Chapter Zero
Wednesday, March 28th, 0012 NE
0718 hours
Ten hours after ambush
Likouala Swamp, Congo
WITH EACH CREEPING step, the African golden cat scanned its surroundings, eyes dilating with focus. Though the feline was aware of the many sounds of the swamp—the tok-ing of white-necked picathartes on the branches high above, the rustling of Raffia palm leaves in the breeze—it was the foliage ahead that had captured its full attention. Legs tense and whiskers rigid, the cat halted as its prey emerged.
A hyrax. Oblivious to the ambush that awaited, the small mammal rooted around in the vegetation, scratching at the dirt with its paws, the tip of its nose barely visible above the greenery. The foliage parted, and the hyrax crawled into the clearing. Within seconds, it froze, black eyes staring ahead as the fur on its back bristled. All went silent and still.
The cat craned its neck forward. Its rear legs readied to pounce. The prey was there for the taking—until the very foundation on which they all stood trembled.
The roar of descent thrusters thundered down from above, shaking the sediment beneath the African golden cat’s paws. The feline hunched down as the hyrax darted out of view. Its hunt foiled, the cat too fled off into the swamp.
Located in the heart of the Republic of the Congo, the Likouala Swamp was one of the few places on Earth that was almost wholly unexplored. Among the swamp’s sheer size, its almost impenetrably thick vegetation, and its arsenal of predatory beasts ranging from gorillas and crocodiles to venomous snakes and flesh-eating parasites, it was a place considered by even the most brazen survivalists to be too dangerous to tread. It was an entire region of Earth nearly untouched by man.
Nearly.
Angling his head downward as the V2 dipped its nose—a motion that caused the glow of the morning sunrise to reflect off his visor—the pilot spoke into his helmet comm. “Phalanx to Prime Control, we are requesting clearance to descend.”
The channel crackled as a voice replied, “Clearance granted, Phalanx, we are opening the gate.”
This time, it was a new rumbling that came to the swamp, not from an overhead transport, but from beneath the swamp itself. As the Mark-2 Vulture hovered patiently in the air, a gargantuan platform rose from the ground, lifting the carefully placed artificial trees atop it until they had risen above true treetop level. The hinged arms beneath the massive platform bent, and it was split in two, each side sliding away from the other like a gaping, metal maw. The chasm beneath it revealed Earth’s greatest secret—the place no one on the outside was supposed to see.
Pulling down the cabin mic from the cockpit ceiling, the pilot addressed his crew. “Thank you all for your patience. We’ll land momentarily.”
In the transport’s blacked-out troop bay, the Japanese medical team waited. With masks covering their mouths as if they’d been abducted straight out of surgery, they gripped the bay’s handrails as the V2’s descent thrusters engaged. As the medical bed in the center of the bay began to roll, one of the nurses reached out to keep it in place. The nurse’s dark, slanted eyes rested on the patient—a man whose name they didn’t even know. One who’d been brought to them riddled with bullets but clinging to life. An unlikely survivor from the forests of Atami. The troop bay remained silent as the V2 descended.
The transport’s thrusters leveled off at the bottom of the chasm; its engines took it forward through the long, manmade cavern that led to EDEN Command. The hinged, metal maw on the surface moved again, sliding the two sides of the landscaped platforms together then lowering them down. Soon, they were sealed back in place on the swamp’s surface, forming a patch of unnatural land indistinguishable from the untouched kilometers around it. Earth’s greatest secret, back into the depths.
DEEP WITHIN THE walls of EDEN Command, the flight controller in Prime Control watched the V2 approach through the camera monitors. Taking a sip of soda from the can on his control board, he ahhh-ed and adjusted his glasses. “Prime Control to Council HQ,” he spoke into his desk microphone, “please inform the Council and Doctor Jeffries that the Phalanx has arrived.”
TAKING THE CHAIN of custody form from the waiting security officer, the Phalanx’s pilot scribbled down his initials and transfer time. Behind the security officer, a team of EDEN Command’s own medical staff prepared to receive the survivor. The pilot handed the pen and paper back to the officer, then he turned back to the Japanese doctors and nurses. “Back in the transport, everyone.”
