difficult—it was terrifying. It felt as if at any second, he’d go flying off the train onto whatever terrain lay below. If not for the V2’s wind-blocking presence, he’d already be airborne. Sinking into a crawl and with his heart in his lungs, Scott made his way slowly toward the hatch with Natalie and the slayers in tow.

This is crazy. This is totally crazy. We’re going to die.

Try as he might, courage was giving way rapidly to common sense. There was no question in Scott’s mind, already, that this would take longer than any of them had thought. Getting everyone into the train would take ten minutes by itself. Finally reaching the hatch, Scott carefully maneuvered himself around it until he was on its far side. Opposite him and with every intention of opening the hatch with him, Natalie was engaged in a constant battle with her sopping ponytail, which was slapping her hard in the face in the rocketing wind and rain. Using Ju`bajai’s connection, he asked Natalie, You good?

She flinched slightly, the emergence of Scott’s voice in her head seeming to catch her off guard. Through rain-soaked ballistic goggles, she nodded at him.

Scott curled his fingers around his side of the hatch. Thankfully, the hatch wheel was merely a mechanism and not actually attached to the hatch itself. Any attempt to actually lift the hatch up would have either struck someone in the face or sent the hatch snapping off in the wind. With their hands on both sides of the wheel, Scott and Natalie turned. After a small amount of required umph, the wheel turned, locking itself into a new position, ready for the hatch to be slid open. Looking at Natalie again, Scott thought, Come over to me so the slayers can drop. The Caracal captain followed through, easing her way around the wheel and to Scott’s side. At the very least, the tops of the train cars were plenty wide enough for them—and the transport, for that matter—to fit with ample space. As Natalie turned around, her ponytail ceased its slapping on her goggles and face and streamed behind her in the wind. Looking at Scott, she nodded her head.

Ready, she relayed to him.

Drawing in a deep breath, Scott lifted his head to look at the slayers, all of whom had gathered on the other side of the hatch, waiting for it to open. With one tug of the hatch back, one sliding motion, all hell would break loose. Let’s find the device, he said to the group at large. A sensation of group acknowledgment was returned to him, and his hand gripped the hatch’s bar.

This was for everything. Earth. Their redemption. Their purpose.

One…

Everything he and the Fourteenth had ever done had led to this.

Two…

Travis’s death. Donald’s death. This was for the honor of them both. Time slowed. Looking down, Scott zeroed in on the hatch bar. One pull. One exertion of effort. Go time.

Three.

Pulling back with as much might as he could muster amid the rushing of wind, Scott slid the hatch open. The inside of the train car was revealed. The heist had begun.

The slayers’ action was instant. In the same second that the hatch was opened, a pair of flashbangs were hurled down. A second later, they popped. Sliding through the hatch one after the other, the six slayers dropped through as Scott and Natalie gave them space.

Come on! Let’s go! Let’s go! With his free hand, Scott waved the other members of the team on. As Javon and Tom neared with the other pairings behind them, Scott looked at Natalie. Let’s drop!

Right behind you, Natalie answered.

Holding onto the hatch wheel, Scott brought himself around until he was in a position to drop down. Though he couldn’t hear the firefight between the slayers and security beneath him, he prayed that the slayers had dropped into a favorable position. It was impossible to know how the train’s security was laid out. Scott released the hatch wheel and dropped in.

The moment he landed, Scott whipped his assault rifle from around his shoulder and pointed it ahead to find the nearest target. Seeing only slayers in front of him, he spun around to scan the opposite way. His heart racing, he froze as it became suddenly clear why he hadn’t heard a firefight.

There was no security on the upper level at all.

As Natalie dropped in behind him, Scott aimed his assault rifle down and scanned every direction. Though there were crates placed sporadically throughout the car’s top floor, there was no presence there to be combated.

First floor! First floor!

The slayers responded through the connection, and Scott followed them to the back of the train car, where a short, sideways stairway led down to the car’s lower section. Once again, Scott waited for the sound of weapons fire. Once again, there was nothing. As he followed them down with Natalie at his heels, Scott drew to an eerie halt upon reaching the lower level. Stepping through the slayers, all of whom were standing around awkwardly, he surveyed the various crates that were present. Just like the floor above, they were scattered sporadically about, totally unprotected. Looking back at the slayers, he motioned for them to start working. “Open them up!” he said, forgoing Ju`bajai’s connection to prod them along. It went against their original plan of divvying everyone up into pairs, but so did this situation. There was supposed to be resistance there. Even Antipov had expected it.

As the slayers began tearing open crates, Natalie approached Scott from behind. “What the hell is going on?”

Scott shook his head. “I don’t know.” He stared at the nearest slayer who was bashing open a crate. As soon as the crate broke, its contents were revealed.

Nothing.

Everyone hold, he relayed to the drop team. No one else drop.

Becan’s voice emerged in Scott’s mind. Are we in the righ’ car?

That was a good question. This is the car, right? he asked Jakob.

Yes, captain. This is the car Antipov indicated.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. “Tell them to open the crates,” Scott said, looking at Natalie and pointing to the stairs. Who’s up there, Becan?

Just me an’ Feliks.

The two of you start opening crates, now! Scott watched as crate after crate on the lower level was bashed and broken in by the slayers. Inside each one, there was nothing. A horrible feeling emerged in Scott’s stomach.

Sending the butt of his assault rifle down atop a crate, Feliks cracked it open. Prying it the rest of the way, he peered inside it to examine it. As had been the case with every crate beneath them, it was empty. Shaking his head in confusion, he looked back at Becan, who was stepping away from an empty crate himself.

“This doesn’t make anny bleedin’ sense,” said the Irishman.

A whoosh emerged above them. Both men flinched as they looked up at the hatch door, which suddenly slid shut with violent speed.

“Hey!” Becan said.

Gasping from atop the train, Esther leapt back from the hatchway, where her fingers had been mere inches from being sliced off. “Good God!”

“What’d you do?” Jayden asked from behind her.

“I didn’t do a sodding thing! The door closed by itself.”

Why the hell did yis shut the door? Becan relayed to the topside crew as he and Feliks stared up in bewilderment.

Esther answered, We didn’t!

If yeh didn’t, then who did?

Scott could hear the commotion going on up top. What’s happening?

Someone shut the door! Becan answered.

What do you mean, shut the door? What door? The hatch?

The Irishman addressed him desperately. Aye, the hatch! We’re sealed in.

Ju`bajai’s presence emerged, interrupting he and Becan’s mental discussion. I am sensing numerous life forms, all human.

All human? Scott whipped his head in both directions. Where are they? What are they doing?

They are approaching your location now.

The doors on both sides of the lower car opened. As Scott, Natalie, and the slayers whirled around—some to the left and some to the right—a squad of EDEN operatives stormed into the car with weapons raised. Scott and his comrades raised theirs to match.

Scott’s heart pounded as the EDEN operatives surrounded them from both sides, a weapons-drawn stalemate emerging from them and the ground op team on the lower car. Surrounded and outnumbered what looked like three-to-one, Scott waited for the first shot to be fired. Instead, he heard only a voice.

“Hold your fire!”

The accented voice, though elevated, was calm. While the slayers kept their weapons raised in both directions, Scott and Natalie faced the voice. Emerging from the clustered EDEN operatives, an olive-skinned man emerged.

All of the people who surrounded them wore unfamiliar armor. They were EDEN designs, unmistakably, but they looked darker. Sleeker. These were not run-of-the-mill soldiers. Scott’s focus shifted to their weapons, where he saw the same kinds of assault weapons they’d faced in Hami Station. The same kind Vector had been using. But who were these people? At that same instant, another realization came to Scott’s mind, causing his heart to sink into the pit of his stomach.

Rubber bullets. Every single member of the ground op team was packing rubber bullets. These attackers don’t know that. Standing his ground, Scott relayed a message to the rest of the team as he waited for the officer to address him. EDEN is here. They knew about the whole thing. We just walked into a trap.

We’re comin’, Remmy! Becan said.

No! So adamant was Scott’s response, he flinched, causing several of the EDEN soldiers to train their weapons. Quickly, Scott froze and continued calmly. You and Feliks stay up top. Everyone above the train, hold your positions.

Pressing down the weapon of the soldier beside him, the officer spoke. “Hello, Remington. My name is Hector Mendoza, chief of security for EDEN Command.”

EDEN Command? Scott breathed heavier.

“There is no need for violence, here. Please, lower your weapon, and we will talk like civilized men.”

What is this? Natalie asked from behind Scott. How did they know we were here?

Scott had no clue. Not even Antipov had expected this. When Scott and those around him kept their weapons raised, Mendoza frowned and continued on.

“You have put up a good fight, Remington, but it ends here. Surrender, and we will avoid additional bloodshed.”

“How did you know about this? Who sent you?”

Angling his head slightly, Mendoza answered, “Please lower your weapon, and we will continue this discussion.”

Their weapons were the only things keeping them alive right now. There was no chance Scott would give up that leverage. Saying nothing, Scott and the slayers held their ground.

What do yeh want us to do? Becan asked through the connection.

Just wait.

Mendoza’s neutral expression downturned. Sighing heavily, he stepped to the side. “As you wish, Mister Remington.”

The crowd behind Mendoza parted as two new people stepped forward. The instant Scott locked eyes with the taller of them, his face fell.

Oleg.

No…how is he…how is this possible?

Smirking beneath his EDEN helmet’s visor, the bearded operative took his place at Mendoza’s side.

EDEN had Oleg. If EDEN had Oleg, that meant…

…EDEN had Svetlana.

How was any of this possible?

“Scott?”

Up until that point, Scott had all but ignored the other person who’d stepped forward—but that changed the instant Scott heard his name called. The instant he recognized that voice. Blinking behind his faceless helmet, Scott looked at the shorter operative beside Oleg—the one in a set of armor unlike all the others. Armor Scott had worn himself for two years at Philadelphia Academy. The armor of a cadet in training.

The one with Oleg was his little brother.

Now, Scott lowered his weapon. “Mark? What are you…? How in the world are you even…?” Scott’s head spun. What was this? What was going on?

Mark’s voice was trembling. He looked on the verge of tears. “Turn yourself in, man. Please. You’re gonna be okay, just—”

“What is this?” Scott pointed at Mark, though his head swiveled sternly to Mendoza. “Why is he here?”

“Ask that question to yourself,” Mendoza answered.

Again, Mark addressed him. “Just come with us, man. Please! I know you’re confused, but you’re gonna be okay.”

Leverage. They were using his little brother as leverage. There was zero chance Scott would be okay if he went with them, as Mark was claiming. David had been right. Their families indeed would be used against them. Never once had Scott imagined it’d be like this.

“Who is that?” Natalie asked. “How does he know you?”

Deep in Scott’s veins, his blood was boiling. “Mark Remington. He’s my brother.” Ju`bajai, relay everything I say to these people to everyone in the op team.

The Ithini affirmed.

“Now, will you surrender?” Mendoza asked.

Mark. Svetlana. Who else did EDEN have?

After almost ten seconds passed, Mendoza lowered his chin. Behind his tinted visor, the Hispanic chief’s eyes narrowed. “As you wish.” Angling his head ever so slightly in Oleg’s direction, he said calmly, “Mister Strakhov.”

Shifting behind Mark, Oleg grabbed the cadet by the back of the neck. In one fluid yank, Mark’s helmet was ripped off his head. Jumping out of his skin, Mark gasped at the unexpected maneuver. The next thing Scott saw was Oleg pull out a pistol. Scott flinched as the barrel was pressed against Mark’s head.

“No!” Scott yelled, reaching his hand forward.

His nervous tears now real, Mark cried out, “What in the—what are you doing?” he asked Oleg behind him.

“Now, Mister Remington,” Mendoza seethed with newfound venom, “I suggest you listen.”

As Mark squirmed, Oleg pressed the barrel harder.

Scott’s veins pulsed—his heart pounded like a jackhammer. Behind his faceless helmet, fear was taking over. His brother. His little brother, who had joined EDEN to follow Scott’s own footsteps. Scott reached out to the slayer beside him, whose weapon was still raised. He pulled the barrel of the slayer’s weapon down.

“He’s innocent,” Natalie said, pointing to Mark as her emerald eyes locked onto Mendoza, Oleg, and the others around them. “He has nothing to do with any of this.”

Mendoza looked at Natalie curiously, almost as if noticing her for the first time. His eyes narrowed in scrutiny and then widened when he made the realization. “Captain Natalie Rockwell.” He leaned his head forward and squinted. “Are you really siding with them?”

Staying quiet as if not knowing how to answer, the former Caracal captain shook her head. “This is not how the organization I joined operates.”

“Do we really look like the organization you joined?”

Scott, man, said Javon through the connection, we’re picking up all of this. What you want us to do?

Scott didn’t know. He could scarcely think straight. Just hold. For now, just hold. He wanted no sudden movements—no reason to give Oleg to pull the trigger and blow his little brother’s brains out.

Mark was hyperventilating, his scared eyes wide as Oleg kept the gun barrel against his head. He seemed too terrified to speak.

Scott knew where this was heading. Even if Scott turned himself over in full surrender, there was no way that Mark, Natalie, or anyone else was walking out of there alive. They’d all seen too much. Mendoza just wanted to avoid a bloodstain on his uniform.

“What is your choice, Remington?” Mendoza asked.

“Where is Sveta?” Scott asked, eyes zeroing in on Oleg. Despite his obvious interest in the answer to that question, attaining answers wasn’t his goal. He needed to buy time. What do we have up top besides rubber bullets?

Narrowing his eyes, Oleg asked, “Why don’t you tell me that, fulcrum?”

Tell him that? That didn’t make sense.

The colonel’s voice came to Scott’s mind. There are some rounds of real ammunition here—they’re loadin’ up with ’em now.

That was good, but not a solution. Even if everyone atop the train was fully loaded, they couldn’t get inside the car in the first place.

“Answer, Remington!” Mendoza’s voice screeched in anger. “Will you come quietly, or will we have to spread his brain matter across the floor?” Oleg jostled Mark harder.

Son, we have an idea, said Lilan. Scott was all ears. Give us one second.

The number of seconds Scott had to give was dwindling rapidly. “Who’s behind this?” he asked Mendoza. “That’s the last thing I want to know.” Rapidly running out of time down here, guys.

What side of the car they at? Javon asked.

The front and the back. Mostly the front. With Mark. What are you guys doing?

The Hispanic chief’s face was stoic. “I believe you already know,” he answered Scott.

This time, it was Esther’s voice who emerged. Scott, there are some explosives in the transport.

Explosives?

We’re going to drop them between the cars at the front of the car you’re in. Can you somehow get everyone to the back to escape the blast?

He’d be able to tell her in a second. Drawing in a preparatory breath, he locked eyes with Mendoza, still waiting for Scott’s compliance. Raising one hand in defense, Scott lowered his assault rifle to the ground with the other. “Let Mark go.”

“And your men?” Mendoza asked.

“Like I said. They’ll surrender when you let Mark go.” Have you guys been listening to all this? He asked the group behind him.

Natalie and the slayers mentally acknowledged.

Dipping his head slightly in Oleg’s direction, Mendoza said, “Let him go.” Despite the disappointment evident on Oleg’s face, he thrusted Mark forward. The cadet fell to the floor in front of Scott before scrambling up to his feet to join those under duress.

Raising his hands in the air, Scott slowly stepped forward. Everyone is safe in the middle of the car. Everyone but him. Get ready to drop the bombs.

If there was one stroke of good fortune about what they were about to attempt—setting off explosives on a moving bullet train—it was that the train was running on the ground and not an elevated track. Nonetheless, this crash would be fierce. The moment those explosives drop, I want everyone who isn’t in this train car to board the transport and get in the air. That V2 was their only means of escape. If it went down with the train, they’d have nowhere to go—particularly if EDEN had reinforcements lurking about. Particularly if those reinforcements happened to be Vector. Everybody on the inside, get ready to brace. I need someone to hold Mark. His brother was the only one not privy to the connection.

I have him, one of the slayers answered.

This was suicide. As Scott walked slowly to Mendoza, his hands behind his head, his ears kept listening to the speed of the train. How in the world were they going to survive this? He was preparing for the possibility that they wouldn’t.

I did the best I could, God. If this is the end, let it be painless for my friends.

Wha’ the hell, Remmy? Really?

Scott snarled under his breath. Thanks a lot, Ju`bajai. Eyes focused ahead again, they briefly locked onto Oleg’s. The bearded Russian smirked beneath his visor. Scott wanted to knock that look clean off the scumbag’s face. As soon as Scott was within grabbing distance, several of Mendoza’s men reached out to take him into custody. Their handling of him was violent—he expected no less. Forcing him down to his knees, they stood guard around him as Mendoza cleared his throat.

“Make it quick for all of them.”

In other words, kill the others. It was exactly as Scott thought. The moment they had him in custody, the witnesses would be wiped away. This was never meant to be a meeting without bloodshed. As the EDEN soldiers stepped forward and raised their weapons, Scott quickly issued the order. Drop them! Drop them now!

Droppin’! said Javon. Brace y’allselves!

This was Scott’s one chance, if he wanted to survive. Reaching up with his hands before the EDEN soldiers could fire, Scott grabbed one of them by the weapon and hurled him over his shoulder. The effort to kill the witnesses ended as Oleg and Mendoza’s men turned on him. But Scott had no intention to fight. Diving forward, toward his clustered counterparts, Scott waited for the shockwave to come.

The train jostled as a loud squeal erupted—the application of brakes. The lights in the car’s interior shut off. What in the world?

Boom!

A split second later, the entire front of the car was rocked straight up.

It was impossible to know exactly what happened next. Everyone in the train—even those waiting for it—screamed. There were flashes of light, followed by rapid shifts in direction and momentum. Then, as suddenly as the explosion as occurred, there came the crash.

