Chapter Thirty-eight
Friday, April 13th, 0012 NE
2039 hours
Norilsk, Russia
A HAZE OF WEAPONS exhaust blanketed the hallway by Northern Forge’s hangar. Orange flashes exploded from assault rifle barrels like fireworks. Nightmen hollered in all directions; EDEN pressed in like an unstoppable machine. The blood of the fallen stained the walls.
In the middle of everything were David, Auric, and Catalina. David—the only member of the trio with any real mobility—had already emptied several magazines as he and the Nightmen around him fired with reckless abandon. The wheelchair-bound Auric and Catalina, on the other hand, worked together almost as a single entity, one firing while the other readied ammunition, then each switching out when the other was depleted in order to provide a constant barrage of suppressive weapons fire. The two had taken cover at the entrance of the cafeteria, where a small force of Nightmen had fortified.
“Will!” David shouted as he glanced quickly behind him. Bullets zinged past his head; a Nightman next to him fell. “I’d sure love to know where the hell you are!”
The demolitionist had disappeared from the fight not long after it’d begun, insisting that “weenie guns” such as assault rifles and combat shotguns were nowhere near enough to stave off the onslaught. It was not so much a question at this point as to whether or not he was right, but rather whether he would reappear in time for it to make any difference.
Passing her emptied E-35 to Auric, Catalina shouted, “Out!” A fresh weapon was supplied to her, and she aimed to fire again. Spinning around in his wheelchair, Auric rolled to the nearest cafeteria table to reload the empty weapon he’d been given.
Catalina shouted as a bullet pierced her shoulder, blood streaking across the floor as she cried out. Eyes watering in pain, she struggled to wheel herself back to cover.
Auric was there to assist. “Are you all right?” he asked as he pulled her inside the cafeteria.
“Yeah, it barely caught me.” Seething in pain, she readied her weapon again.
Auric reached for her arm. “Swap out.” Catalina didn’t argue, and the two switched places. Entering the fray from the cafeteria entryway, Auric unleased a fresh barrage.
David was in the middle of reloading his own weapon when Max’s voice emerged behind him. “Dave!” Ducking out of the firefight, the soldier looked back as the gritty technician approached with Antipov and Boris. As he neared David, Max asked, “How we lookin’?”
“Whatever plan you guys have,” David said, “it better be a good one!”
The four men gathered just beyond the precipice of cover, continually ducking their heads and slinking back as the battle continued mere feet away.
“What you got for us?” David asked.
Swapping a look with Boris, Max answered, “We need to get to the Pariah.”
“You need to—” David blinked. “—you need to what?”
It was right then, almost immediately after the incredulous question was asked, that a new sound emerged—one so loud amidst the weapons fire around them that it caused all of the men on Northern Forge’s side of the fight to whip their heads around to look.
Whoosh!
The streaking, smoky projectile seemed to pass in slow motion, soaring right down the center of the hallway toward the hangar entrance, where EDEN’s forces had fortified. The sounds of rifle rounds were replaced by a deafening boom, as the hallway entrance to the hangar exploded with fire and blood.
David and Max looked toward the source of the sound. There, standing in the center of the hallway fully geared in sentry armor, was the largest Nightman either man had ever seen. He towered above the warriors around him—his head almost seemed to touch the ceiling. Holstering the sizzling hand cannon he’d just fired, the Nightman reached up and over to his back, where he grabbed an attached weapon and pulled it up and over his head until he was holding it in both hands—a six-barreled, rotary-driven monstrosity of polished, black metal, fed by a massive ammo pack that was strapped to the sentry’s back.
A microgun.
The six-barreled beast began to whir. From behind the faceless sentry helmet, a mechanically amplified voice bellowed, “Battering ram!”
Bbbrrrrrtttttt!
The microgun exploded with fury. Streaks of orange lit up the hall. As the titanic sentry marched forward, his weapon erupting all the while, the EDEN soldiers down the hall dove for cover.
Harbinger.
“Y’all, this thing is nuts!” shouted the Southerner between bursts. As the unarmored Nightmen around him covered their ears, William pressed down the trigger again. What few rounds EDEN was able to sling the demolitionist’s way only dinged off his sentry armor.
Looking at Max as the eruption of sound came again, David shouted, “What was that about getting to the Pariah now?”
Antipov was already on it. “All forces, we must push them back! We must reach the Pariah at all costs!” Waving his arm, the general shouted, “Push now!” It took no second order, as the full force of Nightmen in the hallway surged forward in William’s wake. For the first time since the attack on Northern Forge had begun, EDEN was being repelled.
David felt no need to follow the mob, nor apparently did Max and Boris, both of whom stayed back while the William-led counterattack pressed on. Leaning close to the combat tech so that he could hear, David asked, “What’s going on with the Pariah? Why is everyone trying to get to it?”
“It’s a lot to explain!” Max answered.
“Is there a ten-second version?”
Max nodded. “We can’t send a signal to the eidola around the globe from inside the base! We need to get airborne, then we can do it.”
Blinking in disbelief, David said, “You won’t last ten seconds airborne! You think EDEN’s air force isn’t sitting out there waiting for us?”
“If we can’t get that signal out,” said Max, “we fail! We fail here, we fail at EDEN Command…it’s a total loss.” He shook his head as if to emphasize the point. “Look, I don’t want to do it…”
There was nothing else the technician needed to say. David understood. “Are the three of us about to go on a one-way trip?”
“God, I hope not!”
Ducking back around the corner, Antipov asked, “Are you gentlemen ready?”
“If we’re gonna do it, let’s do it,” Max answered.
“William Harbinger is making the push. Let us follow him now!” The three other men affirmed, and they followed Antipov into the fray.
IT WAS THE most chaotic fight Logan had ever experienced. Level-2 was swarming with EDEN forces. The Nightmen, for what little it was worth, were fighting as vehemently as they could to repel them. In all locations but two, that effort had failed—but the two were important.
The first was the stairwell, where Northern Forge’s actual security team had managed to take position. As the only warriors to have been armed and armored from the get-go, that they were able to stake a territorial claim was to be expected. Despite the push that EDEN was making—and it was indeed a fierce push—the stairwell fortification was holding its own.
The second fortification, and arguably the most important, was the hallway to weapons and armor storage. Somewhat separated from the stairwell, it was in effect its own separate battle zone, not close enough to the stairwell and security team for the Nightmen to form a single, protected section of the base. Be that as it were, the fight to keep EDEN from coming between the stairwell and the hall to weapons and armor storage was one waged in near futility. But there were moments of defensive stability that occasionally allowed Nightmen to move between the stairs and storage with only moderate risk—far preferable to the near-certain death they faced anywhere else on Level-2.
It was there—weapons and armor storage—that Logan had found himself. Caught between an endless cycle of engaging on the front line and falling back to re-equip, he’d both taken out his fair share of EDEN attackers and watched Nightmen fall around him. Unlike the Nightmen, he had not taken time to slip into the actual storage room to don armor. He was far and away the most apt warrior in this skirmish. Any seconds not spent actively engaging were seconds that EDEN was moving in.
“Mag!” the Australian yelled, holding his hand out as he fell back briefly to the storage room door. A Nightman inside tossed him a fresh magazine, which he slammed into his assault rifle. Raising the weapon, Logan pivoted away from the storage room and aimed it down the hallway where EDEN was pressing in. Before he could pull the trigger, a sound right next to him caught his attention.
Wracck!
The slayer beside him toppled forward, blood burst from the front of his faceplate. Someone had shot him from behind. Ducking down and spinning before he was executed next, Logan aimed his weapon down the corridor behind them and pulled the trigger. A shot meant to deter, it served its purpose as the warrior who’d fired at them quickly ducked around the corner. In the fleeting moment that Logan had seen him, he’d recognized the unmistakable purple and white armor of Vector Squad. “Bloody hell,” the Australian murmured, grabbing a slayer as he dashed out of storage. “Mate, we’ve got Vector on our six! I’ll take care of them—you guys have to hold this room!”