From one end of EDEN Command to the other, developments were unfolding at a rapid pace. In some places, such as the medical wing, the chaos was due to good fortune—the survival of one of the terrorists. But in others, both the situations and the end goals were far less enviable.
In the conference room, the judges of the High Command were frantically trying to make sense of new information—information that stated, unequivocally, that there were no Nightmen killed in their surprise bombing of Chernobyl. That there’d been no Nightmen there at all. It was a fact that flew in the face of what they’d heard with their own ears via a captured helmet comm. Recorded transmissions existed between Iosif Antipov and Scott Remington discussing the migration of the Nightman remnant there. Yet no migration had occurred. Amid shouting voices and pounding fists, an overarching question hung: had EDEN been wrong or manipulated?
Meanwhile, in EDEN Command’s hangar, Klaus Faerber and his Vector counterparts pored over tactical maps of Atami. Though they had succeeded in capturing Remington, it had not been without cost. Alexander Kireev—Vector and nephew of Judge Leonid Torokin—had been killed. More urgently, the life of another Vector was hanging in the balance. Lisa Tiffin, one of their youngest team members and a vital part of the Outlaw-tracking operation—had been captured. So far as Vector was concerned, the clock on her life was ticking. Weary or not, to Atami they would go. Their hunt, it seemed, was far from over.
There was also activity in Confinement, where the wing’s sole human occupant—Remington himself—was being treated for a bevy of injuries, ranging from cosmetic bruises and swelling, to eye socket and cheekbone fractures, to bruised ribs, missing teeth, and the after-effects of a concussion. His wounds were enough to render him drugged and listless—at least, for the time being. With a slew of security guards and access restricted to all but a few, Confinement was, for all purposes, on lockdown.
And yet far from that, still, another storm was brewing—one unbeknownst to everyone at EDEN Command save Kang Gao Jing, Benjamin Archer, and a select few others. It was a storm revolving around one man. An unknown known. A blurry line between happenstance and intent.
That man was Todd Kenner, the black sheep of Vector. The only reason he was at EDEN Command was because he’d known exactly where to be, exactly when to be there, and exactly what to do in order to be invited in like it was EDEN’s idea to do it. Just like tapping into a captured helmet comm had been EDEN’s idea. Just like bombing Chernobyl had been EDEN’s idea. The realization had struck them that a chess match was afoot. It was the extent to which EDEN was playing from behind that was the mystery.
Just the same, an end was in sight in the capture of Remington—a soldier turned Nightman, turned momentary threat.
Momentary.
For Benjamin Archer, despite the uncertainties that still existed and the threat that Kang insisted still loomed, the quick and decisive capture of Remington was validation that even the unforeseen could be mitigated. Yes, there were questions. Yes, Todd Kenner was up to something. And yes, a new, post-Thoor king piece was orchestrating something behind the scenes of the Nightman sect. But EDEN was strong in its complexity—an organization with many heads and even more moving parts. If a piece fell, no matter how significant it may have been, another would rise to take its place. Few weapons of war were as resilient as a properly designed bureaucracy. While Kang saw cause for worry, for the first time in as long as he could remember, Archer found cause to take a deep breath and smile.
Of course, that smile may have had something to do with the view from where he was standing. For before him, through a single, but thick glass partition, lay the battered and beaten body of Remington. Archer was unaccustomed to being around the wounded. He tried to avoid such people. War was a barbaric affair best circumvented when at all possible—and he was a man who believed all things were possible. At least, with the right pieces in place.
There was a heavy guard presence at Confinement. Even Archer had been forced to pass through several security checkpoints before arriving at Remington’s cell. “I’m going in to speak with him,” he said to the pair of guards at post. “I trust you’ll be prepared if he shows signs of aggression.”
“Of course, Judge Archer,” one of them said.
The champagne-blond judge lifted his chin and clasped his hands behind his back. “The door, please.” The glass partition slid open.
Lifting his head as if waking from a slumber, Scott regarded Archer as the judge stepped inside. No expression was apparent on the outlaw’s swollen face—his eyes were barely visible at all, puffed up to the point where they were almost sealed shut. But he could see, apparently, well enough.