Sparks and darkness. That was all that Scott could see as the train rolled over then surged ahead, its occupants careening off walls and each other with deafening violence. Tree trunks were felt snapping. The train’s hull groaned. The click-clack of the rail was replaced by screams of twisting metal. It lasted for what felt like twenty seconds.

Then, everything stopped. The train ground to a halt, its forward momentum ceasing as if it’d struck a solid object. The crash was over.

Even knowing what to expect, even having the chance to rationalize that he was about to be in a train crash, Scott still found himself in disbelief after it happened. Lying flat against the “floor” of the sideways-turned car, Scott stared up at the darkness. He could hear the rain now. There were no engines, no howling of winds to muffle it. There was just…peace.

Was he dead?

“Get up! Get up!” The words were Becan’s, shouted loudly from somewhere behind him.

Scott strained to roll over and push himself up. He had no idea if the Irishman’s words were intended for him or someone else, but he complied with them just the same. He hurt everywhere, but nothing felt broken. His armor had held true. Reaching up to engage his TCV, he was relieved when he found it still functional. As the world took on an ethereal hue, he surveyed the wreckage of the train.

Bodies were everywhere. And most of them were moving. Staggering briefly as he stumbled over some crates—the lone source of debris in the car—Scott sought out his teammates. He could see Becan helping someone up. A slayer. Behind them, Feliks was also digging someone out of a pile of boxes. Was it his brother? Still somewhat disoriented, Scott turned around to search for Mendoza and his men.

The EDEN forces inside the train had been hit hard, both by the explosion and the crash. Even through the smoke, he could see several EDEN soldiers sprawled out with their limbs twisted unnaturally and unmoving. There had been deaths.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

Whirling around at the sound of the weapons fire, Scott watched as Natalie opened fire on an EDEN soldier on her side. The Caracal captain’s helmet had been thrown off, and she was bleeding from the head, somewhere—but she, like Becan, Feliks, and at least some of the slayers, was alive.

In her hands was one of the EDEN soldiers’ rifles. The advanced weapon’s barrel exploded with orange as the hapless EDEN operative was gunned down. Slinking down after the deed had been done, she reached past the operative to grab someone’s hand. With a yank, she pulled him to his feet from the rubble.

Mark. He was alive.

“Get up! Come on, let’s go!” Those were Natalie’s words to Mark as she steadied him on his feet. “Grab a weapon!”

Her words sparking his own sudden awareness, Scott looked around for one of the rifles EDEN had been using. The search didn’t take long. The weapons were everywhere, having been thrust from the hands of their masters in the crash. Scrambling over crates and bodies toward the nearest one, Scott grabbed hold of it and raised it, ready to fire.

From behind him, Becan’s voice emerged. “Remmy!” When Scott turned, the Irishman was already upon him, grabbing him by the arm to pull him along. “Let’s get ou’ ’o here!”

Out of there—yes. His disorientation now gone, Scott followed the rest of the ground op team as they moved as quickly as they could for the back of the car, where a door had been knocked off its hinges. Outside, the roar of V2 engines emerged through the downpour.

At the front of the car, groggy and hurting, Oleg reached up to grab hold of something to pull himself to his feet. His hand finding a nonfunctional lever, the disgraced eidolon strained as he dragged himself up. Pulling off his cracked helmet, he winced in pain as he searched through the smoke. Far ahead of him, on the other side of the car, men in Nightmen armor were sliding out of the door. As his search brought him to his immediate vicinity, he locked eyes with Hector Mendoza. The security chief’s head was twisted backward, his pupils gazing back lifelessly. Grinding his teeth, Oleg searched through the mass of dead and injured for a chaos rifle.

Scott was the last one to crawl out of the wrecked train car. By the look of it, every member of the ground op team had survived the crash. Whether the benefit of having better armor or being more prepared, Scott was thankful. Pulling himself through the horizontal door opening, Scott searched for the V2 in the rain. He didn’t have to look far. The transport had landed just off to the side of the wrecked train car with its rear bay door open. The whole of the transport’s crew was already heading toward them to assist.

The train had derailed in the middle of a forested area, its tracks running through the only place uncovered by foliage. There was no traction beneath Scott’s feet, only what felt like two inches of mud, made almost a pure liquid by the storm.

Bullets ricocheted around the train car’s back door—Scott dove out of the way, narrowly avoiding them. The EDEN soldiers were reorienting. The time to leave was now.

Approaching Scott from where their V2 had landed, Javon shouted through the storm, “You all right, man?”

“Yeah. We’ve got to move quick!” Scott’s leg throbbed. Whatever amount he’d healed from his injury in Cairo, the wreck had aggravated it tenfold. As Javon helped Scott move along, he scanned the area for Mark. His brother was several meters away, being helped along by Natalie. As the wounded were moved toward the transport, those who’d been on the V2—Jayden, Esther, Lilan, Tom, and Pyotr—were now far from it, either assisting limping operatives or holding down suppressive fire. Even Ju`bajai was with them, her frail hands reaching out to help Natalie with Mark.

“Hey,” Scott asked Javon, “how did you guys shut off the train lights and hit the brakes?” A split second before the explosion, both things had taken place.

Looking at him, Javon said, “We thought that was you!”

Scott’s helmet mic crackled as Jakob’s frantic yelling emerged. “Incoming! Incoming!”

The pilot barely got the second word out. The ground team spun their heads to the V2 just in time to see the impact. Emerging through the rain and wailing like a banshee was a trident missile. It struck the transport in the center of the hull, exploding with a shockwave that sent every member of the ground op team flying backwards through the air and landing in the mud.

High above Scott’s head, the unmistakable sound of a Superwolf’s engines shrieked past.

Rain tattered Natalie’s face as she lay face-up on the newly-christened battlefield, the pain of the shockwave pulsating through her body. Lifting her head, she wiped her eyes and searched for Mark. The cadet and Ju`bajai were sprawled out several meters away, both straining to push up to their feet. Rolling over and pushing herself up, Natalie nearly lost her footing on the slick mud as she scrambled in their direction.

“What in the hell was that?”

The words came from Esther, who was sprawled out with Jayden and several others further behind Natalie. The Caracal captain ignored them. Coming up to Mark from behind, she reached down and yanked him to his feet. The muddied, shell-shocked cadet stared back at her in horror.

Footsteps emerged behind her before she could address Mark. Lilan. Limping toward Ju`bajai, the colonel pulled the mud-caked Ithini up to her feet with his one good arm.

“EDEN!” Natalie sputtered, fighting to look through the rain as it pounded her.

Lilan nodded. “I know! Start roundin’ everyone up. We’re gonna have to make a move!”

“Make a move? Where?”

A massive light emerged in the sky alongside the track. Natalie and everyone around her turned their heads to face it. Accompanied by the unmistakable sound of V2 landing thrusters, the spotlight sunk closer to the ground.

Scott had just gotten back to his feet from the explosion when the new V2 appeared. There wasn’t a doubt in Scott’s mind as to who was on board.

Vector.

“We’ve got to go!” He yelled at Javon before making a realization. Jakob. The pilot was still in their smoldering V2. “No, wait! Reinhardt.”

Glancing in the direction of the V2, Javon looked back at Scott and patted him on the shoulder. “I got him! Get everyone out of here!”

“I’m going with you.”

“Not with that limp, you ain’t! Go ’head, man, I got this!” Javon allotted no time for argument. Bolting in the direction of their wrecked V2, he disappeared behind the veil of rain.

Something whizzed past Scott’s head. Hunkering down and spinning, he shot a look toward the train, where several of the EDEN soldiers from the ambush were climbing out, weapons firing. With Ju`bajai’s sweeping connection severed, Scott queued up his helmet comm and barked out to the team, “Everyone, go, go, go! Help who you can and move—we’ll rendezvous somewhere along the way!” Acknowledgments came, though it was hard to tell who was who. The burning fire, the rain, the weapons…it all blended together. The only thing Scott knew was that between those EDEN operatives and that landing V2 transport, their chance to escape was slimming by the nanosecond.

Once more, his focus went to their own transport and the direction Javon had disappeared off to. There was no way the soldier was going to get Jakob out on his own—not with Vector closing in like this. Firing a brief burst of suppression toward the EDEN soldiers, Scott turned to the transport and ran as fast as his busted leg allowed.

By the time Javon made it around to the cockpit of the V2, Jakob was already crawling out of the blown-open canopy. Though wounded, the pilot was still in one piece. “I got you, man!” the soldier yelled at him, reaching up to grab the German before he slid off the nose of the transport onto the ground.

“Two ships!” Jakob winced as Javon propped him on his shoulder. “V2 and Superwolf!”

“We know, man!”

Shaking his head, Jakob said, “No, but you must listen. That Superwolf—that is not any pilot! I saw his identity before he fired.” Grabbing Javon firmly by the collar of his slayer armor, Jakob looked at him and said, “Mariner.”

Javon blinked in horror. “Mariner? John Mariner? Aw, come on!”

“Ja! If he is here—and if he thinks the situation on the ground is under control…”

The American finished the statement for him. “Then he’ll go after Tiff.” Cursing under his breath, Javon hoisted Jakob against him tighter. “Come on, let’s get you out of here!”

It only took several seconds of sprinting for Scott’s adrenaline to overshadow the pain in his thigh. As he circled widely around the burning V2, he glanced briefly in the direction of the approaching transport as it settled down into the mud. There was no doubt in his mind that the V2 was Vector’s. For an ambush this under-the-radar, EDEN wouldn’t have sent anyone else.

As the V2’s engines whined down, its rear bay door opened, the light from it barely distinguishable behind the wall of rain. If there was any good news in this, it was that there was still plenty of distance between him and them. If he could get around his own transport before they left theirs, he could avoid being immediately detected. Looking steadfastly ahead, he lowered his chin and sprinted harder.

The figure came out of nowhere, first appearing as a shadow in the storm before charging straight for him with frightening speed. It was a person, coming from the opposite direction of the V2 and the wrecked car. Where had he come from? There was no time for Scott to ponder the question. Adjusting his course to avoid a blindside collision with the new attacker, Scott pulled his fist back in preparation to swing.

What happened next stunned him. The figure slid feet-first toward Scott just as he swung his fist, catching nothing but air. The stranger’s ankles coiled around Scott’s own, twisting and sending Scott falling helmet-first in the mud. As Scott scrambled to his feet, he was grabbed by the back of the neck and spun around violently. Rain battered his face as his helmet was twisted off and flung away. Just as the shockingly cold blast of wetness struck his face, a stepping side kick caught him square in his chest—and hard. Lifting off the ground completely, Scott landed flat on his back in the mud. Shaking water from his face and scampering backward in the slippery mud, he pushed up to his feet to stare his adversary down.

Standing helmetless beneath the downpour was a man roughly Scott’s size and build. A soaked mane of wavy black hair dripped about the man’s long face, at the bottom of which was a neatly-trimmed mustache and goatee. He was not wearing the armor of an EDEN operative. Quite the contrary, the tactical gear he was wearing was even scantier than that of Lilan and the women—as if the man had no intention of getting hit at all.

Who in the hell was this?

There was no time for pleasantries. Casting a quick look to the V2 to see if he could spot Javon anywhere, Scott’s focus returned to the stranger. Wherever Javon went, it was nowhere near where Scott was now. Scott’s assumption that the soldier needed help was in error—and Scott was the one paying for it.

The stranger darted toward Scott. His defenses up, Scott prepared to deliver a table-turning counterattack—a spinning grapple move he’d learned from Dostoevsky. A move he knew like the back of his hand. One that never failed. Pulling back his fist in preparation to withdraw it and spin, Scott thrust out his foot to halt his forward momentum. He knew the attacker would hesitate. Scott’s foot would pivot him around. He’d emerge at the man’s backside with an open shot to attack.

Except the attacker didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even slow down. Lowering his shoulder and hitting Scott like a football linebacker, he once again knocked the fulcrum clean off his feet. Scott’s finesse had been countered by brute force. Driving Scott’s shoulder into the ground, the stranger literally rolled while holding Scott in his arms, popping back up and using the momentum of Scott’s own weight to fling him toward the woods. Scott landed in the most uncontrolled roll he’d ever experienced. Reaching out his hands to slow himself down, he snatched a tree root and quickly righted himself.

Not quick enough.

A clean jab caught Scott square in the mouth, followed by another—then another. Disoriented by the flurry, Scott barely had time to figure out what direction he was facing when the heel of a spinning hook kick smacked him in the side of his head. Stumbling backward, he lost his footing and fell on his rear end.

Stars. All he could see were stars. He was getting his tail whipped. Only one thought entered his mind now: run.

The moment Scott caught sight of the stranger ahead of him, he bolted the opposite way. It might not have been heroic, but in the midst of this desperately-spiraling situation, it was his only means of escape back to his crew, wherever they were. With a full dose of adrenaline masking his pain, his legs propelled him ahead with the speed of a professional athlete. The stranger might have had his number in combat, but there was zero chance he’d beat Scott in a race. Of all the attributes Scott had, running speed might have been his strongest. The only thing Scott had to figure out was how to work his way around Vector’s transport without getting—

Oof!

Scott’s senses were jolted as he was snatched from behind, the stranger’s hand grabbing his golden collar and yanking it backward in the combat equivalent of a horse-collar tackle. Before Scott knew it, he was once again flat on his back.

He’d been caught. He’d actually been caught. Hurrying again to rise to his feet, he was upended by a sweep of his legs that sent him spinning face-down in the mud. In the next second, before he could even lift his head from the muck, a knee pressed against his back, followed by the barrel of a handgun against his neck. With his face and half of his head depressed into the mire, Scott was hit with a horrible realization.

It was over. Even if he did somehow manage to break himself free, to wriggle away from his new adversary, there was simply no way for him to escape. He was thoroughly out-skilled.

His teammates…if they stopped to look for him, they’d be overtaken. He wanted to warn them—he needed to. But his helmet and its internal comm system was gone. Ju`bajai’s connection was a thing of the past. He had no way to tell them he’d just been captured.

Turning his head sideways just so he could breathe, he waited for the man to say something. In a chain-smoker-deep redneck accent, the stranger finally spoke. “Don’t resist.” In his peripherals, Scott saw the stranger lift a comm to his lips with his free hand. “Vector Command, this is Kenner. I’ve got Remington.” He paused. “Bringin’ him to you.”

Kenner? Todd Kenner? His muddied eyes blinking, Scott angled his head a bit more to look up. Could that actually be…?

Before Scott could think on it any further, the man grabbed him by the back of his collar and jerked him to his feet. With a handgun keeping him in check, Scott was forcibly moved through the downpour toward Vector’s transport.

*

Bullets zinged past Natalie’s head, blowing apart pieces of tree bark as she ran, slid, and occasionally dove across the rain-slicked forest floor to avoid them. Slamming her back against the trunk of a large tree, she whipped her wet hair out of her face and raised her commandeered chaos rifle. Pivoting around the corner, she fired blindly at her pursuers before ducking back again and looking across the forest battlefield.

The entire ground op team was scattered. Jayden, Esther, Tom, Ju`bajai, Pyotr…she had no idea where any of them were or what direction they had run. The only ones who’d stayed in her sight range were Becan, Feliks, Mark, an already-wounded Colonel Lilan, and the slayers, all of whom had been in the train with her. The unit was split in two.

Several trees over and doing the best he could to keep up was Javon, carrying the wounded pilot, Jakob, over his shoulder. Grimacing as more bullets zinged past, Natalie scanned the battlefield behind Javon then yelled in his direction. “Move ahead, we’ll cover you!”

Colliding into a tree opposite Natalie, Becan raised his weapon and fired into the veil. His deep Irish accent resonated through his amplified helmet. “I know I wasn’t the only one who saw tha’ V2 land!”

Natalie had indeed seen it—as had everyone else. “If we keep at this pace, we can stay ahead of them!”

“Keep pace to where?”

Once more, a wave of bullets flew in their direction, forcing both Natalie, Becan, and the others participating in the defense effort to hunker down. Motioning to Feliks, who was several meters away, she pointed him in the direction of Javon. “Stay with them! Keep EDEN off their backs!”

“Da, captain!” Feliks replied.

Natalie’s focus shifted to Mark. The cadet was huddled down behind a smaller tree behind Natalie. She removed her sidearm from its holster and flung it in Mark’s direction. It landed with a splatter by the mud-stained youngster’s feet. “Hey—start using that!”

Off to Natalie’s left, Feliks was closing the gap between himself and the team escorting Jakob. As the captain’s emerald eyes narrowed on the three of them, she relented from combat to survey the area. Cupping a hand over her mouth, she shouted, “Where is Remington?”

“What?” Javon shouted back.

“Remington! Where is he?”

Easing Jakob down, Javon looked behind him, in the direction from which they’d been running. Even from a distance and obscured by the storm, his body language spoke of confusion. Turning back to Natalie, he answered, “I thought he was with you!” Next to the soldier, Lilan stopped and looked their way.

Natalie’s teeth clenched. “Veck!”

“Wait,” said Mark breathlessly from behind her, “are you guys saying Scott’s missing?”

“Fire your gun, soldier!” Turning away from Mark as he flinched back, Natalie shot a look to Becan from several trees over. “McCrae!” The Irishman looked her way. “We have a problem!”

*

Combat boots resounded in unison as the whole of the V2’s fighting force touched down, their rhythmic trot down the rear bay door a total contrast to the dynamic splashing of rain and cracking of thunder. At the front of the procession, Lieutenant Chiumbo Okayo barked orders for the strike team to spread out. Intermingled with them were Marty Breaux, Sasha Kireev, Lisa Tiffin, and Pablo Quintana. The four Vector operatives hit the mud with their weapons raised, clustering together as soon as all troops were outside to wait for their specific orders.