“Da, captain!” the slayer replied. It was not the first time he’d been mistakenly referred to with that title, though Logan paid no mind to it.
With his weapon raised and ready to fire, Logan stalked toward the corner where the Vector had disappeared.
If any of EDEN’s forces were able to pinch them off from behind, the game was over. If those forces happened to be Vector, the Nightmen’s time left might be measured in seconds. Logan wasn’t ready to die—not there, not like this. None of these Nightmen would be able to stave off Vector, particularly as disorganized and exhausted as they were. If any of them were to have a tomorrow, then this was a fight that Logan had to win.
When Logan rounded the corner, he found himself face to face with a large, spherical object making a beeline right for his head. Eyes widening, the Australian ducked down and pivoted, barely avoiding getting his face bashed in by the high-speed device, which streaked off down the back hallways. Instinct prompted him to swivel his E-35 toward the object and fire. Experience told him otherwise. This wasn’t an attack—it was a distraction. Logan’s aim stayed true, his eyes stayed forward. Far down the hall, with one hand tapping fervently on the wrist pad of another, was a Vector whose posture—whose capability—Logan was more than a little familiar with. Locking eyes with Pablo Quintana, Logan aimed his weapon and opened fire. The Spaniard dashed to the side, Logan’s shots avoided with lightning speed as the Vector’s handgun was whipped out of its holster, aimed, and fired. The bullet whizzed past Logan’s head as he, too, dodged. Then, for the briefest of moments, Logan watched Pablo hesitate to fire. There was only one reason why the Spaniard would do that.
Someone Pablo knew was behind Logan.
Turning his head, Logan saw that his intuition was correct. There, standing far behind him along the back halls and alone, was a second Vector. Another whose stature he instantly recognized—though a second later, the man’s voice gave him away.
“Chief…you done made yo’self a big mistake.”
Marty Breaux.
Logan held out his open palm in Pablo’s direction—a petition for a single moment, as his head shifted between the two men who surrounded him. The two men he’d helped hunt the outlaws until he’d betrayed them in the forests of Atami. “Let’s not be hasty, boys,” the Australian said. There was no doubt in his mind, even as he said it, that they were about to be hasty. Behind Marty, the same floating, spherical object appeared around the corner and hovered behind him. Looking back at Pablo, he saw a second drone do the same thing for him. This was about to be four on one.
“’Dere ain’t no situation where all three of us walks away from this alive,” Marty said.
“At least let me know where to send flowers,” Logan quipped.
It was the only wisecrack he’d be allowed. From Pablo’s direction, there came a sound—the faintest shuffling of fabric on metal. The sound of a quick aim. Slamming his own body against the wall, Logan narrowly avoided death by Vector pistol round, the bullet zipping past him down the hall, where Marty had already gone to the wall himself to avoid the crossfire. It was that crossfire that Logan would have to use to his advantage. Both men would be hesitant to fire at the risk of riddling each other with bullets. They would have to be cautious. Against Logan, who had absolutely zero qualms about firing liberally, caution was a death sentence. But he’d have to be fast.
Logan fired his assault rifle as he propelled himself toward Pablo. As Pablo ducked down and out of the way, the drone above him lowered to get in front of him. The front of the drone opened into four parts, each of which extended up, down, and on both sides like a four-way metal shield. Logan’s bullets dinged off the shielding as the drone hovered up and down to match the angle of the Australian’s firing.
Flinging his assault rifle up as he charged, Logan banked on the drone following the weapon’s motion up high. It did. When the drone shot upward to deflect the rifle, Logan slid straight beneath it—straight into Pablo. The Spaniard’s pistol was already out, but the speed at which Logan slammed into him was enough to knock Pablo onto his backside—though his hand remained firmly gripping his pistol.
Grabbing the Spaniard’s hand, Logan slammed it against the floor. Pablo’s grip remained secure, as the Vector’s other hand reached down to unsheathe a knife from his belt. Above them, the drone whirred and flew in circles. The knife came out—Pablo swung it toward Logan’s face as hard as he could.
Logan let go of Pablo’s hand, surrendering in his attempt to de-arm the Vector in exchange for keeping his face intact. The blade swished by, missing the Australian by millimeters as both men hopped up to their feet.
Swish! Swoosh!
Pablo’s swings were lightning quick, each one forcing Logan backward until his back was against the wall. As the Vector lurched forward to plunge the knife straight, Logan grabbed his hand, twisted, and shoved the Vector’s hand forward, sending the knife through the drywall halfway to its hilt. Placing his hand on the back of Pablo’s head, Logan slammed the Vector’s face against the wall.
Suddenly, a blinding white flash and crackle of static erupted above Logan’s head. Stumbling back, he covered his ringing ears with his hands. For the faintest of moments, his vision went white.
The drone had just flashbanged him.
Logan had no idea if Pablo had been affected by the burst, or if the Vector’s helmet and visor had a protective barrier, but he knew he didn’t have time to find out. Marty would have been readying his chaos rifle for a shot right that second. Lurching forward, the Australian blindly grabbed the air until he caught the collar of Pablo’s chest plate, whirling him around until he was facing the direction that Logan was pretty sure Marty was. A human shield, just in case. As it turned out, just in case was just in time. Logan’s vision flickered back, and he caught sight of the Cajun down the hall with his chaos rifle aimed.
Before Logan could react further, Pablo reached for his wrist pad. Logan also reached quickly for the combat tech’s hand to stop him, but it was too late. A new command had been inputted. Above, the drone hovered to the top of the ceiling, where a massive eye like a camera lens opened. The next thing Logan saw was a flashing of blinding, white light. Not a flashbang—just light. Just another slight impediment for the Australian to overcome.
These drones were starting to get on his nerves.
Twisting around in Logan’s grasp, Pablo reversed the grab Logan had on him while the Australian was recovering. The next thing Logan realized, the Vector was facing him toe to toe. There was a flurry of attacks and counters. Pablo rammed his palms into Logan’s solar plexus. Logan struck for the Vector’s neck with a knife-hand—Pablo crossed his arms in front of the strike and twisted it mid-thrust. Another strike, another block, another off-balance counter.
Flash!
The drone eye flashed again, hovering at an angle where only the Australian would be affected. Logan blinked and looked away, blocking Pablo’s attacks blindly while the stars left his eyes. When they finally did, the drone—now joined by the second drone that’d been hovering over Marty—repositioned itself again.
Flash!
They were keying in on him. Moving constantly to not only be in his direct line of view, but to be out of Pablo’s. To be persistent harassers until the blind blocks failed and the Spaniard did him in. Reaching down to his belt in mid-block, Logan ripped his combat knife out of its sheath. If there was one benefit to the constant flashing of lights from the pair of drones, it was that it was beginning to tee the Australian off. For whoever he was up against, that was never a good thing.
Another swoosh by Pablo. A follow-up thrust deflected. Logan switched to offense. Upward thrust, sideways slash, evade and counter. The tussle was constant. At long last, at the apex of a particularly long swipe by the Spaniard, Logan saw his opportunity. Snatching the Vector by the shoulder with his left hand, he jerked Pablo toward him while he thrust his knife straight up into the Vector’s armpit. The strike was pure. The blade went straight up and into Pablo’s shoulder—he let out a howl of agony.
In seconds, Marty would be there, and this close-combat brawl would become a one-sided tag team bout. Logan didn’t like those odds. This needed to end in the seconds before the Cajun arrived. There was only one way for that to happen.
From the onset of her little crusade, Natalie had preached about her insistence that innocents not be killed. That this was a war to be fought the right way. Well, that wasn’t his way. By her own definitions, Pablo Quintana was not the enemy. He was a Vector, not a conspirator. The personification of an ideal to be striven for. He was innocent.