Archer motioned with a subtle head nod toward the door. The guard closed it in the judge’s wake. When Archer turned back to Scott, the outlaw leader was still staring at him motionlessly from his side, as if mesmerized. Or seething with hate. With the current condition of his face, it was hard to tell the difference.
For almost half a minute, the cell was eerily silent. It was Archer who spoke first. Lowering his chin to look down upon Scott, he said, “I must say, you’re quite the anomaly.”
The words garnered a reaction. Lowering his head, Scott shifted his swollen eyes to stare blankly ahead.
“There are so many questions I’d like answered,” the judge said, pacing along the far wall. “When did this all begin for you? How? At what point did you enter this realm in which you clearly have no frame of reference?” Pausing, he shot Scott a perplexed look. “You were a Golden Lion. The best that humanity had to offer. And somehow, inexplicably, you fell under the tutelage of Ignatius van Thoor.” Archer shook his head. “How does that happen?” When no answer came, Archer resumed his pacing. “I want you to know, Mister Remington, that I bear no personal animosity toward you. I scarcely know you at all, though you apparently presume to know quite a bit about me.”
Scott said nothing.
“But I do wish to make something clear, because I believe you’ve somehow misconstrued reality to suit the convenience of your own perspective.” Archer crouched down from several feet away. Dipping his head, he stared deeply into Scott’s expressionless face. “You are the villain in this scenario.
“I know that must surprise you, given the conviction with which you’ve led this little band of miscreants—the ‘Fourteenth of Novosibirsk.’ But it’s true. I have been working tirelessly to save our species from something much worse than extinction. And while I have been doing this, you have been working to undermine me.” Rising to his feet, he paced again. “So I want you to think hard, Mister Remington. Think and consider the possibility that all this time, you’ve been wrong. I know that may be hard to believe—the notion that you could possibly know less about the state of the planet than the people who actually run the planet. Such arrogance is so…” He pressed his lips and sought for the word. “American. But it is an important truth for you to understand, because at the point you understand it, the two of us will be able to converse as civilized gentlemen, united in the cause of doing what’s best for our species.”
The tone of the judge’s voice intensified. “Because believe me, Mister Remington, there is only one course of action that keeps humanity alive, but there are many, many that lead to annihilation. The road to salvation is narrow, yet like a mindless buffoon, you and your Nightman ilk are hell-bent on veering us toward a damnation from which we cannot escape. Toward the end of humanity as we know it. Total, irreparable loss.” Teeth snarling, he said, “And so I will swallow my utter disgust for you and your brethren in an attempt to appeal to your sense of human dignity—and if not to that, then the basic instinct you must have to survive.
“Who of H`laar’s followers have you been speaking to? How? What have they told you? Those are but some of the questions you will answer.” His once dignified face twisting into a glare, Archer spat as he spoke. “Where are the Nightmen? What are they trying to do? And last, but most certainly not least, where are the survivors of Falcon Platoon?”
The judge marched closer as he spoke on. “If you have it in you to answer one of these—any of these—please do so and save me the time of having it tortured out of you.” Falling silent, the judge raised an eyebrow and angled his head. “Something? Anything? Must we go that route?”
Scott moved—it was a ginger motion, but a motion just the same. He turned his head away.
What little semblance of hope that’d been evident in Archer’s eyes melted away. Stepping backwards as the atmosphere of the room grew colder, the judge said, “So we must.”
Hesitating as if it might somehow tilt the outlaw toward cooperation, Archer finally turned to the cell door. Pausing at its precipice as the guards prepared to open it, he looked back to Scott. “Consider the questions. Consider answering them without the need for additional savagery. And if you still find yourself lacking in reason to play nice, contrast in your mind the armor we gave you to the one given to you by Thoor.” The judge paused. “Which of those two organizations do you think has Earth’s best interests at heart?”
Without another word, Archer stepped through the door and left.
Three minutes later, as Archer was walking away from Confinement, his comm chirped. Unlatching it from his belt and lifting it to his lips, he said simply, “What is it?” Upon holding it away slightly to look at the display, he saw that the prompt was from Malcolm Blake.
