Chapter Thirty-one
Tuesday, April 10th, 0012 NE
1555 hours
Norilsk, Russia
PIKACK! PIKACK! PIKACK! Pikack! Pikack!
After rearing his massive hand back, William swung his ping pong paddle with all his might, smacking the ball back toward David.
Pikack!
Rendered a white, streaking blur, the ball bounded past David’s strike zone like a bullet. Though David swung wildly, his efforts were no use. The ball plonked harmlessly into his chest then fell to the floor, out of his fumbling grasp.
Thrusting his fist into the air, William bellowed, “That’s game, my friend!”
David flung his paddle to the floor. “Drat!”
The room’s occupants—comprised solely of those left of the Fourteenth—erupted into raucous, hooting laughter. Smirking, William folded his arms across his chest and said, “Let’s see, that’s what now? Four in a row?”
“That’s three,” said David in frustration. “Three in a row.”
“Aw well, it’ll be four soon enough! Who’s next?”
Sliding from her stool perch at the far side of the room, Esther held up her hand. “That would be me.” After sauntering toward David’s spot at the table, she bent down to claim his paddle from the floor. “And it’s match, actually.”
“What’s what, now?” William asked.
“You told David that was game. Technically, it was match.” The scout winked.
Laughing lowly, David said as he stepped aside, “Not sure smack talking is the best opening strategy.”
“I know what a game and a match is!” said William. “Gimme the ball.”
“Give you the ball?” asked Esther with mock-offense. “What happened to ladies first?”
The demolitionist grinned. “Winners first, Timmons.” Holding out his open palm, he caught the ball when Esther bounced it to him.
“At least let me warm up a—” Esther was cut off as William slugged the ball with the paddle, sending it racketing in the scout’s direction. She ducked to dodge it. “A bit!” Glaring as William guffawed, she said, “You can keep your sodding ‘winners first!’” Stooping down, she retrieved the ball from where it’d ricocheted off the wall. “My serve.”
William grinned from ear to ear. He offered no argument.
It had been three days since Esther and her Falcon friends had returned to Northern Forge from Japan. In that time, the scout had experienced the strongest of feelings from both sides of the emotional spectrum. There was elation in seeing her comrades from the Fourteenth again—in accepting their embraces and love. On the other hand, being back in the last place she’d spent real time with Jayden was tearing her apart. The thought that he might still be alive actually made it worse. It kept every awful feeling on the surface, churning anew every time he entered her mind. Whether it was Jayden or Becan who’d survived scarcely mattered. The news would be devastating either way. The only thing worse than the looming finality of it all was not knowing. And so Esther, like everyone else remaining in the Fourteenth, had but two choices: sit around and soak in their misery, or try their hardest to live in spite of it. Her teammates encouraged her to do the latter. She agreed.
Enter the Fourteenth’s hidden game room, located in the far corner of Northern Forge’s Level-2 and disguised as a room containing ‘Legal Archives,’ which Boris had written on a sheet of paper and taped to the door. In reality, the room contained a pair of couches and a ping pong table, which William and Boris had discovered during their exploration of the base. After living in the sardine-packed base, the game room was a hidden slice of heaven that the Fourteenth could escape to. A much-needed distraction, reminiscent of Room 14’s lounge.
Regarding Scott and Tiffany, who were still in EDEN custody, the word on the street was still that “plans were underway” concerning their retrieval. What that meant, none of them knew. They were sure that Sydney would come into play now that Antipov had a presumed ally in General Becker. Time would tell as to how.
Tossing up the ping pong ball, Esther slapped her paddle cockeyed against it—an amateur’s attempt at a slice. William returned it with hammering vehemence, the ball popping loudly against Esther’s side of the table then bouncing off into the corner.
“Ha!” the demolitionist said. “Zero servin’ one!”
Esther leered as she retrieved the ball. “You’ve got it comin’, all right.”
“Yeah, we’ll see!”
Another toss up and serve.
Pikack!
“Zero servin’ two!”