Marching down the ramp side-by-side and looking more in sync now than at any previous point in their mission were Leonid Torokin and Logan Marshall. The Australian ex-mercenary looked nothing short of enraged, staring into the downpour in the direction from which Todd Kenner was supposedly approaching. Torokin, having forsaken his judge’s garb for his old set of Vector battle armor, looked equally agitated. No sooner had they set foot in the mire than Kenner appeared, shoving a drenched Scott toward the two men.

Logan wasted no time. Face twisting in rage, he stepped swiftly in Scott’s direction, slamming his fist across Scott’s jaw so squarely that it dropped the outlaw leader like a sack of bricks.

Before the Australian could strike again, he was grabbed from behind by Torokin as Kenner quickly stepped between him and Scott. Groaning woozily from the ground and unable to stand, Scott pressed his forehead into the mud then rolled over. “What the hell did you do with Natalie?” Logan bellowed.

“Enough!” Stepping between the two adversaries, Torokin held his palm out to block the Australian from attacking again. “We have him! That is what we were tasked to do.”

Beneath his visor, Logan was red with fury. “I’m going to knock your vecking teeth out,” he said to Scott, sucking in and spitting across the ramp in Scott’s direction.

Turning his focus from Logan to Kenner, Torokin’s own expression narrowed angrily. “What are you doing here? How did you know this operation was taking place?”

“How do you think?” the deep-voiced redneck answered.

“Klaus,” Torokin snarled. “He told you. How did you even get here?”

Wiping back his soaked locks, Kenner answered, “I took a train.”

“Bigger fish to fry, y’all!” The declaration came from Marty, who was still clustered with Sasha, Lisa, and Pablo and waiting for orders.

Glaring at Kenner, Torokin pointed at Scott. “Put him in the transport and watch him. Your involvement with this operation is over.”

As Kenner yanked Scott to his feet and shoved him inside the ship, Torokin approached Logan and the others. “The outlaws are split into two groups, one heading east-southeast and one following the train north-northeast. They are not organized.” He looked at Logan, Marty, and Sasha. “I want the three of you to head straight east and surpass Chiumbo’s strike force. Curl around and intercept the east-southeast-bound outlaws. Use your speed—go!” Casting one another a glance, the three men set off into the storm.

“Lisa, our secondary forces are landing to the north and will cut off the outlaws following the train. When the outlaws turn back around, I want you waiting for them.”

“Prisoners, sir?” the sniper from Essex asked.

Behind his visor, Torokin’s eyes narrowed. “We have the only prisoner we need.”

Lisa nodded. “Understood.”

As the sniper took off on her own, Torokin’s focus shifted to Pablo. “Get on the comm and make contact with every Japanese law enforcement agency on the peninsula. When the outlaws run out of forest, I want them to hit a wall of flashing lights.”

Offering a thumbs-up, Pablo knelt down to do as told.

It was coming together—the round-up of the outlaws. Remington had already been bagged. All the rest of them needed to do was fall. Clasping his hands behind his back as he stood beneath the torrent, Torokin lowered his chin and waited for the first update to come.

Shoving Scott down at the front corner of the V2, Kenner withdrew a handcuff, securing one end to Scott’s wrist and the other to a guard rail in the troop bay. Settling down against the wall opposite him, he kept quiet, stone cold vigil.

From the cockpit, his own voice subdued, Minh said simply, “Hello, Todd.”

“Hello, Minh,” the former Vector stoically replied.

From the cockpit radio, a new American voice crackled through—one as frigid and unsympathetic as the weather itself. “There are no more airborne threats here. Breaking to intercept Feathers.”

“Affirmative,” Minh answered with resignation. “Vector wishes you luck.”

From his temporary prison attached to the guard rail, Scott closed his eyes. His shoulders sagging, the beaten fulcrum lowered his head.

*

“We need to double back!” sputtered Esther, sliding to a stop in the mud just alongside the train. Turning to face Jayden behind her, she said, “If the rest of them had gone this way, we’d have met them by now!”

“I could’a swore I saw one of ’em boltin’ this way,” Jayden said.

Esther shook her head adamantly. “Then you must’ve seen a ghost.” Whipping her head to the side, she called out to Tom and Pyotr. “You two! Get over here!” Lagging far behind but doing her best to keep up, Ju`bajai trudged exhaustedly toward them, too. As soon as Esther saw the alien, she gave it her attention. “Can you pick up anything? Can you connect us to anyone from the other team?”

Without a word, the Ithini slumped to her knees. She was thoroughly enervated.

“Fan-sodding-tastic,” Esther said. “One of you two is going to have to carry her.” Her eyes focused on Tom. “You’re a strapper. Pick her up.”

“Look,” Tom said, “I don’t—”

The scout cut him off sharply. “I said pick her the bloody hell up!”

Grumbling, Tom did as told.

In the midst of Esther’s commands, Jayden pointed to the sky far ahead of her. “Look!” The group’s focus collectively turned, where the spotlight of a second V2 split through the rain.

“Veck!” Esther pointed to the woods. “Everyone, go! Get in the woods!”

Ju`bajai’s voice, frayed and frazzled, entered Esther’s mind as the group ran into the forest. Someone is approaching from the other side of the train.

Slip-sliding to a halt, Esther turned and knelt low to the ground, straining to see the train. “Is it someone from the ground op team?”

“What?” Jayden asked, slowing to regard her.

“Shh!”

The Ithini’s voice came again. I am attempting to identify. It is difficult. I am sorry.

“I know you’re tired, sprite. I believe in you. Give me something.”

It is a female. She is unfamiliar. Attempting to… A brief pause came, followed by a small swell of understanding. She is as Jayden.

Looking back confusedly, Esther simply asked, “What?”

She is a sniper.

“A sniper?” A moment later, the scout’s arched eyebrow narrowed. Turning her head slowly back to the train, she asked, “How much can you tell me about this sniper?”

A growing sensation of fatigue throbbed in the connection. I am trying.

“Is she a Vector?”

Listening intently to the one-sided conversation, Jayden knelt down beside Esther.

All the while Esther waited, her simmering glare held steadfastly on the train ahead of her. Even as loose strands of hair escaped the protection of her helmet and slid down over her eyes, she made no effort to move them. Her breathing grew slower—more concentrated. In stark contrast, with every passing second, her heart beat harder.

She identifies as a Vector. The fatigue won over. A wave of defeat washed over the connection. I can delve no deeper. I am weakened.

“You’ve told me enough,” Esther said.

As the scout rose to her feet, Jayden addressed her from behind. “Hey, what are you doin’? If someone is comin’, shouldn’t we be goin’ the opposite way?”

“Not this time,” answered Esther quietly. Shouldering her assault rifle and taking out her pistol, the scout looked back at her husband with fury. “That’s the sniper from Vector.”

The Texan blinked. “From Vector? Why does that…” His mouth opening in revelation, he finished the statement despite the lack of necessity to. “…matter.”

“You know precisely why it matters.”

After hesitating for a moment, Jayden reached out for her. “Don’t do it, baby. She might have been the one to kill Travis, but that doesn’t mean it was her fault. What if she was just doin’ what she thought was right?”

The scout’s eyes narrowed. “Then she’s about to learn how wrong she was.” Looking past him to Tom, Pyotr, and Ju`bajai, she pointed. “Go! Head back toward the site and try to find the rest of the team.” Turning her head back toward the train, she dipped her chin and glared. “This’ll only take a bit.”

*

With every second that passed, Natalie found herself and her comrades that much closer to being overwhelmed by the approaching EDEN force. The only saving grace they had was that the group of attackers engaging them seemed to consist of the survivors of the train crash, equally battered and bruised as the ones they were pursuing. Just the same, it was a game of numbers—and Natalie’s side was outnumbered.

“We’ve got to find Remmy!” Becan shouted over the cacophony of hard rain and weapons fire.

Remington. Even in the middle of an all-out firefight, he was prevalent in Natalie’s mind. He’d been right. About EDEN’s intent, about the compromises they’d been willing to make to keep this, whatever it was, silent. That man—Mendoza—would have killed them. That might not have been all too surprising in regards to herself and the Falcons, all of whom by their very presence on the operation had called their allegiance into question. But Mark? He was a boy. Of everyone in that train car, he was the only one whose innocence was wholly assured. Yet he was in their crosshairs just like everyone else. None of them, innocent or not, were meant to make it out alive. That wasn’t what EDEN was supposed to be about. Questionable means or not, Scott had been dead-on about EDEN’s ill-intent. Wherever he was, they had to go find him.

She had to.

Natalie had been the one entrusted as second-in-command by Scott. Even knowing that she could have turned on them all, he gave her that opportunity to see the light for herself. To lead. This was the only way she knew how to. “Everyone, fall back!”

“If yeh think for one second, woman, tha’ I’m leavin’ Remmy behind, you’ve lost your bleedin’ marbles!” said Becan.

Leave Scott behind? Not a chance. “I’m going after Remington. The rest of you, go!”

Behind his faceless helmet, the Irishman blinked. “Wha’?”

“Go!” The Caracal captain pointed off in the direction they’d been heading. “I can slip through them by myself. I want the rest of you gone—that’s an order.” While Becan stared at her in silence, she whipped her head to Lilan. “Colonel, you have command.”

With resignation, the injured veteran addressed her. “Good luck, captain. Find Remington, then get your tail back to us, pronto.”

“I intend to.” Ducking back as a stream of weapons fire trained her way, Natalie wiped bits of tree bark off her face and scanned the forest. There was one spot in particular—one small spot out to the southwest—where no orange flashes emanated. Her window to rescue Scott was right there. Sucking in a breath, she waited for the slayers to lay down heavy suppression before darting from the safety of the tree she’d been covering behind, sprinting as quickly as she could across the wet forest floor.

Seconds later, Lilan took command. “All right, everyone! Fall back—and draw some of ’em after us while you’re at it. Let’s give Miss Rockwell some room to work!”

Falling back in unison, the decimated team kept their fingers on the triggers, moving deftly from one tree to the next as EDEN’s bullets nipped at their heels. Except for one soldier, whose viridian eyes stayed locked on Natalie until she disappeared into the storm.

On the other side of the battlefield, mixed in with the survivors of the train crash in their pursuit of the Falcons and Fourteenth, yet another individual caught sight of the sprinting captain. Someone trained to keep tabs on every member of the opposition, be they distant, or very, very close. Someone trained to isolate and kill.

And eager to add a second captain to his belt.

*

One hand in front of the other, one foot cautious yet quick up the side of the train car. Such was the pace of Lisa Tiffin as she scaled the two-level train car. The Vector sniper had been moving parallel with the retreating outlaws as they followed the train track through the peninsula. The fact that the train had stopped was beneficial. It gave her a place to find height that didn’t require scaling a tree in a frigid, blasting rain shower. Placing her gloved hands on the rim of the car, she propelled herself upward with a final leap, coming to a slippery rest on the top. Unshouldering her sniper rifle, she raised it to her visor and scanned the tree line as best she was able.

Sniping in the rain was never the preference of a sniper—but desperate times called for desperate measures. Retracting her visor, Lisa closed one eye and pressed the other to her scope.

She could see them through her sniper rifle’s infrared. Though diminished in the downpour, their heat signatures were still easily detectable in contrast to the cold. Two soldiers and…

…and an Ithini. It was right there, retreating alongside the two men in Nightman armor. The smaller size of its heat signature was unmistakable. Steadying her breath, Lisa guided the reticule over the back of the alien’s head.

Snap.

At the sound of a breaking stick, the sniper froze. Jerking her head up from the scope, she lowered the sniper rifle and looked behind her. Movement. Nearby movement from the bottom of the train that’d circumvented her from further ahead. She set her sniper rifle down on the roof.

Not only was Vector battle armor of greater structural integrity, it was also outfitted with technological enhancements that set them far above the armor of standard EDEN operatives. Pulling out her lawmaker pistol—the high-performance counterpart to the X-111 chaos rifle—the sniper lowered her visor and engaged its penetrator function, allowing her visor to slice through layers of physical objects to detect life forms behind them. Adjusting its strength output to let it see through the train, she could clearly see the heat signature of a lone person stalking alongside the train, ever closer to her position. With the way this outlaw was silently stalking along, there was no question in Lisa’s mind which one this had to be.

Esther Brooking. Her former fellow scout in Philadelphia Academy.

Creeping stealthily backward, to the opposite side of the train from which Esther was approaching her, Lisa set her hands on the car’s upper rim and dropped down over the edge.

With every step Esther took alongside the train, her pistol raised and ready, the scout-turned-valkyrie paused as her senses worked overtime. That the Vector sniper was there somewhere was a certainty. Ju`bajai wouldn’t have made such an uncannily specific mistake like that. All Esther had to do was find her.

Much as had been the case in Krasnoyarsk, the rain over the peninsula was both torrential and incessant. If there was any plus in the comfort department now as opposed to then, it was that Esther had the luxury of wearing head-to-toe tactical gear, which though not wholly protective, still kept her far drier than a skin-clinging maxi dress.

Another step, another pause. Furrowing her brow, Esther angled her head to listen to her surroundings. Beyond the distant rattling of weapons fire, there was only the splatter of rain against mud. Lifting her back foot out of the mire, she took another step forward.

The shuffle of boot against ground came from behind her. Esther spun around to face it. She was a half-second too late. By the time she saw the sniper behind her, Lisa’s pistol was already raised.

“Drop it,” the Essex native ordered.

Smirking with disdain, Esther said, “You’d like to see that, wouldn’t you?”

“Drop it, Esther.”

Esther’s brow furrowed. Squinting with suspicion, she leaned her head forward to see her adversary better. “I know you…”

Behind her tinted visor, Lisa’s eye twitched. Angling her head slightly, she spoke into her comm. “Vector Command—Esther Brooking is in custody.”

“I most certainly am not.”

“Be quiet.”

Making a series of tsk sounds, Esther said, “Such a clever little ambush this was—to make someone believe they’re chasing something only to pull the rug from under their feet. In one calculating little move, the predator’s plans derail like a train.”

With a ponytail-swinging head tilt, Lisa said, “We were quite prepared for you.”

“You?” Sucking in, Esther shook her head. “Oh, no, no, no, my dear girl. I was talking about us.”

A shot rang out through the storm. Lisa leapt with a start and withdrew her hand as something struck her outstretched pistol. It fell to the ground in shattered pieces. Her green eyes widened like a deer’s eyes in headlights; the Vector sniper whipped her head around to locate the unseen attacker. Standing forty meters away and with his own sniper rifle raised, Jayden hovered the weapon’s crosshairs over Lisa’s torso. Hesitantly, Lisa looked back at Esther.

“Ditch your helmet.” Esther’s pistol was raised again, aimed straight at the Vector sniper’s head.

Lisa didn’t move. “Why?”

“Because I’m not going to let you comm your little purple friends, and I’m most certainly not going to let them track your location through it.” The valkyrie cocked her hips. “You remember that whole ‘custody’ thing? Yeah, you’re in ours.”

Stuck in the middle and with little choice but to comply, Lisa slid her helmet off. Lowering her head as if shamed and suddenly vulnerable, she tossed it unceremoniously in the mud. Through dripping lashes, she stared up at Esther.

Once more, Esther’s brown eyes were squinting. Inhaling slowly with recollection, she lifted her chin. “I knew I knew you,” she said with a mixture of irritation and disbelief. “How could I forget that little mink’s nose and those elf ears?”

Though Lisa stayed silent, her face slowly flushed red.

“Lisa Tiffin.” As much in awe as in anything else, Esther shook her head. “How in the hell did a dropout like you get into Vector?”

“I am not going with you,” Lisa said with quiet determination.

Crack!

The butt of Jayden’s handgun crashed against the back of Lisa’s head, the Texan having crept up behind her while her focus was on Esther. Lisa collapsed sidelong into the mud, where her body lay still.

“My husband disagrees,” Esther said before looking at Jayden. “All right, pick her up quick. We need to move before we lose the rest of the team.”

Grunting as he hoisted Lisa over his shoulder, Jayden said, “You know how they say people are heavier when they’re soakin’ wet? It’s true.”

“You know, for a hunk, you’re kind of a wimp.”

“Shut up.”

*

Natalie stayed low to the ground the whole time she ran. Senses as ever-present as possible in the downpour, she kept a constant eye toward the weapons exchange between EDEN’s forces and the rest of her team, which was growing more distant with every step she made. The wrecked train car was not terribly far ahead—if she could just manage to loop around the backside of EDEN’s forces, she might actually be able to claw her way to it to find Scott. If she could just manage.

The hit came out of nowhere. In one second, Natalie was running at full speed, far away from the active combat. In the next, something slammed into her blindside, knocking her off her feet so hard, it sent her head spinning.

Falling sideways with an agonizing crunch, Natalie groaned as she was grabbed by the collar and hurled through the air like a rag doll. Falling for the second time in what felt like as many seconds, the Caracal captain landed on the wet ground with a hard, muddy splatter. Sliding and whipping the hair from her face, she skedaddled backward and to her feet, hands raising in defense as she searched frantically for her attacker.

He wasn’t hiding.

Standing before her, not a weapon in his hand, was Oleg Strakhov. The bearded former Nightman reached out with his hand, beckoning her forward like a fighter on the other end of a cage.

Wiping mud from her lips and snarling, Natalie didn’t hesitate. The Caracal captain charged toward Oleg, swinging at him with a jab, then pulling her elbow back for a combination strike. Oleg dodged them with ease. Blocking a third attack with his forearm, the Russian delivered a hard kick into her shin, buckling Natalie over with a painful howl. Following through with a lightning-quick roundhouse to the side of her head, Oleg sent the chestnut-haired captain spinning to the ground. Natalie landed back-first in the mud, crying out as the force of the impact sent a sharp pain up her spine. Grimacing, she scooted backward to try and stand again.

From his belt, Oleg pulled out a knife. He flipped it up in the air then caught it and licked the blade. “At Novosibirsk, I was known for this. Knocking people like you back down to size.”