Logan knew better. There were no innocents. Natalie could have never looked a man in the eye and plunged in a blade. Logan had done it many times. This wasn’t about having a conscience. Logan wanted to survive.
He pulled the blade straight out of Pablo’s armpit. It came out cleanly. He tugged the technician’s body close. No space for Marty to take a shot. Then he thrust the knife up.
Logan was looking straight into Pablo’s eyes when the knife entered his throat. He saw the man’s gaze shift from shock, to realization, to panic. All three emotions came in a single second’s time. Logan had seen it many times before. He’d learned not to care. It didn’t matter how good, or idealistic, or noble a man was. If at the end of the day it was that man over Logan’s dead body, well…for Logan, the right choice was obvious.
Above them both, the drones went dark. Falling, they hit the ground with two heavy clanks, obviously tied into their operator’s life signs. Now, they were dead. Because so was he.
Marty was coming. As his senses returned to him, recovering from the flashing and the stars, he heard the Vector soldier’s footsteps. In a different time, in a different place, he might have let his gaze linger longer on Pablo’s, just to offer the man he’d slain one last honor. But there was no time for honor. There rarely was.
The Cajun swung hard with his knife just as Logan withdrew his blade, slung Pablo to the ground, then swung his knife up to counter. The blades clanged so hard that sparks flew. Another swing, another, then another. The Vector pressed forward like a rampaging monster, exhibiting pure, unbridled rage at the death of his comrade. On the flipside, it was Logan who was now finding calm.
Every swipe Marty sent, Logan parried. The Cajun was one of the best all-around warriors on the planet, but right now, his anger was his weakness. Even in the fleeting instants that the two locked eyes, a twisted scowl of hate was evident on Marty’s face. The Vector was seeing red.
And he was still dangerous.
A swipe from Marty—a miss. Another swipe, a miss. A swipe, a miss, a swipe, a parry—but never a relent. As the surges and slashes came one after the other, the Vector released a scream of vengeance.
Logan deflected one of the Cajun’s attacks and thrust forward with his blade. Marty grabbed the Australian’s wrist and yanked him toward him. The style of counter was unexpected, and the next thing Logan felt was his face smashing against Marty’s visor, hard. Snarling, he brought his knife up again in the same manner in which he’d stabbed Pablo’s armpit. The Cajun struck him before he could. First, a haymaker with unbelievable speed. Then another, then another, then another. Logan’s skull was jostled as he stumbled backward, fighting now to not only score a hit, but to maintain his balance.
Swish!
Marty’s blade slashed across Logan’s cheek. Warm blood flew out. Twisting to the side, Logan grabbed Marty’s shoulder and slung him around and into the wall. Marty head-butted him again, then kicked him straight forward into the wall across from them. A punch from the Cajun, a quick duck from the Australian. Logan brought his knee up and into the Vector’s chest, but with his armor, it had little to no effect. Marty slammed his elbow into the side of Logan’s head. Logan stumbled backward then sidestepped a knife thrust that would have killed him. Charging forward, Logan wrapped his arm around Marty’s head and spun him, all the while feeling for the helmet release latch. He had to open up something to exploit. Aware of the effort, Marty hoisted Logan up, raised him over his shoulder, and slammed him into the floor like a professional wrestler.
Crack!
Rearing his head back, Logan growled. A rib had just broken—maybe a few. Marty raised his boot to stomp Logan’s head—Logan grabbed it and kicked his other leg out from under him. The Cajun landed flat on his back as Logan grimaced and tried to stand.
Marty got up first, and a punch dead to the center of Logan’s face split his nose wide open and sent him flopping backward into the wall. The knife was thrust toward him again—he dodged it then grabbed at Marty’s arm. Marty crashed his left fist into the side of the Australian’s head, and it was rocked to the side. Another fast left hook spun him completely around. This Vector—this embodiment of retribution—was destroying him.
Logan whipped around just as Marty attacked with the knife again. The quick motion was likely the only thing that spared him from getting stabbed through the back, but it didn’t save him completely. The Vector’s knife stuck straight into Logan’s bicep. He roared in pain, then glared at the Cajun in hatred. Plowing straight through Marty with the knife still sticking in him, Logan uppercut him right under the chin. Marty’s head rocked back—the first truly damaging hit the Australian had scored all fight long. He had to take advantage of it. As Marty quickly tried to recover, Logan wrapped his arm around his neck much as he had before. That helmet. He had to remove it! Marty clawed for the knife that was still sticking out of Logan’s arm, but the Australian’s hands were relentless. Relentless until…
…click!
He’d unclasped it! There was no time to waste. Logan ripped the Vector’s helmet off with prejudice, then sent his fist flying forward. The hit knocked Marty’s head back, where it pounded against the wall. With an actual opening in front of him, Logan pressed in.
He sent a hard blow to the Cajun’s temple. It landed. A repeat blow, in the exact same place. That one landed, too. Marty, now abandoning his efforts to grab the knife, went into full defense. A second later, Logan was ripping the knife out of his bicep himself. Two blades to none. There was no reason to back off now. Even as the Cajun raised his arm guards to block the strikes, it was only a matter of time until…
Splitch!
Impact! A strike had caught the Cajun in the side of the torso. Logan ripped it out then jabbed it in again, over and over and over, screaming all the while. With every blow, with every piercing of blade into flesh, Marty’s resistance weakened. It was time. Pulling back with both blades, Logan sent them screaming through the air, each into a side of the man’s torso. With a ferocious yank, the Australian pulled them out, dropping the knives to the floor as he stumbled backward in exhaustion. Marty, too, staggered backward—right into the wall behind him, where he slid down to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.
Logan collapsed onto his knees, exhausted. His nose was busted open. His cheek was bleeding. The muscles in his bicep had completely constricted. He’d broken at least one rib if not more. Leaning his head back, he released a painful and exhausted breath. He wanted to pick up one of those knives and jab them into the Cajun’s neck—just a decisive finisher, even though he was certain he’d delivered multiple killing strikes. But he couldn’t bring himself to move. He had nothing left in the tank.
He saw it out the corner of his eye. Someone was there—standing at the end of the hall not far from where Marty had first appeared. Even before he turned his head, he could sense their eyes upon him, as if they’d arrived just in time to see him take Marty down. Slowly, the Australian turned his head to face them.
Lisa.
“Oh, you’ve got to be bloody kiddin’ me,” Logan uttered.
The objects of Lisa’s focus were not left to question. Her dark eyes were solely on the bodies of Pablo and Marty. Her steely glare swiveled onto Logan. Even before she began to stride toward him, Logan knew exactly what was about to take place.
Fists touching the floor, the Australian pushed himself up to a stand, grimacing through the effort as his biceps tightened, the blood from the stab wound still seeping. Weary was not the word. The former mercenary felt broken. “Don’t do this, Tiffin,” he said.
The Vector picked up her speed.
“Don’t do this, Tiffin!”
Lisa slung down the assault rifle she was carrying. Her face twisted into an expression of pure hate. This kill, she wanted up close and personal.
Logan had other plans. Reaching down to his pistol holster, he winced as he hurried to whip it out. One shot—the right shot—would end this right now.
Lisa got to him first. Leaping forward and kicking with wolverine prowess, Lisa smashed her foot into Logan’s hand just as he raised the weapon to take aim. The impact caused him to pull the trigger; the bullet ricocheted down the hall. Using the momentum of her strike and the subsequent motion of his body, Logan tried to grab her with his injured arm. Before he could snatch her, she dropped to the floor and kicked out his knee. Were it not for a quick shift in body position just as she’d kicked, his kneecap would have been blown out right then and there. Buckling forward, Logan reached down to grab at Lisa’s ponytail—the sole part of her body she couldn’t control. Curling his fingers around it, he slung her up and against the wall. There was no reason to relent—not in the shape he was in, not while he had a firm grip on her. Yanking her downward, he sent her crashing to the floor.