Besides the back-and-forth banter of Esther and William and the smacking of ping pong balls, the room was also filled with the sound of chatter between the other members of the Fourteenth. David and Max sat side by side, eyes on the game as they quietly chatted with each other. Nearby, Dostoevsky was engaged in a conversation in Russian with Auric and Egor Goronok, the latter of whom had returned to Northern Forge in the caravan.
Sitting by Dostoevsky’s side was Varvara, who—like Esther—had been noticeably affected by the news of Jayden and Becan. Esther wasn’t sure how to think of Varvara. At times, she felt sorry for the young woman, who was still clearly suffering from her label as an adulteress. But at other times, that label was hard to overcome, especially for Esther. This was the woman who’d cheated on Jayden while he was recovering from an injury. There were moments when Esther hated her. Then there were moments when Esther pitied her. The truth was, Esther was far too conflicted about her own feelings toward Jayden’s possible demise to figure out how she felt about Varvara.
Notably absent from the group was Ju`bajai. Esther found it strange that the Ithini had made no attempts to connect with her since returning to the base. Esther didn’t even know where the Ithini was most of the time. It certainly didn’t bother Esther—she needed a certain level of privacy in her mind right now—but it did make her occasionally wonder what Ju`bajai was doing when she wasn’t in sight of the Fourteenth. Antipov had left strict instruction upon their return from Japan that anyone who threatened the alien would be dealt with harshly. Much like Centurion, who spent most of his time in the forge, the Ithini seemed to have been just absorbed by Northern Forge.
Swinging her paddle wildly, Esther attempted to return another one of William’s lightning-fast strikes. The result was much the same as it’d been since the match began, with the ball bouncing off into the distance and Esther blowing hair out of her face in irritation.
“Seven servin’ one!” William said with a grin.
“You bloody ox,” said Esther, dark eyes narrowed. Snatching the ball from the ground, she held it up and glared at him. “What I ought to do is say forget the next point and just paste this to your forehead.”
Leaning back with another guffaw, the demolitionist held his hand out to receive the ball. “Good luck with that one. Toss ’er here.”
Esther said nothing. She only stared across the table, her brown eyes wide as a stoic, paled countenance came over her.
Arching an eyebrow, William asked, “Esther?”
Though the demolitionist was calling her name, Esther didn’t hear him. Though his hand was still open and waiting for the ball to be bounced back, she didn’t see him. What she saw—the only thing she saw—was the man who’d quietly opened the door to the game room. As more people around her noticed him, an unsettling quiet arose. William, finally turning around himself, also stopped cold.
It was Antipov. The ponytailed general was standing expressionlessly in the doorway, his eyes slowly surveying the room before settling on Esther. After several seconds of pin-drop silence, he cleared his throat and spoke. “I would like to speak with you about something.”
Immediately, the scout asked, “Is it about Jay and Becan?”
All around Esther, the eyes of the Fourteenth stayed on Antipov. Each person, from Dostoevsky to Boris, was attuned. Drawing a breath, the general answered, “Yes.”
Was this it? Had he found out who’d been killed? Stepping around the ping pong table, Esther stood in the center of the room, lips shaking as she played with her hands. He knew who was dead—she was sure of it. The only thing left was for him to say it. For someone to ask him to. Fighting to compose herself, she spoke the three hardest words she’d ever spoken. “Who was it?” Who had met their end in the forests of Atami? Who had fallen at the hands of EDEN?
Who would she never see again?
On the sofa, a now-trembling Varvara reached blindly for Dostoevsky’s hand. When she found it, she clutched it tightly.
Lowering his head, Antipov took a step into the room. When he opened his mouth to answer, it took a moment for the words to find their way. Even as he spoke them, Esther felt the weight of her world crashing down.
“It was Becan.”
It was Becan. Closing her eyes, Esther exhaled a breath that felt held for days. In the instant she heard his answer, flashes of the Irishman jumped through her mind. His laughing, his ear-to-ear grinning, his wild hair. Before Jayden, Becan had been there—he’d been her friend. But then a feeling overtook her that was worse than any she’d battled leading up to this point. A horrible, terrible feeling. The worst she’d ever felt.
Relief.