Her glare burning, Natalie staggered to her feet, blowing hard to jettison the pain. Oleg lunged for her, his blade slicing through the raindrops as he went for her midsection. Jumping back just enough to avoid it, Natalie reached for the Russian’s knife-wielding arm, only to have her feet swept out from under her by another hard kick. For a second time, she landed on her back. Eyes opening widely as Oleg thrust his blade down, she rolled sideways to narrowly avoid it. Fueled by pure adrenaline, she propelled herself back up to her feet—but too late to avoid a hit. Oleg’s blade whipped through the air across her left arm, cutting cleanly through her tactical gear and slicing her bicep. Clutching her arm and screaming, Natalie sent her right hand up just in time to block a strike that would have hit her in the neck. Reversing her block, Oleg gripped her right arm, slung it over his shoulder, and literally threw her around his body and back-first into a tree. Then…

Smack!

A haymaker was sent crashing into Natalie’s cheek—her lip burst as she stumbled sideways like a drunkard. A second was sent, then a third, one after the other on the same side of her face like a boxer pummeling his opponent in the corner. With a final fervent slug, Natalie was spun then dropped, falling face-first into the mire with her arms outstretched.

Straining to lift her head out of the mud, Natalie coughed, blood and pieces of a tooth flying out of her busted lips. Eyes caked and closed, she struggled to stand. Curling his fingers around her chestnut ponytail, Oleg lifted her head and readied his knife.

Like a blur, something emerged from just beyond the outcropping of trees near them. Running at full speed, the newcomer charged into Oleg headlong, sending both the fallen eidolon and his new adversary sliding across the mud as Natalie’s head was released. Sucking in a breath, Natalie wiped the mud from her face and turned to look.

Leaping from atop Oleg and springing to his feet, Becan whipped his head Natalie’s way. “Get ou’ of here! I’ve got this one.”

“McCrae,” Oleg snarled as Becan moved between him and the fallen captain. “Bold move for a coward.”

“Says the man hittin’ a woman while she’s down.”

Flipping his knife from one hand to the other, Oleg said, “I have a score to settle with you.”

“You an’ me, both.”

Footsteps emerged behind the Irishman. Glancing back to regard them, Becan watched as Natalie lumbered up next to him. Wiping back her hair with both hands, she blew out an exhausted breath and gave Becan a look. With simmering emerald eyes, the embattled captain said, “Let’s take out this trash.”

Raising an impressed eyebrow behind his faceplate, Becan returned his focus to Oleg.

A smirk spread across the Russian’s face. “Two on one? Too bad there was no second person to help Remington. He might have actually put up a fight before Vector captured him.”

Becan’s body went rigid. Even in his armor, it was noticeable.

“I’m sorry,” said Oleg, “did you not get that message?”

Dashing forward, Becan propelled himself and his fist forward, diving through the air with blinding speed and sending his knuckles crashing for Oleg’s face. Side-stepping as he swatted Becan’s hand, Oleg’s counterattack was thwarted by Natalie, who slid forward in the mud like a baseball player at the Russian’s feet. In the same second that Oleg leapt aside to dodge, the Irishman was upon him, sending a flurry of attacks toward him—punching, kicking, spinning, jumping. He was a veritable whirlwind.

With each attack Becan made, Oleg was pushed further and further back, though the Nightman blocked with deftness. At long last, Oleg went on the offensive. Grabbing one of Becan’s outstretched legs in mid-kick, Oleg was about to give it a twist when the Irishman came off his feet, sending his other foot soaring through the air toward Oleg’s face. The Russian charged forward, cutting the attack short and pile-driving Becan into the mud. The Irishman grunted as his back hit the ground hard.

Before Oleg had a chance to strike again, Natalie came up behind him, sliding into him and wrapping her right arm around his throat to pull him backward. Oleg thrust his elbow back, striking Natalie in the forehead—the moment her grip on him was weakened, he spun and swept her legs from beneath her, spinning back in Becan’s direction before the Irishman could press another attack of his own. With his hand gripping his knife firmly, Oleg slashed it viciously through the air. When Becan instinctively raised his arms to block the strikes, Oleg made his move. Kicking at Becan’s feet, he wrapped his legs around them, twisted his body, and sent the Irishman falling forward. The moment Becan fell, Oleg was on his back, grabbing Becan’s helmet and wrenching it off. With unarmored flesh before him, Oleg raised his knife in the air to make the kill.

Rat-tat-click-click-click-click.

Howling as a bullet skimmed his arm, Oleg instinctively dropped his knife and scampered backward. Several meters in front of him, Natalie threw down her depleted chaos rifle and reached for her pistol. Face twisting with fury, Oleg leapt to his feet and dove for her, colliding into her just as she was about to fire. Natalie was slammed then pinned to the ground, Oleg’s hands on hers as he fought to pry the pistol from her grasp. Bashing her in the face with his forehead, he ripped the gun from her hand when she wrenched back in pain.

No effort was wasted on Natalie—Oleg went straight for the Irishman. Still atop the Caracal captain, he turned with hand outstretched and pulled the trigger, just as Becan was moving in on him. The barrel flashed, and blood erupted from the side of Becan’s temple. The Irishman twisted and fell in the other direction.

“Veck!” Becan yelled as his hands covered his face. He tried to desperately scramble away.

Fingernails dug into Oleg’s face. As Natalie screamed at the top of her lungs in fury, Oleg snarled and struck at her with the butt of his pistol. Raising her now-freed right hand, she grabbed Oleg’s before he could continue to beat her. Slamming her knee into the Russian’s midsection, Natalie then butted his face with the crown of her forehead; he buckled from the blow. In the split second before Oleg’s grip on the pistol failed, he flung the weapon to the wayside.

But the gun was not what she was going for. Extending her reach into the mud beside them, she clutched her fingers around Oleg’s abandoned knife. Without a second’s hesitation, she sent it slamming into the side of Oleg’s waist. When the Russian reared back and howled, she lifted her head from the muck and shoved him away.

Sliding desperately through the mud, Natalie’s searching hands found the cast-aside pistol. Whipping her head around with ponytail-flinging fury, she aimed it at Oleg just as he scampered out of sight through the trees. Her bullets found only bark as the adversary disappeared.

Thunder cracked as a flash of lightning illuminated the forest. Her chest heaving, Natalie knelt on the ground, pistol still raised as she gasped to catch her breath. Aside from the downpour, the forest was still. Buckling forward, she thrust out her right hand to stop herself from falling. As mud-soaked strands dangled from her forehead, her muscles loosened. Limbs shaking, she fought to regain physical control. Looking up and still open-mouthed, Natalie turned to look for Becan. The Irishman was crawling furiously away from the scene.

“McCrae,” she grunted desperately, clawing up from the mud as she stumbled his way. Sliding to her knees next to him, she threw aside her pistol and grabbed his shoulder. She quickly turned him around. “Let me see!” Wiping his wet hair back and over his head, she zeroed in on the Irishman’s face. The bullet had zinged him just off the side of his temple. An inch more inward and the Irishman would have been killed.

“Bleedin’ hell!” he said as he pressed his hand against the wound.

Natalie pulled it away. “Don’t touch it. You have mud all over your hands. Let the rain wash it out.”

“Where did he go?”

Looking back into the woods, Natalie answered, “He’s gone.”

“Vecking coward.” He spit at the ground.

Though rain pelted her from head to toe, the Caracal captain sat still on her knees as she stared into the forest where Oleg had retreated. Natalie’s entire reason for being on this mission was to find out the truth. She thought she might find it in an alien device. What’d presented it instead was a cold, twisted reality.

EDEN was supposed to be on the side of humanity—the side that valued life, that fought for it. But it wasn’t someone from EDEN who’d charged into a fight to save her life. It was the total opposite. An outlaw had risked his life saving her from EDEN. From the organization she’d given everything to. That she’d fought and bled for. That’d she’d believed in. But she’d believed in a lie.

“You were right.” She could barely muster the words, though the person they were meant for was nowhere near her. Lowering her head woozily as her worldview came crumbling down, she said again, “You were right.”

This was not the work of an organization that cared for human life. This was from one that had an agenda. A plot. And if a human stood in their way, then that human would become collateral damage. EDEN’s lackeys wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

She looked at Becan. “Get up—we have to get back to the others.”

“But wha’ abou’ Remmy?”

There was no reason to believe Oleg had been lying about that. If his intent had been to deceive, he would have simply told the two of them that Scott was dead. “I think we’re too late.”

The Irishman shook his head. “With all due respect, captain, there’s no way in bloody hell tha’ I’m leavin’ him behind.”

“The two of us couldn’t take your friend just now—there’s no chance we’re going to take him and Vector. This isn’t cowardice, Becan. It’s knowing when we’re beat.” Slogging up to her feet, she reached down her hand to pull Becan up. He took it. “He wouldn’t want us to go after him. He’d want us to finish the mission he came here for—to blow the lid off this whole thing. That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

There was no denying the reality before them, and after a second of what appeared to be internal deliberation, Becan sighed in resignation. “Aye.”

“Now let’s get moving. We’ve got to get back to the others.” With no further words, the two of them set off after Lilan’s team.

*

Javon was moving as fast as his boots could move through the mud, which was growing thicker and wetter with every passing minute. Jakob Reinhardt, the extent of whose injuries were still unknown, had taken voluntarily to moving on his own, despite the vastly slower pace it forced the rest of them to adopt. With the sheer amount of firepower being sent toward them by EDEN’s forces, the need for speed was replaced by the need to fire back. As long as Javon was helping Jakob, neither man was able to provide the suppression fire necessary for an escape. And the only other one moving directly with them, Mark Remington, was barely any help at all. He looked on the verge of falling apart.

It did not help matters that, shortly after Natalie left them to find Scott and Becan took off after her, a new force arrived on the scene—one markedly faster and more accurate than the surviving members of EDEN’s ambush team on the train. An entirely new squad, led by a lone officer in Vector’s purple and white armor, was pushing the escapees to their limit.

Chaos rounds zipped past Javon’s head as he ducked, sliding behind a toppled tree trunk to fire a burst of suppression fire while Jakob caught up to him. Fortunately for both men, they were not the only ones fighting back. As Javon had focused his efforts on getting Jakob out of there, Feliks Petrukhin had taken to commanding the slayers that Valentin had lent them. Of the six slayers originally on the team, five were still alive, the other having been dropped shortly after the Vector-led reinforcements arrived. Together with Feliks, they formed the barrier that prevented Javon and Jakob from being clear targets.

What Javon saw in Feliks, he had never seen before in a soldier on the battlefield. The slayer was a war machine, issuing orders and dictating suppression zones in a manner that was as ruthless as it was efficient. That they were still hanging on by a thread and notably on the defense didn’t matter. If not for Feliks, none of them would even be alive.

Overseeing it all was Colonel Lilan. Having delegated the task of slayer-control to Feliks, Lilan freed himself up to be the scrambling party’s guiding hand, keeping a constant, watchful eye on both the advancing enemy and the muddy forest ahead of them. Despite his efforts, however, the colonel’s ability to keep up with the frantic pace of combat was on the verge of not being enough. Be it due to age or injury, he was struggling.

Several seconds after Jakob caught up with Javon behind the fallen tree, things got worse. A bullet from the Vector’s party struck Lilan in the midsection; the colonel yowled and buckled over. “Coach!” Javon yelled, leaping back over the tree and dashing after Lilan. The colonel screamed in agony as Javon grabbed him from behind and under his shoulders, dragging him back behind another tree while Jakob took over the role of protection.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Lilan said, though a second after the statement was uttered, blood was coughed up out of his mouth.

“You ain’t okay, coach,” Javon said, stepping in front of Lilan to fire off another volley at the enemy forces. Seconds after he laid down on the trigger, his weapon stopped firing. He was out of ammunition. Casting the assault rifle aside, Javon knelt down to scoop Lilan up into his arms. Looking up to find Feliks, Javon called out to the slayer at the top of his lungs. “Petrukhin! Colonel is down!”

Despite the cacophony of battle noise, the amplification of Javon’s slayer helmet was loud enough, and Feliks heard the call. Glancing back briefly, the Russian’s focus returned to the five slayers with him. Barking orders out in Russian and making the “perimeter” sign with his hand, Feliks knelt down behind a tree and halted his slayers’ movement. All six of them committed fully to laying down defensive fire.

“All right,” Javon said, looking back at Lilan. Behind his faceless helmet, the black soldier’s jaw dropped. Lilan’s eyes were rolling back; his neck was swaying in discombobulation. “Hey!” Sliding around to sit in front of Lilan, Javon pulled off his helmet to stare at the colonel face-to-face. His brown eyes wide in panic, Javon propped Lilan’s face upright. “Stay with me, coach! C’mon, man, keep it goin’!”

His mouth bloodied, Lilan smiled. “It’s all right, man. I’m feelin’ all right.” The colonel’s eyes closed, and his head slumped forward.

“Veck!” Looking around in a panic, Javon’s stare found Mark, still hunkering down like a kid beside Jakob. “Hey, you!” Mark shot a scared look at him. “Get over here, now!”

Tears were literally in the youngster’s eyes. “I…”

“I said get over here!”

Popping up more from fear than obedience, Mark scampered from his cover toward Javon, covering his bare head with his hand as if that would make any difference to the bullets zinging past him. Nearly falling over his own two feet at the halfway mark, the younger Remington finally made it to the tree where Javon was with Lilan.

“You’re a medic, right?” Javon asked, rain streaming down his face.

Mark paled two shades. “I’m—yeah, but no, I—“

“Fix him up!”

Staring down at the colonel, Mark froze. Lilan’s head was still limp, his body devoid of motion. Reaching with violently shaking hands, Mark searched aimlessly for the colonel’s wound.

Pulling back after firing several shots with his pistol, Javon pointed at the colonel. “His stomach, man!”

Nodding frantically, Mark reached around Lilan’s back to undo his chest piece. When it finally detached, the cadet pulled it away. In the dead center of the colonel’s torso, a baseball-size, dark red stain seeped through his uniform. “Oh, crap,” Mark said through tears. Reaching forward nervously, he unzipped the uniform to see the wound beneath.

“What’s he got?” Javon asked.

“He got shot!”

Looking at Mark deadpanned, Javon simply said, “Really?”

Feliks and his slayers were doing their best to stave off the advance of the Vector-led squad—but to little avail. Another slayer had fallen since the defensive stand began, leaving only four of them to help Feliks try and defend the injured colonel. But the oncoming adversaries were greedy and fast, not content to simply sit back and let their weapons do their work from afar. With every offensive shot an operative fired, the one next to him fired suppression so his partner could move forward. In what seemed like every ten seconds that passed, the enemy line was not only firing, but drawing closer.

Another slayer was felled, his body riddled with chaos rounds as his own weapon flew from his hands and he collapsed. The entire defensive effort was down to four.

Suddenly, new firepower emerged from the north, not aimed at the outlaws, but at EDEN. Feliks ducked back momentarily to look. There, in the distance but steady approaching, was a pair of men in familiar armor. Though their faces couldn’t be seen behind the faceless helmets they wore, Feliks knew exactly who they were.

Tom and Pyotr.

The two soldiers were ducking and weaving, sliding behind trees and disappearing around others as they drew rapidly closer to Feliks’s defense effort. Behind them, a small female fighter in tactical gear emerged. Esther. The group was coming back together. Slamming the last spare magazine he’d picked up in the train car into his weapon, Feliks rounded the tree again and fired into the maelstrom. They couldn’t stay where they were for long—at some point, EDEN would press in and overwhelm them. But with these added numbers, as small as they were, it gave them a chance to hold the line.

Feliks would take it.

As Jakob fired his pistol from behind the fallen tree, a pair of heavy boot steps emerged to his right. The pilot turned to see the unconscious body of Lisa Tiffin being plopped down beside him, face sideways to the rain as Jayden knelt down beside her and readied his sniper rifle. “You okay, man?” the Texan asked him.

Nodding his head, Jakob asked, “Who is she?”

“A hostage, I guess!” Pulling the trigger, he sent a bullet zinging toward the EDEN offensive. “We like to take ’em!” Glancing about the battlefield, Jayden shot Jakob a confused look. “Hey, we got some people missin’?”

The pilot ducked back as part of the tree trunk near his head exploded. “Rockwell and McCrae went back to find Remington! We lost him somehow along the way.”

“What?” His good eye widening, Jayden once again surveyed the area. “Veck, man, we gotta go after ’em!”

Sliding behind the toppled tree trunk next to Jayden, Esther asked, “Is it just me, or are we short a few people?”

“It ain’t just you! Scott went missin’, and Natalie and Becan went back there to find him!”

The Briton gasped. “You mean they’re out there somewhere now?”

“Yeah!”

Grabbing him by his shirt, she turned him to face her. “Jay…”

“I know, I know. I’m goin’ after ’em.”

“We are going after them!”

Jayden tapped Jakob on the shoulder. “Hey man! Make sure someone carries her outta here.” He motioned down to Lisa. “Tell Javon we’ll meet up somewhere if y’all get to movin’—we got some folks missing that we gotta get after!”

The pilot nodded. “Be careful.”

Without further delay, Jayden and Esther locked eyes. “Let’s go before someone tries to stop us,” the Texan said. Nodding vigorously, Esther joined him as they bolted parallel to the battlefield to work their way west.

Standing guard over Mark and Colonel Lilan, Javon barked out occasional words to Feliks, who was ahead of them. With the “slayer wall” formed in front of them, the amount of enemy fire that rained down on Javon’s position had greatly diminished. Just the same, he knew their window to stay there was rapidly closing. “What he’s lookin’ like, Remington? You got him patched up, yet?”

Mark didn’t. Not at all. Working without tools and without any medical experience in actual combat, the cadet was grasping at straws. Running his blood-soaked hands through his hair, he shook his head. “I think, uhh…I think…”

“You think what?” Javon asked without looking.