Lashing her hand out, Lisa picked up one of Logan’s knives from where it’d been abandoned. Before she could thrust it at him, he swung her again by the roots of her hair, sending her careening up and against the opposite wall.
Swish!
The swing of the blade happened so fast, just as Logan was picking her up again—but it was not the Australian she’d struck. The tension of his grip on her ponytail suddenly gave way—yet his fingers still curled around it. Unanticipated backward momentum took over, and Logan awkwardly stumbled backward until he fell to the floor, ponytail still in hand.
She’d just cut it off.
Propelling himself to his feet with a jump, Logan made it up just in time to dodge a series of some of the fastest slashes he’d ever dodged. Her foot came off the ground, right for his head. He grabbed it. She leapt up with her other foot, spun around in the air, and sent her instep crashing against the side of his face. Stars filled his vision as he spun around then stutter-stepped back. Two more kicks came, one against his chest, the other against his chin. Logan bull-rushed her with his good arm outstretched, slamming it against her chest as he drove her backward. She reversed it. Pivoting her shoulder into him, she turned herself completely around and slung him past her. Logan skidded to stop his momentum. That was when the knife got him.
The Australian felt it as it was jammed into his back shoulder—the same arm that’d been stabbed with the knife earlier. Resisting the pain, he sent his elbow straight back and into her face. The hit connected, and she stumbled back.
Knowing better than to pull a knife out a second time and add to his blood loss, Logan growled in pain as he turned around to face her. He turned one second too late. The Vector literally ran up his body, her feet scaling him in half a second like some kind of ninja. The next thing he registered was her thighs wrapping around his head while he was still standing. She twisted, sending him crashing down to the floor in a bone-crunching thud.
The mercenary had seen a lot of moves in his career, both in Japan and in EDEN, but he’d never seen that one. He swung his fists wildly at her, but her thighs tightened their hold around his throat. If he didn’t get her off soon, the fight would be over. There was no dangling ponytail to reach for, no part of her he could strike. She’d contorted her body to put it completely out of range. Logan Marshall had just defeated two of the world’s most elite warriors back to back. He was about to be killed by their protégé. His eyes bulged. His head felt like it was going to implode. The Vector squeezed harder.
She had him.
Pwing!
The bullet hit the wall mere inches from Lisa’s head. As her tightening ceased, Logan grabbed one of the knives from the floor and sent it flying over his head toward her. The Vector ducked back, releasing her hold on his neck as the blade barely missed her.
A flurry of weapons fire flew down the hall. Logan lifted his head from the floor to see a small team of slayers moving toward him. By the time he looked back, Lisa was already in retreat. The Vector slid to the floor, grabbed her assault rifle mid-slide, then hopped up to fire it blindly while she ran away for the same corner from which she’d first appeared. Be it by resolve or pure luck, not a single bullet touched her.
Leaning his head back, Logan groaned in defeat as the footsteps of the Nightmen drew nearer. He watched as the one at the front of the pack reached his hand down to help him up. Without even thinking about it, Logan snatched the man’s hand and pulled up to his feet. He snarled in pain as he tried to balance himself against the slayer.
“Marshall! Are you okay?”
The slayer’s voice. He recognized it. Bedrich. “I’m wrecked,” the Australian answered through gritted teeth.
“They are pressing in toward the stairwell. We were pushed back here.” Bedrich looked at Logan’s body from behind his faceless helmet. “Can you fight?”
“Apparently not, mate.” Not only was he physically beaten down, he was bleeding profusely from where he’d pulled the knife out of his bicep—a medical no-no but at the time, a survival necessity—and he still had a knife in his back. He needed treatment desperately.
Bedrich slammed a pistol into Logan’s grip. “You will still need it.”
He needed a lot more than a pistol. “Are there any more Vectors?” How he wanted that answer to be no. Unfortunately, the slayer nodded.
“A few, yes. Several are leading the charge that pushed us back. There are very few places for us to go—I believe we are trapped here on Level-2.”
That wasn’t what he wanted to hear at all. “Well let’s bloody well make the best of it.” Taking a step forward, he staggered briefly as pain surged through him again.
“We fight through it,” Bedrich said. “It is what warriors do.”
“Whatever it takes to make it through this alive.”
The slayer nodded, then he put Logan’s arm around his shoulder. As the Australian was helped along, both he and Bedrich kept their weapons ready.
“YER ALL GONNA die!”
William’s Southern twang reverberated out of the sentry helmet he was wearing. The massive demolitionist, who’d been alternating between a hand cannon and a microgun, had almost singlehandedly managed to push EDEN out of the central hallway of Level-3 and back into the hangar. Though there had been several sentries who’d been in the fight from the beginning, they’d been armed with E-35s and pistols. Simply put, weapons as devastating as hand cannons and microguns weren’t supposed to be used inside the base. There was a first time for everything.
Though not by much, sentry armor was thicker than slayer and fulcrum armor. By design, sentries were the impediments to anyone wishing to do harm to a Nightman facility. They were certainly not the Nightman version of EDEN demolitionists, but when it came down to layers of protection, they were second to none. When armed with both explosive and rotary-driven weaponry, they were nearly unstoppable—as EDEN was now discovering.
David, Max, Boris, and Antipov had followed the wake behind William’s push, as had many of the Nightmen. With EDEN having to devote so much of their focus on William now, it had given the Nightmen around him a chance to recover and join the effort not just as a last line of defense, but as a force that actually had enough firepower to fight back. There was no other way to say it: one man had singlehandedly turned this tide. When the Nightmen finally broke through into the hangar itself, the battle erupted into a multidirectional maelstrom.
For the four men making their run to the Pariah, the hangar battle scarcely even mattered. All that mattered was getting inside, getting airborne, and getting that signal out to the eidola. The status of the strike team that’d gone to EDEN Command was unknown. There was no way for anyone to contact them to find out if they’d gone on with the mission or, in the absence of any communication from Northern Forge, turned around and begun to head home.
Ducking beside the doorframe to the hangar, Max flipped up a cover on his wrist pad and inputted the command for the Pariah’s rear bay door to remotely open. As it slowly whined down, scarcely even noticed by the soldiers firing every which way around it, the technician looked back at the others. “How we want to do this? Traditional three count?”
“Just go!” Antipov burst through the doorway into the hangar, weapon firing as he moved toward the Vulture.
“That saved all of two seconds!” said Max as he followed.
Despite the general’s firing while he moved to the transport, David, Max, and Boris were in full run-only mode. Once all were in, Max slammed his hand on the rear bay door button to bring it back up.
After he slid into the pilot’s seat, Max tapped furiously on the transport’s control board. “Now don’t expect any evasive action or barrel rolls!” he said. “I can work an autopilot, but I’m not exactly an ace behind the stick.” Boris slid into the copilot’s seat next to him. “B, help me out, you know how to run this thing.” After several seconds and no reply, Max turned his head Boris’s direction. “Come on, talk to me!”
Boris was staring at the control board, his gaze glassy and distant. Even with bullets pinging off the hull, the scruffy, moppy-haired technician said nothing.
It took a moment, but Max realized why. “B. Hey, B!” Boris looked at Max as the older tech put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s still his ship.” Slowly, Boris nodded his head. “All right,” Max said, slapping his shoulder, “now let’s get in the air and get this vecking thing done. You in?”
“I’m in,” said Boris as he reached for the controls. “Here, let me show you what to do.”
Back in the troop bay, David knelt beside Antipov. “What’s the plan once we get airborne, general?”
“We get clear enough to send the signal, then I send it.”
“Is that really it? Usually the plans are a lot more complicated.”
Antipov looked at him. “Sending the signal to the eidola is easy. Surviving long enough to do it is the complicated part.”
Grabbing the microphone that was dangling above the pilot’s seat, Max spoke over the troop bay loudspeaker, “Buckle up, you two.” In front of the Pariah, bullets were zipping back and forth, missed shots pinging against the windshield and hull. Outside of the open hangar door, Superwolves streaked through the mountain pass. Boris was inhaling and exhaling next to Max like he was about to rocket into space. “Don’t panic, B. If you panic, I’ll panic.”