Becan McCrae was dead. That meant Jayden was still alive. Her newfound strength, her reason for believing that there could be good in her—that she could be a good woman. He was still with her. Her eyes watered, the painful image of a boy growing up fatherless replaced by the thought of holding Jayden in her arms again. Of her helping him recover. Getting him back on his feet, holding him so close. She would be everything for him that he’d already been for her. They would do it together.
But that poor baby boy.
“We need to find that woman. Natasha, was her name,” Esther said with trembling breath. “We need to make sure Becan’s son knows the kind of man he was.” She would see to it. She would make sure of it.
Antipov stood before the door, a deathly pale shade growing on his face. His mouth opened, then stopped. Like he didn’t know what to say. Like he didn’t know how to say what needed to be said.
Something was wrong.
“What?” Esther asked. Her heartrate increased. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. “What is it?”
“Esther, it’s…” Antipov hesitated. It was something none of them had ever seen him do. “I believe you misunderstood.”
Misunderstood. She’d misunderstood. What had she misunderstood? She’d asked him who died. She’d asked him for the name of the one who’d been killed. And he’d told her it was Becan.
The panic struck her. She hadn’t asked who’d been killed. She’d simply asked who it was. Who it was that…
…that what?
It was Esther who was now swallowing hard. The air came out from her. She couldn’t even breathe. “…misunderstood…” It was neither question nor comment. She was grasping at words.
“Esther….”
“Tell me Becan’s dead.” The words just came out. Her volume increased. “Iosif, tell me Becan’s dead.”
Once more, Antipov hesitated. “The survivor from Atami…it was Becan.”
“No!” she shrieked, causing everyone near her to jump. “Tell me he’s bloody dead!”
Antipov bowed his head. “I am sorry, Mrs. Timmons.”
“Becan is dead!” She stepped back from him, covering her chest as if to protect herself. “You tell me he’s dead!”
Distraught faces abounded. Varvara broke down against Dostoevsky as the commander watched the catastrophe unfold. Everyone was too horrified to speak.
“I am sorry, Esther,” said Antipov. “You have my sincerest condolences.”
“No!” She refused. She couldn’t accept it. This was some horrible mistake. “No!” It was the only word she could say before she buckled forward to fall.
Max was close enough to catch her. She had no strength to fight him off. As the lieutenant wrapped his arms around her, Esther Timmons fell apart.
That hope. That glimmer of something possible—something good—over the horizon. It had all been a mirage. She had prayed for this. She had prayed for the survivor to be Becan. Of all the prayers she’d said since she was old enough to pray, that was the one God chose to answer. Only moments ago, she’d thought the guilt of relief was the worst thing she’d experience.
How wrong she’d been.
The sobs deep within Esther found their way to the surface. Choking out one after the other, after the other, the scout became a wailing, shaking spirit. Though Max held her, she could not feel him. She could only feel Jayden’s ghost.
“I’m so sorry, Ess,” Max whispered.
His words fell on lost ears. She wasn’t listening to him—not to anything. This hurt was worse than anything she’d imagined. Than she ever imagined hurt could feel. Hope had slipped into her fingers just enough to be ripped away.
The sickly faces of the Fourteenth just stared—some in what looked like numb acceptance, others in bowed heads of agony. Esther was not the only one crying—Varvara matched her sob for sob as she leaned into Dostoevsky’s open shoulder.
After clearing his throat gently and shifting his gaze to the room at large, Antipov said, “Details of the operation to EDEN Command are forthcoming. The rescue of McCrae, Remington, and Feathers will be priority.” Though no one spoke in acknowledgment, those few who looked at him—namely Dostoevsky, Max, and David—nodded their heads. “Again,” the general said, “I am sorry for your loss.” No further words came from him. Antipov stepped back into the hall and closed the door.
Nothing of what Antipov said had registered to Esther. The only thought of rationality that came to her mind—and it only came briefly amid her wails—was, this is how it feels. The it was scarcely defined even in her own mind. Perhaps it was to lose someone she truly, truly loved. Perhaps it was to abandon all hope. Perhaps it was to finally have one of her prayers answered. As sure as the sun set in the west, she would never lift one up again.