Lilan’s eyes shot open, and he stared half-crazed at Mark in front of him. His nostrils drawing hard breaths, Lilan reached for Mark’s collar as the cadet all but shrunk back in horror. The colonel’s gaze drifted about, then up, where it locked onto Javon. Reaching out, he grabbed the black soldier by the leg guards of his slayer armor.

Halting his fire, Javon looked down as Lilan grabbed him. Lowering his pistol and dropping to a knee, his collar was snagged by Lilan the moment he was within arm’s reach. Lilan didn’t say anything, but his stare—that same focused, knowing stare—lingered hard on Javon’s dark brown eyes. Jaw clenched and unable to speak, the colonel shook Javon’s collar ever so slightly, in a manner that was almost like unspoken reassurance. The gesture was repeated a second time, before his fingers uncurled, and Javon was released. Lilan leaned back against the tree, where his eyes lost their hold on reality. He exhaled through his nostrils again, then his muscles retired.

Colonel Lilan was dead.

Almost beside himself, Mark sat the colonel’s body upright again and shook it. “Oh, man, oh, man!” He desperately tried CPR, then chest compressions, both to no avail. But still, in panicked futility, he tried.

Rising to his feet, Javon leaned back against the tree. Stone-faced, he stared into the rainstorm. That look in the colonel’s eyes, those collar-shaking gestures. Even with Lilan being unable to speak in his final moments, Javon knew exactly what had just happened.

A transfer of command.

As Javon stared down at his pistol, his eye focus shifted slowly past it to his helmet on the ground, its featureless faceplate looking back up at him. Kneeling down slowly, he picked it up in his hands, then fit it over his head, the frigid sensation of rain on his afro and scalp replaced with cold, hard metal. As the helmet’s internal cameras reengaged and the forest came into view, he reached his hand out blindly to grab hold of Mark’s arm. The cadet ceased his efforts and looked shakily at him. “Just pick him up,” Javon said, his voice once again amplified by the slayer’s helmet.

Acknowledging with a trembling, “yes sir,” Mark complied, straining to pick the fallen colonel up and hoist him over his shoulder.

Javon turned the volume of his helmet amplification to full blast. Turning back to the firefight, he said, “Everybody…time to move!” There was nothing more that they could do there. Any hope for their survival was outside of the forest.

*

Natalie could see the exchange of firepower through the storm. As she and Becan drew nearer to it, the echoes of gunfire replaced the hammering of rainfall. Approaching at an angle that put the two of them out of the primary combat zone, she was able to circumvent EDEN’s forces entirely as she made her approach.

Bullets zinged past her head from the direction whence she and the Irishman had come, as if they’d been caught up to from behind. Sliding to her knees, she scurried behind a tree, as did Becan adjacent to her. “Oleg,” the Irishman seethed.

“Hold your fire!”

The voice—one Natalie recognized—called out from the storm as the hail of bullets stopped. It was Logan. “Lo!” Leaping to her feet, Natalie pivoted around the corner of the tree and back into the open while Becan stared at her dumbstruck.

Far behind them and with Logan at the lead, he, Marty, and Sasha moved quickly in Natalie’s direction. Though Marty and Sasha had indeed stopped firing, their weapons were still raised and ready. “Nattie, get on the ground!” Lifting his own chaos rifle, Logan moved around her to get an angle at Becan.

“No!” cried Natalie alarmingly, moving quickly to block the Australian’s line of sight. “Logan, don’t!”

“What the hell do you mean, don’t?”

Holding both her hands out, one to stop Logan and the other to stop his partners from circling them, she pled. “Stop! Everyone, stop!” When they only partially complied, she stared wide-eyed at Logan. “EDEN is lying to you!”

The Australian looked at her like she was crazy. “The hell are you talking about?”

“We came here to find a device,” Natalie sputtered rapidly. “A Ceratopian device with evidence of a conspiracy between the Ceratopian government and Benjamin Archer! Scott was on their tail—this was supposed to blow it wide open. None of this is what you think!”

Logan looked at her like she was crazy. “They’re messing with your head, Nattie. There’s no kind of conspiracy—”

“There is! I swear to God, Lo, I need you to trust me!” Though she tried to keep the other two Vectors in her sights, it was impossible to do without losing track of someone. The three of them had her and Becan evenly surrounded.

“Ma’am, if you da hostage, you better jus’ come wit’ us,” said Marty. “Hey, we’ll take y’all both. We’ll talk about all dis over a nice game of pedro.”

Natalie glared at him. “We’re not going with you.” Her focus turned back to Logan. “Help us get out of here, Lo. I’ve never lied to you before, and I’m not starting now.”

“Whoa, now.” Marty held a hand up, staring at Logan while Natalie addressed him. “Let’s not start listenin’ to da crazy-talk.”

“Trust me, Logan.” Standing pleading and motionless, Natalie stared through the rain dripping down her eyelashes. “Trust me. You were right about everything else—but I’m right about this.”

Marty raised an eyebrow. Casting a look in Sasha’s direction, the two held steadfast stares of mutual uncertainty as they listened to the conversation unfold.

“There are things none of us were supposed to know about. Things that, if we knew, would expose them for what they’re doing.”

“And what exactly are they doing?” Logan asked warily.

Shaking her head, Natalie hesitated before finally answering, “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“All right, dat’s about enough,” said Marty, making hand gestures to Sasha.

“I’ve never lied to you about anything,” said Natalie quietly, knowing full well that Logan could hear what she was saying. Her gaze remained held with intense conviction. Drenched, muddied, and beaten, Natalie Rockwell was forgoing an escape that was right there for the taking. “I’ve never lied to you.”

Logan’s eyes stayed fixed to her, and indeed he could hear every word she said. Behind the Australian’s EDEN visor, his deep eyes revealed his wrestling with conflicted convictions. At long last, his gaze not once having wavered from Natalie’s—the woman he’d gone all this way to find, for reasons that had nothing to do with what was taking place around them—Logan made his choice. Inhaling deeply through his nostrils, Logan leaned his head to the side just enough for his neck to quietly crack. Eyes shifting to Sasha, then Marty, the Australian said, “I think these two are comin’ with me, mates.”

The Cajun looked at him, stupefied. “Aw, come on. You bein’ real?”

Ever so faintly, the corners of Natalie’s lips curved up. Glancing back, she gave Becan a nod.

“You know if y’all do ’dis, we gonna have to kill y’all?” Marty asked.

“I’d like to see you try that.” The Australian tightened his grip on his weapon.

Pivoting to face Marty, Natalie said stern-faced, “You’re outnumbered three-to-two.”

Marty rubbed the top of his head. “Well, you know,” he said, glancing at Sasha, “the two of us do kinda count as double.”

As Becan hurried to join Natalie and Logan, the Australian said to the two Vectors, “Don’t make a mistake.”

“You da one makin’ it, chief.” Marty’s voice fell dangerously low.

“Freeze!” The voice came from out of nowhere behind Sasha, prompting both he and the others to jump. “Don’t move!” It was Esther. The scout-turned-valkyrie was standing behind Sasha, the barrel of her pistol pressed to the back of his neck in the exposed slit just beneath his helmet. With her finger on the trigger, she glared at Marty, then Logan. “Becan, Venus…come on.”

Natalie looked at Esther as she motioned to Logan. “Him, too. He’s with us.” When Esther gave her a stern look, Natalie said, “Just trust me.”

Setting his hands on his hips, Marty sighed.

“Where’s Scott Remington?” Esther asked, glaring at Marty as the others slowly moved toward her.

“Your outlaw leader done went and got captured,” the Cajun answered. “Just like y’all about to be.”

Esther shot him a smug look. “Yeah, not sure if you’ve been paying attention, but—”

Sasha whipped around, sending his shin sweeping beneath Esther’s feet. As the wide-eyed Briton flipped and went airborne, he ripped her pistol clean out of her hand and pivoted to aim it at Logan, who froze. Esther hit the mud face-first, wrenching her head up in pain as her helmet bounced off and Sasha lowered his knee upon her back, pinning her down.

“Sodding…augh!” Esther screamed, lifting her mud-caked face.

“It’s okay,” Sasha said in a manner that seemed intended to be equally assuring both to Marty and the adversaries. “I got her.”

The shot rang out cleanly, seeming to pierce through the storm itself as it cut through the rain toward the standoff. The familiar, yet muffled pop-pop of a bullet finding its target emerged, and every person present flinched. But none as much as Sasha.

Stumbling forward, his knee leaving Esther’s back, the Vector scout sunk down to both knees as he looked down. In the center of his purple and white armor, at the only place where a bullet could have found flesh, flowing crimson liquid began to pour out. Turning his head slowly in Marty’s direction, Sasha relinquished his grip on the gun he’d taken from Esther. He fell to the mud.

Everyone froze. Staring wide-eyed at Sasha’s body, Esther drew in a breath and whipped her head to the forest. Through dangling tendrils of wet hair, she saw Jayden in the distance. Lifting his good eye from his sniper rifle, the protector locked eyes with his wife.

Marty’s face contorted with rage. Before anyone else could react, the Cajun bolted toward the cover of a nearby tree, glaring through his visor with a murderous rage. Swinging up his chaos rifle with ruthless intent, he laid down on the trigger.

Time slowed as the bullets soared toward Jayden. They tore through his armor. Stumbling backward as blood erupted, Jayden’s sniper rifle fell from his grasp. The Texan collapsed on his back.

“Jay!” Esther shrieked. The valkyrie scrambled up from the ground, flinging mud in all directions as she ran in abject horror for the Texan. The instant she popped up, Marty swiveled to take aim.

The unraveling happened almost too quickly to comprehend. Natalie froze. Logan shouted. Becan tore off red-faced for the Cajun. In doing so, the Irishman became Marty’s greatest threat. Forsaking his clean shot on Esther, Marty pivoted to the other side of the tree and opened fire on Becan. Every shot from his chaos rifle hit its mark. Becan was spun around in midair by the peppering of bullets, blood spewing from his mouth as he rolled through the mud.

Logan returned fire.

Despite the slamming of rain, despite the popping of gunfire, despite the screaming of Esther…it was as if all sound had suddenly muted. Standing in the middle of the erupting scenario, Natalie’s emerald eyes stared widely at the collection of bodies. First to Becan, the one who’d saved her, lying still before her. Then to Sasha, the Vector, who had fallen at Jayden’s hand like a heavy sack into the mud. Then lastly, to Jayden himself, unmoving on his back in the distance as Esther—his newlywed wife—scampered desperately for him. Three bodies in three seconds. The world suddenly gone wrong.

A mere few inches from Natalie’s head, bark from a tree exploded. Natalie flinched back, blinking as she fixed her sights on Marty. But he wasn’t the one firing.

EDEN’s cavalry had found them.

Diving behind another tree, Natalie slid until she was fully behind it. The rationalization process of her mind skipped ahead. It was time to get out of there or die. “Logan!”

The Australian was moving and firing, as was Marty, both men emptying magazines and slamming in new ones with reckless efficiency, each one coming close but not connecting with their targets—each other. Two killing machines vying for the kill.

“Fall back!” Natalie screamed as she took off toward the Australian, bullets from the coming storm following her. There was no time—no chance—to recover either of their fallen comrades. They had to leave now.

Logan was transfixed on Marty, the two men locked in a bloodlust exchange of projectile-fueled malice. Neither man looked prepared to relent.

“Lo, fall back now!”

Seeming to hear Natalie’s voice for the first time, Logan looked her way briefly before the wave of firepower from EDEN’s forces garnered his focus. Sliding behind a tree, he fired a last burst of suppression before taking off after Natalie.

Pointing to Esther, who was still screaming in the face of her fallen husband, Natalie said, “Get her!” There was no point even attempting to order Esther to come. Natalie knew the younger woman wouldn’t obey. Logan all but collided into Esther from behind, grabbing her as she tore and screamed to get away from him, clawing, kicking, and biting with every ounce of primal ferocity within her. But the Australian’s grip was secure. With bullets flying around them, the three survivors tore off for the rest of the team.

The pair from Richmond’s Room 421 were left to the storm.

By the time Natalie and Logan’s retreat intersected with the desperate escapees from the ground op team, EDEN was already on the verge of overtaking them. Of the six-man team of slayers that Valentin had dispatched, only two remained. With Mark struggling, Javon had taken over the task of carrying Lilan’s body, with Tom shouldering the unconscious Lisa Tiffin and Ju`bajai clinging to Jakob’s back as they scampered down the forested mountainside. Only Feliks and Pyotr were left to join the slayers in battle. The team was decimated.

Slowed down by a wildly thrashing Esther, Logan was rendered a mule while Natalie led the way and fired occasional shots behind them. Eventually, however, they rendezvoused. With EDEN nipping at their heels, the group tore down the sloping mountainside as a single team for the first time since the onset of the mission.

Of all those who saw Esther’s frantic struggling against the hulking ex-mercenary who carried her, none watched so closely as Ju`bajai, and within a minute of first beholding Esther, the Ithini’s eyes were opening widely in focus as a mental blanket was laid down. In the midst of her vitriol, Esther’s eyes suddenly widened, then rolled back. Unconscious in a connection-induced slumber, her struggling ceased.

Halfway down the slope, Logan began fiddling one-handedly with his helmet comm while holding Esther with the other. As soon as the frequency he was looking for was set, he began shouting into his mic.

From just behind him, Natalie asked, “What are you doing?”

Pausing mid-comm, he shouted back to her, “Calling in a favor!”

“A favor? From who?”

“Kenji,” said Logan into his comm, “this is Logan Marshall! Remember when I told you one day I’d need help? Today is that bloody day!”

Natalie held her hands out to maintain her balance as she moved downhill. “You know people in Atami?” she asked, referencing the city they were approaching.

“I know people who know people in Atami!”

“Since when?”

Bullets zinged past Logan’s head as he re-gripped the wildly flailing Esther. “There’s a lot you don’t know, Nattie!”

*

Tasman Sea

South Pacific Ocean

THE SUPERWOLF’S ENGINES screamed as the sleek Advanced Tactical Fighter cut through the cloud tops, moonlight reflecting off its silver wings as it weaved back and forth across the night sky. For the past sixty minutes, Tiffany had been playing a game of cat-and-mouse with two mixed squadrons of Superwolves and Vindicators—one from Nagoya and the other from the newly-christened base in Sydney. Despite her best efforts to stay out of missile range, it was impossible to completely avoid the almost two dozen aircraft that were after her. Just the same, Tiffany’s game had been a defensive one in which full throttle was employed as often as possible. So far, it had kept her alive despite some frighteningly close near misses with her adversaries’ javelin missiles.

As per mission parameters, Tiffany had maintained full radio silence with the ground ops team in Japan throughout her flight, though the EDEN radio on board her Superwolf had allowed her to eavesdrop on—and occasionally taunt—the pilots who were pursuing her. Diving through the clouds toward the ocean far below, Tiffany once again queued them up. “C’mon, boys, you’ve gotta give me something better than that! I’m about to fall asleep over here!”

Her hazel eyes on the radio, the blond pilot raised a brow when she saw the aircrafts nearest her break off their pursuit. Her bewilderment only intensified when the others in the two respective squadrons mimicked them. “Uhh,” she said over the mic, “what, is this getting boring for you guys, too?” As every actively pursuing aircraft about-faced to leave, Tiffany muttered confusedly off-comm, “Seriously, guys, what the hell?”

Suddenly, approaching at Mach-4 from the north, a new, lone Superwolf made its entrance. Keeping her eyes on the display, it was plain to see that the solitary fighter was on a direct intercept course with her, while all the others were leaving. “O-kay,” she said curiously, queuing up the oncoming Superwolf. “Feelin’ brave, buster?”

The channel crackled, and the voice of the approaching pilot came through. It was a voice as crisp and clear as it was utterly unconcerned. It was one the Valley Girl—and all pilots—knew well. “Hello, Tiffany.” The blonde’s eyes widened behind her flight helmet as a chill struck her spine. “I am Sin.”

Tiffany looked frantically at the radar screen, honing in on the identification marker above the Superwolf, truly paying attention to it for the first time. Recognition was instant. Lifting her head to stare at the expanse before her, she held her breath.

Sin. A call sign that struck fear even into the hearts of those privileged—and superior—enough to fly alongside him. It was a reference to supreme arrogance. The kind of arrogance needed to defy God with reckless abandon. To reject a freely-given blessing. To slay the albatross.

Mariner.

“Oh, veck,” Tiffany whispered. Swallowing hard, the blonde cleared her throat and shakily replied, “I’m, uhh…I’m Sapphire.”

“No. You’re not.”

Tiffany’s hands were shaking. A lump formed in her throat as she gripped the joystick tighter. Her palms moistened.

“Call signs are earned,” Mariner said. “You have earned nothing. You’re just a girl in a plane.”

Jon Mariner was the squadron leader of the Flying Apparatus. The Vector Squad of the sky. And he was their Klaus Faerber. The Flying Apparatus didn’t just annihilate Bakma Couriers—they embarrassed them. They made complex maneuvers look pedestrian. They anticipated like they were telepathic. Jon Mariner was the number one pilot in the world—and numbers two through twenty were under his authority.

Tiffany had a natural gift for flying. She made flying an “art,” as her Academy instructors put it. But against Mariner, she’d be lucky if she lasted a minute.

Tiffany tried to push the throttle, but it was already pressed to the wall. “Okay, look, I—”

“I order you to surrender your aircraft to the nearest EDEN facility.”

A bead of sweat rolled down the blonde’s forehead. Her heart was thumping to the point where it was getting hard to breathe. “I’m sorry, I…I’m not going to do that.” She felt like she was about to pass out.

The faintest of pauses occurred before Mariner replied. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.” A second later, the connection closed. The speed of Mariner’s Superwolf increased from Mach-4 to Mach-5.