David poked his head through the cockpit door. “Oh, crap,” he said when he saw the firing squad between them and what waited for them in the air. Eyes glued to the scene, he asked Max, “If you know any good preflight prayers, now might be a good time to put one out there.”
“Alan Shepard had a good one that probably applies.” Placing his hand over the final input button, Max blew out a breath, shook his head, and said, “Let’s make history.”
“That phrase does not make me feel better.” Disappearing from the cockpit door, David strapped in.
Max slammed the button in with his finger. The Pariah’s thrusters burst to life. The transport rose from the hangar floor.
From one side of the hangar to the other, all gazes swiveled to the Pariah. The power and fury of its engines blew a searing wind across the open space, as warriors of both EDEN and the Nightmen alike shielded their faces with their arms. As the cursed transport drifted forward, a barrage of EDEN weapons fire trained on it. But its metal hide was strong; no projectile would pierce it. Within seconds, the feral dog was freed from its cage.
Superwolves whizzed past the nose of the Pariah as it exited Northern Forge’s cavernous maw. As the autopilot brought the ship around and the radar systems kicked in, Max and Boris could see what was going on outside for the first time. Though Superwolves were there, they were not alone. Small squadrons of Omega Fighters were engaging them, contributing to an air battle that, though localized, was intense. With so many blips so close together on the radar, it was nearly impossible to make out one ship from another—but the familiar shapes and the streaks of gun and missile fire told Max all he needed to know. Pulling down the cockpit microphone, he said, “We’ve got a battle up here!”
Seconds later, Antipov stuck his head through the cockpit door. “What is happening?”
“Omegas engaging the Superwolves—and not nearly as many Superwolves as I’d have imagined.” With the angle of ascension achieved, the Pariah began to rocket skyward. The three men in the cockpit watched out the windows. “There might be too much going on for them to even notice us.” He looked at Boris. “Let’s get that signal ready, B.”
The scruffy-haired technician was already at work.
“How long will it take to establish a signal?” Antipov asked.
Boris looked at him. “The signal is established!”
The update prompted a brief look from Max, who in turn looked at the general. “You heard the man. Let’s do this!”
Lifting his comm, Antipov looked at the display screen. For a moment, he did nothing—as if, even for the man who now reigned over the Nightmen, the importance of the moment overcame him. But he was not overcome for long. The button was pushed.
The transmission hit the NSU satellite array within seconds, as a single, binary signal was sent to the four corners of the Earth. A “proceed” in the form of a tiny LED light built into a wristwatch worn by twenty of Iosif Antipov’s finest. A blessing.
The first eidolon to receive it was a combat medic stationed at Dublin—a man with a made-up English name and no trace of a Russian accent. The second was a flight controller at Berlin. The third, an engineer in London who specialized in Grizzlies. Soon, the flashing LED light was seen by every eidolon the Nightmen had in place. The recent plants. Those who had served with their units for years. Those beloved by their supposed comrades and those barely known by anyone at all. All there for one purpose and one purpose alone: to be ready when that time came.
Now that time came—and there was no hesitation. Flipping up the faces of their wristwatches, they themselves pressed a button. A signal of their own. A single, earth-shaking, balance-of-power-shifting command.
Detonate.
The bright orange plumes all rose at once, from the flight tower at Atlanta, to Cairo, to Nagoya, to London. A voice that had formed in the aftermath of first alien contact—that had assured mankind that they had a savior and protector—suddenly went silent. It was noticed first by the squadrons en route to EDEN Command, their communication with their home bases abruptly cut off, some in mid-transmission. It was noticed next by the communications operators at EDEN Command itself, who looked at one another in bewilderment as an entire global network suddenly vanished. Then by soldiers and citizens in close enough proximity to witness the explosions firsthand, mouths agape as they stopped in their tracks or pulled over on the side of the road.
The last to notice, in fact, were the ones that needed to know the most.
* * *
EDEN Command
“THIS IS GENERAL Antipov with a message to all Nightman forces in the global network.”
As the general’s voice came through, Saretok halted in his tracks mid-battle.
“The signal has been sent. The eidola have responded.” There was a small burst of static. “EDEN has sent forces to Northern Forge. We are under attack.”
Saretok wasted no time. Turning to the fulcrum nearest him, he said, “Contact all Omegas still outside of this base. Have all but ten diverted to Northern Forge.”
“All but ten, colonel?” the fulcrum asked, voice elevated in surprise.
“All but ten. What good is it for us to survive here if we have nowhere to go afterward? If the eidola have succeeded, whatever reinforcements EDEN is sending here will be rerouted back to their bases of origin. Pray that they have succeeded. It would be their first success of the day.”
The fulcrum dipped his head. “Yes, colonel.” He turned away to relay the message.
THE MEMBERS OF the High Command were in the middle of their retreat to the emergency hangars when the frantic message came to them by the communication operators. “President Blake!” one shouted as he ran to catch up to the bald-headed black man. When Blake looked back to him, the man said breathlessly, “Our bases are under attack!”
“Obviously we’re under bloody attack!” Blake spat back, resuming his hurried pace.
“Sir, no! I don’t mean EDEN Command. I mean our other bases. All our other bases!” At that, Blake stopped fully. Several judges around him did the same. Voice shaking, the communications operator said, “We just got an emergency message from Cairo stating that their flight tower just exploded. Then we got another call from Dublin saying the same thing! We got calls from Atlanta, Berlin, Nagoya…”
Stepping into the conversation fully, Archer asked, “I beg your pardon, but what?”
“There’s some sort of mass, coordinated attack happening—and it’s happening everywhere.”
“This is impossible,” said Blake.
The frantic operator’s eyes shifted from Blake to the other judges. “Sir, all the interceptors are returning to their bases. The radios are pure chaos. What do we do?”
“Are any bases not reporting an attack?” asked Archer pointedly.
“Sir, it’s impossible to say. All of the channels are completely inundated. Everyone is talking over each other.”
Motioning for the operator to follow, Blake hurriedly resumed his trek to the hangar. “Who is the closest fleet to our location?”
“Last we looked at the radar, it was London, sir. But every single squadron is returning to their home base.”
“Instruct London to stay the course. This place is teeming with Omega Fighters—if we don’t get assistance, we’ll be blown out of the sky as soon as we take off. Ask any other base if they’re willing to assist. And send a message to Mariner. Tell his squadron to speed it up. Do it, now.”
The operator nodded. “Yes, sir.”
* * *
Northern Forge
THE SCENE ABOVE Northern Forge was like nothing Max or Boris had ever seen. In every direction, Superwolves and Omega Fighters were swarming. Gunfire and missiles streaked in every direction of the contested airspace.
On the Pariah’s radio, the chatter of Gagarin Wing could be heard. Though Gagarin Wing didn’t quite compare to the high-flying acrobatics of Mariner’s Flying Apparatus, they were nonetheless the best pilots Russia had to offer. In fighters that were clearly superior for the task at hand, they were proving more than a match for EDEN’s aircraft—so much so that it seemed some of their fighters were peeling off.
Pointing to the radar, Max said, “Look at that! General,” he said, looking back into the troop bay through the cockpit door, “you might want to come up here and see this!”
Max’s call fell on deaf ears. Strapped into one of the seats in the troop bay, Antipov was speaking furiously into his comm. The words were in Russian, rendering their meaning all but useless to David, who was watching him intently from the other side of the bay. After a long string of what sounded like orders, the general got off his comm and looked at David. “The NSU is arranging a counterstrike.”
“The NSU?” asked David with raised eyebrow.
“Some of these Omega Fighters here are from them. But NSU forces are marching now onto Leningrad and Novosibirsk. President Belikov has ordered all EDEN personnel at these facilities to vacate them immediately.”