But mostly, the it was the overall essence of finality. The facing of permanent change. For a girl whose emotions ebbed and flowed like the water she sought refuge in, the idea of permanence was the most horrifying thing she could imagine. There was nothing left to wonder about—nothing to hope for. The question that’d haunted her since learning that there’d been a survivor had finally been answered.
It was better to not have known at all.
Few words were spoken in the minutes after Antipov left. The room was encapsulated in the kind of heavy-hearted silence that often followed news of the worst kind. Eventually, it was abandoned, as one by one the operatives left to seek their own means of coping. Esther was the first to leave, marching out of the room without a word, leaving the broken, concerned expressions of her comrades behind her. Then Max left, angrily, to who knew where—his only parting word a firm chk chk for Flopper to follow him. David, William, Boris…one by one, each of them made their exit, until only Dostoevsky and Varvara remained. Eventually, they too would leave, rendering the place of refuge for the Fourteenth utterly abandoned.
* * *
Shortly after
IT WAS STILL beautiful. Even with the shreds, even with the wrinkles and dangling threads that adorned it from top to bottom, Esther’s black maxi dress was still as beautiful as the day she’d received it. As beautiful as the memories to which it was attached. Reaching up to touch the pearls around her neck, Esther delicately traced them down her neck. The scout closed her eyes.
It was so natural to feel him. Even after so little time together. As she imagined that it was his fingers touching her—a fantasy not terribly challenging to conjure—she found her lips parting and her breath drawing in to catch itself. The Texan’s touch was like a sweet toxin. It was magnificent.
Lips pressing tightly shut, Esther lowered her head, the fringe of her inverted bob—which she’d meticulously put in place after putting on the dress—swaying as it hung from her forehead. She wanted to look beautiful. For him, just one more time. Now that she did, it was the worst feeling in the world.
Drip.
Esther’s brown eyes flickered open, a water droplet landing atop her head. Stepping back and looking up, she looked for a spot of leakage on the ceiling. There was none to be found.
Another drip, and once more, she stepped aside, lifting her hand to feel for wetness in her hair. Her brow furrowed when she felt it. Another drip, then another, then another. Esther found herself side- and back-stepping like a crab, her inspection of the ceiling halted as droplets now struck her eyes. Then the downpour came, as if the floodgates had opened from the ceiling itself. A monsoon of sheeting rain erupted, enveloping her. Extending her arms out, she looked up in squinting disbelief. Within seconds, her bob was dripping down the front of her face, and she sloppily wiped it back.
There was a flash—a crack of thunder. When the lightning subsided, the walls of her room had completely disappeared. She was standing in a forest, an endless expanse of trees stretching out ahead of her. Looking down as her heels sunk in, she saw that they were stuck in a layer of mud. Nearly stumbling forward, she slipped right out of them. Barefoot, she spun around in rage.
To anyone else, such a sudden shift from reality would have been terrifying. But Esther knew exactly what this was—and she was not in the mood.
“Where are you?” Spinning around and flicking her wet hair from her face, she glared through the storm in pure hatred. “Where—”
And right there, she stopped. Staring ahead, Esther gaped at the scene before her. At the water pooling in certain areas. At the layout of the trees. At everything that’d suddenly become familiar. She knew this place. It was a place that could never be forgotten. A spot that would forever be burned in her memory.
This was where Jayden fell.
Slicking her hair back slowly with both hands, she stared at the very spot where she had held Jayden—where she’d screamed his name as his life slipped away. Bringing her here was no coincidence. This atrocity was being revisited on purpose.
A presence was behind her. Though she could not yet see it, she felt that it was there. Eyes narrowing as water streamed from her lashes, Esther slowly turned around to confront it.
It was Ju`bajai’s ponytailed construct of her. Soaked to the bone just like Esther, Ju`bajai stood defiant in her white, hexagonally patterned bodysuit.
“You…” Stomping toward her through the mire, Esther’s scowl dug in deeper. “Do not bring me here.”