There was nothing Tiffany could do to escape him. Even if she dramatically altered her trajectory, Mariner was coming in too fast, at too aggressive an angle, to outrun. In seconds, she would be in missile range. Angling the joystick down hard, she sent the Superwolf on a screaming dive toward the ocean.

She had to get low. It was her only chance. She could outsmart his missiles that way—use evasive maneuvers to send them plowing into the waters below. Eyeing the radar again, she watched as Mariner drew within javelin striking distance. But no javelins were fired.

Leveling off just above the water, Tiffany hit the afterburners. Mariner, directly behind her, did the same. Entering firing range for short-range trident missiles, the elite pilot once again did not fire. He was coming in with his guns.

Climb! With missiles apparently not part of Mariner’s plan, it was the first thing that came to Tiffany’s mind. If she could draw him into a vertical scissor, or a climb that ended with an Immelmann, or a reverse, or something else that she could think of while her mind raced in a panic, then maybe she had a chance to outmaneuver him. Perhaps he’d be overconfident, or underestimate her ability. Perhaps a roach would crawl across his cockpit window. All of it made the chance worth taking. Holding her breath, Tiffany pulled back hard on the stick as her Superwolf curled skyward. “Come on, come on!” she screamed, looking back for Mariner to pursue. But he didn’t. Mariner’s Superwolf just went streaking past her, making no effort whatsoever to go vertical. Shocked at his lack of aggression, Tiffany’s mind blanked as to what she should do next. She had so many options. She had all of her options. Why would he…?

Mariner’s Superwolf rotated sideways, curling into a hard vertical turn, condensation streaking off the fighter’s wingtips. He was coming around to attack. But why now? Why let her achieve enough distance to pick and choose her counter? She could go offensive, defensive, she could try to maintain some sort of stalemate or once again draw him into something. Desperately trying to figure Mariner out, her hand froze on the stick. There were so many options to think about. Against a pilot as elite as Mariner, which one was right?

Right then, as Mariner drew within range and opened fire, the horrible truth revealed itself to Tiffany. Mariner wasn’t being elite with his attack run. He was being incredibly, incredibly simple. As Tiffany desperately tried to turn out of her climb and bullets struck the left wing of her aircraft, she realized the mistake he’d forced her to make. It was the most basic mistake in the book.

Overthinking.

She’d been terrified. Her voice was trembling all during their brief exchange of one-sided confidence. Mariner knew she was afraid of him….so he didn’t even try. He just let her panic and defeat herself. All the while that she’d been thinking, Mariner had been doing.

And now Tiffany was done.

A spray of bullets lit up her fuselage as Mariner streaked past her. Seconds from dying in a fiery explosion, Tiffany took the only option she had left. She hit eject. The canopy popped open, and Tiffany was rocketed into the sky, spinning like a top until her parachute activated, at which point physics took over. Jolted into a natural falling position, Tiffany grabbed the sides of the parachute ropes as they burst open and the glide down began. Looking behind her, she watched as the fiery wreck that had just been her aircraft plummeted toward the ocean surface.

Rearing back her head, the Valley Girl screamed at the top of her lungs. She could have had him. She could have had him! Had she faced him head on, had she not sounded like she was coming apart at the seams, then maybe, just maybe, their fight could have been fair. But there was nothing fair about destroying herself. It felt like being cheated. It felt wrong.

Like a sin.

Tiffany plunged into the water. Wrestling out of her harness, then out of her gear, she grabbed hold of the floaters that were built into the ejection seat. With a free hand, she pulled off her helmet. With ocean waves lapping past her, she watched as the bright spotlight of a Superwolf appeared, illuminating her as she drifted helplessly in the twilight, a fallen feather in the waves. Mariner’s Superwolf just sat there, hovering above the ocean surface like a predator staring down its prey. She wished he’d just shoot her, but knew he wouldn’t. She was too valuable. It would only be a matter of time until an EDEN transport would be there to retrieve her.

As she expected, the wait did not take long. Barely ten minutes after she’d hit the water, a Vulture from Sydney arrived, its rear bay door opening to allow a diver to leap out and secure her. Reeled out of the water like a fish, Tiffany Feathers was taken into custody.

*

Atami, Japan

At the same time

ATAMI WAS AGLOW, the pulsing red and blue lights of law enforcement cut through by streaks of orange gunfire from within the city limits. As the drenched and battle-torn outlaws came out of the sloping forest, they found Atami at war with itself, the police who would have otherwise been there to capture them forced to draw their attention somewhere else—to the various cars, vans, and SUVs that had pulled up to skidding halts to open fire on them. These reinforcements were not Nightmen. They were not outlaw sympathizers. They were outlaws, themselves.

Yakuza. The Japanese underworld, rising from the depths of one of their largest founding cities to do what organized crime syndicates did best: subvert the law. As the survivors of the ground ops team scrambled for cover, they found it in a pair of black SUVs that bashed through gates and police barricades to meet them. As the vehicles’ doors opened, the Japanese men within beckoned the escapees inward. No one questioned why the Yakuza were there or how Logan Marshall knew them. They simply piled into the pair of vehicles, the doors slamming shut behind them as the SUVs tore off into the night city.

Back at the Vector drop site, Judge Leonid Torokin listened as the other half of their operation—the one taking place on the other side of the planet—came to its successful conclusion. He listened as thousands of miles away, the order to drop the bombs was issued. With that order, the last bastion of hope for the Nightman sect—their hidden facility at Chernobyl—had been reduced to a pile of smoldering rubble.

The Nightmen had officially been stomped out.

Despite his strong urge to, Torokin never once looked back at Scott in the troop bay of their V2, nor did he spare a glance to Todd Kenner, the uninvited guest of Klaus Faerber who’d somehow managed to be the one to capture the outlaw leader. Whether it’d been Todd or Klaus’s idea to involve the ex-Vector didn’t matter. Todd had just apprehended the most wanted man in the world, and if for no other reason than to be thanked, he’d be taking the flight back to EDEN Command with them. The black sheep had forced his way back in.

But at least the day was won, even if a remnant of the outlaw presence had managed to escape into Atami. The head of the snake had been cut off. All that was left was for the body to die.

Hands clasped behind his back, Torokin waited to hear back from the Vectors on the mission. Lisa, apparently, was still holding her stationary position near the train, though he was sure she’d make her way back to them as things wound down. Turning his gaze southward, Torokin’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the first set of returnees. In the middle of them, helmetless, weary, and mud-covered, was Marty Breaux. The Cajun’s chaos rifle was propped against his shoulder, and his eyes were downcast. He looked anything but like a soldier returning from victory. Had Torokin missed something while listening to the bombing of Chernobyl?

And where was his nephew?

Slowly, Marty’s head lifted, his green eyes making contact with Torokin’s at long last. Angling his head curiously, the judge posed the question without saying a word. Why was Sasha not coming behind them?

As Torokin’s question had come silently, so did Marty’s answer. Stopping his approach, the Cajun simply stood beneath the rain, water trailing down his face as he stared at the judge. Like the torn-open soldier didn’t know how to proceed.

But he didn’t need to proceed at all.

The proud look of victory on Torokin’s face faded, until all that remained was but a hollow reflection. His lips parting, the judge felt his heart stop.

All across the Izu Peninsula, the impact of the night was felt. It was felt in Atami, where the men and women of the Atami Police Department were fighting for their lives, blindsided by an underground that—for some reason—chose that night to rise to the surface. It was felt inside two black SUVs, where the numb participants in what was supposed to be a final search for truth were staring dead-eyed and silent as they were driven to a place unknown. It was felt in the forest, where a judge sat with his face in his hands, the hands of his comrades bringing no comfort as they stayed on his shoulders. It was felt by the train, where a strange radio silence had prompted an investigation and the discovery of an abandoned helmet once belonging to a sniper from Essex. It was felt in far to the south, at Sydney, where a young pilot was being thrust into a holding cell, a victim of her own failing. But more than anywhere else, it was felt in the rear troop bay of a V2, where the most wanted man in the world sat despondent, his wrist handcuffed to a metal bar as he listened to the world unravel around him, powerless to stop it.

To the rest of the world, the night of Tuesday, March 27th, in Izu, Japan, was one of glorious victory. It was a night in which the vilest traitors on Earth were thwarted by those tasked with humanity’s protection. But to those who lost something—who lost everything—it was a night that felt anything but victorious. It felt like parts of their souls died. As if life had fallen apart. All that remained was but to pick up the pieces.

But alas, even for those with cause to celebrate—even for those of ill-intent—the tide of victory was about to recede. For in the midst of their vainglory, a dark force was working—a force of the night that was anything but vanquished.

A force that had been there all along.

36

Tuesday, March 27th, 0012 NE

2050 hours

EDEN Command

THE FORCE WITH which Scott was shoved forward was indicative of the level of contempt his captors had for him. Stumbling forward and falling, his hands were barely able to prevent his already-swollen face from smashing into the hangar’s concrete floor. Gingerly pushing himself up, he pivoted his head to take in his surroundings.

To take in EDEN Command.

Though he knew this was his destination during the flight, nothing could quite prepare him for actually being there. It felt like being thrust into a den of evil. The flight had been fast, scarcely leaving Scott with the time to rationalize the reality he was now in. He was a prisoner of war. A captured terrorist. Unless something miraculous happened—and miracles had been running short as of late—he would likely not leave EDEN Command alive.

It may have been for the best. Though Scott had listened in as best he could to the radio and soldier chatter around him, he had only been able to determine that there’d indeed been deaths among the ground ops team. Their identities, unfortunately, remained a mystery. Were the deaths among the six slayers on-lend from Valentin, and them alone? Were they his closest comrades? Becan? Jayden? Esther? The Falcons? Natalie?

Mark?

The lack of an answer was worse than any answer he could have received, for it teased him with hope he knew was false. There would be no sigh of relief upon learning of the deceased—if he even learned at all. Now that he was here, EDEN had no reason to tell him anything.

Straining in his soreness and fatigue, Scott began to push himself up. Then he heard the footsteps. Lifting his head, he saw them approach.

Though there was a small group marching his way, the two at the forefront were the only two that mattered. Scott recognized them immediately. One was pristine, composed and untouched by the harshness of warfare, with amber eyes and champagne hair that looked regal in its meticulousness. The other was just the opposite—a man hardened by war, of grim countenance and vehement rage. A walking tank, with Scott in his sights. Any gumption Scott had in him to rise to a stand died the moment they appeared. He knew that what was about to happen would hurt.

His pace picking up, Klaus reached down and grabbed Scott by his collar. Through hate-spewing teeth, he reared back with his fist and slammed it into Scott’s face. Scott’s head was rocked sideways as his world spun upside-down. Another hit came. Then another, then another. As Scott’s face took the beating, Benjamin Archer winced semi-disgustedly, his teeth exposed as he observed.

Scott felt blood fly from his lips, then his forehead. He felt his cheekbone crack—his teeth rattled loose. He felt his mind start to fade.

“Captain,” said Archer quickly, nervously touching Klaus’s shoulder. The German paused in mid-pullback. “We do need him to be able to speak.”

Looking back down, Klaus followed through with one final strike, smashing into the left side of his head right by his eye socket. There was no strength left in the captured fulcrum. Scott’s head hung as if he was dead.

Clearing his throat, Archer nodded to the guards around him. “Please bring him to Confinement. High-end cell.” Acknowledging, the guards grabbed Scott beneath his armpits. They dragged him away like a corpse. Archer turned to address Klaus. “Thank you for lending your Vectors, captain. I am certain that, without their assistance, this operation would have failed.” As he spoke, his eyes drifted to the transport Scott had arrived on, where other members of the team, including Todd Kenner, were unloading their gear. Quietly, Archer sighed. “As for your decision to involve your friend, Kenner, in what was supposed to be a covert affair…I’m sure we’ll discuss that in due time.”

“When you finish with Remington,” Klaus said coldly, ignoring the British judge’s words, “I want to kill him.” Raising an eyebrow, Archer looked at his massive counterpart. Without another word, the Vector captain walked away.

Lowering his chin and looking forward again, Archer said under his breath, “Charming.” His attention shifted as an EDEN officer approached him from the direction of the transport. Plastering on a cordial smile, Archer waited to be addressed.

“Moderate casualties, Judge Archer,” said the deep-voiced British officer. “We have one Vector lost and one missing, though we’re trying to ascertain her whereabouts.”

“Well, that’s strange,” Archer said, clasping his hands behind his back as he strolled back through the hall.

The officer followed in tow. “As I’m sure you’ve been made aware, Hector Mendoza has been killed.”

Blinking, Archer said, “I wasn’t made aware.” He bit his lower lip and paused. “That is a pity.”

“Some of the outlaws escaped into Atami, apparently aided by the Japanese Yakuza. We’re trying some leads now.”

“They’ll be found.” Archer’s tone was unconcerned. “Did anyone find what the outlaws were looking for? That…device, of sorts?”

Frowning, the officer answered, “No, sir. No trace of anything.”

“How terribly, terribly odd.” Genuine confusion came over Archer. He angled his head deep in thought.

“We did take another prisoner.”

At that, the judge nodded. “Yes, the pilot. I know. I’ve requested she be kept at Sydney until we can arrange for a transfer here—soon, I hope.”

“No, sir,” answered the officer, clearing his throat politely, “I mean from the ground site. At the place in the forest where Marshall turned and we lost a Vector.”

Eyes narrowing curiously, Archer stopped and looked back at him.

“One of the outlaws we found there was still alive. He’s riddled with bullets, but he’ll live. He’s been transferred to a hospital in Tokyo—”

“No,” said Archer, cutting him off quickly. “I want him transferred here, at once. I’ll not risk losing another captured outlaw to shoddy hospital security.”

The officer dipped his head. “As you wish, judge.”

“The more outlaw prisoners, the better,” Archer said, a faint, yet charming smile diffusing his prior sternness. Turning and with his hands behind his back, he said to the officer as he left him behind, “Never hurts to have another card in the hand!”

*

The floor of the cell hit Scott hard as he was unceremoniously dropped onto it, wincing even as the unbeaten side of his face impacted it. He felt disoriented. Dead. With every ounce of strength he had left, he reached out with shaking hands to sit himself up. As the glass door sealed behind him, Scott looked back, making brief eye contact with the pair of guards standing outside of it before they turned their backs to him.

Crawling to the side of the cell, the fulcrum propped himself up sideways against the wall, his face hidden from view as it faced the other way. With his busted lip quivering, Scott’s battered face twisted as emotion came tumbling out. Losing to saline what little sight he had left around his swollen eyes, Scott lowered his head and surrendered to suffocating tears.

The War Room

“MISTER PRESIDENT!”

The urgent shout came from across the War Room. Malcolm Blake turned his head, then excused himself from the small gathering of judges and officers around him. Making his way past the rotating, holographic globe, he placed his hand against the back of the chair belonging to the communications operator who’d called for him. “What is it?”

The operator’s voice was shaking. “Sir, it’s about Chernobyl.”

Norilsk, Russia

STANDING IN THE concourse of Northern Forge’s tram station, Valentin Lukin waited nervously, the keeper’s hands sweating as he clasped them behind his back. Along with numerous others standing behind him in waiting, he watched as the light of an approaching tram appeared from around the bend.

EDEN Command

“THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE,” Blake said, eyebrows furrowed in something akin to panic. “Tell them to check again.”

Staring at the display screen in front of him, the operator nodded as if to indicate that it’d already been done. “It’s like I’ve said, sir—they have. Again, and again.” Swallowing hard, he looked back at the president. “There are no dead bodies in the rubble.”

“Sir?”

Blake turned as another War Room officer addressed him.

“Director Kang would like to see you in his office.”

The president’s eyes trailed downward. Though he nodded his head in response, he said nothing. Hesitating and with a gradually heavying countenance, he looked at the primary communication station in the center of the room, his gaze locking onto the object that had made all of this possible.

They’d found it abandoned in the ruins of Hami Station—left there like a prize to be claimed. Through it, EDEN Command had been able to listen in to everything the Nightmen were planning. They’d heard Chernobyl specifically named as the Nightmen’s rallying point, confirming what Oleg Strakhov had told them. They heard about the plan to hijack a train, giving EDEN the ability to set up their ambush. It had clued them into the fact that the Nightmen had stolen their access codes, prompting EDEN to briefly switch over to their backup satellite network while a new set of codes was put in place. They’d heard all of this discussed by Remington and the man called Antipov themselves.

It was a Nightman helmet with a functional internal comm, tuned right into the channel the Nightmen had been using. All the while Blake stared at it, the featureless, expressionless helmet stared right back at him. Its poker face was unwavering.

Norilsk, Russia

AS IOSIF ANTIPOV stepped from the front door of the tram, his smoky eyes found Valentin. Smiling, the eidola chief marched confidently in the keeper’s direction. Behind him, Grigori Saretok and his legion of fulcrums began to emerge.

“Keeper Lukin—so very good to see you.” Antipov offered Valentin a Nightman salute. It was returned in kind.

His hand clutching Varvara’s as to not lose track of her, Yuri Dostoevsky slipped through the crowd, dodging the occasional leashed necrilid as they sniffed at their new surroundings. Emerging from the throng, Dostoevsky and Varvara’s eyes searched for anyone familiar.

“I hope everything you find here will be to your satisfaction,” said Valentin as they marched down the halls.

ANTIPOV SMILED PLEASINGLY. “I am sure that it will be.” Lifting his chin and drawing in a breath, he said, “You have done very well, Lukin. Above and beyond what was asked of you as keeper.” He glanced at those following behind him. “Could someone please inform the medical bay that I am here? I would like to see my daughter.”

EDEN Command

OLEG WAS SITTING ON a medical bench near the V2 that’d returned him to EDEN Command when an officer approached him. Wincing as the nurse treating him tended to his wounds, he turned his head to the officer as the man leaned down to whisper a three-worded report.