Squinting in confusion, David asked, “The NSU can do that?”
“EDEN does not own that land, Mr. Jurgen. That land belongs to the Soviet government. We have just handed EDEN their eviction notice.”
“All right, B, what the hell do we do now?” Looking outside the cockpit side windows, Max watched the remaining Superwolves and Omegas engage.
Beside him, Boris shook his head. “I suppose we wait it out?”
“We’re floating up here like a sitting duck.” Reaching to the console, he began inputting autopilot commands. “All right, I’m gonna, uhh…” Hesitating, he pressed another several buttons. “I’m gonna see if I can program it to go low, you know? That sound good to you?”
“That sounds good to me. Unless you want me to try and fly it?”
At the remark, Max looked at him. “What do you mean, try to fly it?”
“I mean, I sat up here for years next to Travis. I did pick up a little.”
After several seconds, the elder tech threw his hands up. “Well, why the hell didn’t you say so before? I’m sitting here programming junk like my fingers are about to fall off and you’re telling me you can fly this thing?”
“I did not say I could fly it! I can not let it crash for a little while.”
“Sounds a hell of a lot like flying to me, Boris. Take the vecking stick.” He pressed another series of buttons, transferring control.
Boris’s eyes widened. “I said I could not let it crash for a little while!” Grabbing the stick in a panic, he gripped it with both hands to steady it.
“All I need is a little while, then I can program a landing sequence. In the meantime, try to do something tactically advantageous.”
“Tactically advantageous?”
“Or you know, at least do that thing where we don’t crash.”
Making an ahhh sound with his mouth wide open, Boris awkwardly brought the ship’s nose down.
LISA TORE THROUGH the halls of Northern Forge like she was escaping a self-destruct sequence. At long last, after bypassing several skirmishes between EDEN and Nightman forces, she found salvation.
A Vector.
She could make out the warrior’s purple and white armor far down the hall, where what looked like a small team of EDEN forces was gathered. “Hey!” she called out, turning her full focus ahead as she sprinted toward her comrade. As soon as the soldier looked her way and slid off his helmet, she recognized him as Dieter Albrecht.
“Lisa!” the German called out to her, meeting her halfway and embracing her. “You are okay!”
“Yes,” said the Briton emphatically. “Do you have a spare weapon? I’m ready to help!”
Extending his palm, he said, “Help? No, not so much. You need to leave!”
“Like hell I’m leaving!”
“There is nothing for you to do here—we are dominating this facility. The captain instructed us to extract you. This is me fulfilling that now.” Signaling to a nearby EDEN soldier, he said, “This is Lisa Tiffin from our unit. Escort her to one of the transports with wounded.”
Lisa stepped in front of him, shoving his hand out of the way and glaring. “I did not escape from that cell to just run away.”
“No,” Dieter said. “I will not risk you now in an operation we are handily winning. You can discuss this with the captain later—but for now, you must listen. He made sure we understood that your extraction was a priority. Challenging me is disobeying him.” Though she snarled in disgust, she made no retort. His focus returned to the EDEN soldier. “Escort her back to the zone now. Put her on a transport with wounded and get her out of here. Go!”
Affirming, the soldier touched Lisa on the arm to urge her to follow. Shrugging him off, she said simply, “I’ll follow.”
With no further words, Lisa and the escort hurried away. After slipping his helmet back on, Dieter returned to the fight.
* * *
EDEN Command
HEAVIER. HEAVIER. Heavier. With every thigh-burning step Tiffany took, Scott’s body felt heavier on her shoulders. Though she hadn’t the foggiest idea how to get out of Confinement, the fact that she and Henkatha had passed through several unmanned security checkpoints told her that they must have been close to freedom. Sure enough, the hallway beyond the final checkpoint eventually opened into the primary hub of Research and Development. Huffing, she fell forward on one knee. After catching her balance, she exhaled and looked up at Henkatha. “Okay, big guy, I know I’m gonna need your fighting skills and all, but like, for two minutes, could you carry this dude?”
“Tiffany?”
A voice emerged from down the hall—one she recognized. The Valley Girl’s eyes widened, and she spun to face it. When the ponytailed soldier in an EDEN uniform appeared to her, she gasped. Could it be? Could it actually be? “Natalie?” The former Caracal captain was standing by the hub’s outer gate, weapon at the ready as her gaze shifted between Tiffany and Henkatha. Likewise, Henkatha’s horned head swiveled to face Natalie. Tiffany was on it immediately. “No!” She tugged at Henkatha’s arm before he could raise his weapon. “She’s one of the good guys!”
“He’s with you?” Natalie asked.
“Totally! His name is Henkatha, he helped bust me out!” When the Ceratopian’s muscles relaxed, Tiffany let go of his arm.
Natalie trotted toward them. When she focused on Scott, that trot slowed. “Oh my God, is that…?”
“Yes! We need to get him out of here.”
“Tiff, we all need to get out of here. This place is about to get wiped off the map.” Watching as Tiffany struggled to keep Scott on her shoulders, she said, “Set him down, let me help you.”
Tiffany would gladly. Lowering Scott with as much care as possible, she set him on the floor with his back against the wall. Rising up again, she turned to Natalie. Her head felt light. This was real. This was actually real. She’d come to terms with the fact that she’d never see anyone again. With the fact that she would most certainly die. Now she was looking at Natalie Rockwell. It was too much for words. Reaching out, she wrapped her arms around Natalie’s neck and tugged her in close. “Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “Thank you so much for coming after us.”
Natalie returned the embrace in kind, then quickly pulled away. “I appreciate it, Tiff, but right now, we have to move.”
“Yes. Yes! Let’s move.”
Emerald eyes flitting to Henkatha, Natalie asked, “Got a five-second explanation for this one?”
“I was in trouble, he wanted out, I let him out, I wasn’t in trouble anymore.”
“Can we trust him?” Natalie asked.
The behemoth’s eyes focused on her. “You can trust me.”
Blinking, Natalie said, “Whoa. Okay, I guess that works for me.” Facing Scott, she said, “Well, Hen…”
“…katha,” Tiffany said.
“Right. If you don’t mind carrying Scott, I’ll lead us all out of here.” Readying her weapon again, she prepared to turn back to the hub entrance.
The shot came out of nowhere. A single crack amid the reverberating klaxon, a single whizz past Natalie’s head. She and Tiffany flinched as a puff of blood left Henkatha’s skull. Turning, they watched as the massive beast, now with a hole in the center of his forehead, toppled backward to the floor. Both women froze. Then, both at the same time, they turned to face the gate.
He was standing at the center of the gate, weapon swiveling from where Henkatha had stood only a moment before to where Natalie and Tiffany stood now. Even from a distance, even through his visor, they could see his cold eyes. There was no time for either woman to say his name. There was only time to react. As Oleg fired a second round, this one squarely at the Caracal captain, Natalie and Tiffany dove into the hall that led to Confinement. Another round whizzed past Natalie’s head as she tucked, rolled, then instantly came out of cover firing back around the corner. Oleg ducked behind a column. “Get Scott!” Natalie shouted.
It took no second command. Tiffany reached out as Natalie laid down suppression, grabbed Scott’s limp body by the shoulder, and yanked him around the corner. As Oleg emerged from the other side of the column and fired back, Natalie ducked back herself to avoid getting dropped.
Tiffany’s heart pounded. She fought to drag Scott behind a security station. “Nat, this guy is bad news!”
“Yeah, we’ve met!” Even from a distance, Natalie recognized how the man moved—how he carried himself. He’d toyed with her in the forests of Atami. She’d be dead if Becan hadn’t shown up to fight him. Natalie crouched and leaned around the corner to fire, only to be forced back immediately as chaos rounds lit the corner up. Flicks of debris hit her visor as she fell back around the checkpoint. Quickly, she looked back at her comrades. Emerging from the security station where she’d stowed Scott, Tiffany readied the handgun she’d taken earlier from the guard. Her wide, hazel eyes looked at Natalie. “He’s just a man,” Natalie told her.