There was no look of trickery in Ju`bajai’s face—no trace of the Ithini being clever. She simply stared back at Esther, the same look of angered defiance on her face as that of her human counterpart. Within seconds, Esther was upon her. Screaming, the scout struck forward with her fist, straight for the construct’s face. She caught only air. The construct vanished right before Esther’s fist would have connected, the scout’s momentum sending her toppling forward. Her hands reached out to awkwardly absorb the impact as she splashed down on all fours. Turning her head back, Esther glared through dangling strands at the construct, where it’d reappeared several meters behind her.
After violently pushing herself up, Esther once more stormed in Ju`bajai’s direction. Again, she tried to connect a blow with the alien, and again, she ended up falling forward as her doppelganger disappeared. Screeching in rage, she spun around to find the alien.
“Are you finished?” the construct asked, having reappeared behind her.
“I don’t want to be here!” Trudging up to her feet, Esther stumbled several steps through the mud before finding her footing. Pointing to herself, her verbal torrent went on. “Why would you put me here? For what sick reason?”
The construct stepped closer, her feet unfazed by the thick mud beneath. “You’re hurting. You’re hurting more than anyone else knows. They think you’re grieving for Jayden, but I know you’re grieving for so much more.”
“My grief is not your concern!”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Your grief is very much my concern. It’s everyone’s.”
Her fist emphasizing every word, Esther screamed back, “I do not want to be here!”
“I understand what you’re—”
“You understand nothing!” Esther said, shaking her head. “You understand nothing.”
For several seconds, the alien didn’t answer. When she did, her voice was subdued. “I understand some things. I understand that you’re experiencing pain on an emotional level that I cannot.” She walked toward the scout. “I understand that you’ve grown accustomed to misery. To misfortune, to feeling cursed.”
Esther stretched her hands out to her sides. “So is that what this is? A metaphor for all the horrible things I’ve grown accustomed to?”
“No.” Ju`bajai shook her head, stopping several feet away. “No, my dear girl. This is not a metaphor. This is a message.” She drew in a breath. “You need to remember the reason you wanted Becan to be the survivor—and you did, sincerely, for a very short time. It was not only for the sake of his son. You wanted to prove Jayden’s faith in you right. You wanted to honor him by letting him go when you knew that’s what he’d have wanted you to do. This wasn’t just a choice about who lived or who died. This was a choice about the person you wanted to be.” She took another step closer. “He believed in you, Esther. He believed in you with all of his heart and with all of his spirit.”
The way she spoke of it. It was almost as if she could actually relate.
“This is not about letting Jay go,” Ju`bajai said. “This is about letting him live. In you. Through you. It’s about allowing his life to have changed you for the better, forever.”
“And so to do that, you’ve taken me here?” Esther screamed through freshly welling eyes. “To the place where he died? Into that same godforsaken storm?”
Despite the scout’s rising tone, Ju`bajai spoke softly. “Esther…” When her name was delicately spoken, Esther scoffed and looked away. The construct continued. “I brought you here because it was the worst moment in your life.”
“Yeah, thanks a sodding lot!”
“And you survived it.”
Esther blinked. Her lips parted, though no words came out. For the first time since arriving in the construct’s world, the scout didn’t move.
Ju`bajai took a step forward, standing mere feet away and looking Esther in the eyes. “You didn’t just survive it. You excelled. You cared for your teammates, you strove to be the best version of you that’s ever walked on this Earth. That is what you did, and if you did it then, you can do it again.” She paused. “I don’t understand grief like you do. Such strong passions are what I envy most about your species. Though I may mimic you here, though I may try to draw these sensations from you to try and make them my own, they can never be my own. I will always be the reflection in the mirror.” She dipped her head. “But if there is anyone here whose reflection I would like to be, that person is you. It is because you are fierce. Because you are fearless.”
Standing motionlessly before Ju`bajai, Esther stared through the dark strands that hung over her face. Her arms hung limply at her sides—her sunken shoulders revealed her weakened state. Through eyes that were shimmering more with each passing second, the scout whimpered, “I don’t feel fearless.”
The construct paused before angling her head. “Do you like your name? Do you know what it means?”
She knew. It was surely how Ju`bajai knew, too.