Blinking back in disbelief, Oleg looked up at the officer with an expression of total befuddlement. The officer nodded his head slowly as if to reaffirm his words, before he turned to walk away.

Though the officer was gone, the befuddled look on Oleg’s face remained. Staring ahead blankly and open-mouthed, the former eidola no longer seemed to notice the pain of his wound being treated. He seemed completely attuned to the revelation he’d received.

At something that should not have been.

Norilsk, Russia

“I WOULD BE LYING if I claimed to understand all of what is happening,” Valentin said as he and Antipov walked on. The keeper looked at him with concern. “Why did you not want me to release Lilan’s video? Why was it necessary to send Remington and his comrades to a place where you knew EDEN would be waiting for them? And why send us to Hami Station for access codes that you knew EDEN could change as soon as they heard you speak of them? I understand why I was tasked with leaving behind a helmet, but…”

Quietly, the eidola chief chuckled. “What is the most effective way to ambush someone?” he asked. Valentin shook his head, indicating that he didn’t know. “Make them think the ambush was their idea.” He lifted his chin. “I did not need access codes—just for EDEN to know that I possessed them. You see, Lukin…a well-designed machine has many parts, but not all of them touch.”

EDEN Command

DIRECTOR KANG WAS already waiting when Blake knocked on his door. When the president stepped inside, the scent of aging pine needles hit his nostrils.

“President Blake,” said Kang, the old Chinese man pacing about the back of his desk. “Congratulations on a wonderful day.”

With trepidation, Blake closed the door behind him, though at no point did his stare deviate from Kang’s. “Thank you, director—”

“I hear that Todd Kenner was present on this mission,” Kang said, cutting the president off. “Would you care to explain why?”

Blake rubbed his bald head, blowing out a breath before answering. “Yes, well, it appears that the good captain of Vector was…keeping his friend informed. He admitted to us that he told Kenner about the operation. Whether he asked Kenner to partake or Kenner volunteered on his own, I don’t know for sure, but Captain Faerber definitely knew that Kenner would be there.”

“I see,” said Kang, facing Blake again and smiling. “I understand now why Kenner was involved. That is all I wished to know. Thank you, Mister President.”

Eyeing Kang curiously, Blake turned back to the door only when the director resumed his pacing. Reaching for the knob, he turned it to pull the door open.

Norilsk, Russia

ANTIPOV WENT ON. “While EDEN’s primary satellite system has many layers of security, their backup systems do not—for they are only meant to shoulder a workload for brief periods of time. And so in these systems, I hid a Trojan. It is called Torchlight. The Trojan was designed to deliver itself to its target only when the backup system came online, as to remain hidden. It would be lost among the millions of other files being transferred naturally in the switch. It would arrive at its destination completely unnoticed, just waiting for someone to activate it.”

“What is its destination?” Valentin asked. “What does it do? And who would be there to activate it?”

Wryly, Antipov looked at him and smiled.

EDEN Command

BLAKE WAS HALFWAY out of Kang’s office when the director called his name again. Raising an eyebrow, Blake stepped back through the door and looked at him.

“I have one final question for you, Mister President.” Once again, the director stood, motionless. The ancient Chinese man was staring at Blake eye-to-eye. “Please explain to me, if Mister Kenner was informed of our operation by his friend, Captain Faerber, why he booked a flight to Japan two days before the operation was ever conceived?”

Staring flatly for several seconds, Blake’s eyes narrowed with confusion and curiosity. He waited for Kang to answer the question for him, realizing only after a short span of time that the director couldn’t. The office fell into silence.

Far away from the Intelligence wing, making his way through the twisting halls of EDEN Command, Todd Kenner—the black sheep of Vector—strode toward a hall terminal. Tapping his fingers rapidly on the screen, he followed a very specific path to a temporary folder. A place where no one would look without having a reason. A folder with a single executable file. A light unto EDEN’s world. Dragging the cursor over it, and without a second’s hesitation, Kenner activated it.

Buried deep inside EDEN’s master server, a signal ping was sent out. It traced the invisible highway that connected it to EDEN’s satellite system, then whipped around like a slingshot toward its final destination. One buried deep within the mountains of Norilsk, Russia.

Chirp!

Upon hearing the sound come from his comm, Antipov slid it off his belt and looked at the display. Examining it for a moment, seemingly in thought, his expression finally shifted into the faintest of smiles. Chuckling a single time, he simply said, “Interesting choice.”

“Papa?”

Lifting his eyes from the comm, Antipov’s smile widened when he saw his pixie-haired daughter approach. “Marina, my love.” Glancing briefly at Valentin, he handed the keeper the comm. “Make sure someone writes that down.” Turning his focus purely to Marina, Antipov opened his arms to accept her embrace.

Valentin watched them for a moment before he himself looked down at the comm’s display. Narrowing his eyes curiously, he beheld the simple numerical data that was there.

A latitude and longitude.

Though the keeper raised a bewildered eyebrow, the reaction only lasted a moment before it was replaced by dawning comprehension. His eyes widening, Valentin felt the hair on his arms tingle then stand on end. Lifting his head slowly, he stared at Antipov from behind in disbelief and awe.

*

Standing with his hands behind his back, Benjamin Archer watched Scott through the glass of his high-end security cell. Not once did Scott turn to face him, nor even indicate that he knew Archer was there at all. The outlaw leader was facing the back wall of the cell, slumped limply against the wall as if he was sleeping. Had it not been for the fact that Archer could see Scott breathing, he might have thought their newest capture dead. But death would come in due time.

Inhaling a slow, dark breath through his nostrils, the British judge lifted his chin. In a hushed voice, far too low for the guards around him to overhear—not that it would have mattered—he spoke. “Hello, courier of H`laar.” As they stayed fixed on Scott, Archer’s amber eyes narrowed. “It’s time for us to talk.”

37

Location: Unknown

Time: Unknown

SHE WAS SO CLOSE. Contorting her body in a way that made the effort look more like a stretch of some sort than an attempt to ascertain an object, Svetlana rubbed her left thigh against the corner of Nagogg’s chair and the floor. There, barely an inch away from her skin, sat the magnetic key to her clasps. She’d spent the past several hours trying to figure out a way to touch the device—to somehow, someway set it on a course closer to her left hand, still clasped to the floor. It was a much more difficult goal than she’d imagined.

Svetlana had yet to figure out what exactly her plan would be upon possessing the key. She only knew that, inevitably, Nagogg would order Svetlana and Mishka—who once again sat perched above her on the bridge—back to the animal pen. When that happened, Ka`vesh would realize that the key was missing. Pieces would be put together, and he would look toward her. The jig, and any hope to catch the Bakma off guard in a coup, would be up.

Gritting her teeth, she again caressed the side of Nagogg’s chair with her torso. She was so close. At times, she thought she could even feel it. Pushing her body further than she had at any point in the effort thus far, she bit her lower lip and strained for all she was worth.

On the near side of the bridge, sitting at his console near the door that exited into the hallway, Gabralthaar looked Svetlana’s way. As the blonde slowly rubbed her body against Nagogg’s chair, the titan tilted his head curiously. His bulging eyes narrowed behind his faceless sentry helmet.

Come on! Svetlana urged herself. Her hips were fighting the shackles so hard, she felt like she was going to dislocate them. But it was right there. It was so incredibly, incredibly close. If she could just…

…she felt it.

The key was pressed against one of her love handles. Freezing in place, she thought rapidly on how to lift it and move it forward. She could figure this out.

Rising from his console, Gabralthaar stepped out from around it. The titan crouched to the floor and bent his head to observe Svetlana’s now rigid body. As Svetlana’s head was on the floor in concentration, he peered beneath her.

She could move it. If she pinned the key against the chair hard enough, if she stroked forward with her skin carefully enough, she could move it. This could actually work.

Across the bridge and unbeknownst to her, Gabralthaar began walking her way.

Svetlana had just begun her first stroke when the connection clicked in her head. Ed’s voice resonated urgently. Cease your efforts! You are seen!

Blinking, Svetlana looked up at the Ithini, then to her side. Standing just before her and looking down at her, stood Gabralthaar. Her heart stopped as he slowly bent down.

Freeze, Sveta, she said to herself. The key is pinned against the chair! If you do not move—if it does not fall—he will not see it.

Reaching beneath her, his massive, gnarled fingers probing between her hip and the chair, Gabralthaar took hold of the device. Svetlana pressed harder—she did everything in her power to keep the device in place as if that would somehow dissuade the titan from pulling it out—to no avail. Withdrawing his hand, Gabralthaar stared at the small, magnetic key. Behind his helmet, his pupils drifted to meet Svetlana’s.

The medic froze. There was no playing this off. There was no explaining it away or running. She’d just been caught with Ka`vesh’s key. Gradually, she turned her head to look at Gabralthaar. She knew what would happen the moment she saw the coldness in his stare.

Rising to his feet, the key held out in his fingers, Gabralthaar looked at Nagogg. “Lord,” the titan said. The chieftain turned his head Gabralthaar’s way. When his sunken eyes spotted the key, he blinked. Across the room, his own attention now on the object in Gabralthaar’s possession, Ka`vesh inhaled and rose to his feet. Frantically, he searched his wardrobe. His key was gone. As Nagogg stared at Gabralthaar in bewilderment, the titan said simply, “She had it.”

I am dead. Svetlana’s mind raced frantically, trying to find any way out of this situation. There was none. They were going to kill her.

Nagogg’s face twisted with rage. Rising from his chair and with spear in hand, he marched around Svetlana until he stood just before her. With a murderous gaze, the chieftain said, “Bring her to her feet.”

Kneeling down, Gabralthaar used the key to unlock her clasps. Before she could even rationalize the potential of running, the titan grabbed her by her blond roots and yanked her up. Svetlana yelped out in pain.

Turning away, Nagogg strode to the very spot where he’d slain the Kalarael. Without looking back, he pointed to the canrassi. “Release him.”

As Svetlana was dragged before Nagogg and shoved down to her knees, she managed the faintest of glances back toward Nagogg’s chair. Ka`vesh, having taken the key back from Gabralthaar, was now unlatching Mishka’s clasps. There was only one reason why they would ever do that. Nagogg was going to order the canrassi to eat her alive.

…he didn’t know.

In the midst of the fear, a new feeling arose deep in Svetlana. All that while, she had been trying to maneuver herself free—to catch Nagogg and his crew off guard. It was still going to happen. Her blue eyes narrowing, Svetlana stared at Nagogg’s emaciated face as he stared down upon her. Huffing gutturally, Mishka stood at the rider’s side.

Through his wide skeleton’s grin, Nagogg rasped, “Time and time again, you have resisted what you were destined to face. Despite the truth that surrounds you, you have clung futilely to a hope that offers nothing.”

Nagogg will not expect this—he will be caught off guard the most. Head angling faintly, she looked at Ka`vesh in her peripherals. Gabralthaar is wounded. Of he and Ka`vesh, Ka`vesh is the threat. Far behind her, on the other side of the room, she knew the starved Uguul was observing. That left only Nik-nish, and the pilot didn’t have feet. Five threats in all.

“You would be no worthy offering to Uladek. To offer a creature like you would be an insult.”

The cache of assault rifles were still stacked by Ed. It wasn’t fifteen feet away. Drawing in a breath of calm—a calm before a storm—Svetlana closed her eyes.

Lifting his chin, Nagogg said, “Do not waste your last breaths begging for mercy. You will receive none.”

I have never let go of my hope in You. Across the stars, I may be, but I have always been in Your reach. My God, I call upon You now.

Taking a step back, Nagogg grabbed Mishka by the collar. Jerking the canrassi toward him, he led the beast before Svetlana. Saliva still falling from Mishka’s maw, he angled his head down at her.

Make me what I need to be. Make me Your weapon.

“Prepare to meet your false god,” Nagogg said.

So be it.

Pointing at Svetlana, Nagogg’s skeleton grin opened to issue the order. The medic spoke first.

“Mishka,” she said calmly. An obedient purr emerged from the canrassi’s throat.

Nagogg blinked. Angling his head, he stared at the two.

Opening her eyes, Svetlana looked up at the canrassi. She and the beast locked gazes. “My God is real, Nagogg,” she said in perfect Bakmanese. The moment the words came out, an audible gasp spread through the bridge. The Bakma chieftain flinched. “And He has found me, even here.”

It was time.

Angling her body, Svetlana pointed at Ka`vesh. “Devour him.”

Turning his massive maw to Ka`vesh, Mishka rose on his hind legs and roared. Ka`vesh’s bulbous eyes widened; the warrior stumbled backward. The revolt had begun.

There was no time for Svetlana to wait to see the charge. Lurching forward while Nagogg’s eyes were on Mishka, the nose-less medic snagged the end of the chieftain’s spear. Before Nagogg could even register what was happening, Svetlana shrieked and jabbed her fingers forward, digging her nails into the chieftain’s eyes. Nagogg howled as he flailed his arms to grab her.

Behind Svetlana, Gabralthaar leapt into a defense stance, then froze, his focus shifting between the canrassi and Svetlana. In the midst of his hesitation, the massive beast charged at his counterpart. Its gaping jaws open wide, it slammed into Ka`vesh at full speed, its teeth clamping around the soldier’s midsection. Ka`vesh shrieked in horror as his body was shaken like a rag doll.

Snatching a firm hold onto Svetlana’s wrists, Nagogg pried her away from him and glared through watering, bloodied eyes. Wrenching his spear out of her grasp, he pulled it back to strike with its blade.

Pow!

Svetlana’s knee collided into the chieftain’s groin. Releasing a yell of agony, he released his hold on her and crumpled to the floor. Svetlana spun her head around. Past the rigid Gabralthaar and Ka`vesh being torn apart, her blue eyes found the weapons. The medic made her move.

Simultaneous with Svetlana’s darting, Ei`dorinthal reached into the weapon stack to pull out an assault rifle—the Ithini tossed it haphazardly in Svetlana’s direction.

Gabralthaar reached her first. Colliding into Svetlana’s side at full speed, the massive, armored titan slammed her body against the wall. The medic’s body hit the control board sideways—all wind was knocked out of her. As the assault rifle clinked past her, out of her grasp, Gabralthaar grabbed her by the throat and hoisted her up. Once again, she was slammed against the wall.

“Traitor!”

Ei`dorinthal whipped around as the voice decreed. It was Uguul. Leaping over his station, the emaciated Bakma soldier ran straight for the Ithini.

Straining until she was red-faced, Svetlana fought to pull Gabralthaar’s arms from her throat—to no avail. The muscle-bound titan wasn’t budging. Curling her abdominals, Svetlana lifted her legs into the air, pressing her heels against Gabralthaar’s face. Her legs extended, and the titan’s chin was forced up and to the side. Again, he slammed her into the console, and again, she cried out in pain—but her feet held their place. Pushing with all of her might, she finally exposed the flesh of the titan’s throat.

Kick!

Svetlana’s right foot released then jolted forward, crashing against Gabralthaar’s neck while it was unprotected. Releasing her, he stumbled and clutched his throat as they both fell to the floor. With both of them heaving for air, Svetlana crawled toward the assault rifle.

At the front of the bridge, meters away from Nik-nish, who was diving out of his chair, Mishka’s jaws shook Ka`vesh’s body with blood-crazed frenzy. The Bakma soldier’s shrieks became otherworldly as his body was ripped apart. Blood bursting from his mouth, his eyes rolled back as his lower body flew across the room. Ka`vesh trembled as the canrassi dropped him, then stared over him. Opening its razor-rimmed maw, the canrassi clamped its jaws down on Ka`vesh’s face with finality.

Svetlana’s outstretched hand had just reached the assault rifle when Gabralthaar’s mighty foot swept in to kick it away. Before the still-coughing medic could scramble to her feet, the titan grabbed her by the hair and slung her again. As she careened over a railing, Svetlana let out a cry of pain.

Running toward the railing, his massive, sentry-armored feet pounding against the bridge’s metal floorboards, Gabralthaar prepared to make the leap to her side. But he never reached the rail. Something stingingly hard struck the titan square in the faceplate. Gabralthaar briefly saw stars as he stumbled back and turned for the aggressor. The moment he identified him, the titan stared with surprise. “Kraash-nagun?”

Flitting quickly between where he’d heard Gabralthaar’s voice and Svetlana’s cry, the blinded elite assumed an open fighting stance, palms open and hands outstretched as he angled his earholes to listen.

That was all Svetlana needed. Staving off any internal celebration at seeing Kraash-nagun leap into the fray, the blonde scrambled haphazardly for the assault rifle on the other side of the bridge.

Ed was leaping for all he was worth—over railings, over stations, over anything and everything that put any amount of distance between him and Uguul. But real estate was running out. Diving beneath the lower half of a guardrail, the Ithini landed on his haunches just meters away from Mishka, who was finishing off Ka`vesh’s head with moist, satisfying chomps. With pieces of Ka`vesh dripping from its jaws, the canrassi looked up to observe the scrambling Ithini. Its spider eyes tightening, it roared lowly and faced the frail, gray being. Ei`dorinthal’s eyes widened as the canrassi let loose a roar.

Diving across the floor, Svetlana’s grip finally found the assault rifle. Rolling over on her back, she raised her weapon to take aim at Gabralthaar. Bullets exploded around her just as she did.

Nik-nish.

The Bakma pilot had reached his own weapon—an M-19 handgun—just as Svetlana had reached hers. Rolling behind a console, Svetlana avoided the wildly inaccurate shots of her new principle adversary. Sitting with her back to the console, Svetlana checked her weapon briefly, ignoring the sparks of weapons fire that struck the floor and wall around her. The E-35 checked out—she was good to go. Holding her breath, she planted her foot, pivoted, and rose.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

Nik-nish never stood a chance. The footless, stumbling pilot was riddled with bullets as Svetlana’s aim proved true. The handgun fell from Nik-nish’s hands as he collapsed to the floor.