There was no man Tiffany wanted to kill more. “He’s just a man,” she said, repeating Natalie’s words.
Time to fight.
The hub before them was spacious, but not without cover. The room was divided almost completely down the center by a half-wall, on one side of which was the actual entrance to Confinement—where Natalie and Tiffany were—and the other half a sitting area with chairs and benches. What looked like a dozen large columns were placed about the room—the strongest material present to offer cover. Between the security desk at Confinement’s entrance, the computer terminals that were sporadically positioned, and the half-wall, chairs, and columns, it was almost like a mini arena. In fact, the most open area in the entire room was directly in front of Confinement, where Henkatha had been felled and where Natalie and Tiffany were taking cover. As long as Oleg moved quickly, he would be able to approach their position from almost any angle.
The women would have to be quicker. After aiming her E-35 by the pillar that Oleg was behind, Natalie pulled the trigger in anticipation of him making a move. Her intuition was right. No sooner had Oleg made a break for it, he was being forced back to cover by her weapons fire.
Tiffany slid to Natalie’s side just as Oleg leaned around the opposite side of the pillar to return fire. After ducking her head back a split second before she would have lost it, Natalie shot the freed pilot a look. “If he doesn’t take us out in about ten more seconds, he’s gonna start flinging grenades! I need to get out of this hallway—if I make a break for that half-wall, can you cover me?” Leaning around the corner, she fired again to keep Oleg at bay.
“I can cover you!” Tiffany shouted, pistol at the ready.
“Let’s move!” Natalie reached around to fire another volley as Tiffany positioned herself to take Natalie’s place. Run! Natalie took off from the corner, assault rifle blazing as she sprinted for the half-wall. All she had to do was leap over it and hunker down. Behind her, she could hear Tiffany’s pistol popping away. Natalie was ten feet away from the half-wall when her time ran out. Chaos rounds peppered the area around her. A computer station exploded. A chair was blown into splinters. Her head was about to be next. Diving forward through the air and turning in Oleg’s direction at the same time, she fired her E-35 wildly in the bearded warrior’s direction. The shots had no chance of hitting flesh. All they needed to do was buy her two seconds. A lucky shot hit the column right next to him. Oleg ducked back.
She was clear.
Colliding into the half-wall from her leap, she reached up to hoist herself over it just as Oleg emerged again to fire at her. Dropping behind the half-wall, she scampered along the floor out of his immediate sight. Behind her, the half-wall exploded with bullets right where she’d been seconds before.
Blow this piece of trash to smithereens. Reaching into her belt, she grabbed a grenade, pressed the arm button, and flung it blindly over the wall in Oleg’s direction. If it took him out, it took him out. If it didn’t, at least it’d flush him from the protection of his mighty column. As the grenade bounced, she heard Oleg mutter in Russian.
Boom!
The floor of the hub trembled as the grenade exploded. Natalie rose to her feet from behind the half-wall, weapon raised to find her target.
It found her first.
Through the newly formed dust cloud that hung over the hub, flashes of orange emerged from the other side of the room where Oleg must have retreated. This time, the security chief didn’t miss. A bullet glanced off the side of her helmet, nearly knocking her off her feet despite barely being a hit at all. The second bullet, however, was the one that got her. The pain from the chaos round didn’t even register. All Natalie felt was something hot cut through her right thigh guard as her body was knocked back. It wasn’t until she landed on her back with a thud and the thought, I just got shot, came to her that the pain set in.
Clutching her thigh, Natalie howled through watery eyes. There was liquid everywhere. She felt it on the surface of her gloves. Blood.
Move!
It didn’t matter that the most lethal round that EDEN had to offer had just taken out her leg. If she didn’t move from her position in about three seconds, the next chaos round would go through her skull. Natalie sucked in hard and scrambled to a nearby computer terminal. Her right leg moved when she willed it—a sign that at least it was still attached and functioning to some capacity. Bullets exploded around the terminal—one blew clear through the terminal’s backside and out of the monitor above her. Those chaos rounds cut through everything. All Oleg needed to do was shoot lower. The seconds she had left could be counted on one hand.
It was then that Natalie realized something terrible. Her E-35. She’d left it back by the half-wall. Oleg’s shots tore through the terminal as she reached down to draw her handgun.
Shots emerged from far to her left, back by the entrance to the security checkpoint. Tiffany. She’d been on the opposite side of the dust cloud without the benefit of a visor to help see through the floating debris. She might not know where Oleg was still—but she didn’t have to. All the Valley Girl needed to do was aim for the firing chaos rifle. If she could force Oleg to cover…
His shots halted! Natalie could hear him scrambling somewhere. Now was her chance. She had yet to look at her leg. She didn’t want to. Upon shoving herself up, Natalie sprinted toward a column on the same side of the room where Oleg was positioned. It took two steps for that idea to crash and burn.
It felt like someone had shoved a hot poker all the way up her thigh. Natalie’s sprints became desperate staggers as she moaned in the worst pain she’d ever felt in her life. By the time she got halfway to the column, she couldn’t stay up anymore. Tumbling forward, Natalie scrambled desperately for someplace closer to hide. All she could find was a cushioned couch. It was worthless—but it was all that she had. Falling behind it, she pushed herself up on her good leg and fired in Oleg’s direction. The first few shots were pure blind suppression. But the next few—the next few had purpose. She could see him.
Against all expectations, he was actually pinned back, a flurry of pistol fire peppering the walls around him—including against the column he’d retreated behind. The two women, both now wielding pistols against a chaos rifle, had him almost surrounded. Natalie had no idea where Tiffany actually was. All she knew was that the Valley Girl’s rate of fire was relentless. Natalie’s was, too.
A bullet hit Oleg in the shoulder. She could see it blow off a chunk of his armor. By the look of it, it hadn’t penetrated, but a hit was a hit. If it knocked him off his balance for even a second, it was a second to their credit. Bracing for the pain, Natalie abandoned the pseudo-cover of the couch and limped toward the column she’d been gunning for. No bullets found her this time, and she was able to take shelter behind it. It was at that moment that Natalie heard the most glorious sound she’d heard since combat began.
Click-click-click-click-click. A second later, a chaos rifle got slammed on the ground. Oleg was out of ammo.
It was now or never. Mustering every ounce of strength she had left, Natalie pushed to a stand. Behind bitten lips, she leaned around the corner of her pillar and opened fire. She got three shots off before she ran out of ammunition, too. She grabbed a spare magazine from her belt, which promptly slipped out of her bloody fingers and landed on the floor. Precious seconds wasted. Falling to the floor herself as it was easier than trying to kneel, she snatched the magazine and slammed it into place. Rolling over, she faced Oleg’s direction.
He was already on her. In the next second, her weapon was being wrested from her grasp and flung across the floor. He’d closed the gap between them in seconds. That bloodied glove—that slippery grip and her dropping of her magazine—had given him time. The next thing Natalie realized, he was shoving her to the floor and towering over her.
Rearing back with her left leg, Natalie sent a kick toward Oleg’s shins. It wasn’t nearly enough. Absorbing the kick, Oleg stepped all the way through it, reached down, and grabbed her by the collar. The world spun as he lifted her up, flipped her like a rag doll, and slammed her down against the floor.
She hit the ground face-first and her head rocked back. She felt the muscles in her neck pull, but there was no time to care about that. Rolling over, she saw him swing the blade of a knife straight down toward her stomach.
Pop!
Bullets streaked past, two of which struck the security chief in his side—one in the same shoulder that’d been struck earlier, the other in the side of his torso. Tiffany! The Valley Girl appeared out of nowhere, throwing the full weight of her body into Oleg from the side and knocking him clean off of Natalie. Oleg, who had obviously considered Natalie the primary threat, was sent sliding across the floor with the pilot now atop him.
Get up!