“Esther means star,” the construct answered, her voice laced with an inflection of awe. “And you are a star, Esther, in every sense of the word. You captivate a room when you set foot in it. And when you are at your best, you radiate with a brilliance that nothing in the universe can match.” Her eyes softening, Ju`bajai placed her hand gently against the center of Esther’s chest. “I can sense the self-doubt inside you. But it is a lie. You were not born to fail; not with a name like Esther.” A smile emerged on her lips. “You were born to shine.”
Lifting her hands, Esther placed her fingers against her forehead. Slowly pushing them up, she lifted her dangling strands and wiped them over her head. With eyes closed, she looked up into the rain. Slowly, the scout’s face twisted until at long last, it gave way. In a final, teeth-clenching grimace, she broke down and heaved. Esther’s hands were still dug into her scalp when she felt another pair of hands wrap around her. There was no anger left to project. There was almost nothing at all. Body shaking, Esther lowered her head and accepted Ju`bajai’s embrace. Her hands slid down, replaced by the construct’s as they cradled her.
“Shhh,” whispered Ju`bajai quietly. “It’s okay, star. It’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. Not even remotely.
But it would be.
That was the message that Ju`bajai was trying to convey. Though she could not yet perceive that bright light of hope, it didn’t mean it wasn’t there. It didn’t mean it wasn’t waiting for her. It might take time, surely, but that light would one day be close enough to reach out and touch. That hope—that dream. That wish upon a star. Her fairy-tale ending had sunken into the very mud she stood upon, but if Ju`bajai was to be believed—if the reflection of herself was to be trusted—then Esther was capable of digging it back out. She might have to reach in up to her elbows. That mud might cover her from head to toe. But for a girl whose life was a mess anyway, what did a little more of it matter? That was the point. That was the message, as soul-wrenching and visceral as it might have been in the place where Jayden had fallen.
Message received.
Above her, she felt the tatter of rain cease. What followed felt like a ray of pure sunlight. Its warmth, though lasting mere seconds, wrapped around her like a blanket.
“Shine, my little star,” the construct whispered into her ear. “Shine.”
The rain stopped. The icy feeling of a wet dress faded. Esther opened her eyes.
She was back in her room.
Turning her head just slightly to the side, she checked in her periphery to see if someone was behind her. She was alone. Slowly, she looked back at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. It was there, looking right back at her. Looking right into those two dark wellsprings of confliction.
“Esther,” she whispered, just to hear herself say it. Just to see that she could. She didn’t feel like an Esther. She didn’t feel deserving of a name with such glimmering potential. Ju`bajai had left out the fact that her first name, Molly, was a derivative of Mary, which meant bitter. A fitting adjective for a girl such as herself. But perhaps it was better to be a bitter star than no star at all.
Pushing her fingertips through her hair again, Esther stared at herself in that black maxi dress befitting both a wedding and a funeral. There were only two things she wanted now. One was to say goodbye to her love. To find where they’d taken his body and to weep for him one last time. The other was to never wear that dress again.
At least one of those was doable now.
Ten minutes later, Esther’s black maxi dress was folded and shoved to the back of her bottom dresser drawer, the scout having changed into a small Nightman uniform. As far away from her as it could possibly be without her burning it to ash. A keepsake. A memory. Her version of Scott’s photo of Nicole. That he had been through this twice now, with Nicole’s death and Svetlana’s disappearance, was not lost to her. It put his torment in a whole new light.
The one comfort Esther felt was the knowledge that her suffering was shared. Not because it was good for others to suffer, too, but because they could carry each other through it. They each knew what it took to persevere. It was a valuable lesson to learn, even if that lesson was painful. She wished she’d learned it sooner. Before everything was lost.
But not everything was.
Not yet.
Sucking in a breath, Esther gave herself one final look in the mirror before committing to walking out the door—and it was a great, great commitment. Though this agony, this mourning, felt so fresh, it was only a feeling. She would allow herself moments to weep for her fallen husband. She would give herself that when it was needed. But if those moments constituted a step back, she’d make sure she was taking two forward. As she strode out of her room in the living quarters and into the halls of Northern Forge, she counted every step as progress.
Each one would make her a little bit stronger.