Without hesitation, Svetlana looked for her next target. Its identity was not even a question. Her ocean blue eyes narrowing on Nagogg, she squeezed the trigger just as the chieftain made for the exit. Nagogg’s lipless mouth cried aloud as bullets struck him in the chest and leg. His spear flew from his gnarled fingers.

Ei`dorinthal was running at full speed—with every step he took, Mishka, now in a total frenzy, grew closer. On the other side of the room, keeping pace with Ed while keeping his eyes on the canrassi, Uguul moved gradually closer to the remaining assault rifles. At long last, an opening in the fray presented itself. Uguul darted forward, right behind the quickly-moving Mishka, for the weapons.

Charging straight for Kraash-nagun, Gabralthaar cocked back with his right fist to smash it into the Bakma elite’s face.

Kraash-nagun heard it coming. Waiting until the armored titan’s footsteps were right in front of him, Kraash-nagun side-stepped and swept at Gabralthaar’s legs, the speed of the elite’s move overcoming the titan’s weight. Gabralthaar’s knees buckled, and he fell forward into the rail.

Before the titan realized it, Kraash-nagun had leapt onto his back and was feeling frantically around the bottom of his helmet. Locating the attachment mechanism, Kraash-nagun disengaged it and yanked the sentry helmet clean off Gabralthaar’s head. Reaching back, Gabralthaar grabbed Kraash-nagun by the shoulders and slung him forward over his head. The elite landed back-first and upside-down against the wall. As Gabralthaar leapt over the railing to reengage, Kraash-nagun hopped back up to his feet.

“Mishka!” Svetlana shouted, holding an open palm to the beast as it thirstily pursued Ed across the bridge. The canrassi’s feet dug in, as it skidded to a stop and looked at her. “Devour him!” She pointed at Uguul.

Rising wide-eyed with his assault rifle, the starved Uguul gaped at Svetlana as she issued the order. Before the Bakma could even properly raise his weapon, the canrassi was on him. Uguul dove over a control panel as Mishka’s jaws clamped down on the air behind him. Scrambling to his feet, Uguul scampered for the cover of the next panel.

The starved Bakma didn’t make it. Clamping down on Uguul’s foot just as the Bakma was about to bolt away, Mishka dragged the soldier back into the open. Dropping his assault rifle in panic, the emaciated Bakma threw wild, frenetic punches at the canrassi’s nose. But Mishka was undeterred. Uguul screamed in violent death as Mishka planted his maw into the Bakma’s ribcage. Blood flew from Uguul’s chest as the canrassi began to feed.

“You dare to fight for an Earthae?” Gabralthaar roared as his fist struck out at Kraash-nagun, hitting the control board behind him as the elite darted out of the way at the last possible moment.

Rolling to his feet, ears still attuned to the movements of the titan, Kraash-nagun said, “She fights to be free. So do I!”

Again, Gabralthaar charged, and again, the massive titan’s weight gave his location away. As Gabralthaar reached out to grab Kraash-nagun by his tattered outfit, the elite again dove to the side, grabbing a railing as he slid under it toward the center of the bridge. “You were among Uladek’s most honored!” Gabralthaar roared.

“Then I was honored by nothing,” said Kraash-nagun. Crouching down, he waited to hear Gabralthaar come over the railing.

He didn’t have to wait long.

The titan’s armored hand grabbed hold of the railing as the titan pushed his massive frame up and over it. At just the right moment—a fraction after Gabralthaar exhaled in the effort—Kraash-nagun spun around backward, placed his palms on the floor, and propelled his feet straight up and into the air. The moment Gabralthaar landed on metal, a rock-solid right heel was there to meet his chin. The titan’s head wobbled as he stumbled back against the railing. The next thing he felt were forearms around the back of his head.

Kraash-nagun twisted, and with a violent snap, the Gabralthaar’s massive neck muscles relaxed. His head rolled forward, and he collapsed to the floor. For a moment, Kraash-nagun went perfectly still, listening for any sounds of movement on the floor directly before him. There were none. Gabralthaar the titan was dead.

Vacant eye sockets searching, he listened for the sound of Svetlana’s voice. He listened for her screaming, her utterances of combat. But there was nothing.

Svetlana wasn’t there at all.

*

Nagogg was crawling desperately. With every meter the lipless chieftain dragged himself down the Noboat’s central corridor, more and more blood seeped from his bullet wounds. Turning around to reposition himself in a way that would allow him to push harder, Nagogg’s sunken eyes froze when they spotted the figure down the hall.

Svetlana.

The former captive was marching slowly, albeit steadily, in his direction. Above the vacant nasal cavities where Nagogg had cut off her nose, her blue eyes were burning. In her hand, clasped between bloodstained fingers, was the chieftain’s spear.

His sunken eyes widening, Nagogg pushed himself away more fervently. Turning his head to the hallway, he screamed in his raspy, lipless voice, “Wuteel!” No answer came—the engineer didn’t hear him. Once again, he looked upon Svetlana.

With every step closer the tortured medic drew to him, her body loomed larger.

“You fight an unwinnable war!” Nagogg said, his skeleton’s grin parted as he heaved through weakening breaths. “Do you believe you can defeat Order and Chaos? You can do nothing!”

Svetlana’s free hand shifted to clutch the spear at its hilt. With every step the medic took, the weapon felt more and more familiar. Twirling it smoothly in one hand, she clutched it firmly after its fifth turn. Angling its tip forward, she lowered her glare.

Nagogg cast another look toward the engine room as his back came to rest at the hall’s end—Wuteel was still nowhere to be seen. He looked at Svetlana again. “You are an insignificant specimen of an insignificant species. There is nothing you can do to prevent what comes! Have you still failed to realize?” Through bloodied teeth, he rasped, “You are a blight. You are weak!”

“Weak,” Svetlana said with pseudo-reflection as she drew within meters. Coming to a stop with Nagogg in the spear’s reach, she spun the weapon once with wind-whipping speed then tilted her head. “Weak, I may be.” Cocking the spear back and without a moment’s trepidation, Svetlana thrust it into the dying chieftain’s throat. His bulbous eyes bulged with shock and horror, as Svetlana slid the tip of the spear up the wall. Nagogg’s body flailed wildly as he drew closer and closer to the ceiling, blood pouring from his throat, mouth, and nostrils. Unrepentant and unwavering, Svetlana’s ocean blue eyes bore into him. “But I am stronger than you.”

Crying out in agony, Nagogg writhed in an effort to wrench himself free. But he was powerless. Svetlana stood poised beneath him, an immovable object. As the chieftain’s blood rained down on her, she closed her eyes and embraced it. Nagogg’s legs kicked with rapidly-diminishing fervency until the movements became little more than twitches. Shivering from his gnarled toes to the top of his bald head, his sunken eyes glossed over and his shoulder muscles gave way. At long last, with the last of his lifeblood draining from his wounds, he went still.

Nagogg was dead.

Svetlana opened her eyes. Through strands of blood-soaked hair, she stared up at the lifeless body of her torturer—her tormenter. Holding him there, pinched awkwardly against the corner of the ceiling by the spear, felt effortless. It felt like nothing at all. Withdrawing the spear, she watched as his body collapsed lifelessly to the floor in a harmless heap of tangled limbs. For a moment, she paused to admire it. But the pause was not long. There was one more zealot to whom she owed a visit. Head turning toward the engine room, Svetlana narrowed her eyes again.

Wuteel was standing behind the far side of the circular rail that surrounded the quartz crystal when Svetlana entered. The engineer’s body was rigid, as if he already knew what was about to happen. As she stepped further inside, Svetlana caught site of a small collection of monitors, each showing a different section of the Noboat’s interior. She stopped as she scrutinized one view in particular: a rear view of the bridge, above and behind the captain’s chair. In the center of the carnage, and plain for Wuteel to see, Mishka was consuming what remained of Uguul. Her eyes lingered on the image for a moment before turning to the engineer.

“I helped you,” she said in Bakmanese.

Looking nothing short of frantic, Wuteel backed up against the maze of pipes and conduits. There was only so far back he could go. At some point, his retreat would end. “I was a prisoner,” he said. “I had no choice but to follow!”

Blood dripping from the tip of the spear, Svetlana drew steadily nearer, no hurry in her pace. “Funny. Nagogg gave me a choice.”

“Nagogg was fanatical! He would not have tolerated defiance from me.” His back hitting the wall, Wuteel looked for an escape route, but found none. The only way out of the engine room was through her.

“For what it is worth,” Svetlana said, “I will not enjoy killing you.”

Holding his hands out, Wuteel pleaded for her to stop. His words fell on deaf ears. Regripping the spear to strike, Svetlana lunged toward the engineer just as she had Nagogg.

“Setana!”

The cry came to Svetlana mid-strike, from far behind her. Halting the blade inches before it would have penetrated Wuteel’s chest, Svetlana glanced back to it. Stumbling awkwardly into the engine room, his hands feeling the wall at every turn, Kraash-nagun blindly called to her again. “Do not kill Wuteel!”

Her head spun back to the engineer before he had a chance to escape or counterattack. Pupils shrinking, she stared Wuteel in his opaque, bulbous orbs. “Why should I not kill him?” she asked the Bakma elite without looking back.

Grabbing hold of the railing and clinging to it, Kraash-nagun said, “Only he can properly monitor the ship’s systems and calibrate the crystal! Without Wuteel, we will not be able to function.”

The sound of more movement emerged behind Kraash-nagun. Svetlana recognized Ei`dorinthal’s light, Ithini footsteps. Moments later, his voice came to her mind. Kraash-nagun is correct. No one else on this vessel possesses the knowledge with which to maintain this spacecraft.

Svetlana’s stare stayed on Wuteel. At no point did a look of conceit or crossness come over him. He looked desperate for her to listen to his brethren. Tilting her head, she bore into Wuteel’s eyes.

There was no reason not to believe Kraash-nagun and Ed. Not only had both fought alongside her, both valued their freedom. If they said Wuteel was necessary to run the vessel, it meant the engineer was.

“We will monitor him,” said Kraash-nagun, approaching her from behind. “If he attempts to rebel, I will slay him. I do not fear him—he is a coward.”

Taking a cautious step back from the engineer, she addressed him. “You allowed them to torture me after I helped you. It is for the sake of this spacecraft, and for its sake alone, that you still breathe. But know this, Wuteel.” Her eyebrows arched downward. “I learned Bakmanese. I can learn how to operate this vessel. I will not make the process painless.”

Nodding his head quickly in a way that was almost humanlike, Wuteel said, “I will serve you as I served Nagogg!”

“You had better.” Stepping aside, Svetlana allowed Kraash-nagun to take her place in front of Wuteel. The Bakma elite had defeated Gabralthaar without eyes—Svetlana wasn’t worried about how he’d fare against Wuteel. Looking back at Ed, she said, “Release Tauthin and the Kalarael. I will return to the bridge shortly. I expect everyone to be there.” Briefly, she looked back at Wuteel and Kraash-nagun. “Everyone.”

Bowing his head obediently, the Ithini hurried out of the engine room.

Svetlana looked at Wuteel for one last time, allowing her stare to linger on the engineer. Nothing was said to him before Svetlana turned away—he’d heard everything he’d needed to hear. Walking past the guard rail that encircled the quartz crystal, Svetlana made her way toward the exit.

*

Tauthin had heard the goings on outside the brig—the assault rifle fire in the bridge and the skirmish in the hallway. Though unable to communicate with the pair of Kalarael beside him, the looks they shared could be universally understood. Was Nagogg actually being defied?

When Ei`dorinthal opened the door and ran inside, Tauthin’s deep purple orbs widened. “What is happening?”

The Ithini went straight for Tauthin’s chains. “Nagogg has been killed and his zealots removed!”

“Who has done this?”

“Setana!”

Tauthin blinked. “Setana?” he asked in disbelief as the chains around his ankles were unlatched. Moments later, his wrists were freed, too. The Bakma leader fell crouched to the floor of the brig.

“She has freed us,” said Ei`dorinthal. “Only Wuteel remains, and he is too shaken to defy her.”

Speechless, Tauthin watched as Ed moved to the Kalarael, where the Ithini began to free them, as well. Looking down at his wrists, Tauthin rubbed the indentations where he’d been restrained for so long. This was real. He was actually free. Not simply released.

Free.

Tauthin almost felt lightheaded as he approached the door to the hallway. When he stepped outside and looked down the hall, he saw Nagogg’s body lying lifelessly on the floor. Goose bumps broke along the Bakma’s skin as he stared at it. Facing the other way, he set his sights on the place he needed to be—the place where, by his own namesake, he was meant to be. The bridge. Drawing in a lung-filling breath, he set his hardened gaze on the antechamber turn. With steadfast determination, he strode toward it.

The bridge was a wreck of bullet holes and the mutilated carcasses of Nagogg’s crew, but it was intact. Though the view screen was set on the distant sun of Kalar, it was not the view outside that captivated the Bakma leader’s attention. Tauthin’s dark purple orbs were set on the chair in the middle of the room.

Passing through the carnage as Mishka watched passively from the far corner, Tauthin ran his gnarled hands along the guard rails until he came to a stop just to the side of what had once been Nagogg’s throne. What had once been the head of the militant creation. Sliding around its front, Tauthin lowered himself into the bloodstained seat. It felt chillingly normal. Setting his hands atop the armrests, Tauthin stared ahead at the endless expanse before him. At freedom, right there for the taking. At what was, at long last, his.

It was a moment he had dreamt of for ages—of escape from religion, escape from the chains that had bound him long before he’d ever been captured on Earth and tortured at the place they called Novosibirsk. Long before his name had ever been chosen for him. His destiny was now his to decide. No one would take that away from him again.

“You are in my chair.”

Tauthin flinched, and he turned his head around. The Bakmanese words had caught him off guard—but not so off guard as who they came from. His bulbous eyes widening, he stared in haunting wonderment.

Stained with the blood of the slain, and with Nagogg’s spear firm in her grasp, stood Svetlana. Behind the loose strands of hair that fell over her face, the nose-less war maiden stared at Tauthin with unsparing expectation. She said not a thing more.

For several long seconds, Tauthin gazed back without a word. Turning his head slightly, he watched as the lumbering canrassi, Mishka, dragged itself subserviently to Svetlana’s side, where it lowered onto its haunches. Behind Svetlana, flanking her at both ends, were the Kalarael.

Only moments ago, Tauthin had sworn that no one would take his freedom away. It was a statement he’d intended to keep. But that statement said nothing about choosing to freely give it. And for this one?

For this one, his service was owed.

The next chair Tauthin slid into was not in the center of the bridge—it was somewhere just below it. Hands grasping the controls that Nik-nish had manned not so long ago, Tauthin looked up at the view screen and awaited his orders. Her orders.

From her command seat, Svetlana Voronova—daughter of Earth, purveyor of hope—surveyed the star of the Kalarael. With irises as brilliant and blue as the deepest of oceans, she gazed steadfastly into the infinite. There was no scar capable of detracting from her, no condition overwhelming enough to shame her. She was a creature evolved. The example had become master and commander.

Lifting her chin, with one hand holding upright Nagogg’s spear and the other buried deep into Mishka’s fur, she prepared to issue her first order. Behind her, Ei`dorinthal, Kraash-nagun, Wuteel, and the Kalarael waited for it. A vast universe lay before them, and in its furthest reaches, a dark empire that felt destined to rule it. But destiny had a habit of shifting to suit the needs of the believer.

And that suited Svetlana just fine.

E P I C • B O O K 6

THE DEVIL

YOU DON’T

Hell hath no fury.

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Acknowledgements

God: This novel is a testament to You. Only You could have given me the strength to get this done. Use this for Your will.

Lindsey: God knew what He was doing when He put us together. Thank you for always encouraging, believing in, and loving me. I love you.

Levi & Lawson: You boys bring so much joy to my life! Thank you for being a daily reminder as to what’s important. I love you two.

My parents and family: Thank you for always being a source of support and help for me when the going has gotten rough. You are amazing. I love you.

Jody, Fiona, Lorenz, & Kasia: You guys never fail to impress me. Thank you for your words, your keen eyes, and your undeniable ability. You’re the production team that makes this possible.

Stevie: You’ve always been there to provide support and encouragement (and constructive criticism when it’s needed!). It’s never gone unnoticed. Thank you for being an unwavering friend.

Lee: I’m so glad our paths crossed, man! Thank you for your awesome beta-reading and for the amazing support. You’re a part of this now!

Aaron, Josh, Chris, Calvin, and dbella: What you guys did for me will never be forgotten. Thank you for supporting me in my time of need in a way I never saw coming. May God bless you all.

Shannon & Toni: You gals are such a big part of Epic. Thank you for your help, your encouragement, and of course, your mad, mad skillz. I’m proud to call myself a Ninja.

Derek & Stephanie: You guys have been so unwavering in your support and enthusiasm for Epic. I can’t tell you how many times I myself have listened to your reaction podcast for TGB just to fire myself up to write on those days when it’s hard. Thank you for being a part of this.

Earl & Denise: I’m always so excited when it comes time for you guys to read Epic. The thought and honest criticism you give me is invaluable. Thank you for always giving me both.

Epic’s Incredible Fans (you): Thank you from the bottom of my heart for lending me such patience over these years. You guys are what keeps me going. As always, I can’t wait to show you what Epic has in store next!

About The Author

Lee Stephen is a native of St. Charles Parish, Louisiana, where he lives with his wife, Lindsey, their sons, Levi and Lawson, and their dog, Jake. In addition to writing, Lee serves as an emergency coordinator with the Department of Homeland Security & Emergency Preparedness.

To read Lee’s Christian testimony, visit http://www.epicuniverse.com/about-the-author/my-testimony/