Bursting up in pure adrenaline, all pain was purged from Natalie’s focus—she didn’t have time to hurt. She dove in Oleg’s direction as he wrapped his hands around Tiffany’s neck, lifted her from atop him, then threw her over his head into the wall. The blonde’s handgun went sliding. Lowering her shoulder, Natalie rammed her body into Oleg’s just as he was rising to his feet. The collision ended with Natalie on top of Oleg much as Tiffany had been seconds earlier. For a second, the two warriors in EDEN armor locked eyes.
The second was gone. Crashing the crown of his helmet into Natalie’s visor, Oleg sent her head rocking backward. His fists pounded her solar plexus. He grabbed her by the waist and hurled her from atop him.
He was so fast. So incredibly, unbelievably fast. This was more than Nightman speed—this was specialist speed. As soon as Natalie righted herself on the ground, Oleg was atop her again, lifting her by the collar and kicking the heel of his boot into her right thigh, where his chaos round had found her earlier. Natalie screamed in agony as she crumpled to the floor.
Tiffany wrapped her arms around Oleg’s neck from behind—Natalie could barely make the Valley Girl out through the water in her eyes. Oleg countered, someone was struck—it was too fast and frenetic to make out who. The next thing Natalie saw, Tiffany was once again being thrown across the room.
Get her weapon!
If Natalie didn’t grab that pistol that was strewn on the ground, she and Tiffany would be slain within seconds. Oleg was stronger, faster, and unhindered. Whatever that bullet to his midsection had done, he showed absolutely no ill effects.
Rolling over again, Natalie crawled for Tiffany’s handgun. It was right there, mere inches from her grasp. One more reach for it…
Smack!
Oleg’s boot swept in front of her. The pistol was kicked across the room. The one possible advantage she could scrap for was now gone. For the first time since the fight began, there came silence.
Then motion. Fast, unhesitant motion. Motion that gave no cares about savoring the moment, offering a second’s reprieve, or getting a last word in. The motion of a professional killer. Oleg snatched Natalie by the side of her breastplate, slung her over on her back, and thrust with his knife. Natalie reached out with both hands to stop the blade—to stop his power. But she had not enough left. Her hands grabbed hold of his wrist, but his wrist came down right over her stomach. Right to the small, sliver-wide, rubber-coated weak spot. The chink in EDEN armor. As the blade was shoved into her all the way to the hilt, Oleg stared at her through his visor. As she looked up at him, as she felt him carve inside her, she registered only that he wore no expression. Blood spat from her mouth as he gave one final shove then drew the knife out. As Natalie’s vision began to tilt, she watched him turn for Tiffany.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.” The Valley Girl’s voice trembled as she tried to back away—right until her back hit the wall. With every step Oleg took, he and his blood-soaked knife drew closer. Tiffany had nothing left. No weapons. No blade of her own. Not even fingernails to scratch him.
“I did not want this,” Oleg said. There was no anger on his face—no disgust or frustration. He looked right through her. “Everything I have done, I have done to survive.”
Natalie. He’d just stabbed Natalie. And now he was coming for her. She reached down for the security keycard she’d slid in her prisoner’s jumpsuit. She might as well have wielded paper.
“I will give you one dignity.” His words grew grave. “I will make your death quick.” When the last word came, Oleg dashed forward. The knife was thrust out as he went for the kill. In that instant, as everything Tiffany had ever done in her life went flashing one image after the next, her brain made its choice. It was something the Valley Girl hadn’t attempted since high school. But with left and right out of the question, it was the only direction that offered hope. Her legs spread apart. Her hands reached out for balance. As Oleg’s blade went for her head, her head followed her body straight down—into a near-perfect split.
One second.
Tiffany sent her fist flying toward his groin. He contorted his body to block it.
Two seconds.
Wrapping her legs around his right shin, she twisted with all the might she could muster. Her hand reached up to shove at his thigh. Oleg reached for the wall to steady himself.
Three seconds.
Maneuvering past him like a slippery rabbit, Tiffany popped up to her feet as Oleg whirled around behind her. Her plan—her only hope—was to bolt for that handgun. To grab it, spin and aim it, then pull the trigger. To pull off a true warrior’s feat. As fate had it, she wouldn’t have the chance—for the moment she looked for the handgun, she saw that it was already claimed. Propped upright at the end of her own blood trail was Natalie. Tiffany’s eyes widened when they locked onto hers—and when they saw the handgun she was aiming. With utter collectedness—without her voice even raised—Natalie spoke a single word.
“Tiffany.”
Duck! Tiffany dove to the ground, hitting it in a roll that left her facing Oleg’s direction. She zeroed in on his face just in time to see him realize.
Between the incessant emergency klaxons and her head-spinning adrenaline, Tiffany didn’t even hear the handgun fire. But she saw Oleg’s visor break apart. She saw his bloodied brain matter spatter the wall. Stumbling forward, the eidola-turned-chief-of-security toppled to the floor. Tiffany stared in open-mouthed shock as his body spasmed.
“Fun in the summer sun.” The words just came out of her, like a post-traumatic stress response. It was as if seeing that bullet emerge through the back side of Oleg’s skull had opened a back door in Tiffany’s own brain. An escape route—or at the very least, a closure. The man who personified her torment was dead. Then, she spun around. “Natalie!”
Natalie was already slumped back on the ground. Tiffany’s reprieve quickly transformed into horror as she scrambled in Natalie’s direction. Blood was pouring out of the captain. Out of her mouth, out of her stomach…everywhere.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” Tiffany said. Natalie was moaning; it was the only sign of life that emanated from her. Looking at Natalie’s face, Tiffany slapped it several times to try and get a response—to try and get Natalie to look at her. But Natalie’s eyes were looking everywhere. “No, no, no, no, no, you are not dying on me! No!” Despite her efforts at bravado, panicked tears welled behind her lids. “Please don’t die on me, please don’t!”
She had to get Natalie out of there. She had to bring her to safety, to treatment. She had to…
Lifting her head, Tiffany looked across the hub floor—to the man she’d forgotten until right then.
She had to save Scott, too.
All strength left Tiffany’s spirit. The Valley Girl slumped to her knees. Even the klaxons seemed to fade away in her mind.
I can barely carry one of them. I can’t possibly carry both. I don’t even know which way to go.
A feeling of total loss washed over her, pulling her under like a dark undertow. Scott was unconscious—barely alive. Natalie was on the floor dying. Oleg took a bullet to the brain. Even her Ceratopian escort was dead. She had no one.
From the floor, Natalie reached up and grabbed her. The captain’s grip was hard, curling around Tiffany’s sleeve as she forced the pilot’s gaze downward. In a voice trembling and broken, Natalie forced out three words. They were breathy—they were slow. But they were deliberate.
“Win the fight.”
Natalie’s eyes rolled back. She struggled to keep her head up.
“Oh, no,” Tiffany said. “Oh, no. Oh, no!” Tapping Natalie on the cheek, she said, “No, no, no, no, you did not give me your last words. I swear to God, don’t you even!”
Tiffany needed help. She needed help now. Natalie was alive, but if she didn’t get medical attention immediately, she wouldn’t be alive for long. She needed someone—anyone! At this stage, she’d take a random alien.
…an alien.
As the idea came to her, Tiffany’s eyes returned to the entrance to Confinement. It was crazy. It was desperate. But it was also something that qualified as “anyone.” In the next second, Tiffany sprung up from the floor and ran back into Confinement.
Nharassel was sitting against the interior glass when Tiffany reappeared. As soon as the opaque-eyed alien spied her, he rose to his feet.
There wasn’t a second’s hesitation—not even a conditional word. Tiffany flipped out her stolen security pass and swiped it past the door reader. The light turned green, and the cell door opened.
“Come on!” Tiffany screamed. She waved her arms emphatically. Without waiting for a response, she took back off running up the hall.
Nharassel waited all of two seconds before taking off after her.