“Did you speak with him?” Blake asked.
Archer harrumphed. “I spoke at him. He failed to recognize the significance of the moment.”
There was a pause. “What’s your impression?”
Now at that, Archer could smirk. “My impression is that we’re lucky he’s not a vegetable after the beating Klaus gave him. I could have sworn I saw him drooling.”
“I’m being serious.”
“He’s defiant.” As he passed a staffer walking the opposite direction, Archer smiled courteously before continuing with Blake. “I’m unconcerned. This first meeting was for show, to give him something to think about. Next, I’ll appeal to his sense of reason, presuming he has one.”
Blake asked, “And if that fails?”
“Then we’ll just have to find a good set of pliers and pry his fingernails off.”
“I’m assuming you don’t mean ‘we’ in the literal.”
Chuckling, Archer answered, “Of course not.”
An audible sigh emerged from Blake’s end. “It’s a shame about Hector. He’d have been perfect for this.”
“He would’ve, but unfortunately, he’s no longer an option.” He paused outside of an elevator. “What do you make of Mister Strakhov?”
“Oleg Strakhov?”
Archer nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, I’m…I’m not sure. You mean to work on Remington?”
“He’s everything we want in an enforcer. Primal. Uncouth. Terrified to cross us.” The elevator opened, and Archer stepped inside alone. “I’m considering him for Hector’s job.”
On the other side of the line, the president scoffed. “Security chief? That’d raise too many eyebrows.”
“From whom?” The elevator dinged, and the judge stepped out. “No one outside of us knows where he came from. He has an EDEN record. Carol can whip up whatever she pleases to make him seem like the perfect fit. And might I add, those are all just formalities. You’re the president; you can appoint whoever you please.” As he walked on, his eyes found his destination, the beginning of the judges’ row of suites. “He shares our vigor in his disdain for the Nightmen, and Scott Remington by proxy. Actually, I believe his disdain for Remington is quite personal, for whatever reason.” Nodding his head as if he’d just convinced himself, he said, “The more I speak of this, the more I like it. I’ll talk to Carol.”
“Ben…”
“Desperate times justify desperate measures. This is a perfect opportunity to put a critical asset into a place where he can be effective. We can’t leave a hole in security for too long.”
It took several seconds, but at long last, Blake acquiesced. “As you wish.”
“There, Malcolm,” Archer said with a smirk. “Try to say it with a smile.”
“Speaking of smiles, or the lack thereof, Kang wants to speak with you. I just finished talking with him about Kenner.”
Scoffing as he approached the hallway that housed his suite, Archer said, “Kenner will be dealt with. He’s being monitored, and he can’t leave.” He laughed under his breath. “Perhaps Strakhov’s first order of business will be to take him into custody. Should be interesting to watch.”
“As a choice of words, ‘interesting’ is interesting.”
“Good day, Malcolm. Please do as I’ve asked.”
Once more, a tone of defeat. “I’m sure we’ll speak again soon.”
“I’m sure we will.” Closing the channel, Archer secured the comm on his belt. Placing his hand on the security scanner outside of his room, he waited for the door to open before stepping inside.
Despite the hardships, despite the challenges that’d reared their heads—some foreseen, some not—a major step had been taken in apprehending Remington. Though there were still obstacles to overcome, Archer knew it was only a matter of time until Remington transitioned from detractor to informant. The outlaw leader was playing tough, but there was only so much a man could take—and there were cards in play that Remington didn’t know about. Archer was confident in their ability to pry information from him.
But even if that didn’t happen—even if Remington proved more durable than Archer imagined—the fact remained that he was still in their custody. He himself was no longer a threat. In a short time span, EDEN had seen the death of General Thoor and the capture of Scott Remington, the man whom Thoor had personally groomed. They were two devils dealt with. Two fewer thorns in Archer’s side. As soon as he got what he needed from Remington, the rest of the dominos would fall. EDEN’s path to salvation—at long last—would be clear. Humanity’s future would be secured.
With nothing else on his agenda—at least, not for the next sixty or so minutes—Archer entered his kitchenette to make a cup of hot tea.